Authors: Carla Cassidy
TRACE EVIDENCE (9 page)
At precisely
She watched as he unfolded from the driver door, surprised to feel her heart race just a little bit faster. He was dressed in a pair of navy dress slacks and a short-sleeved pale blue shirt.
Even though she was peeking through the curtain at the window and watching him approach, she could tell that despite the civility of the dress clothing, there was a barely suppressed energy, a simmering sensuality that she recognized as both evocative and dangerous.
She moved away from the window as he knocked, a rapid staccato that resounded in the pit of her stomach. She had a feeling this was a bad idea … a very bad idea. She grabbed her purse, then opened the door to greet him.
His dark brows rose in surprise. "I don't think I've ever had a woman be ready when I've arrived on time to pick them up."
"You said six. I assumed you meant six," she replied as she stepped out on the porch and pulled her door closed behind her.
"I made reservations for six-thirty at Vitello's. I hope you like Italian," he said.
"Love it," she replied. He opened the passenger door and she slid into the luxurious leather interior. As he walked around the front of the car to the driver door, she tried not to watch him.
The inside of the car smelled good, an aromatic blend of rich leather and Clay's clean scent. As he opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel she steeled herself against any physical reaction she might have to his nearness.
He seemed disinclined to speak as he started the engine and pulled away from her cottage. Instead he punched a button on the console and the air filled with the sounds of a light rock radio station.
He was pulled tight into himself. It was obvious in the way his hands clenched the steering wheel, in the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his gaze remained focused on the road ahead.
"You know, we didn't have to do this," she said softly.
"Do what?"
"Do this. Do dinner together."
He turned and eyed her curiously. "Why, you don't want to?"
She smiled. "It just looks like you'd rather be anywhere than here at the moment."
His shoulders relaxed, as did his grip on the steering wheel. He reached out and lowered the volume on the radio. "Sorry, I didn't mean to give you that impression. I guess I've been working so hard for so long, I've forgotten about the civil pleasantries of socializing."
"Now, there's a real crime," she said.
"Maybe, although most of the time I find my work more satisfying than any socializing I do."
"Then maybe you've been socializing with the wrong people."
Again he flashed her a glance and this time his lips were curved upward in a devastating smile. "Maybe you're right. Cops and criminals aren't usually overly adept at small talk."
"Well, I just wanted to let you know that if you'd rather not do this, you can take me back home. I don't want you to be where you don't want to be."
He looked back at the road, his expression once again inscrutable. "I'm fine with where I am at the moment."
She settled back in the seat and looked out the window.
Cherokee Corners had almost a dozen drive-through eateries, four cafés and two more upscale restaurants. Vitello's was one of the two. Located on the north side of town, it was housed in a single story bleached brick building with a neon sign across the top.
"Ever eaten here before?" he asked as he pulled into an empty parking space.
"No. Most of the time when I grab a bite out it's at one of the cafés." She didn't want to tell him that she hadn't been out on a date since her return to Cherokee Corners from
"I haven't eaten here before, either. Hopefully the food is good. I'm hungry, what about you?"
"Starving," she agreed.
Together they got out of the car and walked toward the doors to the restaurant. She was intensely aware of his hand at the small of her back as they entered the dim interior and walked to where the hostess stood.
Although she knew it was impossible, she could have sworn she could feel the heat of his hand against her bare skin. He held his hand there until they were led to their table, only then did he break the physical contact.
Their table was situated in a corner of the room, providing far more intimacy than they required. A rich red tablecloth covered the small table and a candle flickered its romantic light between the salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table.
"If the food is as bad as the cheesy music they're playing, we're in trouble," Clay said when they were settled in with menus before them.
Tamara laughed and opened her menu. The "cheesy music" was an Italian instrumental, the kind that seemed indigenous to Italian restaurants all over the
United States
.
"I don't know how good the food is, but if the crowd is any indication, it must be pretty good," she said.
"It's been my experience that most weekend nights nobody stays home in this town," he observed and closed his menu.
"There isn't a whole lot to do other than eat out in this town."
"Quite a different pace than
Tamara closed her menu as well. "Actually, the bigger adjustment came when I left here and moved to
"What made you move there?"
It was hard for her to concentrate and look at him at the same time. The flickering candlelight emphasized the angles and planes of his handsome face, giving him a slightly predatory look.
She looked down at her menu cover. "My work … and the agent who agreed to represent me. He thought it would be a good idea if I lived in
She looked up into his dark eyes where the candlelight seemed to turn his pupils silver. "
At that moment the waitress arrived to take their orders. When she'd departed with their orders in hand, Tamara sought to change the topic of conversation from her to him.
"Your work must be fascinating," she said.
"If you like science, which I do."
Again their conversation was interrupted as the waitress returned with a bottle of red wine and poured them each a glass, then departed once again.
"What made you decide to go into crime-scene investigation?" she asked, refusing to allow any awkward silences to develop between them.
He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his wine, looking more relaxed than he had since the moment he'd picked her up. "When I was working homicide several years ago, my father came to me and told me he wanted a crime-scene investigator unit here in town. At that time he was chief of police and knew that particular part of police work had always intrigued me."
"Because you like science."
He nodded. "With science there's no guesswork. You run the tests, you get results. There's no room for emotion or trying to guess if somebody is lying to you. You don't have to deal with the human element at all."
For her, his answer was quite telling of the kind of man he was, the kind of man who had worried his open, giving mother, the kind of man who Tamara should have no interest in whatsoever.
"How's your father holding up?" she asked, then raised her wineglass to take a sip.
"As well as can be expected. It's difficult on him … as it is on all of us." He leaned forward. "I assume Jeb got the deer off your porch last night?"
It was obvious he wanted a subject change, that he wasn't about to share any of his feelings with her about the disappearance of his mother. Tamara was neither surprised nor offended. He owed her nothing of his feelings.
"It was gone when I woke up this morning," she replied. "Thank you for talking to Jeb about it."
"In this heat, it needed to be disposed of as soon as possible. Have you thought anymore about anyone who might be living your legend?"
She smiled. "It isn't
my
legend and no, I still can't imagine anyone crazy enough to reenact the legend."
Again their conversation was interrupted, this time with the arrival of their meals. Clay had ordered lasagna and she had ordered linguine with Alfredo sauce and fresh vegetables. Her stomach growled as the waitress set the plate in front of her.
"It looks good," she said.
"Mine looks better." He smiled and again she was struck by the powerful sexual appeal he possessed and seemed utterly unaware of.
For the next few minutes they were silent as they began to eat. The music might be cheesy, but the food was beyond compare and the ambiance of the restaurant itself was comfortable.
Even the silence between them wasn't a strained or uncomfortable one. It was only when they both reached for the breadbasket at the same time and their hands made physical contact that she felt tension spring to life inside her.
"Sorry," she said and quickly drew back her hand. "No problem." He took a slice of the warm Italian loaf and buttered it, then handed it to her. This time when their fingers made contact she was ready for the jolt of electricity the mere touch created.
"Thanks." The good thing about her bronze complexion was that blushes were difficult to discern, but she felt the warmth of a blush sweep through her. What was it about this man that affected her so strongly, affected her on such a visceral level?
Once again they fell silent and focused on their meals. Tamara's linguine was delicious, but she found the man seated across from her detracting from her appetite.
"So, why are you teaching? I understand from my sources that your paintings are quite a hot commodity," he said, breaking the silence that had begun to grow too long to he comfortable.
"Painting is a very isolating kind of work. It's just me and my canvases. The time I spend painting is intense, all-consuming and exhausting. Teaching makes me interact with other people, keeps the balance in my life that is so important to my well-being." She hesitated a beat, then added. "You should try it some time."
"What? Teaching?"
It was obvious he was intentionally being obtuse. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a reply," she said dryly.
He laughed. It was the first time she'd heard his laughter and the sound, as smooth as whipped cream, as rich as hot cocoa, warmed her from the inside out. With laughter on his lips, his eyes lightened and tiny starbursts of wrinkles creased his skin, making him impossibly attractive.
"I suppose at some time or another my mother has told you that I'm not much into balance. Work is what counts with me and that pretty much sums up my life."
"And I suppose at some time or another your mother has told you that's not a healthy way to live."
The light that had momentarily illuminated his eyes was doused and his features grew taut. She'd obviously stepped on toes and brought up a painful subject. "But we each make the choices that are most comfortable for ourselves," she added, hoping to dispel the darkness that suddenly clung to him.
"Yeah, I suppose, and I guess you just hope that in making your choices you don't wind up hurting anyone else," he said.
She leaned forward, wishing to find the words to dispel the pall that had swept over him so suddenly. "But that's the basis of the Cherokee philosophy, to do no harm, to foster respect and harmony with the world and nature."
One of his dark brows rose as he gazed at her. "Are you lecturing me, Ms. Teacher?"
She was pleased to see a teasing light in his eyes. "Probably," she replied, then laughed. "And I apologize, I didn't mean to. It's second nature to me as a teacher."
"I guess it's like cops who interrogate rather than communicate." Once again he looked relaxed.
"Is that what you do? Interrogate rather than communicate?"
He smiled and reached for another slice of the bread. "According to my sisters I don't do either very well. I'm sure you've met my sisters, Breanna and
Savannah
."
"Yes, although I don't know them well. I did hear that
Savannah
might be leaving the police force."
"She's talking about transferring to the Sycamore Ridge Police Department. She's recently moved in with Riley Frazier and they're planning on getting married. But he's a home builder and lives in Sycamore Ridge."
"When are they getting married?" she asked, hoping the touch of wistfulness that swept through her wasn't evident in her voice.