In This Town
“Were you, now?” she asked. “And why is that?”
He sipped the coffee to ease the dryness of his throat, realized it was better than expected and took another, longer drink. Just because she was sexy enough to make a man’s hands sweat didn’t mean he had to fall all over himself like some goddamn horny teenager.
It was clear she was used to calling the shots. So was he.
Whether personal or professional, he preferred relationships where he was in charge. Where he was the one to walk away.
He had a feeling no man walked away from her.
“I was hoping to ask you a few questions,” he said.
She shifted her weight to her left leg, causing the material of her skirt to stretch across her hips. “And here I thought that was why we set up my interview. Friday afternoon at three forty-five if I’m not mistaken.”
He could be patient, he reminded himself. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Didn’t mean he couldn’t do whatever it took to hurry up the process. “I’m free now,” he said mildly.
“Well, isn’t that convenient, you coming into this restaurant and sitting in my booth five minutes before my shift ends?”
Walker met her eyes, kept his hands still, didn’t want anything to give him away. “Yes. Very convenient.”
She made a sound, sort of a hum, then she smiled slowly. “Can I get you something to go with your coffee?”
The scents of grilled meat and French fries reminded him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, made his mouth water. But he wouldn’t order food from her, wouldn’t eat in front of her. He couldn’t. If they’d been at the police station, he’d never pull out a sandwich and bite into it during an interview.
And that’s what this was. Just another interview, a way for him to get information out of her. Not some chummy lunch date. No matter how hungry he was.
“I’m good,” he said, lifting his cup for another sip. “Thanks.”
“Let me just put this down and we’ll have ourselves a nice little chat, hmm?”
He watched her walk away. What living, breathing, heterosexual man wouldn’t? Returning a few minutes later, she slid into the seat across from him and set down a bottle of water and a plate with a thick slice of apple pie.
“I hope you don’t mind if I eat while you interrogate me,” she said, unwrapping a napkin from around a set of silverware. “I skipped lunch.”
“This isn’t an interrogation.”
Tori raised her eyebrows, used her fork to break off the point of the pie, releasing the scents of cooked apples and cinnamon. “Isn’t it?”
“Just a few questions.”
“I’m going to be in big trouble, you know,” she told him in that throaty voice of hers right before she slid the bite of pie into her mouth, her glossy red lips wrapping around the fork.
He narrowed his eyes. In trouble? She was trouble. The kind most men had a hard time resisting.
Luckily he wasn’t most men.
“Why would you be in trouble?” he asked.
“Talking to you without a lawyer present?” She shook her head, forked up another bite. “My sisters aren’t going to be too happy with me.”
“That happen often? Your sisters being unhappy with you?”
She sipped her water, eyed him over the top of the bottle. “More often than not.”
That, at least, had the ring of truth to it. But if it bothered her, he couldn’t tell. Which only pissed him off. He read people for a living but with her, he was at a loss. And that made her dangerous. Intriguing.
He drank more coffee to hide his frown. No, not intriguing. She was a means to an end, that was all. The weak link in this case, the one person he figured he had a good shot of using to catch a break in his investigation.
He wouldn’t get far with either Chief Taylor or Layne Sullivan—they were both cops, from all accounts good ones. Or at least they had been before they’d started sleeping together, raising suspicions they had let their personal feelings get in the way of their professional ethics. Nora Sullivan had graduated at the top of her class in law school, was smart and savvier than her angelic looks indicated. Her boyfriend, Griffin York, had been through the system himself as a teenager.
Walker chose Tori because she didn’t know the legal system, not like her sisters. Because he’d guessed she was stubborn enough, arrogant enough, not to listen to her sisters’ warnings about keeping her mouth shut.
She was all flash, no substance, and he wouldn’t have to dig far to get to what was inside of her. She was obvious. Fake. He had no use for her, or her… What had her sister called it?
Her sex kitten act.
No, he had no use and little respect for women like her, who used their looks and their bodies to get what they wanted. But he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d somehow underestimated her.
Shaking his head, he cleared that crazy thought right out of his mind.
“I have four sisters,” he said, trying to draw her out, ease her into trusting him.
“Four? You have my sympathy.”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
“I find that hard to believe. We don’t have a brother but we did torment our younger cousin. When he was little, we used to dress him up in our old clothes, shoes, the works. I think there were even a few times when Nora and his sister put makeup on him and did his nails. Bright pink polish.”
Walker worked to hide a wince. “No painted nails.” At least not that he can remember—thank God. Though there was no way he was telling her about the time Leslie and Kelly, his older sisters, dressed him as Goldilocks for Halloween. Complete with curled hair. “Your cousin, that’s Anthony Sullivan, correct?”
Her hesitation was slight, her gaze thoughtful. “It is. Luckily he turned out okay. So far, anyway.” Her gaze drifted over Walker. “Seems like you turned out all right yourself.”
“So far,” he repeated solemnly.
Her lips twitched and he wondered what it would be like to see her smile. A real smile, not one of the practiced ones she shared so readily.
He cleared his throat. Rotated his coffee cup. “I’m grateful to have had my sisters, actually. They taught me a lot about how females think.”
Tori laughed, the husky, sexy sound washing over him, scraping against his nerve endings.
“I don’t doubt you learned quite a bit about the female psyche during your formative years, but don’t go deluding yourself, Detective.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice. “No man knows what women think unless a woman wants him to know.”
Then she winked at him, eased back and took another bite of pie.
And he felt as if he’d been hit by a two-by-four.
Damn, but she was good. “Maybe not,” he agreed, “but I learned that sisters are always arguing. Someone was always mad at someone else, usually two or three against one but every once in a while they’d all just be pissed at each other.”
Finished with her pie, Tori slid the plate away and took a sip of water. “Yes, sisters fight. They argue, yell and hold grudges. But the best part about sisters is no matter what’s been said, the names been called or threats made, if they truly love each other, sisters always have each other’s backs. And that’s despite all the crap, the envy and sibling rivalry, despite knowing each other their entire lives and seeing each other at their best and worst. So if your grand plan here is to create some sort of rift between me and my sisters, don’t bother. We’ve managed that rift all on our own.”
Her eyes glittered, her mouth a thin line. Walker couldn’t help but think this was the first honest reaction he’d seen from her. Unlike her flirting and coy smiles, this—her anger and frustration—was real.
And more appealing than he would’ve liked.
“But it doesn’t matter,” she continued. “Because when it comes to the Sullivan sisters, it’s always been us against them.” Her eyes met his and he noted the truth in them, the challenge. “And that’s how it’ll stay.”
* * *
TORI FORCED HERSELF to sit back, to lower her hands to her lap so Bertrand couldn’t see how her fingers curled. At least she wasn’t the only one whose control had slipped. He looked ready to chew up his coffee cup, his eyebrows drawn, his shoulders rigid. Yet he still gave off a superior air, as if he was better than her, more capable of winning this game they were playing. As if he was so much smarter than her.
He judged her. And found her lacking. She wanted to climb onto the table, loosen his neatly knotted tie, run her fingers through his hair and muss him up, just to prove he wasn’t as unaffected by her as he’d like her to believe.
To prove to them both he was like every other man she’d ever known—easily swayed by a pretty face. Men who only looked skin-deep so that’s all she gave them.
All they deserved.
“Mrs. Mott, I can assure you it was not my intention to try to create problems between you and your sisters,” the good detective said in that way that made him sound as if he was sitting on something rather uncomfortable.
Tori exhaled softly, worked up a small grin, felt her heart rate slow, her anger cool. “Wasn’t it?” And if she believed that, she was an even bigger fool than he thought. “Well, then, let’s just say my advice still stands. In case you change your mind and start thinking you can get me to turn against my sisters.” She twisted the cap back onto her empty water bottle, waved at Sandy, one of the waitresses working the afternoon shift, then started sliding out of the booth. “If that’s all—”
“It’s not.” He indicated the seat.
One foot out of the booth, she stilled. Her fingers tightened on the bottle. She didn’t take well to being told what to do, not even silently. But she’d agreed to speak with him here, on her own instead of having every word she uttered vetted by some lawyer Layne and Nora had chosen, because she had nothing to hide. At least, nothing that had to do with his investigation.
She sat back, stretched her arm across the back of the booth, inhaled deeply and arched her back ever-so-subtly.
His gaze dipped—just for a second—to her breasts.
Looked like he was human after all.
She ignored the way her heart pounded, how her skin warmed from his quick glance. “I’m all yours, Detective Bertrand.”
His eyes stayed flat and so cool she shivered.
“Somehow,” he murmured, “I doubt that.”
CHAPTER FOUR
WORKING TO KEEP her expression unchanged, Tori slid her arm down, pretending she was reaching over to straighten the metal napkin holder. She wished she could cross her arms over her chest, hunch her shoulders and duck her head, but that would be surrendering.
She could handle him; she could handle any man. It was what she did.
Bertrand pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Were you aware that Dale York had arrived in Mystic Point in July of this year?”
“Of course.”
“When did you become aware of Mr. York’s presence in town?” he asked when it became clear she wasn’t about to offer more information.
“I’m not sure of the exact date.”
He wrote something. “You must’ve been surprised he was back.”
“Yes.” Just thinking about it, about Dale walking around her town, made her throat constrict. “Yes, I certainly was surprised.”
Surprised. Furious. More scared than she’d ever been in her life.
When Layne had come into the café that hot July day and told Tori that Dale was in town, Tori’s first instinct had been to grab her son and run. To somehow escape what she’d known would only be more heartache and pain. To try to escape the past.
Her family had only just begun to come to terms with the fact that after all these years, Dale would probably never be found, would never be brought to justice for murdering their mother. The cops had tried to track him down but it was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth the night he left town.
Until he waltzed into the Mystic Point police station, hard-eyed and cocky, and claimed he wanted to cooperate with the investigation.
“Did you and Mr. York cross paths during the two weeks he was in Mystic Point?”
“Once,” she said with a casual wave of her hand, as if their encounter had been of no importance. “But then, I’m guessing you already know that, don’t you?”
Again he waited, giving her a look that said he had one nerve left and she was getting on it.
She blinked innocently at him. Well, as innocently as possible.
He flipped through his notebook. “You were listed as a witness to an assault the night of July 17 at a bar called the Yacht Pub.” He lifted his head, his pen poised over paper. “Is that correct?”
“If it’s in your handy dandy notebook, I’d say it must be.”
He set the notebook aside, laid his hands flat on the table. “Mrs. Mott, police reports indicate you were a witness to an altercation that night between Dale York and his son, Griffin. Your sister Nora also witnessed the event and your other sister, Captain Sullivan, was the arresting officer.”
Tori’s stomach grew queasy. She was starting to see how bad this all looked to someone on the outside. How it could be construed that her family had conspired against the man who killed their mother. “That’s right.”
“You and your sister Nora went to the bar together?”
“No. I was with a group of friends. Nora was there when I arrived.”
“She was alone?”
“She was with Griffin.” Tori tipped her bottle, watched a drop of water slide to the top, then flipped it again. She’d been so upset seeing her sister sitting next to Griffin York at the Yacht Pub, the bar where their mother had tended bar. Where Val and Dale had started their affair.
“You went to school together, you and Griffin York.”
“We did. Although we hardly ran around with the same crowd. I was half of Mystic Point High’s hottest couple and he was the ultimate bad boy, hauling around that chip on his shoulder, a perpetual smirk on his face.”
“You don’t like him,” Bertrand said.
Truth or lie? She had no problem with lies but sensed it wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth in this instance. “Those are some seriously well-honed investigating skills, Detective.”
“The police report also indicated that Griffin started the fight.”
She may not like Griffin, wasn’t sure she trusted him, but Nora did. Nora loved him. “Dale instigated it.”
“How?”
“He got grabby with Nora.” An exaggeration, one Tori didn’t regret. As far as she was concerned, Griffin had every reason and every right to have laid into Dale that night. “Griffin punched him. They fought. Layne broke it up—”
“By using her Taser on Dale.”
“He charged at her,” Tori said, straightening. Bertrand was trying to turn things around, make it seem as if Layne had used unnecessary force because they all hated Dale. “She was defending herself and trying to get the situation under control. Besides, it wasn’t like she shot him.”
“This morning at Chief Taylor’s office, you said you were glad Dale York was dead.”
She narrowed her eyes. Wasn’t he clever, trying to trip her up with his lightning-fast questions? “Actually you asked if I was happy Dale was dead. I didn’t answer. But I will now. Yes. I’m glad he’s dead.”
“Mrs. Mott, where were you the night Dale York died?”
“You think I killed Dale?” she asked, wondering if she’d made a mistake, a big one, in agreeing to speak with Bertrand here, now, on her own.
“I think you hated him,” Bertrand said, watching her carefully. “That you were angry there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him with your mother’s murder.”
“Right on both counts. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Your whereabouts that night?” he asked again.
“I was at the country club with the rest of my family. It was my cousin’s engagement party.”
He jotted that in his damn notebook. She wanted to snatch it up, take it into the kitchen and burn it on the stove.
“What time did you leave the party?”
“Midnight? Maybe a little later.” She tossed the empty bottle aside. It rolled across the table, stopping at the salt and pepper shaker holder. “Look, it was late and—”
“Were you drinking that night?”
“I had a few glasses of wine.” Had needed them considering her ex, Greg, had been there with his new girlfriend. Colleen Gibbs taught at the same school as Tori’s cousin Erin so Tori had spent a tense evening watching them cozy up to each other. Even though Tori knew she’d made the right decision asking Greg for a divorce, seeing him with her, seeing how happy he was with another woman—when she’d failed so miserably at being his wife—hurt.
“Were your sisters there?”
“My sisters, my father and Celeste—”
“Celeste Vitello, your father’s girlfriend and owner of this establishment?”
Nerves tumbled in Tori’s stomach. She hadn’t been far off the mark with her smartass comment about his investigation skills. He was good, better than she’d expected.
Lesson learned.
“Yes,” she ground out, hating that he’d pushed her into being unable to muster up any pretense of indifference. “Ross was there, too, as was Griffin—for an hour or so—not to mention my uncle and his family and around two hundred of my cousin and her fiancé’s closest friends.”
“Where did you go when you left the party?”
“Home.”
“Alone?”
Now she smiled, slow and easy. “I had several men offer me their…company…but yes, I was alone.”
Bertrand looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “Your son didn’t go home with you?”
Her son. He knew about Brandon. She snorted silently. Of course he did. He probably knew what color panties she had on, what she liked to eat for breakfast and how much money she made in tips last year.
“Brandon went home with his father.” He preferred being at his father’s house. Preferred being with Greg and Colleen over Tori.
She was surprised Bertrand didn’t know that as well.
“So no one can verify your whereabouts during the hours of midnight until Dale York’s body was found at approximately 6:00 a.m.?”
“Nope.”
He leaned forward. “Mrs. Mott, did you kill Dale York?”
She mimicked his stance and tone. “No, Detective Bertrand, I did not. Although as far as I’m concerned, whoever did kill him did the world a favor.”
“There’s no proof Dale York killed your mother,” he said, all emotionally closed off and professional. “What if he was innocent?”
“Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. I would’ve thought they’d have taught you that at the police academy.” She slid to her feet, reached back for the water bottle.
“What are you doing?” he asked, looking completely confused and irritated.
“This is called leaving. It’s what happens when I get tired of a conversation or am bored. I’m both. And since you’ve asked me all your very important questions, I see no reason for us to have our official meeting Friday afternoon. But before we both go our separate ways, there is one thing I want to say.”
“I can hardly wait,” he muttered.
“This thing with Layne, it’s a load of crap. She doesn’t break the rules…she makes sure the rules are maintained. And Ross? He’s as by-the-book as they come.”
“He’s sleeping with a subordinate officer. Wait,” he said, holding up a hand, “don’t tell me. They’re in love and love trumps everything else, even rules, regulations and law and order?”
“I have no idea if they’re in love or in lust or just scratching an itch until something or someone else comes along. All I know is that they’re two unattached adults and neither one would let their personal relationship interfere with their jobs. And they sure as hell wouldn’t create some sort of grand conspiracy.”
“I guess that’ll be determined. I’ll determine it.”
“You’re an arrogant one, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “Confident. As if your badge gives you the right to look down on the rest of us mere mortals. I thought a good cop waited until he had all the facts before deciding whether someone was guilty, but you…you’ve already judged us. And found us guilty.”
He held her gaze, not the least bit cowed by her sharp words, her acerbic tone. “I’m trying to get to the truth.”
“I hope you find it because it’s going to prove that neither my sister nor Ross have done anything illegal or unethical. It’s also going to show that no one in my family killed Dale York.”
She walked away. And prayed that she was right. Because if Bertrand discovered something, anything, that could be used against her sister or any member of her family, they were screwed.
* * *
LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Anthony Sullivan pulled a coffee cup from the dispenser. Ever since his freshman year at Boston University, he stopped at this same store whenever he got back into town. Some habits were hard to break.
The bell on the door rang and he glanced over—and wished he’d attended a twelve-step program for lovers of bad convenience store coffee.
It was her. Jessica Taylor. He knew he should look away, but his eyes locked on her. She held the door, said something to the short redhead who waitressed with her at the café. Then she laughed, the sound seeming to float across the store to wrap around him. Torture him.
Goddamn her.
Ducking his head, he watched the chemically enhanced vanilla-flavored coffee squirt into the takeout cup. His shoulders ached with tension. His chest was tight, as if he’d explode if he took a full breath.
They’d met here, right here at this very spot, well over three months ago. When he’d run in for a coffee, he hadn’t known his entire life was about to change. But then he’d turned and saw her and it was as if he’d been struck by lightning. As if everything out of order in his life had neatly fallen into place.
He’d been such an idiot.
Anthony sensed her approaching, caught sight of her from the corner of his eye. She was close enough he could smell her light perfume. Could reach out and trace his finger down the softness of her cheek like he used to. Longing mixed with the anger in his gut, made it impossible to ignore the memories that rushed into his mind. Ones he’d been fighting ever since he walked away from her.
“Anthony,” she said, her voice breathless. Scared. She cleared her throat. “Hi.”
He should walk away now. He didn’t owe her anything, not even politeness. But he made the mistake of turning, and noticed how nervous she looked, the way she twisted her hands together at her waist.
And his feet froze to the floor.
“Hey,” he said gruffly, all he could give her. All he wanted to give to the girl who’d lied to him, who’d made him look like such a fool.
She’d cut her hair, he realized with a jolt, his fingers twitching with the need to touch it, to see if it was still as soft as he remembered. Instead of falling to her shoulders, the pale, almost white strands barely reached her chin now and her thick, straight bangs skimmed her eyebrows.
She was unique, so different from all the other girls with her light hair and blue eyes, her lush curves and go-to-hell attitude. She was beautiful. Smart. Funny and sarcastic and jaded. It was the combination of her looks and her world-weary attitude—as if she’d seen and done it all and found each experience boring as hell—that made her seem older. More mature.
Except she was neither. She was sixteen.
He’d kissed her, touched her and she was just a kid, five years younger than he was, two years too young for him.
When he looked at her, when his stomach tightened with attraction, he felt like a creep. Like a loser who couldn’t get a girl his own age or worse, some pedophile preying on young girls. He hadn’t known the truth about her age until after they were involved. But he knew now. It should be enough, he thought desperately, her age and the fact that she lied, should be more than enough reason for him to hate her.
He didn’t. Couldn’t.
Anthony turned away. His movements unsteady, he grabbed his full cup with too much force and coffee sloshed over the side and burned his fingers. Swearing under his breath, he jerked his hand back.