Billboard Cop Page 12

  York smiled. “At last. Something we have in common.”

  She knew by his glances at the bed that another thing they had in common was their awareness of it, only steps away.

  To quiet a quiver and escape her dangerous observation, she glanced through the French doors to a balcony facing the street. If only she had wings—or a parachute.

  He took a step toward her. She tried to step back, but her legs wouldn’t work.

  “It’s big,” he said in a voice too husky to be discussing furniture. “I had to convert the whole second floor into this suite to make mine fit.”

  She picked up a decorative pillow, crushed it to her breast as a barrier, and pretended to admire the gold-striped comforter with its darker, richer gold skirt. “Gold your favorite color?”

  He looked into her eyes and grinned. “Used to be, but now I rather favor green.”

  A scent of spice lingered in the air. Men’s clothing hung in the partially open walk-in closet. His room. His bed. Her heart pounded out of control. “I can’t take your room.”

  “House rules. The host decides where guests will sleep. You’ll be comfortable here. Private bath.” He bent and pushed down on the bed. “Nice firm mattress.”

  “But where will you be?”

  A sardonic grin flicked across his lips. “Not here, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  Images flashed in her mind—images of them sharing his bed, his arms around her, ardent kisses—followed by hot, skin-glistening passion. “That didn’t even enter my mind, Detective.”

  Amusement flickered in his eyes. “I doubt that, Reporter.”

  Jen strode to the door and leaned on the handle. “You’ll want to go now…to wherever you plan to sleep.”

  He came close and braced himself against the door with one hand, towering over her and trapping her in a fog of awareness, desire.

  “Not yet.” His voice lowered to a sonorous rumble. “I thought we’d have some chocolate cookies and cocoa.”

  He touched her shoulder; velvety heat rushed to her core. She could scarcely breathe. “That’s right. You like sweets.”

  He grinned, deepening the sexy creases at the corners of his mouth. “You remembered. Good. The cookies are homemade,” he said, not giving her a chance to respond. “Mom sent them over.”

  Get him out of this room, before you let him know how much you want him to stay. “Can’t pass up your mom’s baking,” she managed to get out.

  He slid his hand down her bare arm, entwined his fingers with hers and together they headed down the stairs. Oddly, she felt like she was floating.

  In the kitchen, York opened packaged chocolate, stirred some milk and vanilla into two mugs and shoved them into the microwave. He handed her a couple of antique-looking small plates and two burgundy paper napkins.

  She placed them on the table and sat down. “Exquisite china.”

  “From Grandma Winter’s set. When she died at the ripe old age of a hundred and one, we all got a few pieces.”

  Jen traced the circle of gold around the rim, jealous that she’d never had a family like he described. “And you got the dessert plates for the obvious reason.”

  He chuckled. “Quick on-the-uptake, Ms. Lyman.”

  The microwave bell dinged and he exchanged the mugs of chocolate for a basket of cookies and zapped them for thirty seconds.

  She watched him drop dollops of whipped cream into the cocoa. “No calories in any of this, right?”

  He passed the warm cookies to her. “After what you went through today, a few calories won’t hurt.”

  She didn’t want to think about the axe man now. She sighed, and let the warm, rustic tones of the kitchen with its used-brick walls and brass pots close around her like an old friend.

  As he took a chair across from her, Jen couldn’t help notice his leanly muscled body and the agile way he moved. He was a gorgeous guy, but the best part about him was his generous heart.

  He’d brought her to his home and given her a glimpse of his life. The family photographs on the mantel had struck a chord. She didn’t have anything like that in her place—just a treasured black-and-white studio photo of her mom when she was young. There was no one else. Her stepdad had left her life quickly; he was only in it long enough to make her determined not to sell out her goals for any man.

  As though it were a bracing shot of bourbon, she gulped the cocoa. Its warmth as it went down her throat, along with the cozy kitchen and York’s openness, unlocked some of her reserve. “You’re lucky to know your father and be a part of his life.”

  Reluctantly she let York capture her gaze. “You don’t know yours?”

  “Sperm donor.” She regretted the words the moment they escaped her lips.

  York raked his coal-black hair from his forehead, looking stunned. “You’re kidding?”

  “I wish I were.” Her heart pounded. She couldn’t believe she’d allowed York’s probing blue eyes and warm hospitality to seduce that closely held secret out of that dark, obscure place in her soul.

  He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. “You must feel special. Your mom wanted you badly enough to risk raising you alone.”

  “Mom was great.” Jen took a small sip of the cocoa. The hot liquid couldn’t warm her heart against the surge of bitterness she felt toward the sperm donor. She’d lived with the resentment too long. “What about the thoughtless guy who just deposited some sperm in a cup for a few bucks and never looked back, never considered the impact on the life of the child?”

  “Maybe when he got a little older he did look back. He might be tortured every time he sees a kid who looks like him.”

  York’s words rang with passion. Had he been a donor? She closed her eyes briefly. She wanted to ask, but couldn’t bear it if a man who valued family so much would willingly leave the seed of a child…part of himself…with an uncertain future.

  “Why don’t you just ask me if I know from experience? I can see by the expression on your face that you want to.”

  “All right. Were you a donor?”

  “No. Although when money got tight and my college pals were doing it, I thought about it. After I talked to Dad, I knew I couldn’t live with the consequences, the eternal wondering. Was a kid born? If so, did he or she have a good life?”

  “Your dad sounds like a wise man.”

  “He is.” York’s gaze seemed to intensify. “How long have you been holding that secret inside?”

  “A lifetime.”

  He touched her hand, sending ethereal shivers tracing over her skin. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” His husky voice seeped into her awareness like a sonnet. “I would think a modern woman like you would chalk it up as one of the costs of progress.”

  She withdrew her hand. “Maybe I’m not as modern as you think.” She sighed. Nor as old-fashioned as he wants.

  He smiled. “Perhaps not. How about doing a feature about sperm donors and their offspring? Might be healing.”

  “I’m not sure I could handle it objectively.” She was surprised when her muscles begin to relax.

  “Judging from what I’ve read so far, you like to shake people up. This would let people see a child’s view of the issue. Kids need more understanding people in their corner.”

  “You like kids, don’t you?”

  “They’re what it’s all about.”

  She hadn’t thought much about it until lately, but when she’d cared for Shelly’s youngsters, she’d learned how deeply children could touch her heart. Jen bit her lip. “I hope Buddy gets over this.”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s probably bragging about his terrifying experience to his older brother right now.”

  “That would be good. Being a hero might be just what he needs to give him a sense of importance in the family.”

  York closed his warm hand over hers, soothing currents of heat washed over her fingers. “How about you? You okay?”

  “Fine.” She didn’t withdraw her hand for sev
eral seconds, and then, only reluctantly. “But I keep thinking about it. That cop told you they found fishing line in Shelly’s apartment. What if it was merely a ploy? Sniffles said the strangler was a puppet with someone else pulling the strings.”

  “Right. A bigwig official.”

  Jen stirred the dregs of her chocolate. “Since Sniffles wanted Shelly to retrieve deleted files from the mayor’s hard drive, he must’ve suspected him.”

  “Sniffles had to be getting his information from somewhere.” York stroked his jaw, looking wise and far too handsome.

  Jen felt a jolt of excitement. “What if Sniffles knew the killer personally? And what if, since Sniffles and Shelly were close, she knows the killer, too.” Jen felt her enthusiasm building. “If we go with the premise that Sniffles knew the killer and that Shelly knows him, too, then all we have to do is ask her.”

  “I intend to do that. But she may not be aware that she knows him. I’ll call Ted and ask him to try to trigger her memory. He’s good at getting into a person’s subconscious.”

  “I’ll bet you are, too. Maybe you’re digging into mine right now. Are you?”

  “You’d know if I was. I’m uncompromisingly direct.”

  She nibbled on a still warm chocolate chip cookie. “Me, too. So what do you make of all this, detective?”

  He laughed, but his eyes darkened with worry. “The only thing I’m sure of is that one of your stories is involved.”

  A chill slipped down her spine. “Puppet with someone pulling the strings,” she said softly. “Like a hit man.”

  “Hit men don’t get emotionally involved. This guy today was crazed with rage.”

  She knew that only too well. “What if he usually keeps his emotions hidden, and his boss thinks he’s just a hired killer, not a maniac who gets his kicks from the hits?”

  “I don’t know. I might’ve doubted Sniffles’ claim of a bigwig’s involvement if I hadn’t heard the same thing from another source.”

  She sat up straight. “What source?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she tapped her fingers on the table. His country-kitchen walls felt like they were closing in on her. He had dangled the word “source” before her to shift her reporter instincts into high gear. Well it worked, so why was he just sitting there, silently sipping his chocolate and looking smug? “Are you going to tell me who this source is, or not?”

  “Have a little patience. I’m working up to it. Ever been to Salem, Jen?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  He grinned. “You know, Salem. Little town about twenty-five miles northeast of here.”

  The word “source” still echoed in her brain while York with his damned blue eyes twinkling brilliantly, veered off in another direction. This tough detective’s lighter side might be charming under other circumstances, but at the moment it set her teeth on edge and made her want to pound his impressive chest. But she refused to give him the satisfaction. After all, two could play his game. “Oh, sure,” she said with artificial lightheartedness. “It’s a charming little community—in spite of its witch-burning history.”

  “We could take a ride up there tomorrow. It’s a lovely coastal drive, and there’s someone I want you to meet. And my folks live there.”

  She laughed. “While it might be enlightening to meet the folks who sired you, I can’t leave the city in the middle of chasing a story. I have deadlines.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Dammit, it’s the weekend!”

  “Nothing can get me out of town when I’m hot on a story.”

  He rubbed his jaw, slowly, provocatively, his eyes full of mischief. He arched a dark, devilish brow. “Except the story itself, right?”

  This was undoubtedly a trick question, but as usual her curiosity intrigued her to continue playing the game. “What do you mean?”

  “What if I told you the man next door to my folks plays golf with Coble? You know, the guy you said allegedly paid Monroe to dump the toxic dirt from his gas station site onto public land?”

  The amusement dancing in York’s eyes and his apparent supreme enjoyment of the interplay going on between them, only made her more skeptical. “What’s the neighbor’s name?”

  “Howard Hawthorne. I’ll get Mom to invite him over for cocktails. A couple of drinks and the old guy just might share a few secrets with us.”

  “Are you making this up?”

  “Come with me and find out,” he said with a wink that both infuriated and seduced her. “No effort involved—your bag’s already packed.”

  “You’d better not be pulling my leg, Detective.”

  He grinned. “There you go again, painting those vivid pictures for me.”

  She raked her fingers through her hair. “What about the leads here? They could get cold by Monday. Besides, I’ll bet you simply want to dump me at your folks’ place so you can come back and chase down the information by yourself.”

  “I know you have trust issues, Jen. But I’m not Lee Brock.”

  “What’s my ex-boyfriend got to do with this?”

  “Forget Brock for now. How about we do it this way—go into our offices and tie up loose ends for two or three hours, and if we’re able to locate Joel, go see him, if not, we head for Salem?”

  She studied him, searching for any signs of hidden motives. “If, big if,” she said, “you’re really on the level about this Hawthorne guy, I suppose it’ll be worth my while to go with you.”

  This might work. She could learn firsthand what was going on in the police investigation, and have a great bodyguard to boot. But she wasn’t naive enough to believe his willingness to chase leads with her was only to protect her. He must believe sooner or later she’d remember something Sniffles had told her that would break this case wide open. She shuddered realizing the killer was probably operating under the same assumption.

  “Although you should be safe enough at work,” York said, “we need to coordinate our schedules. If you have to go out, call me. I’ll go with you.”

  “You’re kidding?” She was used to coming and going at a moment’s notice. News stories didn’t wait.

  “I’m not, Jen.” Their gazes met, and she felt the electricity arch dangerously between them. “You know the strangler’s after you now.”

  His ominous tone sent shivers down her spine. Struggling to keep the fear from showing on her face, she nodded. “I saw only a head covered with a stocking through the slit in the door. But the rage under that nylon—the grunts, the open mouth—left no doubt he intended to kill me.”

  York ran his fingers lightly across her arm, sending tingles along her nerve endings, stoking a fire she’d kept carefully banked since their kiss. How could she feel desire while gripped with fear?

  “Based on what he did to Shelly’s place,” York said, “I’d say this guy has a short fuse. You shot at him last night and fouled his break in, and this afternoon at Shelly’s you tried to keep him out again.”

  Jen pressed her lips tight, fighting a sense of helplessness. “What if this isn’t about me? What if he knew about Shelly and was after her? He couldn’t have seen me clearly.”

  “In any event, Sniffles was the key.” York’s deep voice grew more intense. “Someone believes you’re getting too close to the truth. Think, Jen. The catalyst had to be something Sniffles told you before he was killed.”

  She touched her forehead, racking her brain without success. “Maybe if I go over my notes again…”

  “Whatever you learned, it was important enough to make the killer want to erase it from your mind—permanently.”

  “He didn’t have to worry, unless...”

  York’s grip on her arm tightened. “What?”

  The strength of his fingers sinking into her flesh told her he was just as invested in chasing leads as she was. Maybe she could trust him after all. “It wasn’t anything Sniffles said. It was Tim Tormont. He’s the City Refuse Director. At my friend’s promotion lunch, I got the idea he knew more about the toxi
c dumping than he was saying.”

  “I’ll go with your reporter instincts on this one. Can you set up a meeting with this Tormont guy?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. But it may not be until Monday.”

  “Then I’ll concentrate on Brock for now. Maybe after I haul him in, I’ll have more answers.”

  She pulled away. “You can’t still suspect Lee? He couldn’t be that masked maniac.”

  “Everything about him fits, and he knew we were going out. He could have followed us to Shelly’s place.”

  Jen closed her eyes, her nerves stretched taut between her loyalty for Lee and her fear that York might be right. How had she allowed herself to break the newspaper creed of not getting emotionally involved? But how could she not? When the man she was growing to trust and admire accused her friend of being a maniac killer. Or when a fellow reporter and a tenderhearted informant were murdered, and her own life hung in the balance.

  Exhausted from her race to escape the man with the axe, her need to protect Lee, and her spiraling, impossible attraction to York, she rose abruptly from the table, fighting the threat of tears. “Fine. Do your job, and I’ll do mine. If I’m trekking off to Salem tomorrow afternoon with you, I need to be at my office by seven. Does that work for you, or shall I take a taxi?”

  York’s expression hardened. “I’ll make it work.”

  She knew he would. He’d already told her that whenever she was away from the office, he wanted to be at her side. Comforted by the thought and sorry for her outburst, she gentled her tone. “Perhaps after a good night’s sleep I’ll remember more.” If I’m lucky, it will be what the killer wants me to forget.

  Chapter Seven

  York shook his head. Their morning had been rushed, and to outward appearances, cool. But he had felt the heat simmering just beneath the surface. They’d skipped breakfast and had hardly spoken on the drive to work. The air had crackled with tension and things they’d left unsaid. He’d give a day’s pay to know what she was thinking as she stared out the passenger window. Throughout the ride he’d been acutely conscious of the sun glinting on her hair and of every shift of her lovely body. He’d kept his hands on the steering wheel, fighting that same overwhelming urge to take her in his arms. Even now, he was painfully aware of the throbbing sensations to the mere memory of their kiss. What did he want from her anyway? More than was wise. And now he had to deal with her damned ex.