"He walked out on us when I was a child," she said sharply, more sharply than she had intended. She could feel her control frazzling, feel the jagged edge of some pain she refused to let herself identify, and sternly fought her emotions back in line. There would be time enough for that later, when she was alone and this hard-faced, dark-browed man wasn't looking at her with veiled contempt.
She didn't owe him any explanations. She didn't have to reveal the pain and anger and fear of her childhood, just so he would think better of her. All she had to do was get through the next couple of days, then return to Ohio and go back to work, to the silent, empty apartment that wasn't home yet despite having lived there for four months.
"What do I have to do to claim the body?" she asked after a moment, her voice once more cool and composed.
"You have to identify him, sign some papers. I'll walk you through it. Have you made arrangements to take him back to Ohio?"
Karen sat there, stunned. She hadn't thought of that. She had been focused on getting through the funeral, but not where the funeral would be. She didn't have a plot in Ohio where she could bury Dexter. There wasn't room next to her mother's grave—not that she wanted that, anyway, but Jeanette would have.
Karen's hands twisted together as she tried to control the sharp jab of pain. She had let her mother down. Jeanette had asked very little from her and had given everything, but Karen had let her own resentment of her father prevent her from doing what her mother would have wanted.
"I—I didn't even think—" she said, then wished she hadn't. His expression was as lively as a rock's, but again she sensed that wave of disapproval.
Regret speared through her, not because of what Detective Chastain thought of her but because she had wasted so much time feeling bitter, letting it cloud her thinking. No more.
Chastain gave a brief shrug, broad shoulders moving in a gesture that was oddly Gallic. Karen thought that maybe because she was in New Orleans, she expected everything to have a French flavor. And maybe she was even more stressed than she had realized, if she was letting unimportant details distract her. She had been trained to keep her mind on the job in front of her, not on trivia such as how a New Orleans cop shrugged.
"If you can't handle the expense of taking him back, I can help you find a burial plot here," he offered, though she could tell he hoped she would refuse. "Not in the city, that would be impossible, but a few miles out of town. Or you might consider cremation. It would be cheaper."
Cheaper. He thought she would have her father cremated because it was cheaper. She didn't have anything against cremation, if that was what someone wanted, but she couldn't help thinking of Jeanette again. Dexter should be buried beside her. She had to deal with this now, but when she got back to Ohio, she would start making arrangements to have her parents buried together. She would have to locate two plots side by side, deal with the legalities and technicalities of moving the bodies—oh, God, she couldn't think of her mother as a body.
She couldn't think at all; her mind was growing number by the minute. And whatever Detective Chastain's private opinion of her, he had at least offered his assistance. She was uncomfortable accepting his help, knowing he didn't like her, but right now she desperately needed it. "Thank you," she forced herself to say, her voice unusually husky. "I'm not usually so disorganized. My mother died just a few months ago, and I'm still not—" She stopped, looking away, appalled that she was making excuses for herself.
He stood and retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair. "I'll drive you to the morgue now, if you feel up to it."
She didn't, but she stood anyway. She stared at him, wondering how he could stand wearing a jacket in this heat. She felt dizzy, both too hot and too cold at the same time, sweat trickling down her spine and raising a chill. The lazily turning ceiling fan merely stirred the warm air. She didn't understand it; she had dressed in the coolest suit she owned, but she might as well have been muffled in wool instead of cotton.
Then Detective Chastain's hand was on her arm, a warm, hard hand. She felt the calluses on his fingers, smelled the light lemony tang of his aftershave, and she had the blurred impression of a big body standing very close to her, too close, almost as if she were leaning on him. An arm was around her back, and the hand holding her arm forced her back down onto the chair, the strength in his grip somehow reassuring. "Sit here," he ordered quietly. "Put your head down, and take deep breaths. I'll get you something cold to drink."
She did take the deep breaths, but she thought that if she bent over to put her head down, she would just keep going until she was on the floor. So she sat motionless, her eyes closed, as he left the small office. From beyond the open door, she could hear people talking, telephones ringing, papers rustling. There was a lot of cursing, some of it sharp and angry, some uttered in lazy, liquid accents that almost made her forget the content of the words.
Cops. Nurses who worked the emergency and trauma units were around a lot of cops, but except for some periods of training, she had always been a floor nurse, so the world of a cop was alien to her. Her mind drifting, she listened to them talk: hard, profane, callous, and yet curiously concerned. Cops and nurses had a lot in common, she thought sleepily. They had to harden themselves against heartbreaking details but still care about the overall situation.
"Here you go."
She hadn't heard him return, but suddenly an icy soft drink can was pressed into her hand. She opened her eyes and blinked at it. Usually, she drank decaffeinated diet soda, but this was the real stuff, chock full of sugar and caffeine.
"Drink it," he said. Evidently, it was an order, not a suggestion, because he lifted her hand and tipped the can to her mouth.
She was forced to swallow, childlike, and flashed him a look of resentment. He met it with a sort of bland insistence that once again made her think of a rock. Detective Chastain was about as yielding. With a flash of insight, she thought that he would be relentless when going after something he wanted. She would hate to be a criminal with Chastain on her trail.
The soda fizzed on her tongue, tart and sweet at the same time, and it was so cold she could feel it slide down her esophagus. He made her take another swallow before deciding she could manage on her own, but even then, he moved less than a foot away to prop against the edge of his desk. He stretched out long, muscular legs clad in lightweight olive slacks, his loafer-shod feet just inches from her own much smaller shoes. She pulled her feet back a little, oddly disturbed, her stomach clenching in a reaction that was almost like fear, which was ridiculous. She didn't fear Chastain; despite his attitude, she was even grateful to him.
"Drink all of it. The humidity's kind of like altitude," he said easily. "Both of them can sneak up on you and knock you flat. For a minute there, your eyes weren't focused. Feeling better now?"
She was. Karen realized she had almost fainted at his feet. She was a nurse; she should have recognized the signs. By not eating that day, she had all but set herself up for a faint, and the heat and humidity certainly hadn't helped. Every thread on her felt clammy. How embarrassing it would have been if she had sprawled on her face.
Given his veiled dislike, she wondered why Detective Chastain hadn't let her do just that. But he'd been both alert and unexpectedly kind, and she remembered that swift sense of security she had felt at his supporting touch.
"Thank you," she said, looking up at him again. This close to him, she realized with surprise that his eyes were a pale, crystalline gray, with dark charcoal rings around the outer rims of his irises. Given the darkness of his hair and brows, his olive complexion, she had thought his eyes would be dark, too. Or maybe she had been on the verge of fainting before she walked into his office, because how else could she not have noticed such a glittering color? Her stomach clenched again, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. "I'm ready to go to the morgue now."
Whatever his thoughts, she couldn't read them on his face. "You don't have to actually view the body," he explained. "
The medical examiner's office uses videotape for identification purposes. It's easier on families."
Evidently, he thought the prospect of the morgue, of viewing her father's body, had gotten to her as much as the heat and humidity. "I'm a nurse," she heard herself saying. "The sight of a body isn't likely to make me go to pieces, but still—" Still, she was glad it would be on videotape.
He put his hand on her arm again, cupping her elbow in an old-fashioned gesture. "Then we might as well get it over with, hadn't we?"
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Dr. Pargannas, the assistant medical examiner, slid the cassette into the VCR. While Karen watched the small television screen, Marc watched her. It wasn't a hardship; her profile was delicate and clear-cut, completely feminine. Viewed from the side, her mouth looked tender and tremulous. He settled back, his lids lowering over his eyes as he studied her, analyzing her as intently as if she were the prime suspect in a murder.
Dr. Pargannas spoke quietly to her. Marc knew the drill, so he didn't bother listening. Sometimes shaken family members needed to be prepared, bolstered, for what they were about to see. Miss Whitlaw squared her shoulders and in her cool, calm voice said, "I'm ready." No squeamishness about her, no sir.
He gave a mental shrug. Of course, she wasn't squeamish; she couldn't be, and do her job. He'd bet she was a real treasure in an emergency, but he had doubts about her bedside manner afterward. He'd been a patient in a hospital twice, both times courtesy of the job, and he thought it must be a hospital rule that one nurse per shift, per floor, had to be a coldhearted bitch. Maybe Miss Whitlaw wasn't a bitch, but he sure hadn't seen any signs of warmth in her. He wouldn't want her jabbing needles into his ass.
No doubt about it, though, she turned him on, with those dark bedroom eyes and that deceptively tender mouth. He shouldn't have touched her, but hell, he couldn't let her pass out at his feet. So he had held her against him, supported her, felt the softness of her body under his hands, smelled the sweet musk of her skin—and he wanted her. He didn't know if there was any passion in her at all, but he'd sure like to get her in bed and find out.
Get your mind out of her pants and back on business, Chastain, he chided himself. This wasn't the time or the place for horny thoughts, and besides, he was getting hard thinking about it.
Dr. Pargannas clicked on the tape, and the victim's pallid, waxy face filled the screen.
If he hadn't been watching Miss Whitlaw so closely, Marc would have missed her reaction. He saw the barely perceptible flinch, quickly controlled, and her graceful hands twisted together in her lap. "Yes, that's my father," she said, still calm, but her knuckles were white.
Marc looked from those betraying hands to her calm face, and the shock was like a slap in the face. Abruptly all the little details clicked into place. God, how could he have missed it? He felt like a fool, because he should have seen it from the beginning. His gaze sharpened as he studied her.
No, she wasn't as untouched by this as she wanted to be. He had noticed in his office that every time her composure cracked, she would quickly recover, her shoulders squaring, her chin going up. She didn't like being out of control, and she definitely wouldn't like breaking down in front of strangers, but suddenly he knew she was far from being unfeeling.
Maybe she felt too much. His gaze went again to her hands, locked together as she literally held herself in a tight grip. Maybe she had learned to protect herself by pretending she didn't care, by holding people at a distance so she wouldn't be hurt. In a flash of insight, he thought she must be lonely, aching with grief, but at some time in her life she had learned to hide behind a mask of unconcern, maybe when her father had walked out on his wife and daughter. Kids learned to act tough even when they were terrified inside.
If he read the signs right, she was just trying to hold herself together right now but would cry her eyes out when she was alone.
That wasn't good. A woman needed a shoulder to cry on. In this case, a man's shoulder. His, to be specific.
His reluctant sexual attraction suddenly coalesced into something much sharper, more urgent, and this time he didn't even try to talk himself out of it.
Without conceit, Marc knew he was a damn good cop. He made his living taking snippets of information and piecing them together to form a picture. His instincts were usually on target, but in this case he'd let a few misconceptions get in the way, and she had picked up on his initial hostility. Hell, if he was right about her, she was so sensitive she had probably felt blasted by his attitude. She had reacted, typically, by pulling even deeper inside herself. To get her to trust him now, and he fully intended to, he would have to overcome not just her normal wariness but her protective reaction to his wrong impression and his initial coolness.
But he wanted her, and the wanting increased every time he looked at her, every time she breathed. Getting her was something else; doing it would take all his skill. She was skittish and, given her father's example, probably didn't trust men very much. Still, there had never been a woman he'd wanted whom he hadn't gotten, and he had no intention of letting Miss Karen Whitlaw be the exception.
Marc had two big advantages when dealing with women. First of all, he respected their differences from men, and whenever he became involved with a woman, he devoted himself to discovering what she needed. Of course, the needs varied from woman to woman, but for the most part they all wanted the attention and caring that said they were important to him. When Marc was with a woman, he was hers; it was that simple. He gave each one the respect of fidelity while their affair lasted, he learned their moods and quirks, and he lavished them with attention—in short, babying them. He loved doing it, loved seeing a woman glow with happiness.
Given her background, he thought Karen was desperately in need of babying. She had spent her life being a tough little soldier, and she deserved the chance to relax, to let someone take care of her for a change. He was just the man for the job.
His second big advantage was that he was both ruthless and relentless.
He would have to move fast, because she wouldn't be here long, probably no more than a couple of days.
He didn't have time for a leisurely seduction, disguised as dinner and dancing, stretched out over several weeks. She had a job and a home to return to, and unless he forced the issue before she left, she wouldn't have any reason for continuing the relationship.
He had no doubt there would be a relationship. He was absolutely certain, more certain than he had ever been before. The shock he had felt a moment before had gone all the way through him, deep into his bones. And he was, suddenly, uneasy in a way he had never been before, because having a woman had never before felt this important, this necessary.
He didn't know how they would work out the details, with her in Ohio and him in Louisiana, but they could settle all that later. The most important thing right now was to stake his claim, and to do that he had to win her trust.
Beginning now, he thought, flicking a glance from her hands to her composed expression, then to the television screen. Despite her immediate identification of her father, Dr. Pargannas was painstakingly showing her the "Semper fi" tattoo and other identifying marks, perhaps wanting to make certain she hadn't spoken hastily, perhaps because Marc had been lost in his thoughts and hadn't moved to end the session. He swore silently to himself; he should have stopped this the second she spoke.
"Thanks, Doc," he said now, putting one hand on the back of her chair and bracing the other on the table in front of her, effectively embracing her without touching her. He saw her stiffen a little, an instinctive reaction to the subtle possessiveness of his position, but she was too upset to be consciously aware of what he had just done. Those somber dark eyes glanced at him, then quickly averted when they made eye contact, but not before he saw the relief in them.
She hid it well, managing to shift so she could slide out of the chair away from him, standing and saying briskly, "What do I have to do
now?"
"Sign some papers so we can release the body," Dr. Pargannas replied, then blinked at the narrow look Marc gave him. "Ah… that is, your father's remains." The doctor seemed bewildered; if she had been more visibly upset, he could have understood such tact, but he plainly considered it a waste of time with such a businesslike woman.
Marc had stood when she did. Noting the tension in her shoulders, he quietly said, "I'll call a funeral home for you, then take you to a couple of small cemeteries so you can pick out a plot—if that's what you want?"
"Yes, thank you," she said quickly.
"Okay, we'll get the paperwork wrapped up here. Doctor?" Damn, those dark eyes of hers were really getting to him, twisting his guts into knots. He wanted to cradle her, hold her close so she would know she wasn't alone in this, but it was too soon; such a blatant move would panic her. He had to keep it low-key until she relaxed enough with him.
Instead, he put his hand on the small of her back, feeling her warmth through her dress, knowing the heat of his hand on such a sensitive area would comfort her. On a normal day, she would probably jump away and give him a frosty look, but this wasn't a normal day. She was tired, heat-stressed, and was going through an emotional wringer. She was too tense even to notice the touch, except perhaps to feel relief that he was there and that he was helping her.
Dr. Pargannas was staring bemusedly at him. "Hmm? Oh—of course. Take Miss Whitlaw to my office, and I'll be there in a minute. Would either of you like a cup of coffee?"
Marc felt Karen's small shudder at the thought. "I'll get us something cold from the drink machine," he said as he ushered her out of the conference room and into the cramped, cluttered office across the hall.
Thirty minutes later, he was walking her back to the car. The second soft drink had steadied her once again, but the effects of the sugar would wear off soon; she needed food. He thought for a second. A leisurely sit-down meal in a cool restaurant would be best, but likely she would balk at the idea. Not only would she consider it an intolerable delay when they had so much to do, but the surroundings would make her feel as if they were on a date. Less beneficial but more likely to be accepted would be if he picked up something in a drive-through and they ate as he drove.