The Watcher. BEVERLY BARTON
you won’t slap me, will you? That would require your actually touching me and you don’t want to do that, do you?”
“No. I’m going to resist temptation and avoid possible contamination,” Nic told him. “But I am going to call Doug Trotter first thing in the morning.”
“I take it that Doug’s the supervisory special agent over your squad in D.C. So, why do you think he’ll bend the rules for us?”
“Doug’s one of the SACs. And he will not bend any rules for us. If I can persuade Chief Willoughby to play along with us, all he’ll have to do is tell Doug that he suspects the same person who killed Gala Ramirez in Texas also killed Kendall Moore in Arkansas.”
“You know what will happen if we find out that there were other murders before Kendall and Gala,” Griff said.
“There is a distinct possibility that once all the law enforcement agencies in the states where the bodies were found are informed, then the FBI will become directly involved and a task force will be formed.”
“When that happens, you’ll want to cut me out of the action.”
“You’re smiling.” Nic really hated that smug look on his face. “As much as I do not want you involved, you will be. Not just because you make a habit of sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, but because the man who called you and me isn’t going to allow me to cut you out of the action.”
“Already figured that out, have you? Yeah, for some reason he wants us to be a team on this one.”
“Maybe he has a giant ego and outsmarting just one of us isn’t enough of a challenge.”
“Maybe.”
“After we finish up here and talk to the first officer on the scene, I want to call Chief Willoughby in the morning and see if he’ll contact Doug.”
“Make it early, okay? I want us on the plane and heading for Stillwater by nine.”
Griff sure as hell hoped that Nic didn’t think he had requested this special romantic dinner. Miss Cleo had pulled out all the stops in arranging an evening under the stars for them.
Griff looked directly at Nic, who sat across from him at the small table decked out with a linen tablecloth. “I hope you know that I didn’t—”
Nic burst into laughter.
Griff grinned. “It seems Miss Cleo is a romantic.”
“Undoubtedly. And delusional as well. How anyone could think that you and I …” Nic laughed again. “We are the last two people on earth who’d ever be a couple.”
“Yeah, I agree. But neither of us ever thought we’d become crime-solving partners, either.”
“I don’t like to think of us as partners,” Nic said. “There’s just something unnatural about it.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s an unholy alliance.”
Nic smiled; and when she did, Griff realized that in all the years he’d known her, he had seldom seen her smile. She was downright pretty when she wasn’t frowning.
“We aren’t friends,” she reminded him, her smile vanishing. “We don’t even like each other, so there’s no point in pretending otherwise. But I can and will act in a professional manner, if you will. And I’ll try my best to be civil, even cordial, if at all possible.”
“Tell me why you dislike me so much?” Good God, why had he asked her that?
“Do you really want to know?”
He nodded.
“You’re an arrogant, egotistical, womanizing bastard who thinks because you’re rich, you can do whatever you want, that the rules others have to live by don’t apply to you. I’ve got news for you, Mr. Powell, you’re not all that special. You’re no different than any other man.”
Griff glared right into her eyes. She shivered.
“That’s where you’re wrong. I am different. And not because of my sizable bank account.” She had no idea just how different he was. Neither she nor the rest of the world would ever know. And he would give all he owned if he could forget.
“There’s that gigantic Powell ego speaking. Mr. Big-Bad PI with the mystery past and women swooning at his feet. You love it, don’t you? You love being Mr. Macho.”
Griff lifted the crystal flute and sipped the wine. Not great, but he’d tasted worse. He studied Nic, noting her flushed cheeks and rapid breathing. She was angry, and all that emotion was directed at him. But was he really the one she was upset with, the one who had prompted her anger?
“Go ahead,” she told him.
“Pardon? Go ahead and do what?”
“Tell me why you don’t like me.”
“If you really want to know.”
“Turnabout is only fair,” she said.
“I don’t like women who need to prove they can do anything a man can do and do it better. Men and women are inherently different. I like being a man and I prefer women who enjoy being female.”
“Fluttery and feminine and helpless and silly,” Nic said, her eyes flashing with anger. “Can’t get along without some big, strong man taking care of her. Good for fucking and having babies and not much else.”
Griff took another sip of wine, set his glass on the table, and asked, “Who put that enormous, ugly chip on your shoulder, Nicki?”
Gritting her teeth, Nic groaned; then she shoved back her chair and stood. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
When she turned to leave, Griff pushed back his chair, got up, and went after her. When he caught up with her, he grasped her arm, intending to apologize. But before he could say a word, she whirled around and gave him a killer glare.
“Let go of me.”
He looked at his hand holding her arm, then looked directly at her before releasing her.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” she told him.
When she turned and walked away, he didn’t try to stop her.
Stillwater wasn’t much more than a wide place in the road. The only street in town was Main Street. A single row of ramshackle old buildings, all but two empty, looked like they were about to fall in. The two occupied structures had been remodeled. One housed a beauty shop and the other, a two-story building, boasted a big green sign that read FEED AND SEED.
As they drove through town, Nic kept her gaze focused either to the right or straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the local scenery. Neither she nor Griff had mentioned anything about how their evening had ended yesterday. Actually, when she’d met him in the dining room of the Ballinger B&B for breakfast this morning, he’d acted as if nothing had happened. While Cleo Willoughby had served them a big country breakfast, complete with grits and hash browns, Griff had informed her that the Powell jet was ready to leave, that he’d already spoken to the sheriff of Stillwater, and had taken a call from Ballinger’s chief of police.
“What did Chief Willoughby have to say?” Nic had asked.
“He promised that he’d do as you asked and get in touch with Doug Trotter today to request that the bureau compare the murder here in Ballinger with the murder in Stillwater.”
During the plane ride from Arkansas to Texas, Nic and Griff hadn’t talked much. For a good part of the trip, she had pretended to be asleep. She’d been sure Griff would hassle her about the way