Double Deception. Terri Reed
She made an odd noise. “You’re a cop?”
“Yes, ma’am. You have the right to an attorney. If—”
“I haven’t done anything,” she interrupted.
Brody ignored her protest and finished her Miranda rights then helped her to her feet as a bolt of lightning whitewashed the room. He caught a glimpse of an impish face and large, luminous eyes. The tip of her head barely reached the top of his shoulder. So much spirit in one so little. A spark of admiration for the way she’d fought him flared hot.
The light faded and the shadows returned, leaving him feeling unsettled. She certainly didn’t look like a criminal.
He heard her test the strength of the metal links between the cuffs.
“Are these really necessary?”
In the blackness, her voice rang cool and clear, yet Brody heard the underlying tension in her tone. Why did she think someone was out to kill her?
“I’ll take them off when we get to the station.” His natural caution took precedence. Regardless of the gender of his intruder, experience had taught him how deceptive people could be—especially the female sort.
“The police station?”
“Actually, the county sheriff’s office. Let’s go.” His terse answer harbored no room for discussion.
“My purse!”
Brody paused by the grouping of luggage. He picked up the leather bag that he’d mistaken for a carry-on piece of luggage. “This?”
She nodded.
The damp shirt on his back itched and the house grew colder by the minute, making his hip hurt and his limbs grow numb. He resisted the urge to limp by placing a hand on her arm to guide her out of the house. She tried to pull away but he tightened his hold.
Beneath his palm, she trembled as he helped her into his cruiser. Her flowery, lilac scent once again reminded him of his mother’s garden. A place where he used to find a sense of serenity. Even if he took up Mom’s constant invitations to come home, he doubted he’d find that kind of peace now.
With the heater cranked high, they rode in silence through the small town of Havensport, Massachusetts, the quaint buildings of the New England community surveyed by Brody with a sheriff’s eye.
Stores dark and locked tight, no suspicious characters roaming the streets. There never were. Until tonight. Havensport was as boringly safe as a small town could get, but old habits were hard to break.
The sheriff’s office kept keys of all the summer homes in case of emergencies. Lucky for Pete Kinsey that Mae Couch, the elderly lady who lived next door, had been looking out her window and seen someone lurking about. So unusual an occurrence was it, Sheriff Brody McClain had immediately responded.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. The woman’s face was turned toward the window, but he could make out the straight line of her nose, which tilted upward slightly at the tip and a wide, generous mouth set into a firm crease. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left the house.
Within the enclosed space of his cruiser he couldn’t tell the color of her hair. The lights of the station would tell him soon enough. He returned his gaze forward as he slowed to park the car in his spot by the door of the station.
The Havensport County Sheriff’s Office stood at one end of town like a sentinel on guard duty. Though the redbrick building, built in the early part of the century with a high peaked roof and multipaned windows, had withstood updates both in and out, it still remained a historical landmark, due mainly to the fact that the first sheriff’s family still owned most of the property within a thirty-mile radius around the town.
Brody got out and opened the back door. The woman refused his help and struggled out of the vehicle on her own. With reluctance, he again felt admiration for her grit.
Rain poured from the sky, rolling in rivulets down his face. Quickly, he ushered his charge into the station.
Her hair was copper. He’d always liked redheads. He should have stuck with them instead of being tempted by Elise’s willowy blond good looks.
The station’s warmth seeped through his drenched clothing, bringing life back to his numb limbs and chasing away the cold reality of Elise.
After settling the woman into a chair, he unlocked the handcuffs. She rubbed at the rough, red marks left by the metal rings. Brody lowered his gaze and busied himself at the antique oak desk, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge of guilt that rose at the sight of her reddened, slender wrists.
Deputy Warren Teal stepped from the bathroom, still drying his hands with a paper towel. “Hi, boss.”
Warren’s curious gaze settled on Kate as he crumpled the sheet into a ball. After tossing it into the wastebasket, he perched his lean frame on the edge of Brody’s desk. “What do we have here? This the perp at the Kinsey house?”
Brody arched a brow at the deputy. The young rookie was overeager at times, but fairly competent.
“Sorry.” Warren moved away and sat at the only other desk in the room. “She do that to your face?”
Ignoring the questions and the reminder of his stinging cheek, Brody took a blank report, a pen—he preferred to write out the reports first and key them in later—then turned to the woman. “Name?”
Her gaze pinned him to his chair. Confusion radiated from the depths of her large green eyes. “You don’t know?”
Brody’s mouth twisted with wry amusement. “Lady, I’m good, but not that good.”
She blinked. “Why did you arrest me?”
“B and E is a felony, ma’am.” At her blank expression, he clarified, “Breaking and entering.”
“I didn’t break in,” she insisted, leaning forward. “I own the house. My late husband left the property to me.” Her voice wavered. “If you’ll let me call my attorney, he’ll be able to straighten this whole mess out.”
He glanced at her left hand. No band of gold encircled her ring finger. “Pete Kinsey’s your husband?” That was a surprise. The womanizing stockbroker had commented often enough how marriage turned men into jellyfish. Not exactly the marrying type.
“My husband’s name was Paul Wheeler. He owned the house. Pete Kinsey was my husband’s business partner.”
Warren turned in his chair, his gray eyes round with interest. “Pete never mentioned a business partner.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Wow, can that man party.”
Pete Kinsey’s parties were legendary on the Cape. Every summer he’d host a big bash with the big society types in attendance—Hollywood celebrities, corporate big shots, political figures. The affair lasted a full weekend and the locals looked forward to the money it brought in. And as long as they didn’t break any laws, Brody left them alone.
“Don’t you have some work to do, Warren?”
The deputy shrugged and picked up a report.
Intrigued by the situation and by the petite redhead, Brody tapped his pen against the form in front of him as he studied her. “Your full name?”
“Katherine Amanda Wheeler.”
Brody wrote out her name. “Address?”
The Beverly Hills address took him by surprise. “You’re a long way from home.”
She ignored his comment. “Don’t I get a phone call?”
“As soon as I have the paperwork filled out.” He laid his hand on her purse which he’d deposited on top of his desk. “Is your ID in here?”
“Yes.”
He picked up the satchel and unzipped it.