Latimer's Law. Mel Sterling
kept one eye on the dog, hoping that none of her movements would be interpreted as aggression and trigger a reaction. Dogs had never frightened her, but she had a healthy respect for this one’s teeth and intelligence and exceptional training.
Even more than respecting the dog, she respected his owner. That brought a question to mind. What did a man like him need with this sort of dog? What line of work was he in? Abby traced along this path like a bloodhound on a scent. He carried a gun, he knew how to secure a criminal—for criminal she was, like it or not—and he had a well-trained police dog at his command.
The question popped out before she could stop it. “Are you a cop?”
She thought he stiffened, but he did not turn and she couldn’t be certain. “Why do you ask?”
“It would explain a few things.”
“As I keep telling you, you’re the one who needs to do the explaining. Have you thought about that a little more?” Lazily he reeled in the line, flicked it back out into the river, the reel whirring and the lure landing with a faint plop. Abby watched the rings ripple out and dwindle, erased by the flow of the tea-brown water.
“There’s just...really, nothing to explain. I’ve told you the truth. I’m running from some personal things and lost my head.”
“You keep saying that, but I’m like those TV junkies who sit home staring at the Hollywood gossip shows. I want the dirt.”
Despite herself a rueful laugh forced its way past her lips. “What I wouldn’t give to be back at home staring at the TV.” Even reminding Rosemary to share the television remote would be better than the stomach-roiling anxiety she was feeling now. It was hard to decide which was worse: the fear she’d be arrested and jailed for what she’d done, or the certain nightmare when Marsh caught up with her.
“I guess it would be better if you hadn’t started down this road, huh, Abigail?”
“No kidding.” She fell silent. Sweat trickled down her spine, making her itch as it went. She wondered if she was flexible enough to wriggle backward through the circle of her arms and bring her wrists in front of her. The man would probably stop her if she became too active. A droning sweat bee began to show interest in the moist skin of her neck, and there was nothing she could do about it except toss her head and hope her ponytail knocked the insect away.
“Something wrong?” Was that humor in his voice?
“Nothing a good toxic cloud of pesticide wouldn’t fix.”
Now it was a definite chuckle. “You’re doing it to yourself, you know. Dish a little dirt, Abigail.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“What, you didn’t go through my glove compartment and steal my registration?”
Abby scrubbed her face against her shoulder. The sweat was getting into her eyes, stinging with salt. “No,” she mumbled. “I think your dog needs a drink of water.”
At this comment, the man did turn. He looked with concern at the shepherd, and then nodded. “Wouldn’t hurt. I was getting him a drink when you so rudely interrupted us in that parking lot by stealing my truck.” He propped his fishing pole against a nearby scrub oak and returned to the truck, where he took a bottle of water from the back, and a blue plastic bowl, and proceeded to pour the bottled water in the bowl for the dog. Abby found herself swallowing reflexively, and with a gleam in his bright blue eyes the man spoke.
“Cade Latimer. And this is Mort.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Latimer.” She was afraid that the words would come out sarcastically, but instead she was speaking the truth, to her own astonishment. Under any other circumstances she’d have enjoyed talking to this man. “He’s a beautiful dog.” She watched as Latimer cued the dog off guard and permitted him to drink his fill.
“Thanks. You look thirsty, too.” He tipped his head back, bottle to his lips, and drank down what little he hadn’t poured into the bowl. His muscular throat gleamed with a light film of sweat. “But maybe your stomach’s still unsettled from the rough ride. Or the poor company. Your skin is pasty-looking.”
Now that he was closer to her again, Abby could see that the cut was still seeping, though slowly. He had smeared blood over the side of his face each time he wiped at the cut. It looked sore, and the little bit of nursing training she had made her fingers itch to tend the wound. “I’m not thirsty just now. Mr. Latimer, that cut really does need attention. I can see to that for you. It needs cleaning and some antibiotic cream. It might even need stitches.”
He slanted a bright blue glance at her. “How do I know you won’t take advantage of the situation and incapacitate me?”
Now Abby did laugh, the corner of her mouth curling up in a rueful smile. “I’m a thief, not a murderer. I did the damage, I’ll clean up after it. I may not want to tell you all the gory details of my life, but I’m an honorable woman.”
His smile, when it came, transformed him. “Damned if I don’t believe you, Abigail. All right. Sit tight while I dig out the first aid kit, then I’ll clip the cable ties so you can use your hands.”
Abby watched Cade Latimer stretch over the tailgate and emerge with a small blue canvas kit with a red cross silk-screened on it. He brought it to the table and opened it.
“Some more of that bottled water would be good,” Abby suggested.
“I thought you weren’t thirsty.”
“For cleaning the cut.”
Cade nodded and returned with two more bottles of water. He twisted open both and set them near her. He stood very close to her and reached out to cup her chin and turn her face toward him. Abby met his gaze, startled anew by how very blue his eyes were. The work-roughened skin of his palm rasped her jawline and she swallowed, trying not to gulp.
“Understand me, Abigail McMurray. I’m going to let you loose so you can clean up this cut, but make one false move and I won’t hesitate to stop you. It may be as simple as twisting an arm behind your back, or it might be Mort’s teeth in your leg.”
Or a bullet from your gun. She couldn’t look away. The blue of his eyes was intense. A rim of darker blue edged the iris as if to keep the liquid color contained, and different shades of blue rayed from the pupil like spokes in a wheel. His eyes were so arresting she began to lose track of the conversation.
“Show me you understand.”
“I don’t understand what you want, Marsh.”
“What’s to understand? Didn’t you do as much for Gary? C’mon. I know he was a boob man. He always was, from the time we were kids.” Marsh’s hands trembled as he grasped her shoulders, and Abby could tell his hands wanted to slide down, over the breasts he’d just complimented.
“I just want to see your breasts,” he said. “Maybe touch them a little. Gary always said you had beautiful breasts. A little more than a handful, and sweet.”
“Gary never talked to you about my breasts!” She didn’t know what shocked her more—that Marsh wanted her to show him her naked breasts, or the idea that Gary had talked to Marsh about something so personal. “Our sex life is—was—private.”
“He was my brother. He told me a lot of things that would surprise you.”
“What else did he tell you?” Abby gasped, clutching at the front of her shirt as if the buttons might fly off by the force of Marsh’s hungry gaze alone.
“He told me you’re the sweetest bit of tail a man could wish for. He told me you’re generous, and a little shy, and kind of prudish until you’ve had a little wine.”
Prudish? Abby stared at Marsh, her mouth dropping open. Tail?
When he reached out and tucked her tumbled hair behind her ears, she didn’t stop him. He leaned his forehead against hers and spoke