Chapter Eight

Anne-Marie arched back, so utterly weary. She hadn’t been this tired even back during her internship. Talk about emotional stress…

Shifting her shoulders, she tried to find a more comfortable position in the hospital chair from hell. On the bed, Desmond slept on, healing slowly, but surely. Four days out of surgery and he was doing well. They took him off the ventilator two days ago and he was breathing on his own.

In a few more days, they would transfer him out of CCU and onto a regular floor.

She didn’t like his color, though. Gray and thin, he was finally starting to show his years. His head was shaved along the right side of his scalp, the four-inch long tear covered by a bandage and iodine. The rest of his hair was limp, filthy. As soon as he woke up, she was going to get him a bath.

Of course, knowing him, she’d do better to have a few pretty young candy stripers do it. With a sad smile, she decided if he would only wake up, he could have those candy stripers by his side doing a striptease, even if she had to get one from a strip joint in Lexington.

Since those first few times he had opened his eyes to acknowledge her, he had done nothing more than sleep. Granted, he was sleeping a healing sleep, one he needed desperately.

When the door opened, she turned her head and met Jazz’s eyes. He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I hate to have to do this, but you are under arrest,” he told her, slowly pulling her body up out of the chair.

Rolling her head back against his shoulder, she smiled up at him. “I am? What for?”

“Failure to take proper care of yourself. You’ve been sentenced to spend the night at the hotel down the street to get some rest, a decent meal.”

“I don’t want to leave—”

“I know that. But that is what you are doing. Because the doc would want you to take care of yourself. It’s not going to help him any if he wakes up and finds out you’re in the bed next to him.”

“But—”

“No buts, Dr. Kincaid. You’re getting a good night’s sleep in a real bed.” Pivoting her in his arms, he cupped her face and raised it to his. Brushing her lips with a gentle kiss, he whispered, “You do the crime, you do the time. And your time is a real meal, followed by some decent sleep.”

“You’re not a cop, or a sheriff. Isn’t it illegal to impersonate one?” she asked, tipping her head back as he trailed a line of kisses down her jaw line.

“I’ve got a badge right here in my pocket. You wanna see?” he teased, nudging his hips against her middle.

“Mmmm. Okay. I’d hate to have resisting arrest on my record.”

Jazz felt her sigh brush against his mouth as she relaxed. She watched him from under her lashes as she said, “You know, speaking of taking care of yourself, you don’t have to live at the bedside with me. You’ve got that pretty, little girl to take care of.”

“Heading back tomorrow. Which is why I intend to see that you rest tonight,” he responded. “I’ll be back in a day or two and if I know you, you’ll still be sitting right here. So tonight—you rest.”

Linking her arms around his waist, she said, “Then you had better keep a close eye on me. I’m sneaky. If I’m left alone, I’ll make a break for it.”

“I was going to keep an eye on your dad.”

“No need. The nurses will call if anything changes. And he’s going to be fine,” she said, her voice somewhat shaky. “I know that. He’s too strong not to be.”

“You know that, huh? Then why is it you have spent the past four nights in this hospital, why is it you use the shower in the doctor’s lounge and wear OR scrubs?”

With a quick smile, she replied honestly, “Because I don’t like hotel rooms. And I didn’t want to be alone in one.” Rising on her toes, she bit his lower lip and said, “If you come with me, that won’t be a problem.”

With that single action, the blood drained from his head and pooled in his groin. Catching her hips in his hands, he pulled her flush against him. “I think you’re trying to bribe your way out of your jail time.”

Smiling against his lips, she murmured, “Can’t blame a girl for trying, can you?” Anne-Marie yawned and grinned up at him. “Okay. I’ll do the time. A bed is starting to sound mighty tempting, Jazz.”

“Am I still invited?” he asked, grasping one hand and lifting it to his lips.

“Whenever you like,” she offered, reaching up with her free hand and brushing his cheek with her fingertips.

As she turned away to gather up her things, Jazz smiled sadly. Just how long was that offer good for? He couldn’t imagine a time ever coming that he wouldn’t want her. Hell, why would there be one in his future when there hadn’t been one in his past?

“Jazz?”

Jerking his head up, he snapped out of his morose reverie. He looked up to see her standing a few feet away, watching him with curious eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I just hate having to leave you alone here,” he told her, moving closer. He gave in to the urge to touch her again and ran his hand down her hair.

“I’ll be fine, Jazz. Daddy’s going to be fine. Besides, your little girl needs you. And you need her. You’ve been with me since Daddy was shot. It’s been four days since you went home.”

He knew. That ache in his heart was the only reason he was willing to leave Anne-Marie’s side for even a minute. “I’ll come back up in a few days—”

“No. Once Dad’s stable, we’re transferring him to County Hospital until he is ready to go home. I can’t stay away from the practice for the time it’s going to take him to recover. In a week or less, I’ll be home.”

She moved to Desmond’s side, stroking his cheek. His eyes fluttered a bit as she leaned down and whispered, “I’m going to get some sleep, Daddy. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Straightening, she smoothed one hand down her limp ponytail and said, “I just need to let the nurses know he needs a bath. And then I need one.”

“Don’t bother with a nurse for yours. I’ll help,” he told her, offering her his arm. Tucking her hands in the crook of his elbow, they left the room. Behind them, Desmond lay on the bed, a small smile hovering at his lips.

 

 

Face turned up to the forceful spray of water, Anne-Marie hummed in pleasure as several days of grime sluiced off her body. Filling her palm up with the shampoo she had insisted Jazz stop and get, she lathered up the length of her thick, black hair, breathing in the scent of vanilla and spice. Twice more, she lathered up her hair before rinsing and reaching for the conditioner.

As she turned her back to the spray, she sighed in satisfaction. Her eyes drifted open, then opened wide and she yelped. Jazz had entered the room, pulled the curtain back a bit and was watching her with a strained smile. “Baby, you know, just looking at you right now is a turn on,” he told her, lifting one leg and bracing the flat of his foot against the wall behind him.

“You scared the life out of me,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her naked breast, waiting for her heart to return to normal.

Jazz didn’t respond as his eyes drifted down from her slicked-back hair to her smoothly rounded shoulders. Trickles of water ran down her torso, clung to the neat patch of hair between her thighs, running down her long, curved legs. With the heat of the shower making the air thick and dense, she looked like a water goddess come to life. Need ripped through him with vicious intensity.

How long, he wondered again. How long would she want him?

It would never be long enough. So he had to make what time he had count.

He reached for the buttons on his shirt, pushing off the wall.

Cocking a brow at him, she asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m feeling pretty rough myself. I thought a shower would help me, too,” he told her, shrugging out of the shirt. He shucked his work boots in seconds, unzipped his jeans and shoved them down his legs along with his boxers.

“Hmmmm.” Anne-Marie said, “I suppose that would be okay. We should conserve water, you know.”

“In the name of conservation, then,” he agreed, stepping into the wide shower stall and adjusting one of the showerheads to his height. Using his body to protect Anne-Marie from the spray, he wetted his hair down. Then he moved the showerhead back and stepped closer to her.

Conversationally, she said, “This is really a wonderful suite. I love the bathroom.” Her voice shook slightly as his hands closed over her hips and their bodies aligned. “Nice and…big.”

Chuckling, Jazz replied, “Yeah. I kinda like it, too.” Backing her into the wall, he lowered his head and took a pointed nipple in his mouth. Her breath caught in her throat as he applied a delicate suction. Droplets of water pelting her, the heat of his mouth on her, Anne-Marie thought she was caught in a wild summer storm.

Raising his head, Jazz caught the nape of her neck in his hand, arching her head up to meet his. He took her mouth desperately, almost violently. Her hands closed over his shoulders, kneading the smooth muscle there as his hands cupped her hips and lifted her. “I can’t wait,” he muttered, nudging against her.

Locking her legs around his waist, arching up against him, Anne-Marie responded, “I don’t want you to.” A gasp fell from her lips as he imbedded his length within her, withdrew and slammed into her again. Reaching up, she laced her fingers in the wet silk of his hair, holding him against her.

Jazz reached behind, unlocking her ankles and hooking his arms under her legs, opening her body wide before driving deep inside her. As her muscles started to contract around him, Jazz slowed, nuzzling at her ear. “This isn’t gonna last,” he murmured in her ear.

Water pounding her from the sides, the cool tile against her back, and Jazz thrusting against her, Anne fell even deeper into the storm. A soft low moan escaped her lips only to be swallowed by his as he covered her mouth. Diving deep, he stroked the inside of her mouth, withdrew to nip at her lower lip.

Soft, wet silk—sinking inside of her was like sinking his dick into soft, wet silk. Her sheath rippled around him, squeezing little convulsions that would drain him dry. Jazz shuddered at the pleasure that came with each and every move she made. As she gasped out his name, he buried his face in the curve of her neck so he could breathe in her scent. He bit her lightly on the neck and she responded with a ragged, hoarse moan.

“Jazz…” She whimpered, trying to get closer. Held as she was, unable to move, completely vulnerable… who would have known that could be such a turn on? A helpless thrill shot through her when she tried a second time to move and couldn’t.

Her eyes fluttered closed, a long moan escaped her lips.

“You look at me,” he whispered. “Open your eyes, Annie. And look at me.” As her dark green eyes opened, eyes the color of the forest at dusk, he asked softly, “Who do you see?”

Jazz couldn’t control the storm raging inside him any longer. Thunder pulsed in his head, his gut, in his cock. Water pounded him from the outside, waves of longing and love from the inside.

It was her. It had always been her. The need to mark her, to bind her to him gnawed at him. And the hopelessness of knowing it would never happen. But he had now. Now she was his. He asked her again, “Who do you see?”

She stared at his face, a face she had tried to picture time and again over the years. A face she would see in her mind every day for the rest of her life. “You,” she told him raggedly. “Just you. Just you, Jazz.”

Releasing her legs, he moved closer, until not even a breath of air could come between them. Her hands slid up and locked around his neck. Staring up at him through slitted eyes, she said, “Kiss me, Jazz. Like you did that first time.”

Covering her mouth, he let the storm inside him take them both.

 

 

Dawn was breaking when Anne-Marie woke alone in the bed. The sheets beside her were still warm. Reaching out, she ran her hand over them, before fisting her hand and pressing it to her mouth.

“Did I wake you?” a low, husky voice asked.

Turning her head, she saw Jazz sitting in the chair by the bed, chin propped on his fisted hand. “No. What are you doing up so early?”

“Watching you.”

Self-conscious, she tugged the sheet up as she sat in the bed. Looping her arms around her legs, she asked, “Why?”

“Because you’re here. Because you’re beautiful. Because I want to,” he answered, smiling slightly, as if laughing at some inner joke. “Sleep well?”

Shrugging, she fussed with the sheet, with her tangled hair, her hands, as she waited for the blush staining her cheeks to fade. “Better than I have been. Not as good as I will when I can sleep in my own bed.” Then boldly, she raised her head, met his eyes and added, “Or yours.”

His eyes widened before crinkling at the corners as he grinned. “Feel free to invite yourself any time you wish, Doc Kincaid. Any time at all.”

Smoothing the wrinkled sheet over her lap, she smiled primly and said, “I believe I just did, Mr. McNeil.” And then her face sobered and she sighed. “It will be some time though, before I can do that.” Resting her head on her bent legs, she stared at Jazz. “What’s going on, Jazz? Why would somebody want to kill my father?”

Tears welled in her eyes, but only one spilled over. It trickled down her cheek and she brushed it away absently. “Everybody likes him,” she said quietly. “He’s a good man, a good father. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t steal, and doesn’t cheat.” She laughed a little. “Of course, there’s this widow in New Haven he goes to visit. He thinks I don’t know. Daddy’s been alone a long time. I can’t expect him to stay alone always just because I can’t picture him with anyone but Mama.

“She’s been to see him quite a bit. Always after I’ve left the room,” she told him, the corner of her mouth curving up in a small smile. “I leave the room more often now that I know she is out there.”

“Why?”

“Because Daddy, for some reason, didn’t want me to know. I think it started out as something casual, each one comforting the other, maybe. But I think she loves him. Maybe he loves her. He squeezed her hand, once. I came in that first time, not knowing she was there. And she was sitting talking to him. She’s a bit hard of hearing, I think. Anyway, she didn’t hear me come in and she was standing up, telling him goodbye. And I saw his hand tighten around hers.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“If it makes him happy, then I’m happy for him. Mama has been gone a long time, Jazz. It would be selfish of me to want him to stay alone simply because she was no longer here.”

Leaning forward, Jazz traced his fingers down the curve of her cheek. “There’s not a selfish bone in your body.”

“Yes, there is. And it has your name on it,” she told him, taking his hand and holding tight. Lacing her fingers with his, she turned her eyes away, not seeing the intense look in his eyes. “Why did this happen, Jazz? Who would want to hurt my dad?”

Shaking his head, he answered, “I don’t know, Anne. But we’re going to find out.”

Turning her head, she met his eyes once more. “Are we?” she asked, her voice calm, casual.

His was anything but when he tightened his grip on her hand as he rose and settled down on the mattress next to her, “Yes. We are.”

 

 

Tate had a secret passion. For fairy tales, of all things. Books of folklore, myths and legends lined the walls of his office at home. He loved to draw and had since he was a kid. That was part of the reason he was bullied so much when he was little, not just because he’d been so overweight and clumsy. Hidden in the drawer of his desk was a leather-bound journal, stuffed full of drawings of leprechauns, elves and faeries.

Maybe that was why he had always felt drawn to Marlie Jo Muldoon.

She looked like a faerie, tiny, delicate, pale. She barely stood at five feet in her stocking feet and had yards of pale, silvery-blonde hair that she wore in a neat braid down her back. Quiet, shy, she always seemed to hover at the edges, watching all that went on around her, but never really reaching out and joining.

How she came from something like Jackson Muldoon was something nobody could fathom. Though she looked as insubstantial as a mist, Tate had a hunch that there was more to her than most thought. From time to time, something lively and passionate would dance across her face before being subdued.

Wide, blue eyes, eyes the color of the eastern sky at sunset, deep, dark indigo, dominated her small, pale face. Right now, they were full of nerves and barely restrained temper.

“Tate, what are you talking about?” Marlie asked. Her voice was just as soft as the rest of her, whisper quiet.

Tate had to lean forward and concentrate to hear her. “Marlie, I need to know where you were on May fourteenth, Friday night.”

“I was at home with Mama.” A sad smile curved her mouth and she spread her hands wide. “That’s where I am every night, Tate.”

“Can your mother can verify that?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Her mouth firmed and her eyes darkened. “Mama has a hard time verifying her own name, Tate. Much less what I was doing last week.” Leaning back in the kitchen chair, she asked, “What is this about, Tate? I think I have a right to know.”

A slight grin tugged at his mouth. Yep, I was right. There is some of that sass I knew existed. He lowered his eyes back to his notepad, adding faerie wings to his sketch of Marlie. That was what she ought to be doing, he thought with disgust. Flitting through a field of wildflowers or dancing on the limbs of a dogwood. Living in a castle somewhere.

Not sitting here in this ratty, dark, depressing house while he questioned her about an attempted murder.

With a deep sigh, Tate threw down his pen. “You were supposedly seen by an anonymous caller out on Old Bluecreek Road several times in the weeks before Dr. Kincaid was shot.”

“And what on God’s earth would I be doing there?” she asked, her eyes puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever been out there.”

“That’s what I am trying to figure out, Marlie. How do you feel about Dr. Kincaid?”

“The older one? I don’t know. I’ve never met him, really. Daddy used to mumble about him from to time, but that was long ago. He seems like a nice enough man. I know he did little Macy Conroy’s surgery for free. Didn’t charge a penny for his services. And he takes on a lot of patients that can’t afford him.”

“What about his daughter?” he asked, keeping his voice impassive. Nobody would have guessed that just sitting here was making his gut clench with anger and regret. He hated having to put this woman through this. She’d already taken on so much.

“Anne-Marie?” she asked, her voice fainter than normal. Her eyes darted away from his face and her ivory complexion paled even more. “She’s a nice lady.”

“You look a bit odd there. You have a problem with Anne-Marie?”

“Larry talks about her a lot. And her father. He hates both of them.”

“Is there a reason why?”

She raised her eyes and looked at Tate. He’s so beautiful, she thought wistfully. So kind. Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink and she raised her shoulders in a shrug, forcing her mind back to the conversation at hand. “Because they have money. We don’t. People like the Kincaids, they don’t like us.”

Reaching across the table, Tate took her tiny hand in his. On the back of the right wrist was an old rounded, puckered scar, the kind caused by a burning cigarette. Rubbing his thumb over that mark, Tate said, “You’re not like them, Marlie. You never have been.”

A smile trembled at her mouth before she looked away. All around her, there were signs that she was like them. She was a Muldoon, whether she liked it or not. The dingy kitchen that she could never get clean, no matter how hard she tried. The old linoleum, the stove that barely worked. The small lawn outside was cropped short, emphasizing the bare patches of dirt where nothing would grow.

What little money she had left over from working at the salon, that didn’t go to keeping her and Mama fed, she spent on Mama’s medicines and spare parts for the car that always fell apart. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gone into a store and bought a dress off the rack. She either purchased most of her clothes from a second-hand store or made them.

Thinking back, she pictured how Anne-Marie Kincaid had looked the Sunday past, wearing a simple, yellow sheath that spoke of understated elegance. The strand of pearls at her neck had been real, Marlie was certain, as had the simple diamond solitaire she wore on her right hand. Beautiful, smart and kind. The money, though God knew Marlie had so little of it, wasn’t even the thing she envied most. It was the animation that seemed to surround Anne-Marie. She was so full of life, something Marlie doubted she’d ever experience.

With a faint smile, she took her hand from Tate’s and folded both of them neatly in her lap. “But I’ll never be like her, will I?”

“The only thing you have to do is be yourself,” he said, duty and office forgotten. Those eyes were so sad, so empty.

“I doubt this is why you came here, Sheriff,” Marlie said quietly, her eyes going carefully blank. I won’t take your pity, she told him silently. It was bad enough when she had to accept it from others, their pity mixed with derision.

But to take it from him…

How would he react if he knew she wanted nothing more than to sit on his lap and hold him? That she woke every morning thinking of him after spending nights dreaming of him?

He’d be uncomfortable, embarrassed, and most likely, even more sympathetic than he already was.

“So your mother can’t exactly be counted on as an alibi, right?” he asked drolly. In the other room, he could hear Marlie’s mama talking to her eldest son, dead nearly two decades now.

A glimmer of a smile flirted with her lips and she shook her head. “I’d rather it not go down in the books that she was outside chasing my naked bottom around so she could put a diaper back on me.”

Tate chuckled, acknowledging with a raised brow that it was a distinct possibility. Just the other week, she had flagged down a deputy on the county road and asked if he could please find her lost chickens.

The Muldoon farm hadn’t been able to support chickens for more than five years. The empty pen that had once been Naomi’s small pride lay neglected.

“Tate.”

Waiting until he looked at her, she asked, “What reason on earth would I have for wanting to hurt him? What could I hope to gain?”

“Marlie, I don’t think this is anything more than an attempt to distract me, to waste time and confuse things. I’d no sooner think you were a murderer than I’d think your daddy was a priest.” He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “Godamighty, Marlie. What in the hell is going on? Things like this don’t happen in Briarwood.”

“You can’t find whoever shot Dr. Kincaid, can you?” she asked softly, twisting her hands in her lap. She wanted to walk over to him, soothe the lines worry had put on his face. Instead, she focused her attention on the matter at hand. She sighed, shaking her head. “Do you even know why? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I think it has something to do with Jazz coming back home,” he admitted roughly, dragging his hand through his closely cropped hair.

“You don’t think Jazz did it,” she guessed.

“No. I know he didn’t. He couldn’t have. But who in hell would want to hurt Doc Kincaid like that? He has got to be the kindest, most generous man in the county. He’s like…Santa Claus.”

“So apparently the Grinch was out that night,” Marlie said, looking down at her folded hands. “Jazz got into a lot of trouble when he was younger, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did. But nothing major until—”

Until the night Alex Kincaid died.

“Uncle Larry isn’t smart enough to have done this,” Marlie said, her voice matter of fact. “He’d be able to pull a trigger, I think, but not cold-bloodedly. He couldn’t concoct a plan like this.”

“My thoughts, exactly.” With a glimmer of a smile, he said, “Not too bad for a manicurist, Marlie.”

Her cheeks tinted a pale pink and her eyes darted away. “I prefer to think of myself as a hand-accessory consultant,” she said, so seriously it took Tate a moment to realize she was joking.

When he realized it, he couldn’t keep from grinning. He held his own hands in front of him, studying the calluses, scars. The nails were neatly clipped, short and clean, the palms wide with long, agile fingers. Flicking hers a glance, he said, “I’ll have to admit your hands look much better than mine.”

She smiled again, a little wider this time, as she held one hand out for inspection. The pale pink polish gleamed in the light, the cuticles well-tended. Her own hands were small, not much larger than a child’s. “You’d look a bit odd with cotton candy pink on your nails, Sheriff.”

“I would, at that,” he agreed, as he took his notepad and tucked it in his breast pocket. The silver of his badge gleamed against the white, workman’s style button-down he wore tucked into a pair of jeans.

At the moment, he almost wished he was anything but the county sheriff. Raising his head, he stared at the faerie sitting in front of him, watching him with wide, serious eyes.

“Damn it, Marlie,” he muttered as he rolled the brim of his hat in his hands. “You’re going to have to come in and let me take a statement. I hate having to do this.”

“But you have to get it over with so you can concentrate on who really did it,” she finished as his voice trailed off. “Don’t worry, Tate. I’ll be fine. I’m tougher than I look.”

Tate thought she was tougher than she should have had to be, but he didn’t say that. He placed his hat on his head, tipped the brim her way. “Try heading out tomorrow morning before you go to the salon. We’ll get it out of the way as quick as we can.”

With an understanding smile, Marlie agreed. Moments later, after locking the door behind him, Marlie turned, her hands still clutching the door knob, her back pressed against the door.

Her eyes closed dreamily, a smile curving her mouth.

 

 

Three days later, Desmond stabilized enough to move to the county hospital. Anne-Marie knew it was going to be a few weeks yet before he could leave the hospital. But just having him closer to home, closer to her, eased her mind a bit. Chatting brightly about a visit from a mutual patient, Anne-Marie ignored the narrowed stare her father was giving her. For the past twenty minutes, he’d been trying to get an explanation out of her, but she couldn’t figure out what to say, didn’t know if she should say anything yet.

Her father, though, wouldn’t be put off. “I think I know myself well enough to know whether or not I can handle the truth.”

Deepening her voice, raising her eyebrows, she quoted, “‘You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth’.”

“Don’t go getting cute with me, young lady. I want some answers.”

She turned away from the flowers she was fussing with and raised her hands futilely. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happened, Daddy. Nobody does. Somebody went into your house and…and shot…shot you,” she finished, the ache in her throat making it hard to talk, much less talk coherently.

“I know that. What I want to know is what you aren’t telling me.”

Sighing, Anne-Marie lowered herself into the armchair next to the bed. Was there any point in trying to lie? No. Absolutely none. He could always see right through her. She closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips against her eye sockets. “He made it look like Jazz had done it.”

“Excuse me?”

So that was where she got it from, Jazz mused, standing just outside the door. He had gotten there just in time to hear Anne-Marie tell Desmond, and to hear Doc Kincaid’s frosty reply. With a change of tone and lift of an eyebrow, he made Jazz feel like a dumb fool, and he wasn’t even talking to him.

“You heard me well enough, Dad. They planted some physical evidence and made a phony call, saying he’d been seen in the area at the time.”

“Good Lord,” Desmond muttered. “How much trouble is the boy in?”

“None. It was a set-up and Tate figured that out quick enough. But he doesn’t have any idea who did it.” She stared hard out the window, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

“Well, thank God for that,” Desmond murmured, running a weak, shaky hand across his eyes. “I…What else is it you aren’t telling me, girl?”

“Sheesh. And to think I’ve always considered myself a good liar.”

He grinned widely and said, “You are. Unless you’re trying to fool your old man.”

Jazz stepped through the door, hoping to divert Desmond’s attention. Anne-Marie turned and met his eyes just as he stepped over the threshold. She smiled a sweet, almost ethereal smile at him before looking at her father and replying, “Well, it’s not exactly easy to tell your father that you spent the night with any man. Circumstances being what they are, I suppose you can understand why I’m having some trouble with this.”

“Doc Kincaid—”

Jazz opened his mouth to speak, only to have black eyebrows rise as fiery, green eyes focused on his. And then that stern face softened and Desmond smiled tiredly. Closing his eyes, Desmond said, “I can’t say it surprises me. No, it doesn’t surprise me at all.” He shifted around a little and then shook his head at Anne-Marie when she started his way. “Don’t start fussing over me. I got the nurses for that.”

“Daddy, you look tired. Why don’t get some rest?”

“Going to be doing plenty of that, sweetheart.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “You know, boy. I never thought about it; I guess it hurt too much. But maybe I should have thought about it. Because I have to agree with Annie. It just doesn’t fit. I can’t see you wrecking that car.” And then he sighed, exhausted, and slipped back into sleep.

“He doesn’t hate me,” Jazz said. He looked over at Anne-Marie and asked, “Why doesn’t he hate me?”

“He loves you, Jazz. You were his son from the time you came home with Alex that first night.” I loved you, too, she thought. What would you say if I told you that?

“I killed his son, Anne-Marie. Your brother. I’m alive and he isn’t. That is reason enough. But somebody put a bullet in him and tried to make it look like I did it. That there is another reason.”

“You didn’t put the bullet it him. The blame for this rests on one person, Jazz. And it isn’t you.”

Jazz stood with his hands tucked in his back pockets, staring at her with a closed expression. Standing with her back to the window, the fading sunlight glowing behind her, she looked too beautiful to be real.

How can I expect to hold onto a woman like that? How can she even want me touching her?

Hugging herself, Anne stared up at him. “I told myself I wasn’t going to ask this; that there was no point in dragging the past up. I know it’s been hard for you, Jazz. I was his sister by blood. You were his brother by choice. Losing him hurt you as much as it did me. Even as much as it hurt Daddy. It’s taken me some time to realize that.”

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. Then, opening her eyes, she quietly said, “I don’t want to think of the other possibility. It hurts, but I have to know. Were you driving the car?”

Jazz sighed, his shoulders slumping. Sixteen years, and she was the first to ask. And he couldn’t even give a certain answer. “I don’t know.”

“But that’s why you came back, isn’t it? Because you don’t know?”

His voice rough, he said, “Anne, it just doesn’t feel right. It’s logical, it makes sense, and if it had happened to somebody else, I’d probably buy right into it. But it doesn’t feel right.” Dragging his hands through his hair, he turned and looked at her. “It’s like I got halfway through a book and then somebody went and put another book in its place.”

“I know.”

He opened his mouth to apologize for not making sense, to try to convince her he wasn’t crazy, he wasn’t making excuses. And then when her words sank in, they knocked the wind out of him. “You know?” he repeated dumbly.

“Yes. I know. I was just a kid when it happened, Jazz. I don’t remember much of the first couple of days; I think I blocked it out. But one thing I remember clearly is standing in room 116A in this hospital, seeing you lying there on the bed, and thinking, this isn’t right.”

“I could accept that he was dead, as well as a girl can accept something like that. Death was something I was pretty familiar with, after losing Mom and Grandma. And then your mom dying.”

“I accepted his death, maybe a little too easily.” She frowned a bit, shaking her head and whispering, almost to herself, “But I couldn’t accept the story I was told.” Turning back to the window, she rested the flat of her hand against the cool windowpane, staring out at the field of rolling grass. The sun sank lower to the horizon, painting the sky with colors of golden and red.

“I can’t remember how many tickets Dad paid for. You drive like you belong on a racetrack somewhere. I’ve never seen anybody handle a car the way you do. You driving drunk? It’s unlikely. But you crashing a car? I just don’t see it at all.”

He walked to her. In the fading sunlight, they stood at the window, staring out, but seeing nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Jazz decided if he was in for a penny, he was in for a pound. “Anne, there’s one other thing. The back seat was full of empty beer cans. There were a few found at the lake.”

She stared up into his eyes.

“I hate beer. The taste of it, the smell of it, it makes me sick; always has.”

Her body went stiff as she remembered that. How had she forgotten? How? He hated beer, reminded him too much of his stepfather. It had come up one night when Desmond had been drinking a cold one out on the deck. Jazz, in his surly, teenage fashion, had curled his lip and sneered in Desmond’s direction.

After skillfully drawing out the reason for that, Desmond had sipped a bit more from the bottle, looked at it and shrugged. “It’s an acquired taste, son. But you have to remember, not everybody who acquires a taste for beer acquires a taste for roughing up women and kids.”

Jazz had accepted that. For years, Jazz had associated the sight of beer with beatings. After time passed, the smell of beer or the sight of a bottle stopped turning his stomach and his knees no longer went watery. Still, he didn’t like the taste of it.

So how had he gotten drunk enough to wreck a car on a deserted road that he could drive blindfolded and half-asleep?

 

 

Irritated, Jazz stood in the doorway, watching as Maribeth climbed from her car. “What do you want?” he asked.

“You don’t look happy to see an old friend.” Maribeth smiled at him, her raspberry-red lips looking dewy and soft.

“I’d be happier to see a cottonmouth,” Jazz said flatly, propping his naked shoulder against the doorjamb, eyeing her with acute dislike. “What in the hell do you want?”

She raised her shoulders in a shrug. “I thought we could just talk about old times.”

“We don’t have any old times to talk about. Alex was the one fool enough to go out with you. I knew you were trouble from the get go,” he told her, moving to close the door.

“But you wanted me anyway.” She knew it; he had to have wanted her. All men did. In a low, sultry voice, she said, “Why don’t you take what you wanted back then? Take it now.”

He paused, looking back at her. “I never wanted you. When you’re a horny teenager that sees a walking advertisement for sex, you’re going to check it out. No matter how cheap or well used it may be.”

Jazz ran his eyes over Maribeth from her head to her toes. She wore a form-fitting tank top and a skirt just barely long enough to be legal. Just as she had been sixteen years ago, Maribeth was still a walking advertisement for sex. Her small feet were shod in leather, gladiator-style sandals, her toes painted to match the red of her lips. “You haven’t changed much. But I have. I didn’t want you then; I may have wanted sex, but it had nothing to do with you.

“And,” he drawled, leaning closer, until they were eye to eye. “I’d sooner go to bed with that cottonmouth than you.”

“Is your little virgin doctor keeping you satisfied, then?” Maribeth asked in a brittle voice.

He straightened slowly, crossing his arms over his naked chest. Jeans rode low over his hips, and his hair was still damp from the shower he had just finished after putting Mariah to bed. “I don’t even want you saying her name, Maribeth. You got that?”

“Sweet Saint Anne-Marie,” she cooed, batting lashes thick with mascara. “You and Alex always called her that. Sweet, little girl never got in any trouble at all. Are you having fun corrupting her?”

The sound of a powerful engine drawing close cut off his answer. They both turned to watch the fire-engine red convertible fly around the corner. Top down, her long black hair blowing around her face, Jazz saw the exact moment Anne-Marie recognized Maribeth.

Maribeth didn’t move from her spot and Jazz gritted his teeth, braced for whatever trouble she planned to bring.

“Maribeth,” Anne-Marie said in way of greeting as she climbed out of the car. She paused to grab a bag from the backseat and then slammed the door, walking towards Jazz with a smile. “Car trouble?”

Anne-Marie, her face scrubbed clean and devoid of any makeup, wore a pair of white capris and a blue and white striped shirt. She looked every inch the young, rich girl that Maribeth had always hated. A gold chain gleamed at her neck and discreet diamonds glittered at her ears and on the ring finger of her right hand.

“I was just stopping by to chat with an old friend,” Maribeth said, smiling brilliantly at Jazz.

“And who would that be?” Anne asked, arching an eyebrow at her. “I didn’t know anybody lived here besides Jazz.”

Narrowing her eyes, she glared at Anne-Marie as the young doctor mounted the steps, black leather bag in hand. Jazz left the doorway to meet her, taking the case from her as he lowered his head to brush her lips with his, ignoring Maribeth for the moment.

It was true, Maribeth realized with disgust. They were together, and in every sense of the word, from the looks of it. Why her? Sweet Saint Anne-Marie. She fought down the venom brewing in her throat.

“Why, Doc Kincaid, me and Jazz have been…friends a long time,” Maribeth finally drawled, sliding Jazz a suggestive glance. “Why, I lost track of how many times we would all go skinny-dipping at the quarry when we were younger. God, that water was always so cold, remember, sugar? But then you and Alex always knew how to get us warm again, didn’t you?”

Jazz opened his mouth to speak but a low chuckle cut him off. He turned his head to see Anne-Marie rolling her eyes. “Alex may have been naive enough not to see right through you, but Jazz knew better.”

Linking her hand with his, she eyed Maribeth with something akin to pity in her eyes. “Fantasize about your youth all you want, Maribeth. And about him now, if you must. Because that’s the closest you’ll ever get to him.”

Maribeth smoothed her tousled hair back. “Why fantasize when I have memories?”

“What memories?” Jazz asked.

Anne-Marie merely stared at Maribeth as she slinked forward. Scared little mouse, Maribeth thought to herself as Anne-Marie continued to watch from eyes the color of the summer grass. Maribeth had to wear contacts to keep her eyes the pale green of her youth. Without them, they were simply hazel.

Testing her, Maribeth reached out and laid a hand on Jazz’s chest. “You just let me know when you want to…talk old times.” Smooth, hot skin and muscles rippled under her touch. Held in place by Anne’s arm behind his back, Jazz reached up to knock Maribeth’s hand away.

But a smaller, paler hand closed over Maribeth’s wrist, thumb pressing just against the nerve, small, surprisingly strong fingers grinding the fragile bones into one another. “Just because I let one man I loved touch you doesn’t mean I’ll let another,” Anne-Marie said quietly, moving away from Jazz and stepping closer to Maribeth until she was glaring up at the woman who stood three inches taller.

She wasn’t able to see the way his eyes widened, his lips parted when he heard her. Nor did she see the way he blanked his features after his gut told him, Of course she loves you. She always has, just not the way you love her.

“He’s got better sense than that, but I’ll warn you anyway. I’ll destroy you if you so much as breathe on him, Maribeth,” Anne-Marie promised, contempt dripping from her cool voice. “And I mean that. You destroyed Alex. You won’t hurt anybody else I love.”

“Destroyed Alex? Whatever do you mean?” Maribeth asked, forcing a gay note into her voice. “We were high school sweethearts that drifted apart. Of course, I always meant for us to drift back again.”

“Come off it. I know about the baby and the abortion,” Anne-Marie said flatly.

Maribeth paled beneath her sun-lamp tan and her eyes went wide. Mouth twisting with hate, she snapped, “Then you know that it’s Alex’s fault the baby died.” The baby she heard crying at night. “Let me go!”

Alex’s fault. Alex’s fault, she chanted silently to herself. Maybe if she said it enough, she would begin to believe it and those cries in the night would disappear.

Anne-Marie was no shrink, but she knew enough to recognize guilt. She threw Maribeth’s hand down, away from her as if the other woman had the plague. Staring into those tormented eyes, Anne-Marie realized, they haunted Maribeth. Alex and the baby. “No. It’s your fault. I knew you were pregnant and when you didn’t start showing, I figured out what happened. Dad confirmed it.

“I’m no fool, Maribeth. I can put two and two together. The way I figure, Alex had gone out to your house that night to talk about raising the baby, him and Dad. They were going to give you money, that I know. But you had already decided: no ring, no baby.

“Alex was upset and he went to his best friend, who happened to be across the street with his girl, Sandy. What upset him, Maribeth? You aborting that baby? Whose fault was it that he was upset? Upset enough he wanted to go and get drunk?” Anne-Marie asked.

“Damn it, he forced me to get an abortion.”  She had to force her lids open wide just to keep the tears from coming.

“Don’t bother lying, Maribeth,” Anne-Marie said dispassionately.

“You whey-faced, little bitch,” Maribeth screeched. “Don’t call me a liar.” Reaching out, she placed her hand in the center of Anne-Marie’s chest, muscles bunched, ready to knock the smaller woman down on her butt and stomp on her.

In a blur of movement, Anne-Marie caught Maribeth’s hand, twisted, applied pressure at the wrist, and before Jazz could even shove off the doorframe, Anne-Marie had Maribeth pinned to the side of the house, arm twisted behind her back, shoved high between the shoulder blades. “I’d think twice before raising your hand to me, Maribeth.”

Her brow throbbed from where it had smacked into the side of the house and her shoulder and arm were screaming with pain. Struggling, she learned quickly, was futile, causing pain to dance through her arm in hot, fiery licks. Under the vice-like grip of that small hand, Maribeth whimpered slightly. “Let me go,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“You killed my brother, Maribeth. You couldn’t be any more to blame than if you had been driving yourself.” Throwing her wrist down, Anne-Marie stepped back. “And you know that. So you go live with it. That’s punishment enough, I guess. Seeing how miserable you’ve made yourself.”

Turning, her shoulders braced against the smooth, painted wood of the house, Maribeth glared at Anne-Marie. “He won’t be happy with you long, little girl. Sooner or later, even virgins lose their appeal. And then, don’t be surprised when he comes to me.”

Tilting her head, meeting those eyes with amusement, Anne-Marie said, “If he came sniffing after a bitch like you, then I would want nothing to do with him. You think I’d let him come to me after touching you?”

“What makes you think he’d want you after he had me?” Maribeth straightened and threw her shoulders back, hip cocked out. Confidence and pure sexuality all but radiated off her.

Anne-Marie stared at Maribeth. “After having me, why in hell would he come to you?” Anne-Marie asked, laughing, the ageless knowledge of woman gleaming in her eyes.

With that, she held out her hand to Jazz and asked, “I was hoping to get invited to a sleepover.”

He accepted her hand, turning his back on Maribeth as he led Anne-Marie like she was royalty. With his hand at the small of her back, he guided her across the threshold. Looking back, he met Maribeth’s angry eyes. “She always did outclass you, didn’t she? Right from the start.”

 

 

Outclass me?

The bitch, Maribeth thought as she sped down the highway, angry tears streaming down her face, smearing her makeup. “God, I hate her,” she whispered. “And him. Both of them.”

“This is all your fault, Alex,” she muttered. “If you hadn’t gone and died…”

Why couldn’t he have just married her? All she had ever wanted was to take it easy, not have to struggle. He wouldn’t have to be faithful or anything. God knows Maribeth never had any intentions of sharing her bed with only one man the rest of her life.

Dashing at the tears with the back of her hand, she never even saw the car in the middle of the road, until it was too late. And then, she only had time to scream before she hit the Buick head on, going sixty-nine miles an hour.