Dark of the Night Page 8

  “Unless she thought I could be trusted.” He took a step toward her, and she took one back, her progress stopped by the slab of marble behind her.

  “This is private property.” The threat came out on a whisper, her silver eyes flashing in the dappled sunlight.

  He held up his hands in supplication. “I just want to talk.”

  “Then make an appointment.” She edged to the side of the gravestone, one slim hand resting on the top.

  “But I’m here now.” He took another step toward her, close enough now that he could see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her sweatshirt.

  She took another step backward, this time stopped permanently by the cemetery wall. Her pupils were huge, and he thought for a moment that she was afraid, but then he saw her tongue dart out, nervously tracing her bottom lip, and he knew. Knew that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. And that she was fighting it every bit as hard as he was.

  Their gazes met and held, the tension between them almost tangible. One step, one tiny little step, and he could touch her, taste her. One short step and he’d probably regret it the rest of his life. He sucked in a ragged breath, purposefully moving back. “Is this a family cemetery?”

  Confusion flashed across her face, then something that looked like disappointment, but before he could be certain, it was replaced by relief. Pure unadulterated relief. “Yeah, it’s been here since before the war.”

  He frowned. “But I thought the house was built in the twenties?”

  “It was.” She had gained control of her emotions now, her mask securely back in place. “But the land has been in my family a lot longer than that. There’ve been Rileys on this land for over a hundred and fifty years.”

  “Is that how you got your name?” He glanced around the cemetery with renewed interest.

  She nodded, running a hand absently along the marble of the gravestone. “It’s a family thing. Someone’s always called Riley. Usually a boy. But since I was the end of the line, it had to be me.”

  “That’s your mother?” His eyes dropped to the stone under her hand, and she pulled it back nervously, twining her fingers together in front of her.

  “No, mother’s buried over there.” She tipped her head toward the center of the little cemetery. “This is my sister.”

  “It must have hurt losing your sister and your mother so close together.” He watched the emotions chasing across her face.

  “It was a long time ago.” She drew in a deep breath, smiling tightly. “We survived.”

  He tried to think of something flippant to say. Something that would erase the intimacy between them. But, somehow, in the quiet of this place, he couldn’t do it. “I used to visit my mother’s grave too.”

  Her gaze met his, questioning. “She’s buried in Atlanta?”

  He shook his head. “Texas. She died when I was a kid.” He should have stopped there, turned the subject to the reason he was here, but his mouth obviously had ideas of its own. “I used to go there to talk to her. It made her feel closer somehow.”

  She shot him a tremulous smile, her facade cracking just a little.

  “So who is this?” He pointed at another stone.

  Riley moved so she could better see the marker. “That’s my great-uncle Cyrus. Never knew him. According to my grandmother, he drank himself to death.”

  “Not a bad way to go.”

  “If you want to go.” Again there was a hint of a smile, and he found himself wishing he’d been the cause of it. She sobered, her eyes searching his again. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  He almost hated to ruin the moment. Hell, there wasn’t supposed to be a moment. He was here for information—on the off chance that Ms. O’Brien could somehow help him get to the bottom of things. He narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore the regret churning in his gut. “I came to talk to you about your connection with Douglas Michaels.”

  Chapter 7

  “WHAT CONNECTION? I barely know the man.” Riley clenched her fist so hard she could feel her nails digging into her hand. He was a reporter, for God’s sake. Anything else she was feeling about him was insignificant compared with that fact. With a concerted effort, she forced her fingers to open, ignoring her stinging palm.

  “You were at his house yesterday.” His eyes were nearly black, and in the shadow of the trees it was almost impossible to read his expression.

  “For a committee meeting. I told you that.”

  “A committee meeting for two?” There was an edge to his voice, an implication she couldn’t possibly ignore.

  “I thought we covered this ground yesterday. I was at Michaels’s for a meeting about teen pregnancy. We’re working on setting up day-care centers in area high schools. The presentation for the city council is next week. Douglas had some statistics he wanted to go over.”

  “I see.”

  Exactly what he wanted to see. She wished she had the nerve to wipe the smug look off of his face. “Look, Mr. Mahoney—”

  “Jake. After everything we’ve been through, the least you can do is call me Jake.” He smiled, the gesture slow and sure.

  She took a step away from him, the distance giving her strength. “ Mr. Mahoney, it was an innocent meeting. I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Like the bombing.” His eyebrows rose, his look appraising.

  “Exactly. I chose the wrong car, and almost got blown to bits.”

  “Well, it’s possible you weren’t the only one to choose the wrong car.” His voice softened, his eyes narrowing in thought.

  “So you’re still maintaining that the bomb was meant for me.”

  “I just find it interesting that you and Michaels sat on a council whose purpose involves reproductive rights.”

  “Teenage pregnancy and reproductive rights are not the same thing.”

  “Well, there’s definitely a relationship. And when you add that to the fact that you seem to turn up with regularity where there’s trouble, I think you’ll have to agree that it’s possible there’s some sort of connection.”

  “You think I had something to do with Michaels’s death?” She tried but couldn’t keep the shock from her voice.

  “No. The man committed suicide. And I certainly don’t think it was because of you. But maybe there’s something we’re not seeing.”

  “Something about the council?”

  “Maybe.” He frowned, pulling himself up to sit on the wall of the cemetery, looking oddly at home despite the circumstances. “It’s certainly a connection between you, the bombing, and Michaels.”

  “I think you’re making it into something more than it is. I serve on a committee that works to help out-of-wedlock mothers, and you think someone tried to exterminate me because if it?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “It doesn’t make sense at all. And even if it did, there’s the fact that no one is taking credit. If the bombing was related to the clinic and/or the council, you’d think there would have been more hoopla. Extremist groups love fanfare. Usually when something like this happens, groups fall all over themselves trying to take credit.”

  “Which puts us back to the target being either you or me.”

  She shouldn’t have been pleased about his use of the word us, but she was. There was something intimate about it. Something that joined them together. She shook her head, pushing the thought aside. Jake Mahoney was not a friend. “Well, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, it was your car.”

  “Yes, but you were riding in an identical one. And looking at the two of us, who is a more likely target— the daughter of a presidential candidate or a local investigative reporter?”

  “I’ll admit, on the surface, it would seem like me.”

  “But . . .”

  “But looking at the two of us on a more personal scale, I’d think that you were the more abrasive person, and therefore much more likely to have enemies who�
��d want to see you dead.”

  “I suspect I rub a few people the wrong way.” He smiled, his teeth white against his tan, and her heart did a crazy little flutter step. “But even at my worst, I doubt I inspire murder.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly known for my controversial views.”

  “Maybe you’re just the means to an end.”

  “You’re talking about my father.” She frowned.

  “The man has certainly made his share of enemies. And even if he weren’t controversial, the truth is, he’s close to obtaining one of the most powerful positions on earth, and I find it conceivable that someone might want to stop him.”

  “By killing me? That’s ludicrous.”

  “I’ve seen people killed for a hell of a lot less.”

  “But what would it accomplish?”

  “Your father can’t win this election without you, Riley. The country is hooked on the idea of a new Camelot. The dedicated father and his doting daughter. Another beautiful couple. Hell, you exploit the fact every time you appear together in public.”

  “You make it sound sordid.” She fought against a wave of anger. He was twisting things around to suit his purposes.

  “If the shoe fits—”

  “I’ve told you before, my father is an honorable man. He will win this election on his own merits. The nation will vote for him , Mr. Mahoney, not some perverted concept of me as First Lady.”

  “Come now, Ms. O’Brien.” He hopped off of the wall, closing the distance between them, his tone mocking. “Surely you’re not naive enough to believe that.”

  “I am neither naive nor stupid, Mr. Mahoney.” She sucked in a breath, fighting to keep her emotions at bay. “I think we’ve just come to the end of our interview. My father was right about you.”

  “Really?” The steel was back in the blue-black depth of his eyes. “And what exactly did he say about me?”

  “He said that you were a barracuda.” She hadn’t wanted her father to be right. She hadn’t realized it until right now—this very minute.

  “And what do you think?”

  She swallowed, trying to sort through her thoughts. She wanted Jake Mahoney to be different from the others. She wanted him to be honorable. She wanted him— period. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  She didn’t have any choice. Not if he was a threat to her father. She lifted her chin, keeping her face still, glacial. “I think you’d best get the hell off of my property.”

  He stood for a moment longer, just watching her, his eyes locked on hers, and then he turned and made his way out of the little cemetery, disappearing into the dark shadows of the whispering pines. Riley stared at the spot where he disappeared, trying to remember when she’d last felt so desperately alone.

  “What were you thinking, sending him to me? He’s a journalist, for God’s sake.” Riley took a sip of coffee, the chicory blend pungent and hot, liquid comfort.

  “Honey, I’d say that man is a heck of a lot more than just a reporter.” Adelaide lifted a pot lid and spooned broth over the simmering roast.

  Riley made a face at the housekeeper’s back, ignoring Adelaide’s implication that Jake Mahoney was something special. He wasn’t. “He was certainly in reporter mode today.”

  Adelaide popped the roast back in the oven and then turned to the kitchen island, wooden spoon in hand. “Well, that’s understandable. The two of you have been through a lot. I’d say he was just trying to understand what happened.”

  “I suppose so. But there was no reason for him to malign Daddy.”

  Riley reached for the biscuit cutter, handing it to Adelaide, their movements choreographed from years spent in the kitchen together.

  “He’s just doing his job, Riley. That doesn’t make the man the devil,” she said, picking up the extra dough and balling it together.

  “Adelaide, you don’t even know him, and you’re defending him like he was family.” Riley frowned at the woman, and started to line the cut biscuit dough up in the pan.

  “I got a feeling about him.” Adelaide’s face took on a stubborn cast. “Besides, Edna likes him too.”

  “What the hell does Edna know?”

  “You watch your mouth.” Adelaide shook the rolling pin in Riley’s direction. “Edna’s been a good friend to you.”

  Riley felt the heat of the flush staining her face. “I know.”

  “Of course you do.” Adelaide smiled, her look softening. “Besides, it’s more than just Edna’s opinion, and you know it. I told you I’ve got a feeling, and I’m always right about these things.”

  Adelaide had a way of reading people. Seeing into their souls. If Riley hadn’t grown up around her, she’d probably have thought it strange, but Adelaide had always been an important part of her life, and Riley trusted her instincts. Still, everyone was wrong now and then. And Riley told herself that this was just one of those times.

  She met the housekeeper’s eyes, knowing hers were narrowed in disbelief. “Whatever you ‘feel’ about Mr. Mahony doesn’t change the fact that he’s trying to make trouble for Daddy, and I won’t stand for that.”

  A shadow crossed Adelaide’s face, gone almost before it arrived. “Your daddy’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself. You’d do better to watch out for yourself. It’s not normal for a girl your age to be spending all her time on other folk’s dreams.”

  “It’s my dream too, Adelaide. Daddy and I are a team. And I won’t let someone like Jake Mahoney interfere with that.”

  The housekeeper stopped rolling the dough and studied Riley’s face. “Honey, I know you love your father, and he loves you, but you’ve got to find your own way in the world.”

  It was an old conversation, and Riley knew there was no way they’d ever agree on it, so it seemed prudent to just ignore the comment. Besides, there were more important things to talk about.

  “Adelaide, I don’t want you to let Jake Mahoney past the front door again. He’s not a friend, no matter what you and Edna have in your twisted little minds.” She used her icy voice, the one that stopped most folks cold, but of course it had absolutely no effect on Adelaide.

  “Whatever you say, honey.” She smiled benignly and put the biscuits in the oven.

  “Adelaide, he’s trouble, and right now that’s the last thing I need.”

  “Seems to me he might be just what the doctor ordered.” Adelaide’s voice was soft, no more than a murmur, but Riley heard her loud and clear just the same.

  She sighed. Once Adelaide got something into her head, it was impossible to dissuade her, and for whatever reason, she’d made up her mind that Jake Mahoney was one of the good guys. If Riley had to call it, she’d say her old friend had made up her mind about more than just his temperament. She’d all but pasted a sign on the wall: This one’s for you, Riley.

  She smiled. The idea should have been repugnant. They were from opposite worlds. The man was practically the enemy. But if she was honest, she’d have to admit there was something kind of appealing in the idea. Okay, damned appealing.

  And the thought scared her to death.

  Jake stood inside Strictly Yours trying to pull his thoughts together amid a riot of wool and angora. It might technically be summer outside, but it was nor’easter type fall in the upscale boutique. He had never felt more like a fish out of water. There was a dowager in one corner complete with poodle, and over by a display of scanty underwear, a little man in Armani. Other than that, the store was empty.

  “May I help you?” The shop woman’s forced smile sized him up in about a nanosecond, dismissing him as a low-dollar prospect. Which wasn’t too far from the truth. The store was the kind of place his ex-wife had liked to frequent. Long on attitude and short on style.

  “I’m looking for Amber Northcott.”

  The woman relaxed slightly, dropping the chi-chi accent for a backwoods drawl. “You can find her in the back.” She pointed toward an opening decorated with iridescent sixties-style beads. “Amber
, someone to see you.”

  Jake nodded his thanks and made his way toward the back of the store. So far he hadn’t managed to move his investigation forward one iota. Megan had been friendly, but unfortunately had only confirmed that Michaels had committed suicide. Riley had been downright hostile, but there didn’t seem to be anything between her and Michaels beyond the council and bad timing. All he could do was hope the old adage “Things come in threes” wasn’t in effect today, because he needed information, and Amber Northcott was practically his last hope.

  The beads parted as a redhead walked into the shop, her eyebrows raised inquisitively. “I’m Amber. How can I help you?”

  She was probably somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, the kind of woman his father would have said had been “rode hard and put to bed wet.” And he wouldn’t have meant it as a compliment. She was hardly the type he’d picture with an ADA, but then, to each his own. In a harsh kind of way, he guessed she’d be called a beauty.

  “I’m Jake Mahoney, with the AJC.” He stuck out his hand. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Hank Larsen.”

  She took his hand briefly then released it, her eyes moving slowly from his head to his toes, evidently liking what she saw. “Hank’s dead. I can’t imagine I’d have anything new to tell you.”

  He cupped her elbow, shooting her his most charming smile. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. We can talk back here.”

  He followed her through the swinging beads, to a folding table with chairs. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “It’s been hard.” She didn’t look particularly broken up. But then, maybe she just hid it well.

  “How long were you and Larsen involved?”

  “A little over a year.” She sat down and reached for a packet of cigarettes. “Want one?”