The Man She Almost Married Page 16

  “Around that corner,” she said. “And just to get things clear, my bedroom is down the hallway behind you. Get within three feet of the door, Sloan, and I will shoot you, despite the paperwork.”

  Slowly, he turned, his eyes locking with hers. “If I ever step foot in another bedroom of yours, Julia, it will be because you invite me.”

  “I’m not inviting you.”

  “I know.”

  She looked distinctly uncomfortable as her fingers tightened on the purse strap. “Have fun cooking,” she muttered, then turned and headed down the hallway.

  Twenty minutes later, Julia opened her bedroom door to delicious, spicy smells that had her sighing. Dressed in shorts and a well-worn T-shirt from her police academy days, she padded barefoot down the hallway, then headed across the living room.

  Though she knew he was there, the sight of Sloan standing in her kitchen amid the stark-white appliances and sparkling ceramic tiles slowed her steps. She tried not to notice how his thick, dark hair glistened beneath the bright lights, tried not to think about the hard, sinewy muscles beneath the tan polo shirt. Tried not to acknowledged how at home he looked, how familiar it seemed to have him standing there, pulling a plate out of her microwave. How right.

  She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. He had chosen to walk out on. her, and here he was again, invading her life. She knew she should insist he leave, force him to go. But deep inside, where logic meant nothing, she knew she wanted him to stay.

  The realization had her stomach knotting. She was engaged to another man, a man she loved and respected. A man who would keep his promises to her—something Sloan had not done.

  As if sensing her scrutiny, he looked up, his mouth curving as his gaze met hers across the counter. “Feel better?”

  She nodded, took a deep breath. “The hot water worked out most of the kinks.” She slid onto one of the green-and-white upholstered wicker stools on the opposite side of the counter. It was best, she thought, to keep an immovable object between them.

  “What smells so good?” she asked.

  “Beef Stroganoff.” He settled a plate in front of her.

  Julia stared down at the delicate slices of beef in a cream sauce smooth as silk. A side serving of snow peas laced the plate’s border. “What did you do, order takeout while I showered?”

  “I looked in your freezer.” The microwave sounded a ding. Sloan pulled open the door and plucked a muffin cradled in pink ruffled paper from its depths. “There’re about ten entrées in your freezer,” he said while buttering the muffin. “They all have ‘Julia, you need to eat right’ scribbled across the foil.”

  “Mother,” Julia groaned. She lifted her fork, then sliced into the tender beef. “Every so often she goes on a cooking spree. She fills her freezer, then starts on mine.”

  Julia took a bite, almost moaning as the meat’s savory taste invaded her senses. “I forgot all about her bringing that last batch over.”

  “It’s her way of taking care of you,” Sloan commented as he handed the muffin across the counter. “Looks like someone needs to,” he added quietly.

  Julia aimed him a cool, level look.

  “I know,” he said. “I had my chance.”

  “And blew it.”

  She dropped her gaze and dug into her food. While she ate, she made a valiant attempt to ignore the way Sloan moved around. the kitchen, tossing a paper towel into the trash, putting away the butter tub.

  He closed the refrigerator door, amusement glittering in his eyes as he leaned comfortably against the counter. “Do you know you’ve got a piece of cheese in there that has a beard?”

  “Mother mentioned it the last time she was here,” Julia said, nibbling on a crispy snow pea. “It only needed a shave then.”

  He grinned. “As long as you know.”

  Frowning, she stared down at her plate, using her fork to toy with the remainder of the peas. Was this happening? Was she sitting at her kitchen counter, joking about hairy cheese with the man who had ripped her life apart?

  Her appetite suddenly disappeared. She set her knife and fork beside her plate. It made no sense that Sloan was here, made no sense that she’d allowed him inside.

  He gave her plate an appraising look. “Did I mention you don’t get the guest list unless you eat everything?”

  “Why are you here, Sloan?”

  “I brought you the list,” he said without missing a beat.

  “You have people available who could have done that. Why are you here?”

  He was watching her now, his eyes focused, cool.

  “Why, Sloan?”

  He came casually around the counter, settled onto the stool next to hers. “When I saw you at the chapel this morning, you looked more than- just tired. You looked... unhappy. I felt compelled to check on you.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I’m unhappy because I’ve got two unsolved homicides working.” That was part of it, anyway. “I told you that.”

  “I know about one case.” He propped a foot on the rung of her stool, his tanned thigh, hardened by exercise, inches from her own bare one. “Tell me about the other.”

  She could feel the heat of his body, smell the subtle, warm scent of his cologne. “It’s an active case. I can’t discuss it.”

  His hand drifted onto the counter. If he flexed those lean, capable fingers, they’d settle over her own.

  “Really?” he asked. “That hasn’t stopped you from discussing your other case with me.”

  She sliced him a look. “Cops tend to discuss some aspects of a case with the suspect. That’s usually how we get it solved.”

  “So, you still view me as a suspect?” The thread of anger in his voice sparked in his eyes. “Do you honestly believe I killed Vanessa?”

  “My beliefs don’t matter. What matters is the evidence, the proof.”

  He pulled the manila envelope across the counter and shoved it beneath her hand. “Here’s your list. Maybe the actual murderer’s name is inside.”

  “Maybe.” She glanced at the envelope, looked back up. And because she couldn’t help herself, she asked, “When we’ve solved the case, if you’re not... detained, you plan to leave for D.C., right?”

  “I won’t be detained. And I will leave.”

  Her teeth set. She knew nothing short of a jail cell would keep him here once she’d cleared the case. He’d be as determined to get out of town as he’d been two years ago.

  The thought of his leaving sent an incongruous mix of anger and hurt sweeping through her. It shouldn’t matter if he packed his bags and disappeared, she told herself. Shouldn’t mean a thing to her. But, dammit, it did.

  It was as if the emotion she’d suppressed over the past two years had suddenly bubbled to the surface. It battered at her, made her pulse pound, her stomach clench with something akin to panic.

  “You never answered my question,” she said, her voice clipped. “You could have left the envelope in the door. Instead, you chose to wait on my porch. Why, Sloan? Dammit, why are you here?”

  He studied her face for a long moment before he spoke. “The most obvious answer is that I wanted to see you.”

  She slid off her stool, found herself caged between the counter and his rock-hard thigh. She stared into his dark eyes, her breathing coming with an effort. “I don’t want you here.” Her unsteady hands gripped the edge of the counter behind her. “Dammit, you don’t belong here.”

  He rose slowly, his eyes hot, gleaming coals as his lean body towered over hers. “You’ll get no argument from me on that point.”

  “Fine—” Her heart jammed in her throat when his hands went on each side of her to rest on the counter, effectively caging her.

  “I don’t belong anywhere near you,” he advised, his voice derisive, his breath a hot wash against her cheek. “In fact, I don’t want to be here.”

  She remained motionless, her hips pinned against the counter, his arms surrounding, though not touching, her. If he leaned in, his mouth
would be on hers. That potent, addicting mouth that could be both stunningly tender and ruthless. Her pulse hammered; the air had suddenly become too thick to breathe. Heat fed through her veins, like flame leaping along spilled gasoline.

  “If...you don’t want to be here, why are you?”

  “Because I couldn’t help myself,” he said viciously. “Like a fool, I sat on your porch for hours, knowing you were probably with your fiancé. But that didn’t matter. I just sat there, wondering what the hell I was doing.”

  “What the hell were you doing?” she asked weakly.

  “Thinking,” he shot back. “About you. About...” He shoved back, uttering a muffled curse. “I’m going to walk out of here—that’s the easy part.” His eyes went as hard as stone. “But I’m damned if I know how to make myself stop wanting you. Needing you.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  “Finish your dinner, then get some sleep,” he said quietly. He turned and walked away; seconds later, she heard the firm snap of the front door closing behind him.

  Julia’s legs felt like glass, ready to shatter. She sank onto the stool. Sloan hadn’t even touched her, yet he’d reduced her to rubble.

  She propped her elbows on the counter and buried her face in her hands. Five days ago, her life had been exactly what she wanted it to be, and now she felt as if she’d stepped off solid ground into a deep, dark hole. Things had changed too much and too fast.

  No, she realized, in the next heartbeat. Nothing had changed, because she’d never rid herself completely of Sloan.

  “Damn you, Remington,” she said, her voice a raw whisper.

  She had fooled herself into thinking she’d gotten him out of her system. She never had; she knew that now. He was a drug, she the addict. No matter what she did, she’d never be completely free of the need for him, the wanting.

  She stared down at her engagement ring, the diamond’s facets throwing out rosy fire beneath the kitchen’s bright lights. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Bill. She did. But the deep, aching passion in her soul belonged to Sloan—had always belonged to him. Her needs, both physical and emotional, were not just to have a man, a lover and companion, but to have Sloan. He was the man she wanted. Needed. Loved.

  She loved Sloan, had never stopped loving him. It was as simple and excruciating as that.

  An errant tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped it away with the back of her hand, took a deep breath, then another, as she stared down at her ring. She could come up with all sorts of reasons to leave things as they were and just wait. Wait until she found Vanessa West’s murderer. Wait until she caught up on her sleep, wait for the emotional roller coaster she’d stumbled onto to come to a stop.

  Wait until after Sloan left for D.C., and see how she felt.

  She closed her eyes. The fact that he would again walk away and leave her shattered didn’t seem to matter. Nothing in the world mattered, because she knew with aching clarity what was in her heart. Who was in her heart.

  And he’d be there whether he was grinning at her from across her front porch or living thousands of miles away.

  With silent regret, her gaze returned to her ring. That she would no longer be a part of Bill’s life brought a profound sadness.

  She sighed, knowing nothing good would come from forestalling the inevitable. Leaning across the counter, she grabbed the phone with a trembling hand and stabbed in Bill’s number.

  Chapter 10

  “Julia, dear, you look terrible.”

  “That’s just what I need to hear, Mother,” Julia commented as she edged into the small storeroom in the back of Georgia Cruze’s interior-design shop. Knowing her mother’s habit of arriving at work before dawn, Julia had detoured by the shop on her way to the airport. She’d been both relieved and filled with dread when she saw her mother’s lemon yellow BMW parked in the alley behind the store.

  Georgia settled a hand on the waist of her tailored, blackand-white checked gabardine suit and examined Julia closely. “Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

  She placed a cool, deliberate palm against Julia’s forehead, the gesture accompanied by the tinkling of the charms crowding her gold bracelet. “No fever,” she announced.

  “I’m not sick, Mother. I need to catch up on some sleep is all.” Stepping farther into the cozy storeroom, Julia leaned a hip against the polished Louis Quatorze table that doubled as a desk. The pungent smell of cinnamon and pinecones scented the air; the smooth strains of Pachelbel’s Canon drifted from the dark, outer shop.

  Georgia tilted her head. The soft overhead lighting cast her expertly styled chignon with a copper glow as she gave Julia a narrow, measuring look. “Well, dear, you’d better get some rest before you drop in your tracks.”

  “I’m catching a flight to Houston this morning to check a lead on a case. I plan to sleep on the plane.”

  “Interesting,” Georgia murmured. She walked to a small butler’s table, where she poured coffee from a china pot into a delicate matching cup.

  “So,” she began, handing Julia the cup, “since it’s not your habit to check in with me about your work, I imagine you’ve got something else on your mind.”

  “Right.” Nerves shimmering, Julia sipped the savory, rich brew while concentrating on a shelf loaded with elaborate tassels and beribboned boxes. Beneath the shelf, a rainbow of carpet samples sat in an orderly stack. To her right, bolts of fabrics in springtime pastels sprouted from a humpbacked trunk.

  Best get it over with, Julia decided, and took a deep breath. “I returned Bill’s ring.”

  “You what?” Georgia’s disbelieving voice filled the overflowing storeroom. “Why?”

  “Bill and I aren’t getting married.” Julia downed the contents of the fragile cup, then set it aside.

  Georgia’s red-glossed mouth tightened. “Since you came by to tell me that, I assume you’re planning to tell me why.”

  Julia had expected the shocked, dismayed look on her mother’s face. Expected, too, her need for an explanation.

  “Nothing specific happened,” Julia said, diverting her gaze to a glass-doored breakfront that held a collection of antique silver goblets. “I just realized...” She jammed her hands into the pockets of her slim black slacks into which she’d tucked a man’s starched tuxedo shirt. “Marrying Bill would have been a mistake.”

  “I see.”

  “Mother, I’m pressed for time. I just wanted to let you know—”

  “Sloan Remington returns to town, and you call off your engagement,” Georgia said quietly. “Are the two events related?”

  That Julia had also anticipated the question didn’t keep her stomach from knotting. “I didn’t break up with Bill because of Sloan. I did it because of me. Mother, I just can’t...” She lifted a shoulder. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

  Georgia took a step closer. “Are you seeing Sloan?”

  Only in regard to his being a murder suspect. Julia hid the wince that accompanied the thought. Maybe, just maybe, she’d find proof in Houston that would verify Sloan’s claims that his relationship with Vanessa had been solely of a business nature.

  “I’ve...seen Sloan, but not in the way you’re thinking,” she answered.

  “But you have seen him,” Georgia said, her voice low and bitter. “And he talked you into dumping poor Bill—”

  “No. Like I said, it isn’t Sloan. It’s me.” Julia stabbed her fingers through her hair, still damp from a hurried shower. “Sloan’s moving out of state in a few weeks. He won’t even be here—”

  “So, he comes back to town long enough to get you stirred up, to confuse you, then he leaves again. Darling, lend me your gun so I can shoot the man.”

  Julia held up both palms in surrender. “Mother, I have to catch a plane. I just wanted to let you know.”

  “I appreciate that,” Georgia replied, her dark eyes simmering. “Julia, I want you to think carefully about what you’ve done.” She reached out, touched her
daughter’s cheek with soft fingertips. “Bill is a wonderful man—”

  “I know.” Julia’s throat tightened with fresh regret at the memory of the raw hurt that had settled in Bill’s eyes only hours before when she returned his ring.

  “I love you, Julia,” he’d said. “But I don’t want to be someone you settle for. ”

  She dragged in a ragged breath, checked her watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll come by the house soon and talk to you and Daddy about this.”

  “Julia—”

  She gripped her mother’s hand, placed a kiss on her unlined cheek. “Later, Mother. There will be plenty of time to talk later.”

  Rick Fox exited the elevator and made a beeline for Sloan’s office. He barreled past Elizabeth’s desk, ruffling the executive secretary’s serenely efficient manner.

  “Rick!”

  “Emergency,” he said over his shoulder. His palms hit hard against the carved double doors, throwing them open with enough force that they banged against the wall. “We’ve got one hell of a problem.”

  Brows arched, Sloan turned slowly from the floor-to-ceiling windows, where he’d spent the best part of the past hour surveying the city’s skyline. If asked, he’d have been hard-pressed to describe the view. Nor could he have remarked on the way the sun’s fierce rays pounded down on the noontime traffic, reflecting brilliantly off chrome and windshields. His thoughts had centered exclusively on the previous night. On Julia. On how she’d looked sitting across the kitchen counter from him, her eyes smudged with fatigue, her dark hair a shadow enfolding her face and shoulders.

  “Sloan, did you hear me?” Rick asked. “I said—”

  “What problem?”

  Sloan caught the stern look Elizabeth gave Rick as the security chief shoved the doors closed behind him. “Guess who’s nosing around our Houston office, asking questions?”

  “I don’t want to guess.” Sloan walked back to his desk and settled into his high-backed leather chair. “You tell me.”

  “Julia.”

  Sloan frowned. “Questions about what?”

  “You and Vanessa. Your relationship.”