Deputy Evans at least had the courtesy not to ask what happened. “You need something?”
“I’m sitting in front of Cain’s house because I’ve got proof that he’s not who we think.”
“What do you mean, proof? What kind of proof?”
She must have bumped her head because right now she wished she hadn’t called the police before talking to Cain. That didn’t make sense, she knew. Of course she’d needed to call the police. “Someone left me a manila envelope filled with incriminating photos and news clippings.” She paused. “And a copy of an arrest report.”
Evans cleared his throat. “Are you sure you know what you’re looking at?”
“Of course, I’m sure. I want you to send an officer over here and arrest Cain.”
“On what grounds?”
“On…uh…” She couldn’t think that far ahead at the moment.
Still on her back, she stared up at the clear, star-filled January sky as wet coldness seeped through her clothes. She could now officially say she couldn’t walk and talk at the same time.
“Now, Betsy, I want you to talk to Cain. Show him what you’ve got. Let him explain,” Evans said.
“You’re not going to send a cruiser, are you?”
“Not until you listen to the man. And I do mean listen.” The deputy’s patient tone sounded like he thought he was talking to one of his kids. Also sounded like an order.
“Fine. I’ll listen. I won’t like it, but I will.”
“That’s good. If you still want him arrested after he explains, then call me. I’ll come over personally.” Evans ended the call before she said good-bye.
Maybe she could just close her eyes and forget everything that had happened so far tonight. She tried…for a whole five seconds she tried. Ultimately, the contents of the manila envelope in her hand kept flashing though her mind. Then the spiky, barbed sweet gum balls poked through her blouse, prickling her flesh with stings of pain.
Where was her coat? In the car? No. The coat along with her purse and hat and gloves and sanity were back across town at Peyton’s. If only she’d headed on home and waited till tomorrow to get the mail, things would have been different. No, things would still be the same, except it would be daylight.
She didn’t like the dark. The dark could hide a million things. And people.
Staring at the sidewalk leading to Cain’s front porch, she slowly pushed to her feet. He might have most of the people in town believing his return was the best thing to happen to Crayton, Missouri, in years, but she would not be fooled.
Rubbing her bruised backside, she limped to the front door and punched what appeared to be a new doorbell. No doubt part of his remodeling. She listened to the rolling chime from inside. No footsteps. She punched again. Still no footsteps. She glanced at the time on her phone—7:14. He wouldn’t be in bed yet. Of course, technically it was the weekend, maybe he’d gone out for the evening.
She pressed long and hard on the doorbell. Then punched and punched and punched with every ounce of mad she could muster.
What if he wasn’t home? What if he’d got wind that someone had made him and already left town? She’d hunt him down. Make him pay for using her place as a cover to deal.
“Cain Connery. You better answer this door. You hear me?” She punched the button one more time.
“If you want to keep that finger, you better ease off the buzzer.” Heavy, to-the-point footsteps echoed through the door along with the words. The lock jiggled. Handle turned. “This better be damn important.”
The door jerked open along with a jerk to her senses.
She blinked at the scowl on Cain’s face, the flash of his blue eyes and the rigid line of his lips. Jeans riding low on his hips and shirtless. She struggled against the ease of her shoulders, the stretch of her neck, the part of her lips. She knew her body’s reactions to mind-crashing need all too well. She clamped her lips back together.
Still her gaze scanned down from the width of his shoulders to the narrow of his waist to, heaven help her, even further. It was as if she were still seventeen and had no control over herself, not the levelheaded woman she knew herself to be.
Rivulets of water trailed from his espresso-colored hair downward, hugging the contours of the pulsing veins in his neck, spreading across his chest, tracing the swell of his abs and… The streams finally merged with the hair trailing beneath his waistband. Her imagination filled in the rest, and she struggled not to reach out and let her fingertips trace the path of one of those little drops of water.
Guess she’d interrupted his shower.
She sucked in a stutter of air and felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Returning her eyes to his face, she tried to focus enough to remember why she was standing on his porch in the first place. At this point she didn’t care.
He braced his hand against the doorframe as the corners of his mouth quirked. “What’s up, Betsy? Glad to see you got back okay.”
