McIver's Mission Page 2

Shaun turned automatically in the direction of Arden's apartment building. She'd forgotten that he knew where she lived, that he'd been drafted by Nikki to help Arden move several months earlier.

  "You don't have to walk me home," she protested.

  "What would Nikki say if I didn't see you safely to your door?"

  Arden shrugged but didn't bother to respond as they headed down the street. They walked in companionable silence, listening to the muted sounds of the evening. Fairweather was hardly a booming metropolis at the best of times, and by eight o'clock on a Friday evening, this part of the downtown core was pretty much asleep. A few streets over, people would be filtering in to the bars and dance clubs, but here everything was quiet. Her apartment, just a few blocks ahead, would be quieter still.

  "I really should have gone back to the office," Arden said, wondering if she should do so now.

  "It's Friday night," Shaun reminded her. "If it's that important, it will be there tomorrow."

  She nodded. He was right, but she couldn't help thinking that work might help keep her mind occupied, help her push the events of the day aside—at least for a while. Shaun's company had provided a reprieve, as he'd promised, but she knew that the haunting memories would come back as soon as he was gone.

  She turned up the walk to the front door of her building, his arm dropping from her shoulders as she reached in her pocket for the key. "I can find my way from here."

  "Is that a not-so-polite way of saying good-night?"

  "I thought it was polite," she said.

  He smiled, and her heart stuttered. She told herself the reaction was a result of her exhaustion and not indicative of any attraction. She almost believed it.

  "It would be more polite to invite me inside for a cup of tea," he said.

  "I don't have any tea."

  "Coffee, then."

  She didn't really want to be alone, but she didn't understand why he wanted to spend any more time with her. "Fine. Would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?"

  His smile widened; her pulse accelerated. "That would be great."

  The old, converted home that housed her apartment didn't have the luxury of elevators, so she led the way through the small lobby to the stairs. On the second-floor landing, they passed Greta Dempsey, one of Arden's neighbors, with Rocky, Greta's toy poodle. The flamboyant Greta was dressed for an evening in front of the television in a fuchsia satin robe with lime-green slippers on her feet and curlers in her hair. Rocky had fuchsia bows on both of his ears. After exchanging greetings, Mrs. Dempsey looked Shaun up and down, then grinned at Arden and indicated her approval with a thumbs-up.

  Wishing Mrs. Dempsey a good evening, Arden hurried up the last flight of stairs to her third-floor apartment, grateful that the dim lighting in the hallway wouldn't reveal the flush that infused her cheeks.

  She unlocked the door of her apartment and stepped inside, her hand halting in mid-air by the light switch as her gaze landed on the envelope on the hardwood floor.

  And the knot in her belly that had only started to loosen, tightened again.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Shaun hadn't missed the sudden hitch in Arden's breathing as she fumbled for the lights. Concerned, he stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. Her eyes were wide and focused on the floor. Following her gaze, he bent to pick up the envelope. There was no postage, no address, no return address. Nothing but her name printed in red ink. Nothing at all to explain the prickling sensation at the back of his neck or his sudden and instinctive desire to protect her.

  "Do you always get mail delivered to your door?" he asked casually, offering her the envelope.

  Arden blinked, then took the letter from him. "Not—" she cleared her throat "—not usually."

  She walked into the kitchen, tossed the piece of mail onto the counter as if it was of no importance. But he'd seen the fear in her eyes, the erratic throbbing of the pulse at the base of her jaw as she'd taken the envelope from his hand. It was as if she already knew what was in the letter.

  "Aren't you going to open it?" he asked.

  Arden tried to smile, but her lips trembled rather than curved. "It's probably just from … my landlord. There's a … a new tenant in the building. Downstairs. He's been complaining … about noise." She shifted her gaze, cleared her throat. "He—the landlord—has been delivering warning notices … to keep the new guy happy."

  Shaun knew she was lying, and he couldn't help being concerned. Arden didn't rattle easily. She was self-assured, strong, independent. And right now she was terrified.

  He bit back a sigh, wondering what the hell was going on in her life, wishing he could just walk away, and knowing he wouldn't. He reached out and gently laid a hand on her shoulder, surprised when she jumped as if he'd pulled a gun on her. He dropped his hand. "Are you okay?"

  "Sure. Fine." She stepped away from him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "The letter—from your landlord." He caught a flicker in the depths of her dark eyes. "He isn't harassing you about this noise complaint, is he?"

  "No." She shook her head. "Gary's a good guy."

  He wanted to press, but she had already taken the carafe from the coffeemaker and crossed to the sink to fill it with water. Instead he leaned back against the counter and watched her, and he almost forgot the multitude of unanswered questions niggling at the back of his mind.

  She was a pleasure to watch: tall and slender, with subtle curves in all the right places. She emptied the water into the reservoir, then replaced the carafe, and he felt his mouth go dry as she reached for the buttons that ran down the front of her jacket. She was wearing a blouse underneath, but still, watching her unfasten those buttons, slide her arms out of the sleeves, seemed so … intimate. She tossed the jacket over the back of a chair and turned to the refrigerator.

  Shaun swallowed and tried not to notice the way the silky fabric of her blouse molded to the curve of her breasts. Then she opened the fridge and bent at the knees, her black skirt stretching enticingly over the smooth curve of her shapely buttocks as she reached for the tin of coffee.

  He tore his gaze away.

  What was wrong with him? This was Arden. She was practically family.

  She was also a woman. An incredibly attractive woman. Although he'd never been blind to her attributes, the attraction had never before hit him in the same way. It had been a while since he'd felt more than the most basic stirring of desire, and this sudden and fierce attraction concerned him.

  Why had he even suggested coming up to her apartment? Why couldn't he have taken her less-than-subtle hint that she wanted to be alone?

  Because it was Friday night and he didn't want to be alone.

  He also didn't want to be hanging out at a smoky bar with the usual crowd, trying to seem duly enthralled with Sarah Jones, a court clerk he'd dated a few times last year. He was tired of the bar scene, weary of the dating game. Which was why he'd practically leaped at the opportunity to have dinner with Arden. He felt comfortable with her. And because he wasn't trying to get her into his bed, he didn't have to impress her. He didn't have to pretend.

  But if he really wasn't interested in Arden, why was he finding it so difficult to tear his eyes from her? Why was he unable to stop imagining the subtle curves hidden beneath her tidy little suit?

  In the interests of self-preservation, he moved away from her, stepping out of the kitchen to survey the modest apartment.

  The living room walls were off-white in color and completely bare. No artwork or photos marred the pristine surface. The furniture was deep blue: a plush sofa and two matching chairs that were covered in some suedelike fabric. In front of the sofa was a dark wood coffee table polished to a high gloss. A matching entertainment unit sat against the opposite wall, containing a small television, a VCR and a portable stereo.

  There was a short bookcase beside the front door with two framed photos on top of it. Shaun stepped closer. One frame held Nikki
and Colin's wedding picture, the other, their daughter, Carly's, most recent school photo. There were no other mementos or knickknacks around the room. No magazines tossed on the coffee table, no decorative cushions on the sofa, no fancy lamps or little glass dishes. There were no plants or flowers, no signs of life. In fact, there was nothing in the room—save those two photos—that wasn't useful or necessary.

  Even the books on the shelves, arranged in alphabetical order, were legal texts. The room was very much a reflection of its tenant, he realized. Practical, efficient, ruthlessly organized. A beautiful façade, offering no hint of anything inside. The realization frustrated him, as did his sudden curiosity about a woman he'd known for so long. Except that he didn't really know her at all.

  He glanced in the direction of the dining room. At least, he assumed it was the dining room. It was hard to tell as the room was bare of furniture except for the packing boxes stacked four and five high against the back wall.

  Beyond the dining room was a short hallway, probably leading to Arden's bedroom. He turned away. The last thing he needed to think about was where she slept. What she slept in.

  He moved back to the kitchen.

  There were no dirty dishes in the sink, no crumbs on the countertop. Just the coffeemaker, currently bubbling away, and a microwave. Curious, he peeked over her shoulder as she opened the refrigerator again. She put the can of coffee inside and pulled out a carton of milk. Other than those two items, there were half a dozen containers of yogurt, a couple of cans of diet cola and a half-empty bottle of white wine. That was it. He frowned. No wonder her kitchen was spotless—she didn't eat here.

  As she closed the door again, he noticed the flutter of a small newspaper clipping that had been taped to the outside. It was the obituary of Denise Hemingway, age twenty-nine, and her four year-old son, Brian. He remembered reading about them in the paper, how they'd both been killed by Eric Hemingway—Denise's husband, Brian's father—before he'd turned the gun on himself.

  It was hard to miss the story. Things like that might be commonplace in bigger cities, but in small-town Fairweather, Pennsylvania, domestic slayings were a rare occurrence and, consequently, front-page news. The victim, he realized, must have been Arden's client.

  He scanned further, noted that the funeral was … today.

  Finally the pieces clicked into place and confirmed his earlier suspicions about Arden. She wasn't cool or detached. She was a woman who cared about her clients, and cared deeply. Not only had she taken the time to go to the funeral, she'd shed deep, grief-filled tears for the mother and son who had lost their lives so tragically.

  "How do you take your coffee?" Arden asked.

  "Black."

  She filled the two mugs and handed one to him, then added a splash of milk to the other.

  "Denise Hemingway," he said, and saw her back stiffen.

  She set the milk carton down before turning to face him. "What about her?" Her eyes were stark, almost empty, her voice the same. But he knew now that it was a mask, that her emotions ran deep.

  "She was your client?" he prompted.

  Arden nodded.

  "That's where you were earlier today," he guessed.

  She nodded again. "Yes."

  She didn't ask for his compassion, but he felt compelled to offer it. He set his mug on the counter and moved toward her, breaching the few-foot gap that separated them to take her in his arms. She resisted at first, her back straight, her shoulders stiff. But he continued to hold her, running his hand down her back, his fingers roaming over the silky fabric of her blouse.

  Would her skin be as soft? He chastised himself for the wayward thought. He was supposed to be offering her comfort, not speculating about the feel of her naked skin beneath his hands.

  She didn't cry again, but she finally let out a long, shuddering breath and relaxed against him.

  "She came to me for help," Arden said, sounding completely dejected. "She was counting on me, and I let her down."

  "You did everything you could for her," he said, knowing it was true, and knowing she would find no comfort in that fact.

  * * *

  Arden pulled out of Shaun's arms. She didn't want to talk about Denise and Brian, she didn't even want to think about them right now. When Shaun went home, when she went to bed, she'd think about them then. She wouldn't be able to stop. Nor would she be able to stop the nightmares that plagued her sleep.

  "Why don't we take our coffee into the living room?" she suggested.

  "Okay," Shaun agreed.

  She was grateful that he didn't ask any more questions or try to appease her with useless words or platitudes. Nothing anyone could say or do could make up for what had happened.

  She moved over to the sofa and curled up in her usual spot at one end, then wished she'd chosen a chair when he sat down beside her. She wasn't sure why she was so unnerved by his presence today. She'd spent a fair amount of time in his company over the past few years. When Arden had been living with her cousin, Nikki, and Nikki's daughter, Carly, Shaun had visited often to spend tune with his former sister-in-law and his niece. Maybe that was the difference. It was just the two of them tonight, and being alone with him felt strange to Arden.

  "This is great coffee," Shaun said.

  Arden was grateful for the change of topic. "It's Jamaican. I don't share it with everyone, but I figure you earned it. Putting up with me this afternoon, buying me dinner."

  "It was my pleasure."

  She managed a smile. "I doubt it, but thanks."

  "That's what friends are for," he said easily.

  She propped her feet up on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles as she settled back against the cushions. "I don't need anyone to take care of me, McIver."

  "Did I suggest you did?"

  "No, but I think your sudden offer of friendship was inspired by the fact that I cried on your shoulder. Believe me, it was a one-time thing."

  "That's too bad," he said. "I thought it was a pretty good excuse to hold you in my arms."

  "I wouldn't think you needed any kind of excuse to hold a woman. Aren't they lining up for the privilege?"

  Shaun grinned. "I wasn't talking about any woman, I was talking about you. You fit in my arms, Doherty."

  She rolled her eyes.

  "I noticed it before, when we danced at Colin and Nikki's wedding."

  Arden didn't want to be reminded of the dance they'd shared. Of the way their bodies had melded together, like two pieces of a puzzle. It had made her wonder if they would mesh so perfectly if they were horizontal.

  "Anything you want to share?" Shaun sounded amused.

  "No," she snapped, conscious of the flush in her cheeks.

  "I've never seen you blush, Doherty. It's … endearing."

  "I don't blush."

  "Yeah." He stroked a finger down the curve of her cheek, and her breath caught in her throat. "You do."

  She pulled back, stood up. "Do you want more coffee?"

  His smile was lazy, satisfied. "Sure."

  Arden retreated to the kitchen, chastising her overactive hormones. All he'd done was touch her, and her skin had burned. She took several deep breaths before returning to the living room with the pot of coffee. She refilled his mug, conscious of his gaze following her even though she avoided looking at him. She wasn't sure she understood what was going on here, what the undercurrents were about. She was probably experiencing some kind of emotional meltdown—a normal reaction after the kind of day she'd had.

  Somewhat reassured, she returned to her seat on the sofa.

  "What's in all the boxes?" Shaun asked, gesturing to the stack against the dining room wall.

  "Books."

  "What kind of books?"

  "Textbooks, case law."

  "Why aren't they unpacked?"

  "I don't have any shelves."

  He looked around, visually confirming her statement. "I could build some for you."

  She frowned. "Why?"

&n
bsp; "I like to work with my hands," he said.

  The innocent comment brought to mind erotic images of things she'd like him to do with those hands, and building shelves wasn't in the top ten. "I'm sure you have better things to do with your time," she said, sounding just a little breathless.

  "Not really. And it would give us a chance to get to know each other better."

  "Why?" she asked again.

  "Why not? We're friends, aren't we?"

  "I guess so," she agreed, not completely convinced.

  "I built the shelves in Nikki's den," he told her. "In case you have doubts about my abilities."

  No, Arden had no such doubts. "Fine, you can build shelves for me if you want to."

  "Great. I'll come by tomorrow to take some measurements. Think about what kind of wood you'd like."

  As if she would know the difference between maple and mahogany. She smiled. "All right."

  "You have a beautiful smile, Doherty."

  Arden tried to shift away from him, but her hip was already against the arm of the sofa. "Thank you."

  "Why does that make you uncomfortable?" he asked.

  She didn't bother to deny it. She'd always felt that too much importance was placed on appearance, and she knew she hadn't done anything to earn her looks. The flawless skin, the silky hair, the dark, almond-shaped eyes were a result of genetic makeup. She looked like her mother, and she'd never been particularly proud of that fact. Every time she looked in the mirror she was reminded of the woman who'd given birth to her, and who had abandoned her. "Looks are superficial," she said. "They shouldn't matter."

  He seemed to consider her statement, then nodded. "You also have a beautiful heart."

  His words caused an unfamiliar warmth to expand inside her. Uncomfortable with the feeling, she set her mug on the coffee table. "It's getting late, Shaun."

  "You're trying to get rid of me again."

  "Yes."

  "That's not a promising start to a friendship," he said.

  "I would think a friend would appreciate honesty," she countered.

  He sipped from his cup. "I'm not finished with my coffee."

  "Too bad. I have a busy day tomorrow and I need to go to bed."