Telling Secrets. Tracy Montoya
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Название: Telling Secrets
Автор: Tracy Montoya
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
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Still holding the fork in place, she took her hand off his chest, glaring at it briefly as if it had touched him without her permission. “But what I do know,” she continued, “is exactly what I told you before—that the murder victim you found is connected to you somehow, you’re in danger and I have this nagging feeling that I should stay close to you, because I think I can keep you safe. The problem is, I want to stay close to you about as much as I want to stick this thing in my own eye.” She waved the barbecue fork at him, then tossed it on the counter with a clatter, a look of mild disgust twisting her pretty mouth. “Now, I think you were just leaving.”
He nodded, backing away so she’d see he wasn’t a threat. “I’m sorry.” He felt small and really stupid after that speech. Belatedly taking his baseball cap off his head, he ran his hands through his short hair. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly wanted her to know he meant that apology. “You know, I almost believe you’re not lying to me,” he said. It was the closest he could come to admitting that she might not be the monster he’d created in his head.
She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not lying to you, Alex.”
He took a deep breath. If he wanted the truth, he needed to speak it himself. “But I don’t believe you’re psychic.”
“Then believe this.” She moved near enough that he could count the freckles dusting her nose, smell the scent of flowers coming from her hair. She might not be psychic, but somehow, in some definitely-not-his-type kind of way, she was magic. And he so didn’t want her, of all people, to be magic. “I am not a danger to you,” she continued. “I have no ill will toward you, and I would do anything, anything I could to prevent something bad from happening to you.”
Then she reached out and closed her hand around his arm. He opened his mouth, but no words would come out.
And she gasped.
Without stopping to think about the advisability of his actions, he let his gaze drop to her lush pink mouth, knowing exactly what she’d felt the minute she’d touched him. “What, Sophie?” he murmured.
“I don’t know what it is about you—” She stopped, licked her lips.
That was funny, because he didn’t know what it was about her, either. He moved closer, breathing her in, mesmerized.
“—that makes me suddenly compelled to say some really bizarre things….” She shook her head, backed away, and whatever it was that had flared up just then dissipated as the space between them grew. Her expression flattened, and she was clearly back to business; the only hint of what had just happened was the faint blush left behind on her cheeks.
“Never mind—I’m going to leave that alone for a little bit.” Her eyes grew slightly unfocused as she reached up and rubbed her temple. “Humor me for a minute. Who is Jack Runningwater?”
The name was like a blast of cold water in the face. He had to get out of here. She was beautiful, and she wasn’t his usual dim-and-too-skinny type, and she probably had a voodoo doll of him somewhere in her apartment that she’d bewitched. He was angry at her. He didn’t trust her. He did not, could not, be even the slightest bit attracted to her. For God’s sake, she knew something.
“Tell me,” she urged.
He didn’t want to, feeling the old shame he always experienced whenever anyone drew a connection between him and Jack Runningwater, but he knew he should, given that he’d been firing the name at her like a rain of bullets earlier in the conversation. At the very least, maybe revealing some of his cards would get her to inadvertently show some of hers. “Do you remember when Wilma Red Cloud was killed?”
She nodded, the line between her eyes returning as she obviously struggled to recall the details that had been splashed across newspapers and on the evening news so many years ago. “The first female tribal president of the Oglala Lakota. We read about her in school. Wasn’t she murdered—”
He nodded, cutting her off. “Strangled by a man from her own tribe. No one knows why, though they suspect he was jealous, or angry that a woman was in such a powerful position.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the scuffed linoleum on her floor. “I have it on good authority he was just a no-good drunk.”
Her expression cleared as she made the connection. “Jack Runningwater. That’s the man who killed her.”
“I was six,” he said, not acknowledging her revelation. “I don’t remember much about him. I just know one minute I had a home and a family, and the next, my mother was dragging me off the reservation and halfway across the country.”
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