A Season For Love. Bj James

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      “Now I think he knew exactly what he was doing. The only thing he didn’t take into consideration, and couldn’t calculate, was our young car thief. Who just had the bad luck of being at the wrong place at the right time.”

      “Then you don’t think the explosion occurred in tandem with ignition of the engine.”

      “Only as a coincidence. If it was truly in tandem at all.” With splayed fingers, Maria combed the heavy wealth of her dark hair from her face and, again, didn’t seem to notice that it fell back exactly as it had been. “I’m betting your experts have already found a timer. Probably as part of an incendiary device attached within the necessary proximity of the fuel tank.”

      Jericho’s head jerked once in admission, but he said nothing else. As intrigued as before, he watched and waited.

      “This was meant to be a warning, Jericho.” Maria didn’t move this time as she raked the destroyed hull again with a narrowed stare. “Only a warning.” She looked to him then, reading his concurring thoughts on his darkly grim face. “But as warnings go, it was worse than stupid.”

      Beyond the lift of a questioning brow barely visible beneath the tilt of his broad-brimmed hat, as sheriff, friend, and lover, he offered no opinion.

      Maria crossed her arms beneath her breasts, mindful even in this lurid situation of the lingering tenderness left by the scrape of Jericho’s beard and the sweet tug of his suckling. Curbing a sense of mourning for the exuberant innocence of those recent hours, her gaze scoured over the blackened steel one more time before returning to his. Her voice was soft, a little strained as it echoed the bitterness in her eyes. “Whoever he is, he’s not only stupid, but a fool in the bargain.”

      “Stupid for this single, senseless act, because he answered the most critical question you asked yourself last night.” Jericho spoke at last, quietly, with every trace of emotion carefully leached from his voice. “He was one of the patrons at the museum.”

      “A patron of the past of Belle Terre.” The title seemed ludicrous given a less archaic past. A past that directly spawned this oblique attack. “A patron and a fool if he thinks that because I ran away once, I would again.

      “Because things are different now,” she said, almost to herself. “I’m not that frightened young girl from the wrong side of town anymore. And it’s been a long time since I ran from anything.”

      Except me, Jericho wanted to say.

      Only hours ago he would have given his soul to keep Maria in Belle Terre. But he knew that neither his soul nor his love was enough. Now that the gauntlet had been thrown and taken up, he wondered if it would mean her life if she stayed.

      “Sheriff Rivers.” Court Hamilton stood a pace away, a look of apology for intruding on an obviously intense conversation on his face. “Uncle…I’m sorry, sir. I meant, Captain Hamilton would like a word with you.”

      Yancey Hamilton, head of the state’s special forces unit, was as much a gentleman as he was a professional. If he sent the deputy to interrupt what he would surely perceive as Jericho’s interview of the intended victim, it was because he’d made an important discovery, or arrived at a pertinent opinion. Maybe one Maria Elena shouldn’t hear. At least not just yet.

      “Of course.” Turning from his deputy to Maria, Jericho took her hand in both of his. “Beyond what further study the special investigators might need, there’s nothing else to be done here. If you don’t mind, I’ll ask Deputy Hamilton to take you back to…”

      “Back to the Inn at River Walk,” Maria inserted for him. For reasons she didn’t understand, and certainly couldn’t explain, she didn’t want to tarnish her memories of her night with Jericho with the shocking ugliness of the morning. “I have a room there. I was scheduled to check out this morning, but I doubt Eden Cade will object if I stay over for a bit longer.”

      Jericho would have felt better if she were tucked away in the safety of his own home. Or better yet, if she were miles removed from any threat of danger. But this was neither the time nor the place to discuss what he wanted for her.

      “The Inn at River Walk, then.” A frown channeled between his brows and deepened the lines at his eyes briefly before being chased away by a forced smile. Releasing her and stepping away, Jericho addressed his deputy. “Court, if you would, please escort Ms. Delacroix to her lodgings. Stay close, until Yancey and I have finished here and I’m free.”

      Deputy Hamilton snapped to attention crisply. “Yes, sir.”

      Maria realized then that he was probably one of Lady Mary’s students. As she had been, but not alongside her classmates. The genteel but impoverished old lady, with her bright, birdlike eyes and manner, had spent her life teaching proper decorum and protocol to the children of the respected and affluent families of Belle Terre. Then there was Maria Elena Delacroix, the descendant of a long line of beautiful courtesans.

      But that was all part of the past. The distant past. Her past. Last night, for a little while, she’d hoped attitudes had changed, and who she’d been would be of little consequence.

      Wrong? She’d never been more wrong. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t dwell on that now. Dismissing the intrusion of old memories, Maria focused her attention on Jericho.

      He’d taken the time to dress in uniform. The austere lines of faultless dark khaki contributed even more to his air of extraordinary strength and quiet dedication. In black tie he’d been the epitome of the gracious Southern gentleman. In the dress of his profession, he became a cold-eyed, grim-faced veteran of the war against crime and disorder. Yet he delivered orders as if he were making a request. Orders surely more quickly obeyed for the manner in which they were given.

      Maria’s life in Belle Terre and afterward had made her cynical. The eye of her camera saw with compassion. Her own eyes, her heart, her soul, did not. On the other hand, Jericho, she suspected, was that rare, indomitable professional in whom compassion and gentleness still lived and thrived, and ruled.

      He’d proved that in the gentle way he’d made love to her, with no condemnation for her desertion, no bitterness for the lost years. What sort of man was this? Maria wondered as she asked, “You’ll call me when you have a definitive report?”

      Beyond taking her hand, Jericho hadn’t touched her since they’d arrived at the parking lot. He’d offered no explanation for the fact that they’d arrived together. With one steady, challenging look from him, no one dared comment that Maria still wore the gown of flowing gold, sparkling brighter in the morning sun than it had in the muted light of the museum. With his own circumspect behavior and the dare in his unflinching stare, he’d protected her from any threat of gossip. Now or later. For she knew intuitively, and from the respect shown by Jericho’s men, there would be no scandalized or secret lecherous whispers behind shielding hands.

      Now, with the gentle cupping of his palm against her cheek, Jericho broke his own unspoken rule of discretion. “I promise. But I’ll do better than call, Maria Elena. I’ll drop by the inn when we’ve done all we can here.”

      Maria wanted to cover his hand with her own, keeping his touch. More than that, she wanted to turn her mouth into his palm and with her lips trace the hard, calloused strength. She wanted to watch his eyes as she touched her tongue to that dark, gentle hollow the calluses protected. As he had protected her when she was seventeen.

      As he would protect her now.

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