Double Deception. Terri Reed

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      Trust no one.

      “Get a grip, girl,” she muttered as she opened the milk carton and poured the liquid into the bowl of corn flakes. Paul’s warning couldn’t have extended to the sheriff. There was no reason she couldn’t trust Brody McClain.

      As she finished the cereal and was about to open the orange juice, a pained grunt split the air. Kate’s gaze jumped to the sheriff. His once-relaxed features pulled back into a grimace, his head jerked and a moan slipped from between his lips.

      She realized he was gripped within a nightmare. She knew what it was like to feel helplessly lost in the dark swirl of fear, memory and sleep. Compassion filled her chest until it ached with the need to relieve him of his dreams.

      “Sheriff McClain?” Her voice bounced off the walls but held no power. “Sheriff?” she tried again, but to no avail. His head thrashed across his bent arms, his big body tense.

      Taking a deep breath, Kate used her diaphragm to add more strength to her voice. “McClain!”

      Her voice snapped through the station like the slam of a door.

      As a wake-up call, it worked well.

      Brody jerked his head up and blinked several times before he realized he was at the station, not on a darkened street in the middle of a storm facing the barrel of a gun.

      His gaze met that of the woman occupying the cell. Red curls framed her face, emphasizing her large, compassion-filled eyes. She’d witnessed his nightmare. Great.

      Taking a shuddering breath, Brody composed himself and rose from his chair. Rigid, stiff muscles objected to the stretching. His limbs ached. The need to work out the kinks demanded his attention, but Brody had a job to finish first. The gym would have to wait.

      He moved away from the desk to the coffee machine. With each step of his right leg, pain shot into his hip. He refused to allow himself the luxury of limping when meadow-green eyes followed his every move.

      By rote, he went through the process of making strong coffee. Soon, the sound and smell of brewing French roast filled the air. Brody inhaled the rich scent for a moment, and pushed away the unease of Kate having witnessed what he worked so hard to keep beneath his heel. He walked steadily to the cell and opened the door. “Good morning.”

      His charge stared at him. Her head listed to the side and questions fairly radiated from her expression. “Good morning.”

      The corners of her mouth kicked up in a tentative smile that sneaked inside his chest and made it difficult to breathe.

      “Thank you for breakfast…and the blanket.”

      He swallowed against both her gratitude and the effects of her smile. He didn’t want either one. “I hope you slept well.”

      “I did, actually.” She stood and stepped past him, then stopped in the center of the room. She looked around uncertainly. “Is there a restroom I could use?”

      “Down the corridor, on the left.” Brody watched her disappear before he shifted his feet and took his weight onto his left leg, easing the ache in his right hip. Why was he bothering? It didn’t make sense; vanity wasn’t usually one of his faults. But letting her witness his weakness was…out of the question. He didn’t want her to look at him with pity.

      Most everyone in town knew vague details of how he’d acquired his limp. Few dared approach the subject and even fewer knew the truth of the situation. Taking a bullet was a hazard of the job that every law-enforcement officer faced. Only for Brody it was so much more and so much worse.

      Forcing his torturous thoughts to recede, Brody limped over to his desk, sat down and tried to boot up the computer. The screen remained blank. He made a mental note to call the local computer expert and have him take a look at the infernal machine, which was always on the fritz. Somewhat ruefully, he figured he’d have to check out his guest the old-fashioned way.

      As he reached for the phone, it rang, the shrill sound ringing hollow in the small station. Picking up the receiver, he answered, “Havensport County Sheriff’s Office, Sheriff McClain speaking.”

      “I understand you have Katherine Wheeler in your custody.” The gravelly voice boomed in Brody’s ear, the tone sharp, the words clipped.

      “And you are?”

      “Gordon Thomas, Katherine’s attorney.”

      Figured a Beverly Hills address could buy attitude. “She was caught breaking into one of our residents’ summer home.”

      “The Kinsey residence?”

      “Yes.”

      “The house belongs to my client.”

      Brody didn’t like the condescending tone in the man’s voice. “I’ll need proof of that.”

      “What’s your fax number?” the man asked curtly.

      Brody rattled off the number and a few seconds later the machine in the corner beeped and hissed. Paper rolled out; sheet after sheet until finally it gave one final beep and remained silent.

      “Sheriff McClain, I’d like to speak with Ms. Wheeler.”

      “Sorry, she’s indispos…” Brody’s voice trailed off as he noticed Kate standing beside his desk. Even with her wrinkled clothes and finger-combed hair, she radiated a quiet confidence. He’d give the lady credit; she was no fragile flower.

      “Here she is.”

      Kate took the phone and turned away. He could hear the urgent note in the low tones of her voice. Picking up the fax, he flipped through the pages and realized Katherine Wheeler, though he liked Kate better, had been telling the truth. She now owned the house.

      “Here, he wants to talk with you.”

      Kate’s little smile grated on Brody’s nerves. So she hadn’t been lying. Big whoop. The fact that one female had the ability to tell the truth should make him happy, but he couldn’t stop the unsettled feeling that something wasn’t right. How did Pete Kinsey fit into this?

      “Everything seems to be in order. I still have questions.”

      “I’m sure you do, Sheriff, but first things first. Release Mrs. Wheeler. There’s no need for her still to be in your custody.”

      Brody wasn’t so sure about that. He couldn’t deny Kate’s name appeared on the copies of her late husband’s will and the deed to the house. She had every right to walk freely away and go about her life, yet he hesitated.

      Mentally, he reviewed what he knew: Kate Wheeler’s husband had been murdered, she’d inherited the Kinsey home. According to the paper faxed to him by the lawyer, the L.A.P.D. was investigating Paul’s death but had yet to produce a suspect. All in all, the lawyer had supplied Brody with more information than required.

      Legally, Brody had no reason to hold Kate, but it didn’t sit well just to let her walk out. His protective impulses demanded he take her back to the house himself. For crying out loud, the woman had been terrified that someone was out to kill СКАЧАТЬ