Unforgettable. Molly Rice

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СКАЧАТЬ wondering if she should have donned something more appropriate than blue jeans and a sweatshirt. But the sheriff gestured for her to come ahead and, from behind the bar, the bartender smiled at her. She crossed the Oriental carpet and joined Derek Chancelor at a small table with banquette seating.

      He had a pilsner of beer in front of him. Stacy nodded to the bartender to bring her the same. “I didn’t think law enforcement officers were allowed to drink on duty,” she said while they waited for her beer.

      “I’m my own boss.”

      The sheriff was slouched back against the banquette, one hand on his glass, the other in his pants pocket. The picture of a man totally relaxed and at ease. Yet he sent out threatening vibes and Stacy bit back one of her smart remarks.

      “What have I done to offend the law?” she asked instead, sounding almost meek.

      “Nothing that I know of.”

      “Then why are we here?”

      “There are a few things about your accident that are still bothering me.”

      “You don’t look bothered.” She made a frank survey of his relaxed posture. Her hands itched for a sketch pad and a charcoal stick.

      “It goes with the territory. I don’t like loose ends.” He sat forward and put two fingers on the back of her hand. “Are you feeling better?”

      Stacy shivered at his light touch and nodded. He removed his hand as the bartender approached with her drink.

      “So, tell me, Ms. Millman, are you driving through or planning to stay awhile?”

      “Do you question all visitors this way? It must be hard keeping up when the town is full of tourists.” A swallow of beer, cold in her mouth, warm in her stomach, sharpened her sense of unease. Despite his casual attitude, her experience with police was that they didn’t just ask questions out of curiosity. Did he know something about her, something that would be a start in her own search?

      “I question all accident victims,” the sheriff said, drinking from his own glass. He wiped foam from his lip and his expression grew stern. “I wonder if something crossed the road to make you lose control of your car?”

      “Like?”

      “Like a deer. They get pretty frisky in the spring and that road is one of their crossings.”

      “I don’t remember seeing anything.” What if she told him that the road sign and the old tree had unnerved her to such an extent? He’d think she was short a few marbles.

      As if reading her mind, he withdrew a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open with one hand. “You said something very strange when you were in the hospital. Do you remember what it was?”

      Stacy shrugged and tried not to stare at the way his hair had fallen forward across his brow, giving him a boyish look. “I can’t imagine. I’d been unconscious and I woke up to a room full of strangers. Anything I said at the moment might have been—”

      He interrupted her, reading from the small notebook.

      She recalled the words, the thought, but hadn’t realized she’d voiced it aloud.

      Still, to someone who didn’t know the whole story, it could be passed off as the mumbo jumbo of a person experiencing post-accident trauma.

      “I can’t imagine,” she said, lowering her head so he couldn’t read her eyes in the dim light that streamed through stained glass windows. “Perhaps it was part of something I’d been dreaming when I was unconscious.” She pretended to be absorbed with making sweat rings on the tabletop with her pilsner.

      The sheriff nodded. “Mmm-hmm.” She couldn’t bear the silence that followed the enigmatic sound and lifted her head to meet his gaze.

      “It really doesn’t make sense, does it?”

      “No,” he admitted, “not to me.” He flipped the notebook closed but left it out on the table.

      “What do you do, Ms. Millman?”

      “Look, if this meeting is going to go on for any length of time, do you mind using my first name? ‘Ms. Millman,’ the way you say it, sounds formidable.”

      His blue eyes glinted like steel. Stacy decided he just didn’t have any sense of humor.

      “If it will make you take my questions seriously.” He put out his hand. “Derek.”

      She was surprised at her response to a simple handshake. His hand was warm and dry, yet once again she felt a chill go up her spine at his touch. She withdrew her hand hastily under the guise of lifting her glass.

      “I’m an artist, Derek. A painter.”

      He looked surprised, which surprised her. Clearly this wasn’t what he’d expected.

      “Um...I see. And you’re here because...?”

      The exchange of first names hadn’t reduced the tension; he was still questioning her, still suspicious. Of what?

      “Do I need a reason? Aren’t people free to wander the country anywhere and anytime they please?”

      “You just don’t strike me as a wanderer.”

      She felt defiance growing in her chest and in the stiffening of her spine. “You are very much a sheriff, however, and if I haven’t broken some obscure law peculiar to Hunter’s Bay, I’d like to get back to my room for a nap.”

      The sheriff’s chuckle was a mixture of amusement and menace. “You seem very much on the defensive for someone who’s wandering around and just happened to stumble over our little hamlet.”

      “I don’t remember saying that I came here by accident.”

      His eyes darkened, piercing her.

      “So do you mind telling me just what brings you to Hunter’s Bay, Ms.... Stacy.”

      Maybe she was blowing any chance of enlisting his help but Stacy just couldn’t resist. “What else, Sheriff? I’m an artist. I came here for the scenery.”

      She didn’t realize she was baldly staring at him until he leaned forward and almost whispered, “And are you enjoying what you see, Stacy?”

      She blinked. He was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on her face. His eyes were focused on her mouth, as though he wanted to see her answer. Read my lips, she thought, smiling inwardly at the clichéd expression, so appropriate in this case.

      She thought if she ever had a chance to draw him, she’d want to do it in pastels, capturing in the soft chalk, the gold tones in his hair, the blue eyes that seemed to gray with each change of mood, the jut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. She’d use her fingertips to soften and highlight, to mold the chalk to define each bone in his finely shaped chin and cheekbones, the landscape of his rugged face.

      “Would you like to model for me?” she murmured.

      He sat back, as if surprised СКАЧАТЬ