Courting Death - Carol Stephenson [6]
Two men dressed in a dark suits exited from the viewing room and hurried down the hall. One was the husband, Brian. I’d met him at my office. Nice guy, a podiatrist.
“Ms. Sterling, I’m so glad you could come. It means the world to Claire.” He motioned to the man standing beside him. Brian’s voice held a brittle edge of forced joviality. “I’d like you to meet an old college buddy, Damian Quint.”
I extended my hand. “A fellow podiatrist?”
With wavy blond hair, blue eyes and refined, patrician bone structure, Quint was what my partner Carling would call a “hubba.” When he smiled, a dimple flashed. “Well, a grade up. I’m board certified in reconstructive surgery.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Brian’s mouth tighten.
Rather than shaking my hand, Quint grasped it in both of his. Uncomfortable at the contact, I managed not to jerk in response. “I’m so grateful that you’re helping Claire in this difficult time. If there is anything you need, I’ll be happy to help.”
Behind me the front door opened and a draft of night air chilled me to the bone. Brian wrapped a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders and stared at the newest arrival with a hostile expression. “What are you doing here?”
I tugged my hand free, spun around and squinted in the dim light to make out the identity of the tall, rangy man sauntering toward us. His swagger was so familiar…
I bit back an oath.
My past year and a half of the Sam Bowie starvation diet disappeared and desire thudded with unexpected force in the pit of my stomach. True, I had been the one to walk—make that run—for the pancake-flat hills of Florida, away from our blazing affair. Apparently my deprived hormones hadn’t forgiven me yet.
Not that I blamed them for caterwauling over the loss.
After all, getting over Detective Sam Bowie was a tall order. His lean but well-toned body still had the power to make my mouth go dry. His ruthlessly hewn face showcased sharp features. Silky black hair that never managed to stay combed back begged to be mussed by a woman’s fingers. Those sinful chocolate brown eyes made one long for endless summer nights.
“Well, hey, Red. What are you doing on this side of the tracks in West Palm? Trolling for a stiff to date?”
Then again, his sexy, gravelly voice said the most obnoxious, teeth-grinding things.
I plastered on my you’re-an-idiot-but-I’m-too-professional-to-let-it-bother-me smile. “Detective. Charming as always, and it’s Nicole.”
Sam’s chiseled jaw jutted at a dangerous angle. “Sure thing, Red.” He nodded at the tight-lipped Whitmans and gave Quint a narrow-eyed stare. “Evening, folks.”
Quint stirred. “Claire, Brian, I wish I could stay but I have an early morning surgery.” He lowered his head to kiss Claire on the cheek, but she seemed almost too frightened to look at him. Her gaze remained locked on Sam.
Quint straightened. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, bud.” Brian managed only a formal nod. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Sterling.”
I internally winced at the way he emphasized the word pleasure. But seeing Sam’s stony expression, I amped up my own smile. “Nicole, please.”
“Nicole. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.” Quint turned and, with a deliberate move, bumped his shoulder against Sam’s as he walked down the hall.
Sam cocked an eyebrow at me and, without missing a beat, zeroed in again on the Whitmans. “Do you have a moment?”
I wasn’t about to let this transplanted Texan circle around me to hone in on his target. “I represent the Whitmans, Detective, as I’m sure you’re aware. Did you need me to call you tomorrow?”
“No need to get a burr up your beautiful ass, Counselor. I’m just paying my respects to little Rebecca. After all, I missed the funeral for the Whitmans’ first child.”
A roar of hurricane-driven ocean waves filled my ears. Claire had had another baby who’d died? They’d never mentioned it during our first interview. I had asked about other children, hadn’t I?
I hadn’t had time to recover from that afternoon’s court fiasco. A fresh onslaught of the self-doubt no one knew haunted me,