Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [25]
“Ummm, neat.”
“There’s a statue down in the center of town commemorating the event. Right across the street from the tattoo parlor.”
“Sounds like Fleming has a little something for everyone.”
“Though you’d have thought the town fathers might have been a little more selective in what type of business moved into that part of town, but then again, when you have a lot of empty storefronts, I guess you have to take what you can get.”
“I guess.” She backed up as he approached, as if consciously or unconsciously keeping space between them. “Did you finish reading the file?”
“Yes. We’ll talk about it over coffee, if that’s all right with you. Let me take a quick shower, and I’ll meet you in the dining room. Ten minutes. I have an idea.”
He went into the inn before she could respond.
She muttered under her breath and followed him inside to the lobby, watching—despite her attempts not to—as he jogged up the steps to the second floor.
It doesn’t hurt to look, she reminded herself, as long as she wasn’t tempted to touch.
And I am not tempted. I am not, am not, am not. . . .
She helped herself to a cup of coffee from the breakfast buffet and sat down at a sunny table. It was a perfect autumn day, perfect for . . . what?
What would she do, if she had the day to herself? Walk in the woods, maybe, fallen leaves crunching underfoot, the smell of autumn in the air, geese honking overhead. Or maybe stroll along the shore, breathing in cool salt air and listening to the crash of waves upon the sand. Or visit one of those old churchyards she’d passed on the way into Fleming, and take some rubbings off the old battered grave markers . . .
Her mind wandered back through pictures in her mind, and she was startled when she realized she’d done all of those things, but not alone. She’d done them with Will.
Walking along the paths in Rock Creek Park, in D.C., on a crisp late November morning. Layers of leaves crackling as they moved, single file, through the early mist, following the trail of a killer on Miranda’s second day in the field. They’d met in the parking lot at dawn, after they’d been called in to help search the woods for a man believed to have shot and killed several customers in a convenience-store robbery, and had taken a live hostage. The hostage was a woman who happened to work for the Bureau, and the team had been gathered in record time. Later Miranda admitted to herself—though she’d have died before she’d have admitted it to him—that she’d been a bit starstruck at working on a case with Will. He was well known around the Bureau for being intuitive, smart, and capable, and was respected by his fellow agents for his easygoing manner and keen humor. The men counted themselves lucky if they called him friend. Most of the women wanted to call him something else.
Miranda had been impressed with his handling of the case, with the respect he showed the body they found tossed behind some rocks and covered with leaves and brush. She’d been almost flustered—almost—when, hours later, after their work was completed, the evidence gathered, the body removed, he’d asked her to join him for a bite to eat.
He’d taken her to a Middle Eastern restaurant downtown, where they’d eaten and talked and laughed until midnight. They’d connected, right from the start, on several levels. Certainly the chemistry had been dynamic. Even now, her cheeks burned as she recalled that she’d taken him home, and he’d stayed the night. Something she’d never, ever done in her life—before or since. Mostly she hadn’t even kissed on the first date. But there’d been something about him that had turned her inside out and had banished rational thought along with most of her inhibitions.
Of course, it had made for an awkward next morning, an awkward day in the office. She’d been spared having an awkward week or two, however, since Will had been sent to Florida to assist in a drug bust. By the time