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Capturing Cleo
Linda Winstead Jones


Wary and weary, detective Luther Malone longed to get away. Until he strolled into Cleo's and thoughts of solitary nights flew away…. Sultry and seductive in her nightclub, alluring and adorable at home, Cleo Tanner was trouble - but Luther couldn't stay away. Although he doubted Cleo had killed her ex-husband, it seemed another had done it for her. And then a second murder occurred. Was someone after people who upset Cleo?Suddenly Luther had an idea. He'd get real close to Cleo, and then she'd spurn him. That should catch the killer's attention. Yet it also meant that Luther would be captured by Cleo. But would that be punishment…or the sweetest reward…?









“Malone is a macho jerk!”


Cleo told her neighbor. “But if he wasn’t a cop, and if he didn’t think I’d pushed my ex-husband off a tall building, I might think he was…relatively handsome.” Gorgeous, actually, if only his dark eyes hadn’t been so tired. “But the man has a serious testosterone problem,” she added defensively.

“Okay, on the Barney Fife–Bruce Willis scale of masculinity, where does this cop fit?”

Cleo sighed but didn’t hesitate. “Fifteen.”




Praise from New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard


“Damn, this book is good! I loved it.

I fell so in love with Luther, it’s ridiculous.”


Dear Reader,

They say that March comes in like a lion, and we’ve got six fabulous books to help you start this month off with a bang. Ruth Langan’s popular series, THE LASSITER LAW, continues with Banning’s Woman. This time it’s the Banning sister, a freshman congresswoman, whose life is in danger. And to the rescue…handsome police officer Christopher Banning, who’s vowed to get Mary Bren out of a stalker’s clutches—and into his arms.

ROMANCING THE CROWN continues with Marie Ferrarella’s The Disenchanted Duke, in which a handsome private investigator—with a strangely royal bearing—engages in a spirited battle with a beautiful bounty hunter to locate the missing crown prince. And in Linda Winstead Jones’s Capturing Cleo, a wary detective investigating a murder decides to close in on the prime suspect—the dead man’s sultry and seductive ex-wife—by pursuing her romantically. Only problem is, where does the investigation end and romance begin? Beverly Bird continues our LONE STAR COUNTRY CLUB series with In the Line of Fire, in which a policewoman investigating the country club explosion must team up with an ex-mobster who makes her pulse race in more ways than one. You won’t want to miss RaeAnne Thayne’s second book in her OUTLAW HARTES miniseries, Taming Jesse James, in which reformed bad-boy-turned-sheriff Jesse James Harte puts his life—not to mention his heart—on the line for lovely schoolteacher Sarah MacKenzie. And finally, in Keeping Caroline by Vickie Taylor, a tragedy pushes a man back toward the wife he’d left behind—and the child he never knew he had.

Enjoy all of them! And don’t forget to come back next month when the excitement continues in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,






Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor




Capturing Cleo

Linda Winstead Jones










LINDA WINSTEAD JONES


would rather write than do anything else. Since she cannot cook, gave up ironing many years ago and finds cleaning the house a complete waste of time, she has plenty of time to devote to her obsession for writing. Occasionally she’s tried to expand her horizons by taking classes. In the past she’s taken instruction on yoga, French (a dismal failure), Chinese cooking, cake decorating (food-related classes are always a good choice, even for someone who can’t cook), belly dancing (trust me, this was a long time ago) and, of course, creative writing.

She lives in Huntsville, Alabama, with her husband of more years than she’s willing to admit and the youngest of their three sons.

She can be reached via www.eharlequin.com or her own Web site www.lindawinsteadjones.com.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue




Chapter 1


He’d known when the phone started ringing well before sunup that it was going to be a long, bad day. He’d been right. On occasion, he really hated being right. Here it was seventeen hours later, and the day dragged on.

One last stop, and he could call it a night. Luther stepped from his car onto the downtown sidewalk. At this point in his career—in his life—nothing should surprise him. Little did. Except the worst and nasty surprises were few and far between. Luther stared at the building before him, wishing someone else had gotten that early morning phone call. He didn’t need this. He had a gut-deep feeling this weird case could be full of nasty little surprises.

He was due for a vacation. In fact, he was past due. He had the trip planned, in his head, he just hadn’t gotten around to requesting the time off. Two weeks in Florida, sleeping all day and walking the beach at night. The sound of the surf, seafood and bikini-clad women. What else did a man need?

But, no. Instead of those temptingly beautiful things, he had one dead body, heartburn from a too-quick, too-late barbecue supper, and a craving for a cigarette like he hadn’t had in months. He played with the cellophane-wrapped candy in his coat pocket, running a few pieces through his fingers. The candy had helped him quit smoking, but sometimes he felt like he’d traded one addiction for another. The February night air cut through his coat jacket, damp and chilling, making him long for Florida once again.

Detective Luther Malone quit fiddling with the candy in his pocket and stood perfectly still on the sidewalk while he glared at the blue neon sign over the single, shuttered window of the redbrick nightclub in downtown Huntsville: Cleo’s. Muted piano music and a woman’s voice singing something old and bluesy drifted to his ears. It was the kind of music that would be very easy to go to sleep to, and since he’d been up since 4:00 a.m. he was momentarily tempted. It was now past nine at night, and this really could wait until tomorrow morning. He’d already spent all day filling out paperwork, combing the scene for clues and talking to the victim’s hysterical girlfriend and his neighbors. And now this. Yeah, tomorrow would work just fine.

But why put off until tomorrow what you could screw up today? Besides, since this Cleo Tanner was a nightclub owner, the best time to catch her was likely at night. She probably wasn’t any more of a morning person than he was.

He threw open the door and stepped inside. The club was small. Cozy was a kinder word, and it suited the warm and welcoming place. A long bar stretched along the wall to the left, and a number of small, randomly scattered tables and chairs, half filled even though this was a Monday night, were arranged in a haphazard kind of symmetry. At the rear of the room a small stage rose above the dimly lit crowd. A woman perched on a stool there and sang. He recognized the song now: “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good.” A piano and a piano player shared the stage with the singer, but as he watched and listened, the instrument and the longhaired musician faded into the background, necessary but insignificant.

Luther stared, over heads and past hanging silk ferns, at the singer whose warm, husky voice had captivated the crowd. And him. It wasn’t just the voice that fascinated him, it was the whole, luscious package. Damn. Now, this was a woman. Grace was always trying to set him up with one sweet thing or another, certain he was not yet past saving, sure that he, too, could be as disgustingly happy as she and Ray were. But she’d never offered up anything like this woman.

Long, wildly curling black hair fell past the singer’s shoulders; her lips were red and lush; her eyes slightly slanted and rimmed with dark lashes, giving her an exotic air. She perched on that stool, back straight and yet perfectly relaxed, shapely legs crossed at the knee. The body beneath her slinky black dress was rounded and curved, soft in all the right places and begging to be…

Luther shook off his daze and headed for the bar and the bartender. It really had been a long day.

The surly bartender was an older man—late fifties, early sixties, Luther guessed. He was built like a fireplug, short and solid, and had a thick head of silver-gray hair and a flat face only a mother could love. And he was offended that a potential customer took his attention from the woman on stage. He looked Luther up and down, scowled, and asked what he wanted to drink, in a gruff voice that matched his craggy face.

“Nothing,” Luther said. “I need to speak to the owner. Cleo Tanner.”

“I know who owns the place,” the bartender snapped. “Wait around. She’s kinda busy right now. You can talk to her in about twenty minutes.”

Annoyed, Luther lifted his jacket to show the fireplug his badge, and to offer a glimpse of the snub-nosed revolver he carried in a shoulder holster. “Tell her Detective Malone from HPD is here and has a few questions for her,” he said.

The bartender didn’t budge. “I tell you what. You go up on stage and flash that badge and gun at her. Maybe, and I ain’t promising anything, that’ll get her to end her set early.”

Luther cut his eyes toward the stage. “That’s Cleo Tanner?” Surprise.

“Yep.”

He should’ve known. Cleo Tanner was a singer, he already knew that. Her one recorded hit, popular almost eight years ago, had been the sappy country love song, “Come Morning.” He glanced around the club, taking it all in while he waited. The small crowd was mesmerized, as he had been when he’d first seen her. They ate and drank, and smiled serenely. If she pulled in a good crowd like this on a Monday, the weekends were probably really busy. She was doing all right.

But from what he’d learned today, Cleo Tanner could make a real killing in the business if she went back to using her married name and sang country music. She could pack a much larger place than this and make a small fortune. Hearing her now, watching her, he knew she had the talent and the presence to make something like that work.

Luther took a deep breath. “Coffee,” he said, taking a stool and leaning on the bar. “Black.” He stared at the singer, but she was as oblivious to his presence as she was to everyone else’s. She didn’t look at the crowd, she didn’t sing to a lover at a table close to the stage. She sang with her eyes fixed above the crowd, a satisfied smile on her face, an evident contentment in her eyes.

She finished the song to enthusiastic applause, and after flashing a small smile she almost immediately went into the next number: “Someone To Watch Over Me.”

Cleo Tanner was gifted, beautiful and incredibly sexy, but like it or not she was still suspect number one. His day wasn’t getting any better.



Cleo left the stage with a smile on her face. No matter what happened during the day, when she sang everything got better.

“Good set,” Eric said, coming up behind her. “How about a late dinner to celebrate?”

Cleo smiled over her shoulder. Eric was a great piano player, he was cute and he was extremely talented, but he was too young for her, and besides…she didn’t need any man looking at her this way, with adoring and hopeful eyes and a wicked come-hither smile. Not now. Maybe not ever. “No, thanks.”

“One day you’ll say yes,” he said, shaking a long finger.

“Don’t hold your breath, piano man.” Their banter was lighthearted, without passion or vigor. But she did wish he would quit asking her out and find a nice girl close to his own age. With his thick, pale brown hair, blue eyes and that baby face, he should have no problem finding willing women. And yet he persisted in asking her out. Seven years wasn’t a huge difference, but Eric was such a kid and she was such a jaded old woman. Too jaded for thirty-two, maybe—but there was no going back.

Sometimes she wondered if Eric was the secret admirer who’d been sending her flowers and romantic notes over the past four months. She’d considered it, but really didn’t think it was Eric’s style. He’d be more likely to show up with flowers in hand, get down on bended knee and expect his due appreciation for the gesture.

She planned to head to her office to catch up on a little paperwork before going home, but Edgar lifted his hand and waved her over to the bar. He looked none too happy, and the tall, dark-haired man leaning against the bar wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine, either.

The man in the black suit was trouble, and she knew it at first glance. He was too tall and stood with his spine too rigid, even as he went for that casual pose against the bar. But it was the way his eyes bored into hers that said trouble, the way his mouth thinned. Heavens, he had a hard face. No softness muted the cut of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones and the line of his nose. Sharp or not, he was a very nice-looking man. He was definitely too good-looking to be so openly sour. Men who looked like this, with nicely even features and unbroken noses, solid bodies and killer eyes, smiled and got what they wanted. They didn’t do glum the way this guy did.

Another glance, and she knew who he was. What he was, anyway. A cop. A tired, cynical, overworked cop, and he was here to see her.

Somehow this was Jack’s fault, she knew it. Her ex would do anything in his power to make her life more difficult.

“What’s up, Edgar?” she asked, purposely ignoring the cop.

“This detective wants to talk to you,” Edgar said, with an apologetic nod of his gray head.

“Malone,” the cop said, offering his hand. “Detective Luther Malone.”

Cleo ignored the offered hand, and eventually he dropped it. She looked him over, her eyes raking up and down the rumpled black suit, the white shirt, the slightly loosened gray tie. Either Detective Malone had had a very bad day, or he slept in his clothes.

“What can I do for you, Malone?” She imagined, in a split second, a hundred different kinds of grief Jack might’ve planned for her this time. False charges, wild stories, out-and-out lies. She wondered if she should offer her hands for the cuffs the cop no doubt carried under that suit jacket of his.

The cop leaned slightly toward her, turning those broad shoulders in her direction and bending in and over her. Eyes so dark brown and deep they looked almost black scrutinized her. “Jack Tempest,” he said, those eyes locked to hers as if he were waiting for a reaction.

He got one. She surely couldn’t hide the fury the mention of her ex-husband’s name roused within her. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, the increase of her heartbeat, the flare of her nostrils. “What has he accused me of this time? Something’s missing and I must have it. I’ve been harassing him, I threatened him, I threatened his latest bimbo.” She kept her voice low, but Eric and Edgar were both listening intently. Cleo offered her hands, wrists together and palms up. “So arrest me, Detective Malone. Take me in, lock me up.”

Malone didn’t make a move for his cuffs. In fact, his only reaction was a slight lift of his finely shaped dark eyebrows. “Maybe we should discuss this in private,” he said in a low, calm voice.

“Maybe we should discuss this right here.”

He stared at her offered hands, his gaze lingering on her wrists in a way that made her heart beat too fast once again. “Tempest is dead,” he said softly, his gaze rising to meet hers as he awaited her reaction.

Cleo dropped her hands, and her knees unexpectedly went weak. “Dead?” she whispered. “How? When?”

The cop glanced around, obviously not comfortable with having this conversation here and now. Edgar and Eric listened in, not even trying to hide their interest, and Lizzy, the regular cocktail waitress who was here six nights a week, was doing her best to sidle closer.

“Late last night,” Malone said simply. “And it looks like a homicide.”

Eric placed a steady hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “That’s too bad,” he said. “And to think, we were here so late last night, we were probably right here when it happened.”

Malone glared over her shoulder, and Eric dropped his hand. “Is that a fact? You were here on a Sunday night? I thought the club was closed on Sunday.”

“We were rehearsing,” Eric said, and his voice only wavered a little. “Until the sun came up.”

Cleo opened her mouth to tell Eric not to lie for her! She understood immediately what he was doing. Everyone who knew her knew how much she hated Jack. She was bound to be a suspect, and he was making sure she had an alibi. But lying would only get him in trouble. Before she could say a word, Edgar spoke up, his gruff voice cutting her off.

“Yep. I was here myself, cleaning and going over the liquor order at first, and then just listening.” He gave her a smile that didn’t quite work on his wrinkled, bulldog face. “I do dearly love to listen to Cleo sing. She has a voice that will—”

The detective raised a silencing hand. “Now can we talk in private?” he asked, his voice rumbling.

Cleo nodded and turned toward the narrow hall that led to the rest rooms and her office. Her head swam, and she was suddenly and inexplicably dizzy. Dead. Jack was dead. A moment later the cop was there, taking her arm as she led the way. His hand was steady, strong and warm, and she liked it. Annoying as he was, this was the kind of man a woman could lean on. After a moment that lasted just a little too long, she shook his hand off. She didn’t lean on anyone anymore.

“I don’t need your help to make it down the hallway,” she snapped.

“Coulda fooled me,” he mumbled.

Dead, she thought again as she opened the door to her office. Somehow she just couldn’t picture Jack as being gone. Permanently.

The tiny, square room was dominated by a desk piled high with bills and correspondence, a phone and fax machine, and a couple of old coffee mugs. The chair behind the desk was fat and comfortable and swiveled with a loud squeak. The only other place in the room to sit was a battered avocado-green love seat Eric’s mother had donated last year when she’d gotten new furniture.

Cleo rounded the desk and plopped into her chair, leaving the cop the sagging love seat. Instead of taking the uncomfortable seat, he propped himself against the edge of her desk and looked down at her. Sitting that way, his jacket gaped open, and she saw the badge on his belt and the shoulder holster housing a snub-nosed revolver.

“I just have a few questions,” he said, taking a small notebook from his pocket and snapping it open. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Tempest?”

She hated tilting her head back to look him in the eye, so she stared at his chest, instead. It was a nice, broad chest in a white shirt. Still feeling fuzzy headed, she concentrated on the plain gray tie. “He was in the club last week with his bimbo of the moment,” she said, trying to keep her voice sharp.

“A Miss…” He consulted his notebook as if he didn’t remember, but she had a feeling this guy never forgot anything. “Rayner. Randi Rayner.”

“Randi with an i,” Cleo snapped, annoyed that Malone would play games with her. “Bleached hair, implants and the IQ of a chipmunk. Virtually indistinguishable from Jack’s never-ending string of women.”

Malone flipped his book shut and returned it to his pocket. “She tells me you threatened Jack last week, when they were here.”

Cleo’s head shot up, and when her eyes met the cold, cynical cop’s eyes she shot to her feet so she could look at Malone dead-on. “I did not threaten him. Dammit, the jerk is dead and he’s still trying to cause me grief.” She laughed, the sound coming out short and harsh. Momentarily, she considered telling him that Eric and Edgar had both lied, that she had been home all night. Alone, unless you counted one overly friendly mutt and a neighbor who had gone home long before Jack must have been killed. She didn’t. Such a confession would only get Eric and Edgar in trouble, and she didn’t think either of them could handle this guy. She could, though. She could handle anything.

“You haven’t told me how Jack died.”

“We’ll get to that,” Malone said calmly.

“Well, when you’ve finished grilling me, don’t forget to check with a few of his bimbos’ husbands, the long list of musicians he cheated, and…and…”

“A lot of people wanted him dead?” Malone asked, again in a voice so calm she wanted to scream.

“Just about everybody he met,” she said, trying for the same aura of tranquillity the detective possessed, but falling far short. “I’m surprised he didn’t get a bullet in the back a long time ago.” Her knees went weak again, so she sank into the chair. It swiveled slightly and squeaked.

“About this threat…” Malone began.

“I didn’t threaten him,” Cleo said through clenched teeth.

“Something to do with a grapefruit,” he said.

Cleo felt her face turn cool and most likely white as a ghost. “That wasn’t a threat,” she said. “It was a joke.”

“A joke?”

“A joke I told on stage,” she clarified. “Jack had shown up, stirring up trouble as usual, and…and I was angry. Sometimes I talk to the audience for a few minutes before I start to sing, so when I went on stage I told this joke.”

“Share it with me?” Malone asked. It wasn’t a question, though, it was an order.

Cleo lifted her eyes and bravely met his dark, intense stare. “If you drop my ex-husband and a grapefruit from the top of the tallest building in Huntsville, which one will hit the ground first?” She paused for effect. “Who cares?”

Malone nodded wisely. She did not like that nod.

“I see,” he mumbled.

“How did Jack die?” she asked again, a terrible feeling creeping slowly through her body.

“We’ll get to that—”

“Tell me,” she interrupted.

She knew he was waiting for her reaction. He was judging her, weighing her. “About two o’clock this morning, give or take an hour, your ex-husband went off the roof of the First Heritage Bank building that’s under construction four blocks from here.”

Cleo felt suddenly dizzy, but she fought the weakness back. What a horrible way to die. Even for Jack.

“It’s unclear at this time if he jumped, fell or was pushed, but since the death is suspicious, it’s under investigation as a homicide until something comes to light to prove otherwise.”

“Jack would never commit suicide,” Cleo said softly. “He loved himself too much.”

Malone nodded, as if he’d already come to this conclusion.

“But I didn’t…” she began. “I hated his guts, that’s no secret, but I would never—” She shuddered. “But it is quite a coincidence, that I told that joke and then a few days later…” She hugged her arms, suddenly cold.

“It was no coincidence, Ms. Tanner,” Malone said confidently. He stared at her thoughtfully. “You see, Mr. Tempest didn’t fall alone.”

“What do you mean?” She held her breath. Was someone else she knew dead? Who else had gone off the roof of the tallest building in Huntsville?

“A grapefruit was found beside the body,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “That detail has not been made public, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself, for the time being.”

“A grapefruit,” Cleo said softly.

Malone caught and held her gaze. “A grapefruit.”




Chapter 2


Cleo Tanner was no longer suspect number one, which left Luther nowhere. He positively hated being left nowhere. Her alibi was iffy, at best, but it was an alibi with two witnesses.

The shaky alibi wasn’t the reason he thought she was innocent. He trusted his instincts, and his hunches were almost always right. Cleo had hated her ex-husband, and once the shock wore off she would not be sorry he was dead. But right now she was shaken. She tried to hide it, but her knees wobbled and her face had gone pale. She had expected something, some kind of trouble, when she’d seen him and recognized him as a cop, but she had not expected the news that her ex-husband was dead. There had been no tears in her fascinating amber eyes, but she hadn’t been able to disguise the shaking that had worked its way through her body. Unless she was a damn good actress….

“I don’t want you to drive me home,” she protested, snatching her arm from his hand.

“I can’t let you go off like this,” he said sensibly.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, walking down the sidewalk and briskly away from him, reaching into her purse for her keys.

For a moment he forgot that she was part of a murder investigation and just…watched. Cleo Tanner was not a slender woman. She had ample hips and breasts that were practically poured into that black dress, and wonderfully shaped long legs beneath the too-short hem. Those legs ended in high-heeled shoes that no human being should be able to walk gracefully in. She definitely shouldn’t be able to stalk away from him so confidently, that gentle sway of her hips tantalizing and teasing him this way.

“Fine.” He surrendered. “I’ll follow you home and make sure you get there all right.”

“You will not follow me home,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with an angry toss of her long black curls.

She turned down a narrow alleyway that led to a small private parking lot. There were just four cars there—hers, Edgar’s, Eric’s and the barmaid’s, he imagined. Keys in hand, she headed for the ruby-red Corvette that was parked beneath a street lamp. It was several years old, but was in excellent shape…and it was, after all, a Corvette.

“Nice car,” he said to her back.

“Thanks,” she said tersely. “It was Jack’s, and it was the only thing I got out of our marriage that had any value to speak of. He hated me for leaving him, but he hated me more for getting custody of the car.”

“It’ll be all right here overnight. I’ll have a patrol car drive by—”

“Thank you, but it’s not going to be here overnight,” she insisted.

He was tempted to toss the obstinate woman over his shoulder and carry her home that way, but he didn’t think she’d stand for it. Still, she was in no condition to drive herself home.

Her hands trembled as she attempted to fit the key into the car door lock. She tried, but it wasn’t quite working for her. As the key finally slid into the slot, Luther reached around and placed his hand over hers. She jumped as if she’d been shocked, but he didn’t remove his hand. His fingers brushed the veins at her wrist; his body pressed close to hers kept her in place.

“I need to ask you a few more questions, anyway,” he said softly. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her. “I’ll drive you home, then in the morning I’ll pick you up, take you to the station to answer a few questions and then bring you back to your car.” This close, he could feel her deep tremble. And more. The softness of her body, the fascinating curves that fit him, somehow. “You’re in no shape to drive, Ms. Tanner. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said again.

He slipped his fingers into her palm and confiscated the keys, snaking them easily into his own grasp and lifting them away.

“Hey!” she shouted, spinning on him as he took a step back. “Give me those keys!”

“I’ll give them to you when we get to your house,” he said, turning his back on her and heading for the alley that would lead to the street and his car. He didn’t have to turn to see that she followed. He heard the tempting click of her high heels against the asphalt.

“You have no right,” she began breathlessly.

“So call a cop,” he mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear.

She mumbled herself, something obscene and just short of threatening. Luther smiled. “I’ll drop you off, then pick you up in the morning at nine to take you to the station to complete my questioning.” Yeah, he still had plenty of questions about Jack Tempest and Cleo Tanner.

Cleo stayed a distance behind him but kept pace, her step clacking on the walk in a rhythmic way that made him want to turn and watch. He didn’t. He led the way to his car and opened the passenger door for her, facing her at last. Man, she was pissed, big time.

But she did slide into the passenger seat, giving him one last glimpse of those terrific legs in the light of a street lamp, as she pulled them in behind her.

He wondered if she’d bolt before he reached his seat and started the car, but she barely moved. As he pulled out of his parking space, she turned to glare at him.

“Ten,” she said softly but insistently. “I’m not a morning person.”



Cleo slammed the door of her duplex. Slammed it hard enough for that irritating cop to hear from where he sat, calmly watching from the car that idled at the curb.

She tossed the keys he’d taken from her onto the couch, threw her purse to land beside it and kicked off her shoes. How dare he? How dare he!

Rambo padded into the living room to welcome her, and Cleo bent to rub the dog’s soft head. “Hi, girl,” she said. “Did you miss me?”

Rambo, a golden-colored mutt of uncertain origin that was about the size of a bird dog, answered with a low woof that sounded suspiciously like a yes.

Cleo was heading for the bedroom to change clothes, when the soft knock sounded on the door.

“What now?” she snapped, spinning around and heading for the front door, Rambo at her heels. “Am I now incapable of finding my way to bed alone?” The very idea of Malone insisting on coming in and helping with that chore made her heart lurch.

She threw open the door, only after putting an unyielding expression of distaste and disgust on her face.

“Jeez,” a tinny voice said softly. “What happened to you?”

Syd Wade lived in the other half of the duplex. Cleo considered herself short, at almost five foot four, but Syd barely topped an even five feet. She had a neat head of medium-length very red hair and an almost girlish shape and face. An artist, Syd made her living with a small picture-frame shop, and painted portraits on the side.

“Sorry,” Cleo said, opening the door wide and shedding the tough expression. She glanced quickly to the street, and saw that Malone was gone. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Obviously,” Syd said as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “You’re home early, your car’s not in the driveway and you’re really mad at somebody. Gotta be a man.”

In spite of the disastrous evening, Cleo managed to smile. “You’re so astute.”

Syd knew her way around Cleo’s place, and not only because it was a mirror image of her own home. Syd and Cleo had stuck together through thick and thin. They’d shared holidays when neither cared to make the trip home to celebrate with their dysfunctional families: Cleo to Montgomery and Syd to Knoxville. They went to movies together, and commiserated when things went wrong. Cleo couldn’t paint and Syd couldn’t sing, but they were both artists. They understood one another.

And they talked about men. Cleo had given up. Three years of marriage to Jack was enough to ruin any woman. But Syd, who was a few years younger and had not yet been badly burned, still held out hope for finding that perfect man.

Syd made her way to the kitchen and took two tumblers from the cabinet. She poured juice in each glass and handed one to Cleo as she left the kitchen and made her way to her favorite chair in the living room. “Okay,” she said, plopping down and tucking her feet beneath her. “Tell all.”

Cleo sat on the couch and leaned back, Rambo at her feet. Her smile was long gone. “Jack’s dead.”

Syd’s eyes got wide, and she leaned forward in her chair. “What happened?”

“He either jumped or fell or was…pushed, from the First Heritage Bank building this morning.”

Syd’s mouth dropped open. “I heard about that! They didn’t give the victim’s name, but I saw it on the news when I got home, and there was a small article on the front page of the evening paper. Oh my God, that was Jack?”

Cleo nodded. She got cold again, and shivered. “I hated him,” she said. “I really, really hated him. But I used to love him. I was young and stupid,” she added, “but…”

“I know.” Syd rose from her chair, set her juice on the coffee table and sat beside Cleo, placing a comforting arm around her shoulder. “You probably don’t know whether to be mad or sad or happy, and I can’t blame you. Jack really did a number on you.”

Cleo shook her head. “It’s a shock, that’s all. I didn’t love Jack anymore, hadn’t for a very long time, but…but hearing he was dead made me remember a lot of old stuff.” She could still remember loving him, or, rather, loving the man she’d thought him to be. That first rush of what she’d thought was love had been so powerful, so beautiful. So false.

She had defied her family for Jack, had run away with him with her head and her heart filled with dreams and hope and love. Within three years he’d managed to kill them all. Heaven help her, she didn’t dare to dream anymore.

“No wonder you slammed the door when you got home,” Syd said, giving her a friendly squeeze. “Shoot, I thought I’d find the thing off its hinges when I came over to see what was wrong.”

“I didn’t slam the door on account of Jack,” Cleo said, her sadness quickly being replaced with anger. “This…this cop showed up tonight to give me the news, and I swear, I’m pretty sure he thinks I killed Jack.”

Syd snorted as she left the couch and returned to her chair, snatching up her juice along the way. “Moron. If he knew you at all—”

“And I am not finished with this guy,” Cleo interrupted. “He’s coming by tomorrow at ten to take me to the station to finish his interrogation.”

“Want me to come with you?” Syd asked, wide-eyed. “I can close the shop for a few hours.”

“No thanks. I can handle Malone.” I think.

“So, this Malone is the man who made you slam your door?”

“He wouldn’t let me drive home,” Cleo said, looking for confirmation that she’d been right in being incensed. “He said I was too upset and it wasn’t safe, and then he took my keys right out of my hand and insisted on bringing me home.”

“Oh,” Syd crooned, “that actually sounds kind of sweet.”

“Sweet?” Cleo took a swig of her own juice. “Malone is not sweet, not at all. He’s a…he’s a macho jerk.”

“Good-looking?”

“Syd!” Cleo shook her head in dismay. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That’s a yes,” Syd said, with a small smile.

Cleo shook her head. “All right, if he wasn’t a cop, and if he didn’t think I’d pushed my ex-husband off a tall building, I might think he was…relatively handsome.” Gorgeous, actually, if only his dark eyes hadn’t been so tired. “But the man has a serious testosterone problem,” she added defensively.

“Too much or not enough?” Syd teased.

“Too much,” she muttered.

Syd leaned forward, hands spread wide. “All right. On the Barney Fife-Bruce Willis scale of masculinity, with Barney being one and Bruce being ten, where does this cop fit?”

Cleo sighed but didn’t hesitate. “Fifteen.”

Syd fell into peals of laughter, and Cleo couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ve got to meet this cop,” Syd said as she fell back.

“You do not.”

“A fifteen! I’m impressed. I need to judge for myself.”

“This from a woman who’s looking for a man who will slide along the scale to fit her every whim.”

Syd straightened her spine defensively. They’d had this discussion before. “What’s wrong with looking for a man who will rub your feet and cook dinner when you need a four, and be a warrior when you want a ten? Or a fifteen,” she said, with a waggle of her red eyebrows.

“Nothing,” Cleo said, “except that such a man does not exist.”

“Of course he does.”

Syd was so optimistic, and Cleo had given up on winning this argument long ago. Some things a woman has to learn for herself.

But Cleo would do anything to keep Syd from learning the lesson the way she had.



Last night it had been too dark to see much of anything, but by morning’s light Luther got a good look at Cleo Tanner’s place. She lived in a neat duplex in an old neighborhood, with tall, ancient oak trees by the curb and bushes growing wildly around the front porch. Those bushes would flower in the spring, he was almost certain. The yard was neat but not precise. There were spots of green in the dormant grass.

It was two minutes after nine when he left his car and made his way to Cleo’s front door. He could hope otherwise, but he didn’t expect she’d be happy to see him.

Too bad.

He knocked once, then rang the bell. Someone inside the place shuffled, then shouted “Just a minute” in a sleepy, huskily sexy voice that made his innards tighten. Luther smiled, but made sure the smile was gone before the door swung open.

Last night Cleo Tanner had been all vixen: slinky black dress, high heels, red lipstick. This morning she was straight from the bed. Curling black hair going everywhere, lips au naturel, though still lush and enticing. And instead of a slinky black dress she wore a T-shirt that hung to her knees. The T-shirt was purple and had a grinning spread-eagled cat in the middle of it: a paw rested over each breast.

She was yawning, but when she stopped yawning and realized who had awakened her, her golden eyes went wide and she slammed the door in his face.

“You’re not supposed to be here until ten!” she shouted through the closed door.

“I said nine,” Luther said, leaning against the closed door.

“I said ten!” she said, and then he heard her stomp away.

The door next to Cleo’s opened, and a petite redhead wearing jeans and a too-large denim shirt stepped out. She looked him over suspiciously.

“Detective Malone,” he said, lifting his jacket to flash his badge.

She was not intimidated. “I figured as much.” She mumbled something as she reached tentatively past him to try Cleo’s front door, finding it locked. “Fifteen, huh?” she muttered.

“Fifteen what?”

“Nothing.” She circled around him to the mailbox, which hung on the wall not two feet from the front door. In a few of these old neighborhoods, the mailman still came right to the door. The redhead reached behind the mailbox to grab a small magnetic box on the underside. She opened the container and took out a key, using it to unlock Cleo’s door.

Luther’s urge to smile disappeared. Not only did the woman not have a peephole in her front door, or the common sense to ask who was there when someone knocked, but she stored her spare key in such an obvious place that any self-respecting criminal would find it in a matter of seconds.

The redhead flashed him a small smile and slipped inside. A moment later she was back, holding the door open wide and inviting him in.

“Cleo’s in the shower,” she said, leading him into the living room. “You’re early.”

“Actually, I was two minutes late,” Luther said, glancing around. The place was as neat and plain on the inside as it was on the outside. Very homey, very feminine. The furniture was mismatched and looked comfortable, and a few odds and ends added color. There was even a vase of red roses on an end table. Something from the boyfriend, he imagined with a frown. Whoever that might be.

While he was contemplating possible suspects for the role of Cleo Tanner’s love interest, a big dog padded up to him and sniffed uncertainly.

“Be nice, Rambo,” the redhead said, then she fixed a calculating smile on Luther. “I’m Syd Wade,” she said. “I live next door.”

“Luther Malone,” he said, offering his hand. She took it and shook, very briefly.

“I have a picture-frame shop in town. I’ve Been Framed.”

“What?”

“I’ve Been Framed. That’s the name of my shop.”

Luther nodded, figuring it would not be nice to tell her he’d never heard of the place.

“And I would love to stay until Cleo gets out of the shower, but I have an order to put together before I open at ten. Since you’re a cop, I guess it’s okay to leave you here unsupervised.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“And for your information, there’s no way Cleo killed that moron she used to be married to,” she said defensively.

He agreed with her but wasn’t ready to say so aloud, so he just nodded an acknowledgment.

“Behave yourself while you’re waiting,” she said with a smile. “Or Rambo will get you. She’s a real tiger under all that hair and those big brown eyes.”

Luther looked down at the dog, whose big, friendly eyes and wagging tail did not jibe with the name Rambo.

Syd left, and Luther sat down on Cleo’s couch. Rambo joined him, placing her chin on his knee and looking up with eyes that begged shamelessly for love and attention.

“Okay,” he said, scratching behind the dog’s ears. He was almost certain Rambo sighed in delight.

No, he didn’t think Cleo killed Jack Tempest, but she was definitely involved. The grapefruit was no accident. In fact, it was downright creepy. If he’d thought Tempest had any reason to kill himself, he’d think the man had jumped with the grapefruit in his hand, just to point the finger at Cleo. From what little he’d learned, Tempest had done his very best to make Cleo’s life difficult since the divorce.

Stealing the publishing rights to the song she’d written and recorded years ago had only been the beginning. He hadn’t exactly let her go after the divorce. He kept turning up, like the proverbial bad penny, wherever she went. She moved, and a few months later he was right behind her. He managed a few unsuccessful musical acts, and a couple that had done fairly well. Surely his business had suffered when he’d given harassing Cleo so much time and attention, but he’d managed to do okay.

He’d tried to ruin her credit by listing her name on his old unpaid debts, causing her all kinds of grief. Whenever she seemed to be doing well, Tempest turned up to throw in a monkey wrench, somehow. He’d gotten her fired from countless singing jobs. He’d harassed her for years, while being very careful not to cross any legal line.

The latest bit was, Tempest was behind a petition to get Cleo’s liquor license revoked. Something about being too close to a church, even though the church in question was three blocks away and she’d been in operation there for over two years without a single problem.

Jack Tempest had either loved his ex-wife very much, or hated her beyond all reason. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, coming into the room and catching him daydreaming with his fingers enmeshed behind Rambo’s ears.

Cleo looked too damn good. Hair damp and curly, blue slacks and matching blouse snug, heels high—if not as audaciously high as last night—she was soft, nicely curved and feminine.

“I thought cops were like vampires and had to be invited in,” she said in a voice that was definitely not soft.

“Your neighbor, Syd, let me in.”

Cleo rolled her eyes and mumbled something obscene, and Luther forced back a smile.

“I don’t suppose you have any coffee?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“No wonder you’re not a morning person,” he said, rising slowly and pushing back the urge to find out if Cleo would growl and sigh if he rubbed behind her ears. She’d probably bite his hand off. Changing the subject seemed like a good idea.

“Why didn’t you ask who was at the door before you opened it?”

Cleo stared at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving. “I thought you were my neighbor. She often drops by in the morning before she goes to work.”

“And why in hell do you keep a key under your mailbox?”

She shook her head. “Sometimes Syd lets Rambo out when I work late, and sometimes I forget my key, and…it’s really none of your business where I keep my spare key.”

“It’s not safe,” he argued.

“Who are you,” she said. “Keeper of the city? Defender of the weak?”

“Watchdog over the stupid,” he added.

Her amber eyes narrowed. “So now I’m stupid.”

“No, but keeping your key—”

“I pushed my ex off a tall building and I’m stupid.” She did as she had last night, offering her hands to him, palms up, wrists together.

His eyes fell to the delicate veins there, to the curve of her wrists and the pale softness of her fingers.

“So cuff me, Malone. Take me in. Arrest me and get this over with.”

He leaned in, ever so slightly. Just enough to make Cleo lean back. “Don’t tempt me.”




Chapter 3


“This is not the police station,” Cleo muttered, as Malone pulled his gray sedan to the curb. “As a matter of fact, we’re not even close to the police station.”

Malone threw open his door and unfolded his long body from the driver’s seat, ignoring her statement. He rounded the car and opened her door for her, leaning slightly in. Like it or not, he took her breath away when he moved in close like this.

“The Rocket City Café has better coffee,” he said as he offered his hand to assist her from the car. She grudgingly placed her hand in his and stood. “Besides,” he added as he released her hand and closed the car door, “you’re nervous. The station would just make matters worse.”

“I am not nervous,” she retorted.

The annoying Detective Malone responded with a brief smile.

The Rocket City Café was a small restaurant with plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloths and a strange collection of patrons. Two old men sat in a corner booth and argued about local politics. A group of elderly women crowded around a table in the center of the room, and from the excited utterances about brownies and bundt cakes, it seemed they were planning a bake sale. A middle-aged waitress in a pink uniform and a white apron leaned against the counter where a No Smoking sign was prominent, and smoked as if she really enjoyed every puff. A very young short-order cook, with his long hair in a hair net, scrubbed the grill behind the counter. He was singing, and not very well.

When the waitress saw Malone she smiled and put her cigarette out in a nearby coffee cup. “Hey, Sugar,” she said, with a grin that transformed her face into a mass of wrinkles. “The usual?”

“Yeah, and…” He glanced down at Cleo. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t make me eat breakfast in front of you while you sit there and glare at me. Get something to eat. They have really great doughnuts here, and if that doesn’t grab you, they have pancakes. Eggs. Cinnamon buns.”

She stared at him silently.

He lifted finely shaped eyebrows and pinned those dark eyes on her. “At least get something to drink.”

The waitress was waiting. Malone was waiting. And Cleo just wanted to get this over with. “Orange juice,” she said, giving in too easily. “And toast.”

Malone led her to a booth against the window, where they could watch the people passing on the sidewalk. This position also placed them as far away as possible from the other customers, no doubt so he could interrogate her without having to lower his voice.

Cleo sat, and the old cushion sank.

“So,” Malone said, taking his own seat, which didn’t seem to sink quite so low. “Tell me about Tempest.”

Cleo fixed her eyes to Malone’s. He thought she was nervous? She’d show him. She could be fearless when she had to be, and she was not afraid of this cop or anyone else. “Jack was a mean-spirited, unfaithful, unscrupulous snake. Marrying him was the worst mistake of my life, and I am not sorry to know that I won’t ever have to see his face again.”

The waitress popped into the picture to place a huge mug of coffee before Malone and a tall glass of cold juice before Cleo. Their conversation ceased until she moved away.

“Do you know who killed him?” Malone asked calmly.

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Probably not.”

Malone took a long swig of coffee. “Fair enough,” he said as he set the mug on the table. “I’ll need a list of everyone who was in the club last week when you told your little grapefruit joke.”

“If I can remember.”

“Do you have a gentleman friend, Ms. Tanner?” He didn’t look at her as he asked this question, but stared into his cup of coffee. “Someone who might have felt compelled to defend your honor and then leave a grapefruit behind so you’d be sure to know this murder was a…gift?”

“No gentleman friend,” she said precisely, her heart clenching at the idea that someone might have thought she’d consider Jack’s murder a gift.

“Oh,” he said. “Then, who sent the roses?”

The temperature of her blood rose a notch. She was not about to tell Malone about her secret admirer. He’d probably find it all very amusing. Besides, secret admirers were harmless. She’d had more than her share. They all turned out to be shy, sweet men suffering from something that was no more intense than a crush, ordinary men too timid to approach her even to say hello.

“None of your business.”

“You are going to cooperate, aren’t you, Ms. Tanner?”

She didn’t like the way he said that, or the way he lifted his eyebrows and planted his eyes on her and asked the question as if it wasn’t a question at all, but a demand. No one pushed her around anymore, no one told her what to do. Not even Luther Malone.

Cleo was saved from answering when the waitress appeared again, bearing a tray laden with food. She placed a heavy white plate with four pieces of toast—three more than Cleo would eat—on the table, along with a bowl filled with small containers of butter and strawberry jam.

Malone’s plate was huge: scrambled eggs, a mound of bacon, a bowl of grits and one of those doughnuts he’d tried to entice her with. Glazed.

She shook her head and smiled as she reached for the preserves, letting loose a very small laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Malone asked defensively.

“Nothing. Just wondering if I’ll be a suspect when you keel over with hardened arteries.” She glanced at the plate. “Something which is certain to happen any day now, if that is your ‘usual.’”

“Oh,” he said, reaching for the pepper. “I thought you were laughing at the doughnut.”

“That’s just icing on the…”

“…doughnut?” he finished.

She liked the fact that he ate such a huge and fat-laden breakfast and then finished it off with the cliché of a cop’s doughnut. It made him more…human, somehow. Her smile faded. It was bad enough that she’d placed him so high on the Barney-Bruce scale and thought he was inappropriately good-looking; now she actually had to like something about him? Bad news. Very bad news.

“And to answer your question,” she said, putting on her most severe face. “No, I don’t see any reason why I should cooperate with you.”

He nodded his head as if he had already figured that out.

Cleo took a bite of her toast, glad that Malone was giving at least some of his attention to his breakfast. He did keep looking at her, though, lifting his head and staring at her hard, as if he might see something different, this time.

He lifted his head, stared at her face and pointed. “You have…” He wiggled that long finger in her direction.

“I have what?” she snapped. “Guilt written all over my face? A suspicious glint in my eye?”

He reached across the table and touched her face, there near her mouth, dragging the tip of his finger slowly and gently down. It was a shock, when he touched her—a literal, heart-jolting shock. His warm finger briefly brushed her lower lip, sending a riot of sensations she did not want or need through her body. Her heart beat too fast, her temperature rose, and she was quite sure he would be able to see the heat she felt in her cheeks.

Malone showed her his finger as it withdrew. “Strawberry jam on your face.”

When he licked the jam off his finger, she thought she would swoon.

And Cleo Tanner did not swoon! She took a napkin and rubbed it vigorously against the corner of her mouth, there where he had touched her, doing her best to wipe away any remaining jam as well as the lingering effect of that warm finger on her face and her lip.

Malone seemed unaffected, by the contact and by her reaction to it. “Do you think Tempest would commit suicide?”

“No,” she said, while he dug into his breakfast. “I already told you that.”

“I know, but…it’s the grapefruit that mucks everything up. Would he jump with a grapefruit just to screw up your life again?”

Again, like Malone knew everything about her and Jack. “Maybe,” she admitted softly. “If Jack was going to kill himself, he’d definitely go out of his way to pin it on me.”

Malone wagged an egg-laden fork in her direction. “That’s what I figured, but still…I don’t see suicide.”

He sounded almost disappointed. “Then, why the hell did you ask?”

“Gotta cover everything.”

“Then, don’t forget about Randi with an i,” Cleo said. “She’d been with Jack long enough to know what he was like, and she didn’t like me.”

“Why not?”

“Because Jack wouldn’t leave me alone, that’s why,” she said softly.

He nodded, again as if he understood.

“Now will you hurry up and eat that monster breakfast so you can get me back to my car and I can go home? I’ve had about all the cooperation I can take.”



Luther didn’t hurry, but he did quit questioning Cleo and gave his breakfast the attention it deserved, while she played with a piece of toast and sipped at her juice. Cleo Tanner hadn’t tossed her ex-husband off the First Heritage Bank building, of that he was ninety-percent sure. But she was at the middle of it, somehow.

He wished she’d eat a little more, maybe get more jam on the corner of her mouth so he could remove it for her. Wiping it off had been bad enough. What he’d really wanted to do, what he still wanted to do, was lick it off.

Stupid idea. Cleo was gorgeous, in an exotic, all-woman kind of way, but she was too stubborn for his taste. She liked to argue, to butt heads. And what a mouth! He liked his women soft and sweet and compliant.

Well, soft, sweet and compliant was great for an hour or two, he admitted grudgingly. After that, most women lost their luster. They wanted too much, they needed too much. Cleo Tanner was anything but compliant. She was also anything but sweet. As for soft…

He almost groaned aloud when Russell walked into the diner, smile on his face, not a single golden hair out of place. The kid didn’t even dress like a homicide detective. Tan pants, blue shirt, brown jacket, burgundy tie and those damn loafers. The kid looked like he’d just stepped out of GQ, right down to the brilliant grin he turned on them.

“I figured I’d find you here,” the kid said, and then he laid eyes on Cleo.

The kid was transparent, and he’d just fallen instantly, deeply and annoyingly in love. Well, in lust, anyway. Luther had a feeling that happened a lot to Cleo. She sucked unsuspecting men in like a swirling, dangerous, inescapable black hole. If he wasn’t careful, he could be next.

“What do you want?” Luther asked.

“We’re supposed to be partners, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean we’re joined at the hip,” Luther grumbled. God, the kid was so damn…enthusiastic.

“My mistake. I thought we were working on the Tempest case today. I didn’t know you had a…” He laid adoring eyes on Cleo again. “A breakfast date.” Russell actually blushed.

“Michael Russell, this is Cleo Tanner.”

The kid’s smile faded quickly. He knew the name well. “Oh.” Still, he offered his hand, and Cleo took it. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she said, with a frosty smile that Russell apparently found endearing. He sat beside her, and she scooted toward the window to give him room.

“Cleo Tanner,” Russell said, nodding his head knowingly.

Cleo sighed. “Yes, Jack Tempest was my ex-husband,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “Yes, I hated his guts. No, I didn’t kill him. You’re up to speed, now.”

Russell smiled at her, that sweet smile that probably had women falling at his feet. Luther was glad to see that Cleo didn’t immediately fall. She looked as wary as ever.

“Glad to hear it,” the kid said.

“Robin,” Luther said, signaling to the waitress as he took out his wallet and threw a few bills on the table. “Get Mikey here a good breakfast.”

Russell bristled at being called Mikey, as he always did, and Robin waited for his order. The kid debated for a minute, until Luther rose to his feet and signaled for the kid to let Cleo out. Russell came quickly to his feet and offered Cleo an assisting hand that she blatantly refused. Good for her.

“No, I’m not hungry,” Russell said as he stepped back and let Cleo rise from the booth on her own. “I’ll ride with you guys, if that’s okay. I can pick up my car later.”

Luther growled and took Cleo’s arm, and she shook him off with a muttered and sardonic “The more the merrier.”

He drove Cleo to the lot where her car was parked, Russell chattering away in the backseat. Luther tuned the kid out, and apparently so did Cleo. Russell was not deterred; he talked about the weather, a movie he saw last night, the traffic. Inane, polite, irritating chatter. He was still talking when Luther pulled into the lot where Cleo’s car was parked.

She exited the car quickly, and Luther did the same. When Russell tried to open his door and join them, Luther pushed it in and glared through the window. The kid got the message and settled back with that damnable smile on his pretty face.

Cleo wasted no time. She had her keys in her hand and had inserted one into the door lock, as Luther came up behind her.

“Put a peephole in your door,” he ordered.

“Mind your own business.”

“And move that damn spare key.”

She had the door open. “Screw you, Malone.”

Oh, he could only wish… He shook the inappropriate cravings off and grabbed Cleo’s arm, preventing her from slipping into her Corvette and out of the parking lot.

“I don’t like this,” he said.

She stared at the hand on her arm. “Neither do I,” she said frostily.

For a second, a long second where nothing moved, Luther wondered if either of them was talking about Jack Tempest, murder or grapefruit.

He didn’t release her. Not yet. “I would like to believe that your ex committed suicide, but I don’t.”

Some of the toughness faded from her face, leaving her looking momentarily vulnerable. “Neither do I,” she said again.

“And like it or not, the grapefruit means you’re involved.”

“I know,” she said.

“So put a peephole in your door and move that friggin’ key.”

She almost smiled. The tension faded for a moment and she was more tempting than ever. For a second he saw the unguarded Cleo, a real warm woman who needed to be scratched behind her ears until she purred. “I’ll think about it.”

He released her, and she immediately opened her door and dropped into her seat. Before she could close the door, he leaned in, placing his face near hers. He could almost see every muscle in her body tense, and her eyes—golden eyes that had been almost laughing a moment ago—became guarded. She didn’t like it when he got too close, he had sensed that from the beginning. Tough.

“Like it or not this is my case, Ms. Tanner, and alibi or no alibi, you haven’t seen the last of me.”

She said something obscene, and he withheld a smile. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Not if I can help it,” she said, reaching past him to grab the handle and pull the car door closed. He barely had time to jump out of the way.

She jammed the keys into the ignition, then hesitated. After a moment she rolled her window down and lifted softened eyes to him. “I didn’t mean that,” she said, almost apologetically. “About my mother.”

He could not imagine why she was telling him this, but he nodded as if he understood completely.

“True, we get along much better when she’s in Montgomery and I’m in Huntsville, but…” Her face fell. “Crap. I’m going to have to call and tell her about Jack. She hated him more than I did, but she will want to send flowers to the funeral.” She rolled her eyes in disgust. “It’s the right thing to do, you know.”

“Do you want me to make the call for you?” he asked.

She laid her strangely golden eyes on him, no longer angry. This Cleo was guarded but honest. She was a little afraid, a little shaken, and she refused to admit to either. Still, the strength that put fire in her eyes and a sassy retort on her lips was there, as much a part of her as her shape, her mouth, that amazing head of hair. And he wanted, more than anything, to kiss her.

“You would do that?” she asked.

“If you want me to.”

“No, thanks. I can handle it.” She shook her head slightly. “God, Malone, you would have to turn out to be a nice guy.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“It is,” she said as she began to roll up her window.

Oh, this was a bad idea. Cleo was a suspect in a murder, and even though he had dismissed her as a viable option, she was connected to the investigation. She was off-limits. This was his damn job, and he never mixed business with pleasure. He couldn’t start now, no matter how tempted he might be.

Cleo was talking to herself as she drove away. He couldn’t hear her, but he saw her mouth move. Maybe she was cursing his name. Then again…

“Now, that’s a woman,” Russell said, and Luther turned around to see that the kid was leaning against the car with an annoyingly jaunty air.

“Too much woman for you,” Luther said as he headed for the driver’s side.

“But not for you,” Russell said, with a smile, hurrying to the passenger seat so he wouldn’t be left behind.

“Maybe she is,” Luther said, starting the engine. And then he thought about the way she’d looked fresh from bed, in her cat nightshirt with her hair going in every direction; the expression on her face, the fire in her amber eyes when he’d licked the jam off his finger; and the hint of vulnerability that had flashed over her face when she’d agreed that somehow she was involved in her ex-husband’s death.

“And then again, maybe she’s not.”

“Did she do it?” Russell asked, as Luther pulled onto the street. His bright smile faded rapidly as they got back to business.

“No.”

“Does she know who did?”

Luther sighed. “I’m not sure. I’m going back to the club tonight. Whoever did this might be there to see Cleo’s reaction to the murder. If he’s fixated on her, he might be there every night.”

“So what are you gonna do, take up hanging around bars as a part of the job? Can I come?”

Luther opened up his very clean ashtray and plucked out a peppermint, unwrapping it expertly and quickly. At times like this, he wanted a cigarette so bad he could almost taste it.

Truth was, another pair of eyes would be a good idea. Russell looked at everything from a different slant, and, like it or not, that made them good partners. What one missed, the other often saw.

“Sure,” he said. “And don’t forget to bring your ID.”

Russell growled, and Luther smiled. The last time they’d gone out for a drink, Mikey had gotten carded.

“Dress casual, and let’s go in separately and keep it that way.” Yeah, another pair of eyes would be great. “There’s a barmaid about your age, pretty girl named Lizzy. You can cozy up to her and pick her brain over the next few days.”

Russell nodded. The kid loved undercover work, even something as simple as this. “That’s great. What about Cleo? Should I try to pick her brain, too?”

It was true, Luther usually let Russell interrogate the women. They just seemed to crumple when he smiled and asked them questions. A woman who was intimidated by Luther would fold in a heartbeat for Mikey.

But he had a feeling Cleo never folded. Besides, she’d chew the kid up and spit him out before he had a clue he was in trouble. Besides…

“Cleo is mine.”




Chapter 4


The last person Cleo needed or wanted to see, as she pushed through the club door, was Malone. The man was a menace. And he stood at the bar talking to Edgar as if he owned the place! Confident, supremely relaxed, he looked like he belonged here as much as she did. And it was her place!

He turned to watch her walk toward him, his eyes squinted against the afternoon sun that shone brightly behind her as the door swung slowly shut.

“We’re not open yet,” she said.

“I know.” Malone nodded to Edgar. “He let me in.”

First Syd and now Edgar! Her friends were turning against her. Cleo gave Edgar a warning glare, and received a shrug in return. She headed for the office, and heard the annoying clip of Malone’s step as he fell in behind her.

“I suppose you’re here for a reason,” Cleo said, without glancing over her shoulder.

“Maybe I just wanted to say hello.”

Cleo snorted softly as she opened her office door. “You don’t strike me as a social butterfly, Malone. I doubt you ever drop by anywhere just to say hello.”

Every nerve in her body went on alert when he shut the office door behind him. She didn’t like being this close to him, pinned in, wondering why he was here. She didn’t have to wonder long.

“Jack didn’t jump,” Malone said curtly.

Her heart lurched. “How can you be sure?”

“He was probably unconscious when he went off…when he died. There was a substantial amount of a drug in his blood—not enough to kill him, but more than enough to knock him on his ass for a while.”

Cleo rounded the desk and sat down. Something about Malone and the news he always carried with him made her knees weak. “Maybe he took it on purpose. Trust me, Jack wasn’t above a little recreational—”

“No grown man uses furniture polish for recreational purposes,” Malone interrupted. “Even if it is a furniture polish that takes a nasty turn when ingested.”

Cleo tilted her head back and looked up at the detective. Usually she didn’t care for this position. She preferred eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose. Not right now. “So somebody gave Jack something to make him…easy to handle, and then pushed him off the roof?”

Malone stood on the other side of her desk, his eyes on her. Did he still think she might have killed Jack? For the first time, Cleo was really scared. No one had wanted to see Jack dead more than she. If she were investigating the case, she’d definitely suspect her.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Malone continued. “There are easier ways to kill an unconscious man than throwing him off a roof. It looks like he was already out of it when he was taken up there. That wasn’t easy.”

Cleo swallowed, wanting nothing more than for this man to leave. Quietly. Without another word. Without another opportunity for argument. “Why are you telling me this?”

Malone placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward, bringing his face close to hers. Eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose. “I don’t think you killed him,” he said. “But I think you know the man who did.”

“How do you know it’s a man?”

“Ever tried to drag a body up several flights of stairs, across a roof, and then toss it over the side? There was a four-foot rail. Whoever tossed Jack over had the strength to lift that unconscious body over the rail. You don’t have that kind of strength.”

She wanted to argue with him. These days she didn’t let any man tell her what she could and could not do! But he was right. And she would be a complete fool to argue with him about that particular point.

“Why do you think I know the man who killed Jack?”

Malone shook his head. “If whoever did this just wanted Tempest dead, he could’ve poured more furniture polish down his throat, or smothered him with a pillow. The job could have been finished in any one of a dozen other ways that were simpler and cleaner than this. That’s not what happened. When the killer tossed Jack and the grapefruit over the side of the building, he was sending a message.”

“To me?” Cleo whispered.

“To you.”

Malone backed away slowly, and withdrew a small notebook from his jacket pocket. A slim pen followed. The way he sat there, half sitting, half leaning against her desk, made his dark jacket gape open. His shoulder holster rested at his side, snug and somehow natural looking against the plain white shirt. The gun housed there was small, a compact.

“I’m going to need the names of everyone you’ve dated in the past two years.”

“I don’t date.”

Malone latched his dark eyes to hers. “Come on, Ms. Tanner. You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

His skepticism stole away her fear and made her angry. Thank goodness. She much preferred anger. “I have my own business, Detective Malone. It keeps me quite busy.”

“Too busy for…” He let the question die away.

“Yes,” she snapped. “Too busy for.”

He closed the notebook and returned it, and the pen, to his pocket. Very smoothly, he traded the implements of his profession for a wrapped candy, a strawberry-shaped sweet he deftly unwrapped and popped into his mouth.

“What’s with the candy, anyway?” she asked sharply. “You have a sweet tooth or something?”

“I ask the questions here.”

She ignored him. “Are you determined to buy your dentist a new car?”

He laid his dark eyes on her. “If you must know, when I quit smoking I relied on candy to help me get by. Now I have to find a way to get rid of the candy.”

Cleo smiled. “Oral fixation.”

“Excuse me?”

“You just traded one oral fixation for another.” She rather liked the fact that such a hard, seemingly perfect, man had a weakness. Even if it was for something so ordinary as hard candy.

“Thank you, Dr. Tanner,” he said dryly. “But now that we’re through analyzing me, let’s get back to—”

“So the only way to get rid of the candy,” she interrupted, “is to trade it for another oral fix. Back to cigarettes?” she teased. “Or maybe you can start sucking your thumb.”

Cleo was so sure she had the upper hand with this latest turn in the conversation, and then Malone threw her for a loop without uttering a single word.

He stared at her mouth.

“I, uh, haven’t dated in the past two years, I swear,” she said, lowering her voice. “To be honest, it’s been a lot longer than two years.”

Malone allowed his gaze to drift upward. “There must’ve been someone.”

Cleo shook her head. And felt guilty for not telling Malone the truth when he’d asked about the roses. Knowing what she knew now, she had no choice.

“I have had a secret admirer sending me notes and flowers for the past four months,” she said, trying to sound casual. “It’s the sort of thing that happens all the time when—”

“A secret admirer?” Malone asked, shooting up off the desk and standing tall, and menacing, before her. “And you just now tell me about it?”

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t.”

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Malone had every right to be peeved, but there was no reason for him to lose his cool. She was certain the man who had written her those innocent letters couldn’t possibly be a murderer. “The letters are very sweet, and he sends me flowers about once a month. That hardly makes him an obsessed madman.”

Should she tell him about Eric and her stray thought that he might be the man sending her notes and roses? No. Eric didn’t have a violent bone in his body. Turning Malone on him would be downright cruel. And senseless. There was no way Eric could have killed Jack. Oh, but she was going to have to talk to Eric and Edgar about lying for her! Their intentions had been good, she knew, but sooner or later the truth would have to be told. Sooner would be better.

“Tell me you kept the letters,” Malone muttered.

Cleo sighed. “Yes. They seemed more like fan letters than any kind of threat.” She slid open the bottom drawer of her desk and riffled through the small stack of bills there. She kept the notes and other fan letters she got on occasion, just beneath the bills. As she searched, a sharp discomfort grew. “They’re not here,” she said.

“What?” Malone rounded the desk and dropped down to his haunches to search the drawer himself. He pulled out his pen and used it to lift the bills and other papers in the drawer, being careful not to actually touch anything.

“I’m telling you,” Cleo said, “they’re not here.”

“When did you see them last?”

“A few days ago,” Cleo said. “Maybe last week.”

“Don’t touch anything else,” he ordered, glancing up at her. “I’m going to have the office dusted for prints.”

Cleo grinned. “Do you have any idea how many people are in and out of this place? And I haven’t polished this desk in…okay, I’ve never polished this desk. It’s got to be covered with prints.”

“It’s a long shot, I know,” Malone said as he stood. “But right now, it’s all we’ve got.” He offered his hand to help Cleo to her feet. “Except you.”



For a split second he had thought she was lying. How did a woman who looked like this one go so long without a date? He could see guys lining up to date Cleo, and he could see her going through them the way a normal woman went through tissues. Use one and toss it away. Grab another.

But that thought hadn’t lasted long. The man-eater toughness was a part of her act; it was the way she kept men away. Thanks to Jack, he imagined.

Luther sat at a table near the center of the room. From here he could see everything. Lizzy, her long brown ponytail swaying as she leaned against the bar, Edgar barely mouthing the words to the song Cleo was singing, customers scattered about the room with drinks before them and their eyes and attention on the stage.

And Mikey sitting in the corner. Once he’d come in and made himself comfortable, he’d started hitting on Lizzy. And quite successfully, too. In his jeans and denim shirt, and wearing that devil-may-care smile, Russell looked nothing like a cop.

Right this minute, Russell behaved just the way all the other customers did. He stared at Cleo and listened closely. The place was so quiet as she sang. No one so much as whispered. Luther had scanned the room for a potential obsessed secret admirer, for a potential killer, but had seen nothing suspicious. So now he listened like the others.

She sang old forties tunes, mostly, in a resonant voice that filled the room and seeped beneath his skin. Cleo Tanner was a smart-mouthed, tough broad, but when she sang…when she sang there was nothing else. He could see it in her eyes, in her relaxed posture. She didn’t care if anyone listened, if the room was full or empty. She sang from the heart.

Of course she had secret admirers. There were probably a dozen men who came to listen to her sing and dreamed of being the one to break through her tough facade to find and claim that heart she sang so beautifully from.

Was one of them a killer? Would one of them kill Cleo’s ex-husband because he was a thorn in her side? Or was someone trying to point the finger in her direction to lead Luther away from the real killer? That supposition made just as much sense as anything else.

She was singing a heartrending version of “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans,” when the couple arrived. Cretins, they talked to one another in normal voices and broke the spell that filled the room. Luther turned to watch them walk to the bar, removing their coats as they went, talking loudly even though they received a number of sharp glares.

The woman was tall, reed thin, and had her dark blond hair cut in a chin-length bob. Her coat was expensive. So were the diamonds in her ears and on her fingers. Money. The big fella who walked beside her carried himself like a man who was accustomed to being waited on. His well-cut suit downplayed his size. The watch on his wrist was gold. More money.

Edgar shushed the noisy couple when they reached the bar, and in turn they both pursed their mouths in disapproval. But they did shut up. The others in the room returned their attention to the stage.

Luther listened to Cleo, but he kept his eyes on the newly arrived couple. They didn’t belong here. They were country club people who held themselves stiffly, as if to touch anything in this place would dirty them. Eventually they laid their eyes on Cleo, and he could have sworn the woman sighed and shook her head just slightly.

Cleo was finishing up with “Do Nothin’ Till You Hear from Me,” when a cell phone rang. The patrons knew where that noise came from, and several turned to glare at the well-dressed man who dug in his jacket pocket to retrieve his phone. One customer, a small, elderly fellow, tossed a balled-up napkin in the couple’s direction as the man answered and stepped toward the corner of the room, one hand to his ear so he could hear.

Cleo left the stage to a hearty round of applause. God, half the men in the room were in love with her, Mikey included. And she didn’t know it, Luther realized as she left the stage. She had no idea how her voice and her appearance sucked a man in.

If she’d known where his mind had taken him this afternoon when she’d started talking about “oral fixation,” she would’ve kicked him out of her place by now.

Cleo walked to the bar, where Edgar had a glass of water waiting. Luther headed in the same direction, hoping to arrive about the same time she did. The sight of the tall blond waiting at the bar caused Cleo’s step to falter.

“Thea,” Cleo said as she reached the bar. “What are you doing here?”

The woman Cleo called Thea sighed. It seemed well-practiced. “We heard about Jack, and Palmer and I are here to offer our support.”

Cleo’s eyes flickered to the man in the corner. He had his back to them and was still talking on the phone. Was that panic he saw in Cleo’s eyes? Maybe. It was gone too quickly for him to be sure.

Luther stepped to the bar so he stood behind Cleo and could see everything that happened. He leaned there and nodded to Edgar, asking for another cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” Cleo said to the blonde. “But I really don’t need any support. I’m fine.”

“Cleo, your ex-husband was murdered,” Thea said, lowering her voice.

“I know that,” Cleo answered. “I appreciate you coming, but there’s nothing you can do.”

Thea, who had obviously hoped for a warmer welcome, squared her shoulders. “Well, we will at least stay for the funeral. Someone should represent the family. When will it be held?”

Cleo turned slightly and tilted her head back to look at Luther. “Do you know when the funeral is?”

“Friday.”

Cleo dropped her eyes and returned her attention to Thea, who leaned to one side to get a glimpse of the man Cleo had spoken to.

“I wish I had a guest room so you could stay with me,” Cleo said, not very convincingly.

Thea looked properly horrified. “Oh, we have a suite at the Marriott. We wouldn’t think of putting you out.” She straightened her spine again. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

“Thank you,” Cleo said, her voice turning kinder. “But I’m fine. Really.”

Thea held out stiff arms. “Don’t you have a hug for your big sister?”

Sister? Luther digested this information while he watched the women engage in a perfunctory embrace.

When they parted, Thea kept her hands on Cleo’s shoulders. “I won’t leave you to go through this alone,” she said in a strict, schoolteacher-like tone.

“I’m not alone,” Cleo insisted. “I have Edgar, and Eric and Syd…” she looked over her shoulder and a wicked gleam lit her amber eyes. “And Malone.”

Thea cast him a wary glance. “Malone?”

“Detective Luther Malone,” Cleo said with a smile. “He’s a new…friend.”

A woman like Cleo had a way of saying a simple word like friend that gave it all sorts of meaning.

Thea paled. The man who had arrived with her, Palmer, ended his conversation and joined them.

One good look at Palmer was enough for Luther. His gut instinct had served him well over the years, and he never ignored it. He did not like Palmer. Most importantly, he didn’t like the way Palmer looked at Cleo.

The big man opened his arms and offered Cleo a hug and a smile. Cleo extended one hand, signaling that she’d prefer a shake. Palmer moved in for a hug, anyway, and Luther stepped to her side to get in the way.

Palmer’s gaze snapped up. He was no fool. He saw the warning on Luther’s face and dropped one hand. The handshake he pressed on Cleo was brief.

“Palmer, darling,” Thea said tersely, “this is Detective Luther Malone, Cleo’s new friend.”

“Detective,” Palmer muttered, and then he swallowed. Hard.

They had come to their own conclusions, and Cleo was doing nothing to dissuade the notion. Luther figured she must have a reason. So he didn’t move. He stayed beside her. He smiled tightly. And then some demon within him forced him to drape his arm around her shoulder.

He looked down at Cleo. She looked up. “This is your sister?”

“Yes,” Cleo said, not attempting to move away or toss his arm off her shoulder, as she surely would if they were alone. “And her husband, Palmer.”

Luther look back at the couple. “I’ve heard a lot about you two.”

Palmer went a little pale. Oh, Cleo definitely had some explaining to do!

Cleo glanced up at him. “The funeral’s Friday?”

“Yes. The coroner has promised to release the body by tomorrow afternoon. He expects to be finished with his tests by then. Miss Rayner has made all the arrangements for the funeral.”

“I don’t know if I should go or not,” Cleo said, not sounding nearly as confident as usual.

“I’ll go with you,” Luther said. “It’ll be okay.”

“Wait a minute,” Palmer injected. “If you two are friends, surely you’re not investigating the case. I mean, Cleo is sure to be a suspect.”

Luther gave Palmer his darkest glare. “Why on earth would you say that?”

For a big man, Palmer squirmed too much. “It just seems a little out of the ordinary, that’s all. She was the victim’s ex-wife.”

“Cleo is not a suspect,” Luther said. “My involvement in this case might be considered unusual—” and it was getting more unusual by the minute “—but we haven’t broken any law.” Yet.

Luther glanced around the room. No one was paying what might be called an inordinate amount of attention to their conversation. Not even Russell, who was proving to be damn good at undercover work. But if the secret admirer were here, he’d be incensed to see another man with his arm around Cleo, wouldn’t he?

Luther shifted his arm and settled his hand at the back of Cleo’s neck, beneath a wealth of curling black hair and against her warm skin. She flinched just a little, but not so that anyone would notice her reaction. He felt it, but no one would see.

“I’m taking you home,” he said, sounding possessive and commanding.

“But…” Cleo began.

“No buts. You can’t go back into your office until the crime scene techs are finished, and they won’t even get started until morning.” Luther glanced at Edgar. “There’s crime scene tape across the door to her office. No one goes in.” Russell would see to that, up until closing time, and Luther himself would be here in the morning when the crime scene techs arrived. “The door’s locked,” he added, “and I have the key.”

“Why?” Thea asked brightly. “What happened in there?”

Cleo opened her mouth to answer, but Luther was quicker. “We can’t discuss that. Sorry.”

Again, Cleo looked up at him. Her eyes were so wide, her skin so flawless, her mouth so tempting. He could very easily kiss her, here and now. It would cement this ridiculous charade, and besides…he would never get another chance. God, what a great oral fixation she’d be.

“All right,” she said, oddly subservient. “You can take me home.”

He smiled, but didn’t give in to the urge to kiss her.

“Lunch tomorrow,” Thea said, as Edgar handed Cleo her purse from under the bar. “We’re at the Marriott. Call me in the morning.”

“Sure,” Cleo said lifelessly. “Lunch.” Edgar handed her coat over the bar. They’d cleared everything she might need out of the office when he’d taped it off, and Cleo had locked the door and handed him the key.

Before Cleo could grab her coat, Luther took it and draped the black wool over her shoulders. He even allowed his hands to linger on her shoulders. She didn’t seem to mind. If he didn’t know better, he might even think she liked the way he rested his hands there, just for a moment. He might even think that gentle touch calmed her. The trembling she hid from everyone else seemed to subside.

He led Cleo toward the door. Thea and Palmer followed, slipping on their own coats as they went. “Don’t forget lunch,” Thea said breathlessly.

“We won’t forget,” Luther answered, including himself in the invitation.




Chapter 5


Cleo unlocked her door and stepped inside to be greeted by a prancing Rambo, who was more enthusiastic than usual tonight.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Cleo said lowly, leaning down to gently scratch the top of the dog’s golden head.

Behind her, Malone closed the door soundly. Rambo, the traitor, loped to Malone and lifted those big brown eyes to beg silently for adoration. The detective obediently scratched behind Rambo’s ears.

“Okay,” Malone said as he followed Cleo into the living room, Rambo at his heels. “You have some explaining to do.”

“I told you in the car—”

“You have nothing to say. I know. Indulge me.”

Cleo slipped off her coat and headed for the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

Malone hesitated. “I know you don’t have coffee.”

“Orange juice, water and flat diet soda.”

“I’ll pass.”

Cleo stepped into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of juice before walking to the living room to join Malone. Like it or not, she would have to explain a thing or two.

Malone stood over the roses her secret admirer had sent. “Where’s the card?”

“There was no card this time,” Cleo said as she dropped into her favorite chair.

“Is there usually?”

“At first,” she said, as Malone crossed the room and sat on the couch, facing her. “They were usually just simple notes. ‘Great set last night. I love that red dress.’ Stuff like that. Lately they’ve been delivered without a card. Since it was red roses like before, and came from the same florist, I just assumed they were from the same guy.”

“What florist?”

“I can’t remember the name, but it’s the one in the mall.”

Malone nodded his head, apparently satisfied. “I’ll get someone on that right away. Always red roses, you say?”

Cleo nodded. “One dozen, delivered to the club. Usually on a Saturday. Friday night is when we have our biggest crowd, so it was impossible for me to come up with a face in the crowd that might fit the notes and the flowers.”

Malone leaned forward. “Tell me about Palmer.”

Cleo felt her cheeks go cold. “He’s my sister’s husband. What’s to tell?”

“Come on, Cleo. Give me a little credit.”

Rambo padded over to Malone and rested her chin on his knee. He didn’t seem to mind, but began to absently pat the dog’s head.

“She’ll shed all over your suit.”

“It’ll brush off,” Malone said tersely. “Palmer.”

Might as well tell all. She had a feeling hiding anything from Luther Malone was hard work. And she didn’t have the heart for it at the moment.

“Thea is everything my mother ever wanted in a daughter. Tall, slender, refined. I think she was born with the desire to join the Junior League. She’s an interior decorator, and is very choosy about the jobs she takes. Hers is a suitable profession. Mine is not.”

“Palmer,” Malone said, urging her to move forward.

“I’m getting there.” She took a sip of juice, and Malone visibly relaxed. Rambo, sufficiently scratched, laid down at the detective’s feet and rested her chin on his shoe. “All my life, I had to deal with the sad fact that I’m not enough like Thea to make my mother happy. I’m short, I am most definitely not thin, and if you made me join the Junior League, I’d probably turn into a serial killer or something.” She didn’t mention the fact that her mother had been horrified when she’d gotten breasts at an early age. Her mother’s people were not voluptuous.

Malone smiled.

“When I decided I wanted to sing, when I realized that I needed to sing, my mother was quite distressed. A daughter of hers in a public profession? Making a spectacle of herself on stage?” Cleo studied Malone’s hard, expressionless face, and wished, momentarily, for a hint of softness. She didn’t get her wish. “In my family, making a spectacle of oneself is the worst possible crime.”

When had she started actually trying to make a spectacle of herself? Early on, though she couldn’t remember the exact moment. She hadn’t been able to win her mother over, so she’d learned to fight the only way she knew how. After her father had passed on, things had only gotten worse.

“So all my life I’m compared to this perfect daughter. I tried for a while, but finally accepted that I could never live up to that standard. I’m not like Thea, and by God, I don’t want to be.” She didn’t want to admit, not out loud, that it still hurt. She was too old to be hurt because her mother loved big sister best. “When Thea married Palmer, it was just icing on the cake. His family has old money and a long string of car dealerships, he played football at the University of Alabama, he’s a handicap golfer and he runs in all the right circles.”

“The ideal husband.”

“Yeah,” she said tightly, “except for the fact that he’ll screw any woman who has the misfortune to wander into his line of vision.”

Malone’s jaw tensed, his eyes narrowed. For a moment all was silent. Well, she had wished for a show of emotion, hadn’t she? Malone was angry.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” Cleo answered quickly. “He just…makes a pass at me every time we’re alone.” In the kitchen, in the driveway, in the hallway of the family home. The man knew no shame.

“What kind of a pass?” Malone asked tersely.

“He likes to grab.”

“He likes to grab what?”

If she had taken any of her mother’s teachings on decorum to heart, she wouldn’t answer that question. But so few of her mother’s teachings had taken. “He likes to sneak up on me and grab what my flat-chested sister doesn’t have.”

A muscle in Malone’s right eye twitched. “He’s plenty strong enough to be our guy. Do you think he’d—”

“No,” Cleo interrupted. “To commit murder, you have to care a little bit, right? You have to have some kind of passion to commit a crime of passion.”

“I suppose.”

“Palmer has no true passion. He grabs me and makes passes because I’m not a notch on his belt. If I ever did get desperate enough to agree to sleep with him, he’d lose interest. That’s how he treats all his women.”

Malone shook his head. “Doesn’t anyone else know about this guy?”

“They all know,” she said softly. “But they look past it because he has money and the right social standing, and he is a real and true football hero. Disgusting, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m the bad guy, here. If Palmer makes a pass at me it’s because I’ve tempted him somehow. It’s because I insist on making a spectacle of myself.”




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