Capturing Cleo. Linda Winstead JonesЧитать онлайн книгу.
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