Trace Evidence. Carla CassidyЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter 2

      He had no idea why he’d agreed to go inside her home and drink a cup of coffee. Maybe because he didn’t want to go back to the lab just yet. Maybe because he didn’t want to go to his own home, which would be far too silent and allow him far too many thoughts and recriminations.

      “It’s pretty isolated out here,” he observed as they walked up the three steps that led to a long front porch. The small cabin was in the center of a copse of thick trees and brush.

      She laughed, the sound echoing like birdsong in the air.

      “That’s the difference between a cop and an artist. A cop sees isolated, an artist sees secluded.”

      Despite the irritation that had filled him earlier, he felt himself relax a bit, as if the pleasant sound of her laughter had worked like a balm on a sore wound. “A cop sees lots of hiding places. I suppose you see lots of things to paint, Ms. Greystone.”

      “Exactly, and please call me Tamara.” She unlocked her door and pushed it open. “Welcome to my secluded little cabin in the woods.”

      He stepped into the door and felt as if he’d been swept into a different world, a different universe. The room was a visual wonderland filled with shapes and colors.

      The beige sofa held an array of throw pillows in a variety of colors. Paintings covered the walls and a half-finished one rested on an easel in front of a side window that would catch the morning light.

      Roughhewn shelves held pottery and woven baskets in all shapes and sizes and a collection of hummingbirds set on top of the fireplace mantle. Fresh wildflowers were in vases everywhere and the room was scented with their sweet fragrance.

      The total effect should have been chaotic and cluttered, but instead the room radiated a sense of balance and serenity.

      As he looked around, taking it all in, he felt some of the day’s pressures easing. His shoulder muscles seemed to unkink a little and the burn that had smoldered in the pit of his stomach for the last month dissipated somewhat.

      “Please, come on into the kitchen and I’ll put the coffee on.”

      He followed her into a cozy kitchen as colorful and unique as the living room. She gestured him to a small wooden table, then busied herself with the coffeemaker.

      He noticed a shelf above the kitchen sink filled with healthy plants of various types. “You must have quite a green thumb,” he said.

      “I like growing things.”

      He leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable wooden chair and viewed her from top to bottom, taking in the length of her slender back and the curve of shapely hips beneath the dress. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”

      She turned from the coffeepot and flashed him a grin. “I try not to run into the police, Officer James.”

      “Call me Clay,” he said. “Whenever you say Mr. or Officer James, I think you’re talking to my father.”

      “All right, then Clay it is. And I don’t go into town very often, just when I need groceries or art supplies and occasionally to visit with Alyssa at the Redbud.”

      He looked at her in surprise. “You know my cousin Alyssa?”

      “She and I have become good friends recently, since I moved back from New York. I try to have her to dinner out here at least once every couple of weeks.”

      “That’s nice. Alyssa could use more friends. So, you didn’t like the Big Apple?”

      She hesitated a moment before replying. “No…it wasn’t my cup of tea.” There was something in her tone that forbid him to ask any more questions on that particular topic.

      “But you’re originally from Cherokee Corners?” He was aware that he was talking more to her than he’d talked to anyone in the last several weeks, but she was easy to talk to. Something about her soft, seemingly accepting demeanor invited conversation.

      “Born and raised here. You were several years older than me, so we didn’t run in the same crowd.”

      “What’s with the hummingbirds?” he asked, noting that several glass figurines hung at the window over the sink.

      “The hummingbird is one of my totem animals.”

      He was grateful when she didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to hear about totems and spirituality, about old Cherokee ways and the voice of the elders. It was these kinds of things that he’d fought about with his mother just before she’d disappeared.

      He was suddenly sorry he’d followed his impulse to come inside, but now that the coffee was finished brewing, he wasn’t sure how to leave gracefully. Just one fast cup, then I’m out of here, he thought.

      As she reached up high in a cabinet to pull down two stoneware mugs, he couldn’t help but notice the slender curve of her calves beneath the length of her dress.

      Although he’d tried his best to immerse himself in his work as he’d taken samples and photographed her classroom, he’d been acutely conscious of her presence the entire time. Not only had her exotic fragrance gone directly to his head, but he’d been impressed by her quiet and calm in the face of such devastation.

      “I appreciate you not being one of those hysterical women,” he said as she sat a mug of steaming coffee before him.

      “Cream or sugar?” He shook his head negatively and she joined him at the table. “What’s to be hysterical about? What’s done is done. My screaming and yelling wouldn’t have put the classroom back in order. I’m just sorry so many of the books appeared to have been torn up. It will be months before we can get more books and then only if extra money can be squeezed out of the budget.”

      He took a sip of the coffee. It was good—hot and strong the way he liked it. “You said you watched a lot of television, but I noticed there wasn’t a TV in the living room.”

      She smiled and the beauty of that smile hit him square in the pit of his stomach. “Ah, you’ve discovered my guilty pleasure. I have a little ten-inch set in my bedroom and am notorious for watching it for a couple of hours before I fall asleep.” Her dark eyes gazed at him for a long moment. “But I’m sure you’ve been far too busy lately to even think about television programming.”

      “Yeah, it’s been a long six weeks.”

      “Any breaks in your mother’s disappearance?”

      “Not really, although my sister Savannah found two cases in Oklahoma that are so similar it’s eerie.”

      “Really?” She leaned forward and he caught another whiff of her scent.

      “In fact, one of those cases is what brought Savannah and her fiancé, Riley, together.” He took another sip of his coffee, wishing she’d lean back in her chair so he couldn’t smell her, so he couldn’t see the dark length of her eyelashes, the dewy moisture of her lips.

      What on earth was wrong with him? Why was Tamara Greystone making him think of things he hadn’t thought of in a very long time…like hot, eager kisses and silky hair tangled around his fingers, and warm, slender curves pressed against his body? Why was he talking so much when normally