He caught her before she fell on him, pushing her both away from him and down, shoving her head between her knees. “Breathe, Julianne.”
Her neck stiffened at the familiarity and life returned to her shoulders. Howie still didn’t remove his hand from her head, though he loosened his grip enough for her to turn and gaze up at him, her silky hair sliding under his palm.
“Don and his wife live exactly at their means,” she said, half to the floor and half to him. “They spend too much money, but I don’t think they have debts. Or not significant ones anyway. Whatever of Aunt Binnie’s they inherit will go to their kids. They spend most of their money on their kids.” She was talking so quietly that Howie had to bend forward to hear her. “But Don wouldn’t kill for more money.” This was said with force.
“Are you sure about that?”
She was still bent over, her head still resting on her knees, her eyes still turned to him. Their faces were inches apart, and when he asked his last question, he could follow the trail of his breath in the goose bumps that traveled up her forearm.
“About my brother? Yes.” Her voice had gone soft again. “Yes,” she repeated, stronger this time. “I’m sure Don couldn’t have done this.”
“Can you sit up?”
She nodded and he loosened his fingers. “Slowly now.” Howie kept a small amount of pressure on the nape of her neck, both to guide her slowly back up, and because he liked the feel of her hair under his hand.
This position, his hand on her head and their faces nearly touching, was more intimate than he’d been with a woman in a while. He’d had to cancel a date for a third time in two weeks because of a murder—summer was the bad season for Durham’s crime rate.
Once back upright in the hottest part of the car, Julianne swayed a bit and closed her eyes, though she didn’t seem at risk of fainting again. Her face was still pale, but when her eyes opened, it wasn’t just the remains of tears that gave them a little brightness.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” She nodded once, as if testing the movement of her head. Then a second time, with more force. Convinced now that she would be okay, he removed his fingers from where they’d mingled with her hair. Once she was fully composed again, her stomach growled and embarrassment turned her fainting spell–pale cheeks into a deep, dark red.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“Last night, I guess. Binnie was supposed to be cooking me lunch and—” she paused, her eyes rolling up to the ceiling of the patrol car as she considered the question “—I worked late last night and had a meeting early this morning. I’ve had a cup of coffee.”
Between the heat of the car, the shock of the news and a stomach filled only with coffee, it was no wonder she’d fainted. He reached into the front pocket of his Dockers, pulled out the Clif Bar he kept there for long days and offered it to her. “Here.”
She stared at bar, looking both surprised and unwilling to take the gift. Which amused him, because his handkerchief still lay on her knee, and he was pretty certain he was never getting it back. “Take it,” he said. “The Durham Police Department doesn’t want you fainting and running your car into a tree.”
“Thank you.” She was still looking at the bar as if she had never been offered such a thing in her life. And maybe she hadn’t. Maybe industry princesses who lingered around after the dissolution of tobacco empire weren’t offered Clif Bars. Maybe when they needed a snack they pulled little trays of caviar out of refrigerated compartments in their luxury vehicles.
Of course that was ridiculous, he thought as he watched her peel the wrapper off the energy bar and take a nibble off the corner. More likely she hadn’t expected anything about this day, including the Clif Bar.
Howie could tell the moment the food hit her stomach and she realized how hungry she had been. Her color settled into a normal pink. She took a bigger bite. Then another. Then another, until the bar disappeared and she was staring at the empty wrapper in her hand.
“Thank you. I needed that.” She held the empty wrapper out between them and they both stared at it. Howie didn’t take it from her—he had no better place to put it than she did—and eventually she crumbled it up and set it on her knee, on top of the handkerchief.
“I’ll be in touch again soon. Leave your contact information with Henson. And your brother’s. And your cousin’s.” Not that he needed the information, as he could easily find it himself, but this was a good test of Julianne’s sincerity. “Are you okay to drive?”
“I will be. In a minute.”
“Good. Thank you for your time,” he added, even though they both knew she hadn’t had much of a choice. “Here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else. I’ll be in touch.”
At Howie’s signal, Henson opened the door. He stepped out of the car, giving Julianne time and privacy to collect herself, if she wanted. Which she apparently didn’t because she followed him immediately, so close on his tail he could almost feel her breathing down his neck.
Once she was out of the car and lifting her face to the sky, the fresh air seemed to revive her. Her shoulders lowered as she steadied herself on her feet. Then she turned to him and gave him a dirty look—one she definitely hadn’t learned in finishing school.
AS SOON AS Julianne stood to her full height outside the car and felt the breeze across her face, anger swept through her, momentarily shoving grief out of the way. It felt ten degrees cooler outside the car than it had inside. Sure, the air-conditioning was on full blast, but the detective had shut all the doors—no wonder she’d felt heat burn through her body sitting next to him. It wasn’t just the shock of her aunt’s death that had caused her to feel faint; it had been the blasted heat and confinement.
But it was definitely not the attractive cop who’d put his hand on her head.
Maybe the damned patrol car hadn’t been a torture chamber, but the detective had made it an interrogation room, and his eyes had been soft with concern while he’d done it. He’d even given her food, like she’d seen cops offer coffee to suspects on those TV shows. Not that she’d needed it to spill secrets about her brother and cousin. The heat in the car had loosened up her tongue just fine.
She hoped that ability to lie with his eyes made him a good cop, and that he didn’t use those powers on the woman in his life.
Was there a woman in his life? He was attractive and employed, which was enough for most women. But Julianne didn’t know how anyone could trust a man with such good control over his features. Even if Aunt Binnie had trusted him.
She shook the distracting thoughts from her head and started her car.
Rather than driving back to her apartment, Julianne drove to her mother’s house. Even blasting the AC the entire way, she would arrive at the house hot. The pit stains in her cotton dress were becoming fast friends in the middle of her chest and reuniting between her shoulder blades.
Aunt Binnie was dead. Not just dead—she’d been murdered, brutally if the detective’s intimations were to be believed. The realization swung at her like a large open hand. A door flying open when you don’t expect it. Walking in on your husband with another woman, hitting you in the head and the gut at the same time, buckling your knees and bringing you to the ground with a whimper.
She glanced quickly in the rearview mirror and winced at the streaks of mascara running down her cheeks. Maybe the handkerchief in her purse was still damp enough from tears that she could clean off her face. Not that it mattered; her mother would comment on the sweat stains regardless. As if sweating was something people should be able to control, even when they were sitting in a hot car. Hell, it was probably something her mother could control.