The lasagna and bread were heating in the oven, the pie chilling in the refrigerator. The windows and door were open and a box fan set in the lakeside window blew cool air through the room.
Jace leaned against the kitchen counter, sucking down his third bottle of water for the day. He was that rarity among cops, as well as Barnetts—a man who didn’t drink. He’d run too many miles to stay in shape, had worked too many years at a job where the concept of being off duty was a joke. Trouble could find a cop at any time, and he’d wanted his senses unimpaired when it happened.
He glanced at the clock while waiting for Cassidy to put in an appearance. He’d been home ten minutes—more than long enough for her to carry a few things inside, then walk across the bridge. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d locked herself inside instead. She’d obviously had misgivings about coming over.
She obviously had something to hide.
Okay, maybe not so obviously. Maybe, even after six months off the job, his instincts were as sharp as ever. He was used to people being less than honest with him. It gave him an itchy feeling down his spine and he’d been wanting to scratch the whole time they’d been talking. He couldn’t say she’d flat-out lied to him, but she’d certainly been evasive, and wondering why came as naturally to him as breathing.
But it wasn’t his job to find out. In fact, his only job was to do a lot of nothing. To kick back, relax and stay out of trouble. He was free to take advantage of whatever entertainment he could find along the way, but that was the extent of it. No poking around in anyone’s background. No ferreting out inconsistencies or solving mysteries. No getting involved in anyone’s troubles but his own.
A board in the middle of the deck creaked and he shifted his gaze to the screen door. An instant later Cassidy appeared there, looking lovely and unsure, as if she might bolt back home at anytime.
“Come on in,” he called as she raised her hand to knock.
She stepped inside, smiled faintly in greeting, then glanced around. The layout of the cabin was identical to hers—living and dining room stretched across the front, kitchen in back on the left, bedroom and bathroom on the right. He hadn’t been inside Junior’s place in years, but knowing the Davisons, he would bet the same ratty old furniture was still in residence.
That was the only way his cabin was better than hers. He’d brought some of his own stuff—a leather couch, an oversize armchair, a couple of bookcases—and borrowed the bedroom furniture and dinette from his parents. The table was an oval oak pedestal, with four ladder-back chairs, and the bedroom set was his grandmother’s antique mahogany.
He’d added rugs, too, and a television, DVD and stereo system, but he hadn’t unpacked a single thing for the walls. Photographs, a couple of meritorious commendations he’d received, gifts, mementos…anything that would personalize the space and reveal anything about the past seventeen years was packed up in his folks’ attic. It could all stay there until it rotted.
What would her space reveal about her past? Someday he would have to wangle an invitation into her cabin to find out.
“Lunch will be ready in a few minutes,” he said as her gaze finally reached him. “What would you like to drink?”
“Water will be fine.”
“That’s all? I’ve got beer and pop, too.”
She gave a slight shake of her head, then came to stand at the table, her hands gripping one of the ladder-back chairs. He figured her goal was to look as if she was casually resting her hands, but her fingers were clenched so tightly that the knuckles turned white. Why so nervous? He wasn’t likely to throw her to the floor and have his way with her, not when it meant burning the lasagna. Force wasn’t his style. Persuasion was way too much fun.
But maybe force had been someone else’s style. Maybe that was why she was cautious and evasive.
But it wasn’t his business, remember?
He got two bottles of water from the refrigerator, then set the table. As the timer went off, he pulled the lasagna from the oven and stuck the foil-wrapped bread inside, then asked, “What’s your book about?”
She’d been looking out the window. Now her gaze jerked back to him. “My…my book?”
“The one you’re writing. The one that’s set here in Oklahoma. What is it about?”
“Oh…well…” Her fingers tightened even more around the chair back. “It’s…it’s a love story.”
“Most romance novels are, aren’t they?” he asked dryly.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Using insulated mitts, he carried the lasagna pan to the table, then returned with the bread. After he slid into the nearest seat, she slowly pulled out the chair she’d had a death grip on and sat. He waited until they’d served themselves, then gave her time to take a bite before asking, “So? What’s it about?”
“It’s about…” When she looked up, her face was warm but her eyes were cool and her full lips had flattened into an aloof line. “I’m really not comfortable discussing it. If I tell people the story in detail, then there’s not much purpose in writing it—is there?—because I’ve already told it.”
He wasn’t asking for a scene-by-scene description. A general overview would have been fine, something like “a story of a spoiled Southern belle during and after the Civil War” for Gone With the Wind. He didn’t need names, subplots or even the highlights.
“Do you publish your books under your own name?”
This time she didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze focused on the plate in front of her. “No, I don’t. You were right—this is excellent lasagna. Is it an old family recipe?”
“Someone’s old family, but not ours. Mom came across it years ago, made a few changes and has been fixing it ever since.” Just as bluntly as she’d changed the subject, he changed it back. “What’s your…aw, hell, I can’t think of the word. Your alias?”
For a moment he thought she might laugh, but the twitch at the corners of her mouth faded. “Alias?”
“You know, your fake name. Cassidy McRae aka what? Jeez, don’t you ever look at Wanted posters?”
“No, I can’t honestly say that I do.” She paused. “Do you?”
“I used to. A lot.”
“Looking for anyone in particular?”
“Not for pictures of myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. Trust me, if I was wanted by the cops, Reese would turn me in so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me.”
“Your own cousin?”
“He’s a cop first, my cousin second.” That wasn’t entirely true. Reese would never break the law, but he would bend it a little if circumstances warranted it. Sometimes that was the only way to see justice done.
“Then what’s your interest in Wanted posters?”
He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t particularly want to admit that he’d been a cop himself. With his luck, she would probably have a lot of questions he wouldn’t want to answer. The few writers he’d met in the past, mostly reporters, were filled with them. “Curiosity,” he said with a shrug. “I watch America’s Most Wanted, too.” Once again he abruptly shifted direction. “You never told me what your alias—”
“Pen name.”
“—is.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Maybe I want to pick up a couple of your books and see what they’re like.”