“I see.”
Regaining her equilibrium, she decided his work sounded like an easy job to her, nothing that called for springing handcuffs on innocent people without warning.
Gazing at his nose, which was noticeably swollen, she forgot her indignation over the arrest and advised, “You should ice your bruises for forty-eight hours, then switch to four minutes of heat followed by one minute of ice three or four times a day after that for two or three days.”
“I kept an ice pack on it most of the afternoon.”
“Good.” After observing him for a moment when he made no move to leave, she asked quietly, seriously, “What are you really doing here? I think you came because you want something from me.”
Before answering, he drank the last of the coffee. He crushed the paper cup and tossed it in a waste-basket near the door, then studied her for several seconds. “I want you to take me to the guy you said gave you the pottery.”
“Tonight?” she asked incredulously as disappointment hit her. She realized the cake, the kindness and the easy laughter had been a method of softening her up before he made the request.
“No, but soon. I don’t want him to get word that something funny went on at the store.”
Leaning against the wall behind the cot, she took a drink of coffee and noticed he was dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt informally open at the neck and well-shined loafers. She’d already noticed his aftershave, the fragrance familiar to her from their earlier encounter.
So, he’d cleaned up before coming to the jail. Was that part of the ploy to win her confidence and encourage a sense of camaraderie between them?
Tired and discouraged, she regretted letting herself drift into familiarity, especially the sharing of her past. It was something she rarely talked about, but he’d seemed truly concerned, as if he already knew that she’d been injured by events of long ago.
“How far is his place from town?” he continued.
“Over fifty miles, off Standing Rock Road.”
“I’ll be here around eight in the morning to pick you up.”
“Will they let me out of jail?”
“You’ll be released into my custody.” His tone implied it would be no problem.
“If we find Josiah and he confirms my story, will I then be free?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’ll talk to the district attorney on your behalf. He’s the one who’ll decide whether to charge you with a crime or let you off if you cooperate.”
“I’ll cooperate,” she assured him coldly. “I want to clear my name as soon as possible and put this experience behind me.”
And you, she added silently. She wanted him out of her life. He was a threat, although she couldn’t say how.
When he rose, she, too, stood. He rattled the doorknob, the buzzer sounded and he walked out, leaving her standing behind the metal bars of the tiny cell. She immediately experienced the sense of abandonment again, as if he was her only savior in a world she no longer knew.
She rubbed her wrists, but there were no purple marks from fingers digging too harshly into her flesh. She remembered how careful he’d been when examining the priceless pottery and the way he’d stared into her eyes as if looking directly into her soul. She’d never felt that before. For the briefest moment, she wondered what it would be like to have him wrap her in his arms again, to feel his lips on hers…
She blinked, appalled at the strange path her mind had taken. Pressing her hands against her eyes, she felt dismay, anger, exasperation and other feelings too tangled to comprehend.
Glancing around the cell, she made up her mind to fight fire with fire. She had to smile. She knew just who she needed to get in touch with. Special Investigator Aquilon might be a force to be reckoned with, but she wasn’t without resources of her own.
“Sergeant,” she yelled. “Sergeant, I need to talk to you.”
Chapter Three
Tony hit the snooze alarm twice before he could drag himself out of bed and into Sunday morning. After washing up and dressing, he wandered into the kitchen and poured a cup of fresh coffee, which was ready thanks to the modern marvel of a timer on the coffeemaker.
What the heck was he doing up at six-thirty when this was the one day of the week he could catch up on his sleep?
Oh, yeah, the prisoner. He had work to do today.
He thought about going over and taking her to breakfast before they went searching for the man who gave her the pottery to deliver. If there was such a person, he added, frowning at his tendency to believe her story without any corroborating evidence.
Except for the earnestness of her gaze when she’d looked him directly in the eye. And the set of her mouth, which turned up at the corners in the most alluring way, when she’d stated she wanted to clear her name.
He groaned under his breath as his body went into full alert. Last night his dreams had been so hot it was a wonder the bed hadn’t caught fire. Without having to think about crimes and arrests, his subconscious had been free to consider other delightful things a man and woman could do when they were in such close proximity.
A cold—very cold—shower helped get things calmed down. After a quick breakfast, he headed for the station house. While she was technically his prisoner, there were papers to fill out before he could whisk her out of jail.
One of the problems with his line of work was jurisdiction. When it came to ancient artifacts, who was the authority—the park service? The tribal police? The local state and/or county officials? It was always a pain to sort through and often only a very fine, blurry line separated the legal powers. In this case, because Chuck had been in on the arrest and the Hopi claimed all artifacts as part of their culture, it made the question even more contentious.
However, he’d found he could usually work through the system with a little diplomacy. Since Julianne was cooperating, he didn’t see any reason to keep her in jail.
Neither did a lot of other people.
Bedlam reigned when he arrived at the state police headquarters. He had to push his way through a mob to get to the desk.
“What’s going on?” he asked the detail sergeant from the previous day when he and Chuck had brought in the suspect. At that moment he noticed Julianne standing to one side, her purse in her hand. “Who let her out?” he demanded. “Who authorized it?”
“The county judge,” the sarge replied. “Apparently her brother called the chief of the tribal council. The chief called the tribal attorney, who called the county judge. The judge’s assistant came in with a release order this morning, along with about fifty members of the Native American Women’s Advisory Council and one of the tribal elders. She posted bail, so she’s free.”
Tony turned to Julianne, whose innocent smile would have melted the heart of an iceberg.
“How did your brother get word?” he asked, giving her a narrow-eyed scowl.
“Last night after you left, the sergeant let me use my cell phone to call him…after I explained the governor would hear about my arrest and false imprisonment as soon as Chief Windover returned.”
The tribal elder, wearing a traditional Hopi braid and two eagle feathers, stepped forward. He looked old enough and wizened enough to be an artifact from the dig.
“The tribe has jurisdiction in the case,” he informed Tony. “The council had an emergency meeting last