TRACE EVIDENCE Page 12

  "Why aren't you married?" He could tell the question took her by surprise. In truth, it surprised him. But now that he had asked it he was genuinely curious. "You're an attractive woman, a good cook, talented and bright. Why are you all alone?"

  She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin before replying. "Haven't found the right man." She hesitated a moment, then continued, "I thought I did once, but he turned out to be Mr. Wrong."

  "Somebody from around here?"

  She shook her head, her hair moving like a curtain of shine around her head. "No, somebody from New York. My agent, actually. His name is Max Bishop. He's a wonderful agent, but he wasn't the right partner for me."

  "Why not?"

  She flashed him an impish smile that stirred a flame deep in the pit of his stomach. "I just want to warn you, when I finish answering your questions, I intend to ask you a few of my own."

  He started to protest, then slowly nodded. "Fair enough. Now tell me about this Max Bishop."

  She pushed her plate to the side and leaned back in her chair, her gray eyes taking on the look of reflection. "I met Max at an art show in Oklahoma City. He was touring the country looking for new blood. We got to talking, I showed him my work and he talked me into coming to New York and allowing him to be my agent. For the first couple of months that I was in New York our relationship was strictly business."

  "But that changed." He was surprised to feel just the tiniest flicker of jealousy as he thought of her being intimate with another man. It was a totally irrational piece of emotion that irritated him.

  "Yes, that changed. Max seemed bigger than life to me. He was so enthusiastic about my work and I guess that made me enthusiastic about him. Anyway, our relationship became personal and I thought I'd found Mr. Right."

  "So, what happened?" Clay shoved his plate aside, no longer hungry for anything but information.

  "What happened was that Max loved having a Native American artist to represent. He loved having me dress up in tear dresses and braids for art shows. He loved me talking about Cherokee legends and traditions as long as there was a buyer nearby who might be charmed by the pretty Indian squaw."

  Clay winced at the derogatory term. She got up from the table and carried her plate to the sink. She rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher then turned to face him once again, her eyes darkened by memories.

  "The problem got even bigger. You see, Max wanted me to be Native when it suited his purpose, but he wanted me not to be Native when it was just the two of us. I tried to please him, but in doing so I realized I was slowly sacrificing my own self-identity."

  "So you came back here to Cherokee Corners."

  "And my Cherokee roots." She walked back to the table and took his plate, then carried it to the sink, rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher next to hers. "The man I intend to marry will be a man who is proud of where he comes from, a man who is steeped in the same traditions as me."

  She sank back down at the table, her eyes shining with determination. "The man I marry will be a man like my father … a warrior who is proud of where he came from, a man sensitive enough to carve a courting flute for the woman he loves, a man strong enough to raise his family with the teachings of his traditions."

  "Are you sure such a man exists?" Clay's voice held a touch of amusement.

  She raised her chin slightly, as if to deflect any mockery he might point in her direction. "If he doesn't, then I'll remain alone. I won't settle for less than what I desire."

  Her passion stirred him, even though he thought her a fool for having standards no real man would ever be able to meet. A proud warrior, indeed. He started to get up from the table but she surprised him by rising up and punching a finger in his chest to reseat him once again.

  "You aren't finished yet," she said. "You've interrogated me, now it's my turn to interrogate you."

  He smiled at her lazily, oddly enough enjoying the fact that she demanded turnabout fair play. "All right. What do you want to know?"

  "Why aren't you married? You're an attractive man, pleasant enough when you want to be."

  "I haven't found too many people worth being pleasant to," he countered. "Besides, as I indicated to you before, I have no desire to marry. I like my life just as it is."

  "All work and no play," she scoffed. "Even your living room is more lab than living room."

  "Crime-scene investigator is who I am."

  "No it isn't, it's what you do," she countered.

  He grinned. "A mere matter of semantics. I like my work."

  "But what about relationships? Don't you miss having companionship…" Her voice trailed off and she looked down at the table as her cheeks turned a dusty rose.

  His grin widened. "Are you asking me about sex, Tamara? I can tell you that I like sex … a lot. That's the only kind of relationship I'm interested in, strictly physical without the complications of emotions or commitment."

  She directed her gaze back to him again, her cheeks still holding a tinge of pink color. "Why don't you have anything to do with the cultural center? Your entire family participates there. Why don't you?"

  He stood suddenly. "I think I've answered enough questions for one night. Thanks for the good meal. I've got some work I want to do in the living room."

  He was grateful she didn't try to stop him as he left the kitchen. He didn't want to talk about the cultural center. He didn't want to talk about his Native roots. As far as he was concerned, being Cherokee wasn't a blessing, it was a curse.

  Tamara wanted a proud warrior and he was neither proud nor a warrior. All he wanted to do was solve crimes and he had more on his plate at the moment in that respect than he knew what to do with.

  He was no closer to finding his mother. Even though the Oklahoma City lab had returned some of the results of forensic testing from the two serial killer cases, there was nothing that pointed a finger to a particular culprit. And now he needed to find out who was terrorizing Tamara so he could get her out of his house and back in her own before something happened between them that would only lead to regret.

  * * *

  It took Tamara only minutes to finish cleaning up the kitchen. As she worked, her mind went over the conversation she'd just shared with Clay.

  He'd simply confirmed what she'd already known, that despite the fact that he made her pulse race just a little too fast, in spite of the fact that she was growing more and more hungry for his kiss, for his touch, he was definitely not the man for her.

  He liked sex a lot. His words evoked a river of heat to rush through her. He liked it and she imagined he was quite good at it.

  She left the kitchen and went into the living room where Clay sat on a stool at the worktable peering into the microscope. She sat in one of the upholstered chairs and picked up her sketch pad. She'd love to sketch him, but she had a feeling he wouldn't be pleased so she contented herself by working on a picture that would be her next painting.

  Besides, she needed something to keep her focus off Clay, because looking at him evoked yearnings she was better off ignoring.

  Instead of a bear, the picture she worked on was of a wolf. She'd never tried painting one before and found the work both challenging and fulfilling.

  She had never told anyone about her relationship with Max before and she'd found that telling Clay had been cathartic. It had pleased her to realize that those days and nights with Max seemed like a different lifetime ago, that there was no pain or heartache resulting from that particular mistake.

  "You can turn on the television if you want," Clay said.

  "No, I don't mind the silence." She hesitated a moment, then added. "You have a lot of equipment here."

  "The lab down at the station is so small and most of this I bought with my own money." He straightened up and took the slide he'd been looking at out of the microscope. "I can't do anything official here … chain of evidence and all that nonsense. But I do a lot of unofficial work here. Retesting, reevaluating and looking at things that we've deter
mined probably have no evidentiary value."

  "Why would you look at things you've already dismissed as useless?" she asked. It wasn't so much that she had a burning need to know, but rather because he seemed to be in a talkative mood, unlike the past two evenings they had shared together.

  The past two nights had been both silent and tense. She'd retreated to her bedroom early on both nights.

  He flashed her a quick grin. "Because sometimes we make mistakes."

  "How are all your investigations going?"

  His smile fell. "Slow. I got some reports back this morning from a lab in Oklahoma City pertaining to Greg Maxwell's and Sam McClane's murders, but whoever committed the murders was smart and left precious little physical evidence behind."

  "I heard that at one time Virginia Maxwell was a potential suspect."

  "That was before Sam's murder. Whenever somebody is killed, the spouse is usually the first person to be checked out. But nobody could find any reason why Virginia would want her husband dead, and there was definitely no connection between her and Sam."

  She set her sketch pad down. "It's hard for me to believe a woman could be capable of those murders. But of course, it's hard for me to believe that anyone could be capable of such a thing."

  "Our work is becoming more and more difficult as more television shows show the procedures we use to gather physical evidence," he said. "We're raising a bunch of savvy criminals who know way too much about transfer and forensic science."

  "So, you haven't been able to find anything to help in solving the crimes?"

  "We've got a few things, but I'm really not at liberty to discuss them."

  "I understand," she replied. She hesitated a moment before speaking again. "Have you found anything worthwhile in the evidence you collected at the cottage?" He hadn't mentioned much of that particular investigation.

  "Afraid not. So far all we've really gotten from your cottage is a lot of bear fur. No fingerprints other than yours and mine, no hairs except yours and mine … which by .the way made my other two techs look at me with considerable interest."

  Tamara felt her cheeks grow hot. Everyone was probably speculating that she and Clay were lovers. She was surprised that the notion didn't upset her more.

  "We do think that whoever vandalized the school and your cottage is definitely male, approximately between five foot ten to six feet tall."

  "How do you know that?" she asked curiously.

  "Logical deduction by where the claw marks were placed on the walls." He stood and walked over to the wall. "The marks were about the same height wherever they were made." He raised an arm to its full extent. "The pressure of the marks indicate his reach wasn't at its fullest extent when he made them. We've deduced his height by measuring those marks and the pressure used to make them." He dropped his hand to his side.

  "That's amazing," she exclaimed and tried not to notice the width of his shoulders beneath his white T-shirt, shoulders she knew were warm, with supple skin pleasing to the touch.

  It had been so long since she'd been held in big, strong arms, so long since she'd felt the touch of a man's hand on her body. She was hungry for physical contact, for the kind of intimacy that had been lacking in her life for the past two years.

  "Have you ever looked at a hair beneath a microscope before?" he asked.

  "No. I'm afraid science and biology were never strong suits of mine."

  "Come here." He moved back to stand next to the microscope.

  Heartbeat stepping up its rhythm, she got up from her chair and approached where he stood. She knew her heart wasn't racing at the anticipation of seeing a hair magnified. It was the crazy thrill she got by being near Clay.

  She stepped close to him, so close she could feel the heat that radiated from his body, so close that when he turned to look at her she could feel the warmth of his breath on his face.

  "And now we need a hair." He raised a hand and drew his fingers through her strands. His eyes were the ebony of the deepest shadows of night.

  At the moment she was about to lean closer to him, he plucked a hair from her scalp. "Ouch!" she exclaimed and took a step back from him.

  "Sorry. I thought it would be more interesting for you to see not only the hair, but the follicle as well."

  She rubbed her head and eyed him balefully. "And what's wrong with seeing your follicle?"

  He grinned, that charming expression that threatened to buckle her knees. "I've already seen my own, but I haven't seen yours."

  He pulled open a drawer in the stainless steel table and took out the items he needed to mount the hair on a slide. She moved closer, watching him with interest, noting that his slender fingers moved with efficiency and grace.

  "There we go," he said and put the slide into place. He peered into the eyepiece and twisted several knobs, then grunted as if in satisfaction.

  He moved aside and motioned her to take a look. She looked at the magnified hair, but all her consciousness was focused on Clay, who stood next to her and had placed a hand on her shoulder.

  His hand was hot against her bare skin and she felt electrified at every point of bodily contact.

  "We can tell a lot by examining hairs," he said softly. The words were whispered into her ear as if they were a lover's secret.

  "We can tell nationality and whether the hair had been color treated or not," he continued. "And if we have the hair follicle we can extract DNA."

  "Fascinating." The single word came with difficulty from her. She felt breathless, as if his nearness was stealing all the oxygen meant for her.

  She looked up at him and saw that his onyx eyes blazed with a fire that seemed to consume her.

  For a long breathless minute neither of them moved. She was held captive by the desire that burned so bright in his eyes, a desire that evoked all the yearnings she'd tamped down for the past three days.

  "Clay…" His name fell from her trembling lips. She wasn't sure if it was an entreaty or an unconscious desire to break the sensual net that was slowly entrapping her.

  He held her gaze for another long moment, then stepped back from her. "There's nothing more I'd like to do right now than kiss you senseless. But if I take you into my arms, I won't want to stop at kisses."

  "If you take me into your arms, I'm not sure I'd want you to stop at kisses."

  The flames in his eyes intensified, but he didn't move. "I want you to be sure, Tamara. I want you to be absolutely certain that you understand that I'm offering you nothing more than a moment of passion. I don't want there to be any pretenses, any regrets or recriminations."

  He took another step away from her. "I'm going to go take a shower. The ball is in your court, Tamara. I won't pressure you either way." With these words he turned on his heels and disappeared down the hallway.

  Tamara remained frozen in place, every nerve ending tingling in her body in response to his words. Physically, he hadn't touched her, but her body felt as if heated hands had stroked it. Rapid breathing accompanied a sweet rush of anticipation.

  "The ball is in your court, Tamara." His words replayed in her head. The problem was she didn't know if she should pass it away or grab it and run all the way.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  «^»

  Clay stood beneath the lukewarm water and hoped it would cool his blood. He'd known the moment was approaching when he would no longer be able to keep his lust for Tamara in check.

  He'd even found it difficult to concentrate at work knowing that she was in his home. The past two evenings he'd come home from work indecently early, a definite break from his usual routine.

  One thing he had discovered was that the peace and tranquility he'd felt when he'd been at Tamara's place hadn't come from the cottage and the setting, but rather from the woman herself.

  There was an air of quiet confidence about her, a calm acceptance of who she was in heart and soul.

  Her aura had taken over his home and for the first time since he'd bought
the house he didn't mind spending time here. Even though she'd brought a sense of peace to the house, she'd also brought a new kind of tension to him—a sexual awareness he hadn't felt for a very long time.

  He grabbed a bar of minty soap and soaped himself from head to toe. Surely he'd scared her off with his unvarnished version of what she could expect from him. He'd been quite clear so there wouldn't be room for any misunderstandings. He offered her nothing more than his passion, nothing more than his body.

  Tamara was probably now hiding in her room like a timid virgin. If she was smart that's exactly where she would remain, at least for the remainder of this night.

  He stepped out of the shower and grabbed the towel he'd laid out before getting beneath the spray. At least they didn't have to share a bathroom. She had the hall guest bath and he had his own off the master bedroom.

  Things would have been far more difficult if they'd had to share the personal space of a bathroom.

  He dried off, then wrapped the damp towel around his waist and started out of the bathroom, but froze in the doorway. Tamara was not only in his bedroom, but sat on his bed, clad in her yellow nightgown and robe.

  The shower he'd just taken in an effort to ease his raging hormones was instantly rendered ineffectual. The sight of her electrified his entire body. The blood that had cooled instantly fired through his veins. "I told you what would happen the next time you wore those things," he said, his voice husky with his desire.

  "Yes, you did." She stood from the bed and took a step toward him. That's all he needed. In three long strides he was in front of her. He gathered her in his arms as his mouth took possession of hers.

  She met him eagerly, her lips instantly parting for him. Her arms rose to twine around his neck and he pulled her toward him so they were pressed intimately close … chests, hips and thighs.

  Blood surged inside him as he felt her taut nipples against his chest, the heat of her center against his arousal, the feel of her warm skin beneath his fingertips.

  Her kiss was as wild and unrestrained as his and her tongue met his with an eager hunger that matched his own. The taste of her mouth was tantalizing and flavored with uncontrollable want.