TRACE EVIDENCE Read online

  He asked no questions, but did as she requested. As he stretched out on her bed she reached into her nightstand drawer and removed a bottle of lavender oil.

  She had no idea if what she was doing was right or wrong, good or bad. She was moving on instinct and she rarely doubted her instincts.

  "Just relax, Clay." She kneeled on the bed next to his prone body, careful not to make any physical contact. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea. "I'm just going to give you a little back rub to help relax you. This is going to be a bit cool."

  He stiffened as she poured a liberal amount of the scented oil onto his broad back. She leaned over him and began to work the oil into his shoulder muscles with her fingertips.

  His muscles were taut as bowstrings as she kneaded and smoothed over his bronze, warm skin. She tried to keep her mind carefully schooled away from the sensation of touching him and focused on the fact that she was trying to give him comfort in the only way she knew how.

  But it was difficult not to notice that his attractive masculine scent filled the room, that his skin was soft and supple over the tight muscles. It was difficult not to notice the breathtaking expanse of his upper back that tapered into a slender waist.

  It took several moments of her kneading and working his muscles before she felt them begin to relax. His breathing grew deeper … slower.

  The only sound in the room was the rhythmic bubbling of the water fountain and Clay's deep, even breaths. She knew the instant he'd fallen asleep. The energy field that always emanated from him vanished and his muscles went lax beneath her hands.

  Still she lingered, running her hands softly over his skin as a new kind of tension built inside her. Would she reject him if he turned over and took her in his arms? No, she had to admit to herself that she would not.

  She scooted off the bed, careful not to awaken him. She stood by the edge of the bed for a long moment, taking the opportunity to gaze at him as he slept.

  He nearly filled her double-size bed and she knew the scent of him would linger in the sheets until she decided to wash them again.

  His mouth was slightly agape, making him look oddly vulnerable. She turned off the bedside lamp, deciding he wouldn't want her staring at him in the defenselessness of sleep.

  She grabbed a blanket from a small utility closet, then went back into the living room and made a bed on the sofa. As she turned out the light, her thoughts were on the man sleeping in her bed.

  She had no idea what had transpired from the time he'd dropped her off and the time that he'd returned. But it had been a near-broken man who had shown up on her doorstep.

  Taking off her robe, she settled in on the sofa, the light blanket covering her. She had no idea what the morning would bring, what kind of a mood Clay would wear in the dawn of day.

  His mood might have been better if she'd made an instantaneous decision that what he needed was to be held in her arms, made love to with a passion that stoke away all other thoughts from his head.

  However, she knew making love to Clay would be a foolish thing to do. She learned by her mistakes, and part of her life experience with Max had taught her that having a relationship with a man who didn't share your beliefs and core values only ended up in heartache.

  Making love with Clay would be a mistake on her part, but she had a feeling it would be an enormous complication in his life. The last thing he needed was a personal relationship with anyone. He had more than enough emotional drama in his life with his missing mother and the serial killer.

  She fell asleep with the memory of his skin beneath her fingers and the evocative scent of him invading her senses.

  She awakened just before dawn, for a moment disoriented as she realized she'd slept on the sofa. Then she remembered. Clay.

  Pulling on her robe, she went to the bedroom door, surprised to see Clay still asleep in her bed. She quietly pulled the door closed, then padded into the kitchen.

  As she waited for the sun to come up and the coffee to brew, she wondered how long he would sleep. When she'd fallen asleep the night before she'd half expected him to be gone before she awakened. The fact that he was still asleep told her he'd been even more exhausted than she'd thought.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table in the predawn light, unable to find thoughts in her head that didn't have to do with Clay.

  She wondered if he'd always been as intense … as driven as he seemed. Certainly Rita had worried about his workaholic tendencies, but his mother had also considered Clay a lost soul, a man who had lost his spirituality and no longer listened to the beat of his Cherokee blood through his veins.

  Tamara certainly didn't have the energy to heal a wounded man, nor did she want to fall in love with one. She was in the process of pouring herself a second cup of coffee when she sensed she wasn't alone.

  She turned to see him standing in the kitchen doorway. Shirtless and barefoot, with his jeans riding low across his slender hips and his hair tousled from sleep, he momentarily stole her breath away.

  "What time is it?" he asked. He looked sexy and handsome and cranky as a bear.

  "Almost seven." She gestured toward the coffeepot. "Help yourself."

  He frowned, irritation still riding his features. "Just a fast cup." He walked over to the cabinet and pulled down a mug as she resumed her seat at the table. "I can't believe I slept so long. What did you do? Work some sort of Cherokee hocus-pocus?"

  "You know better than that," she said dryly. "I'd say you slept because you were exhausted."

  He poured himself a cup of coffee, but remained standing by the counter instead of joining her at the table. He took a sip of the coffee, then looked at her, his gaze as obscure as she'd ever seen it.

  "Thank you for your hospitality last night," he said. But his tone didn't hold any real gratitude, rather he sounded somewhat resentful. "I don't even know why I wound up here last night."

  He took another sip of his coffee, then continued. "I guess I just needed to crash someplace peaceful and that's one thing I've noticed about this place … a sense of peace."

  His voice still held a tinge of irritation. Apparently Clay James wasn't a morning person. He finished his coffee in a couple of swallows, then placed the mug in the sink. "I've got to get on my way."

  He didn't wait for her reply, but instead strode out of the kitchen. Tamara silently watched him go. She had a feeling his foul mood was more than just the possibility that he might not be a morning person.

  She had a feeling his mood was because he was angry … embarrassed that she'd seen him weak, seen him vulnerable. She was certain he wasn't a man who showed weakness on a regular basis, if ever.

  He returned to the kitchen moments later, dressed and obviously eager to be on his way. "Just wanted to say thanks again."

  "It was no problem." She got up and walked with him to the front door. "You need to take care of yourself, Clay, I know you're under a lot of pressure with your work, but you can't work yourself to death."

  He nodded, his gaze still dark and impenetrable. "You know, you're always welcome here if you need a place to unwind," she continued. "It is a peaceful place, that's why I love it."

  His eyes seemed to grow darker, but with a spark of fire in their centers. "If I come here again and you welcome me inside wearing that yellow robe and nightie, it won't be sleep I'm looking for." His voice held both seduction and warning.

  He didn't wait for her reply, but stepped out of the door and into the early morning sunshine. It was a good thing he hadn't waited for a reply from her. Her mouth had gone so dry she couldn't have formed a single word.

  She watched as his car pulled away from the cottage, then closed and locked the door behind her. For a long moment she leaned against the door, fighting against the river of want that flowed through her.

  Paint. That's what she needed to do. Painting would take her mind off the man she shouldn't have. Painting would still the haunting question of what it might be like to make love to a
man like Clay.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  Appalled. Clay was appalled by his actions of the night before. What had he been thinking? To show up on Tamara's doorstep numb and depleted both physically and emotionally. He should have gone home or crawled into a hole until he was once again ready to face the world.

  He'd still been able to smell the scent of the oil she'd used the night before when he'd awakened and he hadn't been able to wait to get home and shower it off. He'd needed not only to sluice off the flowery scent, but also the feel of her hands on his back.

  Even now, after showering and leaving his own house, his back still seemed to retain the memory of her strong, yet soft fingers. He felt the whisper of silk against his side and remembered there had been a moment when he'd wanted nothing more than to turn over, take her into his arms and lose himself in making love to her.

  Thank God he hadn't followed through on that particular weakness. It was bad enough that she'd seen him in the condition he'd been in when he'd arrived at her house. That would never happen again.

  Sunday mornings the police station worked on skeleton crew, with only five officers on duty and nobody working in the lab. The good people of Cherokee Corners seemed to honor the Sabbath and kept their crimes spree to the weekdays.

  It had been his intention when he left his house to go into the station, but instead he found himself heading toward Jacob Kincaid's place near the center of town.

  If there was a grand mansion in the entire state of Oklahoma, it was Jacob's home. The unofficial history of the house was that an eccentric millionaire had built it for the young woman he intended to marry. The story went that the young lady traveled from New York to Cherokee Corners, took one look at the dusty small town and got on the next train back home.

  The millionaire left the house half-finished and put in on the market for a song. Jacob's grandfather had bought it and finished the building.

  The stately brick home set in the middle of a perfectly manicured three-acre lot. A long half-circle driveway led to the front of the house.

  As he parked in the front, he checked his watch, noting that it was just before eight. Jacob should be home. He never worked on the weekends.

  Considering the grandeur amid which Jacob lived, he was a surprisingly simple man with a taste for beautiful things. Clay wasn't surprised when Jacob greeted him at the door clad in a plaid bathrobe and slippers.

  "Clay! Come in … come in. I've got a cup of coffee with your name on it."

  "Thanks. I just thought I'd drop in for a quick cup and a short visit before heading into the station." Clay stepped into a foyer the size of his own living room. The gray marble floor beneath his feet shone with a luster and instantly reminded him of Tamara's eyes.

  He followed Jacob quickly across the foyer and into the living room, which was actually a misnomer for what was actually Jacob's collection room.

  Although the room had a sofa, love seat and coffee tables, the items of furniture were merely incidental to the true viewpoints in the room—the massive lighted display cases that lined every available wall.

  Fabergé eggs, bronze statues, jeweled snuffboxes—Jacob liked flashy, beautiful things and the house was a testimony to that fact. Clay knew there was a room upstairs devoted entirely to priceless original oil paintings and another of antique furniture of museum quality.

  Jacob led him into a huge, airy kitchen. This was the only room where there weren't items of interest or obsession. It was an ordinary kitchen and the one place in the house Clay had always felt at home.

  The morning paper was stretched out on one side of the glass-top table along with a cup of coffee. Jacob gestured toward the table as he grabbed a cup from the cabinet and poured coffee for Clay then joined him at the table.

  "You look better than you did when I stopped in the station. Did you finally get a good night's sleep?"

  "Yeah, I did. I guess that the past few weeks finally caught up with me and I crashed hard." He didn't mention where he'd slept. There was no reason to talk about Tamara, no reason to even think about her. "We thought we had a lead to Mom last night."

  "Really?" Jacob leaned forward, his gaze intent. "What happened?"

  Briefly, Clay told him about the trip to Shadow Hills and the pawnshop. When he told Jacob about discovering that it had been Sammy who had pawned the jewelry, Jacob leaned back in his chair with the expression of one whom had eaten something sour.

  "Doesn't surprise me a damn bit. Sammy never had a good sense of right and wrong," Jacob said gruffly. "The man has been nothing but heartache for your father. Your uncle Sammy makes me grateful I'm an only child."

  "Lately I feel like an only child," Clay said dryly. "Since Bree got married and now with Savannah engaged to Riley, I feel like the odd man out."

  "You aren't getting any younger, Clay. You should be married and with a family of your own."

  "That's not in my plans." Clay took a sip of his coffee, then continued. "Being alone hasn't seemed to bother you." Clay eyed the older man curiously. "Why didn't you ever marry, Jacob?"

  "Never found a perfect woman." He took a drink of his coffee, his eyes filled with reflection. "That was always a problem with me. I'd see a woman for a while but it didn't take me long to realize that what I believed was a perfect diamond was actually flawed. Too picky for my own good." He gestured toward the living room. "So, I've built a life collecting perfect pieces … flawless gems, surrounding myself with beauty instead of children."

  "And you never regretted not having a family?"

  "I'm a man at peace, Clay. I'm a man more comfortable alone. You, on the other hand, are far too young to make that kind of decision. From everything I've heard, there's nothing better for a man than the love of a good woman."

  Clay finished his coffee, uncomfortable with the talk about good women and love. What he wanted to do was go by his parents' house and check on his father.

  He wanted to make sure that the emotional turmoil of Sammy's betrayal hadn't destroyed his father more than he was already devastated by Clay's mom's absence.

  "I think I'll head over to the house and check on Dad," Clay said as he rose from the table.

  Jacob looked at him in surprise. "This was a fast visit."

  "Sorry. I just feel like I need to stop by there, then I need to get to the lab. Sundays are quiet days and I can usually get a lot done."

  Jacob stood as well and as they walked back through the living room, he clapped Clay on the back. "I'm sorry, son … about your uncle … about the hopes that I'm sure you felt as you drove to that pawnshop."

  Clay shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't feel. "False leads and blind alleys are all part of the job."

  "You'll keep me posted of any breaks in the case?" Jacob asked.

  "Of course. Thanks for the coffee."

  "Anytime."

  As Clay left the house and walked down the flower-bordered walk to his car, he tried not to think of the woman who had opened her house to him in the middle of the night, a woman who hadn't questioned why he was there or what he might want. She'd simply opened her house and done what she'd thought was best for him.

  A good woman. Perhaps Tamara was a good woman, but he wasn't in the market. He roared away from Jacob's house and headed toward the ranch, trying to keep his focus, his thoughts, his emotions in check.

  He needed to check on his father, then get to work. Work would erase any crazy thoughts he might have about Tamara Greystone. Work would banish the memory of her wearing that little silk robe that he knew hid the tiny nightie beneath, would cast out the memory of her strong, yet gentle touch against his bare skin.

  It took him only minutes to pull up in front of his parents' home. Savannah's car was out front. "Hey, brother," she greeted him as he walked into the living room.

  Clay had always thought both his sisters were pretty, but each had blossomed with the new love in their lives. Savannah's eyes held a shine of happiness he
hadn't seen in a long time and he knew it was Riley Frazier who had put the shine back into her eyes.

  "Hey, sis. What are you doing here?"

  "Dropped off a casserole. You know Uncle Sammy isn't much of a cook and Dad still isn't navigating the kitchen too well."

  "Where are they?"

  "They went to church." She swiped a strand of her long dark hair behind her ear. "Dad told me … about the jewelry."

  Clay fought against the burst of anger that threatened to swell inside him. "Stupid ass didn't even use a fake identification."

  She smiled wryly. "That's always been Uncle Sammy's problem. He's as inept at being a criminal as he is at being an upstanding citizen." Clay didn't return her smile. His blood still boiled as he thought of what Sammy had done.

  "Well, I was just on my way out," Savannah said. "Riley is waiting for me at home."

  Clay walked out on the front porch with her. "How long are you planning on commuting from Sycamore Ridge to here?" he asked. He knew the hour drive to and from work must be tiring for her.

  Her dark eyes held his gaze. "Until Mom is returned to us. I don't want to leave the Cherokee Corners Police Department until we've got her back. Until then, I'll continue to drive in for work from Riley's place in Sycamore Ridge."

  Clay nodded. He understood her desire to maintain status quo until they had all the answers where their mother's disappearance was concerned.

  "Gotta run." She raised up on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  He watched her get into her car and waved as she pulled away and for just a moment he felt as alone in the world as he'd ever felt.

  He turned and walked back into the house. It no longer smelled like home. His mother's scent was absent and the very absence created an ache inside him.

  As always when he was in the house, he eyed things critically, looking for things that might have been missed in the initial sweep right after the crime. Even though he knew the crime team had done a good job and he'd gotten in to pick up anything they might have missed, he never stopped looking.