Untamed Page 6

  "No." Tara shook her head, wishing she hadn't even brought it up. But now that she was here, there was one other little matter she'd like to clear up. "I do have one more question."

  "Shoot."

  "What do you know about Gavin Thomas?"

  "Ah." He nodded. "You've been talking to Iris."

  Tara didn't deny it. "So it's true? He's a convicted murderer?"

  "It's not really my place—"

  "I don't want to hear it's not your place to tell me, Sheriff," Tara cut him off. "The man managed to befriend my grandmother. Then she died of a so-called accident, and the next thing I know he's staying in her house."

  "For the night. To catch the vandals."

  "So he says."

  "But you don't believe that."

  It was not really a question, but Tara answered it, anyway. "I'm not sure."

  Trace rubbed his jaw, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. "I can tell you this much," he decided. "Whatever reasons he had for befriending your grandmother had nothing to do with murder. If I believed, for even a minute, that Gavin Thomas was a danger to anyone in Whiskey River, believe me, Ms. Delaney, he wouldn't be running around loose on the streets."

  "But even if you thought he was a danger to the community, there really wouldn't be much you could do legally until he slipped up and showed his true colors."

  "No offense, Ms. Delaney, but you don't know me. Or what I can do to keep Whiskey River safe."

  His jaw had hardened to stone; his eyes were flint. Tara decided she'd gotten about as far as she was going to for one day.

  "I'm sorry. I was just distressed to learn that my grandmother had made friends with a convicted murderer."

  "He may have been convicted of murder in the second degree," Trace allowed, apparently deciding it was time to set the record straight, "but the conviction was overturned."

  "I heard it was overturned on a technicality."

  "That's only true if you consider the real killer's confessing to the crime a technicality."

  "Is that what happened?"

  "That's what happened. And the governor pardoned Gavin. He was the proverbial innocent, framed man, Ms. Delaney. It doesn't happen as often in life as it does in the movies, but it does happen."

  "So do false confessions," she couldn't resist pointing out.

  "This one was valid."

  "You're sure of that."

  "I was the investigating detective. I took the statement. Yes, I'm sure."

  His no-nonsense voice was edged with cold steel. "Well then, I suppose that's that."

  "I suppose it is." His expression, and his voice, softened. "Gavin Thomas made some mistakes, Ms. Delaney. But murder wasn't one of them."

  Something about this man and his self-assured manner convinced her. "Thank you, Sheriff." She stood, and held out her hand. "You've no idea how much that relieves me."

  "Glad to be of service, Ms. Delaney." He stood, as well, engulfing Tara's hand in one a great deal larger and darker. "May I ask how long you're planning to stay in Whiskey River?"

  "I'll be here for the month."

  "That long." Trace rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

  "I don't have much choice." She turned to leave. "Goodbye, Sheriff. I suppose I'll be seeing you around."

  "I'm sure you will, Ms. Delaney. And once again, I'm sorry about your grandmother."

  As Tara left the building, a man sitting on a bench in the small square next to the courthouse rose and followed her at a discreet distance. He wondered what she and the sheriff had been talking about, wondered if she was going to be a problem. If so, she'd have to be dispensed with. He frowned as he thought about Brigid Delaney's untimely accident. If the old woman hadn't been so damn stubborn, she'd still be alive today. That made him wonder if the witch's granddaughter had inherited Brigid's damn intransigence. He hoped, for her sake, that she hadn't.

  Perhaps, he considered, mulling over all the possibilities, he could gain her cooperation and save himself a great deal of time. Not that she wouldn't get something out of it, he considered. His lips curved into a cruel, sardonic smile. Like staying alive.

  Two hours later her meeting with the sheriff, Tara was back at the house, yanking weeds from the overgrown garden where she'd once waited in vain for Richard to show up for their wedding. It wasn't that she really cared about the garden all that much, she told herself. But it was important for the house and the yard to look its best when she put it up for sale.

  "Dammit, Grandy," she muttered as she attacked a dandelion. "It was bad enough making me come back here. Now you've got half the people in town asking if I'm taking over for you. They're probably all waiting for me to turn into a stringy-haired hag with a huge wart on the end of her nose who invokes the winds on alternating Sabbaths."

  "Brigid certainly wasn't a hag," a deep, all-too-familiar voice behind her said. "And she didn't have any warts. At least none that I could see."

  The voice startled Tara, making her jump. "I didn't hear you drive up." Her expression and her tone were less than welcoming.

  "I guess your mind was on something else." Her face was flushed a soft pink hue, whether from sun or embarrassment at having been caught talking to herself, Gavin couldn't tell.

  She muttered something that could have been a curse or an agreement, then went back to her weeding with renewed vigor.

  When Gavin didn't move, she looked up at him. "Well? Can I do something for you? A little love potion to help you get the woman of your dreams into bed, perhaps? Some magic crystal to bring you fame and fortune? Maybe you'd prefer a tarot reading. Or I could look into my crystal ball and foretell this week's lottery numbers."

  She stood and held out her hand. "Cross my palm with silver and I will tell you many, many things about your future."

  Her outstretched hand was slim and white, her nails nicely trimmed and unpolished. Ignoring the dirt, he took it in both of his, turning it over to trail a fingertip across the sensitive skin of her palm.

  "You have the most incredibly delicate skin." Gavin wondered if she'd be this soft all over and figured she probably would. "You should be extra careful in the sun."

  His touch sent a jolt of electricity shooting through the center of her palm straight to her toes, which suddenly curled in her sneakers.

  "I put on sunscreen." She tugged her hand loose. "What do you want?" she demanded, her hands splayed on her hips.

  His eyes narrowed as they moved in a slow, masculine perusal of her, from the top of her gleaming auburn head down to her feet. She was wearing an oversize cream T-shirt and a pair of faded denim shorts. Her legs were lean and firm and well muscled, revealing that she didn't spend all her time behind a desk.

  Although there was nothing remotely seductive about the outfit, Gavin decided she was one of the most appealing women he'd ever seen.

  "That's a loaded question. Are you sure you want to know the answer?"

  Although she fought against it, Tara found the seductive glint in his eyes unreasonably compelling.

  "Let me put it another way," she amended, determined to avoid the sensual trap he seemed equally determined to lay for her. "What, exactly, are you doing here?"

  "Ah." He nodded as he treated her to another of those long, intimate looks that had her breath catching in her suddenly raw throat. "I brought the glass."

  "Glass?" She wondered idly if he could be a magician himself. Because the way she was finding it difficult to think about anything but him made her suspect he'd hypnotized her. That was the only logical explanation.

  He wondered what she was wearing beneath that oversize shirt. She professed to be a practical, no-nonsense sort of woman, which would suggest white cotton underwear without any frills. But experience had taught him that sometimes the most outwardly sedate females possessed a secret yen for silk and lace.

  Either way—silk or cotton—dammit, he wanted her. And had, he realized, from the first moment he'd seen her.

  A magic spell?

  He a
lmost laughed at the outrageous idea. How about hormones?

  "Did I say something funny?" she asked, annoyed and unreasonably flustered by the humor brightening his eyes.

  "No. It's just the circumstances. You and me. And Brigid."

  "There isn't any you and me," she insisted. "And there isn't going to be." Her irritation cleared her head. "You mentioned glass. I take it you're here to replace the window."

  She'd coated herself in enough ice to encase Jupiter. Gavin was both frustrated by the change and grateful for it. During a long sleepless night, he'd spent too many hours reminding himself that the lady living in Brigid's house offered more complications that he needed. Or wanted.

  "I said I would." As if it possessed a mind of its own, his rebellious finger reached out and played with the little wisps of hair curling at the nape of her neck. "You really should put on a hat to shade your face. You're getting burned."

  Although he'd only touched her hair, excitement flashed up Tara's rigid spine like chain lightning. She backed up, nearly tripping over the hoe. When he grasped her upper arms to steady her, the feel of those long dark fingers set her blood humming.

  Her trembling nerves made her rash. "Don't tell me you've already run out of married women in Whiskey River to seduce?"

  "I see the gossip mill has been working overtime."

  Shutters had come down over his eyes. The muscle jerking in his dark cheek both frightened and fascinated her.

  Tara had regretted her words the minute they'd escaped her mouth. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But it's a small town. And you know how people talk."

  Wanting to escape the notoriety he'd suffered in Texas, Gavin had hoped that the small, remote western Arizona town would provide a new start. Unfortunately, he'd learned it wasn't all that easy to leave the past behind.

  "Would it make a difference if I told you I didn't kill Pamela?"

  Pamela. The dead woman now had a name, which made her ever so much more real in Tara's mind. "It doesn't make any difference to me one way or the other," she lied. "Besides, Sheriff Callahan already told me that."

  His mouth twisted with bitter amusement at the idea of her interrogating his old buddy. "Been checking up on me, Tara?" His voice, smooth and sharp at the same time, reminded her of a stiletto swathed in silk.

  "You were friends with Brigid. You were also in prison for murder."

  "And following that line of thought, since Brigid died unexpectedly, obviously I must have had something to do with it." His expression became speculative. "Maybe you thought I killed her for her collection of crystal balls. Or magic wands."

  "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't need to. The accusation is written all over your face." And what a face, Gavin thought. He ran the back of his hand down her flushed cheek. "You shouldn't try to lie, Tara. You're really not very good at it."

  He was close. Too close. As the vibrations between them hummed through her, Tara forced herself to stay right where she was and not let him see how easily he could unnerve her.

  "I'm sorry. It's just that I don't know you, and—"

  "We can certainly remedy that."

  He rocked forward on the balls of his feet and touched his mouth to hers. The kiss was brief, hard, radiated with lust and was decidedly, frighteningly possessive. A jolt of unfamiliar energy swept through her, and although she'd never felt it before, Tara had no difficulty recognizing it as pure, undiluted passion.

  She sucked in a deep breath, hoping the oxygen would stop her head from spinning. "What do you think you're doing?" A distracting mixture of need and fear continued to simmer in her veins.

  "Getting to know you." He trailed a treacherous fingertip around her lips. "Letting you get to know me."

  "Well, if that was your goal, then you definitely succeeded. And I'm definitely unimpressed." Even as she said the words, Tara braced herself for the bolt of lightning that undoubtedly accompanied such a blatant lie.

  "Are you saying you didn't feel anything just now?"

  "It was pleasant." She shrugged. "A bit like kissing my brother."

  His fingers skimmed around the line of her jaw. "You don't have a brother."

  "A favorite cousin, then."

  "A cousin." He frowned as he caressed her throat, where the flesh was even silkier than her hand had been. And warmer. "I take it that means no sparks?"

  His rough padded fingers created an enervating heat. Though her throat had gone unreasonably dry, Tara managed to speak evenly. "No. No sparks."

  Liar. He didn't need to say the words out loud. They hovered between them like a shimmering force field.

  "I'd hate to think I was losing my touch. I'd better try again."

  She knew it was coming, knew she could stop it. Knew she should stop it. But instead, Tara just stood there, looking up at him as he slowly, deliberately lowered his head.

  Surprisingly, considering the heat in his gaze, the kiss was gentle. Tender. But the swirl of sultry sensation created by the tip of his tongue encircling her parted lips was devastatingly seductive.

  The light touch kindled an instantaneous spark of need. Never, in a million years, could she have imagined the way he could make her entire world spin off its axis with a single kiss. like the first, it did not last long. Yet during that fleeting time, Tara knew that her life had been forever changed.

  "Well." Breathless, she pressed her fingertips to her lips. Tara knew this was the time for a flip, self-assured remark. But it was difficult to think coherently when your mind was reeling.

  "Well, indeed,"

  Hell. He'd intended the kiss-to be short and simple. Short it had been. Simple was something else all together. Shaken, but not prepared to admit it, he resisted the urge to haul her back into his arms and kiss her senseless.

  "I believe we've just given a whole new meaning to the term 'kissing cousins.'"

  "It's only Brigid," Tara insisted shakily. "She's putting thoughts in our minds."

  "You can't believe that."

  "It's the only logical explanation." Tara could feel her grandmother's spirit looking on, thoroughly enjoying the seductive scenario she'd created.

  "Only Brigid's granddaughter would consider a possible haunting to be logical," Gavin said dryly.

  He traced her still-tingling lips with his thumb. He wanted her. In all the ways a man could want a woman. He wanted her so damn badly that he could barely breathe from the wanting.

  There was something about Tara Delaney, something hot and hidden, like a volcanic river running beneath an ice floe, that he found dangerously appealing. Being a survivor, Gavin knew when to back away.

  "Yes, indeed," he drawled, his eyes on that soft, sweet mouth he could still taste, "it's going to be a very interesting month."

  Having thrown down the gauntlet, he released her and headed back to his truck for the window.

  She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Still shaken by what should have been a simple kiss, Tara closed her eyes tight and prayed for calm.

  When that didn't work, she grabbed up the hoe and brutally killed another row of weeds.

  From his perch on the ladder, Gavin looked out over the garden and watched Tara attacking the tangled undergrowth with a silent fury that suggested she'd rather be swinging that hoe at his head. A familiar knot tightened in his stomach.

  Trace was right. It had been too long since he'd enjoyed the little dance of seduction, too long since he'd allowed himself the pleasure of sinking into the fragrant, mindless oblivion of a woman. Too long since he'd gotten laid.

  She could insist until that lovely flushed face turned blue that she wasn't interested in taking the chemistry that had sparked between them to its ultimate conclusion.

  They both knew she was lying.

  Just as they both knew that despite her words to the contrary, before the thirty days had passed, before any For Sale sign went up on the front lawn, he and Tara Delaney would be lovers.

  "Count on it," Gavin murmured as he returned to w
ork, his decision made.

  6

  Tara was finding sleep an elusive target. Lying alone in the old house was very different from sleeping alone in her modern high-rise apartment. The strange night sounds reminded her of floorboards creaking and doors squeaking open. On several occasions over the past three nights, she'd actually gotten out of bed and gone searching for the source of the noise, thinking that perhaps a cat, or some other animal, had gotten into the house. But each time she couldn't find anything, she'd assured herself that the mysterious sounds were nothing more than a century-old house settling down for the night.

  Unfortunately, telling herself that and believing it were two different things. And when she did drift off, dreams of Gavin proved anything but restful. The hot, sensual dreams had her tossing and turning and waking up exhausted and needy.

  She told herself that she should feel relieved that there'd been no sign of him. Instead, his disappearing act had her growing more and more tense.

  "He's obviously wanting me to wonder what he's up to," she muttered to herself as she braved the task of cleaning her grandmother's cluttered study. "Or perhaps he's already changed his mind about wanting to seduce me."

  Not that there was any chance of his succeeding, Tara assured herself. But even as she told herself she wasn't the least bit interested, she had to admit she was irked by the idea that he'd lose interest so quickly.

  Brigid had definitely been a hoarder; Tara doubted her grandmother had thrown anything away during her eight decades on earth. Myriad texts climbed up the forest green wainscotted walls on creamy white shelves, were stacked atop tables, tumbled over the cushions of velvet-covered wing chairs and nearly covered the faded carpet.

  Crystals—glittering gifts from the earth possessed with an inner energy waiting to be liberated—were everywhere. Her first day in the house, Tara had washed all the windows; now a gold-tinged autumn sun streamed through the sparkling glass. The warm morning rays struck a large piece of quartz on the ornately carved mahogany partner's desk, and the room took on a rosy glow as Tara set to work cataloging all the books.