In The Arms Of Danger Page 8

  He snorted. “Miss Weston, you have a way of giving bullshit answers that just annoy the hell out of me. I’m sure you’re well aware there are a lot of valleys in Montana. Big state, lots of valleys, especially where you’re talking about.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth again, lingered, then he slid off the desk.

  There he went again! Jesus. Did the man ever stay put? Pace, pace, pace. No wonder she kept wringing her hands and sweating bullets.

  He settled himself in the leather chair behind the desk, leaned back and made a tent of his fingers. At least he was no longer towering over her. And he wasn’t pacing or settling that scorching gaze on her mouth. She could be thankful for small favors.

  “Would you care to be more specific?” he asked.

  “I told you—I don’t-know-where—exactly.”

  He fisted his hands together and rested his chin on top of them. “Do you do this deliberately?”

  “What?”

  “Are we playing games, Miss Weston? Because if we are, darlin,’ let me warn you, these pitiful little attempts only irritate me, and I’m not in the mood.” His voice bit like cold steel. “I don’t have time to waste. Unless of course, you have something else on your mind, perhaps another type of entertainment? I could make time for—”

  “My God.” Lacey surged to her feet. She leaned forward and placed her palms flat on the old battered desk. “I don’t play sexual mind games, Sheriff.”

  He snorted. “Sure you do.”

  She felt ashamed. She knew deep in her heart he was right. Yeah, okay, so she’d played a few games with him, but on the whole, she had been serious. One couldn’t really fool around much when murder was involved.

  “Look, I don’t know who she was, and no, I don’t know where it happened. I swear to you, a woman died tonight. I’m sorry if I seem a bit confused, but it wasn’t the highlight of my life. It was dark. I was scared and alone. I thought—I believed—I was going to die too.”

  “Sit down, Miss Weston. Sit down!”

  He drummed his fingers on the desktop as she settled back on the chair. “At last something comes out of your mouth besides half-assed, bullshit answers. What was her name?”

  Lacey swiped at the angry tears sliding down her face. “Christ, I wasn’t there doing a goddamned interview. I never heard her name. Or his.”

  “His?”

  “The murderer.”

  “Ah, yes, the elusive phantom killer, a murderer of some unknown woman, in some valley, in some part of Montana, possibly west or maybe south of here. Who the hell knows? Certainly not me and certainly not you, Miss Weston.”

  She had to admit, phrased like that, it sounded ludicrous.

  “Let’s start over, shall we? Was anyone with you? Someone who can verify your story?”

  “Verify my story?” Lacey clenched her teeth, exasperated with his line of questioning. “I was alone.”

  His attention strayed to the ribbons of hair spilling over her breasts. Lacey frowned as he drew his gaze back to her face. There was something in his eyes, a fleeting glance of raw hunger quickly masked by the sweep of thick, black lashes. His hot gaze shifted away, as restless as the man, then he looked at her again, and she decided she was mistaken. There was nothing warm there, just a cool, blank shield behind an icy wall of control. It was so obvious the man was determined to dislike her.

  His next words belied the barely leashed hostility—the resentment that seemed to fill him. She knew he didn’t want her here. He didn’t like her at all. Why? Did he realize she suspected him of this heinous crime?

  “Let me get this straight, Miss Weston. Are you telling me you were out there—in the mountains—the valleys—late at night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Are you crazy?” He leaned back in the chair and glared at her through narrowed eyes. “What the hell were you doing out there?”

  “A night shoot.”

  “I’m afraid to ask. What is a night shoot?”

  Lacey moistened her lips, surprised by the faint flaring of his nostrils as his gaze zeroed in on her mouth . . . again. She ignored the unsteadiness of the hand she raised to her throat and tilted back her head to meet his molten stare. “I’m a freelance photographer, sugar. As a rule, I work where and when I please. I recently accepted a contract to do a series of still shots on the nocturnal movements and habitats of animals inhabiting extreme climates in the United States.”

  She blinked, noted she had his undivided attention and continued. “I came to Montana to do part of the assignment. I was working. I usually work alone. I like it that way.”

  “I see. You thrive on flirting with—danger.”

  There was that flash of humor again. Lacey couldn’t hold back her grin at his pun. “Hardly. I enjoy my work, Sheriff, and I try never to play with danger.”

  His lips twitched, but his sense of humor swiftly departed. “The mountains are a dangerous place at the best of times, Miss Weston. Working alone is just plain reckless. You could take a bad fall. Break an ankle. A leg. Snake bite. Fall down a mountain. There are endless possibilities, all with tragic results.”

  She laughed a little at that. “I’ve done shoots in places, sugar, which would raise the hair on the back of your neck. Last spring I filmed cobras in India, during their mating season. I was suspended over a pit by nothing but a rope for hours filming. You wouldn’t believe how damned far a cobra can spit.”

  His eyes widened. Lacey continued. “The year before that I was in the swamps in Louisiana filming bull alligators in their natural habitat. I stood smack in the middle of this little swamp with stinking black water, doing my best not to get bitten by a cottonmouth that was pissed because I’d invaded its space, when one of those gators gave chase. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back to civilization with all my body parts. I ended up breaking my camera on top of its knobby head before making my escape. Next day I was right back with a new camera and film. That is what I consider dangerous.”

  “Good grief. You are crazy.”

  “No, Sheriff. I’m very good at what I do.”

  He gave a strangled little cough. Amusement lit his eyes, that, and a hint of something Lacey had no trouble interpreting. Desire. Raw, male, desire. It glittered hotly in the pewter depths of his eyes. He wanted her. Lord, wasn’t she just playing with fire? Flirting with danger, just as he’d said?

  “I’ve no doubt, Miss Weston, that you’re very good at any number of things. Having the good sense to practice safety doesn’t appear to be a quality I can attribute to you.”

  Practice safety?

  Lacey felt the heat climb into the roots of her hair, good Lord, but the man had a way of phrasing things that gave her thoughts free license and delicious ideas. No, she simply refused to allow herself to be distracted.

  “I had no reason to fear the mountains,” she murmured. “I was mostly in the valley. I didn’t know I was going to stumble across a murderer. It was pure coincidence I was there to see it happen.”

  Danger snorted. “There are all kinds of predators out there, Miss Weston. Mountain lions, bears, even bucks have been known to attack during rut season.” He held up a hand to silence her as she prepared to argue with him. “Even the weather can play a role in killing you.”

  Lacey frowned. “All right, Geronimo, you can stop trying to frighten me. I don’t scare easily. It’s not the four-legged variety of animal that worries me, or the weather. Like I said, it was pure coincidence I saw the murder.”

  “Wrong tribe.”

  “What?”

  “Geronimo was Chiricahua Apache. The great chief’s last battle was the last significant Indian battle fought. Sadly, he died a prisoner of war in 1909. He’s buried in the Apache Cemetery at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma.” He paused. “If you knew anything about history, you’d know I’m not Apache. I’m Cheyenne and Nez Perce. As I said—wrong tribe.”

  He sounded mortally off
ended.

  “I have a suspicion you have some Anglo blood as well, Sheriff, but apparently it’s not something you’re going to mention.”

  “What I am isn’t open for further discussion. You’re nuts, lady. And ornery. You’re probably meaner than a blind rattlesnake in heat. I’d bet my badge you blithely sail into trouble without giving a thought to the consequences.”

  “Really? You know me so well.”

  “I know the type. But this time there’s a price to be paid, and dammit, I refuse to let you go off half-cocked. You’ll get yourself killed if you continue on this path of recklessness.”

  He looked as if he was battling the urge to shake her the way he clenched and unclenched his hands. She knew exactly how he felt.

  “It’s none of your business how I live my life, and I told you, it was all a matter of bad timing and coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” His lips split with a snarl, and he picked up the thread of her last words. “I’m willing to bet, Miss Weston, that your murderer doesn’t put much stock in coincidence. You’re damn lucky you weren’t killed, also.”

  Danger drew in a deep breath, intent on remaining in control, but he was suddenly furiously angry with her. “How could you be so stupid as to risk your life going out there alone? In the past few hours, there seems to have been an enormous amount of violent activity in this area that has apparently ended in two deaths. I’d call that slightly more than coincidence. Wouldn’t you, Miss Weston?”

  “Listen, Cochise, I haven’t committed any crimes. And stop calling me ‘Miss Weston’ in that condescending tone. My name is Lacey. L-A-C-E-Y! Lacey. Got it?” She paused, drawing in a deep breath. “To coin a phrase, ‘Use it.’ ”

  “At least Cochise was friendly with the whites. That is, until some of his relatives were hanged by U.S. soldiers for a crime they didn’t commit. Then he got a little testy. One can hardly blame the man for getting pissed.” His lips twitched. “Believe me, I know your name, honey. I’m not illiterate. I do know how to spell. And stop calling me Apache names.”

  She folded her hands in her lap, suddenly looking very prim and proper. “I’ll stop calling you names when you stop being bullheaded and listen to me.”

  “Bullheaded? You’re calling me bullheaded?” He snorted.

  “Yes. I need your help. No matter how foolish you believe me to be, there is a man, a man who committed a terrible crime. If he finds me, there could very well be three deaths for you to deal with.”

  Danger stiffened. Abruptly he moved across the room and reached for the stained glass pot sitting on the blackened burner of the ancient Mr. Coffee. His gaze never left her as he filled a white Styrofoam cup with the sludge that passed for coffee.

  He pushed the cup into her trembling hands. “Jesus, your hands are like ice.” He took the cup from her and set it on the desk. His big hands closed around her smaller ones and then he rubbed hers between his.

  Danger drew a slow breath. Her scent hit him, blasting him with her sweet womanly fragrance. Combined with the sunshine and fresh air was the scent of— what? It tantalized his mind. He’d smelled the fragrance before. What was it? Then it dawned on him—baby powder. She smelled like baby powder.

  He grinned. That was it. She smelled like baby Gidget after Anna bathed and powdered her. His body quickened. Hell, he didn’t know the scent of baby powder could be so damned erotic. He stepped quickly back from her, needing the distance between them. He had a feeling no matter what she wore, she’d turn him on.

  “Drink that,” he said, after a few minutes and shoved the cup back into her hands. “It will help warm you up.” He watched her sip the coffee, then nodded. “I fully comprehend the seriousness of your position, but I’m working in the dark here. I can’t help you, if you refuse to be totally honest with me. My gut instinct tells me you haven’t been, and it’s rarely wrong.”

  He returned to the coffee maker and filled a blue ceramic mug that bore the hand-painted inscription, ‘Have You Hugged Your Sheriff Today?’ glazed in bold white letters across it. A dainty, ceramic butterfly rested on top of the S, its yellow wings spread wide as though prepared to take off in flight.

  At Lacey’s arched brow, a lopsided grin twisted his lips. “My sister’s idea of a joke. Anna Leigh has a warped sense of humor at the best of times.”

  “Imagine that. Does she also wear war paint?”

  “Only when an Anglo pisses her off.”

  Lacey narrowed her eyes.

  “The coffee won’t do you any good if you just hold the cup. Drink it.” His lips thinned once again into a flat line. “The caffeine will do you good. And start from the beginning. I want to get your story straight in my mind. I want details.”

  Lacey nodded, sipped at the bitterly strong coffee and gave a deep sigh of appreciation. Caffeine was caffeine. She needed an overdose of it. The warmth helped soothe her inner chill. A sigh of appreciation slipped past her lips, and she relaxed. “As I said, I’m on assignment. I’ve only been camped out for a couple of days.” She paused, took a sip, then continued. “About eight o’clock tonight, I heard a gunshot, and a woman scream. I grabbed my camera, compass, and a flashlight, and took off on foot to investigate. Biggest mistake I ever made.”

  Lacey shuddered and raised her gaze to his. “He killed her. I—I think he must have heard the snap of my camera or I made a noise or something, because he turned and shot at me. He came after me. And I—I ran—as fast as I could— and—uh—oh God—I just left her there to—die.”

  Her throat tightened as tears slid down her face unchecked. “I left her there to die. I—I ran—and I kept on running—until I couldn’t run any more. I should have saved her. I should have done something to help her.”

  Danger leaned closer, gripped her shoulders, and gave her a gentle shake. “Stop it. I said, ‘stop it!’ There was nothing you could do. What could you have done? You would have been killed.”

  “No.” Lacey shook her head wildly. “No! I should have—”

  “Lacey, don’t. You had no way to save her. You did the smart thing by running.”

  She sniffed. “I fell down a slope and lost the flashlight and my camera. My compass shattered in the fall. All I could think about was escaping. I was terrified he’d catch me. I ran and ran until you—”

  “Until I captured you. You didn’t return to your campsite?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why not? Didn’t you have a weapon? A means to protect yourself? What about transport?”

  The faint masculine scent of his cologne drifted across Lacey’s face. Unwelcome warmth stole through her like the first swallow of finely blended whiskey. Desire surged through her. She felt boneless. Dampness spread between her thighs like liquid heat. She squirmed inwardly. Oh, God. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not with this man. She swallowed. Her throat felt as dry as gunpowder.

  “I—I lost the keys to my Jeep.” She wasn’t about to tell him about the spare key hidden on the Jeep. That was her opportunity to get away if she ever escaped from Big Chief that is. “When I fell, they slid out of my shirt pocket. I couldn’t take the time to search for them. He was right behind me. I—I was afraid. Confused. I just started running. It never crossed my mind to return to my camp.”

  “You had no weapon?”

  Rugged, sharp angles slanted across his prominent cheekbones. His burnished skin gave him the brooding looks of a fallen angel. Lacey shivered. Tall and broad-shouldered, he commanded her attention. “A rifle, but I didn’t have any shells for it.”

  “Cartridges.”

  “What?”

  “Shells are for shotguns, not rifles. Somehow, Miss Weston, it doesn’t surprise me in the least you don’t know the difference.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose as if she had given him a headache. “Why in the hell would you take a rifle with you and no rounds of ammunition?”

  “I had shells. And for your information, I do know the difference. I asked for cartridges. The clerk gave me the wrong b
ox and I didn’t notice until it was too late. I was already at my campsite.” Lacey brushed her hair back from her face and blew out a puff of air. “Look, I rented the Jeep in Chinook. A dirt bike, as well. I know how to rough it.”

  He didn’t speak, instead, he just stared at her, a glower on his stern face. His brows furrowed. She saw his lips move soundlessly. Maybe he was praying or chanting. No telling what he was calling down on top of her head. Lacey squirmed. Drat the man. Was he counting to ten? He wanted his pound of flesh.

  “All right. If you must know, it wouldn’t have made a difference if I had shells, cartridges, or what-ever-the-hell you want to label the God-forsaken ammunition—I don’t know how to shoot a gun anyway.”