Born Innocent Read online

  “You just won’t get the message about me, will you?”

  “Joe, I..Her throat closed up and her mouth went dry as she watched him step around the coffee table and close the distance between them.

  “How many years,” he was asking too softly as he came toward her, “have I protected you... from me?”

  She stared into those eyes that burned her through the darkness, and she had to swallow before managing on a husky sigh, “About twenty.”

  He stopped coming toward her only when he stood so close she could feel his breath on her upturned face. She looked into those strange wolfish eyes and saw pure emptiness, flat deadness. At first. But then she looked harder, and beneath the emptiness, she saw despair.

  “You’re so innocent,” he muttered, and his amber eyes seemed to devour her. “So damned naive, even after all these years.”

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  CHRISTINE

  RIMMER

  Born Innocent

  Silhouette Special Edition

  Originally Published by Silhouette Books a division of Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.

  DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

  If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the Author nor the publisher has received any payment for this book.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Silhouette Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW91SR

  © Christine Rimmer 1993

  Silhouette, Silhouette Special Edition and Colophon are Trade Marks of Harlequin Enterprises B. V.

  ISBN 0 373 59090 3 23-9401

  Made and printed in Great Britain

  For my aunts, Katherine Clunie, Anna Marie Folsom, Emma Schofield and Janice Trotter, because their doors have always been open to me.

  Also, thanks to Lou Foxworthy, Deputy of the Sierra County Sheriffs Office, and to Marianne Ruhling LVN, for answering so graciously every question I put to them. Any police procedural or medical errors are strictly my own.

  CHRISTINE RIMMER,

  a third generation Californian, came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she'd been an actress, a sales clerk, a janitor, a model, a phone sales representative, a teacher, a waitress, a playwright and an office manager. Now that she's finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining "life experience" for her future as a novelist. Those who know her best withold comment when she makes such claims; they are grateful that she's at last found steady work. Christine is grateful, too—not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what awaits her when the day’s work is through: a man she loves who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day.

  Other Silhouette Books by Christine Rimmer

  Silhouette Desire Silhouette Special Edition

  No Turning Back Double Dare

  Call It Fate Slow Larkin's Revenge

  Temporary Temptress Earth Angel

  Hard Luck Lady Wagered Woman

  Midsummer Madness

  Chapter One

  Claire recognized the battered pickup just as she was pulling into her own parking slot two spaces away.

  She stopped her van. After that, she sat there for a moment, hands clutching the steering wheel, wishing she could see through the walls of the trim, wood-sided cottage in front of her, to know for sure if Joe Tally was actually there, waiting for her.

  But then she closed her eyes and discovered she didn’t really need to see him. She could feel him. He was there.

  And though she’d loved him with every fiber of her being for most of her life, right then she hated him.

  They’d made an agreement, which they’d both stood by for well over a month. Why in heaven’s name did he have to choose today of all days to break it? Did he know, somehow? Did he sense... ?

  Claire cut off the thought before it was even complete. Joe knew nothing. There was no way he could know. She herself didn’t even know for sure yet.

  With a soft sigh, Claire rested her cheek on the steering wheel and stared at the sign hung from a wrought-iron frame on the grass by the front walk.

  SNOW’S INN

  Your Sierra Retreat

  in Friendly Pine Bluff

  Reasonable Rates

  NO Vacancy

  It was a sign she herself had painted not long ago, and she was proud of it. She had a firm, bold hand. The letters were straight and clear. The little border of pine boughs could have been drawn by a professional.

  The motel, which consisted of a rather motley collection of small cottages and one large L-shaped building, had been somewhat run down when she’d bought it five years ago. But with time and care, she’d made it special. Now, during the summer months, she was always booked up solid for weeks in advance.

  She’d done well for herself, made herself a good life. Even if Joe Tally wouldn’t have her, she was doing just fine.

  Claire tipped her head so she could see a patch of the powder blue sky. From the pool area about fifty feet away, she could hear splashing and laughter. Her customers were enjoying themselves on this gorgeous summer day. Everything was just as it should be. Nothing had changed. The world kept turning and life went on—just as she would keep on, no matter what happened when she went through the door to the lobby and confronted the man who waited for her there.

  She breathed deep, feeling better... and then she jumped in her seat and cried “Oh!” as behind her in the street there was a chain of sharp explosions. For a frightened, suspended moment, she thought someone was shooting at her. Then she remembered; tomorrow was July 4th, Independence Day.

  She turned her head just in time to see a local boy speed off down the street as fast as his skinny legs would take him.

  Claire smiled then, and dashed away the one tear that had escaped her lids. She would not hope, nor would she dread. She would simply put one foot in front of the other and do what must be done.

  Beside her on the passenger seat was a big stack of mail, which Claire had just pi
cked up from the post office. It was her personal mail, along with all the correspondence belonging to the guests of her motel. Next to the mail sat a bag from a Grass Valley drugstore. The bag contained a bottle of sunblock, a lipstick Claire had thought pretty, a few bars of the glycerine soap she liked—and the real reason Claire had taken three hours off to drive to Grass Valley and back: a pregnancy test kit.

  Claire hooked her purse over her shoulder, scooped the mail into her arms and then hesitated. Should she leave the bag in the van for now? She could just as easily come out and get it later, after Joe was gone.

  But no. Joe Tally seemed to have eyes in the back of his head sometimes, it was true. But she was reasonably sure he did not possess X-ray vision. If she just kept her face composed, then her secret—and she didn’t know for certain yet if there really was a secret, now did she?—would be safe, brown bag or not.

  Claire snatched up the bag and got out of the van. Shoulders back and eyes dry, she strode up the steps to the porch of the cottage. She opened the glass-topped front door and entered the air-conditioned comfort of the front room that served as the lobby of her motel.

  From behind the check-in desk, Claire’s head housekeeper, Verna Higgins, glanced up. “You got a visitor, Claire.” Verna tipped her head toward the man in faded jeans who waited near a lace-curtained window.

  Claire turned and forced herself to meet those tawny eyes of his. He didn’t move, but his long body seemed to gather a little, to ready itself.

  “Hello, Claire.”

  She granted the briefest of nods. “Joe.”

  “I need to talk to you. Alone.” He flicked a quick glance at Verna.

  Claire smiled at the woman who relieved her at the desk and also cleaned the rooms. “Thanks, Verna. I’ll take over now. Go ahead and finish up the rooms.”

  “Okay.” Verna came around from behind the desk and went out the way Claire had come in.

  When Verna was gone, neither Claire nor Joe spoke for a moment. Claire found the silence dangerous. Just standing there staring at him was a mistake. He looked much better than he had on that forbidden night almost six weeks ago, yet the lines of time and care were there. Life had not been kind to Joe Tally; it had hardened and tempered him—and left a haunted look in his strange amber eyes.

  Claire felt the old, pointless urge take hold of her. She yearned to rush to him, to hold out her arms, to offer her whole self as a comfort to him, as a salve to his lonely, troubled soul.

  She cut her eyes away from him and set the mail behind the counter. Then she carefully positioned the service bell in the center of the check-in desk, where anyone who came in would be sure to see it.

  “Come on in back,” she said, and went through the door behind the desk into the tiny foyer that led to her own living quarters. Beyond the foyer was her dining and living room, and beyond that was a kitchen, her bedroom and bath.

  “Have a seat,” she offered over her shoulder once she’d reached her living room. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  Not pausing to see if he took her suggestion, she went through the short hall to her bedroom and set the bag and her purse on the little table by the bed. She closed the door behind her on her way back out to him, though she knew the precaution accomplished nothing. Joe was not the type to wander into rooms just because the door happened to be ajar. Joe went where he went on purpose, or not at all.

  He was still standing when she returned to the living room. He’d gone over to one of the long double-hung windows on the west wall. The afternoon sun had begun to slant that way. It cut a sharp brightness across one side of his face. Once more, from outside, she was aware of the splashing and laughter at the pool.

  “Okay, Joe. What is it?” She barely moved into the room, choosing instead to hover near the entrance to the hall.

  A tightness pinched his mouth, as if he didn’t know how to begin. But then he did begin, his low voice even and matter-of-fact. “Look, I haven’t forgotten the agreement.”

  A sharp pain pierced her, and it took every ounce of will she possessed to keep her brow smooth, her expression serene. She had told herself she wouldn’t hope. But hope was a weed of an emotion—it sprung up again no matter what you did to kill it. She lifted her chin. “Then why are you here?”

  He turned away from the window to face her more directly. Now the light was behind him, creating a faint nimbus around his dark brown hair. “It’s about Alan Henson.”

  Claire almost murmured “Who?,” but somehow she held the word back. She felt her cheeks warm slightly at how close she’d come to embarrassing herself, when all she had left now was her pride. Of course she knew who Alan was. But with Joe near, she had trouble remembering anyone else existed.

  “What about Alan?” She was proud of her voice. It was cool and steady, the exact opposite of how she felt inside.

  “I hear you’ve been seeing him.”

  “So? What if I have?”

  Joe’s response was flat and final. “I don’t like it, that’s what. I want it to stop.”

  Something sharp and fiery arrowed through her veins then. Anger. What was his problem? He didn’t want her, but he didn’t want anyone else to have her, either?

  The anger made her reckless. She spoke with flagrant challenge. “Excuse me, but who exactly do you think you are?”

  He took one step toward her, and no more. Then, very deliberately, he looked her up and down. Her skin burned in the wake of his glance.

  “I’m your friend. I only want to help,” he said with quiet emphasis.

  Claire couldn’t suppress her slight gasp. They were her own words of that night nearly six weeks ago, her own exact words, given back.

  Joe went on, with some irony, “And part of what I do for a living is knowing a suspicious character when I see one.”

  Staring at him, grimly doing her best to push back images of that unforgettable night, Claire tried to absorb what he was saying about Alan. But it just didn’t make sense. Alan Henson, with his soft brown eyes and quiet ways, was just about the most harmless individual Claire had ever met. She shook her head. “Come on, Joe. There is nothing suspicious about Alan Henson.”

  “There isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then why the hell is he hanging around this town all alone, doing nothing week after week?”

  She remembered what Alan had explained to her that first morning she’d run into him over at Mandy’s Cafe. “He’s... getting away from it all.”

  “That’s what he’s told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else has he said—about himself, about his life?” “What do you mean?”

  He gave her a look so patient it was condescending. “I mean, who is this guy? What do you know about him? Where does he come from? Who are his people? And what the hell is he ‘getting away from’?”

  Claire sank to the straight chair by the hall entrance. Now that she really thought about it, Alan actually hadn’t told her much about himself. She recalled, a little defensively, “He’s a businessman. From San Francisco.”

  “What business?” Joe demanded. “And how do you know he’s really from San Francisco?”

  Claire held back a moan of frustration. Who cares about Alan Henson? she thought. He was a guest. He’d been renting the back bungalow for the past four weeks. She’d shared a few “dutch” lunches with him at Mandy’s Cafe, and once he’d bought her a drink over at O’Donovan’s Tavern. To Claire, he seemed a nice enough man, and that was about all.

  Alan Henson was no problem for her. She had real problems to worry over, problems that she was trying her best not to let Joe suspect.

  “Claire, look at me. This is important. You’re too damn trusting, and you know it.”

  She forced herself once again to meet Joe’s eyes. “You’re making a big issue out of nothing. Just let it go.”

  “No, Claire. I won’t let it go. I don’t like what I’ve heard about this guy. He shows up in town out of nowhere and spreads the
word around that he’s looking for vacation property—and then he’s vague and unenthusiastic when Bob Buntley calls him.” Bob was the local real estate agent. “He also spends a hell of a lot of time in his room, with the blinds drawn. Or down at the river sitting on a rock, staring into the current.

  “When he thinks no one’s paying attention, he acts like a man with something serious on his mind. But then the minute anyone actually talks to him, he pastes on a big smile and suddenly he hasn’t got a care in the world.” Joe paused, looked away, then snared her glance again. “Damn it, Claire. There’s something... not right about the guy.” His frustration was evident in the tightness of his voice. “I just.... I don’t like to see you mixed up with him.” He turned his back on her and went to stare out the window again.

  Claire began to feel ashamed. Even if Joe would never give her his love, he’d meant what he said a few moments ago. He was her friend. Her welfare mattered to him. He must have gone to some trouble to discover whatever there was to learn about Henson. And from the points he’d just made, his suspicions had some merit. She saw now just how petty and mean she’d been to mislead him about herself and a man in whom she had no interest at all.

  She rose, and carefully approached him. “Look, Joe.” She spoke with gentle firmness. “You know how people are in this town. A woman goes to lunch with a man, and they have her married to him by dinnertime. But whatever people are saying, I’m not dating Alan Henson. He’s just a casual acquaintance, and that’s all he’ll ever be. If he’s got problems I don’t know about, well, they don’t concern me because there’s nothing at all between Alan and me.”

  Joe turned from the window. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Honestly. There’s nothing between Alan Henson and me. And there never will be.” How could there be, a desolate inner voice added, when Alan Henson isn’t you?

  Joe looked down at her. She found herself doing what she’d always done when close to him: memorizing him, from the high, fine forehead to the bladelike nose, the thin slash of mouth. His skin was toughened, freckled, from long hours in the sun. His straight black brows had the slightest arch at the outer edges.