Born Innocent Read online

  She said just that. “It’s behind the counter... isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  Fighting off a feeling that managed to be half numbness and half panic, Claire got up and went out to the lobby with Joe, where she saw for herself that the gun was not in its place.

  “Are you sure you didn’t move it?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m positive. It was there...yesterday, I think.” Claire sank to the couch in the lobby. “Oh, Lord. In all the upset lately, I’m not really sure of anything. I think it was there yesterday....”

  “What about last night?” Joe wanted to know. “Are you sure you locked the back door when you left for your walk?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. She did remember that. She’d had to stick her flashlight under her arm to have both hands free to engage the deadbolt. “Yes, I’m sure I locked the back door.”

  “And what about the front? Did you lock it before you went back to your own rooms?”

  “Of course I did. I always lock up.”

  “But what about last night specifically? Do you remember locking the front door last night?”

  “Well, I...” Claire searched her memory. Locking up was a rote series of actions. She did them every night. As a result, in her mind, one night blended into another. She must have done it, mustn’t she?

  But then again, she’d been a wreck after what had happened with Henson, and the pregnancy test had been waiting. She couldn’t be absolutely sure that she hadn’t forgotten, with all that had been on her mind right then.

  Joe was standing beside her. She looked up at him. “Oh, Joe. It was... a rough night.” She shook her head slowly. “I can’t be sure. Not absolutely.” A feeling of true hopelessness washed over her.

  Joe sat down beside her, and took her hand. His touch felt warm and rough and good. She’d never in her life been so grateful for another person’s nearness.

  She was terrified of this thing that was happening to her. It was like a nightmare, the worst kind of nightmare, one that seemed to become darker and more convoluted every minute. Right then, she longed to lean against him, to rest her head on his shoulder and drift off into forgetful sleep. She was sure that any real nightmares she might have while dreaming in Joe’s arms could never compare to what was happening in her real, waking world.

  He seemed to read her mind. “Scared?”

  “God. Yes.”

  He guided her head onto his shoulder. She sighed, and rested there. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “We’ll work this out. I swear it. It’ll be okay.”

  He went on murmuring those soothing things she needed to hear, stroking her hair with one hand and holding her close with the other. His nearness was soothing for more than the soft words and the comfort of his touch. His nearness evoked memories—mostly of their one forbidden night—little, inconsequential thoughts that distracted her from her anxiety over what was going on right now.

  She realized she hadn’t seen him smoke since that night they’d shared. Had he quit? She could smell the faint taint of tobacco on him, but O’Donovan’s back room was always smoky. If he’d been there all night, of course he’d smell of smoke.

  “Did you quit smoking?”

  He chuckled. The sound reverberated against her ear. “Leave it to you to notice something like that.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About six weeks.”

  She smiled against his shoulder, and refused to wonder if the time coincided with their magical night together. “Good going, Tally.”

  “It was nothing, Snow.”

  She was quiet. Then, “How’s your shoulder?”

  “All better.”

  “That’s good.” She closed her eyes. And on the velvet darkness of her inner lids, she saw the snowy bandage against his tanned skin, remembered the hardness of his muscles beneath her hands, the rough, strong way he’d entered her body, thrusting so deep that she’d cried out in an agony of pleasure.

  She couldn’t stop her foolish heart from wondering what he would do now if she tipped her head up and begged for his kiss, if she turned enough to rub her breasts against him, if she—

  Claire cut off the dangerous thoughts. Gently, so he wouldn’t suspect what had been going through her mind, she lifted her head from the cradle of his shoulder.

  Their eyes met. His were amber fire. She knew that he knew exactly what she had been imagining.

  But all he said was, “Feel better?”

  “Yes, thank you. Much better.”

  And she realized it was true. She felt stronger just from having rested against him for a few moments. Her mind felt clearer than it had since she’d pushed open the unlatched door to Henson’s bungalow. She spoke with new spirit.

  “You know, my missing gun could be a coincidence.”

  He smiled. “You’re right.” He went on to suggest, “Why don’t you call Amelia and Verna to make sure neither of them happened to move it?”

  She stood up, full of fresh strength and purpose. “I will. I’ll call them right now.”

  “Good. And while you’re at it, has anyone else you can think of had the opportunity to take it?”

  She thought over his question. Then, “Until yesterday, no.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s start with first things first. Call Verna and Amelia.”

  Claire followed his instructions. She was lucky to reach both of her employees at their homes. Amelia, who still sounded somewhat hysterical, said she hadn’t touched the gun, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d noticed if it was where it should be. Verna, like Claire, thought she remembered seeing the gun in its place yesterday. Like Amelia, Verna claimed she hadn’t so much as touched it.

  Claire gritted her teeth and called her mother to ask her if she’d seen the gun. Ella did not take the news well. A man had been shot—and her daughter’s gun was missing? Claire told her mother to settle down, and finally extracted the information that Ella hadn’t even known Claire owned a gun—and she certainly hadn’t moved it from behind the check-in desk.

  When Claire had finished the call to Ella, she told Joe, “I can’t think of anyone else to call... except the sheriff’s office.”

  Joe, who was standing by the window, said nothing.

  She explained, “I think I should report the gun missing, Joe. I really do. Because... Joe, I really am innocent. I really didn’t shoot him. I swear it.”

  “All right,” Joe said quietly. “Call the sheriff’s office.”

  Claire dialed the number and spoke to Amanda Clark, one of the deputies. Deputy Clark took the information and told her to come in Monday and file a full report, if Brawley or Leven didn’t contact her sooner. Claire hung up, feeling she’d made the right decision to tell the police about the gun.

  “What next?” she asked Joe.

  Before he could answer, the red light for room six blinked on.

  Claire answered it. “Front Desk.”

  The man at the other end was distinctly annoyed. Was anybody going to clean his damned room today? Claire promised him prompt service and then hung up.

  “What is it?” Joe asked.

  Claire sighed. “Oh, I sent Amelia home after we found Henson. She was too upset to work. But she hadn’t cleaned any of the rooms before she left. And now...”

  Joe suggested, “Can you show me how to work the phones?”

  She looked at him. “Oh, Joe. Thank you.”

  “Hell, don’t thank me. All I’ll be doing is sitting here punching buttons. You’ll be the one up to the elbows in cleanser and dirty sheets.”

  After Claire showed Joe how to handle the desk, she tried calling Verna, just in case her head housekeeper might be willing to come in and help. But there was no answer, so Claire went about the business of cleaning eleven of the twelve units on her own. Henson’s bungalow remained untouched; it had been taped off limits by the sheriff and his deputies.

  She’d only begun when Joe ap
peared, announcing he’d turned on the answering machine. They devised a system; he’d help her for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then he’d return to the office to see if there were any calls to handle. She was pleased and grateful—and somewhat surprised to find that he could clean a bathroom with the best of them.

  Two parties, in rooms five and one, had checked out during the commotion in the afternoon. By six o’clock, those two rooms were occupied once more. By seven, all the rooms save the back bungalow were clean and in use.

  Claire wheeled the cleaning cart into the housekeeping closet and went to find Joe back at the desk. She noticed right away that his hair was wet and he was wearing a clean shirt.

  He explained, “I had some clothes in my truck, so I took a quick shower. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course. You found the towels all right, I guess?”

  “Yeah. In the cabinet under the sink.”

  “Well, good.”

  They looked at each other. Claire tried not to think of that night when he’d showered and she’d waited with a towel, ready to help him dry off....

  To distract herself from how much she’d enjoyed helping Joe dry off, she made a big show of flopping in a chair across from the lobby couch and demanding, “What’s for dinner? I’m starved.”

  She’d thought she was teasing, but Joe didn’t seem to realize that. “I ordered two steaks and baked potatoes, along with tossed salads and a bottle of red from Farina’s. It’ll be ready in ten minutes or so, so if you’ll take over the desk, I’ll go pick it up.” Farina’s was Pine Bluff’s “nicer” restaurant. It was a step up from Mandy’s, which catered to the short-order crowd.

  Claire sat up straight. “Lord, Joe. Where have you been all my life?” She blushed as soon as she said it. Of course, he’d been around since she was ten. And he’d spent most of the time since they’d met telling her to get lost. “Never mind,” she instructed tartly. “Forget I asked.”

  “Fair enough.” He was hiding a smile; she knew it. He came out from behind the desk and strode to the door. She tried not to gape hungrily at his broad shoulders and lean hips. He turned, just before he left. “Back in twenty minutes. If anyone with a badge shows up, tell them nothing until I’m back here beside you.”

  She liked the sound of that. Until I’m back here beside you...

  “Claire? Did you hear me?”

  She wiped the dreamy smile off her face and snapped to attention. “Absolutely. I won’t talk. Not a word.”

  “Good.” And he left.

  Claire sat there for a moment, thinking that the hard, honest work of making beds and scrubbing sinks had done her good. She was still very concerned about her situation, but she had a little more perspective on it now. Sheriff Brawley—and Leven, too—were working hard to discover what had really happened. The truth was bound to come out. And it was still possible that Henson would wake up and identify his assailant.

  For the first time since she saw him lying so still in his own blood, Claire thought about Henson, the man. She would have been lying had she professed to like him after what he’d done the night before. But she did hope he recovered, for his own sake as well as so the truth could be known.

  Sighing a little, she rested deeper into the chair and turned her head to gaze out the window at the lawn and the pool. This early in the evening, it was still in the high seventies outside, and one of her guests, svelte and tan in an electric-blue bikini, relaxed in a lounger near the deep end.

  Lazily, Claire smoothed the damp tendrils of hair that had stuck to her nape. She’d haphazardly piled it all on top of her head when she started to clean the rooms, but much of it had fallen down, and the work had brought up a sweat.

  Lord, it would be heaven to slip in a quick swim before Joe returned with their dinner. Claire glanced at her watch. She had fifteen minutes. If she hurried, she could manage it.

  Claire switched on the answering machine once more and headed for her bedroom, shedding sweaty clothes as she went.

  She was swimming a backstroke when she saw Joe’s truck pull up in front of the lobby. She made for the edge, hefted herself out and grabbed her thigh-length terry beach jacket. She had it on and was darting across the grass as he emerged from the truck with the stack of white take-out cartons held carefully against his chest.

  She beat him to the front door and held it open for him. “Allow me.”

  He stopped there in the gathering shadows of her porch, and he smiled a little, holding their dinner in conscientious hands. He looked down her legs, bare from mid-thigh, to her feet, and then back up over the fluffy robe to her face, which was pinkening now at the sweet brush of his regard.

  “Have a nice swim?” he asked.

  “Um. Yes. Fine.” All at once, she was all awkwardness. It was silly. It made no sense. The question about her swim was as mundane as a question could get. All he’d really done was look at her.

  But then, all he’d ever had to do was look at her. And, if she were honest, she’d have to admit that he didn’t even have to look. Just having him near her was enough.

  Suddenly she wondered, Did he mean to stay the night? He’d said he’d be beside her, until this bad time was through. And if he was at all concerned for her safety, then she knew he’d be nearby when darkness came.

  He’d sleep on the couch, of course. Their agreement still held, suspended only to the degree that he was helping her through the trouble she was in. But not suspended enough that he’d let himself love her. They were friends; that was all.

  Claire knew she must remember that, must not let her own longings have her hoping for things that would never be.

  “Claire? Are you all right?”

  She swallowed. She made herself smile. “Fine. I’m fine.” She gave a mock bow in the direction of the door she held open. “After you.”

  Chapter Six

  Claire insisted on putting their dinner on real plates, though she didn’t change from her swimsuit because she didn’t want to give the food any more time to get cold. They sat down to her table in the dining area, which was next to the kitchen and marked off from the living room by a wide arch.

  The food was good, and Claire found she had a raging appetite. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes as they each attended to their steaks. Then Joe held the wine bottle over her glass, waiting for her signal to pour.

  She thought of the baby. Alcohol was bad for babies.

  “Half,” she said.

  He gave her what she’d asked for, and she was careful to take no more than a few sips, though she didn’t know yet what she intended to do about the child. She wasn’t making any decisions until her more immediate problem concerning the unconscious man in the Grass Valley hospital was cleared up.

  Claire reconsidered. All right. Maybe she did know what she was going to do about the baby. But she just wasn’t willing yet to face the myriad upheavals her decision was going to create.

  “What is it?” Joe asked.

  Claire looked up from her salad. “Hmm?”

  “What’s going on inside your head?”

  She pushed a bite of salad into her mouth and chewed, mostly to give herself time before she answered.

  Lord, what to say? If she kept the baby, of course he would have to know. Whatever did or did not exist between herself and Joe, it was his baby, too.

  But what would he think when she told him?

  That she was trying to trap him, most likely. She’d finally lured him into bed after years of begging him to give her love a chance. He’d spent one night with her—and guess what? She was pregnant. And after explaining so clearly that it was her safe time, too.

  “Claire? What’s wrong?”

  Coward that she was, she just couldn’t tell him yet. “Nothing, really. It’s all just a little... overwhelming, I guess.”

  “Don’t dwell on it,” he advised.

  She forced a brave smile. “I’ll do my best not to.”

  Joe slept on the couch that night, as Cl
aire had assumed he would. It was a rough night for her. Across the bridge, they held a street dance, and the music went on into the small hours. And there were even more fireworks exploding than the night before. But more than the noise, her own grim thoughts kept her eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling.

  The next day, Sunday, Joe stayed with Claire all day except for a brief trip to his ranch in the early morning to feed the few animals and pick up more clothes. Both of them tried their best to be cheerful, but there was so much unspoken between them. And Claire found herself grimly sure each time the phone rang that it was going to be Undersheriff Leven asking her for another interview.

  It was Amelia’s regular workday. Claire was relieved when she showed up on time and appeared to be recovered from her hysteria of the day before. She chomped her gum and gave Joe the once-over but refrained from asking exactly what he was doing there.

  Claire, who’d spent her sleepless night determining that adversity would not get the better of her, had also decided she wouldn’t hide herself away. People would talk, of course, but she would not let the stares or the whispered comments interfere with her life in the least.

  Every day, when Verna or Amelia relieved her, she went to lunch at Mandy’s. Today would be no exception—except that she insisted Joe go with her. It would be her treat.

  He gave her one of his most ironic smiles. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing. Amelia, no gum while you’re at the desk.” Amelia nodded. Claire turned for the door. “Let’s go, Joe. I’m starving.”

  Mandy’s was full, though not as packed as the day before. Ignoring the slight hush that settled over the room when they entered, Claire and Joe got a booth at the back. They ordered.

  Before their food came, Eaton Slade, the local handyman, shuffled over. “Claire, you got a load for me?” He ran his fingers under the straps of his battered overalls. “Tomorrow morning, six-thirty sharp?” Pine Bluff had no garbage pickup. Every week, Eaton hauled the motel’s trash to the dump for Claire.

  “I’ll have it ready,” Claire promised.