“That’s…” He wasn’t sure what it was. Obviously not impossible.
“There’s a bed-and-breakfast,” the chief said. “You want to run him over to your dad’s place, Raye?” Johnson lifted his eyebrows. “After you put on some clothes. If he sees you walking around like that he’ll have a stroke.”
If her attire was stroke inducing she better hope her father never came to New Orleans. Bobby didn’t think he’d seen a bra—unless it was worn without a shirt—on Bourbon Street in years.
The chief paused with one foot inside his cruiser. “Let’s meet at my office in the morning, Detective, and I’ll bring you up to speed. Say seven?” The chief didn’t wait for an answer, just climbed into his car, pulled around Bobby’s and away.
“Talk about the middle of the night,” Bobby muttered.
“I’ll grab some shoes, a jacket.” Raye turned, and he snatched her arm. She hissed as if in pain, and he released her. Her perfect white flesh was marred by finger-shaped bruises.
“You didn’t say he touched you.”
“He didn’t.” She continued toward the stairs. Bobby followed. There hadn’t been anyone there before, but he still didn’t feel comfortable letting her go back alone. He wasn’t sure why.
“Who did?” He started up after her.
She paused, casting a glance back. “I don’t need your help to dress.”
She might not need it, but he wouldn’t mind giving it.
“You really want to go up there alone?”
She shrugged, and the strap of her thin cotton tank slid to the edge of her shoulder. He held his breath, half hoping it would fall.
“I was imagining things.”
He dragged his gaze to hers. “You do that a lot?”
“What’s a lot?” She lifted her hand and shoved her hair from her face. The bruises shone black in the moonlight.
“Who hurt you?”
She dropped her arm. “I’m a kindergarten teacher.” At his blank expression, she continued. “Kids run, and they can’t stop. They fall. They slide. They bump themselves and their teacher. I’ve always got a bruise somewhere. I’m lucky I still have my front teeth.” Her lips quirked upward. “Most of them don’t.”
She was lying again. Maybe not about the bruises in general, but about these, definitely. Bobby could smell it as clearly as that slight whiff of something burning on the breeze.
Chapter 3
I stomped up the steps and into the apartment before Detective Doucet could call me a liar. I tried to shut the door in his face, but he was too quick. I kind of liked that about him. Among other things.
Those blue eyes, the latte shade of his skin, cheekbones to die for, long legs, great arms, and a deep voice, with an accent that invited questions. He sounded both Southern and foreign. Although this far north, Southern was foreign.
He was beautiful and built. Not that we didn’t see both in New Bergin. But not like this.
The most exotic being ever recorded in northern Wisconsin was Johnny Depp who had come here to make a movie about Dillinger. And while the grapevine had labeled him one helluva nice guy, local photo ops proved he was not as pretty as he appeared on screen—nor half as tall.
Bobby Doucet was about six one. I found it a welcome bonus to have to tilt my head to see into his face. Even scowling he was mouthwateringly gorgeous.
“I’ll be right out.” I pushed on the door.
“I’d rather you let me in.” He pushed back.
“You said there was no one in the apartment.”
“There wasn’t.” His gaze narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell the chief about the intruder?”
I couldn’t tell Doucet that I’d started to wonder if the figure I’d seen was just another ghost. Then he’d stare at me as if I were nuts. Wouldn’t be the first time for me, but it would be the first time for me with him. And I liked the way he’d been looking at me. As if I were as exotic a being in his eyes as he was in mine.
“Maybe I imagined him. Her. It.” I released my hold on the door.
I’d hoped my Puritan was hanging about inside, and I could ask why he’d suddenly chosen to speak to me tonight when he never had before. As he wasn’t, no need to leave the detective out in the cold.
“It?” Doucet repeated, and I spread my hands.
“What else do you call a dream?”
“Nightmare?”
I’d been halfway to my bedroom but the word made me turn. His eyes were as haunted as my life. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” He glanced away. “Everyone has nightmares.”
I didn’t think everyone had the kind of nightmares we did, those that hung around in the light. But I didn’t know him well enough to ask. Does anyone ever know anyone that well? I liked to think so, to hope so, otherwise what was the point of anything?