All right, fine. She could buy that. The man had made a moral choice, drawn the proverbial line in the sand and hadn’t crossed it.
“Bud Traynor wouldn’t have let you go that easily.”
He laughed, the sound close to a sob, but he didn’t answer.
“He threatened you with something else. What was it?”
Turning, eyes bloodshot and raw, he asked, “What’s the worst thing he could do to you?”
Touch her and make her like it, make her crave it again and again.
“You should see your face,” Baxter said. “You look like a racehorse scenting smoke in the stable. I can even hear your breath coming faster.” He stepped closer. “He’s like the devil. He knows your biggest fear and he exploits it.”
She held her breath, let it out. “What was yours, Baxter?”
They stared each other down.
“I can’t tell you any more than you can tell me.”
True. That answer begged another question. Would killing Lance have saved him?
Chapter Eighteen
Max had no choice. As she sat in her car outside Baxter Newton’s modest Atherton home, she called Bud Traynor for the second time that day. At this rate, she might as well program his damn number into the phone’s memory.
Oh yeah, couldn’t. It was Witt’s phone. Someday she had to return it.
“Lunch time,” Bud mused in that mocking tone after she told him she had an important question. “I wasn’t planning on going out for lunch, Max—”
She cut him off. “I wasn’t inviting you out. I need to know—”
He did the same. “Lunch. I insist, Max.”
“I don’t think I’d be able to keep my food down.”
He laughed, enjoying the banter as always, even if it was nasty. “You only get answers if you meet me, Max.”
Damn and double damn. “Fine. How about McDonalds?”
“Oh, please, Max, I can’t entertain a lady over fast food.”
She thought briefly of that first lunch with Witt. Kentucky Fried Chicken on a busy main street near his station. What she wouldn’t give to do that again instead. “All right, fine,” she gave in, playing Traynor’s game, knowing it was the only way he’d tell her anything. “Where?”
“Belladonna.”
A poisonous name, no less than she expected from him, but who would really name their restaurant that? “How do I get there?”
“It’s near my office.” She’d been there, looking for clues on his daughter’s murder. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience.
He gave her directions to the restaurant.
“I can get there in half an hour.” If she drove like a maniac, which was certainly proved by even the contemplation of another meeting with the bastard.
Lunch hour traffic on the Peninsula, though nowhere near the level of rush hour, forced her to be fifteen minutes late. She did, however, enjoy making him wait.
“Late on purpose, Max?” Bud asked as the hostess seated her in the booth.
Damn, the man always found a way to be one up on her. “I wouldn’t even bother.”
“Always a good comeback, Max. I ordered you a Shrimp Louis.”
“I hate shrimp.” She loved a good Louis, loved the sauce and the boiled eggs and ... her stomach growled.
“But you’ll eat it to please me, won’t you, Max?”
“I’m not staying long enough to try it, and the thought of pleasing you turns me off food completely.”
He looked at her, as if expecting more needling. He’d taken a booth in the corner at the back of the restaurant. Long white tablecloth, candles, a single rose, and a high seat back that effectively muted the conversation around them. She’d entered a cocoon with him. At night, the lights would be turned low and the romance turned up. Now, tables were full, men and women in business suits and casual wear, waiters in black slacks and white aprons moving fluidly between them. A cell phone rang, and a man sitting by himself answered, speaking earnestly. There was something familiar about the face and dark hair that she couldn’t quite place, as if she was seeing him out of his usual setting.
“Max,” Bud said softly, his hand on her arm as if vying for her attention, “I’m surprised you haven’t admonished me for ordering for you.”
She’d never taken her attention off him, had felt his hand snaking across the table towards her, and steeled herself against reaction. He’d sat in the middle of the curved seat, forcing her to remain within his reach if she didn’t want to fall out of the damn booth. Purposeful. Everything he did was. Turning, she glanced first at his hand, then moved to his eyes, black eyes seemingly even darker in the dimness created by the tall seat backs.
“Don’t touch me.” Her curled lip gave the first word emphasis.