James studied her and in the dim light of the streetlamp she saw the tenderness in his eyes. Although she tried to resist, he slipped his arms around her and pulled her against him.

When she finally surrendered, leaning into his strength, James whispered in her ear, “Oh, Christie, Christie, how long until you see I’m not like those other men?”

She so badly wanted to believe him, yet knew she couldn’t. Too many times before, she’d been duped. She couldn’t risk it again.

Still, when he lowered his mouth to hers, she offered no resistance. Sliding her arms around his neck, she yielded to his kiss. His lips were warm and moist as he half lifted her from the pavement. His gentleness made her knees weak and her heart race.

When he released her, she was surprised she was still upright.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said. “I’ll be here when you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere, Christie.”

She wanted to argue but couldn’t.

He touched her cheek again, then left her standing alone in the Pink Poodle parking lot.

Twenty-Seven

If he didn’t know that Faith’s tires had been slashed two weeks ago and that her home had been vandalized in January, Troy wouldn’t have guessed that anything untoward had happened at 204 Rosewood Lane. But the harassment had been intermittent from the moment she’d moved in. Troy was at a loss to explain why Faith had been singled out. She wasn’t the kind of person who made enemies; anyone who met Faith was immediately drawn to her. He hated the fact that neither he nor his deputies had been able to determine who was responsible.

He stood in front of the house, recalling the morning he’d come to talk to Grace Sherman.

Dan had disappeared and at that point no one knew the tragic truth—that his lifelong depression over an incident in Vietnam had driven him to suicide. Troy had vivid memories of that visit and the one a year later, when he’d come to bring Grace the news that Dan’s body had been found.

Sandy had been alive when Dan Sherman went missing. Troy had told her about the case. She’d lost much of her ability to communicate verbally by then, but her expressive eyes had revealed her sympathy for Grace.

Troy sighed. He was surprised by how often he thought of Sandy. He wished he could talk to her now. She’d always been a good listener and while it might seem odd that he’d want to discuss his feelings for another woman with her, he sensed that if Sandy had known Faith, they would’ve been friends.

Catching him off guard, the front door opened and Faith stepped onto the porch, standing in the afternoon drizzle. Spring had officially begun a week ago, and as the old saying went, March showers brought April flowers. Or was it April showers that brought May flowers? In either case, it was still a winter sky, bleak and gray, although the days were noticeably longer.

“Troy,” Faith called, her arms crossed protectively over her chest, “what are you doing here?”

Grinning, Troy walked up the pathway to the house. “Just checking to make sure you’re safe and sound.”

“I have a feeling you check on me quite a bit.”

Troy didn’t deny it. It’d become habit to drive by at least once a day and sometimes more often, although he didn’t want Faith to know how often. “I keep turning up like a bad penny, right?”

Faith smiled, and her lovely face seemed even lovelier. “Do you feel like a cup of decaf coffee?”

One thing he wouldn’t do, and that was refuse to spend time with Faith. He loved her. He knew she loved him, too. For the most part they’d worked out their differences but the situation between them remained tentative. Although they’d known each other practically their entire lives, the setbacks of the past year had nearly destroyed any promise of a lasting relationship.

He followed Faith into the house and saw that she’d been knitting. The television was on the twenty-four-hour news channel, and the aroma of cooking wafted toward him. Whatever it was smelled delicious.

He took a seat and Faith brought him a mug. “There’s something on your mind,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I know that whatever it is doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

She was right on both counts, and her ability to read him so easily reminded him of Sandy. Despite his lawman’s poker face, Sandy could always tell when he was disturbed by a case, and now it seemed Faith shared that trait.

She sat across from him. “Can you talk about it?” she asked.

He shook his head. This was information he couldn’t share. A visit from Charlotte Rhodes earlier that afternoon had most likely given him the solution to one of his most difficult outstanding cases. Even now, Troy wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, especially since it involved someone he knew well.

“I wish I could…but I can’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Faith said in that soothing way of hers.

He held his coffee with both hands, letting the heat chase away the chill of late afternoon. “How’d you know something was on my mind?” he asked curiously.

Faith picked up her knitting and gazed into the flickering light of the fireplace. “I’m not sure.”

Troy stared into his coffee. “That’s not true, Faith.”

She laughed. “How do you know?”

“Touché.” It would be so easy to sit with Faith for the rest of the evening. Who was he kidding? He’d like nothing better than to be with her for the rest of his life. A contentment that had escaped him all afternoon settled over him.

“Okay, I’ll explain,” she said, her fingers nimbly working the yarn. “You have a ‘tell.”

“A ‘tell’?”

“Yes,” she said, brightening. “I’ve been watching that poker show on TV. I don’t know how I got started, but now I’m hooked.”

“And a ‘tell’ is?” He knew very well what it meant, but he wanted to hear her definition of it—and, even more, what she felt his “tell” was.

Faith’s response was enthusiastic. “You’ve noticed that a lot of poker players wear dark glasses? The reason, according to the commentators, is that other players can read their eyes and know if they’re bluffing or not. I saw one player who shuffled his chips every time he was dealt a good hand. I could tell he had decent cards by his body language.”

“In other words, you can read me the same way you read that poker player?”

“Yes,” she answered smugly.

Troy was enjoying this. “Would it be divulging too much to ask what my ‘tell’ is?”

She smiled again and stopped knitting for a moment. Leaning forward slightly, she said, “You squint.”

“I most certainly do not,” Troy said.

“Oh, but, Troy, you do. Your eyes narrow and you frown. It’s like you’re trying to read tiny, tiny print.”

As if to prove the opposite, he widened his eyes, which made Faith laugh outright.

“When did you first see this ‘tell’ of mine?”

“Christmas.”

The only real interaction he could remember was at the Christmas tree farm, where Megan and Craig had dragged him for their annual outing. Faith had been with her son and her grandchildren, and they’d met there.

“Can you be more precise?”

She lowered her eyes as though her knitting suddenly demanded her full attention. “The night I ran into you at the tree farm,” she said.

So he was right. “Ah, yes.”

“I knew the instant I saw you that you didn’t want to be there.”

That much was true. The only reason he’d gone was for Megan’s sake. The choosing and chopping down of the Christmas tree had long been a family tradition, and although he’d tried to beg off, his daughter had insisted.

“You were furious with me, as I recall.”

“Yes, I was,” she said.

“But you aren’t anymore, right?”

Faith shook her index finger at him. “You aren’t going to distract me. We were talking about your ‘tell,’ remember?”

He gestured toward her. “By all means, continue.”

“As I was saying,” she said, her mouth quivering with a smile. “You squint. You squinted that night when you saw me.”

“And you pretended you hadn’t noticed me.”

“Not as successfully as I’d hoped,” she said, amusement still evident on her face.

He grinned, too. “I guess this means I should never play poker,” he said lightly.

“Not with me, you shouldn’t,” she told him, as her fingers moved quickly, looping the yarn onto the needles.

Troy had never asked her what she was knitting. He thought of the socks she’d made him; he still wore them but never without a pang of nostalgia—and remorse.

He reluctantly set his coffee aside. “Nothing’s been going on around here, has it?”

Faith looked away. “Nothing of significance.”

“Faith…”

Sighing heavily, she stared down at her knitting. “Someone, probably a kid trying to make trouble, overturned my garbage can. No harm done.”

Troy rubbed his face. “I wish I knew why you’ve been targeted for this vandalism.”

“I wish I did, too.”

“If only we—”

“I’ve done everything you’ve suggested,” she broke in, a bit defensively. “Scott was over last week and set up motion detector lights over the garage. Don’t worry, Troy, nothing’s happened since my tires got slashed.”

“Good.” He stood and glanced at the door. “You’ll call if anything else comes up?”

“I will,” she promised.

“I mean it, Faith.”

She walked him to the door and wrapped her arms around him. Troy held her close, loath to release her. He wanted to kiss her, but needed a sign, an indication that she wanted his kiss. It came a few seconds later when she turned her lips to his. Their mouths met softly—sweet and comforting. They’d known passion, but this gentleness was different and in some ways better, although he wouldn’t have thought that possible.

When he ended the kiss, he pressed his chin against her hair and breathed in her perfume, wondering when he’d see her again. Or would he have to find another convenient excuse to visit?

Ten minutes later Troy pulled into his own driveway. He couldn’t remember a single detail of the ride between Faith’s house on Rosewood Lane and his own place at 92 Pacific Boulevard. His conversation with Charlotte Rhodes that afternoon weighed heavily on his mind. He needed time to consider the information she’d given him, to think it through.

As Troy stepped out of his car, he realized there was a second vehicle parked outside his house. The doors opened and two men emerged. Because it was dark and the porch light dim, Troy couldn’t immediately identify them. Then he recognized one as the mayor; the other was his brother, the attorney.

“Louie,” Troy said, extending his hand to the mayor. “Otto.”

“I want you to know,” Otto said gruffly, “as my brother’s attorney, I advised him against this, but he insisted.”