Chapter 11
11
Grey
There was no sign of Skinner in town. All the hotel and motel owners knew Grey and they wouldn’t lie to him. Or if the La Marcas paid them enough to, he’d be able to tell, because he’d known most of them since he was a boy.
When Grey and Max arrived, Julianna Prescott, owner of the Bindi Inn, had hit Grey over the head with a newspaper because he’d left it so long between visits. She insisted on making him a coffee (which was not a good idea after Gio’s espresso) and spent twenty minutes telling Max how Grey used to play on the staircase in the inn while his dad ran around town doing errands for the Barbaranis. Grey sat throughout the entire ordeal with clenched fists. Every time Max laughed or looked at him like ‘ did you actually do that? ’ he quirked his lips for Julianna’s sake.
What had that been between Max and Raphael? When he’d gone to pay (even though Forrest had smugly told him Raphael had taken care of the bill, much to his disgust; Gio would murder Grey if he found out he’d taken something for free from the La Marcas), he’d told her to wait. Next thing he knew, she was basically grinding against Raphael’s front with her head down his shirt. He knew what she was looking at. The cuore. And it had all clicked into place.
He must have slammed the door of his cottage harder than he thought because she spun like she’d heard a gunshot.
‘What is your problem?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, Maxella.’ His hands were shaking, even though his hands did not shake. Not even in sub-arctic temperatures. He ripped the fridge open, and the suction door made a loud kissing sound as he took a bottle of water and downed it. His throat had been achingly dry since he’d seen Max and Raphael in the winery. ‘Why don’t you tell me who you really are? Then we’ll see if I have a problem.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Her eyes flashed. ‘My star sign? My blood type? Are you annoyed Julianna told that story about you peeing off the balcony? I’ve got tonnes of embarrassing childhood stories if you want to feel like we’re even. This one time ...’
Fine. If she wasn’t going to listen, he’d make her.
Her voice tapered off as he stepped away from the island bench. He was as close to her as Raphael had been. He could see that her eyes weren’t quite green – there were flecks of brown in there too, like autumn leaves. She sucked in a breath when he stopped. Was she afraid of him?
Did he want her to be afraid of him?
‘You let him touch you.’
‘What? Who? Raphael? He didn’t touch me—’
‘Stop.’ As he held up a hand, she flinched and then glared as though annoyed at her own reaction. Did she seriously think he’d hit her?
‘You didn’t flinch like you do when I touch you. You practically broke my arm in the garden. But not Raphael. And I saw the way he looked at you. Like he knew you. Like he ... like you ...’
‘What are you asking me, Greyson?’ Her voice was a blade hovering over his throat.
‘You know what I’m asking.’ His voice barely made it out. It was happening again. How could he be so stupid as to trust her, even a little bit, after everything? With everything he knew about women like her?
‘You better goddamn ask it then.’
‘Do you work for the La Marcas?’
She tugged at her shirt. Grey’s heart stopped. He told himself it was old army instinct, bracing because she could be about to pull a weapon on him. It had nothing to do with the slip of milky brown skin she revealed as her fingers went under the shirt. But he couldn’t kid himself that it was army instinct that stopped every other part of him working as she lifted the singlet to her neck.
‘Take a good look, Hawke,’ she taunted. ‘Can you see a cuore tattoo?’
He kept his eyes on her face. Every inch of her was twisted in anger.
‘Look, goddamn it!’ She was almost screaming.
His eyes trained down her neck to the curve of her breasts cupped by the black lacy bra he’d done a very good job of not thinking about since he’d first seen it.
Well, maybe not a very good job.
‘Ha!’ she barked. ‘But you won’t believe something as obvious as my goddamn skin, would you? NO!’ She grabbed a fistful of the pearl top and yanked it completely over her head. It pooled like a dollop of shaving cream on his floor.
‘What are you ...’ There were no words for this woman. No thoughts. No breaths.
‘What do you want me to do?’ She spread her arms.
An answer shot like a stray bullet into his head as a warm heaviness tugged in his abdomen. For fuck’s sake.
‘What should I do?’ she repeated. ‘Grate off a layer of skin so you can make sure there’s no make-up covering the tattoo? Here, do you want to check me for zips, make sure I’m not wearing a skin suit?’
‘I—’
‘That’s what a criminal like me would do, right? Go on. Prove I’m the liar you think I am.’
Her furious eyes were slanted at him. He expected to see nothing but hatred, but there was something underneath – a shadow behind the green-brown fortress. Hurt?
‘Come on.’ Her lip curled. ‘You know where the cuore goes. Right over the heart. Go on.’
‘I believe you, okay? Christ. Put your top on.’
And put on seven more layers. Although he didn’t think any amount of clothing could make him forget what was under that singlet.
‘Last chance.’
They stared at each other like two cats in the night – neither willing to move first – both breathing heavily.
‘Put your top on,’ he said again, turning away to give her privacy even though it was sort of redundant now. He breathed out at what he hoped was a normal, steady pace.
‘I promised I’d get her out.’
‘What?’ He turned back, half expecting her to still be standing in her black bra and Nella’s ripped jeans. But the singlet was back on and Max wasn’t facing him, but his little kitchen window looking out onto the vineyard.
‘Libby.’
‘Oh.’ He didn’t know what to say. Had he rattled her so much with the accusation about being in league with the La Marcas that she was now revealing her hand?
‘I said I’d look into her case once I got out, if she told me what Skinner was planning.’
‘She believed you?’
‘I wasn’t lying!’ Max swivelled around and shot him that signature poisoned look. Guilt trickled through him. She breathed in, deep and ragged. ‘I know it’s a long shot that they’ll reinstate me. I know I might not be able to keep my promise as a cop. But as a civilian, I’ll do whatever I can to prove it was Skinner and the La Marcas who framed Libby. But maybe if ... if I solve this thing ...’ She looked at him like he knew the answer. ‘If I solve this thing ...’—she turned back to the window, obviously unable to look him in the eye—‘maybe I can make a case for my reinstatement.’
He understood. He never thought he’d be understanding any part of Maxella Conrad, so he was just as surprised as she was by what he said next. ‘You can have all the credit,’ he said gruffly, clearing his throat. ‘If we stop this murder. You tell them it was you. I’ll back you up.’
‘What?’ She searched his face, trying to find the trick. A sceptic looking in a magician’s hat for the secret compartment.
He shrugged. ‘My job is to stay invisible. If you want the credit, it’s yours.’
‘I ... I don’t know what ...’
‘Just say “ Thank you Greyson, that’s very generous .”’
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly and turned back to the vineyards.
That was the conversation done. But Grey had a feeling stretching inside him like a runner poised at the start of a race, waiting for the gun.
Something scratched at the door.
Max whipped around and Grey instinctively moved in front of her, blocking her view.
‘Oi!’ she hissed. ‘You’re the civilian!’ She stepped in front of him.
‘Not here I’m not.’ He gripped her by the upper arms to lift her behind him, but she twisted out of his grasp, trying to retain her position.
Breathing heavily, they both faced the door side by side.
‘Is it Jett?’
‘He’s got a key.’
‘Frankie? Nella?’
‘Not enough noise.’
‘Can’t you check your cameras?’
‘Shhh!’ He clamped a hand over her mouth, ignoring the feel of her lips on his palm, the scrape of her teeth as she snarled in defiance.
I’m in charge.
Like they were partners in some bizarre three-legged race, they strode to the door, each determined to be the first to die in this low-budget horror movie.
She only seemed to falter as he drew his gun. His entire attention was lasered on the door where the scratching noise had stopped, but he couldn’t help the part of him that clocked Max’s sharp intake of breath, the way her eyes swam over the gun like she couldn’t quite get it in focus. Such a goddamn cop.
I have a licence , he wanted to say. Not to justify himself, but to prove he was right. Even if they were about to die.
She opened the door. But he went first.