Dylan stood at the top of the stairs in his father’s house and wondered who the hell was ringing the doorbell at this hour. He had left the police station less than thirty minutes ago and come straight home. Home? Yeah, it was odd how after all these years, this place still felt like home. Maybe he’d reverted into a kid, needing the safety of these four walls, this one particular house, to help him make sense of a world that suddenly had been turned upside down.
As he descended the stairs, he tried to stuff the tails of his white shirt back into his tuxedo slacks. Whoever was at the door had a really poor sense of timing. He wondered if the police decided they had enough circumstantial evidence to arrest him.
As he neared the front door, he glanced through the sheer curtain that covered the glass panes and saw the outline of a female form. His stomach knotted. It couldn’t be her, could it? Why would Maddie Delarue be standing on the front porch of his father’s home at—Dylan glanced again at his wristwatch—two-forty-eight in the morning?
He opened the door. Maddie looked at him, a sympathetic expression on her face and a hint of pleading in her big, blue eyes.
“Please, may I come in?” she asked.
He moved aside and with a sweep of his hand invited her into the small foyer. She moved past him, then paused to wait for him to close the door.
“Out kind of late, aren’t you, Red?”
“I thought you might need some company,” she replied. “I know under similar circumstances I wouldn’t want to be alone.”
“I’m used to being alone,” he told her. “I’m a loner by nature. Always was. You should remember that.”
Maddie nodded. “Loner or not, couldn’t you use a friend?”
“Is that what you’re here to offer me—friendship?”
“Condolences, friendship, tea and sympathy. Whatever you need.”
“Right now I need a drink.” He motioned toward the kitchen. “Want to join me? Somewhere the old man has a bottle of whiskey stashed for guests. In the kitchen cupboards, if I remember correctly. Dad wasn’t much of a drinker. The expression ‘sober as a judge’ fit him to a T.” Dylan’s voice cracked with emotion.
When Maddie reached out to him, he moved quickly so that he was beyond her grasp, then he hurried into the kitchen. She followed directly behind him. He rummaged through the cupboards, ignoring her, until he found a three-quarters-full bottle of Crown Royal. Dylan figured this particular bottle was probably several years old. His dad had used liquor mainly for medicinal purposes, like to make hot toddies in the winter when he felt a cold coming on. After retrieving the bottle and two small juice glasses, Dylan turned back to Maddie.
“Have a seat.” He indicated the chairs around the kitchen table.
After she took a seat, he sat across from her, placed the glasses on the table and opened the bottle. He poured himself a third of a glassful.
“Care to join me?” He held the open bottle over the second glass.
She shook her head. “No, thanks.”
He set the bottle down, but left off the lid. As he lifted the glass to his mouth, he stared at Maddie. No makeup, face scrubbed, her shoulder-blade length red hair hanging in wild disarray, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. And despite being thirty-three, she looked like a fresh-faced kid.
“Does your mama know where you are?” he asked, then took a hefty swig of whiskey. The liquor burned a hot trail on its way from his mouth to his stomach. He blew out a deep breath.
“You must have me confused with the sixteen-year-old Maddie,” she said. “I don’t answer to my mother. I haven’t in a long time.”
“Free and independent, huh? But surely you care what people might think if they knew you were aiding and abetting the notorious Dylan Bridges.”
“What happened at the police station?”
Dylan took another sip of whiskey. “Why do you care?”
“Good question. Why do I care?” She shrugged. “For the life of me, I really don’t know.” She shoved back the chair, stood and glanced around the kitchen. “Why don’t I fix a pot of coffee and maybe scramble some eggs and make some toast? We could eat an early breakfast.”
Dylan chuckled. She stared at him questioningly.
“I’m not laughing at you,” he said. “It’s just my mother’s answer to most of life’s problems was food. A cookie went with a skinned knee. A pot roast dinner would always soothe my dad after a rough day. You know, stuff like that. Tell me, do mothers teach their daughters that feeding men and children is the best way to give comfort?”
“I wouldn’t know. My mother never so much as boiled an egg in her entire life.”
“But you know how to cook?” He lifted his eyebrows in a skeptical expression. “The richest gal in the state can actually scramble eggs?”
“It doesn’t take a gourmet chef to scramble eggs.” She rounded the table, laid her hand on Dylan’s shoulder and smiled at him. “I’ll cook, we’ll eat and you’ll clean up the dishes. Deal?” She held out her hand to him.
He rose from the chair, grasped her hand and replied, “Deal.” Who would have thought it? That Maddie would be standing in his dad’s kitchen at three o’clock in the morning, offering to fix him breakfast.
Their gazes met and held. God, how was it possible, after everything that had happened, that all he wanted was to grab this woman and hold on to her for dear life? He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping her small hand until she tugged on it.
He released her hand immediately and noted the redness. “God, Maddie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” She flapped her hand back and forth like a limp dishrag for a few seconds and grinned at him. “The feeling is coming back now.” She marched over to the refrigerator. “Get me a mixing bowl, will you? And why don’t you make the coffee?”
“Bossy, bossy,” he kidded.
She removed an egg carton, milk and butter from the refrigerator. “Talk to me, Dylan. You need to get it all out. Otherwise, you’ll explode. Believe me, I know.” She took a midsize ceramic bowl from him. “When my father died, I tried to be very brave. I had to take care of all the arrangements and deal with not only my mother, but with my stepmother, too. About three weeks after my father’s funeral, I fell apart. If it hadn’t been for Joan—you met her tonight, Joan O’Brien—I don’t know what I’d have done.”
What did she think he needed? A shoulder to cry on? Someone to hold his hand? If she believed that, then Maddie didn’t know a damn thing about him. He didn’t need anybody. He’d survived on his own for the past seventeen years and done just fine. He would do whatever had to be done—take care of the funeral arrangements, handle his father’s affairs, make sure his dad’s murderer was caught and punished—then he’d go back to Dallas and resume his life there.
“Look, Maddie, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need you to fix my breakfast or hold my hand or listen to me pour out my heart and soul.”
Maddie broke four eggs into the mixing bowl, added a little milk, then glanced over her shoulder while she beat the eggs into a light, fluffy concoction. “Start the coffee, will you? And hand me some bread to pop into the toaster.” She took down a skillet from the rack over the stove, sliced off a large dollop of butter, dumped it into the skillet and placed the skillet on the stove. “So, are you going to tell me what happened at the police station?”
Dylan glared at her. Hadn’t the woman heard a word he’d said? He’d all but told her that he didn’t want her here, that he didn’t need her. But of course that wasn’t really true. He might not need her, but he sure as hell wanted her to stay. But you can’t count on her, he reminded himself. He couldn’t count on anybody except himself. If he’d learned anything in life, he had learned that lesson the hard way.
“Are you surprised they didn’t throw me in jail?” he asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
She poured the whipped eggs into the skillet. “The police have no evidence against you, so there’s no reason for them to have arrested you.”
Dylan spooned ground coffee from the can into the filter, then added water and turned on the coffeemaker. “They have absolutely no idea who killed my dad. I’m the only one who seems to have been at odds with the judge, so they’re going to check me out thoroughly. I just hate to see them wasting time that way, when they need to be figuring out who had a reason to murder my father.”
When Dylan removed a loaf of bread from the bread box on the counter, Maddie turned the heat down on the skillet, then took the bread from him and placed four slices in the toaster.
“Do you suspect anyone?” she asked. “I don’t suppose Judge Bridges told you he had an enemy who might want to do him harm, did he?”
Dylan shook his head. “What are you doing, Maddie, trying to play amateur detective?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Well, I’ve been back in Mission Creek only four days, so I don’t know everything that was going on in Dad’s life, but I do know that something was bothering him. He ate antacids like they were candy and every time the phone rang, he tensed.”
“Did you ask him why—”
“I asked. He said it was nothing for me to worry about. Now, I’m wondering if he’d really picked up a virus of some sort and didn’t feel up to going to the Mystery Gala last night or if he backed out for a different reason.”
“Like what?” The toast popped up. Maddie buttered the slices and placed them on a plate, then spooned the eggs on to two waiting plates. “Judge Bridges had a reputation for being as honest as the day is long, so he wouldn’t have been involved in anything illegal. What does that leave?”
“It leaves him knowing about something illegal going on and he was about to blow the whistle. Somebody could have killed him to stop him from exposing them.”
Maddie carried the plates to the table, then added silverware. “That scenario makes sense to me. And surely the police will look into all the criminal cases that were on the judge’s docket.”
Dylan poured their coffee and set two steaming mugs beside their plates. “If they do it right, they’ll consider every possibility.” He pulled out a chair, sat and looked at the scrambled eggs. “Smells good.” He tasted them. “So you can cook.”
“Told you I could.” Maddie joined him at the table. “So, what do you think some other possibilities might be?”
“Maybe somebody was blackmailing Dad, or it’s possible he was in possession of information someone wanted. And it could be that a criminal he put away got out and came after him. Considering Dad’s line of work, the possibilities are endless.”
“Were you aware that you father was the defense attorney in a very high profile case some years ago?” Maddie sipped on her coffee.
“Afraid not. Unless it hit the front pages in Dallas, I wouldn’t have known about it. So, who was involved?”
“Haley Mercado drowned in a boating accident.” Maddie played with her eggs, scooting them around on the plate with her fork.
“Mercado? I remember a Ricky Mercado. Came from a suspected mob family.”
“Haley was the younger sister. She went partying with some local heroes from the 14th Marines and somehow ended up drowning. Her body was found and identified and her family brought charges against Luke Callaghan, Flynt Carson, Spence Harrison and Tyler Murdoch.”
“Hmm. Rich, powerful families involved, huh?”
“Your father defended them and got them off. Rumor was that the Mercado family and Haley’s former fiancé were less than pleased.”
“But that was a few years ago?” Dylan asked.
Maddie nodded as she munched on a slice of buttered toast.
“If it was revenge, why wait that long?” Dylan rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn! I feel like such a bastard. Here my father is dead, killed by some unknown person, and you know more about what’s been going on in his life these past seventeen years than I do—his own son.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over what can’t be changed. Concentrate on the fact that you and your father had reconciled, that you at least had these past few days together.”
“Yeah, four lousy days.” Dylan scooted back his chair, stood and walked toward the door. “If I’d swallowed my pride and come home a few years ago—hell, a few months ago—maybe I could have done something to have prevented this. Maybe my father would have trusted me enough to have confided in me.”
Maddie got up and walked over to where Dylan gazed through the glass panes in the back door, then placed her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure that eventually he would have told you what was bothering him. He probably didn’t want to ruin your first few days together.”
Dylan shrugged off Maddie’s hand, opened the door and walked out onto the back porch. The quiet hum of early morning, a few hours before dawn, whispered softly in the darkness. Maddie followed him outside, where, her hand linked with his, they stood on the porch and gazed up at the night sky. They were silent and unmoving. Dylan could hear only their steady breathing.
“If you’re smart, you’ll get the hell away from me,” Dylan said, his calm voice belying the anger of his words. “I’m a total failure when it comes to personal relationships…even friendships. Hang around long enough and I’m bound to hurt you.”
“You stole my line, you know. I’m the one who had two fiancés and numerous admirers, but not even one real love affair.” Maddie squeezed his hand. “You shouldn’t go through these next few days alone. Making the funeral arrangements will be more difficult than you can imagine. And then there will be the funeral itself and dealing with all the people who’ll pay their condolences.”
“I doubt the folks in Mission Creek will pay their condolences to me. Half the people at the country club last night probably believe I killed my father.” Dylan yanked his hand from hers, went down the porch steps and into the backyard.
Why was she still here? Why hadn’t she deserted him, run off and left him high and dry the way she’d done when they’d been sixteen and he’d gotten them into trouble? What the hell did Maddie want with a guy who couldn’t cause her anything but misery?
When he felt her gentle touch on his shoulder, he jerked around and glared at her. Damn, he wished she’d stop looking at him that way. As if she wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and kiss away his blues.
Don’t do it, he told himself. Don’t take what she’s offering. Don’t use her to get through these next few hours. She deserves better.
Unable to resist, he surrendered to his baser instincts, pulled Maddie into his arms and kissed her with a savage, uncontrollable hunger that made her shudder. He wanted to absorb her into him, take her comfort and concern and wrap himself it in, cocoon himself from reality with her sweet body. She opened up to him, totally giving, allowing him to possess her almost brutally. He wanted her. Here and now. In the backyard, in the cool darkness. As he ended the kiss, he pressed his cheek against hers, then cupped her buttocks with his hands and lifted her up and into his erection.
“Don’t you see how it is with me?” he moaned against her ear. “I don’t play by the rules. That’s why I’m so successful. Hang around, honey, and I’ll make you sorry that you ever knew me.”
“Dylan, please…”
He grabbed her shoulders, stared at her beautiful face, softly visible by moonlight, and centered his gaze on her trusting blue eyes. “Get the hell away from me. For your own self-preservation.” He shoved her away.
Maddie staggered momentarily, but managed to balance herself. “Dylan Bridges, you are the most aggravating man I’ve ever known. What’s wrong with you that you can’t accept a little human comfort and a genuine offer of help?”
“Why do you want to help me? You don’t have a dog in this race, Red, so why stick around?”
“Oh!” Maddie growled the word. “You numb-skull! I happen to like you. I liked you when we were kids and I like you now. And I respected Judge Bridges a great deal. Isn’t that reason enough?” She paused, but he didn’t respond. “If it isn’t, then consider this—your father was murdered at the country club, during a party that I planned and executed. So you could say that the judge was killed on my territory, on my watch, and I’d like to help you in any way I can. And that help even includes assisting you in your search for your father’s killer.”
“Are you offering to help me play amateur sleuth?” Shaking his head, he snorted. “Spoiled, pampered Maddie Delarue would actually get her hands dirty playing detective?”
“If you think your insults will scare me off, then think again,” she told him. “I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work.”
“What am I trying to do?”
“You want to make me so angry I’ll leave you alone. Isn’t that it? In the past, everyone in your life deserted you when you needed them most. First your mother died just as you were changing from a boy into a young man, then I didn’t stand by you when you got arrested for stealing that car, and after that your father didn’t do anything to help keep you out of boys’ reform school. Have there been others who have disappointed you, too?”
Dylan didn’t speak, only stood there staring at her. The silence between them grew louder and louder with each passing moment.
“I’ll stand beside you this time, Dylan, if you’ll give me the chance.”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay. Fine with me. If you want to help me, want to play Nora to my Nick Charles, then I’ll see you tomorrow—make that later today—and we can decide where to start.”
“Thanks, Dylan.” She stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek and said, “I’m very sorry about your dad.”
Maddie turned and walked away, through the back gate and around the house. Dylan stood in that one spot until she was out of sight, then he inhaled and exhaled deeply. After a few minutes of useless pondering about his feelings for Maddie, he went over and sat down on the porch steps.
I’ll stand by you this time, Dylan. Her words repeated themselves over and over in his mind. He wanted to believe her, but did he dare? Could he trust her not to desert him if things got nasty? How would she react if people pointed fingers at him and called him a murderer?
He knew one thing for sure: With or without Maddie Delarue’s help, he intended to prove his innocence beyond any doubt. And if the police couldn’t find his father’s killer, he would.
When Molly French Gates came on duty later that morning, Hart O’Brien filled her in on the previous night’s events at the country club. Molly had been part of the task force that had exposed the corrupt cops in the police department back in March, and Hart respected her greatly.
“It’s all over the news,” Molly said. “In the Clarion, on TV. They’re saying y’all brought Dylan Bridges in for questioning. Is that true? Does the department actually consider the judge’s son a suspect?”
Hart took a sip of his strong, lukewarm coffee, then rubbed his hand over his face. “Not as far as I’m concerned. The guy seemed totally shocked by his father’s death. And just being estranged from his old man isn’t enough motive for murder. Besides, we could be looking at a sloppy professional hit. Not some polished wise guy from out of state. Maybe a local hood.”
“The judge pissed off the wrong person, huh? Is that your take?”
Hart yawned. “Something like that.”
Molly slapped Hart on the back. “Why don’t you go on home? You look as if you’re dead on your feet. I wouldn’t want to have to call Joan to come get you.”
Hart chuckled. “You know, there’s one thing that puzzles me. If this was a professional hit, even a sloppy one, then why the hell did the guy do something as stupid as leaving the murder weapon in the pond, not five feet from Carl Bridges’ body?”
“Are you sure it’s the murder weapon?”
“Pretty sure. The ballistics report will verify it.”
“And what about fingerprints on the gun?”
“We should get so lucky.”
Using a phony ID, he’d checked into a motel outside of town last night. And he had slept like a baby. Odd how taking a guy out always had that effect on him. Kind of like getting laid. Yeah, almost as good; sometimes even better.
He’d planned everything, down to the last detail, learning the layout of the country club and where each employee would be at any given time. The valets for the gala kept out of sight, in the private parking area, fraternizing with the chauffeurs during the party. The only problem was that Judge Bridges hadn’t shown up as expected. But a phone call to the old man threatening his son’s life had gotten him down to the club pretty quick.
He’d given the judge one final chance to come clean, to give him the information he wanted—the info his boss demanded. But the stupid old man had refused to talk. Hell, hadn’t he known who he was dealing with? The boss didn’t take no for an answer. His orders had been to find out the information or else.
The hit had gone off perfectly until that damn stupid redheaded waitress came outside for a smoke. How the hell was he supposed to know she’d come out to the front of the club instead of the back where he’d been told the staff took their smoke breaks? And what the hell had possessed her to walk so far down the driveway? If he’d hung around a second longer, she might have seen him. As it was, he just barely got away. But when she startled him, he accidentally dropped his 9mm Sig and it fell over into the pond. He’d tried his damnedest to recover the gun, but it had come down to choosing whether to retrieve the Sig or risk getting caught by the waitress. Leaving behind the murder weapon had been the least risky of his two choices. But the cops wouldn’t find any fingerprints on his weapon. He always coated his fingertips with glue before a hit. That way he never left fingerprints on anything.
He’d called the boss and left the message they’d agreed on. “Justice has been served.” The boss had a sense of humor.
His stomach growled. Damn, he was hungry. He could eat a horse this morning. But maybe he’d just stop by the Mission Creek Café for a big helping of steak and eggs, and while he ate breakfast, he’d take a look at the Clarion and see what the local reporters were saying about Judge Bridges’ murder at the country club last night.