Мистер Камень. Анна Ольховская
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She wrinkled her nose. “Gee, I believe I’ll stick with deputy. I swear, Deputy Marshall— Isn’t that cute? Did you ever notice—”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll get it right this time. I swear, Deputy Marshall, I’m not doing anything wrong, and I don’t have any weapons, drugs or contraband. You can search me if you like.”
One innocent, playacting sentence, and it changed the whole tenor of the evening. It was still hot and muggy, but now the air seemed to crackle all around them. Brady felt the strong pull of desire deep in his belly, as if he hadn’t just spent practically two entire nights with this woman. He was finding it difficult to breathe, or think, or to find words to give voice to—especially when the only words he wanted to say were, yes, I like.
Slowly, her gaze locked with his, she lowered her arms, then laced her fingers together. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Damn,” he murmured. “And here you got my hopes up.” And that wasn’t all.
For a moment she looked uncertain, as if she wasn’t entirely sure he was teasing—fair enough, since he wasn’t either. Then she started fussing with the camera again. “If you work this late every day, you need a raise,” she remarked, her tone a shade too cheerful.
“Every deputy in the state of Oklahoma needs a raise.”
“Not a job you’ll get rich doing, huh?”
“Not if you’re honest.”
“And you are.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if there could be no doubt.
“As the day is long.” Coming a few feet closer, he gestured toward the camera. “Isn’t it too dark to be taking pictures?”
“Not if you know what you’re doing. For a time I worked as a photographer—did portraits, weddings, publicity photos. That’s how I met Max. I did a portrait of his sister’s kids, and we became friends—sort of—and she introduced us.”
It appeared most of her friends in California had been sort-of friends, since at lunch, she said Max had gotten them all in the divorce. That couldn’t have been fun. “Then you married the big Hollywood producer and…took up a life of leisure?”
“And photography became a hobby that interfered with my obligations as Mrs. Max Parker.” She leaned back against the bank building and gazed at the courthouse. “It’s impressive, isn’t it? Looks as if it’s been there forever.”
He moved to stand a few feet from her and studied the building where he worked. It was built of native stone and stood three stories tall, with arched windows spaced equidistantly on all four sides. Carved into the stone above the main entrance was the date it was built. Eighty-two years old, he calculated, and still looking as solid as when it was new.
“What brought you to Buffalo Plains?”
With the heat seeping from the bank’s stone facade into his back, Brady slowly turned his head to look at her. “How is it Neely’s the lawyer when you’re the one full of questions?”
She laughed. “Neely’s the lawyer because she’s the smart one.”
“Uh-huh.” He’d heard that before. “And what are you?”
For a long time she continued to gaze at the courthouse, but he was pretty sure she wasn’t seeing the building. After a while, she shook her head, making her braid swing, then laughed again, though far less convincingly this time. “I’m the screwup. The dumb one, the ditzy one, the one who doesn’t know the meaning of the word commitment.”
His jaw tightening, Brady looked away. His impulse was to disagree with her, to insist that her family didn’t see her in those terms, but he wasn’t sure he would be telling the truth.
Her eyes too bright, she bumped his arm with her shoulder. “Made you uncomfortable, didn’t I?”
“No. I was just thinking that a better label for you is probably the misunderstood one.” And he knew how it felt to be misunderstood.
Without giving her time to respond, he went on. “After the divorce, I wanted to be anywhere but Texas. First I headed out to New Mexico, then into Colorado, and about six years ago I wound up in Buffalo Plains. I got a job, I liked it and was good at it, and I stayed. It only took me eight years to find a place I could stay.”
“Sheesh, I hope I have better luck.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not staying in Beverly Hills. I’m going to sell the house and find someplace where I can belong. What do I need with ten acres of lawn and gardens, seven bedrooms, a dining room that seats thirty, a screening room that seats fifty and two guest houses?”
“That’s not a house. It’s a mansion.”
She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I never liked it anyway. Max picked it out, and his interior designer decorated it. All I got to do was live in it.”
“If you didn’t like it, why didn’t you let him have it in the divorce?” He’d been more than happy to walk away from the house he’d built for Sandra. If he’d kept it after the divorce, he would have burned it to the ground, then left the rubble there so he would never forget.
By then the sun had set enough that the streetlights were on. In their artificial glow, he could make out the sheepish expression on her face. “The bimbo wanted it, and I— She’d already taken my husband. There was no way I was going to let her have my house, too.”
“Does the bimbo have a name?” He hadn’t set foot in a movie theater in longer than he could remember, but his satellite system delivered more channels of movies than a reasonable person could watch. Since he spent the bulk of his free time alone, he watched a lot.
“Lilah Grant.”
He gave a low whistle.
“I see you’re familiar with her,” Hallie said, her voice so dry it could suck the humidity out of the air. “She wears a size two—which also happens to be her IQ, by the way—and she’s got less acting talent than that post over there, but she never met a nude scene she didn’t love. And, no, they’re not real. Those are the best triple-D breasts money can buy.”
Earlier he hadn’t been able to imagine the woman a man would pick over Hallie. Even knowing, he couldn’t see it. The starving waif look had never appealed to him, not even with the big boobs. He liked women who looked like women, who had curves where they should, who had a little softness to them.
“So did you know when you married him that he was an idiot, or did you find that out later?”
Pushing away from the wall, she disconnected the camera from the tripod, returned it to its bag, then expertly folded the tripod and slid it through a loop on the bag. When she was done, she faced him. “You’re a nice man, Brady.”
Her words struck that place deep inside him that was always frozen and hard, and made his muscles clench and tighten. “No, Hallie,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”
She shrugged as if his disagreement meant nothing. “You see yourself your way, and I’ll see you my way.” Then… “I guess I’ll head back to the motel.”
She’d gone a few yards before he could bring himself to move. “Hey, where’s your car?”
“Back at the motel. I walked.”
“Let me give you a ride.”
She turned around, her head tilted to one side. “I understand Buffalo Plains is about as safe as a town can get.”
“It is, but there’s no reason to tempt fate.” Which was exactly what he was doing. If he took her back to the motel, would he insist on seeing her to her door? Would he stop there?
He