From Whatever Remains
They were sitting at the little
spectator bench tucked against the back of the barn, the one with the view of
the arena beneath the flickering leaves of a paper birch. His girls. Clara was
in the grass, playing with a toy horse, dark hair brushed and gleaming and
tumbling over her tiny frail shoulders. Jade was on the bench, reclining back
against the red barn wall, one leg drawn up, the other swinging below. She was
in tan breeches, tall socks and short boots, a loose green tank top with a
smudge of dirt on the swell of one breast. She’d been riding: her hair was
French braided and she wore no earrings, only a faint touch of makeup, another
dirt streak on the high regal line of her cheekbone. Whatever their differences
– their bitter misunderstandings – his physical attraction to her had never
been an issue. He’d wanted her always, and he didn’t suppose that was ever
going to change.
He’d left his jacket in the car and
rolled up his shirtsleeves, but felt ridiculous in his tie, wishing he’d
changed into street clothes. He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched her
eyes – dappled with sunlight and blue as old worn denim – move deliberately
over him. They were hard to read. “Hey.”
His voice snatched Clara from her
imaginings and she came to her feet light as a fairy, face exploding with
delight. She was too young to hate him for his absences. “Hi, Daddy!”
“Hi, love.” He picked her up,
because she was too young to be too cool for that yet, and because he’d spent
his day talking about a dead girl. “What are you up to?”
“Watchin’ Uncle Remy teach.” She
slipped one small arm around his neck and twisted so she could see the arena
and her “uncle.” “He’s a good teacher.”
“Yeah. And it’s nice that he gets to
be the one doing the riding sometimes.”
Jade cleared her throat; over
Clara’s shoulder, her slender dark brows were lifted in silent censure,
expression that strange blend of neutral and peeved that still eluded him. “Clara-baby,
how ‘bout you run down and ask Remy when he’ll be finished up so I know if I
have time to run pop the chicken in the oven.”
Ben put her down, reluctantly, and
she went scampering off, a wood sprite flitting through her magical kingdom. He
supposed, if a kid had to grow up somewhere, he couldn’t hand pick anyplace
better than a horse farm.
“Are you here about the case?” Jade
asked. She straightened from the wall, the curve of her spine pulling her shirt
tight across her breasts, highlighting the slim dip of her waist, the flare of
her hips.
He gave her a flat look, trying to
keep his eyes on her face. “You told me to make some time for Clara.”
She frowned, and glanced away to
cover it. “You could have called.”
“I could have. But in case you
didn’t notice, I’m smack in the middle of a murder.”
“God,” she sighed. “Can you not do
that?”
“What?”
“Pretend to be this injured guy
whose kid I’m keeping you from.” He didn’t respond. “The only thing that ever
came between you and your daughter was your own black heart and your string of
bimbos.”
“I don’t date bimbos,” he countered,
leaning back onto the wall and propping a boot against it.
“No.” She snorted. “You don’t ‘date’
anyone. That would be too chivalrous.”
Down at the arena, Clara scrambled
onto the rail and Jeremy said something to his student; walked over to meet
her, smiling. In a minute, she’d come flitting back to them and Ben would have
to either invite himself to dinner or abandon his mission for the day.
“I need to ask you something,” he
said, “relevant to the case.”
From the corner of his eye, he
watched Jade stretch – the shift of lean muscle and bone beneath her clothes,
the spill of shadow between her rounded breasts as they squeezed together – and
relax again. One corner of her mouth curled downward in what might have been a
frown; he got the impression she was disappointed. “Okay.”
Can't wait to read more!!
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