Nash reached up to brush it away with his thumb, then he leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
“I didn’t want to go back to live under my father’s thumb, or marry a man of his choosing. I wanted to be independent. Live life as I saw fit.” She threw her hands in the air, turned away and paced the three steps needed to cross the length of the available floor space. “Then the flat tire, the wreck and the body in the trunk. I got scared. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I would be accused of murder.” As her words poured out in a jumble, she raked a hand through her hair and spun toward him, her eyes wide. “I don’t want to go to jail. I didn’t do anything wrong. But I actually did because I didn’t tell anyone.” She extended her arms, her wrists held together. “You might as well arrest me. I’m sure I broke some law. But I didn’t kill my fiancé.”
Nash raised his hands. “Whoa! Slow down there. What are you talking about? Why would I arrest you?” Once again, he gathered her in his arms, hoping to comfort her. Then his mind picked two words out of her jumbled diatribe, and he froze. Slowly, he pushed her to arm’s length, his brows lowered. “Wait. What body are you talking about? What murder?”
She stood staring, her entire body trembling now. “I told you. Ryan was in that trunk. My fiancé. He was dead.”
8
After an hour and a half in the sheriff’s office, and a painfully thorough interrogation by the sheriff himself, Phoebe asked, “Now what? Am I going to jail?”
The sheriff shrugged. “We don’t have a body. A missing persons report has been filed on Bratton, but there was a break-in and a car stolen. Again, we don’t have the evidence of the missing car, so I can’t really arrest you.”
Phoebe let go of the breath she’d been holding. “And my family? Will they be notified?”
“Only if you want me to let them know,” the sheriff said. “You’re a grown woman. You don’t have to tell your family anything.”
“No. I’d rather they didn’t learn where I am until I’m good and ready to let them know myself. Will any of my testimony be shared containing my name?”
“No, ma’am. Again, you haven’t been arrested, so you won’t go on the docket or be shared across departments.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Miss Sinclair, you’re free to go.”
Phoebe glanced around, looking for Nash. The deputy had excused him shortly after Phoebe had started relating her story. He hadn’t returned, nor had she left the sheriff’s office the entire time.
“Do you want me to have one of the deputies drive you home, Miss Sinclair?”
She shook her head, hoping Nash hadn’t left the building. “No, it isn’t too far to walk.”
“I’m concerned about what you said about the two men who chased you last night.” The sheriff tipped his head, a frown deepening the lines across his forehead. “I guess you’ll be okay in broad daylight. But you should keep your night forays to a minimum, or go out with a friend. No use tempting fate or the bad guys.”
Since she had a job working nights, staying inside at night was impossible. She had to get to and from work. Stiffening her spine, Phoebe held out her hand. “Thank you, Sheriff Olson. I’ll be careful.”
“You might consider letting your folks know you’re okay.” His big hand enveloped hers in a reassuring grip. “I keep thinking my daughter is about your age. I’d want to know she was safe.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “My father is very overbearing. I’d like to put off the confrontation a little longer.” At least until she was firmly on her own two feet and established in Hellfire. Then she’d let her father know she was okay and not coming home anytime soon.
She stepped out of the sheriff’s office, and Nash hooked her elbow and hustled her toward the exit. “You could have told me you were the daughter of Jonathon Sinclair, the richest man in Texas.”
Anger rolled off him like puffs of steam. Pulling her arm free of his grip, Phoebe lifted her chin and marched on her own toward the door. “I am not my father. I’m just Phoebe.”
“Well, Just Phoebe, your father has a statewide manhunt out for you, with a ten-thousand-dollar reward attached.” He pushed through the door and held it for her.
“So?” She stopped and faced him, crossing both arms over her chest. “Are you turning me in and collecting?”
“Hell, no.” Again, he gripped her arm and led her out into the parking lot. “I’m driving you back to your garage apartment and then going home. Today’s my day off.”
Irritation prickled her skin, and she stopped short of his truck. “Go home, Deputy Grayson. You aren’t responsible for me. I can get back to my apartment on my own.”
Scowling, he opened the passenger door of his truck and held it. “Get in.”
“I’ve had enough of taking orders from the men in my life. Screw you!” She stepped around him and the truck, and marched across the parking lot.
“You’re going the wrong way,” he yelled.
Without looking in his direction, she turned and headed the other direction.
A chuckle sounded behind her. “Still going the wrong way.” He caught up to her and gripped her arms. “I’m sorry. I don’t like being lied to, so sue me.”
For a long moment, she held her shoulders back and her chin up. Then she released the tension that had built inside since Lola woke her with the news that morning. “Deputy Grayson—”
“Nash,” he corrected.
“Nash.” She drew in a breath and let it out. “Despite the fact that I lied to you, I don’t like lying, and I don’t make a habit of it.”
The anger leached from his face, and he released her. “Then why did you do it?”
Phoebe stared into his blue eyes. “What would you do if you ran away from a wedding in a car that didn’t belong to you and discovered a body in the trunk about the time a sheriff’s deputy rolled up behind you?” She flung her hand in the air, and assumed a high-pitched, sarcastic tone. “Hi, I’m a rich man’s daughter with a dead man in my trunk. Could you help me get him out so I can be on my merry way?”
For a long moment, Nash stared into her face. First one side of his mouth twitched upward, then the other. A moment later, he laughed so hard, he held onto his belly and bent double.
Phoebe had to admit the man was even hotter when he smiled. This was the first time she’d seen him laugh, much less smile. “You should laugh more often.”
“And you should stop attracting trouble like bees to honey.” He straightened and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Sweetheart, I can’t imagine you killing a man.”
Her heart flipped at the endearment, and her lips twitched. “I can’t even kill a spider. How would I kill a man?” Her gaze slipped lower to the mouth that had a moment before been smiling. Now it wasn’t. When his lips weren’t pressed into the usual tight line, they were full and temptingly kissable. Phoebe swayed toward him, pressing a hand to his chest. “I need to get back to the apartment. I promised to clean Lola’s house as payment for rent.”
This time when Nash held open the door to his truck, Phoebe didn’t argue. She brushed past him, her hip touching his, sending a shock of heat through her, reminding her he was way too sexy when he smiled, or laughed, or hell, if he just stood there with his broad shoulders and incredibly blue eyes.
Now was not the time to get involved. Especially with a man of the law. She forced herself to look out the side window instead of sneaking peeks at him. He could be the one to arrest her when the authorities finally found Ryan’s body, and didn’t find the men who’d killed him. Getting involved with her could cause Nash to lose his job. He didn’t deserve to inherit her troubles by falling for her. Not that he would. But she sure felt the attraction and, given other circumstances, she might even fall for a guy like Nash Grayson.
They pulled into Lola’s driveway, then Nash got out and opened her door for her. When she went to slide down from her seat, he grabbed her around the waist and lifted, setting her gently on the ground.
“So, you’re cleaning Lola’s house?” he said.
She nodded. “That’s the plan.”
His brows arched. “As a rich man’s daughter, have you ever cleaned a house?”
Stiffening, Phoebe tilted her chin upward. “Not actually. But how hard could it be?”
“You have my number. Call if you have questions.” He winked.
She was left standing in the driveway, thinking he was arrogant and a know-it-all. House cleaning wasn’t rocket science. She could handle it.
An hour later, standing in an ever-growing blob of suds, she hated eating her words, and she loathed even more calling Nash for help. But if she didn’t do something soon, the entire house might be buried in the seething, frothing mess emanating from the washing machine. She dove for the phone and dialed Nash’s number. “I cry uncle. Is there any possibility you’re still in town, and could come over and tell me how to stop Lola’s house from being consumed by bubbles?”