"It helps to remember the good times. So, you're really a West Virginia girl? I thought I heard a drawl sneak into that Ohio accent a few times." He imitated her accent, saying "Oh-Hi-uh," instead of
"Oh-Hi-oh" the way Southerners did. As he spoke, he subtly released himself from her clutches, though not her from his. Moving to her side, he started her walking by the simple means of walking himself, holding her close with an arm around her waist. She had to walk or be dragged. Karen hadn't wanted to show her face yet. She knew her eyes were swollen, her nose red, her makeup ruined. She only hoped she had been able to blot up the worst of the destruction. But Detective Chastain had decided it was time for her to leave, so, willy-nilly, she was leaving. Perhaps he had work to do and had to get back to New Orleans. She felt guilty about the way she had monopolized his time.
"Am I keeping you from something?" she asked, embarrassed all over again. He had offered his help, but perhaps it had only been a courtesy offer and he hadn't really expected her to accept.
"Of course not." He squeezed her a little as they reached the graveled little path that led to the car. "I'm
off duty, and I don't have any appointments."
"Or a date?" she asked, disliking even the idea. She was surprised at herself. Had she suddenly become so needy that she couldn't bear losing his support? She had better snap out of it fast, because she was flying home the next morning.
"No date," he said easily. "Why don't we walk around the Quarter for a while, then have dinner? You haven't seen anything of New Orleans, really, and you need to relax." Her sudden tension seeped out of her. He wanted to spend the rest of the day and the evening with her. Well, perhaps he didn't really want to, perhaps he merely felt responsible for her, but she was too grateful for the chance to avoid a long evening spent alone with only her melancholy thoughts for company that she felt a flood of relief at the invitation. "Thanks. I'd like that." The afternoon sun suddenly blazed full on her face, the rain clouds gone for now, though ominous dark clouds were building again in the southwest. The heat and brightness of the sun were incredible, and she felt herself beginning to sweat again, as rapidly as she had grown chilled before. Squinting her swollen eyes against the glare, she misjudged her distance from the edge of the path and brushed against a shrub. The stubby branches snagged her hose and held fast.
"Darn it!" She stopped, looking down to assess the damage. The nylon was tangled on one of the branches. A hole the size of a half-dollar had been torn in the fabric, and an ugly run laddered both upward and downward from the hole. A run in black hose was particularly ugly, she thought, looking down at her pale leg peeking through.
She started to lean down and release herself, but he squatted beside her and curved one hand around her calf, using the other to work the nylon free. A small red scratch from the branch marred her skin, shining brightly through the gaping hole in her panty hose. He rubbed his thumb over the scratch, soothing the sting.
"You can take them off at the car," he said, rising, his task accomplished. He smiled down at her with those brilliant gray eyes. "I'll stand on the other side and not look, I promise." The prospect of taking off her panty hose in his presence, even when he was on the other side of the car, seemed almost too daring and intimate. Intimate . There was that word again. All day—well, actually since the first day—it seemed as if he had wrapped her in a blanket of intimacy without actually doing anything sexual. He had touched her constantly; he put his hand on her arm or her back, held her, supported her, and perhaps she couldn't have made it through the ordeal without those touches that let her know she wasn't alone.
Perhaps the sense of intimacy was all on her part; perhaps Southern men were normally this solicitous toward women. She hadn't known any Southerners before, since they didn't exactly flock to Columbus, Ohio, so she had no means of comparison. If Detective Marc Chastain was typical of the Southern male, she thought, then the women in the rest of the country didn't know what they were missing. They reached the car, and Marc went to the driver's side and turned his back, just as he had promised. The brutal sun beat down on their heads, and he shrugged out of his jacket, holding it in one hand while he waited.
His black hair was rain-wet and gleamed in the sun. His white shirt was thin, letting the warmth of his skin show through the fabric as it draped across his broad shoulders. Karen looked across the car at
him, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. For a moment, she stood paralyzed, unable to look away from him. Every detail was suddenly overwhelming in its clarity: the size of him, the set of his head on his shoulders, the neatness of his ears, the black hair that tapered to a point on the back of his neck. That big pistol was still clipped to his belt, and she wondered if he ever went anywhere without it. She had never before been so acutely, physically aware of a man as she was in that moment, almost breathless from the impact on her senses.
"May I turn around now?" he asked lazily, and the moment passed.
"Not yet," she said. He settled against the side of the car, still patient. Karen looked down at her leg. The torn nylon sagged, looking much worse than bare legs would. Vanity, if nothing else, inclined her to do as he said. Faintly amused, at both him and herself, she lifted her skirt and hurriedly peeled off the ruined panty hose, then wadded the nylon into a ball and stuffed it in her purse.
To her surprise, she instantly felt better. As hot and muggy as the air was, she was immeasurably more comfortable without the hot nylon wrapping her from waist to toe.