The Watcher

“Yeah, I agree. But neither of us ever thought we’d become crime-solving partners, either.”

“I don’t like to think of us as partners,” Nic said. “There’s just something unnatural about it.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s an unholy alliance.”

Nic smiled; and when she did, Griff realized that in all the years he’d known her, he had seldom seen her smile. She was downright pretty when she wasn’t frowning.

“We aren’t friends,” she reminded him, her smile vanishing. “We don’t even like each other, so there’s no point in pretending otherwise. But I can and will act in a professional manner, if you will. And I’ll try my best to be civil, even cordial, if at all possible.”

“Tell me why you dislike me so much?” Good God, why had he asked her that?

“Do you really want to know?”

He nodded.

“You’re an arrogant, egotistical, womanizing bastard who thinks because you’re rich, you can do whatever you want, that the rules others have to live by don’t apply to you. I’ve got news for you, Mr. Powell, you’re not all that special. You’re no different than any other man.”

Griff glared right into her eyes. She shivered.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I am different. And not because of my sizable bank account.” She had no idea just how different he was. Neither she nor the rest of the world would ever know. And he would give all he owned if he could forget.

“There’s that gigantic Powell ego speaking. Mr. Big-Bad PI with the mystery past and women swooning at his feet. You love it, don’t you? You love being Mr. Macho.”

Griff lifted the crystal flute and sipped the wine. Not great, but he’d tasted worse. He studied Nic, noting her flushed cheeks and rapid breathing. She was angry, and all that emotion was directed at him. But was he really the one she was upset with, the one who had prompted her anger?

“Go ahead,” she told him.

“Pardon? Go ahead and do what?”

“Tell me why you don’t like me.”

“If you really want to know.”

“Turnabout is only fair,” she said.

“I don’t like women who need to prove they can do anything a man can do and do it better. Men and women are inherently different. I like being a man and I prefer women who enjoy being female.”

“Fluttery and feminine and helpless and silly,” Nic said, her eyes flashing with anger. “Can’t get along without some big, strong man taking care of her. Good for fucking and having babies and not much else.”

Griff took another sip of wine, set his glass on the table, and asked, “Who put that enormous, ugly chip on your shoulder, Nicki?”

Gritting her teeth, Nic groaned; then she shoved back her chair and stood. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

When she turned to leave, Griff pushed back his chair, got up, and went after her. When he caught up with her, he grasped her arm, intending to apologize. But before he could say a word, she whirled around and gave him a killer glare.

“Let go of me.”

He looked at his hand holding her arm, then looked directly at her before releasing her.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she told him.

When she turned and walked away, he didn’t try to stop her.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_af98f99f-d68e-56d1-931b-b630535c55aa)

Stillwater wasn’t much more than a wide place in the road. The only street in town was Main Street. A single row of ramshackle old buildings, all but two empty, looked like they were about to fall in. The two occupied structures had been remodeled. One housed a beauty shop and the other, a two-story building, boasted a big green sign that read FEED AND SEED.

As they drove through town, Nic kept her gaze focused either to the right or straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the local scenery. Neither she nor Griff had mentioned anything about how their evening had ended yesterday. Actually, when she’d met him in the dining room of the Ballinger B&B for breakfast this morning, he’d acted as if nothing had happened. While Cleo Willoughby had served them a big country breakfast, complete with grits and hash browns, Griff had informed her that the Powell jet was ready to leave, that he’d already spoken to the sheriff of Stillwater, and had taken a call from Ballinger’s chief of police.

“What did Chief Willoughby have to say?” Nic had asked.

“He promised that he’d do as you asked and get in touch with Doug Trotter today to request that the bureau compare the murder here in Ballinger with the murder in Stillwater.”

During the plane ride from Arkansas to Texas, Nic and Griff hadn’t talked much. For a good part of the trip, she had pretended to be asleep. She’d been sure Griff would hassle her about the way she had overreacted to him grasping her arm last night. She had kept waiting for him to say something, to ask her why the hell she’d run from him as if she were afraid of him. But to her surprise—and relief—he hadn’t said a word.

If he had, how would she have responded? She could have admitted that she overreacted because she’d been tired and edgy. She could have told him that she hated being forced to work with him. That would have been the truth. Just not the complete truth.

“Look for a sign that reads Old Stillwater Road,” Griff told her as he maneuvered the rented SUV through town.

“Sure.” Nic looked right and left, but avoided direct eye contact with Griff. “What time is Sheriff Touchstone meeting us?”

“He said he’d be there by twelve thirty and it’s”—Griff glanced at the Rolex on his wrist—“twelve twenty now.”

“I was a little surprised that he agreed to meet us at the scene,” Nic said. “Apparently, he intends to be as cooperative as Benny Willoughby was.”

She felt Griff glance her way, so she kept her gaze riveted to the windshield.

“Does it surprise you that local law enforcement is willing to cooperate with a private detective?” he asked.

“If that private detective was just any old PI, yes, I’d be surprised. But let’s face it—there aren’t many people who haven’t heard of the Griffin Powell.”

“My name does open a few doors for me, but as a general rule, most local lawmen don’t cross the line and give me privileged information. Once in a blue moon, somebody will offer a little more info than they should, but for the most part, I have to resort to other methods to acquire my information.”

“Illegal methods,” Nic snapped.

Griff grunted. “Rarely illegal, but I admit we bend the rules near the breaking point when necessary. And often our methods could be perceived as unethical.”

“Perceived as unethical?” Nic harrumphed.

“Look, years ago, you and I established the fact that you do not approve of me, my agency, or our investigation tactics. And I don’t fault you for trying to be a by-the-book federal agent. I respect you, Nic, I just don’t like you personally.”

Slap! Why should she care that the high and mighty Griffin Powell didn’t like her? Heck, she should be grateful that he didn’t. What was the old saying about there being people you wouldn’t want to like you?

“We’re actually in agreement on something,” she told him. “You don’t like me and I don’t like you.”

“So it would seem. Now, the question that remains is, can we set aside our personal differences and actually work together to put a killer out of commission before he kills again? I’m man enough to do it, are you?”

Slap! Nic knew that Griff saw her as a man-eating feminist who had something to prove to every man she met. Maybe he was partially right. If there was one thing she hated, it was being told she couldn’t or shouldn’t do something because she was a woman.