Dead Giveaway (Stillwater Trilogy 2)

After all the police interest he'd endured, Allie had little doubt he wanted to be left alone.

But, for some reason, getting visual proof of his innocence was important to her. Word of what had happened tonight could provoke some strong reactions, and she'd always been a sucker when it came to the underdog.

Why she thought of Clay as the underdog she had no idea. Except that public opinion was already stacked against him, and he never tried to change it. He was his own worst enemy.

"If I specify in my report that your hands and body show no signs of an altercation, the district attorney will be much less likely to take action."

"There wasn't an altercation! All I did was end the relationship."

It was the past that made the situation volatile. But Allie didn't want to tell Clay that Beth Ann had claimed he'd confessed to Reverend Barker's murder. If he wasn't angry enough already that could do the trick. Why provoke a confrontation between them while they were in such proximity? She'd simply add Beth Ann's statement to the file, where it'd join the plethora of other unsubstantiated claims Allie planned to investigate--slowly and methodically. "It's for your own protection, Mr. Montgomery."

She wasn't sure he really believed her but, with a nod that seemed incongruously boyish for such a strong man, he pulled off his shirt.

Allie had never seen a more beautiful example of the male body. A gold medallion hung around his neck, fitting nicely in the groove between his pectoral muscles. It appeared to be a tribute to a Catholic saint, which surprised her. She didn't think of him as particularly religious.

Their eyes met and, for a moment, she was afraid he could read her grudging appreciation of his looks.

"For a cop, you don't seem very comfortable with some of the stuff you have to do," he murmured, and this time all the bullshit was gone from his voice. The "I don't give a damn what you do to me" and the "I'm too tough to care." He'd ditched the whole "screw the world" routine.

"My forte is dead bodies, not live ones," she said.

"Surely live ones are more fun."

He was flirting again, but she could tell he didn't mean anything by it. He was probably searching for a way to keep his mind off the indignity of being inspected like an animal.

"Maybe," she said. "But they're also a lot more threatening."

His good humor slipped away. "I didn't hurt her."

"I'm not talking about that kind of threat." She touched his arm to get him to turn around, but he wouldn't budge.

"If I was beating a woman, and she was fending me off, the marks would be on my face, neck and chest," he said.

She saw no evidence of a struggle. But his reluctance to show her his back made her curious to know the reason. "There are a few exceptions." She gave his arm another tug.

"I've shown you enough," he argued. But she insisted he turn around and when he complied, she saw what he hadn't wanted her to see: several scratches, all of them fresh.

"I take it you got these tonight?" she asked.

He shot her a sullen glance over his shoulder. "Not from fighting."

Right. Judging by the direction and angle of the scratches, Allie could easily guess what he and Beth Ann had been doing at the time. He'd already painted her a very vivid picture.

Relieved to be finished, she stepped away from him. "Thank you. If you'd like to meet me down at the station after I'm done with Beth Ann, I can take a few photographs, to show that you're in great shape." She blushed when she realized how her words could be interpreted, and hurried to clarify. "I mean, free from any injury that would show you've been in a fight."

He didn't acknowledge her slip. "Do you believe me?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. I'm just going to document the facts. The district attorney will draw his own conclusions. If you're willing to play the odds that my notes will be enough of a defense if Beth Ann doesn't back down from her story, there's no need to come to the station.

Otherwise--"

"Allie."

She blinked. She'd had no idea he knew her first name. "What?"

"I've never struck a woman. Do you believe me when I say I didn't hit her?"

She stared up at him, weighing her instincts. She'd been trying not to make any judgments one way or the other, to simply do her job. But it was Beth Ann's words that had rung false, not Clay's. She thought maybe he needed to hear that from someone in uniform.

"I do," she admitted. Then she walked out.

Clay sat at his kitchen table, listening to the clock tick above the stove while telling himself that he didn't need to go down to the police station. BethAnn's charges were completely unfounded. Allie McCormick had said she believed him. But he had little faith that she'd stick by her words if her father or anyone else read the facts differently. Why would she? Clay knew the night's events couldn't have reflected well on him. The hysterical woman calling from his house.

The marks on his back. BethAnn's assertion that she was pregnant and that he'd demanded she get an abortion.

It was humiliating. He was almost positive Beth Ann wasn't pregnant, or she would've told him--to stop him from breaking off the relationship. She was manipulative enough to use that bargaining chip if she possessed it. But this scare convinced him that he wanted no more women in his life. He couldn't even have casual relationships without regretting it.

"Shit," he muttered and stood to collect his keys. He'd go down and let Officer McCormick take her damn photos. Stripping off his shirt and revealing Beth Ann's nail marks couldn't be any more demeaning the second time around. He owed it to his sisters and mother to clean up the mess he'd made.

Anything to deflect interest. Anything to make Beth Ann's accusations fade away so he wouldn't draw any more unwanted attention.

Anything to make up for the past.

Allie hadn't expected Clay to show up, so she was more than a little surprised when he strode into the police station at nearly three o'clock in the morning. Beth Ann had left a few minutes earlier, and Hendricks had finally dragged his lazy butt out on patrol.

Which meant that, once again, she was alone with Clay.

"Mr. Montgomery." She assumed he'd tell her to call him by his first name. They were nearly the same age, had gone to school together. But he didn't.

"Officer McCormick."

She'd been about to pour herself a cup of coffee, but set the pot aside instead. "I'm glad you're here."

"You got your camera ready?" he asked.

"I do," she said and retrieved it from her desk.