Right Behind the Rain (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

  Books By Deborah Camp:

  The Dangerous Hearts Series

  Fallen Angel

  Fire Lily

  Master of Moonspell

  Right Behind the Rain

  Riptide

  The Daring Hearts Series

  Black-eyed Susan

  Blazing Embers

  Cheyenne’s Shadow

  My Wild Rose

  Primrose

  The Love and Adventure Series

  After Dark

  For Love or Money

  In a Pirate’s Arms

  Just Another Pretty Face

  Vein of Gold

  The Love and Laughter Series

  A Newsworthy Affair

  Hook, Line, and Sinker

  Love Letters

  The Butler Did It

  Wrangler’s Lady

  The Love Everlasting Series

  A Dream to Share

  Midnight Eyes

  Strange Bedfellows

  They Said it Wouldn’t Last

  Winter Flame

  The Passionate Hearts Series

  Destiny’s Daughter

  Oklahoma Man

  Taming the Wild Man

  The Second Mr. Sullivan

  Weathering the Storm

  The Tender Hearts Series

  Devil’s Bargain

  Sweet Passion’s Song

  This Tender Truce

  To Have, To Hold

  Tomorrow’s Bride

  The Wild Hearts Series

  A Tough Man’s Woman

  Lady Legend

  Lonewolf’s Woman

  Too Tough ToTame

  Tough Talk, Tender Kisses

  DEBORAH CAMP

  Right Behind the Rain

  Copyright © Deborah Camp, 1986

  All Rights Reserved

  First published by Silhouette Books.

  Cover photo by Sean McGrath

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter One

  March—it comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.

  How true, Raleigh Torrence thought as she marked off the first few days of March on her desk calendar. This March had roared into being, clawing and ripping up her life. Oh, how she hoped it ended as a meek, gentle lamb. Flipping back the pages, she glanced through February, which had passed in a gray blur. She stared at one particular page in February that had only one notation: Curtis’s funeral.

  Raleigh closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the cold, blustery day when she’d said her final goodbye to her brother. It had been the saddest day in her life, and only an undercurrent of rage had propelled her through the funeral and the days following it. Opening her eyes, Raleigh stared at the calendar page as biting anger tore through her again. She picked up her pen and wrote “Why?” on the page, underlining the word three times in mute frustration.

  “Lunch call!”

  The merry voice, out of sync with her dark memories, roused Raleigh, and she blinked her hazel eyes and looked up into Cathy Carlsbad’s smiling face. The young redhead leaned forward, waving a hand before Raleigh’s startled eyes.

  “Earth to Raleigh. Earth to Raleigh,” she said in a robot’s voice. “It’s noon and Jerry is going out for coneys. Do you want one?”

  “Jerry?” Raleigh glanced around the newspaper office. “Who’s Jerry?”

  “The new copyboy.” Cathy held out a hand, palm up. “If you want a coney, pay up.”

  “Oh, okay.” Raleigh grabbed her purse and withdrew two crumpled dollar bills. “Two with chili only and a small cola.” She handed the money to her fellow reporter. “What happened to the other copyboy?”

  “He quit two weeks ago. He started college and his class load was too heavy.”

  “I didn’t even know he’d left.” Raleigh shook her head, wondering when she’d get back into the mainstream of life again. It wasn’t like her not to notice when someone left the newspaper.

  “I’ll give your order to Jerry,” Cathy said. She started to turn away, then stopped to give Raleigh a worried glance. “Are you okay?”

  Raleigh forced a smile to her lips. “Sure. I was just thinking about a news story I’ve got to write this afternoon.” When Cathy looked unconvinced, Raleigh added, “I’m fine, Cathy. Really.”

  “Okay,” Cathy said dubiously as she walked slowly from Raleigh’s desk.

  Raleigh looked back down at the calendar and flipped the pages forward again to March. With a supreme effort, she swiveled her chair around to face her word processor’s screen, where she had written the first three lines of a news story hours ago. She sighed, wishing she could write some good news for a change, but the police beat offered few opportunities for that. How long could she keep on reporting burglaries, holdups, rapes and murders? How long before she couldn’t stand it any more?

  It hadn’t been that long ago she’d been overjoyed at becoming the Tulsa Times’s first female police reporter. Ever since Curtis’s death, however, each story had depressed her more. It seemed as if the whole world was falling apart and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

  Raleigh swallowed hard and placed her fingertips on the keyboard. Mechanically, she began recording the facts on the latest attempted bank robbery in Tulsa.

  A light drizzle fell from an overcast sky, and Evan Younger flipped up his coat collar to keep the moisture from inching down the back of his neck. He stuck his weather-reddened hands into the pockets of his pea coat and bent his head into the stiff wind as he weaved among the downtown Tulsa pedestrians. Ducking into an office-building doorway, Evan stamped his boots on the wet pavement and shivered under his wool coat. It had been a long time since he’d braved Tulsa’s winter, and his body had lost its resistance to cold weather during those years in Las Vegas and Los Angeles. Evan pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from one of his pockets. He cupped his hands around the lighter’s flame, keeping them there for a few moments after the cigarette was lit to warm his palms and fingertips, then stuffed the pack and lighter back into his pocket.

  The cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth as he watched a couple of career women pass by him.

  “My legs are freezing!” one of the women said.

  “You should have worn slacks today,” her companion admonished.

  “I would have, but my boss likes me in dresses.”

  Evan frowned, reading all sorts of things into the snatch of conversation. He looked up and examined the tall buildings through the drizzle, remembering some of them and acquainting himself with others. Some things never change, he thought with a quirk of his lips. Women could pursue careers as long as they dressed to please their bosses. Shaking his head, he laughed inwardly at the twisted irony, thankful that he didn’t have to dress for success. People didn’t care how a psychologist dressed. People who needed his help were far beyond caring about such trivia.

  Peeking around the terra-cotta door facing, Evan looked down the street and spotted a familiar neon light. The sight of it made his mouth water. The Coney Islander! He left the shelter of the doorway and hurried toward the tiny restaurant. It had been ages since he’d sunk his teeth into one of those spicy concoctions. Evan hoped the place hadn’t changed hands. A Greek family had owned it before he’d left Tulsa ten years ago, and they had made the be
st coneys he’d ever put in his mouth.

  A smile of gratitude curved his lips as he stepped inside the toasty-warm restaurant. Nothing had changed. Steam coated the street-side window, curling up from a grill covered with hot dogs. A white-haired man, the same one Evan remembered, supervised the grilling of the wieners by rolling them with the flat of his hand so that they cooked uniformly. Evan slipped into line and grabbed a tray. He glanced over his shoulder at the dozen or so school desks lined against the wall, occupied by men in business suits and winter coats who were shoving coneys into their mouths.

  “Yes, mister? What can we do for you today?”

  Evan snapped to attention, his ears picking up the Greek accent of the waiter. “I’ll take four with everything and a carton of milk to go,” he answered automatically, amused with himself for slipping into the old routine so effortlessly.

  “Four with everything,” the man repeated, already spooning steaming chili over the hot dogs. “And the milk is right down there, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Evan inched farther down the bar toward a small, glass-fronted cooler. He withdrew a carton of milk and set it on his tray, then took the paper sack the waiter handed him. He paid for his lunch, deposited the tray and tucked the milk carton into the sack with his coneys. Shouldering his way through the crowded room, he reached the door and headed outside into the cold drizzle. A boy wearing a Will Rogers High School football jacket ran past him into the restaurant, letting a blast of warm air escape and wash over Evan.

  The wind seemed to be even colder now. Evan started for his parked car several blocks away, but he paused when he saw an illuminated clock on the face of a building. His gaze lifted to the bold letters above it: The Tulsa Times Daily Newspaper. Someone’s shoulder grazed him, and Evan stepped back, removing himself from the stream of scurrying downtown workers. He focused his blue eyes on the eight-story building across the street as he wrestled with indecision.

  She worked there, he thought. The one holdout of the Torrence clan. Maybe if he just introduced himself, it would break the ice and she’d want to talk to him. Maybe she didn’t want to see him. Evan rounded his shoulders as a raindrop slid down the back of his neck. What the hell? he thought. He checked for traffic, then ran across the street to the building. Most people didn’t want to see him.

  He burst into the foyer, his boots sliding on the tiled floor. A security guard, seated behind a desk in the corner, eyed him, then smiled.

  “It’s nasty out there today, isn’t it?” the guard asked.

  “Terrible,” Evan agreed as he shook water droplets from his dark hair. “Which floor is the Times on?”

  “Six.” The guard sniffed the air. “Those coneys sure smell good.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Evan pulled the crumpled sack from under his arm, having momentarily forgotten about it. “I hope I didn’t smash them to bits.”

  “They’ll still taste good.” The guard tipped his head forward. “The elevators are right over there, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Evan returned the man’s smile, suddenly aware of how friendly his old hometown was. Smiles were easy to get in Tulsa. He rounded the corner and stood with two other men who were waiting for the elevator.

  “Here it comes,” one of them said as the elevator reached the lobby and the doors hissed open. “After you.” The man stood back, waiting for Evan and the other man to enter first before he took his place inside. “Which floor?”

  “Three.”

  “Six,” Evan chimed in.

  “I’m going to six, too,” the man said, punching the correct buttons. “I work for the Times.”

  “You do?” Evan asked, leaning against the rail as the other man got off on the third floor. “Can you direct me to Raleigh Torrence’s office?”

  The man chuckled and ran a forefinger across his gray mustache. “I can’t direct you to her office, but I can point out her desk for you. Only the high-powered editors have offices.”

  “I see.” Evan shifted the coney sack from one hand to the other. “That’ll be fine. Thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  The doors opened at the sixth floor and the man waved at the brunette receptionist. “Good afternoon, Sheila.”

  “Hi, Bud!” The receptionist smiled warmly. “Be sure and check your box. You’ve had a lot of messages today.”

  “Okay, I will.” Bud stopped, turning back to Evan. “Raleigh is sitting right over there near that horseshoe-shaped desk. She’s the one in the blue sweater with white stripes.”

  “Yes, I see her. Thanks again.”

  “No problem.” The man headed for a wall of cubbyholes and pulled a stack of pink slips from one of them.

  Evan looked back to the woman he’d pointed out. This woman didn’t dress for a man, success, style or for any other such high-minded consideration. Her sweater was a size too large, cheating Evan out of a peek at whatever curves she might possess, and her black slacks were conventionally cut for comfort, not appearance. Evan scrutinized her from a distance, deciding that she dressed like a woman who had lost weight recently and still couldn’t believe it. She was staring at a computer screen, a slight frown pinching the skin between her eyes. Her blond hair was caught by a ribbon at the nape of her neck, allowing the shorter hair around her face to escape and feather softly across her forehead. She wrinkled her nose at something she saw on the screen, and Evan smiled. He liked her nose. It was short-bridged and it tipped up at the end. A pug nose, which always made him think that it was a sign of a pugnacious character. He started across the room toward her, swinging the coney sack nonchalantly as he approached. She glanced up, letting him see her green-gray eyes behind the large, rectangular lenses of her glasses, and the sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks.

  “Hello,” he said, smiling and hoping he would be smiled at in return. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but—”

  “Oh, thank heavens!” She reached out and snatched the sack from his unresisting fingers. “I’m starved!” She paused, glancing at him again to give him a quick once-over before she opened his sack and thrust one hand inside. “I thought you’d be younger.”

  Her statement jolted him. What was she? Psychic? How could she have known he was going to drop by when he hadn’t even know it until just a few minutes ago? He gathered his senses and cleared his throat.

  “I am,” he said, watching as she lifted his coneys from the sack.

  “You are what?”

  “Younger.”

  Her hazel eyes sought his face again, this time warily, and she slowly took off her glasses and placed them on her desk. “Younger than what? Springtime?” She laughed shortly and removed the Styrofoam top from the coneys. “Oh, I get it. You mean you’re younger than me. Well, I don’t doubt that. Everyone seems younger than me these days.”

  He was silent, digesting this revealing statement and happy with himself for coming here to meet her. She was cute, even adorable.

  “Wait a minute!” She stared down at the melting cheese on the coneys, then looked up at him a bit accusingly. “These aren’t mine.”

  “I know,” he said, laughing a little. “They’re mine.”

  She fitted the top over them again with an impatient sigh. “Well, why did you give them to me?”

  “I didn’t give them to you. You took them from me,” he corrected her gently. “But if you’re really starved, you’re welcome to them.” He smiled, noticing the family resemblance to her sister, Cara, and her brother, Curtis.

  “I don’t want your coneys,” she said, pushing them back into the sack. “Where are mine?”

  Before he could answer, her gaze wandered past him and her eyes widened. Evan turned to see what had captured her attention and saw the boy in the Will Rogers football jacket, carrying a large box filled with coney sacks.

  “You’re Jerry, right?” Raleigh asked sheepishly.

  “That’s right,” the boy answered, handing her one of the sacks. “Here’s your lunch.” He noticed the other sack on her desk
and tossed her a confused look. “Did you go get those? I was supposed to—”

  “These aren’t mine,” Raleigh cut in, then nodded toward Evan. “They’re his.”

  “Oh.” Jerry grinned. “Okay.”

  “Thanks, Jerry.” Raleigh reached out and grabbed his sleeve before he could hurry past her. “By the way, I’m Raleigh Torrence. It’s nice to have you aboard.”

  The boy’s face reddened slightly. “Thanks, Miss Torrence.”

  Raleigh shook her head, smiling. “It’s Raleigh. We’re all on a first-name basis around here.”

  “Okay. Nice to meet you, Raleigh.”

  Raleigh released his sleeve, and Jerry headed for another desk. She lifted her gaze to Evan again and handed him his grease-stained sack. “Here’s your lunch, Mr.…”

  Evan took a deep breath and extended his hand, “I’m Younger.”

  One corner of her mouth pulled sideways, and she lowered her pale brows. “I’m sure you are, but I was asking for identification, not your birth date.”

  He laughed softly, shaking his head and realizing she was still misunderstanding him. “No, no. I’m Evan Younger.” He took her hand, closing his fingers around it and wondering why her hands were colder than his.

  “Evan Younger?” Her hand was motionless in his and her eyes weren’t as friendly as they’d been moments before. “Dr. Evan Younger, the new police psychologist?”

  “That’s right. I’ve been wanting to meet you, Raleigh, so I thought I’d just pop over and—”

  “Why?” she asked, snatching her hand from his and tearing open her coney sack with a vengeance.

  “Why?” he repeated, confused. “Why what?”

  “Why have you been wanting to meet me?”

  “Well, I’ve met the other members of your family and—”

  “So?” she challenged, turning frosty hazel eyes on him.

  Evan shifted to one foot, impervious to her coolness. “So, you’re the missing link. I wanted to meet you. I wanted to talk with you.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, the words clipped. “There’s nothing to say.”

  Curling his fingers into the paper sack, Evan told himself to keep calm and not take her bait. She wanted him angry, but he was determined to remain friendly. “There is something to say, Raleigh. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your brother’s death. It was quite a blow.”