Memories of Us by Linda Winfree Read Free Book Online Page B

layers of her law-enforcement capability. He wanted to let the sweet lushness of her voice soothe away the unease unfolding within.
    Damn, he needed a life.
    He didn’t need the little thrills running over him just from the idea of being in Celia’s home, getting another glimpse of the person she was away from the office.
    Pushing the door open, he stepped out then walked up the brick walkway. Wind chimes moved in a tinkling rhythm at the edge of the porch, and music, some kind of metallic pinging blended with a flute, flowed from an open window in a soft wave. A bubble machine puffed sparkling spheres from the same window.
    He mounted the steps, painted porch boards creaking a little beneath his loafers. Beside the leaded-glass door, a discreet sign announced the shop’s hours. He grasped the doorknob, a solid, bumpy weight in his palm, and turned. A warm, sweet smell washed over him as he stepped inside. A bell jingled with his entrance.
    Towering bookshelves, crammed with leather-bound tomes and colorful paperbacks, covered one wall. On tables scattered throughout what must have been a formal parlor lay displays of crystals, jewelry, stoneware, more books. He eased through the room, a frown tugging at him. Somehow, he couldn’t envision Celia here. He had to have the wrong address.
    From one table, he lifted a vivid box, his frown deepening. Tarot cards?
    “That’s a beautiful deck. The artwork is amazing.” The lyrical voice wafted from the doorway behind a long counter and he did a double take. For a moment, he’d thought the woman was Celia—they looked and sounded that much alike. But something about this woman’s face was softer, more serene, where Celia’s eyes held the edge most law-enforcement officers’ did. That edge had softened somewhat in that autopsy lab this morning and he’d gotten a glimpse of the woman inside. By the time she’d left the office that edge had been solidly back in place.
    He’d liked what he’d seen though, of that softer Celia. After she’d disappeared to God-knew-where to work with Cook, the insight had haunted him at the most damnable moments—arguing a motion in chambers, trying to strategize with Rhett. Hell, he’d even found himself looking for her at the end of the day, and not just for an update. He’d wanted to see her .
    Celia St. John was driving him certifiable.
    The Celia look-alike stared back at him. “Oh. It’s you.”
    “I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong house. I’m looking for Celia.”
    The clear green eyes—another difference—shuttered. “She’s not here yet. Would you like some tea?”
    “Please.” He stepped forward, indicating the shop with a nod. “Nice place.”
    “Thank you.” She moved to the end of the counter and set two china cups on the polished wood. “I’m Cicely, by the way. Celia’s sister.”
    “A pleasure. I’m—”
    “I know who you are.” She lifted her head, her sea-green gaze piercing through him. “Cee lives and breathes her job. Or maybe you hadn’t noticed.”
    “I—” He smiled at the nickname and shook his head, taking the delicate cup she offered. He didn’t know enough about Celia beyond the office to realize she might share his workaholic tendencies. “Thanks. Honestly, I hadn’t.”
    One of her plucked eyebrows winged upward. “I bet there’s a lot you don’t notice.”
    Tom took a sip of the dark tea, the taste of cherries and cinnamon exploding on his tongue. Cicely regarded him steadily. She gestured at the box he’d dropped back on the table. “Are you interested in the Tarot? Would you like a reading?”
    He stiffened. “What? Oh, no, that’s fine…I don’t—”
    She leaned forward, a mocking glint in her eyes. “Don’t what? Believe?”
    Somewhere behind her, in the long dim hallway, a door opened and closed. Familiar footsteps sounded on hardwood and the tension gripping him relaxed.
    “Cis?” Celia’s voice wrapped around him, sending a rush of warmth through him.