Claim of Innocence: what, me pretend I own psych? *blink blink*
Rating: T
Summary: LASSIET. What he thinks she thinks, what she thinks he thinks, what others think they think, what a change of scenery can do for the thinking man, and how it affects the thinking woman in the process.

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CHAPTER ONE: Salty Seas

. . . .
. . .

She curled into his arms, warm and soft, and invited a kiss he was only too happy to give.

The ocean breeze through the open window was cool—and timeless, in a way—and the sound of the waves a gentle background to the relative silence of the room.

These past hours together in his bed had been remarkable and erotic and entirely mutual. Carlton had learned much about her body and her needs while she taught herself about his, and it was so incredible a feeling to give himself over to a woman's touch after so long alone—to be open with her, to her.

He stroked her hair back from her face. "You're pretty amazing."

"I know," she teased. "But so are you. I love all the shades of blue in your eyes."

"How many are there?" He was never comfortable talking about his eyes; he didn't see what the big deal was.

"At least seventeen, I think. I missed a few when they rolled back into your head. You know, while I was—"

"Yes," he said briskly, and stopped her laughter with a kiss.

She purred with satisfaction, hooking her leg over his thigh and pressing close to him, and Carlton shivered at the sensations all over again.

"I'm glad you're here." She nuzzled his jaw. "I'm glad you chose Orange Beach to hide out in. Merry Christmas, Carlton."

He brought a lock of her curly brown hair to his lips and drank in her scent. "Merry Christmas to you too, Marcy."

. . . .
. . .

It was the night before Christmas Eve, and life on the beach along the Gulf Coast had been peaceful for Carlton the last two months. He'd paid big bucks for a few deep sea fishing charters, he'd rented a boat for inshore fishing. He'd read, he'd walked the beach, he'd hung out in a few of the local nightspots and made some casual friendships. Absorbed a little history too by way of tours of the Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines sites and even the U.S.S. Alabama in Mobile, with a side trip up to Spanish Fort.

He'd relaxed.

He'd even felt relaxed.

He'd met Marcy.

She was part-owner of Salty Seas, a restaurant/tavern near the state line. She tended bar and kept the books and talked to him on slow nights—and sometimes even on fast nights. Intelligent and amusing, she made him feel comfortable in his own skin, which was an unusual experience for him where women were concerned. She didn't exactly flirt, but over the last couple of weeks he was pretty sure she liked him a lot, even though his conscious mind said he was crazy.

She wasn't Juliet. She didn't look like her or sound like her or smell like her.

But then again, that was sort of the point of being here.

He lay beside her as she slept, knowing she'd be gone when he woke next, and he had mixed feelings about that.

The last few nights, their talks had gotten more flirtatious, more intimate. He told her about Juliet. That is, he told her he'd come here for an extended period to get his head and heart straight, and still didn't know if it was possible.

She said it was time he discovered what else—who else—was out there. She said she expected nothing and knew better than to get involved with a man who admitted to loving another woman, let alone one who lived two thousand miles away, but it was Christmas.

"Let's give each other a present," she'd said simply. "No strings."

Part of him knew better. Part of him was just too damn lonely to resist.

And the part of him who could still be influenced by alcohol joined forces with the part of him which was lonely and together they succumbed to the lure of this warm and attractive woman, which was why he now knew what Marcy looked like naked.

Marcy shifted beside him, waking enough to murmur his name and stroke his chest.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered.

But she didn't. She yawned and pushed her hair out of her face and said, "You're thinking about her again."

God save him from perceptive women.

But he had to be honest. "Actually, I was thinking about you."

"Yeah?" She smiled and nuzzled his shoulder. "About how I'm not her."

Carlton looked at her, feeling uneasy. "Marcy—"

"It's okay. I meant what I said: no strings. But now that I've got your attention, let's talk some more about her."

His heart constricted, but he said nothing.

"What's her name?"

"Juliet." He called her that in his head, anyway. In person it was usually O'Hara.

"That's pretty. Is she a looker?"

"You could say so," he said dryly, thinking of Juliet's beautiful dark blue eyes, her wide sunny smile, her perpetual glow.

"I can't say so. But you can. What does she look like?"

An angel. Salvation. Hope.

Love.

Off limits. Never gonna happen.

You're an idiot.

Carlton sighed. "Blue-eyed blonde."

Marcy laughed. "I was expecting you to wax a little more poetic than that. Does she know you're nuts about her?"

"God, I hope not."

"Why not?"

"I'm already a moron for feeling this way about her. Why make it worse by confessing?"

"Because she might—hang on, don't shake your head at me; you don't know what I'm going to say."

"She wouldn't," he said emphatically. "We're partners. And she has a boyfriend."

"She can't be secretly pining for you?"

Carlton gave her a look. "That'd be a first."

She gave him a similar look. "Didn't I just spend the last few hours in bed with you?"

"That's not pining. That's Jack Daniels, holiday melancholy and lowered inhibitions."

Marcy glared. "Buddy, you must think I put moves on every blue-eyed customer at my bar if that's all this was to you."

He was instantly mortified. "No. Dammit, that's not what I meant. It's got nothing to do with you. It's all me."

"Oh, good Lord; what a load of horse hockey."

"Wait just a minute. You don't know me like I know me. You don't know—"

"You're right," she interrupted. "I don't know you like you know yourself, or like other people know you. I only know you like I know you. You're attractive and amusing and despite what you've said about being a cranky hardass at work, all I've seen is the more relaxed guy who likes fishing and a little Scotch now and then. It's kind of hard for me to see that women wouldn't find you attractive, and before you ask, I would have said that before I got you into bed tonight."

She sat up fully, holding the sheet to her chest, and for a moment her glare reminded him of Juliet.

"Okay." He sat up too, leaning against the headboard. "You don't know the workday me."

"But she does. And she's still your partner. I've known other cops, you know. I understand that bond."

The bond which had kept him going for years.

Still, so what?

"It doesn't mean she'd ever be—or has ever been—interested."

Marcy ran her hand through her curls, obviously exasperated.

"Why are we talking about her at all?" he asked. "Isn't pillow talk supposed to be about the people who are actually in bed together?" How often did he even get to be in a bed with a naked woman who liked him?

She grinned. "I've always been a little different. And intensely curious, I've been told. So what did Juliet have to say about you taking this extended leave?"

He hesitated.

She waited.

Still he hesitated.

Marcy's eyebrows went up. "Oh. How interesting."

. . . .
. . .

One day he gave himself a metaphorical whack upside the head. It was time to break free of his Juliet addiction, time to accept she was fully with Spencer, time to figure out whether he was attached to a dream or a reality, time to find out what he really wanted and what he could really live with when all was said and done.

Spencer was annoying, and seven years' experience with him had only made Carlton weary, but if Juliet totally lost her mind and married the guy, or worse, had children by him…

He wanted to be over her before that happened. He wanted to know he could be her friend and partner and not want anything more.

Or he wanted to know he would always want more, and figure out how to live without it, even if it meant living without her in his life at all.

He needed time to think. And he needed to be left alone to do it.

So he put a letter on Vick's desk one Friday night after everyone else was gone. In it, he apologized for going against policy, he accepted in advance whatever disciplinary action she might have to take, and he hoped she understood that he wouldn't be doing this if it weren't absolutely necessary.

His emergency leave would begin Monday, October 22, and he would return to work March 18. He said he'd call her every few weeks to check in, but otherwise, he would be unavailable.

By midnight, he was already three hours down the road.

. . . .
. . .

Marcy stared. "You didn't tell Juliet you were even thinking about time off?"

He shook his head.

"Damn, man, that's five months. I mean, I knew you'd been here for at least two—but you've talked to her, right?"

He shook his head again.

She let out a low whistle. "Did you give a reason for the leave in your letter?"

"No. And I'll still have over seven months left when I get back."

"Workaholic," she said dismissively.

No denying it. But so far, his time here had taught him he could relax, and he could be a person instead of a full-time cop.

"Have you at least talked to your boss?"

"Yeah. I've called her a few times. She wasn't too happy with me but she admitted I wouldn't have taken off without good cause."

"Did she ask what the cause was?"

He frowned. "I think she was concerned I might be sick but she hasn't pried."

Marcy was still staring at him in surprise. "And not a word to Juliet?"

Carlton felt uncomfortable under her dark-eyed scrutiny. "She's emailed and left phone messages. Texts too. But I… can't. I can't respond. Not yet."

She paused, and then said slowly, "She's worried about you."

"Yeah," he admitted.

"Ease her fears."

Simple words.

"I can't."

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. . .

Worried about him.

That was what the messages indicated. They tugged at his heart and that's why he could not answer her yet. She seemed so sincerely worried: where are you, why didn't you tell me, can I help you, why won't you talk to me, Vick says you're all right but she doesn't know anything, please, please just talk to me

Then a few weeks back, the messages changed. She started writing emails to him as if she were just catching him up after a long day. She was keeping him in the loop of her life—not her life with Spencer, thank God, but everything else.

In a way that made it worse.

He only turned the phone on once a week, and read Juliet's messages and listened to her voicemails then. Getting everything from her in one big dose, while it seemed like it should be less painful than little daily stabs, was harder, because… because he was defenseless against the onslaught of emotion—of longing—that way.

Resolutely keeping the phone off was helping him, he told himself. Not just making it harder to be found via his GPS, but helping him.

Sure.

. . . .
. . .

"What's to stop her from just finding you?" Marcy asked. "She's a cop. She can run your credit cards, right?"

"She can, but even if she wanted to, she won't. It's against policy and she could get in trouble. Besides, I've done my best to avoid leaving a paper trail."

She was skeptical. "If you think she won't look, why would you bother to hide?"

"She won't look," he said with confidence. "But her asshat boyfriend might."

"Why?"

Carlton rubbed his face, sighing. "You'd have to know him to really understand, but the main thing is this. Spencer is an invasively nosy little SOB and he's the one person who would make an effort to find me, just to prove he could. I'm not saying he'd come 2000 miles to rub it in, but it would be exactly like him to find out everything he could long-distance just to be able to say he knew it."

Marcy's expression was dubious. "Are you serious?"

He debated listing even five examples of Spencer-behavior to show how serious he was. But screw that, because ultimately Spencer wasn't his problem. "Yes."

She found his tone of finality amusing, because her grin came back. "Okay, enough about him. How on earth could you get down here and rent this place without leaving a paper trail? And if it's going to turn out you're a dirty cop with a suitcase full of blood money, let me get my clothes back on before you answer."

"I'd eat my gun before I became a dirty cop," he said with immediate heat, and her eyes grew wide. "Sorry. I take my job seriously."

"I can see that."

She moved to rest beside him against the headboard, the sheet still covering her, and he was oddly glad. It was as if now that they were discussing his useless romantic history, the fact they'd just had damned good sex was something they were tacitly going to ignore.

"So how did you do it?" she persisted.

Planning.

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. . .

Once he decided he needed time—a substantial block of time—he also realized he had to go as far away as he could and say as little as possible about it while leaving as miniscule a trail as possible in the process.

Six weeks before the date he'd chosen (he wanted to be gone during the major holidays and as a bonus, Valentine's Day), he started putting money onto a prepaid Visa card as well as in traveler's checks. He withdrew from his savings and sold some odds and ends to put together enough cash for what he needed, and also bought a disposable phone.

As he traveled the country heading for the Gulf Coast, he stayed in decent hotels using the Visa card and his police ID—any time he ran up against someone who didn't want to take the card, he offered to give over the Chief of Police's phone number; it either worked (no one ever called Vick that he knew of) or he politely withdrew and went to another hotel. Sometimes hinting that he was on an undercover mission would woo a clerk into bending policy a little.

At gas stations, he either paid inside or used the card. He wasn't worried about showing his police ID; he knew it was unlikely anyone would actually call Vick, and less likely she would tell anyone in Santa Barbara where he was even if she knew. Merely showing an ID—even allowing his driver's license to be photocopied at hotels—wouldn't turn up in any check of his financial records.

Renting this beachside condo had been his main point of concern, but that had worked out too. Off-season the rates were lower, particularly for long-term rentals, and he chose an older property offered by a relatively un-prominent realty company. He played the implied undercover and/or need-to-stay-off-radar card, made his total payment up front via traveler's checks (a bit painful, and his savings account back home was whimpering a little), most definitely had to show his police ID and practically urged the agent to call Vick (she didn't).

The unit was on the end of the building, on the first floor, ocean-side; all he had to do was walk down the stairs and straight to the water's edge. He was close to several restaurants and taverns, close to the fishing charters, close to boat rentals—close to everything, without having to interact with anyone when he didn't damn well feel like it.

Lots of days, he didn't feel like it. He did feel like soaking up the sun on the deck, like sipping a beer while reading a regimental history, like napping on the sofa with the sliding door open so he could hear the waves, because now there was time for such things.

None of this was helping him get over Juliet. But he was certainly rested and healthy and more optimistic about the future, and there had been a few moments when he actually thought the blasphemous maybe I don't even have to be a cop… but those moments were rare and not to be trusted. He knew no other life, and he wanted no other life.

He just didn't want the life apart from being a cop to be so devoid of… the life part.

. . . .
. . .

"Are you going broke doing this?"

"No. I'll be working a lot of overtime when I get back, but I'll be okay." He hoped. Just his luck, he'd have some financial setback like a condo fire or a car explosion or a... knock it off, Pollyanna.

Marcy looked him over judiciously. "As an aside, you do look healthier than the first time I saw you. But why'd you have to come here to get a tan? Isn't Santa Barbara on the ocean too?"

"Shorts and sandals don't really work for the police station," he pointed out. "Plus, you already figured out I spend too much time working."

"If they could see you now," she half-sang. "All tanned and healthy. Have I told you you've got great legs?"

He felt himself blushing. "No, and you don't have to."

"Tall lean men are the best." She stroked his arm lightly, but he knew it wasn't a come-on, not this time. Not ever again. "You know, the first few nights you were in my place, I thought you were casing the joint."

He was instantly outraged. "Why in the hell would you think—"

She laughed. "Come on. You seemed to be watching everyone, checking out the cash register and the customers."

"For God's sake," he protested, "I wasn't—"

"I know, I know. I finally figured out you were watching everyone else to make sure they weren't casing the joint. That's how I knew you were a cop before you told me."

He remembered her addressing him as "officer" at the end of his third night in, and repressing the urge to snap "Head Detective" in response.

Marcy was smiling. "Old habits, right?"

"Yeah." He felt tired suddenly, tired beyond how he'd expended his energy so far this evening. Talk—particularly talking about himself—was so very wearying. "Sorry if I spooked you."

"I've dealt with worse. You don't run a bar in a beach town very long before you learn how to handle all kinds of trouble. I have to admit, you weren't the run-of-the-mill potential bad guy. Those eyes alone, plus how you looked all cool and collected, dressed far too nicely for a dive like Salty Seas."

"It's not a dive."

She shrugged. "Not really, I suppose, but it's not exactly upscale." She fussed with the sheet a moment. "Would your Juliet like it?"

"Yes." No hesitation. "She'd be comfortable there." He could imagine her, in jeans and a scoop-neck top, hair brushing her shoulders, blue eyes bright as she sipped on wine or a beer, relaxed and having a good time.

"You've been out drinking?" Her tone was curious.

"Not… not alone, if that's what you mean. Not like a date. We've had drinks after work now and then and we've had a hell of a lot of meals together."

"Sure," Marcy agreed, almost absent. "So how long have you been partners?"

"Seven years."

"And you're friends, right? Hard to see how you wouldn't be, given how much time you must have spent together."

Carlton hesitated, because he wanted the words to be right. "There is no better partner for me, and she's the best friend I've ever had."

It still didn't seem enough.

Marcy studied him for a moment. "Would you say she feels the same way about you?"

He blinked. "She's let me know the partnership matters, but I don't see how I could be her best friend. She's younger and more social and I'm sure she's had closer friendships with other people throughout her life."

"But you'd agree she at least considers you a very good friend."

Shrugging, because this was hard to talk about, he offered no objection.

"And your master plan, if I understand it, was to come down here to get over her so you can go back home and pick up the partnership and friendship without the complication of being in love with her."

"Well, when you put it like that, it sounds stupid," he said tartly, "but yes."

She only laughed. "It's not stupid. I get what you're hoping for. You're not the first person who ran away to get some breathing room, and it does work sometimes."

He hoped to God it would work for him.

"Here's my question. She's been emailing and voice-mailing and texting you but you haven't contacted her at all in the last two months, right?"

Carlton frowned. "Yes, but—"

"And right now you intend to keep it that way until March?"

"If that's what it takes." He knew he sounded stiff.

"That's really not going to work out for you, Carlton."

Her tone was serious, and he began to feel even more uneasy. "So now you can see the future?"

"I can see logic, and I know how a woman—how a friend—would think. You have to contact her."

"I told you. I can't."

"I'm not saying you need to have a heart-to-heart. I'm saying you need to check in with her. An email, a text—just a few words to let her know you're all right."

"I can't," he repeated tensely.

"Uh, yeah, you can, and you will. And here's why." Marcy sighed, and turned to face him more fully. "Dave's my partner. He and I have been running Salty Seas for ten years. He and his wife are like my parents and siblings and children all rolled into one dynamic duo. If Dave took off without a word, and then waltzed in hale and healthy after five months, the first thing he'd get from me is my fist punching him in the nose. I would be so pissed off, and so hurt, to have been completely cut off by someone who didn't even have the decency to limp in carrying one leg in his arms and maybe missing his spleen and a kidney."

He stared at her, senses prickling with the truth of what she was saying.

"I'd deserve more from my friend. And she deserves more from hers." Her eyes were dark and intent, pinning him down the same way Juliet could with only a look.

He was silent, because he was unable to speak.

"So email her," she went on bluntly. "Tell her you're okay and say Merry damn Christmas, or when you get back to Santa Barbara, I promise you there'll be neither a friendship nor a partnership left for you to preserve."

. . . .

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