by Sarah Andre
Jordan froze the screen and pointed to his image. “You swigged her drink, Lock. Maybe you were drugged.”
He automatically shook his head, breaking into a cold sweat. Combine the rotten side of him with a drug to make him uninhibited? He couldn’t go there. “No one would drug her.” His voice sounded weird, and he cleared his throat. “If I hadn’t taken her home, Marcy would’ve. Tiff was safe from predators.”
“But if someone had slipped something into that Cosmo, we need to narrow our investigation to the people in the bar.”
If someone had slipped something into that Cosmo, there was no reason to look any further. He’d killed her. There was no doubt in his mind. He grit his teeth and threw her an incendiary look as her theory solidly lodged itself into his guilt-infested conscience. Just when he’d begun believing he may not have committed murder, Jordan tossed out a flippant observation that only ratcheted up his fear.
“What?” she asked, frowning.
He shook his head. Like he’d confess that he’d spent the last ten months in the swirling vortex of self-hatred and self-blame. “I just think you’re reaching.”
“Throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks, remember?” She clicked the arrow. The video continued, and he descended back into the surreal world of watching the horror play out.
“Wait for it,” she muttered, leaning forward.
Ronny, the bartender, came into view, and Lock heard his own voice apologizing as he moved them closer to the door. Heard Tiff slur, “Butt out, Slick,” and chills blanketed his skin. He thought he remembered every detail about that bar fight, but he gaped at the screen now. I forgot about Ronny. Oh yeah, Wolf asking about the baseball game.
“Right there!”
He jumped at Jordan’s shriek. She pointed to Tiffany looking towards the entrance. Cell Phone Guy captured a clear change of expression. From drunken annoyance to a flash of—Recognition? Fear?
“Wait—” Tiff still trying to yank her wrist free. “I gotta go…”
“We’re leaving, honey.”
“No. Lemme go. I shee shomeone.” She struck him in the chest. “Let go, asshole, you’re hurting me!”
Lock watched himself let her go, watched her stagger out of his life one more time. Cell Phone Guy had kept the camera on him. Marcy brushed past red-faced, then Wolf sidled up answering his question about the guy in the purple Polo walking Tiff out.
He sagged against the cushion, sick to his stomach. Let me go. I see someone. How had he missed that?
Vannini had to have killed her. He clung to that, trying to forget the roofie angle.
“Now, the third suspect.” Jordan pointed to the screen. “Who’s this?”
Despite the steady internet horror of the last ten minutes, Lock almost laughed. “My teammate, Wolf Sorenson. He’s no suspect.”
“What was he doing at Tiffany’s table?”
“Evidently buying her drinks.”
“So you walked in and found your girlfriend drinking with Wolf?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re fixated on Vannini as a suspect?”
He scowled down at her. “It’s not what you think. Wolf’s lazy. He’s at the bottom of the heap on the team, he slums with friends instead of getting his own place, and he doesn’t have any social skills, so he rarely has a girl. I mean he gets girls, but I think his means are—questionable.” At least from the sick rumors he’d heard. Goosebumps prickled his skin. Rumors of roofies.
“Well here he is, moving in on your girlfriend.”
Lock shook off the spark of suspicion. Vannini. Focus on Vannini! “You just heard his explanation. Tiffany had Tweeted about her shitty day, and he went to console her. He’s an ass, but he’s harmless.”
She frowned at Wolf’s frozen, grinning image on the screen. “I’m not convinced. Let’s go through it again.”
The contents in Lock’s stomach immediately revolted. “No,” he said. “I—I can’t.”
But she clicked the play button, clearly following Wolf’s actions, gestures, and who he was watching as Tiffany began belting out her drunken tirade.
Lock bolted up, adrenalin and anxiety coursing through him. He couldn’t watch this, had intentionally never watched it before, even though he knew it was the prosecutor’s best weapon. The eeriness of seeing his dead girlfriend on screen the last night of her life was too much. Too real. As if the murder would still occur in the future. As if he might have a chance to stop it this time.
“I need some air,” he choked out.
“Lock—”
“I’ll be a while.” He trudged blindly through the mudroom, sweeping up his outer gear and wrenching the door open before he secured the jacket. The harsh night air bit into him, sucking the breath from his lungs. As usual, Leo’s car was unlocked. He popped the glove compartment, grabbed the flashlight, and headed downward, taking the path he’d carved out yesterday, still managing to stumble over half-buried logs and demolish small branches with his shoulders.
He shook his head, trying to clear the images out. The grainy photos really scared him. Someone had access to her courtyard, either a sick but harmless peeper or a murderous stalker. He needed to call Parker first thing in the morning with that information. And fire the damn PI on the case.
The YouTube video replayed like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Jesus, he’d never noticed Tiffany’s strung-out appearance before tonight. The shock of seeing his drunken, bleary-eyed girlfriend as an emaciated, hollow woman. Had he really been so self-absorbed back then that he’d ignored her physical demise? And why hadn’t Marcy done more to help that night? Was the bachelor auction that important?
On and on he trudged into the black night. He rubbed his eyelids fiercely but Tiffany didn’t budge. That change in her expression, almost sobering the instant she looked off camera. The “If Only” game replayed in his head along with the video. If Only he hadn’t let go of her wrist. If Only he’d walked out alongside her. If Only Cell Phone Guy had followed her instead of filming him and Wolf. Christ, he still saw that bastard’s cold, blue eyes and hostile expression as he held that damn phone steady.
Lock stopped dead in his tracks, his stunned exhale misting the air.
Cell Phone Guy. Jesus Christ. That was the glaring guy in the Facebook profile. The guy she’d dated two weeks before her death. A guy who lied about being a martial arts fighter.
What was his name? Russell Reeves.
…
Jordan replayed the scene until she knew every person’s actions and reactions, including the annoyed bartender, the faces of other patrons nearby, and that oddball, Wolf, who sat with his arms crossed, either smirking at the whole fiasco or waving into the camera. He was definitely on her suspect list, no matter how Lock laughed it off. Friends didn’t cozy up to other guys’ girlfriends. She refocused on Tiffany staggering off screen one more time, a furious cousin following her, and then powered the computer down in disgust.
This was the goddess? What about the slurring, mascara-smeared drunk appealed to the dynamic athlete? He deserved someone with intelligence. Someone who saw past the public persona he hid behind.
Tiffany—the goddess, humph!
Get a grip on the jealousy. He’s not yours.
She yawned and drew squiggles on the page. Actually, his loyalty to Tiffany was admirable…misplaced, but admirable.
Even while viewing the website and video, she’d kept half an eye on his reactions. Shocked revulsion at the twisted photos and heartbreaking guilt during the video. These vulnerable glimpses had the effect of a wrecking ball, smashing through the protective walls she’d spent a lifetime building.
She sighed and checked her cell phone for any word from Starr News. Nothing. She texted Rebecca asking after her mom, who texted back “fine.” Tucking her phone under a throw pillow, she curled into the sofa cushions, fighting fogginess. Must be the painkillers from Clutch. She vowed not to take any more. She needed to stay awake and wait Lock out, get tha
t backup picture.
Yet it was way after midnight, and her eyes stung. What would it hurt to rest them while she planned Vannini’s interview? The role he played in Tiffany’s Milan trip. Nailing down when they first met…
She yawned again. What had she been thinking about? Oh right, Vannini. His arrival date into the US last May, old lovers of his, any gossip about violence…
“Hey,” Lock whispered in her ear.
“Mmm?” When had he come back? For the life of her, she couldn’t open her eyes and check the time.
“Stretch out. Your rib’s gonna hurt if you sleep like that.”
She nodded, but her limbs felt all floaty and uncoordinated and stayed put.
“Jordan, did you hear me?”
She nodded again and this time felt strong enough to open her ten-ton eyelids. Lock knelt at the sofa’s edge, darkly handsome and mysterious in the shadowy flame light. His shaggy hair was all sorts of gold, and she wanted to reach out and smooth it off his forehead.
“You always smell like air,” she murmured.
“Good to know.” His warm chuckle fanned her face. “Now stretch out.”
“I have to take your picture.”
“I’ll have my publicist send you something. Try to roll over.”
“Nothing seems to work right now.”
“Druggie.” His tone held honey and laughter, and she felt his palms span half her body as he gently repositioned her.
“Remind me to tell you about Russell Reeves in the morning,” he murmured.
“Tell me now.”
His grin was as affectionate as his voice. “Do you even know who I’m talking about?”
She blinked a couple of times, but the fog stayed. She sighed. “Not really. It’s on the tip of my tongue, though.” She stuck it out to show him. “Someone important.”
“Maybe.”
He began removing his hands, and she clutched his bicep, so powerful and unyielding in the soft flannel. “Tell me.”
“Tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
She ran her fingertips over the hard mound. “I’m sorry about this evening. Dredging up the bad memories and all.”
“As long as you keep uncovering suspects, honey, I can man up.”
“I hope you find another goddess one day.”
He groaned and brushed a thumb softly over her lips. “Is there a kill switch to this thing?”
Her heart fluttered at the butterfly-like touch, and she sighed in disappointment when he disengaged her clasp and reached for the afghan.
“Kiss me,” she whispered. He sucked in air. “Do it,” she urged, “just once.”
“Nope.” His voice held an edge. “You’re swimming in painkillers and don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’m perfectly fine. I could talk all night.”
He chuckled and leaned down.
Finally! She closed her eyes, lips poised for his dominant ones when she felt them, warm and gentle on her forehead. His nose brushed hers intimately as he eased back.
“Give the talking a rest and let me hear you snore.”
In one fluid motion he hauled himself away, and she heard the whoosh of the leather chair. She clung to her cold disappointment and the sudden chill of his absence.
“Lock?” she whispered after a minute.
“Yeah?”
She willed her tongue around the complicated words. “I think I better warn you…the questions are gonna get harder tomorrow.”
“I’m staring down a life sentence, baby, bring it on.”
Chapter Twenty-One
When Jordan awoke, it took less than four seconds for her to remember begging Lock for a kiss. She cringed. The pain pills. Yeah, blame them. And the tender way he’d tucked her in…
Well, at least he’d kept his head and resisted.
A part of her wanted the ground to swallow her up, while another part, somewhere near her heart, just plain hurt. She’d sensed his simmering attraction, but given last night’s rebuff, it obviously wasn’t her, more like sharing a tiny cabin with a female.
A discrete glance over her shoulder confirmed he wasn’t sprawled in the chair, and the home seemed curiously quiet. She smelled brewed coffee, though, so she cautiously hauled herself upright and hopped, bootless, into the kitchen, which was tidy and empty.
As she poured coffee into a travel mug and closed the lid, she tried to make peace with her idiotic behavior. Not kissing Lock last night was a blessing. She faced a tight deadline, and Rebecca’s description of her father beating down their door shivered through her. She couldn’t afford the time or emotion to fall for Lock like some bimbo. No more spontaneous kissing invitations!
Cautiously she returned to the living room, only feeling a slight twinge—great news since the clumsy boot was getting on her nerves.
Between sips of coffee, she checked for any emails from Starr News. Nothing, damn it. Had Rebecca texted the wrong number for them? She emailed her, asking to check, then clicked on an email from Jefferson:
IDing Webmaster behind HottestBabe will take longer than anticipated. This guy knows how to hide online as well as that child porn perp we caught last year.
Looks like he uploads Tiffany’s photos among the masses—like at a Starbucks or in his car outside a motel offering free wifi. Tracing the IP only reveals the locations, and he’s used many. Also uploads early in the morning, aka Starbuck’s version of rush hour.
Am trying to find his MAC address (address of his network card, grasshopper.) Once I get that I’ll link up with some of the public wireless locations he used (yes, I can do it from here) and wait for his MAC address to show up. Then it’s a matter of identifying who he is among all the customers.
Bottom line: it’s not impossible to find him, but it’ll take time and grunt work.
BTW, he still finds new pics to upload. Latest one—a professional photograph taken at a charity function thirteen months ago. Uploaded Tuesday, from some wireless café in Aspen.
Ya think he knows she’s dead? Who maintains a %#! obsession? Guy’s a freakin’ nutcase.
The grainy black and whites were taken from a Nikon D300.
Your mom is fine, stop worrying. Come home soon. Ciao!
She hibernated her laptop, grabbed her coffee, and took the stairs, bootless again. Halfway up, she realized her stupidity because the twinge felt more like a sharp jolt now. Her pace slowed with each wince. She tried to ignore the pain by mentally writing the exposé about Lock for the tabloid. Then she tried to ignore the guilt. Her mom’s life was way more important than Lock’s privacy. Besides, she’d be out of his life in a few days; there wasn’t even a remote chance of a relationship. He was only a means to an end. And she’d still help his defense while she was here.
She sighed when she reached the top step. All that justification didn’t ease her conscience or dampen her attraction. God, he’d been so sweet last night.
She reached Leo’s bedroom and rested against the doorframe, keeping her right foot off the floor as she looked around. The room was as Spartan as always: no personal items, no clothes on the floor, no homey warmth, not even a speck of dust. She glanced at his flawlessly made bed and sipped her coffee, debating whether to open some drawers just to find out more about the introverted obsessive-compulsive. His life held the kind of mystery that sucked a reporter like her in, and if this were Lock’s room, all bets would be off.
She grinned as she limped across the room, shouldering the bathroom door open to warm, moist air scented with musky soap. Electrified, she stopped in her tracks.
In the final remnants of dissipating steam, Lock stood at the sink, his damp hair spiked in tufts. A short navy towel covered his slim hips; the rest of him was just glorious naked flesh.
He swirled the razor in the sink, swiped his palm across the foggy mirror and peered at his reflection, turning his mostly bare face side to side.
Get out, her brain commanded. Instead she stood paralyzed, studying the way his broad back tapered lik
e carved marble to a slim waist. Under the towel, his butt looked tight and curvy. And those thighs—honed from years of extreme skiing. Not an ounce of fat covered this man, just smooth, chiseled muscle and clean, shiny skin.
She huffed out a soft breath, and he started mid-stroke, swiveling around. Her stupefied gaze swept the front of him, lingering on the cut obliques and the loosely knotted V of the towel far below his navel. Holy, Holy Smokes.
“You look like you’ve never seen a guy without a shirt before.” His amused voice held a morning gruffness, and she gripped the doorframe as reality rushed back.
“S-Sorry, I didn’t know you were in here.” She sloshed her coffee turning away, ignoring the sharp protest in her rib and ankle.
“No doubt, sleepyhead.” His husky chuckle was insanely sexy, and despite herself she glanced back. White teeth flashed a wide, clean-shaven grin, and her knees began to tremble.
“I was about to drag you back to the hospital.” He turned that grin back to the mirror. “Have them pump your stomach or something.”
“What time is it?”
He shrugged. “It was after seven when I got in the shower.”
“You’re shaving your beard,” she said inanely, fighting the tingling desire spreading through her. She should tell him about the difficulty honing in on the webmaster instead of standing here like a dog in heat. She should keep mentally writing her article.
“Trial starts Monday. No need for a disguise anymore.” He swiped another miniscule stroke down his jaw. “Sure is taking a long time to get this sucker off, though.”
“It looked great on you.” Not this great.
“Thanks. Can’t say I’ll miss the itch.” He swirled the razor and threw her another dazzling smile, highlighting the sharp grooves under those bare cheekbones. Seriously, if he smiled like that one more time, she was going down. Her legs felt like sticks of butter in the Sahara.
“So anyway. We’ll talk downstairs.” She turned, desperate to leave before her composure crumbled in front of all that magnificent nudity.
“Stay.” He pointed to the tub with his razor. “I’m about finished.”