Beverly Barton Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  After placing three colas in the mini-fridge and the ice bucket on the desk, he upended a glass from the paper coaster, filled the glass with ice and popped the tab on his Coke. Then he removed his jacket and shirt, as well as his shoes and socks, stripping down to his T-shirt and bare feet. After setting up his laptop, he grabbed the glass of cola, along with a pad and pen, and relaxed on the sofa. Kicked back, sipping on the cold drink, he propped his feet up on the coffee table.

  On the drive from St. Simons Island, he and Maleah had avoided any mention of last night. She had focused on driving; he had checked e-mails and text messages and given his full attention to the copycat killer case. They hadn’t talked much and when they had, their conversation had been limited to strategic planning for tomorrow.

  Maleah had a ten o’clock interview with Browning in the morning. She understood that the first goal was to find out if Browning knew that his visitor Albert Durham was not the real Durham, the real biographer. If the fake Durham had fooled Browning, then it might be possible to coax him into betraying any confidences the two men had shared. But he wouldn’t give the info to Maleah without equal payment in return. He would want his pound of flesh. And he would want to strip it off Maleah himself, inch by inch.

  If Browning knew that his visitor had been a fraud, his knowing that would change everything. That could mean the two men were co-conspirators, working together, each getting something they wanted from their alliance. If that were the case, then Browning wouldn’t be inclined to offer any info to Maleah. Not unless she could up the ante and offer him something that the fake Durham couldn’t.

  Derek could only imagine what price Browning would demand.

  Would Maleah be willing to pay the price?

  Would he let her?

  Listen to yourself, Lawrence! Would you let her? How the hell do you think you could stop her, short of knocking her out and tying her up?

  While he jotted down first one thought and then another, anything and everything that came to mind, he finished off the first Coke. Just as he got up, refilled his glass with ice and reached into the fridge for a second can, someone knocked on his door.

  He set the can beside his glass on the table and padded barefoot across the carpet. When he peered through the peephole, he smiled. He hadn’t expected to see her again until morning.

  He opened the door. “Hi.”

  “May I come in?” Maleah asked, her chin high, her gaze direct.

  He stepped aside to allow her room to enter. “Yeah, sure, come on in.”

  When she scanned him from head to toe, he realized she was taking in his completely casual appearance. “I was settling in for the evening.”

  “I apologize for disturbing you.” She was still dressed just as she had been when they had arrived at the hotel. Navy slacks, tan jacket, and sensible low-heel shoes.

  “You’re not disturbing me,” he told her as he closed the door. “Would you like a Coke?”

  She eyed the glass filled with ice and the unopened cola can on the desk. “Do you have another?”

  “Two more as a matter of fact.” He moved past her toward the desk.

  “Then, yes, thank you, I’d like a Coke.”

  “Have a seat.” He busied himself preparing a second glass with ice and then split the Coke between the two glasses. He walked over to where she sat on the sofa and offered her the drink.

  Before joining her on the sofa, he opened the fridge and retrieved a second cola, popped the tab and set the can on the coffee table beside Maleah’s glass. When he started to sit down, Maleah reached out and picked up the notepad he had left lying on the sofa.

  “Take a look,” he told her. “I was just putting down some thoughts on your meeting with Browning in the morning. See if there’s anything you think you can work with, anything that strikes you as doable.”

  She read over the page of notes, and then set the pad on the coffee table before lifting her glass and sipping on the cola.

  “First and foremost, you have to find a way to figure out if Browning knows that the Albert Durham who visited him is a fake,” Derek said.

  “I figure a direct approach is best,” she said. “I think I should lead off with the news that we spoke to the real biographer, Albert Durham, and that the man who visited him and passed himself off as a writer wanting to tell the world Browning’s life story is a phony.”

  “I agree. Watch him closely for his initial reaction. After those first few seconds, he’ll hide what he’s feeling and thinking. Browning is smart. He’ll figure out what you want almost immediately.”

  “And that’s when the games begin.”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”

  “What if I can’t read him well enough in those first few minutes to figure out if he already knew Durham was a phony?”

  “You’ll get an initial gut reaction in those first few seconds,” Derek told her. “Go with your gut, let it lead you into what you’ll say next. Don’t listen as much to what Browning is saying as to what he isn’t saying. Read between the lines. And be aware of his body language.”

  “I know the basics, of course, but . . . Just this once, I wish you could be there, in the room with me. You’re the expert.”

  He reached out, instinctively planning to touch her, but stopped himself mid-reach when she scooted away from him. Ignoring his action and her reaction, he dropped his hand to his side and said, “You know enough. It’s mostly common sense and an ability to read people. Browning isn’t going to willingly give away anything. He’s going to lie and not only with his words.”

  “Are you saying he’ll know I’m watching his body language and will fake that, too?”

  “He may try, but the more intense the conversation, the less likely he’ll be concentrating on what he’s doing because he’ll be too involved in what he’s saying.”

  “I wish I had time for a body language refresher course.”

  “How about I give you one?” Derek suggested. “Why don’t I order pizza delivery for supper, get a couple more Cokes and more ice and we’ll settle in for the evening?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” She downed half a glass of cola as she stood. “I want to get out of these clothes and into some jeans. Give me thirty minutes.” She set her glass on the coffee table. “Don’t get up.”

  He watched her walk to the door, his gaze moving from her slender neck, exposed because her hair was up in a bun, and down over her trim, toned body. When she walked through the door, he leaned back on the sofa and huffed out a get-hold-of-yourself breath. He had to concentrate on business, not his partner’s shapely butt.

  It was that damn kiss!

  He’d always been aware of how attractive Maleah was, but now he couldn’t seem to think about anything else.

  Well, you’d damn well better get your mind on helping Maleah survive tomorrow’s interview with Jerome Browning. She’s going into battle and the more weapons and armor she has to defend herself, the better.

  Maleah had tried not to think about the kiss, but the harder she tried to forget it, the more she thought about it. How many times had she replayed Derek’s words: It was bound to happen sooner or later. There’s been some sort of sexual tension between us since the day we met. That kiss was a good thing. It defused the tension, so we don’t have to deal with it anymore.

  Although they had both known that comment was a lie the minute he said it, they had spent the entire day pretending it was the truth. They had acted as if nothing had happened, as if the tension between them no longer existed, when in fact the exact opposite was true. She was more aware of Derek as a handsome, desirable man than she had ever been. How ridiculous was that? She had convinced herself that he was everything she disliked in a man and had denied the physical attraction that sizzled between them.

  You’ll hate yourself if you have sex with him.

  Where the hell had that thought come from? She wasn’t going to have sex with Derek. Not tonight. Not ever. She didn’t have indiscriminate sex
just because her hormones went into overdrive. Doing something stupid and impulsive just wasn’t who she was. She chose her sexual partners with care and that was why there had been very few men in her life. For her, a sexual relationship was based on specific factors: mutual respect, a certain amount of admiration, physical attraction, and love. Not the forever-after, let’s-get-married kind of love, but the friendship I-like-you-a-lot kind of love.

  She and Derek were partners, working together to solve a mystery, to identify and stop a killer targeting the Powell Agency. Now was most certainly not the time for them to explore all the explosive tension they each were trying so hard to deny. Later on, when this job was over and everyone associated with the Powell Agency was safe, they would have to face whatever it was between them. The ever powerful “it” that had taken on a life of its own when Derek had kissed her.

  You kissed him back! she reminded herself for the hundredth time.

  Hurriedly, Maleah removed her clothes, down to her underwear, slipped on her white jeans and baggy pink cotton sweater, and then slid her feet into a pair of pink Yellow Box flip-flops. After applying fresh blush and pink lipstick, she removed the pins from her hair and ran her fingers through it.

  There. I’m presentable. But I don’t look as if I’m trying to impress him.

  As an afterthought, she rinsed with mouthwash and rubbed some scented lotion on her arms and hands before leaving her room.

  After the second knock, Derek opened the door. “I found a Pizza Inn in the Yellow Pages. It’s not far from here and they’ll deliver in about an hour. I thought we’d have an early dinner since we skipped lunch.”

  She breezed into his room, hoping her body movements expressed casual confidence. She wanted him to believe that she was completely comfortable eating dinner with him in his room, just the two of them alone. She wanted him to know that the kiss they had shared last night was the farthest thing from her mind.

  “In about an hour is fine,” she told him. “I am getting a little hungry.”

  “How does taco pizza sound? I know how you love Mexican food.”

  “Taco pizza sounds delicious.” She picked up Derek’s notepad off the coffee table and sat on the sofa.

  “Don’t shoot me, but I ordered dessert.” He grinned. “It’s cinnamon stromboli.”

  “You, Derek Lawrence, are a wicked, wicked man. You’re trying to make me fat.”

  He laughed. “I like my women with a little meat on their bones.”

  As if suddenly realizing how what he had said might be misconstrued, he stopped laughing and searched her face. “Not that you’re one of my women. Or that I think of you as one of many. Or—”

  “Shut up while you’re ahead,” she told him.

  “I really stuck my foot in my mouth that time, didn’t I?” He came over and sat down beside her.

  “Don’t worry about it. I realize that if I hadn’t overreacted so many times in the past and repeatedly bitten your head off, you wouldn’t be concerned that I might take offense at every innocent remark.”

  His brow wrinkled as he narrowed his gaze and stared at her. “Once again, I have to ask who are you and what have you done with the real Maleah Perdue?”

  She laughed. “Oh God, not another imposter. Now you’re dealing with three fakes—the Malcolm York imposter, the Albert Durham imposter, and the Maleah Perdue imposter. How did you find me out so quickly? What did I do to give myself away?”

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  He smiled again and she noted how his whole body had relaxed. Body language. As if suddenly remembering what she was doing here in his room, all alone with him again, she said, “I’m here for my refresher course in body language, not for our mutual amusement.”

  “Who says we can’t have a few laughs before, during, and after class?”

  “We’ve had our before laugh, so let’s get down to business.” She flipped open his notepad, found the first blank page and clicked the ink pen. “If I recall correctly, some negative gestures include legs or arms crossed, more space than necessary between people, although I want as much space as possible between Jerome Browning and me.”

  “A general rule of thumb when you’re trying to decide if someone is lying or telling the truth is to compare their gestures with what they’re saying. If someone is saying yes and at the same time shaking their head, then odds are the gesture is true and the word is false.”

  “Okay, that makes sense.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t know how skilled Browning is in the art of using body language. He could use it as adeptly as a gambler who has learned how to bluff with expert ease.”

  “If it turns out that he’s that good, I don’t think a mini-brush-up course is going to help me.” Maleah tapped the tip of the ink pen on the pad.

  “Deciphering body language is not an exact science. Use it for what it is, an effective tool that isn’t always infallible.”

  “I understand.”

  “Look for certain signs,” Derek told her. “And remember to take nothing at face value, not what Browning says or what he does.”

  “I’m ready.” She tapped the notepad with the pen again.

  “People who glance to the side quite a bit are usually nervous, lying or distracted. Browning will most likely look you right in the eye, trying to intimidate you, but once you’re deep into conversation, he may revert to acting in a more normal fashion.”

  “Got it.” She scribbled down the info. “Next.”

  “Okay. Arms crossed over his chest means defensive. Touching or rubbing his nose could mean he’s doubting you or he’s lying. Rubbing his eye is a sign of doubt. Rubbing his hands together equals anticipation.”

  “Slow down.”

  “Sorry.”

  She scribbled hurriedly, then said, “Go on.”

  “You need to remember not to over-evaluate his gestures. It’s easy enough to read them wrong, especially if he’s playing you. Keep reminding yourself that you can’t trust anything he says or any of his body language.”

  “Gee whiz, coach, is there any way I can win this game?”

  Derek grinned. “Not if you play fair.”

  “Who said I intended to play fair?”

  “You’d better not. If you do, he’ll chew you up and spit you out in little pieces. Protect yourself at all costs.”

  “Yes, sir.” She saluted him. They both laughed. “Now, back to Body Language one-oh-one.”

  For the next fifty minutes, they discussed body language, mind games, and went over techniques used to control emotions.

  “If he says something that triggers a deep emotional response, there is a danger you’ll lose track of the conversation. If this happens, recognize what’s going on before you let it get out of control.”

  Maleah nodded. “I know the signs—rapid heartbeat and breathing, as well as a desire to scream. I can handle this. Some yoga deep breathing techniques usually work for me.”

  “If the deep breathing alone doesn’t work, try refocusing for a few seconds,” Derek suggested. “Just think about how you’re normally in complete control.”

  “I can do that, too.”

  “And when you end the interview, you really need a debriefing. You can do that yourself or I can help you. If you can talk it out with me—”

  “I will. My guess is that I’ll need to vent. Besides, you’ll need to know everything about the interview anyway.”

  A knock on the door interrupted his response. Instead he said, “That’s probably the pizza delivery.”

  Griffin would have preferred not including Nicole in his private conversation with Sanders and Yvette. But he had allowed too many secrets to come between them and cause Nic to doubt him. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel excluded, especially when he shared confidences with Yvette. If only he had told her the complete truth in the beginning, before they married. Sanders had advised him to be completely honest with Nic; but Yvette, who had sensed Nic’s jealousy, had warned him that th
ere was one secret he should never share with his future wife. And in all honesty, he hadn’t told her everything because he’d been afraid he would lose her. And losing Nic would be like losing his own life. She was his life. After knowing her, loving her, living with her, he knew that without her, he would cease to exist.

  Even now, after Yvette and her protégés had been at Griffin’s Rest for nearly two years, Nic still had a problem with Yvette living nearby. He had tried in so many different ways to reassure her, to make her understand that she had no reason to be jealous of his love for Yvette. But if he were honest with himself, he would admit that it was the lies he had told Nic, the secrets that he had kept, that made her distrust him. And yet despite everything, Nic was still with him, loving him and standing by his side.

  Sanders had chosen to walk over to the home that housed Yvette and seven young men and women who possessed rare psychic gifts. He had gone on ahead, half an hour before Griff asked Nic to join him. Yvette’s “students” were misfits, people who didn’t fit into mainstream society because they were remarkably different.

  “You should talk to your wife first,” Sanders had advised Griff. “She does not want to believe that the copycat murders are connected to your past. But with the information Luke has discovered, combined with what Meredith Sinclair told us that she was able to sense after Kristi’s and Shelley’s murders, Nicole has to accept the truth.”

  “Nic told me that Meredith could be wrong, even though we all know that the girl’s psychic abilities are incredibly accurate.”

  “Nicole instinctively dislikes anything to do with your experiences on Amara. She does not know the whole story and yet on some instinctive level, she senses that there is a secret you are keeping from her, a secret that could destroy your marriage.”

  Griff refused to consider the possibility that Nic would ever leave him, at least not permanently.

  But if she ever found out about . . .

  He had to make sure that never happened.