by Lauren Layne
He didn’t do dating, not in the traditional sense. Not in the out-to-dinner, bring-her-home-to-Mom kind of way.
And he’d certainly never felt anything more than passing lust for the women whom he’d brought to his bed.
It wasn’t that Vin didn’t believe in love, the all-consuming, turn-you-into-a-sappy-moron thing. He wasn’t that cynical. He’d seen it every day growing up between his parents.
Hell, it had taken him seconds to understand what happened to Luc the second he met Ava, only to watch it all over again when Anthony met Maggie.
He believed in love. He did.
He just didn’t believe in it for him.
Not because he had any gory emotional wounds, not because he had some brokenhearted past.
He was just… he didn’t feel like other people did.
He wasn’t some sort of sociopathic weirdo, he just had never really absorbed things to his very soul the way his sister, and to a lesser extent his brothers, had.
So, no.
Vincent certainly wasn’t in love with Jill Henley.
“Do you need smelling salts, honey?” Luc asked politely.
Vincent finally recovered from his shock and shot his brother the finger. Then his other brother too just for good measure.
“Where the hell did you two idiots get that idea?” he asked.
Luc sighed and slumped back. “Still in denial, I see.”
Vincent ran a hand over the back of his neck, feeling strangely itchy. “Look, I’ll admit that I’m having a hard time with these changes with Jill. But only because I don’t want her to make a mistake. Because she’s a friend.”
He may have emphasized this last word a bit too desperately, and he could have sworn he saw Anth hide a smirk.
“So you’re just going to let her go off to Chicago?” Luc asked.
“Hell no,” Vincent grumbled.
“So, let me get this straight,” Anth said slowly. “You’re not in love with her… but you’re also not going to let her go be in love with someone else?”
Vincent drained the last of his bottle, set it on the table with a clink. “She’s not in love with this Tom guy.”
“Really? Because the big-ass rock on her hand says otherwise.”
Vin pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and fished out a couple of bills. “Jill’s in love with the idea of love. Always has been.”
“Can I be there when you tell her that? Please?” Luc begged.
Vincent stood. “Better idea. How about you two stay out of mine and Jill’s relationship.”
“Ah, so it is a relationship.”
Vincent ignored this.
What he and Jill had was… undefinable. It didn’t need names, or labels. All he knew was that he was suddenly itching to get to Elena’s party. Itching to meet this guy who’d somehow managed to wrap Jill around his finger.
To his brothers’ credit, they finally backed off, and the walk over to their sister’s was blissfully free of talk about women.
Instead, Vin filled them in on the details of the Lenora case, which after a week was still at a complete standstill.
Dorothy Birch’s tip about the ex-husband hadn’t panned out. The man was a hothead for sure, and Vincent had no trouble picturing the son of a bitch uttering death threats.
But his alibi was solid.
He’d been on a Caribbean cruise at the time of Lenora’s death, and only recently returned to town. There were literally hundreds of witnesses, right down to the captain of the cruise ship with whom Malcolm had gotten his picture taken, dated the night of Lenora’s death.
As far as alibis went, being on a crowded ship in the middle of the Caribbean was ironclad.
Anthony had picked a bar close to Elena’s midtown apartment, so in under five minutes, the three Moretti brothers were waiting impatiently for her snotty doorman to find them on her list of approved guests.
Vincent loved his sister but absolutely hated her apartment. It was one of those brand-new, sixty-plus-floor monstrosities that completely ruined the character of the city. The outside was all generic shiny glass, the inside all bizarre modern art.
For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she spent an exorbitant amount of money on something so soulless, but then… he supposed it was because she could.
Elena was the only Moretti sibling not in law enforcement, which would have been fine had her chosen career not been a slap in the face to the NYPD.
It wasn’t just that Elena was a lawyer.
That was fine. No, Elena had to go and be a defense attorney. She fought to defend the very jackasses her brothers and father fought to put away.
Still, much as Vin hated her profession, he had to admit that his sister had done quite well for herself. He might not share her penchant for all things new and swanky, but he could respect that Elena knew what she wanted, went for it, and got it.
Once they made it up to her floor, Anth paused before knocking. “Remember, if whatever drink she’s serving has floating flowers in it, we all take turns distracting her while the others dump it. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
But then they were inside Elena’s apartment, and Vin realized rather abruptly that he’d drink whatever his sister put in his hand as long as it had alcohol.
Because there was Jill.
And there was her new man.
And holy hell, he wasn’t sure that he could do this.
Luc clamped him once on the shoulder before seeking out Ava, and Vin stood in the foyer for several long moments wondering if maybe he could sneak away, plead a stomachache…
Jill spotted him, and the happy smile on her face drew him forward.
He blew out a breath. He could do this. He had to.
“You came!” Jill said, all but bounding over to him.
“Of course I came,” he muttered.
Jill’s hair was in its usual ponytail, but that’s where his Jill ended, because he barely recognized her from the neck down.
She was wearing a dress. A short, white strapless thing that made her look young, and well… bridal.
Jill linked her arm in Vin’s, oblivious to his turmoil.
He wanted to jerk his arm away. Wanted to bark at her to, for once, give him some Goddamn distance.
Except he wasn’t sure he wanted distance. He wanted…
“How’s the new guy fitting in?” he asked.
“Hmm,” she said, seeming to consider the question.
She took a sip of her drink, which true to Anth’s prediction, had some sort of floating flower in it.
“He’s doing great. Everyone loves him,” she said, taking another sip of drink.
A quick scan of the situation verified this. The entire Moretti clan looked ready to fall at Tom’s feet.
“And this is a problem, because…?”
“It’s not!” she said brightly. “It’s great.”
He gave her a look. “Jill.”
She bit her lip. “Okay, fine, but if you repeat what I’m about to say, I will kill you.”
“Spit it out.”
“Do you think there’s such a thing as too nice?” she asked. “Too friendly?”
“Yes,” he deadpanned. “I know there is. I’ve dealt with it every day for the past six years.”
She pinched his arm. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. Henley, you’re like the human equivalent of a rainbow.”
There was a burst of laughter, and she and Vin shifted to see the crowd around Tom laughing as he told a story.
Jill took another sip of her drink, and everything clicked into place.
“Are you jealous, Detective?”
She glared at him. “Jealous of what?”
He nudged her shoulder. “That your boy over there is the center of attention. That for once, you’re not the funniest, brightest person in the room?”
Her face fell a little, and he instantly regretted his teasing. He itched to tell her that she was always the brightest person
in the room. That she was his light.
“I just don’t want Tom to feel like he has to try so hard to make people like him,” she said.
Tom. Just hearing another man’s name on her lips made him irritable.
“What do you think of him?” she asked, gesturing with her glass.
Oh God. Don’t ask me that.
“Haven’t talked to him. Don’t want to make snap decisions,” he said.
Jill snorted. “You make snap decisions all the time. Come on, use your Spidey sense.”
Vincent forced himself to look at her fiancé again. He looked like Tom Fucking Brady. Even the first name was the same.
And yet… good-looking as the man was, something was off. Not off in that there was something wrong with the guy, but the man hadn’t once looked at Jill.
He was too busy working the room. Not even in a smarmy way, just the way of someone who made it his business to be liked.
Much like Jill.
He wouldn’t admit it to her when her mood was fluttering on the edge of cranky, but she might be onto something with the two of them being too much alike.
Almost as though their matching, ready smiles would cancel each other out.
“Does he play polo?” Vin asked. “He totally looks like the type of dude that would play polo.”
She gave him a look. “Stop. Just because he doesn’t wear a leather jacket doesn’t mean he’s preppy.”
“How much white does he have in his closet? Tell me honestly,” Vin said, glancing down at her.
She started to giggle, then slapped a hand over her mouth, as though catching herself. “Stop. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
Please don’t.
But of course, he followed her. It had to happen sometime. Might as well get it over with.
And as it turned out, Tom had all sorts of pretty manners to go with the pretty face.
Vincent hated him. Mainly because there was nothing to hate.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Tom said sincerely, reaching out to shake Vincent’s hand.
Ignoring the hand was tempting—very—but even he had his limits of rudeness, and endured a firm handshake.
“Jill’s said plenty about you,” Tom said, taking a drink of the flowery cocktail and not wincing in the least.
“Nothing good,” Jill chimed in cheerfully.
“I knew within minutes of talking to Jill about her job that you were her other half,” Tom said.
Vincent glanced at Jill then, curious how she would respond to that assessment, and found her watching him.
She looked away the second their eyes met, something fleeting and unidentifiable flashing across her face.
Vincent was saved from having to rummage up some requisite response when Elena appeared.
“You’re late.” She shoved a glass of something sugary and pink into his hand as she lifted to her toes and kissed his cheek.
Elena was dressed to kill as always in a form-fitting gray dress and high heels that, despite being light gray suede, were inexplicably clean.
The dirt was probably scared of her.
He glanced at his beverage. “Got any beer?”
His sister tapped a manicured fingernail against his hand. “You didn’t even try it.”
“Because there’s a flower floating in it.”
“It’s an edible flower. Did you know that some of the fancy grocery stores carry those in their herb section? It’s just this cute little box called edible flowers.”
Vincent stared at her. “Do I look like I would know that?”
Elena rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Tom and Jill. “Vincent here thinks that if he doesn’t grunt and scowl eighty times a day, we’ll all forget he’s a man.”
He lifted the glass to his face. Sniffed. It smelled like booze. That was promising. Vincent studied it more carefully, curious if there was a way to avoid the sugar rim. Nope.
He took a tentative sip.
“Well?” Elena asked, finally ripping her glare away from Tom. “What do you think?”
“It’s terrible,” he said.
Although, it wasn’t really. A little sweeter than he would have liked, and he’d have preferred a beer or a glass of red wine, but it was alcohol.
Tom’s hand found Jill’s back, and Vincent took another sip. Bigger this time.
“You do like the drink!” Elena said.
“Something like that,” he muttered.
The smell of familiar flowery perfume drew Vin’s attention to his grandmother, who materialized at his side with surprising speed considering her advanced years.
“Your mother got the wrong kind of prosciutto.”
“Nonna, there is no wrong kind of prosciutto,” Elena explained gently.
Vincent nodded, inclined for once to agree with his sister.
Nonna shook her head stubbornly. “No, she got it from that dodgy butcher on Staten Island when I specifically told her—”
Elena held up her hand. “Wait, why are either of you bringing prosciutto? I told you I was getting this catered.”
Nonna gave a furtive look over her shoulder. “Yes, I’ve seen your caterer. Wouldn’t know al dente pasta if it bit her in the ass.”
“Which is fine,” Elena explained through gritted teeth. “Because we’re not having Italian food.”
Nonna puffed up. “But we’re Italian.”
“Yes, but they’re not,” Elena said, gesturing at Jill and Tom. “And it’s their night, so I wanted to do something more traditionally American.”
“I’m sure we’ll love whatever you serve, Italian or not,” Tom said, earning beaming smiles from both Nonna and Elena.
“Vin, you got a sec?” Jill interrupted, dragging Vincent toward the kitchen. “I had a thought on the case.”
“What’s up?” he asked. “Tell me you’ve figured out who the hell killed Lenora Birch, because the higher-ups are starting to get—”
“No, I don’t have a freaking clue,” she said. “I just need a drink. I need a minute.”
“Need a minute from… the man you’re going to marry?”
“Mmm,” she murmured distractedly as she glanced over her shoulder and then dumped her drink down the drain.
Jill reached for his drink and followed suit.
“I thought you liked sweet stuff,” he said.
“I do, but that drink was just wrong,” she muttered as she rummaged through Elena’s fridge.
She pulled out a bottle of white wine, which wasn’t Vincent’s preferred beverage, but at least it was flower-free.
“Come here often?” he said dryly, watching as she located Elena’s corkscrew and wineglasses without having to search.
“She hosts a lot of our girls’ nights,” she said, defiantly opening the bottle and pouring them two generous portions.
“Where you talk about boys and lipstick?” he asked, accepting the glass she handed him.
“God no,” she replied. “Mostly we talk about the kind of sex we’re not getting.”
Vincent choked on his wine. Don’t ask. Don’t ask.
“What kind of sex is that?”
He’d asked.
Jill merely looked at him over the rim of her wineglass before giving a little shrug. “You know. Hot. Raunchy. Often.”
He opened his mouth to respond, only to realize there was no response to that.
None.
Jill was already skipping out of the kitchen to rejoin the party.
Vin almost followed her, then stopped, jerked open the freezer door, and put his head in.
A few moments later, the frigid air of the freezer had helped cool his body.
But not his mind.
Raunchy sex. Jill Henley wanted hot, raunchy sex.
There wasn’t enough cold air on the planet to cool his mind from that visual.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As far as leads went, a retired actress who lived three hours away from the scene of the crime wasn’t much to go on.
But Jill and Vincent were officially out of suspects.
Every last one of Lenora Birch’s current and former lovers either had alibis or lacked motivation.
Jealous family members? None.
Bitter friends? None.
Disgruntled employees? None.
The latest lead—and it was a weak one—was Holly Adams, an actress whose career had revved to life about the same time as Lenora’s fifty years earlier.
But whereas Lenora’s career and reputation continued to grow over the years, Holly’s fizzled almost as quickly as it had taken off. Not because she’d lacked talent.
But the combination of a couple bad movie choices plus more than a few cheating scandals, and Holly had been toppled—no, thrown—off the America’s Sweetheart pedestal.
Leaving Lenora with the spotlight all to herself.
It wasn’t exactly a unique story, but according to Lenora’s sister, Holly Adams had blamed Lenora for her fall from grace.
In addition, the two women had run into each other at a Broadway premiere just weeks before Lenora’s death, and the run-in had been icy.
Which was why Jill and Vincent were driving out to Connecticut to figure out if Holly’s anger had shifted from icy to white hot and murderous.
“I can’t believe we’re driving to the middle of nowhere on the ridiculous possibility that a seventy-two-year-old washed-up starlet made a three-hour trek into the city to push another starlet over a banister, then managed to get away without leaving a single clue,” Vincent grumbled.
Jill ignored his griping, all of her attention focused on the map on her phone. “Turn right here. Right! Here!”
He turned quickly with a curse.
“Oh wait,” she muttered when the phone gave her a rerouting message.
“Henley, I swear to God…”
“It’s not my fault,” she shot back. “I get almost no signal out here. The GPS keeps losing track of where we are.”
“It’s Connecticut, not Wyoming, how can it—”
“There,” she said, her arm whipping out, bumping against his chest. “There’s a sign for the Holly Haven. That’s it.”
Vincent pulled into the driveway and then slowed as they approached an enormous metal gate.
“I thought you said she was a washed-up actress,” he said as he rolled down the window to dial the call box. “She’s apparently loaded.”