Secrets and Sins: Raphael: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite)

by Naima Simone

  “I can’t explain how I ended up with the knife, Detective. Maybe the person who really killed Gavin placed it in my hand after he or she knocked me out.”

  He snorted. “We’re still checking into that. The unconscious-amnesia thing seems awfully convenient, Ms. Addison, that’s all I’m saying. You—”

  A rap on the door interrupted his next allegation. Irritation tightened his features as he twisted in his chair.

  “What is it?” he asked the officer who poked his head in the room.

  “Need you out here for a moment.”

  “Fine.” Marshall glanced at her, his stare advising her to remain seated in the chair until he returned. “Be right back, Ms. Addison.”

  Since she couldn’t tell him she looked forward to it, she didn’t respond. But as soon as the detective exited the room, she slumped in her seat, loosing the sob that had been pressing against her sternum for hours.

  This—Gavin’s death, the amnesia, being questioned as a suspect in a police interrogation room straight out of a Law & Order episode—was a nightmare. Any moment she would wake up in her bed after having spent a reckless, hot night with a man who’d made her body sing. Her biggest problem would be deciding whether or not to contact Raphael after their one-night stand, not figuring out how to convince a cop she wasn’t a cold-blooded killer.

  Raphael.

  She’d told the detective that after Ethan left the bar, she’d hung out with Raphael. But she hadn’t gone into detail about what they’d been doing in those hours. Marshall would probably contact Raphael. Ask him about their activities, what time he’d been with her, brought her home. What would he think? She was guilty? She was capable of taking someone’s life? He didn’t know her—not for real. Would he doubt her innocence?

  She rocked forward, propped her elbows on the table, and dropped her face into her hands. Just by speaking to Greer in a bar and deciding to have sex with her, he would become involved in an ugly murder investigation. She’d dragged him into her mess, and—and if there had been a chance of them having anything, the possibility had been crushed by the circus sideshow her life had become. And she would never force that on him…even if he wanted her. Wanted more from her.

  Maybe it was for the best. Finding Gavin with Aubrey had hurt, but not enough. With Raphael she’d tasted sanity-obliterating desire. Hell, she’d had sex in an SUV on a public street. She wouldn’t have been able to keep an emotional distance with him. Instead she would’ve done the very thing she’d promised herself she would never do—lose herself in a man. So yes, maybe the best thing was that any future between them had been aborted before it really began.

  Scrubbing her palms down her face, she huffed out a heavy breath. And how selfish and narcissistic did it make her that here she sat in a police station, number one suspect in the murder investigation of her ex-fiancé, his parents grieving over their loss, and she worried over what the man she’d spent several sweaty, erotic hours with thought of her.

  But if there was a protocol on how a person should think, behave, or crack in an interrogation room, she was flying blind.

  The door abruptly swung open, and she jumped, her heart leaping to her throat. Detective Marshall stood in the entrance, his eyes narrowed, mouth flattened into a grim line.

  “You’re free to go.”

  She blinked, stunned at the abrupt order. For a moment, she sat, paralyzed, uncertain. Was it a trick? Another tactic to weaken her into confessing?

  “What?” she stammered.

  “You can leave.” He paused. “For now.”

  Relief, fierce and heady, erupted inside her. Her legs trembled as she rose to her feet, and she grasped the edge of the table for support. Gathering her strength and what little pride she’d managed to retain around her, she strode past Detective Marshall. The controlled chaos of the station surrounded her—the clacking of fingers over keyboards, ringing phones, and cacophony of voices assaulted her senses after the intimidating silence of the small interview room.

  “This way.” Marshall placed a surprisingly courteous hand under her elbow, and guided her down a hall and through the pit of desks and officers. As they passed a closed door, it suddenly opened, and Raphael filled the opening.

  Her feet ground to a halt, her breath trapped in her throat.

  He was…beautiful.

  Solemn, navy-blue eyes met hers, his full, sensual mouth unsmiling. Thick black waves brushed his chin and wide shoulders, and damn, she just wanted to walk into his arms and lay her head on that strong shoulder. His tall, big body seemed to offer security. Seemed to offer the assurance of nothing evil touching her as long as she was pressed against his chest, sheltered in his embrace. But that was her weary, overwrought emotions speaking, not common sense. Not reality. Reality argued she had no right to want sanctuary from him. He wasn’t hers. She smothered a harsh, bitter chuckle. Never would be with a murder rap hanging over her head like Damocles’s sword. Why would he willingly invite that kind of baggage into his life?

  His startling appearance slowed her connecting his presence in the police station with her release. Had Marshall asked him to come down here to confirm her alibi? Of course he would. As soon as she’d revealed her whereabouts that night, he’d probably hadn’t wasted any time contacting Raphael.

  Shame, humiliation, anger—they swamped her in a heavy, powerful deluge. She hated that he’d been dragged into this. Why couldn’t they have interviewed him at his home or office? Why had the police brought him to the station in front of all those reporters surrounding the station? Now his connection with her would be immortalized in sordid, sensationalized glory.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Marcel,” the detective who’d interrupted the interrogation said from behind Raphael. “We intended to call you later today, so thanks for taking the initiative.”

  “No problem,” Raphael rumbled, never removing his gaze from Greer.

  The police hadn’t contacted him. He’d come down on his own. How had he known…?

  Of course. Reporters and photographers had bombarded her the moment she’d exited the hospital and more had swarmed the steps of the police station when she’d arrived with Detective Marshall. A Boston socialite suspected of murdering her philandering fiancé in a jealous rage made for salacious copy. In the three days since the killing, he’d probably heard about it on the news or radio. Maybe read about the crime on the internet. And he’d come down here to provide her with an alibi. On his own. To clear her. To save her.

  He was the reason Marshall had released her from the four-hour interview. Even though she hadn’t wanted to stain him with the taint of this sordid situation and investigation, he’d voluntarily painted himself with the same dirty brush.

  “Greer,” he rumbled and lifted an arm as if to reach for her.

  She stumbled back. Away. Because she wanted—craved—his touch too much. Hungered for the strength and support in those arms. Her insides felt as if they’d been scraped by a grater. Raw and bleeding with pain, fear, and humiliation. She would crumble if he touched her. And she couldn’t do that. Not here. Not now. Not when he would only offer her a temporary embrace but end up walking away from her. Her own parents hadn’t even bothered to show up at the hospital or the station. How could she expect him to stick around when the people who brought her into this world hadn’t? But she would yearn for him to do just that. To stick.

  His mouth hardened, his eyes transforming into chips of dark-blue ice. Slowly, he lowered his arm, and an aloof mask dropped over his face. Hurting, sickened, she turned away and allowed Detective Marshall to guide her farther down the hall, out of the busy bullpen, and into the waiting area. Ethan shot to his feet as soon as he spotted them and dragged her into his arms.

  Tiny fissures zigzagged over the wall shielding her emotions, which threatened to crack and collapse. Not yet. It’s not over yet. Hold on a little while longer.

  “Honey, are you okay?” Ethan asked, pressing his lips to her forehead.

&nb
sp; No. I’m not. I’m not sure I will be for a long time. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Ethan gripped her shoulders, steadied her. “Reporters are still outside.” He peered into her eyes, silently letting her know leaving would be as rough as coming in had been. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, her mouth an arid wasteland. The alternative was remaining in this station where she was viewed as a murderer. Traversing the gauntlet of avaricious media seemed the lesser evil.

  Until she stepped into hell.

  Flashes blinded her. Invasive camera lenses stalked her. Yelling voices assaulted her.

  “Why’d you do it, Greer?”

  “Have you been charged with murder?”

  “Did you kill Gavin because he cheated on you?”

  “Did your father pay to have you released, Greer?”

  She detested how they used her first name as if they were friends, confidants. As if she would be more open to responding to their verbal jabs because they called her by her given name. The gross familiarity was another violation.

  Ethan sheltered her as best he could, but they still had to battle their way through the throng pushing in on them from both sides. Finally, he ushered her into his car, shutting the door firmly. Not that it stopped the reporters from rapping on the window, hoping she would look up and inadvertently offer them a photo op. Or maybe slip and give them a sound bite they could play over and over again on the six and eleven o’clock news.

  “Damn vultures,” Ethan growled, jamming the key in the ignition. He accelerated at a slow but steady speed, granting the reporters and camera operators seconds to move out of the way or have a meet-and-greet with his front bumper. Within seconds, they left the grasping crowd behind. A fine shiver overtook her body. Ice slithered through her veins, freezing her from the inside out until she felt like a human Popsicle. Shock, her mind supplied. Temporary delayed reaction.

  The rational explanation didn’t stop her from shaking as if she’d come down with a fever. Nor did it prevent panic from creeping through her like an insidious invader.

  “It’s okay, Greer.”

  She jerked a nod. “Okay.”

  A little while later, she and Ethan climbed the steps to their parents’ home. Staring up at the elegant but imposing brick facade of the brownstone, she hesitated.

  “Ethan, I don’t think—”

  “Shh,” he soothed, placing a hand to the middle of her back. “They have their faults, Greer, but they would want to know you’re okay, as well as the latest developments of the case.”

  She murmured her acquiescence, but a hollow pit remained in the bottom of her stomach. Last time she’d seen her father, he’d been so angry and disgusted because of her refusal to call Gavin and apologize for ending the engagement. Now Gavin was dead—and she was the top suspect. Somehow she couldn’t see her father welcoming her with open arms now.

  Ethan knocked on the door, and a housekeeper answered. They’d barely taken five steps into the foyer before her parents appeared. Ethan Addison II presented a powerful, distinguished figure with his tall, trim frame clothed in an immaculate suit and salt-and-pepper hair gleaming. Petite, slender, and perfectly styled, Celeste Addison presented a stunning complement to her husband. A united, beautiful front. Against their daughter.

  “What are you doing here, Greer?” her father demanded.

  She parted her lips to speak, but nothing emerged.

  “I brought her by so you could see she was all right. The police let her go.”

  “For now,” Ethan II sneered. “Not that it matters. Do you know the shame you’ve brought to this family, Greer? Karen Wells has been constantly calling your mother, crying and screaming about you killing her son. It’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s what I keep telling Greer, Dad. That anyone could possibly believe Greer could hurt, much less murder Gavin—”

  Her father sliced his hand through the air. “I’m not talking about your sister’s guilt. For all I know, she could’ve done it. What’s ridiculous is that woman incessantly ringing here thinking we can do anything about her son. We can’t bring him back. She needs to call Greer, convince her to confess if that’ll give her some peace and if it will stop her from calling here. Damn it,” he hissed, glaring at Greer. “Do you have any idea what this sordid mess will do to our reputation? My business?”

  “Dad,” she pleaded.

  “I hope you didn’t think you were staying here.” He laughed, the sound hard, mocking. “I can’t have anyone believing I condone your actions.”

  “Dad,” she tried again. “I’m innocent. I didn’t kill Gavin.”

  “You might as well have from the reporters that have been hounding us. I can’t afford for my life and business to be tainted with this circus you’ve brought to my front door.” His mouth twisted, his revulsion obvious. “Now get out. Before some stupid photographer catches his photo op of a lifetime with the Addison family reunion.”

  “Mother?” Ethan rasped, anger and pain roughening his voice to a hoarse whisper. But Celeste didn’t move from behind her husband. And as stupid as the hopeful expectation was, Greer waited, her breath in her throat, for her mother to speak, to champion her. But both Greer and Ethan waited in vain, as they always had. Celeste didn’t speak. Didn’t move from her husband’s shadow where she’d existed all these years—the place she preferred.

  Without another word, Greer turned and exited the brownstone that she’d grown up in but that had never truly been a safe haven—a home.

  “It’s okay, Greer.” Ethan repeated the same assurance from earlier, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close into his side. “You’re going to be okay.”

  She didn’t respond. But deep inside, a tiny voice whispered that nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter Five

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  Greer groaned, clutching the sides of the toilet as her stomach convulsed for what she prayed was the last time. Not that she had anything left to heave up. Her gut twisted like a wrung-out dish towel, her only warning before she arched over the bowl once more.

  Several moments later, she sank to the bathroom floor, her back pressed to the tub. Her head pulsed with a low-grade throb while her back, belly, and thighs ached as if someone had taken a stick to them. And of course her mouth tasted as though a furry animal had crawled inside and died. Above her, the central heating kicked in, and the warm stream of air was heaven over her clammy skin. She tugged her T-shirt away from her chest, frowning at the damp sweat splotches. God, she needed a shower.

  With a long, drawn-out moan, she shoved to her feet, the movements stiff and slow as if she were one hundred and six instead of twenty-six. She twisted the shower knobs, and hot water streamed from the head. Steam curled in the room. Satisfied, she stripped and climbed in.

  God, whoever had coined the phrase “morning sickness” should have their picture plastered next to the word “misnomer” in the dictionary. The nausea didn’t confine itself to morning; it showed up whenever it damn well pleased. Which for her meant early morning and very late at night. And the occasional nooner.

  Being pregnant was definitely not glamorous.

  Pregnant. Jesus. She closed her eyes as she rubbed the soapy washcloth over her stomach that had yet to swell. It was still hard to accept. Hard for her to believe a person—a baby—grew inside her even at this moment. A person she would be responsible for raising. And loving.

  Damn, that thought was terrifying.

  She tilted her head back and allowed the water to stream over her face and into her hair.

  “Greer.” The knock on the bathroom door snatched her from her dark thoughts. “Honey, are you okay?”

  With a twist of her wrist, she shut off the shower. “Yes,” she called out to her brother. “I’m fine. I’ll be right out.”

  Quickly, she dried off, wrapped the towel around her, and snatched up her soiled clothes. Once in the guest room she’d called hers since the day Ethan had broug
ht her home from the police station, she drew on fresh clothes and boots, then followed the scent of percolating coffee to the kitchen. Ethan leaned against the counter, a cup held to his lips.

  “Here you go,” he said, passing her a cup of hot water and a green tea bag. “How’re you feeling?”

  Accepting the drink, she shrugged. “Fine. Well, as fine as I can be considering my guts are now floating in the sewer system.” She’d always been under the belief the nausea only lasted the first trimester. But some of the motherhood magazines she’d picked up assured her that for some women it lingered longer. Apparently she was one of those “some women.” Yay.

  “I know the morning sickness has been rough on you, but I was asking about your head.”

  On reflex, she lifted her palm to her forehead. “It’s better. Nothing like last night.”

  Ethan nodded, but worry lingered in his green eyes. “I think my nerves wouldn’t feel like a cheese grater was taken to them if you had stayed the night at the hospital.”

  Four months had passed since Gavin’s murder, and in the first few months afterward, she’d been dreamless—and left with a huge, gaping hole in her memory. But as much as she wanted to regain her memories of that night, part of her didn’t. If it was something so horrific her mind had shut down, maybe it was safer not to remember. That sounded so cowardly, especially if what she recalled could bring Gavin’s murderer to justice. But in the end, her wishes didn’t matter. The flashes, the terrifying images of a faceless torn and bloody body, had started coming two weeks ago, disturbing her sleep, relentless in their nightly visitations. She didn’t need a psychiatrist or doctor to inform her what was happening. Her mind was healing, and the door the memories had hidden behind was slowly unlocking. One day it would be thrown wide open.