Remember the Night

by Linda Castillo

  “Nothing fits when it comes to you.” He studied her through shuttered eyes. “Did you know about the bomb?”

  “I knew Nicolas was capable. I knew he was hurting. But I never—”

  “You’ve been blaming yourself for this all these years?”

  The words took her aback. Had she been blaming herself? Possibly, she thought. But it wasn’t for the reason Betancourt suspected. He didn’t know about Deputy Blanchard, or the role she’d played in getting her brother convicted of manslaughter.

  “Nicolas didn’t do it,” she said.

  “He had motive, means and opportunity.”

  “He told me he didn’t do it. I believe him.”

  “A jury thought differently.”

  Because of her, but she didn’t want to get into that now. She’d told Philip what was relevant. He didn’t need to know the rest. The shame was too great.

  “Did you testify against him?”

  Guilt welled up inside her, like blood from a wound. Guilt for the maintenance worker’s death, but mostly for the brother she’d turned her back on when he’d needed her. All for the likes of a cop who’d used her, then betrayed her.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You’ve been holding this inside you ever since, haven’t you?” Slowly, he eased her close to him, then wrapped his arms around her.

  She hadn’t realized how badly she needed to be held. The simple gesture threatened her thin hold on control. “If you do one more nice thing, I’m going to lose it, Betancourt.”

  “Hey, I’m the cop without a heart, remember?” A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t do nice.”

  A tension-easing laugh broke from her chest. “I’m in a lot of trouble, aren’t I?”

  “Probably.”

  “Don’t cushion the blow on my account.”

  “The D.A. probably knows about your arrest record.” Raising his hand, Philip stroked the back of her head. “Did Armon know?”

  Michelle winced. “I never told him.”

  “That’s a hell of a burden to be carrying around. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “I wanted to tell you—”

  “You should have.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Shh. I’ll flog you later. Let me just hold you a moment, okay?”

  His arms were solid and warm around her. Michelle leaned against him and pressed her cheek against the collar of his suit jacket. The woodsy scent of his cologne surrounded her, mingling with the subtle scents of soap and shampoo and his own distinctly male essence. For the first time in a long time, Michelle felt…safe. It was a glorious feeling, and she wished she could freeze this frame of time, knowing another might not ever come.

  “I might have been able to stop it, Betancourt. If I’d reached out to Nicolas. If we hadn’t gone to the plant—”

  “You didn’t know what your brother had planned.” He stroked her hair. “That’s why the charge against you was dropped. That’s why it never went to trial.”

  “Nicolas was…inconsolable after Mama died. If I’d approached him—”

  “You were a seventeen-year-old kid. You’d just lost a parent. You sure as hell couldn’t control an older sibling bent on self-destruction.”

  Michelle closed her eyes. The logical side of her brain knew he was right. But her heart broke because she knew that Nicolas was innocent. It tore her up inside knowing she’d played a role in sending him to prison.

  “It hurts, Betancourt. All of it. Nicolas. That maintenance worker. It hurts that Armon died and that people think I’m responsible. I can’t live with that.”

  “I know you didn’t kill Landsteiner.” Easing her to arm’s length, Philip leveled a heady gaze at her. “I know that now.”

  The words stunned her, overwhelmed her. Chest constricting, Michelle searched the gray depths of his eyes for the lie, but found only honesty.

  “Is that everything, Michelle? Have you told me everything? Because before I can help you, I have to know the whole truth.”

  She considered telling him about Blanchard, but a little voice of reason stopped her. She’d told him everything that was relevant. He believed her. That had to be enough.

  “That’s it,” she said.

  He studied her, his gaze hard and inscrutable. “I believe you.”

  No one except Armon had ever believed in her. Blinking back fresh tears, she nodded. “That means a lot to me.”

  “I’m going to solve this case, Michelle. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to find out who murdered Armon Landsteiner. But I’m going to need your help.”

  “Aside from getting my memory back, I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “I think the murder has something to do with Landsteiner’s will.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. “His will…you mean Armon’s family?”

  “Armon told you in passing he was having a new will drawn up. A will that would supersede his old one. The lawyer most likely to have drawn up that new will, Dennis Jacoby, was killed this morning. His office burned to the ground.”

  Michelle recoiled. She hadn’t known anyone had died in the fire. She’d seen the burned out shell of the building, yet she’d never suspected foul play…or that he had been murdered. The implications staggered her. “You think someone murdered Dennis Jacoby and destroyed his office to prevent the will from ever coming to light?”

  “It’s possible.”

  She and Armon had had dinner with Jacoby last month. He was a nice man with a wife and children. Her heart wrenched. “Two people murdered in the span of a week over a will? I don’t understand.”

  Betancourt’s jaws worked as he considered the question. “Maybe old man Landsteiner decided to leave some of his riches to someone more deserving than his own conniving offspring.”

  The words struck her like a whip. “Me.”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, my God.” Pain congealed in her chest, so sharp and deep she nearly doubled over with it. “Oh, Armon.”

  “There’s more,” Philip said. “Sit down.”

  Michelle knew instinctively she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. Mentally, she braced. “What?”

  He guided her to the futon, then sat down beside her. Taking her hands in his, he looked deeply into her eyes. “I was going through some of Landsteiner’s personal papers this morning. Just routine stuff. Bank statements. Insurance policies. Correspondence. I didn’t really expect to find anything. Until I came to a check made out to a private investigator he hired over five years ago to find you.”

  Everything inside her went perfectly still. “That’s impossible.”

  “A year before you left Bayou Lafourche for New Orleans, Landsteiner hired a private detective to find you.”

  “Five years ago?” Disbelief whipped through her. “That’s not true. It can’t be. There’s got to be some kind of mistake. I didn’t know Armon five years ago. I didn’t meet him until—”

  “I talked to the detective this morning, Michelle. It happened. He also made reference to Nicolas.” His gaze burned into hers. “That’s your brother’s name, isn’t it?”

  The words hit her like a set of brass knuckles, so brutal they took her breath, so unexpected she could only stare at him, speechless. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You know I don’t have a reason to lie to you.” Never taking his gaze from hers, Betancourt tightened his grip on her hands. “Landsteiner funded your scholarship to Tulane.”

  Denial reared up inside her. She tried to pull away, but he held her hands firmly in his. “You’re lying. I earned that scholarship with my GPA. I’ve got the paperwork to prove it. Armon couldn’t have…he wouldn’t have…”

  “I saw the check with my own eyes.”

  “He didn’t lie to me, damn you. I met him at the restaurant a few months after I moved to New Orleans. He couldn’t possibly have arranged that.” But even as she said the words, she wondered if she’d known Armon a
s well as she once thought. Who had he really been? That kindhearted, compassionate man who had plucked her from obscurity and given her hope? Why had he chosen her when there were dozens of other disenfranchised young people who’d needed someone to care?

  “After he found you in Bayou Lafourche, and realized you attended the community college, he arranged for your scholarship. All of it was done under the table, so to speak. Then he waited six months, sought you out and hired you at his firm.”

  Her world crumpled like wet paper, the words shattering everything she’d ever believed about Armon, about herself. “I don’t believe any of it. You’re wrong about Armon.”

  “I’m investigating his murder, for God’s sake. Lying doesn’t enter the picture. Maybe all this has something to do with why he was murdered.”

  The words didn’t register at first. Then, slowly, a second scenario dawned on her, and she clung to it. Anything was better than believing her entire life was based on a lie.

  Blood thundering, she turned her gaze on him. “Oh, you’re good.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Anger speared through her when she realized she’d nearly fallen for it. She wrenched free of his grasp and lurched to her feet. Her hand grazed a lamp, sent it tumbling, but she didn’t even look at it. “You’ll do anything to solve this case, won’t you, Betancourt?”

  He moved toward her, jaw set, intensity burning in his gaze. “I’m sure this will throw a wrench into your tainted view of the world, Michelle, but I happen to care about you.”

  He wasn’t the first cop to say those words to her. The fact that she’d almost fallen for it a second time infuriated her. “You care about me as long as I fit neatly into your agenda.”

  “If I didn’t care about you I wouldn’t have risked my job or my reputation bringing you here. I sure as hell wouldn’t have gone to bat for you in the commander’s office this morning. If it was up to him, Michelle, you’d be in a cell right now.”

  The thought of being thrown in jail for a crime she hadn’t committed sent a shudder racing through her. The same thing they’d done to her brother. Maybe it was a just punishment considering she’d helped the cops put him there.

  “You don’t follow the rules, do you, Betancourt?”

  His eyes narrowed, flashed darkly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard about you. You walk that thin line, straying to whatever side suits your objective.” A harsh laugh tore from deep in her chest. “Yeah, I read about the Rosetti case. Maybe we both have something to atone for.”

  He flinched, and Michelle knew she’d hit a nerve.

  “Don’t push it.” His voice was low and dangerous.

  “No wonder they call you the terminator. You always get your man, don’t you? You don’t give a damn about who you trample in the process, as long as you get the end result.”

  He was on her in two strides. “I may not follow the rules, but I sure as hell know the difference between right and wrong.”

  His fingers dug into her biceps. His strength overwhelmed her, his gaze boring into her like a laser. She backed up, but he went with her. She struck back the only way she knew how. “Some men get turned on by the thought of a roll in the hay with a woman from the wrong side of the tracks. It’s a power thing, I think. Is it a power thing with you, Betancourt? Or am I just a convenient suspect? Maybe you’re hoping I talk in bed.”

  “You’re pushing the wrong buttons, Michelle.”

  “You’re playing with my feelings, and I don’t like it.”

  Incredulity entered his eyes. “Now where the hell did that come from?”

  “You’re the rocket scientist. You figure it out.”

  He blinked, then scrubbed a hand over his five o’clock shadow. “I care about you,” he growled.

  “You care about the case. Whether or not my life gets ruined in the process is inconsequential.”

  “Your life is what I’m trying to save!”

  That stopped her. Michelle stood frozen, staring at the tall, steely eyed man in front of her. A lock of black hair had fallen onto his forehead. He was breathing hard, just as she was. His fingers were still clamped over her biceps. Her flesh tingled beneath them, as if an electrical current flowed from him into her.

  His dark eyes searched hers. “You really haven’t ever had anybody care for you, have you?”

  Michelle dropped her gaze, embarrassed and oddly ashamed that he’d guessed correctly. She wanted to deny the truth of the statement, deny that it disturbed her, but she just didn’t have the strength. “Armon cared for me.” She hadn’t even realized she was going to say the words, but they were there, in her heart, a constant in the backwaters of her mind.

  “Did you fight him, too?”

  “Armon wasn’t a threat.”

  “And I am? Is that why you’re fighting me, when you know I’m trying to help you?” Philip raised his hand, brushed his thumb over her cheek.

  The caress touched her more deeply than it should have. Michelle averted her face. “Don’t toy with my feelings.”

  He maintained contact. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Not knowing what I do.”

  “But you’re not above using me.”

  “I’m not above breaking the rules. Maybe that’s what I do best.” His lips curled in derision. “But that’s not why I’m here. That’s not why you’re standing so close I can smell you, feel the heat coming off you. I’m here because I care about what happens to you.”

  “Stop it.” She didn’t want to hear those dangerous words, couldn’t bear it. Not now.

  “I wish I could take away the pain you’ve suffered over the years. I wish I could right the wrongs. But I can’t. All I can do, all I’m equipped to do is find the person who killed Armon.”

  The touch of his thumb against her cheek moved her as no other touch could have. She wanted to believe he cared. Oh, how she needed someone to care for her right now. She’d been alone so long it seemed an eternity. Until Armon, there hadn’t been another human being who cared whether she lived or died.

  “I don’t want anything more,” she said.

  “Maybe I don’t, either. Maybe that would be too dangerous for both of us.”

  The image of her writhing in his arms as he’d brought her to climax sent a wave of heat slicing through her. There was no doubt they shared a volatile physical attraction. She’d experienced it twice, and the power of the feelings he unleashed frightened her. She wasn’t reckless or impulsive. Nor was she a risk taker, though fate had seen to it she’d been forced to take a few in her time. What worried her most was that she no longer trusted her vise grip on self-control. What was it about Betancourt that had her wanting to jump headlong off the precipice she’d clung to for so long?

  She wasn’t a sexual creature by nature, yet she’d reacted in a wholly sexual way, despite her efforts to resist. In doing so, she’d made herself vulnerable, and that was a mistake. Betancourt was the kind of man she could lose her heart to, perhaps already had. She didn’t want to think about that now; she was too raw, too vulnerable. She’d learned how to be alone over the years, and she was good at it, had it down to a fine art. But when he looked at her like the sun rose and set in her eyes, when he touched with such gentleness that it brought tears flooding, she wanted to cast her self-imposed emotional isolation aside. For the first time since the day she’d walked away from Bayou Lafourche, she wanted to let go. She wanted to feel loved. Free. Alive. Because she knew as surely as she felt his palm at her cheek that her days as a free woman were numbered.

  His hand combed through her hair. “I’ve always been drawn to danger.”

  Alarm bells trilled in her head, but Michelle ruthlessly shoved them aside. “Not me. I know better, Betancourt.”

  “Do you?”

  Angling her head, she pressed her cheek into his palm and closed her eyes. “But I don’t always follow my own good judgment.”

  Philip was out of control, and he knew it.
She was inside his head, dangerously close to his heart. The hell of it was that, for the first time in his life, he didn’t care. He was powerless to stop the raw need hammering away at the last of his own good judgment.

  Sunlight streaming through the window highlighted her sun-streaked hair. Her eyes were closed, her lashes thick and dark against the pale skin of her face. Her imperfectly shaped mouth, which haunted his dreams night after night, looked soft and inviting. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to devour that mouth, feel her open beneath his lips, taste her, savor the sweetness he knew resided there.

  Her beauty was subtle, but powerful. As he gazed down at her, the full force of her struck him squarely between the eyes. She affected him as no other woman ever had. Need and lust and a tangled array of emotions he didn’t want to think about collided, exploded, sent his logic scattering. He wanted to run his fingers through that wild mane of hair. Wanted to touch her lush mouth. With his fingers. His lips. His tongue. He wanted to make her eyes glaze over with pleasure.

  Turbulent need boiled up inside him, engulfing him, arrowing straight through his chest to a place he didn’t want to acknowledge. He stroked her cheek, finding her flesh like velvet beneath his fingers. Supple. Flushed. His fingertips traced along her jaw, touched her mouth. Her lips parted. Soft. Wet.

  He couldn’t believe no one had ever loved this woman. She was such a gift. Full of hope in the face of insurmountable odds. Full of secret dreams as big as the sky was endless. She soothed his cynical heart as no one else ever had, almost made him believe that good prevailed over evil, and that people were basically decent.

  “I think the last of my good judgment just went out the window,” he growled.

  “There’s no room in this relationship for good judgment, Betancourt.”

  “Ah, a little cynicism for the soul. That makes me feel a lot better.”

  Her tentative smile devastated him. “I thought it would.”

  “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

  “No one’s ever said that to me before, Betancourt.”

  Emotion coupled with physical sensation, making his voice thick and slow. “I’m not going to let you go to jail. You’ve got my word on that. I’m going to solve this murder. Then I’m going to show you what it feels like for someone to care.”