Sin and Bone

by Debra Webb

  “It reminds me every day not to trust anyone with my deepest, darkest secrets.”

  She shook her head. “Please tell me you haven’t read it a thousand times.”

  “Only once.” He stared at his hands, fingers spread on the cool surface of the granite countertop. “When I found it, I read all the way through.”

  “Why punish yourself that way?”

  He met her gaze, saw the disapproval there. “Because I deserved to be punished if all that she felt was true.”

  She looked away first. “What significance did the final entry have? The one someone left for you in the trunk of a stolen car with a pool of blood.”

  He reached into his pocket for the crumpled page. He slapped it down on the sleek countertop, the crimson smear on the page a shocking contrast to the cool whites, browns and grays of the granite.

  She picked up the page that had been torn loose from the rest. Part of the lower half had been left attached to the binding as if the page had been ripped away in a rush. Ms. Lytle didn’t have to recite the words aloud. Devon knew them by heart.

  He will kill me rather than risk anyone knowing the truth.

  When her gaze rested on his once more, she asked, “What made her believe you would rather see her dead than to allow the truth to be told?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea. I asked what the hell she meant and her only response was that I didn’t understand. She said I could never understand. That everything wasn’t about me.”

  Apparently, his wife had been right. The final months of their marriage may not have been about him at all. Didn’t mean he wasn’t still left to pick up the pieces.

  “What truth is she referring to?”

  Devon gave the only answer he could. “I have no idea.”

  Whether she believed him or not, he couldn’t say. She shrugged, stared at the page. “We should put this in a bag. Any prints or other evidence left behind are likely contaminated already, but we should preserve whatever possible.” Her gaze settled onto his. “I’d like to see the journal.”

  There it was. Another breach of his carefully constructed existence.

  His first instinct was to refuse her request. What difference could the autobiography of his wife’s infidelity make now? But he understood that he was too close to this to see things clearly. Perhaps he couldn’t see how beyond proving motive the journal might serve the investigation.

  “Very well. I’ll get it for you.”

  “I should have a look around your home as well.” She glanced across the kitchen. “If there is anything else incriminating that the police might find when they execute their search, I need to see it first.”

  * * *

  RATHER THAN ANSWER, Pierce only regarded her for one long moment. He wanted to deny her request; Bella could see that certainty in his eyes. Self-preservation, she suspected, kept him from doing so.

  She was prepared to remind him of the agency’s strict confidentiality policy and stellar investigator-client reputation when he said, “We’ll take the grand tour, then.”

  Bella followed him through the first-floor rooms. A dining table that seated eighteen spanned the eclectic European dining room. Two powder rooms and a smoking room. The double doors she’d first noticed at the other end of the entry hall did lead to his study. The walls, bookshelves and desk were a rich mahogany. The shelves were lined with medical journals. Framed awards and achievements filled one wall. There were no photos of family. His parents were deceased and he had no other close relatives, according to the background material provided by the agency and her research.

  She surveyed the lovely artwork on the walls as they climbed the east staircase. One by one, he showed her through the upper-floor wings of the house. So far she’d counted nine bedrooms, twelve baths and eighteen fireplaces. Every room was exquisitely decorated and utterly empty of any sign of a human touch beyond the decor.

  From the windows that faced the back of the property, she saw the lights playing on Lake Michigan. She wondered if he and his wife had ever considered filling this home with children, or if it had only been a showplace to impress friends and associates. As far as Bella could see, it had become nothing more than a mausoleum. A large empty hotel where he spent his nights.

  His suite was the last one they entered. The room was large, the decor at once elegant and comfortable. He walked to his side of the enormous bed and reached into the second drawer of his night table. The leather-bound journal wasn’t large, about six by nine inches. He handed it to her.

  “Have you always kept it here, in your bedroom?”

  “Yes.” He glanced around the room as if looking for somewhere to settle his attention.

  “When did you notice the page missing?”

  “I didn’t know it was missing until we found it in the trunk of that car.”

  Bella measured the weight of the book. It weighed hardly anything and yet it had destroyed a marriage. “When is the last time you recall opening it?”

  “The one and only time I’ve opened it. The day before we left for New York.”

  She left him standing near the bed as she walked through the closet. There were two actually. One on either side of the massive bath. The white closet was empty. Not even a speck of dust littered the shelves. He’d had all her things removed. The mahogany closet was filled with expensive suits and shoes. Ties were folded and displayed in glass cases. Neatly pressed shirts in dozens of colors hung in well-ordered rows. The room smelled of leather and that expensive cologne he wore.

  She returned to the bedroom. He waited at the door, his tall frame blocking her exit from the closet.

  “Have you seen all you need to see?”

  Did he really expect her to forget what Detective Corwin had said? “I need to see everything. The room Corwin mentioned is not exempt. I suspect it will be named specifically in the warrant.”

  “As you wish.”

  This time, they descended the west-side staircase. He led the way along the back downstairs hall where the laundry room and mudroom were located. A door halfway between the two opened onto a small landing. A less ornate staircase descended into the basement level, though nothing about the space looked like a basement.

  The stairs ended in a large game room. A pool table stood in the center. A bar wrapped around one corner of the space. The biggest television she’d ever seen in her life hung on one wall. The wraparound seating area created the perfect conversation spot. Another fireplace. Another bathroom.

  And a final door.

  He took his wallet from his trousers and removed a key from its hiding place. He opened the door and pushed it inward, then turned on the lights.

  The first thing she noticed was the seemingly endless amount of black. The walls were black; the floor and ceiling were black. All appeared to be leather. A bed—or something in the shape of a bed—was the single red element, also leather. She moved around the room. A row of shelves displayed an abundance of sex toys, whips and the like, some objects not readily identifiable. Every imaginable kind of condom filled a glass fishbowl.

  Her heart started to pound harder and harder. A refreshment center claimed a few feet against the wall. The glass door of the fridge revealed wine coolers, beer, colas and bottled water. Opposite the bed, a steel bar hung horizontally, maybe eight feet from the floor. Chains hung from the bar. Padded handcuffs dangled on the ends of the chains.

  Before she could stop her runaway imagination, she pictured Devon Pierce shackled there. Naked, of course. His lean body taut in expectation of the whip’s sting. Her nipples hardened and an ache throbbed between her thighs.

  She should not be here.

  He waited at the door, watching her, assessing her reaction.

  Could he see how aroused she was?

  She turned on him. “Do you bring women here regularly?”

 
“How is that relevant, Ms. Lytle?”

  “Ms. Maynard accused you of holding her here. For two months. Can anyone else refute that accusation? Someone you brought here for an evening of entertainment in the past few weeks?” Even as she asked the questions, her throat grew so dry she could hardly speak. Her pulse was racing. Her skin was on fire.

  She needed out of this room.

  “I haven’t brought anyone here recently.” He took a step in her direction. “Perhaps a month ago.” Another couple of feet disappeared between them.

  “That would be within the two-month time frame. Do you have contact information for her? She may be needed as a witness if Mrs. Maynard’s testimony about Audrey’s whereabouts doesn’t suffice.”

  “The sorts of women I bring here don’t provide contact information.”

  He was standing right next to her now, staring down at her as if she were his partner for the evening.

  “You shouldn’t be afraid of your desire, Isabella,” he said in a low voice that made her wonder what he saw in her expression.

  She blinked. “Bella,” she corrected. “My friends call me Bella.”

  “Bella.” He licked his lips when he said her name as if tasting it. “It suits you.”

  She said nothing. She couldn’t. Her skin was flushed. Her state of agitation was obvious.

  He reached up, traced a finger along her cheek. She shivered. “You are very beautiful, Bella.”

  “Is that what you tell them when you bring them here?” A flash of anger melted into anticipation. “Every woman wants to be called beautiful. Is that what you do for the women you bring home? Make them feel special, wanted, sexy?”

  His hand flattened on her chest, the tips of his fingers tracing the collar of her blouse. Her body throbbed at his firm touch.

  His fingers trailed more softly against the hollow of her throat. “Is that how you feel, Bella? Special? Sexy?”

  She tried not to shiver but his words, the sound of his voice, made her ache with want. “Maybe a little.”

  His hand moved lower, slipping inside her jacket, closing around her breast. Her breath caught. He squeezed. Pleasure shot through her.

  She lifted her chin in defiance of her own weakness. “I should go.”

  He moved in closer. The fingers of his left hand closed around the nape of her neck, threaded into her hair, loosening the pins holding it. His right hand squeezed her breast harder then slid down to her waist and slid around to the small of her back. He pulled her against his body. She felt every hard ridge and angle of him.

  Slowly, so very slowly, he lowered his face to hers. Their lips brushed. She gasped. Sought someplace for her hands. No. No. She couldn’t touch him... If she touched him now, the battle would be over.

  As if he’d abruptly realized his mistake, he stepped away from her. She swayed, struggled to regain her equilibrium.

  “You should stay here tonight. Her journal doesn’t leave this house. Choose whatever guest room you like.”

  Were his attempts to put her off balance some endeavor to push her away from this ultra-personal part of the investigation? Did he somehow believe he could prevent her from dissecting this facet of his history? No way. In fact, it was her turn to put him off balance.

  “I’ll take this room.”

  He hesitated at the door but didn’t look back. Oh yes, direct hit. When he’d gone, she removed her jacket and folded it like a pillow on the enormous red leather bed. She toed off her shoes and relaxed onto the overly firm surface. She opened the journal of Cara Pierce and started to read.

  An hour and many pages later, she came to the first entry that changed dramatically in tone.

  I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be seduced. Or perhaps I was the one doing the seducing. We were both equally surprised. We spent hours together, never leaving the rumpled sheets of the bed. My adventurous lover learned every part of me. Every secret place that longed for more than I ever hoped for. This was the most sexually demanding and beautiful encounter of my life.

  I want more.

  Bella closed the journal and laid it aside. She stood and walked around the room. She paused at the shelves and studied the various bondage items. Ropes, handcuffs, collars. She fingered a leather riding crop. Blindfolds, vibrators, clamps. She moved to the steel bar at the other end of the room. The chains and padded cuffs dangling from the bar again had her imagining Pierce restrained there. Would he want his playmate to use that riding crop to torture him or would she be on her knees in front of him?

  Need pulsed deep inside her. Though Cara Pierce clearly had not been speaking of her husband in that journal passage, Bella had imagined him doing those things to her. Her hand went to her breast, to the one he had squeezed so tightly. Her nipples remained as hard as stone.

  She wasn’t a prude. She’d played a few sex games, but nothing on this level.

  It was late. She should get some sleep. She lay down on the red leather bed once more. She stared at the ceiling, only then noticing the mirror. She touched her breast again, thought of his hand there and then sliding lower. She closed her eyes and thought of him kissing every part of her, exploring every hot, shivery inch. Bringing her to release over and over with nothing more than his skilled hands and those incredible lips. She rolled onto her side and bit down on her lower lip to hold back her cries when desire rippled through her.

  She drifted off to sleep while images of him spooned against her, kissing her all over, followed her into her dreams.

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday, June 6, 6:05 a.m.

  He was trying to distract her.

  Bella finger-combed her hair, then arranged it into her preferred twist and pinned it into place. She smoothed her sweater and slipped into her jacket. He distracted her because he didn’t want to answer those hard, personal questions.

  She stepped back into the room with its massive red leather bed. She was glad the space had included an en suite bath. Though the stainless-steel garden tub had given her pause, she supposed it was as much a design statement as a place to indulge in sexual activity.

  She stared at the red leather bed as she exited the bath. Before she could stem the flow, a stream of images—all involving Devon Pierce naked—filled her mind. With a shake of her head, she opened the journal and read through a few more entries. Cara was meeting her lover at least once a week, most often twice. The interludes were intensely erotic.

  My lover flogged me today. It was my first experience with sexual torture. No one has ever touched me that way. I was secured facedown on the bed with my arms and legs spread wide. The whip didn’t break the skin but created red welts everywhere it touched. I cried out, the tears stinging my eyes as the leather stung my skin. Then my lover licked and kissed every red mark on my body, soothing and suckling until I was dizzy with desire. I don’t dare write of the other things. All I can say is that I have never experienced a full body orgasm until today. It went on and on and I can’t get enough.

  Bella shivered as she closed the journal and tucked it into her bag. No matter how much Devon Pierce wanted to believe a warrant wasn’t coming, Bella knew better. It was a matter of time before the cavalry came calling. For that reason, despite his edict that the journal was not to leave the house, it was going with her.

  She fingered the inflammatory volume in her bag while she considered the ramifications of withholding evidence, but decided that this wasn’t exactly evidence—not for Audrey Maynard’s allegations of kidnapping, anyway, which was what the cops were investigating. The police did not need to know about the journal. The affair Cara Pierce was involved in would prove motive for her husband for a death that had already been investigated and deemed an accident. At this point, there was no need to stir up trouble on that front. Having it turned into a murder investigation all these years later wouldn’t help anyone.

  Speaking of Dr.
Pierce, Bella found him in the kitchen pouring himself a coffee. He wore a navy suit today with an equally dark blue shirt, the fabric no doubt the finest available, like the rest of his wardrobe. The jacket hung on the back of a chair at the small breakfast table perched in the large bay window. She placed her bag on the floor next to a stool that stood at the counter. The decision not to bring up last night’s incident was an easy one to make.

  “Good morning.” She reached for a mug.

  He shifted his attention to her, the French-press carafe in his hand. “Good morning.” He filled her cup without her having to ask. “I won’t inquire as to how you slept. That room was not designed for comfort.”

  “Surprisingly well.” She inhaled deeply of the bold flavored coffee. Whether it was the blend or the French press, it smelled incredible. She tasted it and moaned before she could stop herself. “You’re very good with coffee, Dr. Pierce.”

  “I’m very good with many things, Ms. Lytle.”

  She studied his handsome face. She knew this whole investigation was torture for him. A man so private suddenly forced to reveal his deepest desires wasn’t going to handle it with grace. He was going to deflect and strike out. He knew he had got to her last night and he hoped to use his new discovery to keep her off balance. Not happening. “I’m confident you are. I thought we had dispensed with the formalities. Call me Bella.”

  “Bella.” He said her name as if tasting wine and attempting to dissect the flavor.

  “After my grandmother.” She sipped the delicious coffee and shifted her focus to the news on the television across the room. “I hope I haven’t caused you to be late this morning.” He’d told her that his usual workday began around seven.

  “I sometimes work from my office here.” He set his cup aside.

  She really needed to go by her place and pick up a change of clothes. The shower had been refreshing but her clothes were heavy with yesterday’s tension.

  “Did the journal provide any insights that might help you solve the case?”

  The question was one he genuinely wanted an answer to, she knew this, but the tone of his question was caustic, indifferent. He wanted to appear uncaring, but the good doctor was not quite as adept at lying about this particular subject as he would obviously prefer her to believe.