Harlequin Blaze June 2015 Box Set: Midnight ThunderFevered NightsCome On OverTriple Time

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “Our murderer?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  “Forensics is enhancing it and printing up some stills. We’re going to recanvass the neighborhood, show them around and see if anyone recognizes him.”

  “Great.” Gabe ran a hand through his hair and headed for the door, continuing to speak as he went. “Get Colby and Renwick to help. I’ll clean up Kentfield’s mess.”

  Five minutes later he was on the seventh floor, talking his way past Doris to Holcomb’s private sanctuary. This wasn’t going to be easy or pleasant, no matter how much he detested Jack. He knocked.

  “Come in,” Holcomb barked from inside.

  Gabe pushed open the door. “I apologize for the interruption...”

  “This better be important, Nelson.” Holcomb spun around in his desk chair and waved Gabe in. “I’ve got a press conference in twenty minutes.”

  “It is, sir. It’s about the Park Avenue homicide case.” Gabe made sure the door closed behind him before continuing. “We may have the wrong man.”

  Holcomb jerked upright in his chair, the full force of his razor-sharp attention on Gabe. “What do you mean, ‘may have’?”

  “The surveillance tapes show the defendant leaving the scene almost five hours before the murders and another man in a gray hoodie exiting shortly after the medical examiner’s estimated time of death.”

  “Why are we just finding out about this now?”

  “Well, that’s another issue.” Gabe stood taller, determined not to let his boss intimidate him. Hell, he hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t his fault Jack was a complete douche. Okay, so he was the douche’s immediate supervisor, but he couldn’t and shouldn’t have to watch him 24/7. “The security guard we got the video from says he was paid off to destroy it.”

  “Paid off? By who?” Holcomb’s amber eyes speared Gabe.

  Gabe shifted his weight, rocking slightly. “You’re not going to like this.”

  “Cop?”

  “Prosecutor.” Gabe clasped his hands behind his back. “Kentfield.”

  “What motive would he have for hiding evidence?” Holcomb tapped a finger thoughtfully against his cheek. “How do we know this security guard is telling the truth?”

  “We don’t,” Gabe admitted. “Yet.”

  “Then come back when you have some real proof Kentfield was involved.”

  “And until then?”

  “Do what you have to do.” Holcomb plucked a pen from a container on his desk and clicked it absently. “Disclose the video. Talk to the security guard. Track down the man in the hoodie.”

  He pointed the pen at Gabe, piercing him with another stare. “But until we’ve got another suspect in custody, this handyman’s our guy. And he stays in Rikers.”

  Holcomb turned back to his computer, dismissing Gabe.

  With a shake of his head, Gabe started for the door, only to be stopped by one more blast of Holcomb’s voice.

  “And Gabe.”

  Gabe froze.

  “Until you can prove someone from this office withheld evidence, this stays right here.” Holcomb’s tone was hard and flat, one Gabe knew from experience brooked no dissent. “I don’t want to see this aired out in the press.”

  “Understood.”

  Gabe let the door slam shut and rushed for the elevator.

  Goddamn Holcomb, leaving him hanging out to dry. He should have known the big man wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty, even though his term of office was coming to a close. Who knew what kind of sweetheart deal he’d worked out for himself in the private sector.

  The elevator dinged at the same time Gabe’s cell rang. He stepped in, hit the button for the third floor with the heel of his hand and answered the call, not bothering to check who it was. “Gabe Nel—”

  He was cut off by a barrage of Spanish in a familiar female voice. He caught a few words, like vestido, costosa and estupido.

  “I take it you got the dress,” he finally managed to interject when she took a breath. “What’s the matter? Not your color?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s the matter.” Her voice seemed to rise an octave with each word. “It’s too damn expensive, that’s what.”

  Gabe winced. The dress was too much. He should have known Devin would be insulted by what she’d no doubt view as a hand-out. He’d almost gone with something simpler, more understated. But he made the mistake of texting pictures of the two gowns to his sister, and Holly had convinced him that the rich red beading would look striking against Devin’s light mocha skin. And it would, if he could worm his way out of this and convince her to wear it. “It’s not a big deal, honest.”

  “Not a big deal? You call five thousand dollars not a big deal?” He had to hold the phone away from his head. “That’s almost three months’ rent.”

  Not for me, Gabe thought. Not that he was dumb enough to make things worse by saying it.

  “I appreciate the gesture,” Devin continued, her voice a tad calmer. “Really, I do. But I can’t accept it. Or the shoes.”

  The elevator doors slid open and Gabe got off, making way for a frazzled-looking woman with a copy of the New York Post under her arm. The paper was folded so that its infamous Page Six gossip section faced outward. Tina Fey and Amy Poehler smiled at him from a picture above the fold, flanking the mayor at some charity event. He snapped his fingers. “I have an idea.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t even heard it.” He waved to his secretary on his way past and pushed open his office door.

  “If it involves me wearing this outfit, I don’t have to.” A rustling sound crackled over the line, like she was putting the dress back in the box.

  “Hear me out.” He sank into his chair and propped his feet up on the desk.

  The other end of the line went quiet for a minute. “Okay,” she said finally. “What’s your brilliant idea?”

  “Wear the dress and shoes tonight.”

  “I told you.” Her tone spiked again. “There’s no way...”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” he interrupted. “Wear them. Hob nob with the elite. Get yourself photographed by the press. I know a guy at the Post who can make sure your picture hits the society page. Maybe even get you a mention in Cindy Adams’s column.”

  “What good is that going to do?”

  “Then we give the dress to your friend at Turn the Page, the force of nature.”

  “Ariela? Where’s she going to wear a getup like this?”

  “She’s not.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “She’s going to auction it off for the charity.”

  Silence. He was about to concede defeat when she spoke.

  “Damn. That is a brilliant idea.” She paused and he could almost picture her biting her lip, warring with herself. “But it’s a lot of money for you to give away.”

  “I’ll get a tax write-off and I’ll be able to sleep with a clear conscience.” He dropped his feet from the desk and sat upright. “So, what do you say?”

  “I say yes.” She paused and for a moment he thought she’d hung up until she spoke again. “And thank you.”

  14

  “FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK.” Devin paced self-consciously in front of Lincoln Center’s iconic plaza fountain, watching the rich and famous make their way toward the Koch Theater, where the ballet performed. She tightened her grip on the faded pashmina she’d covered her shoulders with despite the sweltering late August heat. Even with her tattoos hidden and three of the four piercings in her ear removed, she felt the stares of the passersby.

  You can take the girl out of the Heights, but you can’t take the Heights out of the girl.

  She stopped pacing and checked to make sure her ink was totally concealed, adj
usting the long shawl so it draped behind her, hiding the top of the sugar skull just visible above the low back of her dress. This was a big, fat, freaking mistake. She belonged at a society event as much as a nun belonged in a biker bar.

  She was about ten seconds from bolting when a deep, smoky voice came from behind her. “Juliet.”

  She turned and found Gabe, looking hotter than hot in a well-fitting, single-breasted black tuxedo, crisp white shirt and black bow tie, a red rose extended in one hand. “Romeo, I presume?”

  “At your service.” He bowed low and handed her the flower.

  “Thank you.” She brought it to her nose and inhaled, her eyes on the patrons as they streamed into the theater. Too late to back out now. “I guess we’d better get inside.”

  He took in her wrap. “It’s almost ninety degrees. What’s with the granny garb?”

  “I, uh, thought it might be cold in the theater.” She clutched it closer to her.

  He scanned the crowd. “No one else seems concerned. Besides, you’ll never make Page Six in that thing.”

  Devin groaned. He was right. Most of the women flooding past were showing some skin. Only there was a big difference between their unblemished flesh and hers.

  “Unless there’s some other reason you’re clinging to it like it’s a life preserver and you’re a passenger on the Titanic.” He put his hands on her upper arms and drew the shawl down to her wrists. “Like you don’t want anyone to see your tattoos.”

  Damn him. How did he do that?

  “I don’t... I’m not...”

  He reached up and fingered her earlobe. “Then why did you take out your piercings?”

  “I figured you’d want me to look like everyone else.” Or as alike as she could get.

  He took the wrap from her unprotesting fingers, balled it up in his fist and stood back to admire her. “Much better. You look beautiful. More than beautiful. Flawless.”

  “But everyone else here is...”

  “Not you.” He touched her hair, so lightly she barely felt it, like the gentlest summer breeze. She’d left it hanging loose, a decision she was beginning to regret, surrounded by fancy up-dos in all shapes and sizes. “I invited you. I want to be here with you. Not some sanitized version of who you think you should be.”

  “You realize these are your constituents, right?” She waved an arm at the crowd on the plaza. “The people who are going to be voting for you. Or against you, if you give them a reason to. Like your grencha girlfriend.”

  She stumbled on the last word, but he didn’t seem to notice. A smile crept across his face. “I like the sound of ‘girlfriend.’ But what’s grencha mean?”

  “Cheap. Trashy.” She stuck a hand on her hip and struck the classic hooker pose, almost as if to prove her point. “What most people assume when they see my ink.”

  “If they’re shallow enough to believe that, I don’t want their vote.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  The knot in her stomach loosened. If Gabe wanted her to do this—believed she could do this—then damn it, she would. She nodded, taking his elbow, and he handed back her pashmina before steering her into the swarm of people heading to the theater. She promptly tossed the bargain-basement scarf into a nearby garbage can on their way.

  Inside, they barely had time to greet Gabe’s family—minus Ivy, who was in Brazil shooting the centerfold for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue—and sit down before the lights dimmed and the curtain went up.

  “What do you think?” he whispered in her ear about ten minutes into the performance, reaching over the armrest to take her hand.

  “You sister is wonderful.” She linked her fingers with his and squeezed. “They’re all wonderful.”

  “You can tell them so yourself at the after-party.”

  Tension started to build again inside her, twisting her gut with anxiety. “Right. The after-party.”

  Which she’d been trying not to think about. She’d actually have to make polite conversation with the folks who’d been giving her the evil eye, her tattoos on full display in glorious Technicolor. People would point and whisper about her behind her back. Or, even worse, to her face.

  Tramp.

  Slut.

  Whore.

  Suddenly she understood how Gabe had felt at the rave. Out of his element. Insecure. It wasn’t a feeling she liked, or one she wanted to get used to.

  “Can’t wait.” She gave him a forced smile and turned her attention back to the swans and princes pirouetting and jeté-ing across the stage. As magical as it was, she couldn’t shake the sense that this night was a disaster waiting to happen.

  “What’s wrong?” Gabe asked at intermission, plucking two champagne glasses from a passing waiter’s tray and handing one to her. “You look like you swallowed a lemon.”

  “Nothing.” She took a slow, fortifying sip of the bubbly liquid. “Just tired, I guess.”

  A middle-aged woman in a silver sequined gown waved to Gabe from across the room. He nodded in acknowledgment and Devin crossed her fingers behind her back, willing her not to approach them. She breathed a relieved sigh when the woman was waylaid by someone who looked a lot like Sarah Jessica Parker.

  Gabe snaked his free arm around her waist. Heat radiated from his hand on the bare skin of her lower back. “If it’s the after-party you’re worried about, don’t be.”

  Who was this guy? The Long Island Medium?

  “I meant what I said outside,” he continued, guiding her into a remote corner of the lobby where they could talk as privately as possible with hundreds of people milling around. “I don’t want you to be anything but who you are. And if these people can’t accept that, that’s their problem.”

  “But the election...”

  “We’re a package deal, sweetheart. I’m not running my life around a campaign.” For a second, a sort of far-away look crossed his face, like his mind had gone somewhere else. Then he shook his head and his eyes cleared. When he spoke, his tone was determined and the hand on her back pulled her closer to him. “Not anymore.”

  Devin was saved from trying to form a response by Holly, who ran up to squeal over Devin’s gown with Nick in tow. The four spent the rest of the break together until the lights flickered and they returned to their seats.

  The second act was shorter than the first, and before she knew it Devin was walking the red carpet to the gala on Gabe’s arm, stopping and smiling as flashbulbs popped in their faces.

  “Having fun?” he murmured between flashes.

  “It’s a little blinding,” she admitted, blinking. “But definitely a once in a lifetime experience.”

  “Not if I get elected.”

  Another thought she’d tried to ignore. Odds were she wouldn’t have to deal with it. The chances of them still being together then were about the same as a snowball stood in hell.

  But what if...

  “Gabe. Devin. Over here.”

  Devin turned to see a tall, lanky man in jeans and a white button-down smiling at them, an expensive-looking camera in one hand.

  “This one’s for Page Six,” he said with a wink, lifting the camera to his face.

  “Thanks, Tom. My buddy at the Post,” Gabe whispered in her ear as they posed. “This is our money shot. Show him your good side.”

  “All my sides are good,” she quipped.

  He leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a sexy growl. “Can’t argue with you there. I like everything I’ve seen so far.”

  “Great job, guys.” Tom strode over to them, his camera at his side. “I’ve got what I need. It’ll be in tomorrow’s edition.”

  “Thanks again, man.” Gabe shook his hand. “I owe you one.”

  “Anything for a fair maiden.” Tom winked again and pulled out a business card from his
shirt pocket. “Here. Email me. I’ll send you copies of all your pics for the auction.”

  She took the card. “Thanks.”

  “Watch out for this guy,” he called, gesturing to Gabe as he blended back into the throng of paparazzi. “He may look harmless, but he’s a regular lady-killer.”

  Don’t I know it, she thought, letting Gabe lead her down the red carpet and into the party. He’d just about slayed her.

  * * *

  “DEVIN SEEMS TO be enjoying herself.” Nick sidled up to Gabe at the bar.

  Gabe didn’t have to look to know Nick was right. He’d been at Devin’s side most of the evening. She was radiant. A rare, exotic creature in a sea of conformity.

  He turned and found her in the center of the room with Holly and the mayor’s wife. Her initial unease seemed to have deserted her and she was talking animatedly.

  “She sure does,” Gabe agreed, his heart overflowing with pride.

  She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but he knew she was nervous about mingling with the high and mighty. Thought they would judge her on her appearance, and she wasn’t altogether wrong. She’d endured her share of stares and whispers from the upper crust, but just as many people had come up and introduced themselves, curious to find out who she was and what she was doing there. Many had stayed to chat, as captivated by her as he was.

  Gabe nodded to Nick’s empty glass. “Need a refill? I’m buying.”

  “It’s open bar.”

  “I know.”

  “Great. I’ll get the next round.” Nick handed his glass to the bartender. “Vodka tonic. And a club soda.”

  “I thought you were more of a Scotch drinker.” Gabe had bought him a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenmorangie for his bachelor party.

  “I am.” Nick stuck a bill in the tip container. “But only the good stuff. Which I doubt they have on hand tonight, no matter how high-class this shindig is.”

  “How’s my sister holding up?” Gabe sipped his Manhattan.

  Nick’s eyes settled on his wife, who stood with one hand on her stomach and the other on her lower back. A crease wrinkled his forehead. “She’s exhausted. No big surprise for a woman who’s almost five months pregnant. I offered to take her home, but she insists on staying until Noelle makes her grand entrance.”