“No, but I find it hard to believe that Georgie could have stabbed a man to death, then just left him there while she went away for the weekend. That would make her either a textbook sociopath, an Academy Award–winning actress, or she had a blue-ribbon case of PMS that rendered her both temporarily insane and amnesic.”
“I don’t get PMS!” she snapped.
He eyed her. “Right.”
Ethan turned to Nate and the two men glared at each other.
“What time did you leave on Saturday?” Nate asked.
“Around nine-thirty.”
“And her behavior at that time was…”
“Agitated, argumentative, snotty, huffy, pushy, pissy. In other words, normal.”
Georgie gasped, then she smacked his arm with her open palm. When he looked down at her, his eyes held a smile. With a snort, she averted her gaze.
Nate rolled his lips together, avoiding eye contact with either of them. He cleared his throat as though he were fighting a laugh, then said to Georgie, “I want to know everything you did Friday night until Ethan picked you up on Saturday.”
“I didn’t do anything special,” she said. “I came home from the studio about six on Friday. Had dinner, worked on the computer for a while. Went to bed. No phone calls, no visitors. Got up Saturday morning to get ready for the drive to Napa, when Ethan showed up.”
Ethan started to say something, but the chiming of his cell phone interrupted him. “Hang on,” he said, checking the readout. “It’s Lucas.” Putting the phone to his ear, he said, “Yeah?”
Georgie watched as he listened for a moment, then his head slowly came up and his eyes found hers. “Uh-huh. Yeah, that is interesting. Thanks.”
Flipping the phone closed, he returned it to his pocket. “Georgie, did Paul ever indicate that Raine wasn’t the only woman he drugged and raped?”
“What?” she choked, taken completely off guard by the question. “He did that to other women besides Raine? Why, that…that…”
Ethan’s eyes glittered with tightly restrained anger. “Lucas said Raine told him Paul made a remark that nobody else ever complained about being assaulted, which tells me Raine wasn’t his only victim.”
Georgie let that information roll around inside her head for a moment. “Well, that would give somebody a reason to kill Paul, but not Vaughn.”
“And since Georgie supposedly wasn’t home,” Nate said, eyeing her meaningfully, “how did Corcoran’s body end up in her bedroom?”
Ethan directed his attention to the house. Without looking at anyone in particular, he said, “I want to see the crime scene. Let’s go.”
After settling Georgie on the couch in her living room—under the watchful eye of a uniformed officer—Ethan stood in the threshold of Georgie’s bedroom. Staving off a knee-jerk cringe, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a flat tin of Vicks, twisting off the cap, applying a glop of the ointment to his handkerchief, which he then held over his nose. Nothing like a little Vicks up the nasal passages to stave off the stench of death.
He glanced around the room. “Georgie didn’t do this,” he said flatly. “She’s simply not capable of murder, let alone…this.”
Nate scowled over the edge of his own white handkerchief. “They say love is blind.”
“They also say you’re a dick.”
Behind his glasses, Nate’s brown eyes glittered. “So, slap my ass and call me Edna. Ethan’s in love. Hey, I’ll be your best man, and you won’t even have to get on your knees and beg.”
Ignoring Nate’s obvious attempt to find out about his relationship with Georgie, he shifted his focus to the crime scene.
The body of Vaughn Corcoran lay sprawled face down on the floor at the foot of Georgie’s neatly made bed, in a pool of his own black blood—the knife that killed him still protruding from his back.
“No signs of a struggle,” Nate murmured absently, glancing around the room. “Must have caught him by surprise…”
“So he either knew and trusted the killer, or didn’t know the perp was behind him.”
“The ME said there’s only the one stab wound. No overkill, no multiple points of entry. Didn’t see any defensive wounds on Corcoran’s arms or hands. Perp stabs him, he falls, bleeds out. Pretty cut-and-dried, no pun intended.”
“Georgie did not do this, Nate.”
“So you’ve said. They’re about ready to transport to the morgue. You want to take a closer look before they zip him up?”
The room had already been photographed and dusted for prints. Even so, Ethan moved cautiously toward the body, careful not to disturb any possible evidence.
Crouching, he looked at the knife, the wound, and the position in which the corpse lay. Vaughn Corcoran was not a big man. In life, he’d stood maybe five-six, five-seven and weighed in at probably one-forty, one-forty-five. A woman of Georgie’s height and strength could conceivably have killed him with one hard, well-aimed thrust.
Ethan rose to his feet, taking in the small room, neat in every other way except for the corpse sprawled awkwardly on the bloody Oriental rug.
Movement over his head caught Ethan’s attention. Above the middle of her bed, she’d hung a mobile of about twenty long chandelier-type crystals. In the slight air current near the ceiling, the crystals slowly spun and glittered as they cast tiny rainbows onto the coverlet below. Most everything in the room, from the wallpaper, to the bedspread, to the vase of flowers on the dresser, to the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, was some shade of dark or light pink. Oddly, it wasn’t overpowering, just pretty. Feminine. Probably very feng shui.
Stepping out into the hallway, he lowered the kerchief and said to Nate, “Who called it in?”
“Dispatch said he claimed to be a neighbor reporting a foul smell coming from this house; didn’t give a name. It was a cell phone and caller ID was blocked. We questioned everyone within nose range, but they all denied making the call.”
“The body isn’t that ripe. I didn’t smell anything until I got up here.”
“So somebody wanted this body found sooner rather than later. Maybe he didn’t know Georgie had gone away for the weekend, or maybe he did, and didn’t want her walking in on a dead body in her bedroom.”
Ethan caught his brother’s gaze. “So you believe Georgie’s story.”
“I’m inclined to believe her, sure,” Nate said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “This crime scene just doesn’t add up, and the timing is suspicious. But I’ve got to follow the evidence, Ethan. You know that. I’ll have more when forensics is finished and the autopsy report comes in. I’ll be very happy when we can eliminate Georgie as a possibility.” He looked Ethan in the eye. “Honest.”
Ethan felt the tense muscles in the back of his neck relax a little. “Okay, let’s try a few scenarios on for size. Let’s start with the fact Raine Preston may not have been Paul Corcoran’s only rape victim.”
Nate cocked his head, then nodded absently. “Makes sense. A guy like that, not too bright, something works once, it’ll work twice, especially if the women are too confused or intimidated to report it.” He jutted out his lower lip. “That would make for some mighty pissed-off, frustrated, powerless women.”
“Exactly. But what if…and this is a big what-if…what if there’s one who’s maybe a bit of an opportunist? Figures she can make some money off this situation.”
“You’re talking blackmail.”
Ethan nodded. “Indeed I am. Maybe she hits up old Paul, maybe she goes directly to the Bank of Papa Vaughn. He gives her buckets of money, and in return she keeps her mouth shut and doesn’t ruin his political plans.”
“But how could he be sure the money would keep her quiet forever?”
“He couldn’t. My guess is, if this scenario plays out, Corcoran got tired of paying, or was worried the woman was a loose cannon. He wants to finish it once and for all.”
“Sounds good,” Nate said, “with the possible exception that we have absolutely no evidence, and nothing
to go on but what-ifs.”
Ethan ran his fingers through his hair, then scrubbed his jaw with his knuckles. “Yeah, but these what-ifs feel right. Well, almost right. I still can’t figure out why the murder took place in Georgie’s house. Unless…”
He let the ideas bump up against each other in his brain for a moment. “Unless…” he said slowly, “unless Corcoran didn’t know who was blackmailing him and assumed it was Georgie or Raine.”
Nate paced away from the window, then back again. “He comes here, maybe to talk, more likely threaten. He rings the bell. Nothing. Doesn’t know she’s left for the weekend. He tries the front door. It’s open. He walks in, thinking she’s still in bed, goes to the bedroom. Wham.”
“And if he thought it was Raine, he’d already sent his goons to go find her, bring her back, have a talk with her.” He slapped his forehead. “Shit. And here I was thinking all along it was about the kid, but now I’m not so sure. According to what both Raine and Lucas said, I don’t think Vaughn or Paul even knew about the baby. It was about blackmail…it was always about blackmail.”
“So who killed Corcoran? Was the killer already in the house, or did he follow Vaughn inside, see his opportunity, and take it?”
Outside, someone was yelling, making a hell of a racket. Ethan and Nate shot a look at each other, then moved into the living room.
Georgie was standing now, her eyes wide in alarm. Her fingertips rested against her lips while three officers stood at the door, trying to keep Paul Corcoran from bullying his way in.
“Dad?” he screamed. “I want to see him! Let me see him! Let me by, assholes. My tax dollars pay your fucking salaries! Let me by! Dad? Dad!” His red, swollen eyes turned to Georgie. “You bitch! You goddamned bitch! You’ll pay, I swear to God, you’ll pay!”
Ethan blew out a long breath. “Oh, goody. It’s Junior Corcoran. Hmm. I wonder who inherits Daddy’s empire now that the old man is dead?”
Chapter Twenty-three
When doing affirmations, it is better to ask for “the perfect guy for me” rather than ask for “Joe Mann” by name. You might think you want hunky Joe, but maybe he’s all wrong for you. Since we always get what we wish for, let the Powers That Be do their thing and deliver the man who is perfect for you. Then, if it’s still Joe, you’ll know. Sure, it’s a leap of faith, but isn’t everything?
Georgiana Mundy’s Feng Shui for Lovers
Paul Corcoran slammed down his father’s phone, slumped in his father’s chair behind his father’s desk in his father’s office, and thought about life, how it tossed you a few curves when you least expected it.
The stench of the holding cell at the precinct still clung to his nostrils. It had probably been a mistake to show up at Georgie’s house last night, but when he’d heard she’d murdered his father…well, he’d had to see for himself. Of course, if he’d shown a little restraint and stayed away, he wouldn’t have been arrested for kidnapping, but Dad’s lawyers had bailed him out quickly enough. It was something he’d grown to rely on over the years. Besides, with the spin the overpaid shysters would put on it, he’d never be convicted—after all, he’d only wanted to see the child Raine Preston had withheld from him.
So Raine had a kid. His kid. Huh. Go figure. He was a father, not that he cared. Except, well, the brat looked just like him, and that was cool in a way. He’d known the minute he’d laid eyes on her, not to mention the fact he could read a calendar and knew how to count. Yeah, his kid, all right. Jesus.
He let his gaze meander around his father’s office—maybe his office now, if the board voted him in. Nah. Never happen. What he knew about running a multimedia empire you could fit into a shot glass.
Tilting the chair back, he stretched his legs in front of him, propping them up on the desk, crossing them at the ankles. He thought of Georgie. Georgie, who’d killed his father. Georgie, who’d ruined everything.
He’d sort of loved her once. Even thought about asking her to marry him. After all, she was hot-looking, and famous. Would’ve made a good wife for the son of a future governor of California.
But, hot as she was, she’d never let him sample the goods, so he’d done her friend instead. Admittedly, a bad judgment call on his part. Bad planning, too. Georgie would never have married him after finding out about that. Ah, well. Live and learn.
He scratched his jaw, then picked up a piece of paper from the desk and crumpled it into a tight ball. Taking aim, he tossed it into the leather trash container in the corner. Right in. Nothing but net. Heh. Two points.
Yeah, all this was his now, but it didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot. His old man had never approved of him, never figured him for having any brains, thought he was all eye candy and empty calories. His mother must not have liked him very much, either. She’d run off when he was three. Who knew where she was these days?
Despite his obvious misgivings about Paul, Vaughn had always granted him a huge allowance, and never questioned how he spent it. But according to the lawyer he’d talked to a few minutes ago, the gravy train was about to derail.
Sly old bastard. According to Vaughn’s lawyer, the old man had left Paul one million bucks, and instructions on how to turn it into one billion. Yeah, right. Hell, a million bucks would barely cover fuel for his cars. As for turning it into one billion? Thirty-five years of age was way too late in life for a playboy to learn how to make a living.
Of course, he could always contest the will, but that would take time and money. And he had neither.
He’d always had a temper, but now red-hot toxic fury oozed through his system, burning holes in his life, turning his future to ash.
Georgie had sent his nifty little gravy train straight off a cliff. Somebody should make her pay for that. Somebody really should.
A single tap on the office door, and it opened to reveal Dumb and Dumber.
“Close the door, Honcho,” he snarled, his mood worsening as the reality of the penniless de cades ahead began to sink in. “What’d you find out?”
“It’s confirmed, compadre,” the thug said shutting the door behind him, then dropping into an overstuffed leather chair. Drool stayed by the door, his arms dangling at his sides like a stringless puppet.
“She’s in Marin,” Honcho said, “with that security guy your old man—”
“My father,” Paul snapped. “Not my ‘old man,’ my father!”
“Honcho didn’t mean no disrespect, Mr. Corcoran,” Drool mumbled, then shoved his hands in the back pockets of his baggy jeans.
“Shut up, you idiot.” He glared at Drool, then returned his attention to Honcho. “Tell me more.”
“It’s no secret, man. It’s like you heard the cops talking at the bitch’s house.” He sprawled back in his chair, let his arms hang over the sides. “She’s in sort of a custody kind of thing while they figure out whether she whacked your old, eh, Mr. Corcoran. Darling used to be a cop, some big-shot detective. Word on the street is, something bad goes down, and he retires right after. But he still has clout.”
“Who in the hell else could have killed him?” Paul yelled. Honcho and Drool both shrugged and averted their eyes. “She did it. Her house, her bedroom. He told me himself that she was probably the one blackmailing him, and that he was going to put an end to it.”
But somehow, it was Georgie who’d ended it, and now Paul’s future was very much in question.
“She needs to pay,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “I want her to pay. You hear me? You understand?”
Honcho grinned and Drool chuckled.
“Yeah,” Honcho said. “I think you still got some time left on the meter, especially since the Santa Barbara deal went bad. What do you want us to do?”
Paul tented his fingers in front of his mouth. “So this detective’s place is in Marin?”
“Yeah.”
“How do we get in?”
“Well, the front’s out. I hear the place is gated, the house has all kinds of security and shit, so—”
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Honcho started in his chair, and Drool flinched when Paul flung his feet off of the desk and jumped up, slamming his palms on the desk. “Wrong answer, asshole! I asked you how we get in!” He wanted Georgie’s hide, and he would have it.
Drool swallowed and took a cautious step back, but Honcho simply shrugged. “As it so happens, amigo, there is a way.”
Georgie awoke on Wednesday morning with her bare arms and legs tangled with Ethan’s. Easing her body closer, she pressed her breasts against his bare chest, raised her left leg until the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh grazed his groin. If that didn’t rouse him—so to speak—he must be totally zonked. Though he didn’t wake up, he made some kind of throaty male grouchy hrmphing noise, and settled his head deeper into his pillow; the arm around her waist tightened.
They were alike on all the levels that counted. She’d seen many of his flaws, and none were so bad she couldn’t cope, and even though he thought she was pissy, when he said the word, when he looked at her, the expression in his eyes was soft, tender, almost as though…
Did he love her? she wondered. He’d had plenty of chances to say it, or at least hint at it. Maybe he loved her, and just hadn’t found the right time to tell her. Things had been pretty hectic. Or perhaps he was never going to tell her because he’d decided to ignore the feeling until it went away.
She thought he’d made some headway when he’d finally told her about Cathy’s death. But even though they’d made a deal—which had been his idea, no less—maybe he would stay closed, grief-stricken, and guilty forever, never let himself love again. Or maybe he simply didn’t love Georgie enough to put Cathy behind him.
Cathy was a hard act to follow. Ethan had loved—and lost—an incredible woman, and Georgie felt torn between admiration and respect for her, and a shameful tinge of jealousy.
Gazing at Ethan’s handsome face, she analyzed each separate detail, matching his features with his personality. She lifted her hand and trailed her finger slowly down his nose to the tip. His nose was perfect—long, somewhat thin, but with a small bump near the top that indicated he possessed an iron will, and let nothing stand in the way of getting what he went after.
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