Wrong Place, Wrong Time

by Andrea Kane

  Devon got the message loud and clear. “Where are you going with this, Monty?”

  “You spent the night at Blake’s.”

  “You’re right. I did. Although I didn’t think you noticed. You were late arriving here this morning.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, well, my meeting ran longer than expected. I had to show my client some unpleasant photos. I never thought he’d take it so hard—not when he already knew what his gold-digger wife was doing. I felt like a bastard. The guy crumbled right in front of me. He was popping nitroglycerine pills like they were going out of style.”

  “He’s ill?”

  “A bad heart. That seems to be the theme of the day.”

  “Speaking of which, you still haven’t told me what’s bugging you about Emily Pierson.”

  “Later. Right now, let’s concentrate on James.” Monty glared at her. “Which brings me back to the original subject.”

  Devon rolled her eyes. “Drop it, Monty. My relationships are off-limits.”

  Monty ignored her protest. “I like Blake. He’s a smart, decent guy. But the jury’s still out on whether he’s good enough for you.”

  “Well, I’m the jury.”

  “And I’m the judge. I can overturn your verdict.”

  Devon couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m glad I lived with Mom during my teens.”

  “Me, too. I might have shot one of your dates and wound up in prison.”

  Monty’s cell phone rang.

  “It’s Jenkins,” he announced, checking the caller ID. “I told him to call ASAP if he turned up anything else we could use tonight.” Monty punched on the phone. “Yeah, Jenkins, what’ve you got?” A long pause. “You’re sure? Damn straight it’s good. It’s exactly what we need. Thanks.” He disconnected the call and gave Devon a thumbs-up. “Bingo. We hit pay dirt.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Seems our friend Gerald Paterson has a gambling problem. Not with horses, with casinos. He’s in the hole for thousands, and that’s just from the preliminary info Jenkins has dredged up so far. Also, he’s managed to pay back some creditors in substantial chunks. The dates of those payments coincide with the dates payments were issued to him from that offshore account.”

  “So we’ve got motive and opportunity.” Devon pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That helps. It gives me direction when I broach that part of my conversation with James.”

  “Right.” Monty glanced at the wall clock. “It’s seven thirty. Golden Boy should be here in an hour. Anything you want to go over?”

  “Nope. I’ll just fix my makeup, put out the fruit and cheese platter I ordered, and do some deep-breathing exercises. Wish me luck.”

  Monty shot her a quick wink. “No luck’s necessary. The guy’s toast.”

  EIGHT THIRTY ON the nose.

  Devon carried out a tray of crackers and placed it beside the fruit-and-cheese platter. She then stood back to assess her handiwork. Everything was set. The food, the wine, and her.

  She adjusted the neckline of her sweater, reaching around back and groping beneath it until her fingers brushed the transmitter. It was firmly in place. It wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was the microphone. She’d checked it five minutes ago.

  The rest of the stage was set, too. Lane and Merry had left for a local concert, Monty was poised outside in his car, and James had called to say his plane had landed.

  Now it was up to her.

  She mentally reviewed the topics she had to delve into. Getting at them was only part of the challenge. She had to come across as relaxed, casual, not suspicious or prying. James was a shrewd guy, one who was used to manipulating others. He’d see through her in a minute if she didn’t play this exactly right.

  The doorbell rang.

  Devon turned, inhaling slowly, then blew out her breath. “Okay, Monty,” she muttered into the scooped neck of her sweater. “It’s showtime.”

  She walked to the door and pulled it open.

  James was leaning against the doorjamb, wearing a cashmere overcoat and leather gloves, his collar turned up against the cold. He was carrying an overnight duffel.

  “Hi,” Devon greeted him.

  “Hi yourself.” Giving her an appreciative once-over, James smiled his approval. “You look beautiful. Worth braving the frozen tundra for.”

  “It is freezing,” Devon agreed. “Come on in.” She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.

  He stepped into the house, dropping his bag. He captured her shoulders in his hands and bent down to kiss her. Devon was prepared. She kissed him back—lightly—breaking away when he tried to deepen the kiss.

  “The weather must be quite a contrast to Florida,” she said, plucking a hanger out of the hall closet. “I don’t know how you tore yourself away.”

  “I was inspired.” James didn’t try to kiss her again. Instead, he handed her his coat and walked into the living room, taking in the spread she’d laid out. “Everything looks great.”

  “I had planned to cook.” She followed him in. “Then I thought better of it. You competed today. I didn’t think you’d want a heavy meal.”

  “You’re right. I don’t.”

  “I also didn’t know how you’d feel about wine, so I didn’t open the bottle yet. Would you like some, or are you abstaining?”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m not riding for three days. So, absolutely, let’s open a bottle. But not wine. Champagne.”

  Devon wrinkled her nose in disappointment. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any champagne.”

  “No problem. I do.” He strode back to the door, unzipped his duffel, and yanked out a bottle of Dom Pérignon. “Shall I do the honors?”

  “Please,” Devon replied, flourishing two champagne flutes. “What a lovely surprise.”

  “I pride myself on those.” James uncorked the bottle and poured, handing her a flute. “To this evening,” he said, raising his glass. “May it yield one surprise after another.”

  “To this evening,” Devon echoed. She took an appreciative sip, then gestured toward the sofa. “Please, have a seat.”

  “After you.” He stood beside the sofa and waited.

  Devon sank down on the cushion, angling her legs toward him to keep a conversational distance between them. “How was the Grand Prix?”

  “No complaints.” He perched on the adjoining cushion. “Stolen Thunder and I took first place.”

  “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” He flashed his dazzling smile. “Today’s just my day. I sensed it the minute I woke up. Probably because I knew I was seeing you.” He glanced around. “Your family’s out?”

  “For the evening, yes.”

  “It’s very quiet. Where are your pets?”

  “Terror’s upstairs with a stack of socks to chew on, and my mom’s dog, Scamp, to play with. Connie’s in the laundry room sulking because I’m with you instead of her, and Runner’s in his cage in Merry’s room.”

  “All for me? I’m flattered.”

  Devon’s lips curved. “It’s hard to concentrate with chaos erupting. I wanted to give you my full attention.” She paused, smile fading. “I know what a difficult week this has been for you. First, that horrible accident involving your groom. Then Mr. Rhodes’s death. This nightmare never seems to end.”

  Soberly, James nodded. “It’s hard to believe so much can happen in so short a time. Frederick, your mother, the Wellington fiasco, and now this.” He leaned forward, taking her hand in his. “Still no word from your mother?”

  “None.” Devon’s lips thinned into a grim line. “I’m worried sick about her.”

  “Of course you are.” James’s grip tightened. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “There is. You can be honest with me.”

  A hint of wariness. “I’ll try.”

  Lowering her gaze, Devon studied their clasped hands. “I apologize in advance if I offend you, but I have to ask someone or I’ll burst.”

&n
bsp; “Go on.”

  “I didn’t know Mr. Rhodes. Maybe he was a fine man and I’m reaching. But the timing of his suicide…is it possible he’s the one who murdered your uncle, and the guilt was too much for him?”

  James shrugged. “I’m not offended. You’d have to be a fool not to wonder if the incidents are connected. The truth is, I just don’t know. Philip felt guilty about something, that’s for sure. It could have been strictly financial. On the other hand, it could have gone deeper. The idea that he murdered Frederick turns my stomach. But I can’t swear that he didn’t.” A pause. “What does your father think?”

  “He won’t tell me anything. I guess he’s trying to protect me. But it’s not working.” Devon tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “My mind’s gone crazy this week. So many crimes and no solution to any of them.” She looked up, her forehead knit with concern. “Was there any progress in figuring out who tried to sabotage you?”

  “No. I didn’t expect there to be. The people who do things like this cover their tracks well.”

  “You’re more accepting than I am. Not only could you have been disqualified, you could have been hurt, or worse. How’s your horse? Is he all right?”

  “Future’s fine. He got really spooked when Granger collapsed. He took off, bolted out of the ring. But my trainer calmed him down. I checked on him later in the day. He was back to himself.”

  “So were you, I hope.”

  “Yup. Good as new. Stomach bug gone.”

  Devon gave a resigned sigh. “Like I said Monday night at dinner, the show circuit is too rough for my tastes. I’ll stick to healing animals. Oh, which reminds me, I met Dr. Vista this week. His work sounds fascinating.”

  That caught James off guard. “Where did you meet Vista?” he asked, his tone undeniably strained.

  “At your stables. Twice. Once when I was searching for Chomper, and once when I was searching for Roberto. Both times I ran into Dr. Vista instead. And I’m glad I did. I learned a great deal.”

  “About?”

  “Genetic consulting. It’s an area I was totally unfamiliar with. I’m sure that lack of knowledge doesn’t apply to you.”

  Tension creased James’s forehead. “Actually, that’s my grandfather’s area. I don’t get involved much.”

  Her brows rose in disbelief. “Cassidy was right. You are too modest. When it comes to anything horse-related, I’m sure your grandfather asks for your input. After all, you’re the guy who’s going to ride his way to a gold medal—probably more than once. Who better to consult on what qualities matter in a show horse?” Devon kept her expression open and friendly. “Dr. Vista mentioned acquiring specimens from a horse farm in Uruguay. Are the stallions there superior to the ones in Germany or the Netherlands?”

  A startled look. “Vista discussed that with you?”

  “Only in passing. Why? Is it a secret?” Devon drew her fingers across her mouth in a zipping motion. “If so, my lips are sealed.”

  “It’s not a secret.” A rapid recovery. “We just like to keep our sources confidential. Otherwise, we’ll tip the competition.”

  “That makes sense.”

  James sipped his champagne. “So what else did you and Vista talk about?”

  “That’s about it. He was in a hurry. He drove off in that monster truck of his. Although ‘drove off’ is an exaggeration.” Devon modified her words, weaving bits of truth into her fiction. “That Suburban is so weighted down it can barely crawl. I was afraid it would bottom out in the snow. There must be some serious equipment in there.”

  She was hoping for some sort of reaction.

  She got it—subtle, but visible.

  James’s hand jerked, and a few droplets of champagne trickled down his chin.

  He wiped them away, giving a tight cough.

  “Are you all right?” Devon was eager to ascertain if James’s reaction was due to her comment about Vista’s truck.

  “Fine,” he assured her. “Just paying too much attention to you and not enough to the amount of champagne I’m drinking.” A practiced smile—one that was visibly forced.

  “I’m flattered.” Devon wasn’t letting this opportunity slip by. “Although my guess is you’re more captivated by my words than you are by me.”

  The smile froze on James’s face. “I’m sorry?”

  “Dr. Vista’s truck,” Devon explained smoothly. “And his heavy-duty veterinary equipment.” A resigned sigh. “You know, boys and their toys—nothing can compete.”

  “Yeah. Right.” James took another sip of champagne. He set down his glass, roughly clearing his throat. “Maybe I should eat something.”

  “Of course.” Devon’s mind was racing as she prepared a plate of fruit and cheese. James was rattled. She’d definitely hit a nerve.

  She handed him the plate. “Here. Enjoy.”

  “Thank you.” He ate a cracker topped with Brie, chewing slowly, then swallowing. By the time the cracker was gone, his composure—and his charm—were fully restored. “You’re wrong, you know. It is you I’m captivated with.” He draped an arm over the back of the sofa.

  Devon leaned forward and helped herself to a plate of food, aware that James wasn’t just trying to seduce her, he was trying to change the subject. The latter wasn’t a bad idea. She’d crammed a lot into the first hour. James’s guard was up. She’d be wise to let some time pass before she touched on the next subject.

  With that thought in mind, she lapsed into her warm, friendly mode, keeping just a touch of nervousness in her demeanor. She had to seem edgy about something, otherwise the culmination of this evening wouldn’t fly.

  The next hour passed in pleasant conversation as she and James chatted about work, play, and general nothingness.

  Translated: He was working up to getting her into bed.

  She, on the other hand, was working up to getting him out the door—after she touched on her final point.

  Intermission over.

  “I can’t stop thinking about what a close call you had on Wednesday.” She gave a disconcerted shudder. “It upsets me terribly. I don’t understand why someone can’t find out who was responsible. Aren’t there judges or people from that Antidoping Agency you mentioned who are in charge of things like that?”

  James gave her an indulgent smile. “You’re a sweetheart. I appreciate your concern. But don’t hold your breath. The Antidoping Agency only goes whole hog when they choose to. Kind of like cops who let three speeders go by and then grab the fourth. Who knows what motivates them?”

  “I guess.” Devon still looked troubled. “Who administers the drug tests? Are they specially trained?”

  “The labs that process them are, yes. As for the doping control officers, they file an application, pass a test, and get a territory. They’re not in the medical field, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then any Tom, Dick, or Harry could apply. Some of them might be corrupt. And if they are, what would stop a rider or trainer from bribing them to fix the tests, or even to leak information on when the tests are scheduled to occur?”

  A definite guardedness had settled over James. “Fixing the tests would mean swapping samples. I can’t imagine that happening with so many people around. I guess it’s possible. Anything’s possible, bribery included. Like I said, this is a cutthroat industry—and a wealthy one. So, yeah, illegal stuff goes on.”

  “I’m sure. Not only that, but a sport like yours must breed all kinds of scandals. Alcoholism. Sex. White-collar crime.” Devon raked a hand through her hair. “The doping control officers have all that wealth shoved in their faces while they’re pulling down modest salaries. A lot of people would jump at the chance to make extra cash. Especially if they lived above their means or had a nasty habit to feed—say, compulsive gambling. What better provocation for blackmail?”

  James spilled his champagne on the table, then grabbed his napkin and dabbed at the moisture. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” Devon cleaned up the mes
s. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It just amazes me that the drug-testing process has so many loopholes. I feel horrible for you and for your groom.”

  “I’m not upset. But you do have quite an imagination.”

  “I’m a cop’s daughter.”

  He shot her a quick look. “Did you conjure up that scenario out of thin air, or have you heard rumors I should know about?”

  “Rumors?”

  “About people taking bribes or squandering their money in casinos.”

  Funny he should mention casinos. She hadn’t.

  “Current rumors, you mean? No. And certainly none involving the show circuit, since I’m an outsider. Believe me, if I had, I’d make sure whoever did this to you was arrested. I’m just reflecting on stories my father’s spouted over the years. I apologize.”

  “Don’t.” Relief flooded his face. Relief—and something more. “I enjoy hearing you stand up for me.”

  An abrupt shift in mood. A heightened sense of intimacy. James’s fears had abated, and in his mind, he was back on track. On the road to seduction.

  Warning bells sounded in Devon’s head.

  Sure enough, James plucked the champagne flute from her hand and set it down on the table along with his. “I think we’ve talked enough, don’t you?”

  He reached for her.

  Devon would have leaped off the sofa if she hadn’t been fully aware it would make James suspicious. Fending him off wasn’t a concern. Monty had taught her self-defense when she was ten. But the wire—if James found it, she was screwed.

  “Excuse me for a minute.” She said it calmly, without blurting it out. Easing away from him, she rose. “I’ll be right back.”

  Anticipation glittered in James’s eyes. “Of course.”

  Great. He thought she was readying herself for wild sex.

  Devon went to the powder room, checked on the microphone and transmitter. Still in place.

  Fruit and cheese was not going to deter James. This interrogation had gone as far as it could. Time to call it a wrap.

  Prepping for the last act, Devon pasted a contrite look on her face and walked back out.

  James was lounging on the sofa, a suggestive gleam in his eye. “Welcome back.”