Killer Smile

by Marilyn Pappano

  Judging by the size of the files, relevant areas on relevant dates translated to hundreds of hours of footage. Of course Flea hadn’t had the time to watch it all herself or the resources to assign others to do so. But none of Daniel’s other cases were higher priority than keeping Natasha safe. Except for the court appearance on Wednesday, he could watch videos until he went blind.

  As Lois came in with a coffee tray, Ben put the plastic bag of ginger in the middle of the table. Natasha recognized it immediately, having eaten a ton or two of it. She listened to Ben’s explanation of where he’d found it, and some of the lightness in her faded. She met Daniel’s gaze, the fear back in her eyes, and swallowed hard. Then she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She would be strong, because that was what she did.

  Except when it came to saying, I do.

  “Where do you get that stuff?” Sam asked.

  “The grocery store,” Natasha and Lois answered in unison. Lois went on. “In the Asian foods section. It’s good for an upset stomach, high in sugar and strong in taste.”

  “And it happens to be a favorite of yours.” Sam directed the comment to Natasha, who nodded. “Common knowledge?”

  “Common joke. No one else I know will eat it that way.”

  “I think only one store sells it here. I’ll check with them.” Lois made a note to herself. Ben made one to himself, probably to make sure Lois followed through.

  “I asked Morwenna’s mum to come by this morning. She wanted to finish her run first, but she’s going to give us a brief education in stalker behavior. She’s a psychologist,” Sam added for Natasha’s benefit.

  “Do you think Morwenna is the way she is because her mum’s a psychologist, or is her mum a psychologist because Morwenna is the way she is?” Ben asked of no one in particular.

  “Mum’s been a shrink longer than Morwenna’s been alive,” Daniel answered. “The fact that Morwenna’s gone Bodmin is just a happy coincidence.”

  With a frankly puzzled look, Natasha repeated, “Bodmin?”

  “Gone nuts. The town of Bodwin, the place where Morwenna’s from, used to have a mental hospital.”

  “Hmm. And do you people always say ‘mum’? It doesn’t sound very Oklahoma-y.”

  “I call my mom ‘Mom,’” Sam said.

  “Me, too,” Lois agreed, and Ben nodded.

  “I don’t have a mom.” Daniel shrugged. “I guess we only do it with Morwenna’s mum.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s British,” they answered together. Daniel accompanied it with a shrug. When she’d spent enough time there, it would make sense to her, too.

  If she spent enough time there.

  Did he want her to spend that much time there?

  God help him, he didn’t want to think about it, or he would go freakin’ Bodmin. It might not be so bad, though. Natasha had made him crazy before. She would probably do it again.

  * * *

  After a few minutes’ lighthearted conversation, Ben left with the sealed bag of ginger, but Natasha was pretty sure she could still smell it on the air. When had RememberMe become aware of that particular favorite of hers? Had he watched her at the grocery store? Gone through her trash? Let himself into her apartment and taken a stroll through her things while leaving her none the wiser? Could he possibly have gotten close enough to her when she was eating it to recognize the smell?

  All the possibilities creeped her out. In the end, the “how” didn’t really matter. Even thinking about it made her believe that old bit about ignorance being bliss. Now that she was no longer ignorant about some of the things crazy stalker guy did, she had to think about things she did. Could she ever enjoy food shopping again without suspiciously checking out every other shopper in the store? Would she walk into her apartment again without sniffing the air for someone else’s scent? Would she find herself setting up little tells—a feather that would fall if the door was opened, a string that dislodged when something was moved? Would she have to invest in some sort of device that created a bubble around her when she was outside, so no one could get closer than ten feet?

  No. No, no, no. He wasn’t going to control her like that. Yes, she was scared and her every move was being shadowed by police officers, but she couldn’t live like this forever. She couldn’t hide forever. One way or another, she was taking back her life.

  And, please, God, she wouldn’t die trying. Daniel wouldn’t die trying.

  When Morwenna’s mum texted Sam that she would meet them after a shower, Daniel glanced at her. “You want a tour of the place while we wait?”

  “Sure.” She liked old buildings. She’d toured dozens of them with Nick, who shared her enthusiasm, and Stacia, who didn’t, and more with Daniel, who’d been of two minds. He had a fine appreciation for the workmanship, coming from a father who’d worked his whole life in high-end construction and a dad who understood the value of simple beauty. There had just been limits to how much architectural appreciation and beauty Daniel could deal with at one time.

  Besides, having a conversation with him that didn’t revolve around danger, heartbreak or pain was too pleasing an opportunity to turn down.

  As she followed him out of the conference room, Sam asked, “What’s worth seeing upstairs? There’s nothing there.”

  Lois chuckled. “You’re still a newlywed, son. Have you already forgotten the lengths you went to to get Mila all by yourself?”

  “Mila’s his wife,” Daniel explained as he turned toward the broad marble staircase.

  “I met her at the bowling alley. She seemed very nice.”

  “She is. She’s appropriately named.” When she looked questioningly at him, he went on. “Milagro. Spanish for miracle. Mila’s pretty much a miracle.”

  Natasha considered that as she rested her hand on the banister. It was marble, too, and should have been cold and hard, but it was warm to the touch, and the white stone practically glowed.

  She couldn’t recall Daniel talking like that about another woman. No doubt, Mila Douglas was beautiful. She’d given off an air of serenity, even when talking about her young and bratty cousin-by-marriage, and she’d seemed to have some influence on Daniel. When Natasha had asked Daniel to listen to her, he’d looked to Mila, waiting for her nod before agreeing.

  Interesting.

  “What’s racing through that complicated mind of yours at a thousand miles an hour?”

  They reached the landing, old wood planks with an elaborate inlay of a star in contrasting woods. It seemed a shame to walk across it, though it was well varnished and had clearly seen decades of foot traffic. Even so, she skirted its edges. “You always prided yourself on divining the thoughts that afflicted us mere mortals.”

  “That was before I found out that even when I thought I knew, I didn’t always. If I’d known everything you were thinking, I wouldn’t have shown up at that party, either.” He followed the words with a thin smile. She knew that smile. It was him being adult about something he believed deserved some really juvenile behavior.

  “If I were to venture a guess, I’d say you’re wondering if I have some sort of crush on my boss’s wife.” He flipped switches to light up the broad corridor. The fixtures were brass, tarnished and elegant, and they cast as many shadows as they dispelled.

  “You’re good.” This space was cozier than the lobby downstairs, though it, too, had high ceilings and marble and a lot of wood. A beige vine-and-flowers carpet that looked original ran down the center of the hallway, and doors opened off both sides. Dimpled glass bearing names of long-gone officer-holders marked each door, with a matching transom above.

  She walked to the nearest door—formal gold lettering reading Mr. J. M. DuBose—twisted the knob and pushed the door inward. Tall windows spilled sunshine into the room, sparkling on the dust motes drifting on the air. She’d half expected to find the off
ice as Mr. J. M. DuBose had left it, but of course that wasn’t the case. Except for a few unmarked boxes, it was empty. The wood floor held no desk or chair. The exquisite built-in bookcases on either side of the green marble fireplace were empty, and the elaborate crown moldings, window cases and doorways had long gone unadmired.

  After looking her fill, Natasha closed the door and faced Daniel. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you?”

  He was leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded over his chest, one boot propped on the wall. He looked amazingly handsome in ways that had never failed to take her breath away. He wasn’t tall or muscular or just plain big, like Ben Little Bear. He was a tad too serious at times, a tad too reserved or, conflictingly, a tad too blunt-spoken. But his dark eyes were mesmerizing, and he was compassionate and compelling and intelligent, and his touch...

  “My last crush was a beautiful woman who came up to me at a Korean food truck. She was blonde and was wearing a pair of very short shorts and a tank top at least two sizes too small, and she ate half of my kimchi fries.”

  That was eight years ago. A lifetime. So much joy and love in those first three years. So much less of everything in the last five. All her fault.

  And all she could think to say: “That tank top wasn’t too small. I still have it. I can prove it.” Thanks to the miracle of stretch fibers.

  Wearing a faint smile, he pushed away from the wall. “The first and fourth doors on each side go to private offices. The middle doors open into common workspaces for clerical-filing-type stuff.”

  “Men in the private offices and women doing the clerical-filing-type stuff.” She looked into the next room. It was much bigger than the first, just as empty, with the same attention to architectural detail, minus the fireplace.

  She didn’t open the next set of doors. Her focus was fixed ahead, where a wooden staircase as wide as the corridor climbed a dozen steps to a landing before making a sharp left turn. Oohing softly, she automatically reached for the pocket where she kept her cell phone but stopped when her fingers brushed across the flip-top burner cell.

  “Want a picture for Nick?” Daniel offered his own phone.

  Thursday night, when he’d taken her phone to read the texts, he’d made a point of not touching her. She made a point of very definitely touching him, her fingers rubbing across his, as she accepted the phone. She took multiple pictures—overviews; close-ups of the meticulously carved newel post; the balusters, each slightly different from the one before, giving a sense of upward flow as they climbed; the beading on the mahogany rail; the stained glass window on the landing. After sending them off to her brother, she returned the cell and ran up the steps to the landing before facing Daniel. “They never left any question about why it was called a grand staircase, did they?”

  “All you need is the right dress, and you’ll be ‘ready for your close-up, Mr. DeMille.’”

  The old-movie reference made her laugh as she began climbing the last steps. Seriously, on a staircase this beautiful, with the marble paneling and the stained glass glowing in jeweled tones, it was hard not to acknowledge exactly what the right dress would be. It was white with a touch of cream, or cream with a touch of white, silk and simple, with a plunging back and beading on the straps and on the back, at the base of all that exposed skin.

  Her first wedding dress had gotten the boot the next day. Same with the second, and her engagement to Zach hadn’t lasted long enough to even think about a dress. He probably would have wanted a beach wedding with bare feet, board shorts and aloha shirts, and with his board at the ready in case the wave he’d been waiting his whole lifetime for—or even just most of the day—came along during the vows.

  But the dress she’d bought to marry Daniel in still hung in her closet. It had been too perfect to get rid of. Too tied to him. Even though it had broken her heart to look at it, she’d hidden it inside a heavy garment bag and dragged it along from apartment to apartment, thinking...

  She didn’t know what she’d thought. That someday she might be able to use it? That, like Zach’s perfect wave, another chance with Daniel might come along?

  No, neither of those. Getting rid of it would have just been too final. The very last step in a long journey of painful steps.

  She stopped near the top of the stairs and stared ahead, barely noticing when Daniel stopped beside her. A broad expanse of wooden floor stretched unbroken from wall to wall, golden underneath its heavy layer of dust. Again, the ceiling was high, at least eighteen feet, and chandeliers set in fancy plaster medallions hung overhead, nine of them evenly spaced. The windows were double-wide, tall and arched, four on each side of the building.

  “It’s a ballroom,” Daniel said helpfully before taking hold of her elbow and guiding her up the last step. “The floor’s got a spring to it so dancing the night away isn’t too tiring.”

  She let him pull her farther onto the floor, feeling the cushioning beneath the wood, still openmouthed while taking in the vastness of the space, the moldings and trims and the delicately patterned florals on the walls that were almost certainly hand-painted.

  “Come on, you remember dancing,” Daniel teased. “We used to do it a lot.”

  “Only when I bribed you.”

  “Not true. You only had to bribe me when the music was fast. I never missed the chance to slow dance with you.” He released her arm and took her hand instead, drawing her closer, placing her free hand on his shoulder.

  “This is a police station.”

  “There’s no law against dancing in a police station.”

  “There’s no music.”

  “No law against dancing without music, either.”

  Because neither of them had ever missed a chance to slow dance together, and because she wanted with every fiber of her being to get closer to him, she moved into his arms as she’d done so many times. The sensation that instantly washed over her was refreshing, peaceful, awe-invoking.

  She was fifteen hundred miles from Los Angeles, fearful of her safety and Daniel’s, restricted to rare moments sneaking out of her hotel, and none of that mattered one bit.

  Because she was home.

  Chapter 8

  When Daniel was a kid, his fathers had insisted that every man should know how to dance. They hadn’t gone so far as to put him in a ballroom dance class. That would have provided far too much ammunition to the bullies at school and would have exceeded his ability to cope with them. No, instead Archer had offered his receptionist a bonus for lessons at their house. Daniel had been thirteen and gawky. She’d been twenty-seven, a redhead, as graceful as any prima ballerina. Oh, and had he mentioned that she was the stuff thirteen-year-old boys’ fantasies were made of?

  For a long time, all his fantasies had revolved around the blonde in his arms, who’d just stepped on his toes for the second time. The last few years, when he’d congratulated himself on getting over her, on not wanting her anymore, he had been lying to himself. He hadn’t stopped wanting her. He’d stopped wanting anyone. If he couldn’t have her...

  The thought brought stalker guy back to the forefront of his brain. If I can’t have you, no one can.

  No. Not now. There was no room in this ballroom, no room on this dance floor, for RememberMe. It was Daniel’s time. Natasha’s.

  “What song are we dancing to?” Her voice was hushed, no more substantial than the air.

  “Hmm...‘Come Rain or Come Shine.’” It wasn’t the first song they’d danced together, but it had been their favorite. It would have been their first dance at the wedding reception.

  “Ella Fitzgerald’s version or Ray Charles’s?”

  “B.B. King and Eric Clapton’s.”

  “My favorite,” she whispered.

  “Any answer I’d given would have been your favorite except Frank Sinatra.” It was the only flaw Jeffrey had fo
und in her, that she didn’t like Ol’ Blue Eyes. Up till the time she broke his only son’s heart.

  Her only response was a mostly sweet, slightly smug smile that faded into dreaminess as her eyes drifted shut. He rested his cheek against her hair, silken and cool, and pulled her body a fraction closer. Her muscles beneath his hands were taut, and heat radiated from her, seeping into him, seeking out and thawing the last bits of cold and bitterness. This felt too good. It had been too right between them to go so horribly wrong.

  She hummed a few bars then softly sang a few lines of “Come Rain or Come Shine.”

  Daniel’s body went still, and after a moment, so did Natasha’s, but he didn’t release her. Wasn’t that what a jilted fiancé should do? Let go and walk away? After all, they weren’t rekindling their old romance. She’d betrayed him. He was done. RememberMe was the only reason they were back in each other’s lives. It was business.

  But insanity—and honesty—triumphed over logic. Daniel was no more done with her than her stalker was. He’d claimed he was, and he’d even believed it, but he’d lied. He wasn’t about to let go and walk away.

  Was the song right? Could it be fine? Could a second time around ever be as fine as the first?

  Slowly, she opened her eyes, and her fingers tightened briefly around his. She wore a dazed look, an apprehensive one. Her lips, colored in her favorite apricot shade—yeah, he remembered that—parted, but before she could offer what he was sure would be an apology, he bent his head and kissed her.

  Some things never changed.

  She pressed her body against his as if she couldn’t get close enough, and his body responded as if he were still an inexperienced kid. His skin grew hot, and he swore he could feel the pounding of their hearts, not in sync, pounding, racing faster with each beat. It had been a lifetime since he’d held her, kissed her, touched her everywhere, and it felt like forever, or the blink of an eye. It was as natural, as good, as vital—