Thrill Me to Death

by Roxanne St Claire

  He was there to find out if she killed her husband. And all he knew so far was that Cori Cooper had morphed into an uptight socialite who was working very hard to hide something from him. He’d find out what it was; he knew a million ways to get information.

  With Cori, a million and one.

  And he wasn’t above using any of them to find out what he wanted to know. No matter how bad…or good…it made her feel.

  Max hadn’t expected voices on his patio so early the next morning. Emerging from the shower, he heard a woman’s high-pitched tone—definitely not Cori—and a low, monotone response from a man. Staff? House-guests she hadn’t mentioned?

  Rubbing a towel over himself, he yanked on boxers and trousers, stuffed his bare feet into shoes, and stashed his gun in his waistband. Screw the shirt for now. It was two hundred degrees, with enough humidity to grow fungus in his ears.

  On the patio, he heard determined high heels click across the stone in his direction. Cori didn’t walk that way, she didn’t move that aggressively and he’d bet fifty bucks she didn’t wear high heels at seven in the morning. At least, she didn’t used to.

  Plus he always knew when she was near.

  Just as he entered the main room, he saw the shadow on the other side of the glass and watched the handle of the door turn. He had his weapon ready as the door opened.

  Pale green eyes flashed in horror as she held up both hands and shrieked. “Don’t kill me!”

  “Don’t break and enter,” he said, putting the safety back on but keeping his attention on the silhouette of a petite woman with the morning sun at her back.

  She slapped one hand on a tiny hip and tilted her very blond head to one side. “I didn’t break and enter. Try locking next time.”

  “Try knocking next time.” He swept her with a quick look. “I don’t lock doors—that way I can get to my principal faster.”

  That earned him a provocative smile, accompanied by an unabashed inspection of his bare chest. “I’ll have to remember that.” She held out her hand and managed to migrate that smile from sexy to friendly. “We met last night.”

  “Ms. Jones, correct?” Her grip was firm, with bones as narrow and delicate as she was—on the outside, at least. Something in her expression told Max she was steel on the inside.

  “Everyone calls me Breezy. I wasn’t sure you’d remember, what with having to take down Billy and all.”

  “I took him home, not down.” He let her hand go before she did. “Were you looking for me?”

  Her gaze dropped over his torso again, pausing just a nanosecond too long before meandering back up to his face. “Did you hurt him?” she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “He hurt me. I had to watch him throw up on the MacArthur Causeway.”

  Her sharp, birdlike features dissolved into repugnance. “Ewww. Good thing you got him out of here.” Then she laughed, and looked at him like she expected a comeback.

  He merely stared at her.

  “So. Max.” She laughed again, a little self-consciously, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as she perched on the edge of a sofa. “Tell me about you and Cori. She seemed a bit uneasy when you showed up.”

  “I didn’t realize you were on the interview committee.”

  She jutted her chin and met his gaze. “Even better. I’m the best friend.”

  “Then ask your best friend.” He looked pointedly at the door, then back at his guest.

  “She’s not saying much today. Of course, she’s in the jungle, counting money with my husband.” Breezy arched one perfectly waxed eyebrow. “If you’re going to be her bodyguard, you better get a handle on her daily schedule and a map of the manor, big guy.”

  He remained rooted, staring down at her. Breezy Jones could be a fountain of information and she certainly looked ready to spout. And not the least bit intimidated by the way he towered above her.

  “Is counting money the first thing she does every morning?” He dropped into the chair across from her, hoping the height equality would get her to stop flirting and start talking.

  “When you have that much, you gotta keep track of it or people will take it when you’re not paying attention. Gifford helps her count it.” A devilish grin played at the corners of a well-glossed mouth. “I help her spend it.”

  He leaned his elbows on his knees, relaxing his face into a look he used to get scumbag drug dealers to trust him. “Ms. Jones, do you—”

  “It’s Mrs. Jones.” She inched forward, just enough to let her pale yellow sweater drape at her cleavage. “Like the song. You know, the one about adultery?” She punctuated that with a wink. “But I really prefer to be called Breezy.”

  “Breezy.” He nodded. “In order to ensure complete protection of Mrs. Peyton, I’ll need to know about any and all threats to her. I understand that a few weeks ago someone tried to hit her in a parking lot.”

  Breezy wrinkled her flawless nose. “Billy’s an asshole. Excuse my French.”

  He angled his head in agreement. “Can you think of anyone else who might want to hurt her?”

  The twinkle disappeared, replaced by warmth and admiration. “Nope. Everyone loves Corinne Peyton.”

  “What about her husband?”

  Her eyes widened. “What about him?”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  She leaned back, tugging a little bag from her shoulder onto her lap and flipping open the top. “Can I smoke?”

  “Sure.” Smokers were talkers. He’d learned that his first year with the DEA. While she lit up, he rose to get a glass in the kitchen and filled it with an inch of water. He set the makeshift ashtray on the coffee table in front of her, and sat down.

  She shivered and rubbed a bare arm. “It’s cold in here.”

  “I like it that way.”

  She puffed again, regarding him. “You’re not from around here, are you? Chicago, did Cori say?”

  “I’m from Pittsburgh,” he said, noting that she made the same face that she had for Billy’s causeway dinner toss. “I live there when I’m not on assignment.”

  “Really?” She held the cigarette to her right in a vain attempt to keep the smoke from going into his eyes. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “You were about to tell me about Mr. Peyton’s enemies.”

  “I bet you have. Killed someone, I mean.” She sucked in another puff, squinting at him as she blew out a cloud of gray smoke. “I’ll have to ask Cori. She’d know, wouldn’t she?”

  “You can ask.”

  “No, William didn’t have any enemies, either.” She waved some smoke away. “Why do you ask?”

  “None? A multibillionaire who orchestrated massive land deals and reshaped the landscape of suburban America? No one disliked him?”

  “Nope.” She flicked an ash into the glass and crossed long, thin legs clad in more yellow. “William Peyton was the nicest guy in the universe. Well, he has an ex-wife who might disagree, but she’s in Dallas or Houston, with enough money to stay real quiet.”

  “Were they married when Mr. Peyton met Cor—the current Mrs. Peyton?”

  She barked a surprised laugh. “Are you asking if Cori broke up their marriage? Not a chance. William was well and truly divorced. I know that because Gifford handled the settlement.” She smiled with pride. “My husband was William’s personal attorney then, and I introduced William to Cori at a party. They played ‘That’s What Friends Are For’ at their wedding and I danced with both of them. It was sweet.”

  He templed his fingers and rested his chin on them. “And what about their marriage? Pretty remarkable age difference, don’t you think?”

  “Not in my circles.” She popped off the sofa, picked up the water glass and dropped her cigarette in, the hiss matching the look in her bright green eyes. “You’d be amazed at how the years disappear when there are billions of dollars in the air.”

  “So, Cori married William for his money?”

  She set the glass on the table with nearly e
nough force to break it, the humor disappearing from her expression as she transformed into a tigress protecting a cub. “That woman loved William fiercely, much more than anyone realizes. She adored her husband and was devastated by his death.”

  She leaned back on her high heels, jutting a bony hip in his direction and staring down her manmade nose. “Her only problem is that drug addict stepson, believe me. You should make him disappear. That’s what you were hired to do, not ask intrusive and inappropriate questions about the state of her marriage.”

  He stood, opening the French doors in a silent invitation for her to leave. “Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Jones.”

  She whipped the gold chain of her handbag over her shoulder and followed him across the living room. At the doorway, she slid between him and the doorjamb, so close he had to suck in a breath to prevent her breasts from brushing his chest.

  She looked up at him. “You’re quite welcome. As you can see, I don’t mince words and I don’t care who I impress or piss off.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “You don’t scare me, big bodyguard.” She still didn’t move away, but her gaze became more curious than accusing. “But my rock-steady friend sure lost her balance at the sight of you.”

  “I have that effect on some people.”

  She raked his bare chest with a slow gaze. “I bet you do.” Smiling, she clattered away on her gold spikes, leaving him to wonder about Cori’s taste in husbands and friends.

  Chapter

  Four

  “T ake a deep breath, Corinne. Calm down and listen to me.”

  “I am calm, Giff.” Cori lifted her bare feet from the silken fur of a snow leopard that had the misfortune to become an area rug, and tucked them under her on the butter-soft leather sofa.

  Cori hated the animal prints, loathed the dead-cat carpet, and particularly disliked the dark hickory paneling of the room her designer had called “a walk on the wild side.” But William had found the African theme soothing and masculine and she hadn’t had the heart to change his sanctuary.

  “I can tell you’re upset,” Gifford said, dropping his elbows to the desk he’d covered with an array of documents and folders. He peered over rimless reading glasses, a deep crease dividing his forehead clear back to the balding patch that Breezy liked to rub. “You’re just like my wife, you know. Breezy’s voice gets higher and higher when she’s frustrated.”

  Damn it, she wasn’t whining. “I’m nothing like Breezy, and you know it.”

  “You’re right, my dear. You are your own woman.” His brief smile was annoyingly patronizing.

  “And I am a board member, a shareholder, and a very interested party where Peyton Enterprises is concerned.”

  He fly-swatted the air. “The last thing you need is to go to a board meeting where nothing of any consequence is going to happen.”

  “The status on the Petaluma Mall in Sonoma County is of consequence,” she argued.

  Giff lifted a pack of documents and tapped them on William’s beloved hickory desk to straighten them. “Not to worry. I’ll vote your proxy. I know exactly how William wanted to proceed on that property.”

  “That’s pretty remarkable, considering William and I had precisely one conversation about the property and he wasn’t sure which way to go.”

  Giff sliced her with a look that had silenced judges, juries, and a few witnesses. “We talked about it,” he said simply.

  “I’m not willing to give you my proxy on the fly, Giff. I need to study the reports and talk to the directors before I vote. This is a controversial property in a high-profile community.”

  “Petaluma is not high profile.”

  “Wine country is.”

  Gifford inhaled the deep breath he’d been advising Cori to take, his ruddy complexion darkening. “You don’t need to vote. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you gave me power of attorney. You are far too busy with the Foundation to worry about the business, which practically runs itself.”

  Even on a good day, Peyton Enterprises didn’t run itself. She knew that from long, candid cocktail hours with William. “I don’t need to exercise the power of attorney now. That was just for last quarter’s board meeting.” It had taken place just days after William’s death and Cori had been in a fog of grief and shock. “But I’m ready now. There’s a great deal at stake with this mall.”

  “Millions.”

  “I was thinking of William’s reputation.”

  Gifford nodded thoughtfully. “And so you should. Which is why you should put every ounce of your energy into the Foundation.” Removing his glasses, he stood and circled the desk, moving toward her with a slow, confident stride that he’d perfected in his years of litigation. “Malls will be built. Stores will open. People will shop.” He continued past the sofa, behind her, building drama with his voice. “But only you can help those families who suffer and grieve because they’ve lost their brother or son…or a father.”

  God, he was good. Well into his fifties, he could not only swim with the sharks but spear them when they least expected it. No wonder William plucked him out of the courtroom and set him up as the lead attorney for Peyton Enterprises. William had been a consummate talent-spotter, and Gifford was oozing with legal skill.

  Cori leaned her head back, closing her eyes. “I am giving the Foundation all my energy, believe me. But…” She ached to confide in him, but something, some sixth sense she didn’t understand, stopped her. She didn’t have enough information or facts to make a case, and Gifford would demand them. As he should.

  Gifford’s thin fingers suddenly pressed against the tense muscle that ran between her shoulder and neck. Cori’s eyes opened in surprise, but he merely kneaded with the gentle touch of a concerned uncle.

  “William had his reasons and we can’t question them now, Corinne. He loved you and he trusted you.”

  She gave into the comfort of a friend who also loved her husband, patting his hand. “He loved you, too, Giff.”

  “Then we can’t let him down. Let me handle the business complications, and you focus on the Foundation.”

  She didn’t answer and she sensed him dipping closer to her. Ever the actor, going for the dramatic impact.

  “This is what he’d want,” Gifford said softly in her ear. “I know that.”

  The sound of a throat clearing jerked Cori to attention, and Gifford whipped his hands away.

  “Who are you?” Gifford demanded.

  Max filled the doorway of the library, his golden brown eyes rich with misgiving, his V-shaped athletic body braced in accusation.

  “Excuse me,” he said, looking from one to the other. “I’m starting a security analysis of the residence and the housekeeper told me Mrs. Peyton was in a meeting that could be interrupted.”

  Cori stood, not even wanting to imagine how that scene looked to Max. “Gifford Jones, this is Max Roper, who has been retained as my personal bodyguard.”

  “Oh.” Gifford brightened and came around the sofa, hand extended. “My wife mentioned meeting you last night. Welcome to the Peyton team, Mr. Roper.”

  They shook hands, studying each other.

  “You must have played some football in your day,” Gifford said with a laugh, pounding one of Max’s shoulders. “Linebacker? Defensive end?”

  “I played a little.”

  A little? Cori opened her mouth, then closed it as Max quieted her with a glance. Of course, neither one should reveal that they’d known each other in the past.

  “I didn’t realize there was such a thing as a Peyton team,” Max said.

  Cori circled to the other side of William’s desk, separating herself from the men. “Gifford is the chief attorney for Peyton Enterprises. My husband liked to think of the whole company as a team and the phrase has stuck.”

  “And how did you land this plum job, Mr. Roper?” Gifford asked, still eyeing the bigger man with admiration. “Must be a coup for a bodyguard to get to spend time with a beautiful woman in a luxuriou
s waterfront estate.”

  Max cut him with one disgusted look. “I view every principal I protect the same. And as high-end as the house is, it’s full of security holes, which I intend to fix.”

  Gifford frowned and looked at Cori. “I take it he came on a referral.”

  “From Beckworth Insurance.”

  “Beckworth?” Gifford pulled back. “Why would you go to them? Why didn’t you ask me?”

  She bristled at the question. “Giff, William has been dead for three months. I appreciate your concern, but you don’t have to make every decision for me anymore.” She closed her eyes, corralling her anger. “Beckworth specializes in protection and security. It made perfect sense to contact them.”

  If Giff was irritated by her chastisement, he was too professional to show it. Instead, he turned to Max. “So you work for Beckworth? Good man, Thomas Matuzak.”

  “He is, but I don’t work for him. I’m with a private firm. Beckworth refers security business to us.” Max reached into his pocket and handed Gifford a card.

  “Max comes thoroughly vetted and referenced, Gifford. We’ll hardly know he is here.” She shot Max a deliberate look. She didn’t want Giff to start poking into Max’s background and find he’d been a DEA agent in Chicago at the time of her father’s death. It wouldn’t take one of his legal investigators long to connect point A to point B. “He is going to upgrade the security, and accompany me in public. Keep Billy in line until we get through this business with the will.”

  Gifford nodded, studying the card. Then he slipped it into his pocket and gave Max a tight smile. “I’ve no doubt you could keep anyone in line.” He stepped to the desk, picked up his glasses and began to slide his files together. “Now you remember what we decided, Cori. I’ll call you after the board meeting tomorrow with a full report, and you keep your focus where it belongs.”

  They hadn’t decided anything, but she wasn’t about to fight him with Max’s unwavering eyes taking in every detail of the exchange. “I’ll be in touch, Giff. Is Breezy still here?”