The Man She Almost Married

by Maggie Price

  Julia did her best to ignore the quick fluttering in her stomach. “Of course, you’ve been in Oklahoma City the past two years,” she continued. “You weren’t in Houston to watch Sloan and Vanessa interact.”

  Rick’s blue eyes sharpened beneath his blond brows. “True.”

  “But I imagine you made quite a few trips there to see Sloan. Surely you observed him and Vanessa together.”

  “Whenever I saw them together, they were working.”

  Julia glanced back at the sprinkling of ashes in front of the waiting-room door. Rick didn’t seem surprised she knew Sloan had gone to Houston. Yet after he’d walked out, she’d begged Rick to tell her Sloan’s whereabouts. Rick had guarded that information like a dog with a meaty bone.

  “Are you seeing anyone these days, Rick?”

  “You know me, Julia. Confirmed bachelor.”

  “Confirmed bachelors are known to date.”

  “Yeah. The lucky lady is a bank vice president. I’ll introduce you sometime.”

  She took an intentional step forward, invading his personal space. “Did you date Vanessa?”

  He leaned minutely away, sliding his fingertips down his dark, paisley tie. “Is this an interrogation?”

  “I ask the same questions of everyone. Nothing personal.”

  When he remained silent, she leaned in. “It’s a simple question, Rick,” she said, locking her gaze with his. “Did you ever date Vanessa?”

  “She wasn’t my type.”

  “I didn’t ask what type she was. I asked if you dated her.”

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t date her.”

  “Why not? She was a gorgeous woman—”

  “She was a heartless bitch,” he countered. The muscles in his jaw worked. “Into control and power. Some men like that in a woman. I don’t.” The edges of his mouth lifted. “Give me a break, Julia. I was a cop for ten years. I know what’s going on.”

  “Meaning?”

  “First you insist that Sloan and Vanessa had something going. Now you’re asking about some nonexistent relationship between her and me. No telling what you accused Smithson of. This is a high-profile case. Sounds like you’re pretty desperate to pin Vanessa’s murder on somebody.”

  “Not somebody,” she countered, her words cool, biting. “The person who pulled the trigger.”

  “If you’re thinking it was me, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “How many .22-caliber handguns do you own?”

  He pulled a cigarette and gold lighter out of his pocket. “None,” he said, then ignited the lighter with a sharp thumb flick. “But then, I imagine you’ve run a check on everyone who had access to the parking garage, so you already know what guns I own.” He touched the flame to the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “I know what guns are registered to you,” she countered, blinking against the thin, acrid smoke that made her already gritty eyes burn. “I’m asking if you have any unregistered .22s.”

  “Not a one.”

  “I’ve left several messages on your voice mail over the past two days. Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  He leaned back, his complacent smile returning. “I’ve been in San Francisco—just flew back in this morning. I spent the last two days setting up security measures to keep the workers in our production facility there from stealing us blind.” He lifted a negligent shoulder as he studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. “I didn’t have time to check my messages. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I tried to view the tapes we confiscated from the cameras at the entrance to the parking garage and the door into the building. The tapes won’t play on our machine.”

  “Sorry, I should have mentioned that the day you viewed the tapes in my office,” he commented. “I’ve added a safety measure on all our cameras. There’s a security code programmed into our video equipment, which imprints a code onto the tape. The tape can only be played back on a machine with the same code.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Did Sloan ever talk to you about how competitive the aerospace industry is?”

  He had. “What about it?”

  “Suppose a rival got their hands on some of our production tapes? They’d find out a whole lot about our operation and product development that we don’t want to get out.”

  “The tapes I have are evidence. I need to view them again.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Come by my office anytime and use my machine. The coffeepot’s always on.”

  “Fine.” She glanced at her watch, doing a quick calculation of how long it would take her to get to the hospital. She wanted to be there to give her quivering partner support.

  “In fact, why don’t we go there now?” Rick leaned toward the table, tamped out his cigarette. “I’d sure as hell rather hang with you than spend the next hour standing in the sun at the cemetery.”

  “I don’t have the tapes we booked into evidence with me.”

  “What you have are copies off our master system. I can call up the date and times you want, and you can view whatever you need off our network.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you about a time.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She hiked her purse strap higher on her shoulder. She knew the vague, nervous habits Rick had exhibited could have been an attempt at deception. On the other hand, maybe Rick was right. Maybe her own determined desire that someone—anyone—other than Sloan had killed Vanessa had her grasping at straws.

  Rick rose. “One thing, Julia,” he said, his expression turning solemn.

  “What’s that?”

  “I meant what I said about Sloan. His mind’s been on you for the past two years. It still is.”

  By the time Julia parked her cruiser in the lot of her apartment complex, she’d been awake nearly twenty-four hours. She’d paced with Halliday during the long hours of Pam’s labor, then held his hand while surgeons performed an emergency C-section. Dylan Carter Halliday had come into this world red faced and wailing...and perfectly healthy.

  Muscles twitching and aching from fatigue, Julia walked through the shadowy courtyard that led to her apartment. Off to one side, the barely discernible shapes of massive oaks stood like still, silent sentries. Humidity hung in the night air, giving it a thick, gauzy feel against her skin. Her black dress had a rumpled, slept-in look; exhaustion pressed down on her like a lead weight. All she wanted was a long, steamy shower, then to crawl into bed and die.

  For a couple of hours anyway, she thought wearily. Lieutenant Ryan had okayed her request to take an early flight to Houston. There, she would make a surprise visit to Remington staffers who’d worked with Sloan and Vanessa over the past two years. Julia frowned as she walked. The fact that Sloan had failed to mention he’d worked with Vanessa in Houston was not a fact in his favor. Still, she hadn’t specifically asked him how long he’d known Vanessa, so he hadn’t lied to her. Nor had he been forthcoming—something a murderer rarely was. And yet, for reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, she believed he’d been truthful about his relationship with Vanessa.

  Depending on what she found out in Houston, that belief could go up in smoke. Then what?

  Julia’s frown turned into a scowl. She was only making herself crazy thinking about it. So she wouldn’t, not for the rest of the night—what was left of it. She’d clear her mind of all thoughts of the case, of Sloan. She’d get some muchneeded sleep, then jump back in with both feet and get the damn case solved.

  Gripping her key ring, she rounded a corner to take the sidewalk that veered toward her apartment, and stepped into a world of gray and black shadows.

  Julia halted midstride. Her stomach lurched to her throat. The darkness was wrong. All wrong. Last week she’d replaced the bulb in her porch light, which a sensor always switched on at dusk and off at dawn. Always. Either the sensor had failed or someone had unscrewed the bulb.

  Clenching her keys to keep them from jangling, she slid them into her pocket.
Her right hand went down; bracing herself, she drew her automatic from the holster she’d clipped to the flap on her purse.

  The stainless-steel Smith & Wesson felt hard and powerful against her palm as she thumbed the safety off.

  Body stiff, gun ready, she stood in the center of the sidewalk, silent and unmoving, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark.

  The faint hum of an air conditioner drifted on the air. A cricket chirped, then stilled. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed.

  Julia swallowed past the knot in her throat.

  The only source of light came from a New Orleans-style gas lamp at the far end of the sidewalk. The weak, flickering flame heightened the shadows, transformed the corner of her porch where a lawn chair and potted plant sat into an inky web.

  A faint scraping sound drifted on the still air, a familiar sound that tightened Julia’s already taut muscles. Someone had moved the lawn chair, scraping the legs against concrete. Someone was either sitting or standing in the shadows of her porch. Waiting.

  Finger poised on the trigger, she took a silent step sideways, then another, halting when she felt the sidewalk give way to soft grass. She crouched in the building’s shadow, knowing if someone took a shot at her, chances were they’d aim at chest height.

  “Police!” she shouted. “Put your hands up and step off the porch.”

  “Good God, you’ll wake the dead if you keep that up.” Sloan stepped out of the porch’s blackness into the dim, gray shadows. “Do I really have to put my hands up, Jules?”

  Her breath whooshed out. She pushed up from her crouching position, her legs not quite steady. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Maybe I didn’t plan on coming home tonight.”

  “Then I would have had a long wait.”

  She took an aggressive step forward. “Why is my porch light off?”

  “Bugs,” he answered easily. “I unscrewed the bulb.” He turned and disappeared into the porch’s dark depths. Seconds later, amber light flooded the sidewalk. He regarded her thoughtfully. “That better?”

  Dressed in black shorts and a tan polo shirt, he looked cool and comfortable...and not one bit concerned that he’d come close to getting shot.

  “Unscrewing that bulb almost got you blown away,” she said with ferocity.

  His gaze slicked to the automatic clenched in her hand. “I appreciate your restraint.”

  His complacent expression spiked her temper. “How the hell did you find out where I live?”

  “Rick. Julia, do you plan to shoot me?”

  “How?”

  “Pulling the trigger makes a gun—”

  “I’m not in the phone book,” she said through her teeth. “How did Rick get my address?”

  Sloan’s mouth curved. “I didn’t ask.”

  “I wouldn’t be smiling if I were you, Remington. You’re trespassing. I still might shoot you.”

  “Think of the paperwork you’d have to deal with,” he noted as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I recall that’s the one thing you hate about police work.”

  “Shooting you just might take the unpleasantness out of the task.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  She remained silent, taking deep, long breaths to settle her nerves. Reverting to coolness, she clicked on the safety and slowly holstered her weapon. Flexing her rigid fingers, she stepped onto the porch. “What do you want?”

  He leaned, pulled a manila envelope from beneath the chair. “You asked me to get the list of guests from the art museum. Here it is.”

  Julia held back the urge to snatch the envelope out of his hand. “That didn’t take long.”

  “Like you said, I have connections. Just don’t mention my name when you grill people. If you do, I might never get invited to another cocktail party,” he added with a grin.

  The grin sent a bolt of reaction right into her midsection. Heart clenching, Julia looked away. The first time she’d seen that grin she’d been on duty, assigned to the governor’s security detail at his inaugural ball. While standing behind stage listening to droning, mind-numbing speeches, she glanced up and saw Sloan Remington walking toward her. Dressed in a tuxedo, he carried a champagne flute in his hand... and he’d had that grin on his face.

  “Julia?”

  His voice jerked her back to the present. Brows knitted, she took a deep breath. “Since Rick knows my address, you could have had him deliver the list.”

  “Consider this my attempt to show how fully I’m cooperating with your investigation.”

  “Consider me shown,” she said, wondering if he would be as willing if he knew about her upcoming trip to Houston. Pulling her keys out of her pocket, she stepped into the pool of amber light and held out her hand. “If you’ll give me the envelope—”

  Eyes narrowing, Sloan took a quick step toward her, his hand shooting out to cup her chin.

  “Don’t!” She jerked back, but his fingers held firm, tilting her face to his.

  “Dammit, Jules, you’re exhausted.”

  She grabbed his wrist. “I’ve had it with people telling me I look tired—”

  “And pale.” Sloan frowned. If he didn’t know her so well, didn’t know the passion and dedication she put into each case, he might have missed the vulnerability beneath her combative facade. Might not have realized how close to the edge she was. But he did know her. Just as he was expert at sensing her storm fronts, he also knew when she’d pushed herself to the brink of physical depletion.

  Knowing that she was precariously close to reaching that point undermined his own grim intention to just hand over the envelope and leave. Walk away. He stared down into her face, his fingers tightening on the soft curve of her jaw. The shadows of fatigue gave her eyes a bruised, waiflike appearance; lines of utter weariness etched the corners of her mouth. Two years ago, he’d walked away from her because it was the wisest thing to do. Leaving now would still be the wisest thing, he knew. But he also knew it was time to stay... for a while, anyway.

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “At the hospital. Two hours ago.”

  “Hospital?”

  She knocked his hand away. “Halliday’s wife had a baby tonight. I ate at the hospital.”

  “Chips and coffee from a vending machine, right?”

  She glared up at him, showing her displeasure that he’d guessed right. “Give me the list, Sloan. Then take off.”

  He whisked the envelope out of her reach when she grabbed for it. “I’m not leaving until you eat a decent meal.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “You’re leaving—”

  “After I get some food in you,” he said, sweeping the keys from her grip before her fatigued senses could react.

  “Get off my porch.”

  “That’s the plan.” He slid the key into the lock and pushed open the door. “After you,” he said, his hand doing a wide sweep toward her entry hall.

  She remained on the porch, still and unmoving.

  “All right,” she said after a moment. “I’ll fix myself something to eat. You have my word.”

  He cocked his head. “That’s hardly reassuring, unless you’ve learned to cook in the past two years. Have you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I thought not. What I think is that you plan to go in and crawl into bed, right?”

  “Wrong. I plan to take a shower first.”

  “Fine. You shower while I cook—”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “That’s a possibility,” he agreed. “You may not make it through the night unless you eat something nourishing.”

  “This coming from a man who used to live on hamburgers and greasy fries,” she countered.

  “Since I got sick, I’ve cleaned up my act. I know all about vitamins, minerals and proteins. I could teach a nutrition class.”

  “Sounds scary,” she muttered.

  “I’ll tell you what�
��s scary. If you drop in your tracks from poor nutrition, you can’t solve this case. And I want it solved.”

  “It’ll get solved, whether I eat tonight or not,” she shot back. “I know my limits. I know just how much I can take.”

  He held up the manila envelope. “You don’t get this unless you eat.”

  “I thought you wanted me to solve the case.”

  “That won’t happen if you’re a member of the walking dead.”

  “Look, Sloan, I just...” She lifted a hand, pressed her fingers to her eyes in a gesture that personified exhaustion. After a moment she dropped her hand and met his gaze, her eyes dark, rich pools beneath the porch light. “I’m too tired to argue.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she walked past him into the cool confines of her entry hall.

  “Nice,” he said, after she flicked on a light switch. He took a few steps forward, his gaze doing an intensive sweep of the living room awash in white linen, wicker and lustrous wood and brass accents. “Georgia’s work, right?”

  “Right.”

  He turned, meeting her gaze. “How are your parents?”

  “Fine.”

  Thinking of Fred and Georgia Cruze sobered Sloan’s thoughts. “I imagine I’m their least favorite person.”

  Julia gave a short laugh. “Let’s put it this way. If you run into Mother, don’t let her within arm’s length. She’s threatened more than once to break your neck.”

  “And your father?”

  “You can expect stern words from Daddy.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” he said quietly, regret curling into a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. “I like them both. They were always very good to me.”

  Julia hesitated, then looked away. “I...wasn’t the only one who got hurt when you left, Sloan.”

  “I know,” he said, his voice quiet. “I guess I won’t drop by their house to pay my respects.”

  “I don’t advise it.”

  He nodded and looked around, determined to get off a subject there was no sense pursuing. “Want to point me in the direction of the kitchen?”