The Man She Almost Married

by Maggie Price

  “Julia’s there now?”

  “As we speak.”

  Sloan’s jaw set He knew the police department had a slow-as-sludge procurement system, so it followed that Julia had to have requested her tickets prior to last night for her to be in Houston today. Yet during the considerable time he’d spent at her apartment, she hadn’t mentioned it.

  He raised a hand, kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck. Julia didn’t owe him an explanation; he knew that. In truth, what galled him was the possibility that her impending trip had been the thing foremost on her mind while he’d had her backed against the kitchen counter, battling the urge to rip off her clothes and take her right there on those gleaming ceramic tiles.

  “You can block her.” Pacing along the length of the big mahogany desk, Rick dipped his hand in the pocket of his slacks, jingled his change. “She’s trespassing. Has no warrant. Legally, no one at our Houston office has to talk to her—”

  “If people want to talk to Julia, they’re free to.”

  A spark of contemptuous amusement settled in Rick’s eyes. “Yeah, well, I’ve taken steps to make sure that’s not quite what’s happening down there.”

  Sloan steepled his fingers, his gaze following his friend’s movement across the plush area rug to the far wall, then back again. “What steps?”

  “The minute Houston’s security head called to say Julia was there, I told him to put her in his office until I had a chance to talk to you.” Rick glanced at his watch, his mouth curving. “We can keep her cooling her heels the rest of the day without her talking to another person.”

  “We can, but we won’t,” Sloan said evenly. “Blocking Julia will make it look as if I have something to hide. I don’t. Call Houston and tell them she’s free to talk to whomever she likes—”

  “It’s the principle,” Rick countered. “Hell, Sloan, she can’t find anything here, so she goes down there, digging for dirt.”

  “Let her dig. Hell, give her a shovel. She won’t find anything.”

  Giving up on pacing, Rick dropped into a chair in front of the desk, his eyes narrowing. “I told you the questions Julia asked me yesterday at the funeral chapel. It’s like she’s trying to invent some relationship between you and Vanessa that didn’t exist.”

  “She won’t get far—”

  “Dammit, Sloan, this whole thing’s turned personal,” Rick countered, anger whipping color into his face. “Julia’s like every other woman scorned. You humiliated her when you dumped her. Now it’s payback time. She’s got a chance to take you down for murder, and, by God, she’ll do it. You’re a fool if you don’t call the mayor and have her jerked off this case.”

  “Which would only serve to humiliate her a second time,” he noted flatly.

  “At this point, who the hell cares?”

  “I do!” Sloan’s fingers bit into the arms of his leather chair. He dragged in a deep breath, then another, as he fought for control.

  Rick was right, he told himself. He should think about his own neck. After all, at this very moment, Julia might be quietly fashioning a noose to go around it. He closed his eyes. Why the hell didn’t that seem to matter? Nothing mattered, he thought. Nothing, except her. The image of how she’d looked last night settled in his brain. He’d never forget the sight of her standing in the curve of his arms as her breath shuddered in and out, sending heat rising from her invisibly. Without uttering a word, she’d taken him precariously close to begging.

  “Hell,” he muttered, then rose and walked around the desk, examining his security chief with grim assessment. “I don’t like the fact that Julia’s asking my staff questions about my personal life, but that’s too bad. It’s her job. I made sure I didn’t interfere with her job two years ago, and I’m not going to start now. Neither are you.”

  Rick shook his head, propped one foot across his knee. The movement hiked up the cuff on his navy slacks, exposing the bottom edge of a leather ankle holster. “Look, Sloan, I just think you ought to watch your back.”

  “That’s what I’ve got you around for,” Sloan said, his gaze narrowing as he stared down at the holster.

  Rick shoved out of his chair. “You don’t want to keep Julia from doing her job, but that’s exactly what you’re doing to me.”

  “Wrong. I’m just not letting you get overzealous about it.” Sloan leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. “Call Houston. Tell them to give Julia free rein to talk to whomever she wants.”

  “You’re the boss,” Rick muttered, then headed for the door. “Damn, I’ll be glad when all of this is over and we head for D.C.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Sloan said, then turned back to the wall of windows.

  Flicking on headlights, Julia steered her detective cruiser out of the airport parking lot and headed north on the interstate. North, in the direction of Sloan’s house.

  She had gone to Houston to find answers, and had returned with even more questions. All she knew for sure was that only two people knew the truth about Sloan and Vanessa’s relationship, and one of those people was dead.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror. The dim light from the dash emphasized the smudges beneath her eyes. She had managed to nap on both legs of her flight, but two hours of rest couldn’t make up for the sleep she’d lost over the past few nights. Nor had she found any release from the aching guilt that had settled inside her when she returned Bill’s ring. She glanced at the steering wheel; her hand looked eerily naked without the diamond solitaire.

  Still, she knew she had done the right thing.

  An exit lane that veered west toward her apartment came into view, yet she bore down on the gas pedal and kept the cruiser heading north. She could have waited until morning, then called Sloan downtown to the station to answer questions. Even the greenest rookie knew it was standard textbook procedure to question a suspect on the cop’s home turf. Dingy interview rooms and the sense of being detained often loosened tongues.

  Julia knew all the rules, yet they didn’t seem to matter, not with this case. She was close to having enough circumstantial evidence to charge Sloan with murder, yet it didn’t matter.

  What mattered was that to her he was no longer a suspect. Not in her heart, anyway.

  She rang the doorbell five times. Despite the lights burning gold behind several upstairs and downstairs windows, she had almost accepted that Sloan wasn’t home. Just as she was about to climb back into her cruiser, she heard the faint sound of the hot tub’s bubbling jets. Silently, she walked along the cobblestone path at the side of the house and let herself through the high wooden gate. As she walked, a light breeze rustled the branches of nearby oaks.

  Pink and blue hydrangeas lining the flagstone terrace glowed in the moonlight. The trim lawn and manicured hedges had transformed into a dim wonderland of shapes and shadows. Julia skirted the pool, her steps taking her to the raised deck that held the hot tub, its lights glowing softly in the still night.

  Eyes closed, elbows propped on the tub’s rim, Sloan sat in the swirling, steamy water, giving the impression of a man lazily recharging his batteries.

  Julia stepped onto the deck, her throat tightening as her gaze slid across his broad chest covered with a mat of softly curling dark hair that trailed downward. Visible through the clear, churning water were narrow hips and sinewy thighs unobscured by bathing trunks....

  The instinctive lurch of her stomach was followed by her heart’s slow throbbing against her ribs. A bittersweet, undeniable longing had her legs going weak.

  “Enjoying the view, Jules?”

  Her head sprang up as waves of heat rushed up her throat and into her face.

  Sloan’s mouth curved into a smile full of insolence and charm. “Isn’t voyeurism against the law, Sergeant?”

  “We...uh... We need to talk,” she stammered as the heat in her cheeks went to blast-furnace level.

  He cocked his head, his damnably infuriating smile only heightening her embarrassment. “Are we becoming
a regular thing?” he asked. “I drop by your house one night. You pay me a visit the next.”

  Struggling to regain her composure, she dug into her purse and pulled out her tape recorder. “You have a choice, Sloan. Talk to me now, or come downtown in the morning.”

  “Now’s as good a time as any,” he drawled. “But I’m getting a crick in my neck, looking up at you.” He rose off the underwater bench, exposing a good measure of lean, fit hips. “Why don’t I just climb out and talk to you on the deck?”

  Sucking in a breath, Julia diverted her gaze to search for a towel. There wasn’t one. “I think you’d better stay where you are.”

  “Whatever.” Settling back on the bench, he conducted a slow survey of her white tuxedo shirt and dark slacks. “You could peel off those clothes and slide in here with me, Jules.”

  “I could, but I won’t.”

  “Well, if you’ve gotten shy, put on a suit.” His gaze slicked to the dark guest house across the expansive lawn. “There are a couple of your suits still in the bureau there.”

  “No, thanks. But I’ll be sure and take them with me when I leave.”

  “You ought to reconsider.” His gaze came back to hers, hardened. “After your trip to Houston, I imagine you could stand a relaxing soak.”

  She scowled. “My trip wouldn’t have been such a pain if your security people hadn’t put up roadblocks.”

  “If you’d told me you were going there, I’d have made sure that wouldn’t have happened.”

  “I’d have been crazy to tell you.”

  “Crazy in that a cop doesn’t tell a suspect the game plan?”

  “Something like that,” she said as she crouched and placed the recorder beside him on the tub’s tiled rim. Jets bubbled; steam rose. The heat of the water wrapped around her like a velvet glove.

  “So now you’re back with your recorder,” he observed, the edge in his voice sharpening.

  “I have questions only you can answer.”

  “Or my attorney.”

  “You, Sloan,” she said, shoving her hair behind her shoulders. “Every employee of yours I interviewed today assumes you and Vanessa were having an affair.”

  “I can’t help what people assume.”

  “She told her secretary there that she was sleeping with you.”

  Eyeing her, he propped an elbow on the tub’s rim. “What do you think, Julia?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what I can prove.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t see,” she shot back, trying to keep calm. “You don’t understand how close you are to being charged with murder. You’re in trouble, Sloan.”

  “Am I?”

  “You don’t have an alibi for the time of the shooting. You’re an excellent marksman. It would have been nothing for you to take Vanessa out with one shot from a .22. Only hours before she died, she threatened to ruin you and your company—”

  “Dammit, I didn’t kill her,” he said through his teeth.

  “I know that!” Julia countered, her voice trembling. “I know,” she repeated.

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Are you saying you believe me?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter a damn bit what I believe. Only what I can prove.” She rubbed at her forehead, trying to think past the numbing fatigue that had settled in her brain. “You’ve got to help me, Sloan. Tell me how often you and Vanessa worked late, then went to dinner where people saw you together. Tell me if you ever dropped by her apartment to pick up a file. Tell me everything about your relationship with her.”

  “I have.”

  “That’s not true. You never told me you went to Houston. You never even hinted that you spent the past two years there with her.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t go there because of Vanessa. Granted, she worked for my company, but I hadn’t even met her before I got there. I went to Houston because my doctor here referred me to M. D. Anderson for treatment. I was sick, Julia. After I recovered from surgery, the chemo treatments started. I mainly worked out of my apartment. There would be weeks I never went in to the office. My being in Houston had nothing to do with Vanessa.”

  That was something, Julia thought. But not nearly enough. “I need to know if she ever mentioned anything to you about other men—anything at all. Help me, Sloan, so I can help you.”

  He reached out, his hand curving over her wrist. “Why? Why do you suddenly believe me?”

  She stared down at his long, powerful fingers, the breath backing up in her lungs. “I never...”

  “Never what?”

  “Never could see you doing it.” She attempted to pull away, but his fingers only tightened their hold.

  “Go on,” he prodded.

  She met his dark, waiting gaze. “All along, I’ve tried to picture you standing in that garage, aiming a .22 at Vanessa. It didn’t work because I could never put your face on that shadowy figure. I know you had the means and the opportunity to kill her, but I keep stumbling when I get to motive. That’s when everything falls apart because I know you. You would have viewed Vanessa’s threat of ruination as a challenge.”

  His thumb moved, stroking the soft, inner skin of her wrist. “That’s exactly how I saw it.”

  The gentle, erotic sweep of his thumb had her pulse throbbing hard and thick. “God, you’re officially a suspect. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I can’t believe...” Her voice shook. “This could cost me my badge.”

  “Only if it got out that you’d come here,” Sloan said quietly. “It won’t get out.” His gaze dropped to her hand, his thumb suddenly going still. “Julia, where’s your ring?”

  “I came here to work, Sloan, not talk about myself.” With her free hand she grabbed her recorder, clicked it on, then replaced it on the edge of the hot tub.

  “Mr. Remington, I need to know everything about your relationship with Miss West.”

  “Like hell!” In the next instant, he grabbed the recorder and tossed it away.

  Mouth gaping, Julia watched it sink like a piece of lead in the hot, bubbling water. “Dammit, Sloan—”

  He rose, his hand clenching her wrist. With a sharp tug he pulled her in with him.

  She came gulping to the surface, sputtering like a lit fuse. “ You...you...

  He ducked a swing from her right fist, grabbed her wrists and jerked her forward. “Where the hell is your ring?”

  “I...” She wrenched a hand free, dashed streams of water from her eyes. “I’m soaked!”

  “Your ring, dammit!”

  “I gave it back,” she snapped.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “You were wearing it last night.”

  “After you left. I went to see Bill.”

  For a moment Sloan simply looked at her, his eyes luminous in the moonlight. Then he reached out and stroked a fingertip down her cheek. “You were supposed to get some sleep after I left.”

  His soft touch dampened the fire in her. “I... had to see Bill. Had to...”

  “So, you’re not engaged anymore?”

  “No.”

  “Why, Jules? Why?”

  She shoved her drenched hair away from her face. “Because I... I couldn’t.... It has nothing to do with you.” Her voice broke and she looked away. “Dammit, Sloan, why did you come back? Why the hell did you have to come back?”

  His hand slipped to her nape, easing her closer, degree by degree. “I’ve asked myself that same question a hundred times.” He bent his head, his lips grazing hers in a whisperlike kiss.

  Need curled its way down her spine. Heat suffused her flesh with a penetrating warmth that had nothing to do with the hot, steamy water and everything to do with his touch. “We can’t. We shouldn’t... You’re a...”

  “Suspect,” he finished, his dark eyes glinting. “You’re right. We shouldn’t. For a whole hell of a lot of reasons. But we’re going to.”

  The next instant he captu
red her mouth with his in a long, rough kiss, full of demanding need. She shuddered; her lips parted beneath his as blood roared through her veins.

  His mouth burned over hers, his tongue diving deep as his arms circled her trembling body.

  “We have to talk,” she gasped weakly against his neck.

  “Later,” he murmured, his impatient hands tugging her shirttail from her slacks. “We’ve got all night.”

  “Yes.” Her mind was already hazy. She dragged in air that clogged thickly in her lungs.

  His hands moved, fighting open buttons, shoving off her shirt, then her slacks and tossing the sodden garments onto the deck. Her lacy bra and panties followed.

  She stood before him naked, steam rising, caressing her flesh as his eyes moved slowly down the entire length of her body. “I’ve thought about you like this,” he said, his voice low. He pulled her back to him, one hand tight on her bare waist, the other plunging up through her wet hair to angle her head back. “Every night for the past two years, I’ve thought about you like this.”

  Greedily his mouth savaged her throat. “I love the smell of your skin.” His voice was rough. Urgent. “Sweet. Fresh.” He reclaimed her lips, feasting, tasting, filling her with a clawing ache.

  She whispered his name over the churning of the water, gazed up into his dark eyes through the curling clouds of steam. Her hands glided over the hard, sinewy planes of his body, discovering him all over again. Her teeth nipped, scraped against his jaw as she sated her ageless hunger for the taste of this one man’s flesh. His muscles rippled with wild, reckless energy at her touch; his heart hammered against hers.

  Her hands went to his chest, hard and solid, her fingers curling in the tight, wet mat of dark hair. She trailed kisses along the scar, so much a symbol of what had torn them apart.

  Her hand slid down the muscled planes of his stomach, down to his loins. She thrilled in the feel of his arousal thrusting hotly against her palm. Her fingers curved around him, stroking; a wave of pleasure filled her when he groaned her name.

  She wrapped an arm around his neck as she lost herself to sensations—the wet heat of his body sliding against hers, the dark hair plastered across his chest, the familiar, longedfor taste of him in her mouth.