by Rose, Karen
‘You were smart to have your client report his assault,’ Novak said to Thorne. ‘Gave him just enough credibility to defuse a tense situation.’
Sam winced when Ruby feathered her fingers over his jaw. She gave Novak an angry look. ‘You hit him?’
‘I hit him,’ Maynard said. ‘But he hit me first.’
‘You men are worse than children,’ she said. ‘Did you at least put ice on your jaw?’
‘I did,’ Sam said, smiling because she sounded like his mom. ‘I’m fine, Ruby.’
‘He was more worried that I was coming after you and Miss Richards,’ Maynard added. His voice was tinny, like he forced it from his chest, but the words were the perfect ones to say.
Ruby’s eyes softened in the way Sam had so quickly come to anticipate. ‘That’s sweet.’
Cheeks heating, Sam had no idea how to answer, but was saved from having that fact known by the opening of the conference room door.
Sam’s artist friend, Damon, had an odd, wary look on his face, blinking when he saw the crowd that had assembled. ‘You’re all going to want to see this,’ he said.
Kayla’s eyes widened as the group filed in. Sam patted her shoulder. ‘You okay?’
She nodded. ‘I hope I did all right. The artist seemed . . . surprised.’
‘Let’s have it,’ Maynard said tightly. Everything about the PI was tight, like he was ready to explode. Novak must have sensed it too, because he put a steadying hand on Maynard’s arm.
Damon flipped back the cover of his sketchpad and held up the picture he’d drawn.
It was like someone had tossed a bomb in the room.
Thorne’s jaw dropped. Novak swore. Ruby’s hand flew up to cover her mouth in horror.
And Maynard crumpled, only managing to hit a chair on the way down because Novak and Thorne grabbed him.
Sam leaned in, stared at the picture. Oh . . . Oh no. As recognition dawned, Sam understood both the significance of the face that Kayla had described and the horror that filled the room.
Ruby turned her face into his chest, silently weeping. Sam stroked her hair, unable to give any comfort. I keep thinking it can’t get worse. But it kept seeming to.
Tuesday, March 18, 6.45 P.M.
Stevie paused, her keycard poised over the door to her room at the Peabody Hotel. She looked over her shoulder at Joseph, who seemed normal. Totally, unflappably normal.
Except that he wasn’t. She didn’t know what was wrong. But something definitely was.
It can’t be Clay. If he were hurt, Joseph would have taken her to him at the ER.
‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘I swear to God, Joseph . . .’
He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I was told to bring you here, so I did. You go in your room, I’ll go next door. Novak and Coppola are in position, same as last night. Just in case.’
‘Fine. Thanks for the ride.’ Stevie ran the key through the reader and stepped through the door, thinking she had time for a quick shower before getting back to work. She’d been thinking about the witnesses she’d interviewed while investigating the murder of Robinette’s wife the first time around. She had time to see at least one tonight. She’d start with—
She stopped, the heady aroma of flowers filling her head. Clay had filled the room with roses. Dozens and dozens of roses in every imaginable color. The table in the front room was set ‘fancy’, as Cordelia would call it – a white linen tablecloth with china and silver and crystal wine goblets. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver ice bucket.
A single rose lay across her plate.
She picked it up carefully, then realized there were no thorns. He’d stripped them away. She sniffed the rose, then looked up to find him in the doorway to the bedroom, watching her.
‘I missed you,’ she said quietly.
He smiled. ‘I ran you a hot tub. I figured after riding a horse today, you’d need one.’
She laughed. ‘It’ll probably be worse tomorrow.’
His eyes flickered, the emotion gone so quickly she almost missed it. ‘I’ll give you another massage. You won’t feel a single thing tomorrow.’
She crossed the room to him, walking into arms that came around her so tightly that she had to suck in a quick breath. ‘What is all this? The flowers and the table?’
‘I realized that I wanted to take you on a date,’ he said lightly. ‘But I can’t right now, so I thought you could use a little romance. First a bath, then I’ll have dinner sent up.’
She pulled back, searched his face. Saw nothing amiss. Still, she felt a knot of dread form in her gut. Something was very wrong. ‘Okay,’ she said.
The tub in the bathroom was enormous, big enough for two. Which was apparently exactly what he had in mind because he stripped them both to the skin, scooped her into his arms, and lowered her into the steaming water before joining her there.
He positioned her between his legs, her back to his chest. ‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about this afternoon. How did it go?’
She told him about her inept attempt at riding and that she and Cordelia had looked at real estate listings online and that her little girl seemed to have started believing that she was more than Stevie’s consolation prize.
All the while he touched her, long sweeping strokes, soaping up her legs, her arms, taking care to avoid the stitches from Saturday, which were finally starting to heal. She decided that she’d been looking for trouble earlier because things had been calm all afternoon, that nothing was wrong. And when he began to wash her breasts, she decided that Clay was just fine.
She stopped thinking when his hands stroked up her inner thighs, his thumbs teasing her most intimately. She leaned back, tilting her head to the side, giving him access to her neck. He took full advantage, running his lips up over her skin, murmuring praises that made her sigh.
His hands were gentle, as was the first orgasm he coaxed from her body, like riding the swell of a wave. She stretched, arching her back as she pressed the back of her head into his shoulder, then relaxed. ‘Mmm.’
His arms tightened around her when she started to slide into the water. ‘You liked that?’
‘I did.’ Then she surprised him by turning in his arms and straddling him. She kissed him as sumptuously as he’d just made her feel. ‘I thought of you, all afternoon.’
His hands found her buttocks, began to knead, his lips curving. ‘Did you now?’
‘I did. Especially when I was riding. I kept thinking of you.’ She tilted her hips, finding his erection, sliding down on him until she’d taken all of him in. It was his turn to arch and she ran her hands over his chest, delighting in the feel of him, inside and out.
She began to move, and he groaned, both arms reaching back so that he could grip the sides of the tub, defining the muscles in his pecs and arms. His head fell back, his eyes closed, as she rode him, slowly at first, then harder and faster. He came on a shout, his hips punching up, sending water sloshing over the sides of the tub. She dug her nails into his shoulders to hold on until his body stilled, watching him as he fought to fill his lungs.
He lifted his head, blinked his eyes open. ‘You didn’t . . .’
‘Not yet. I was enjoying watching you. But I’m sure you can rectify the situation.’
He released his hold on the tub to touch her face, his fingers trembling. ‘I’m sure I can.’ He helped her from the tub, wrapped her in a towel, scooped her up in his arms once again and carried her to the bed. ‘But first I’ll take care of those sore muscles.’
‘They’re not sore yet,’ she protested.
‘Exactly.’ He laid her down, knelt between her legs and began to massage her just as he had the night before. ‘I was imagining you this way last night,’ he said smoothly, sending shivers across her damp skin. He lifted her leg over his shou
lder and leaned his weight into the stretch. ‘But tonight I plan to go through with everything I imagined.’
She closed her eyes as his fingers hit every pressure point, anticipation building as her bent knee brushed her breast. He’d spread her so wide . . . ‘Which is what?’ she asked hoarsely.
She had her answer a second later when his tongue slid up into her. She bit back a moan, conscious of Joseph next door and his agents patrolling the halls.
‘Don’t hold back,’ Clay whispered. ‘I want to hear you. Please let me hear you.’
She forgot to be self-conscious as he licked and tasted, dragging sounds from her throat she was certain she’d never made before. And where the orgasm in the tub had been a slow ride on a wave, the second hit her with the force of an avalanche. Clay wouldn’t let up, sucking and biting, not allowing her to pull away when her overwhelmed body mindlessly tried to do so. He didn’t stop until the last shudder had stilled, until she lay limp and unmoving beneath him.
‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘What was that?’
‘Did you like it?’ he asked, his voice low, gravelly.
‘Yes. But you nearly killed me.’
He said nothing to that, rising to loom over her, hands planted on either side of her head. She stared up into his dark eyes, unable to look away. ‘Can you take me again?’ he whispered.
‘Yes. Always.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Baltimore, Maryland, Tuesday, March 18, 7.25 P.M.
He’d do this. He’d make it good for her. He’d make it good for the both of them, even if it killed him. And if the pain in his chest was any indication, it just might.
Always, she said.
He’d hoard every touch, every taste, every sensation, because he knew when he told her the truth . . . No. He wouldn’t think about that now. There’d be time later. Too much time.
He slid inside her, feeling her muscles contract around him.
Perfect. She was perfect. This . . . was perfect.
Keep it together, Clay. For her. He swallowed, feeling like acid burned its way down his throat. His arms trembled and he locked his elbows to keep himself from crushing her.
He’d do that soon enough. When he told her that she was the reason her family had been destroyed. That she’d been the target. She’d pull away from him, retreat into herself. Maybe not all at once. She might cling to him in shock. But it wouldn’t last. She’d punished herself for eight years when it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t now, but she wouldn’t see it that way.
She wouldn’t blame him for being the messenger. He knew that. She’d blame herself. Punish herself. Happiness? She won’t accept it. Won’t think she deserves it.
She’ll pull away. Leaving us both alone.
But you’re not alone now. At this moment, for as long as it lasted, he had the world in his arms. So enjoy it. Make her enjoy it. Give the two of you something good to remember.
He rocked into her, his body gathering speed and force, and he gritted his teeth when she came a third time, the contractions milking him to the point of breaking. But he didn’t allow himself to follow. Not yet.
‘Again,’ he rasped in her ear. He swiveled his hips and she caught her breath. ‘Again.’
‘How can you do this?’ she said, panting. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, her pulse pounding at the hollow of her throat.
‘Do what?’
Her eyes opened, filled with lust and need. ‘Make me crazy for you again.’
‘God. Stevie.’ His orgasm threatened to overpower him, but he held it back long enough to withdraw, flip her to her stomach and plunge into her from behind.
Her shocked cry was muted by the pillow. Roughly she arched her back, shoving her body back into him, driving him deeper inside her. ‘Now. Do it, Clay.’
He let go, pummeling her hard, so hard she had to brace a hand on the headboard to keep her head from banging into the wood. When her body went rigid he let himself fly.
It was over far too soon and his mind begged for one more time even as his body struggled to recover. He rolled them both to their sides, keeping them joined.
When he could draw a breath to speak, he whispered in her ear, ‘I love you, Stefania. I need to say it out loud.’ Just once. But he kept those last two words to himself.
She said nothing for what seemed like a long time and he was afraid she’d fallen asleep without hearing him. Which would be just as well.
When she spoke, the gravity of her tone startled him. ‘Why did that sound like a goodbye?’
My Stefania. Too damn smart for her own good.
He was fighting for the courage to respond when she pulled away from him. Sliding out of the bed, she limped into the bathroom. A minute later she emerged, wearing one of the hotel’s robes and leaning on the cane she’d left by the tub. She tossed him the other robe.
‘What happened today, Clay?’
He forced himself to sit and put on the robe. He patted the bed next to him. ‘Sit down, Stevie. It’s going to take me a few minutes to explain.’
She sat down on the chair four feet away, waiting.
He’d known she’d pull away. But God, it hurt.
‘I, uh, ran down the name of the guy who followed us this afternoon. He’s a cop.’
‘Another dirty cop?’ she asked, dismayed.
‘No. Seems to be a good guy.’ He told her about Sam Hudson’s assault and his lost day.
The color drained from her face. ‘March 15? Eight years ago?’
‘Yes.’ He told her about the gun Hudson had found and the package he’d received, eight years to the day later. The day she’d been shot at twice. He told her about the cop’s search to find answers. ‘The man killed with the gun was his father, John Hudson.’
She flinched. ‘He killed his father? Why? And what does this have to do with me?’
Clay braced himself. ‘No, he didn’t kill his father.’ He explained how Hudson checked out the video from the convenience store. She didn’t have to be told which one.
She became even paler. ‘They caught the man in the video, Clay. They caught the man who killed my husband and my son.’
Clay was quiet a long moment, trying to find the inner strength to finish. ‘No, honey. Whoever’s sitting in prison right now didn’t kill your family. He resembles the real killer. Very closely resembles him. But the man in prison now didn’t do it. John Hudson did.’
She shook her head. ‘Why?’
He told her about John Hudson checking his phone, about him looking at the picture of his son. ‘We think he’d been threatened, coerced, whatever.’
‘That’s why he never took the cash,’ she murmured. ‘But why?’
He left that question alone for a moment, wishing he could leave it for eternity. Knowing he couldn’t. ‘We identified the man who drugged Sam. A witness saw a man drag him away from the bar that night. We assume that was who left the gun on the hotel room floor next to Sam.’
‘That man would also have killed Sam’s father.’ She swallowed. ‘After John Hudson finished killing Paul. And Paulie. It was one of Paul’s cases then. I’ve always wondered.’
Clay shook his head. ‘No. Not Paul’s case.’
‘Then who . . .’ Her mouth fell open slightly, her eyes growing wide and horrified as understanding broke through. ‘No. No. It’s not true.’ She pushed to her feet and began to pace, her cane thumping against the carpet. ‘It can’t be true. It was my case? Mine?’
Clay said nothing, letting her mind do what it did best.
She stopped pacing abruptly, her shoulders bowing, her free arm flat against her stomach. ‘It was Robinette. Robinette killed my son. My husband. To make me leave him alone.’
She spun around, her eyes dark against her dangerously pale face. ‘I�
�ll kill him.’ She was breathing faster, her words tumbling over each other. ‘I’ll rip his skin off his body. I swear it.’
She marched to her suitcase, pulled out a pair of jeans. ‘I’m going to make him bleed.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’ll make him beg me to let him die.’
‘Stevie.’ Clay jumped off the bed, ran to her, holding her shoulders, pulling her back against his chest. ‘Stevie, wait.’
‘You can’t stop me.’ She was crying now, huge sobs that broke his heart. She struggled, trying to break free of his hold. ‘You cannot stop me.’
He held on tighter. ‘It wasn’t Robinette. Are you listening to me?’ He gave her the gentlest of shakes. ‘It wasn’t Robinette.’
‘What?’ She stopped struggling. ‘Then . . . who?’
Clay closed his eyes, forced himself to speak the name. ‘Silas Dandridge.’
Her former partner. The man she’d trusted to watch her back. The man who’d betrayed so many. He’d ruined so many lives. Including hers.
Stevie went completely still, not even breathing. ‘What?’ she asked in barely a whisper.
‘Silas dragged Sam out of the bar that night. We think he sent a photo of Sam unconscious to his father, threatening him if John didn’t obey. We think he was hired by Robinette to throw you off the trail. Because you knew he’d killed his wife and set up his son to take the fall.’
She said nothing, not a word.
‘And then after Christmas, you started digging into all the old cases, finding the ones that Stuart Lippman never recorded on his list. People started attacking you, shooting at you. Either Robinette figured his attempts would be camouflaged by all the others or he was afraid you’d uncover his crime. Or both.’
‘I didn’t even remember his name,’ she whispered.
‘I know, baby. I know.’
‘Silas?’ she asked, her voice so small. ‘Are you sure?’