by LENA DIAZ,
She crossed her arms, mimicking his stance. “Nice try.”
He blew out a long breath. “Mrs. Hawley saw both of the perpetrators. One of them is dead. And she didn’t ID me at the scene as being the other perp. That’s a pretty good indication that I’m not involved, don’t you think? What’s the harm in letting a family member ask the coroner a couple of questions about his stepmother?”
“Aha. Then you admit that you want to speak to the coroner.”
“Of course.”
That was too easy. She narrowed her eyes, wondering what his game was. “‘Perpetrator. ID me at the scene.’ I still say you talk like a cop.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“Right. You’re a ‘tour guide.’” She made air quotes with her fingers.
His eyelids went to half-mast. “Has Hawley worked with a sketch artist yet?”
“Why?”
“Get the drawing and let’s see if I resemble the guy you’re looking for. You know, in case she was too overwrought at the scene to realize I’m the guy who tortured her for several days.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’d love for me to show you the sketch. That way you can try to figure out the suspect’s identity and go after him yourself. Avenge your mother, assassinate the man who murdered her. That is what you do for EXIT Inc., right? Kill people?”
He let out a bark of laughter. “You just won’t let that silly theory go, will you?”
His easy laughter surprised her. She’d expected the same cold stare that she’d received in the interview room when she’d first mentioned her assassin theory. She decided to throw more kerosene into the mix to see what happened.
“I ran your prints through IAFIS. That’s the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, in case you don’t remember that little detail from all those cop shows you watch. I wonder what I’ll find out when the report comes back.”
His jaw tightened. Why? Because he was worried about a fingerprint match? Or just because he was irritated with her?
“You’re searching the FBI’s database for my prints?”
“Yes. I am. And I’m going to call your boss at EXIT and ask some questions about that Montana trip. Does that concern you?” She watched him closely, but she couldn’t detect any kind of reaction.
“Not in the least. I do wonder, though, why you’re so curious about me.”
He reclined against the counter behind him in a lazy pose, quirking his mouth in a sexy grin, instantly transforming himself from potential assassin to mouth-watering playboy. Emily found herself blinking at his chameleonlike ability to change right before her eyes. She couldn’t quite catch her breath at the startling contrast, and how ridiculously appealing he looked right now.
His eyes practically undressed her as they raked her up and down. “If you want a . . . date, Emily, just ask.”
Her name rolled off his tongue like a long, hot caress, making her body clench with need. Good grief, this man was lethal. She’d always been a sucker for the bad-boy type, probably because she’d always been a good girl—that whole opposites-attract kind of thing.
She cleared her throat and focused on a point above his eyes so she wouldn’t get distracted again. “I assure you, Devlin, that my interest in you is entirely professional. Nothing more.”
Liar, liar, pants definitely on fire.
“If that’s true,” he purred, leaning in close, “why are you blushing?”
His warm breath on her cheek sent a delicious shiver straight to her toes. The clean, masculine scent of him had her leaning closer. As soon as she realized what she was doing, she stiffened and took a much-needed step back.
His eyes practically smoldered as they followed her retreat. But there was something else there too, the shadow of another emotion. Confusion? Surprise? Had the raw attraction between them been as unexpected to him as it was to her?
She drew a shaky breath and plowed ahead, determined to get the conversation back on safer ground. “I submitted your prints to IAFIS because I don’t trust you. Tour guides don’t snap men’s necks and calmly walk away.”
His smile didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, as if he thought she was amusing. Or maybe he’d decided on a new tactic, another weapon to use against her besides her traitorous hormones.
“You make it sound like I drive a trolley and recite tall tales to entertain tourists,” he said, the laughter in his voice telling her he thought the idea was absurd. “I don’t waste my . . . talents . . . on mundane things like that. I take wealthy, eccentric fools on expeditions to exotic, dangerous locations. I use my considerable . . . skills . . . to ensure that they don’t get killed in the process, and that they have a . . . pleasurable . . . time.” His gaze dipped to her chest before he looked in her eyes again. “If you think I seem like more than just a tour guide, that’s because I am.”
His last two words were said in a deep, husky voice that had her curling her nails into her palms. Determined to stay on task and not to respond to the sexual innuendo layered in his reply, she raised a disbelieving brow. “You said earlier that your last tour assignment was in Montana. Montana is an exotic, dangerous location?”
“Any place can be exotic. It just depends on who you’re with. And what you do.”
She drew an unsteady breath and cleared her throat. “That was quite a lengthy speech about your talents and skills. Kind of makes me wonder if my questions about your occupation are hitting a sore spot. Am I getting close to whatever secret you’re trying to hide?”
“Nah. I just didn’t figure you’d want to . . . date . . . a simple tour guide. I had to make sure we were clear about my . . . considerable . . . assets.”
Erotic images flashed through her mind, along with a nearly overwhelming desire to look down to judge his considerable assets for herself.
A muted cough off to her left had her eyes widening with dismay. She’d been so busy fending off Devlin’s verbal foreplay that she’d forgotten where the two of them were standing—in the squad room. Half a dozen detectives were sitting at their desks, watching and listening to her and Devlin’s conversation with obvious interest.
Her face flamed. She could well imagine the teasing she’d get later when they repeated Devlin’s thinly veiled double entendres.
“Let’s cut through the crap,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ll admit that I don’t believe you’re directly involved in the abductions or murders. But indirectly you are involved. There are too many coincidences to ignore. And I know you’re hiding something. I just don’t know if what you’re hiding is related to this case. Yet.”
His brows rose, but his smile didn’t falter.
Emily had never punched anyone before, but right now, half of her wanted to swing her fist and knock that arrogant grin off Devlin’s mouth. Unfortunately, the other half of her wanted to do considerably more wicked things with his mouth, and every other part of his anatomy. It was that other half that terrified her.
One of the elevators behind her dinged and the doors swished open. Her knees nearly buckled in relief as she whirled around and escaped inside.
“Wait here,” she ordered, without risking another glance at his handsome and completely infuriating face. “I’ll be right back with the DNA kit.”
THE MOMENT THE elevator doors shut behind O’Malley, Devlin leaned back against the countertop for support. He wasn’t a smoker, but he suddenly had a craving for a deep drag on a cigarette. Or a really long cold shower. Or both.
Trading sexual barbs with her had him hard and aching and cursing himself for a fool. What had he been thinking? That was the problem. All higher forms of brain activity had ceased to exist the moment he’d felt her generous breasts pressed against him earlier that day, her soft body covered by his.
He cursed again. Focus, Buchanan. Focus. He had a small window of opportunity to get what he needed—the coroner’s notes. He figured that was probably his best place to start if he was going to find the man who’d
killed Carolyn. O’Malley had been right. He wanted vengeance, but not for his mother—for his father. Alex needed closure. He needed a way to move past today’s horrible events. Finding the man who was responsible for Carolyn’s death was the best way Devlin knew to help his father do exactly that.
But, of course, that wasn’t the only reason he wanted those notes.
He watched the display above the elevator. It went to the basement, without any stops in between. He leaned against the property counter, his legs stretched out in front of him, pretending boredom until the detectives lost interest and turned their attention to their work. As soon as no one was looking, he hurried to the door beside the elevators marked STAIRS.
He jogged down three flights to the basement. A long, well-lit hall ran the length of the floor. After checking the few doors near the stairs and elevator, confirming they were storage rooms, he followed the antiseptic smell toward the other end of the hallway. He walked boldly, smiling at and greeting the few people he passed as if he had every right to be there. They ignored him. He’d learned long ago that hiding in plain sight worked far better, in most situations, than ducking into doorways and thereby drawing suspicion.
Once he reached the morgue, he waited a few seconds to make sure no one was in the outer office, then slipped inside. There was a small catacomb of rooms but only one that interested him—the autopsy room, which appeared to be deserted.
Except for the three skeletons lying on steel tables waiting to be autopsied.
It didn’t take much of a leap in logic to conclude that all of the skeletons were from the basement where he’d been earlier. Which meant the killer had abducted seven victims so far that they knew of—Hawley, these skeletons, and the three women Hawley said were being held with her. But Devlin was interested in only one particular victim—his stepmother.
The muted sound of voices carried in from one of the other rooms. O’Malley and Dr. Kennerly. She was talking to him about the DNA kit. Devlin pulled his cell phone out and hurried to the desk over by the wall. There were several sheets of paper lying on top. He thumbed through them until he found a page with Buchanan across the top, then started snapping pictures.
He took pictures of as many of the pages as he could before the sound of footsteps and O’Malley’s voice had him rushing out of the room. He took the stairs again, up only one flight this time. After cracking the door and making sure no one was watching, he stepped into the main lobby of the police station.
BY THE TIME Emily located Devlin—in the lobby—she was half-tempted to shoot the man. No one in the squad room remembered him leaving, so she’d gone floor by floor to see if he was snooping around where he shouldn’t be. By the time it occurred to her to check the lobby, she was out of breath and out of patience. Now, as she stepped out of the elevator and saw him smiling and laughing, sitting beside a young man in a wheelchair, her temper was ready to explode.
Devlin glanced up as she reached them, his smile widening as if he were pleased to see her.
“Detective O’Malley, I hope you weren’t worried about me. I got a call that my brother was here, so I hurried down. I was going to ask the desk clerk to tell you where I was, but I forgot. I haven’t been home in a while and we’re catching up. I hope I didn’t worry you.”
The angelic look on his face had her anger fading and guilt taking its place. He did seem genuinely happy to see his brother. And his story sounded plausible. Maybe he was telling the truth.
“No problem.” She held her hand out to the man in the wheelchair, who was nearly as handsome as Devlin, with equally dark hair. But instead of dark gray eyes, his were blue, like his father’s. And he was several years younger than Devlin—perhaps in his mid-twenties. “I’m Detective Emily O’Malley,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Austin Buchanan. You weren’t lying, Devil. She’s very pretty.”
“Just how does one go about getting the nickname Devil?”
Devlin shrugged. “I never have understood why my brothers call me that. I was a perfect child growing up.”
Austin rolled his eyes. “We call him that because he never met a sin he didn’t like, or a pretty woman he didn’t try to—”
Devlin cuffed his brother on the shoulder. “I’m sure Detective O’Malley has more important things to do than hear about my sordid past.”
“Whatever.” Austin pointed at the small box Emily was holding. “If that’s the DNA kit to prove the skeleton belongs to the egg donor, let’s get this over with. I’ve got a T-bone waiting for me back home. What do I have to do? Pee in a cup or something?”
Her mouth dropped open at Austin’s reply.
Devlin gave her a pained smile. “Austin’s a bit abrupt, and crass. Takes some getting used to. My brothers think it’s a side effect of his neurological disorder, because of the stress of not knowing until he wakes up every morning whether he’ll be in a wheelchair that day or able to walk just fine. But me, I think it’s more of a personality disorder. He’s just naturally a jerk.”
Austin shot his brother an aggravated look.
Emily couldn’t help but notice the concern that lent an edge to Devlin’s voice as he made excuses for his brother’s behavior. It was obvious he cared about Austin and didn’t want her to think badly of him.
“No problem. Um, no, Austin, no need to . . . fill a cup. I just swab the inside of your mouth. I’m curious, though. You don’t seem upset that your . . . mother . . . was killed.”
“Why would I be? She ditched my dad when I was four. I don’t even remember her.” He narrowed his eyes. “Devil didn’t tell you anything about her and how we’re all related?”
“Detective O’Malley isn’t interested in—”
Emily cuffed Devlin on the arm, just like he’d done to Austin.
He was so surprised he actually sputtered.
She pulled a chair over to his brother and sat down. She hoped she’d finally found an ally who’d give her the background she needed on the Buchanans.
“He told me a little, but not much. Any information you can give me on your family and their relationship with Carolyn would be helpful to our investigation,” she said. “Perhaps you can begin with the whole who’s-related-to-whom thing again. I don’t have it straight just yet. And tell me their occupations too.”
“Fine,” Austin said, “but we’ll have to make it quick. You’ve got exactly ten minutes and I’m out of here. That includes the time it takes for the DNA sample.”
What was it with these Buchanans and their time limits on questions? She pulled her cell phone out and punched up her note-taking app. “Ready when you are.”
Devlin crossed his arms, not looking happy with this turn of events. But he didn’t try to interfere.
A handful of minutes later, Austin asked, “Did you get all that? The family background you wanted?”
“Yes, yes. I think I did. Basically, your mother married a much older man who already had a son from his prior marriage, your oldest brother, Braedon—who owns and operates B&B Construction now. When Carolyn’s husband died, she took Braedon with her, remarried, had a son with that husband. That was, um—”
“My second oldest brother, Pierce. FBI agent here in Savannah. And then she married another old geezer—”
Devlin punched him in the arm.
Austin punched him back. “He was an old geezer. Devlin’s bio dad by a prior marriage. He died too, which sent Carolyn out on the hunt for another sucker.”
Devlin appeared to be gritting his teeth. He obviously didn’t like sharing the intimate details of his family history with her. Either that or he didn’t care for Austin’s commentary.
Austin continued, not a bit concerned about his brother’s discomfort. “When Carolyn married Alex, she brought Braedon, Pierce, and Devlin with her, then had me and Matt.”
“Right, right. Got it. And Matt’s the private investigator?”
“Right. He’s the entrepreneur of the family too. Invents all kinds of sh—”
> “Austin,” Devlin warned.
Austin grinned and winked at Emily. “Devlin’s like an old hen, just like dad. Always worried about my manners.” He tilted his head. “He’s not really all that old. He’s thirty-four. And he’s single. Did I mention he likes brunettes? Of course he pretty much likes all women, but still, he—”
“Shut up,” Devlin growled.
Austin winked again, enjoying teasing his brother.
Emily felt her face flush hot. She refused to look at either of the men, focusing instead on her notes. “So, Austin—you, Matt, and Pierce are blood related to Carolyn. But only you and Matt are blood related to Alex. And Braedon and Devil—I mean Devlin—aren’t blood related to anyone else in the family?”
“Bingo.”
“Your mother didn’t seem to have very good luck with keeping her husbands alive. Seems rather . . . unfortunate.”
“Suspicious, you mean?”
She laughed at his lack of tact. “Well, yes, actually.”
“Yeah, a few of us wondered about that over the years. When Pierce became an FBI agent, he looked into it and concluded it was just bad luck. Or maybe she purposely chose older men with health problems, hoping they’d die and leave her their estates, until she met my dad at least. There’s nothing to support that she was a black widow or anything. She certainly never made it rich.”
Emily studied him closely. “You seem remarkably okay with all of this. It doesn’t bother you that your mother abandoned all of you and went from husband to husband the way she did?”
He leaned forward in his wheelchair. “Detective, I thank God every day that she left us. Alex is the best father that I could have hoped for. And I’m grateful for every one of my brothers, even him.” He aimed a thumb at Devlin, who rolled his eyes. “No telling what kind of life we might have had if she’d hung around. Honestly, I’m relieved to close the door on the whole thing. Maybe if Alex knows that Carolyn is dead, he can finally move on and find someone else. He deserves that. Can we do the swab now?”
His abrupt change of topic threw her off guard. She closed her phone app and grabbed the box Dr. Kennerly had given her. “Yes, of course. I’ll take care of that right away.”