by Julie Miller
Even without his sunglasses, Sam’s expression was a neutral mask as he extended his hand. “Mr. Kent.”
Charles studied Sam for a moment before accepting the offer to shake hands. “O’Rourke. Nice to meet you.”
Instead of striking up some sort of get-acquainted conversation, Charles angled his attention back to Jessica. “Will you be joining us this evening? I know Mother sent you an invitation—I saw the guest list.”
Jessica nodded. “I’ll stop in for a while. I’m curious to hear what your mother has to say about the new land developers moving in.”
“Well, they won’t get an inch of Jackson County if she has her way.” He pulled back the corner of his jacket and slipped his hand into his slacks pocket, assuming a model-like pose. “I just made an offer on the Richter property this morning. When that goes through, we’ll own land all the way to the Little Blue River.”
“Impressive.”
“Boring, actually. They were ready to surrender the farm and let it go cheap. I prefer the challenge of negotiating.” The auctioneer droned on in the background as Charles looked around her, making no effort to hide his avoidance of Sam. “Well, I won’t keep you from making your grand purchase. I want to bid on her collection of Osage Indian baskets.”
He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips to graze a gallant kiss across the back of her knuckles. When he released her, Jessica quickly wrapped her fingers around the leather strap of her shoulder bag, confused by a sudden, self-conscious chill. Sam had kissed her in much the same way last night. The gentle rasp of his beard-roughened skin had sent tendrils of heat blooming along her arm, while Charles’s touch inspired no reaction whatsoever.
She shouldn’t be noticing things like that about a man. She shouldn’t.
But before she would admit to any sort of chemical combustion with her hired hand, she realized that Charles was still talking. “…tonight and see my arboretum. The gardeners and I have worked diligently to bring the lushness of the Amazon here to Kansas City. I’m sure we’ll be asked to do the garden tour next summer. But I’ll give you a sneak preview.”
Jessica nodded. Charles just wanted acknowledgment of what seemed to be a pet project. “It sounds fascinating. I look forward to seeing it.”
“Until tonight, then.”
“Bye.”
A deep-pitched touch of Irish vibrated close to her ear. “He’s a snob.”
“He’s an old friend.” She defended Charles against the accurate assessment because she needed something to focus on besides her shivery response to Sam’s husky whisper. “His mother is one of the richest women in the state. She inherited all kinds of land, and her grandfather owned one of the largest stockyards in Kansas City during the late 1800s. Charles is intent on preserving his family’s contributions to westward expansion and community development. That’s probably why he and I connected in the first place. We share an appreciation for history.”
“He’d like to connect with you in a more personal way.”
Jessica rolled her eyes up and glared at him. “First, what Charles may or may not feel is none of your business.” She remembered her chilly, spark-free response to Charles’s kiss. “Second, you’re wrong. We’re friends. Period.” And if Sam meant to impugn Charles as some kind of suspect in her attack, she wasn’t going to stay and hear it. She stiffened her shoulders and headed toward the auctioneer. “Now come on. Our chest of drawers just went on the block.”
Three steps across the lawn and a firm hand on her arm stopped her. Her instinct to jerk away from the unexpected touch stilled when she spun around and saw the raw emotion that shaded his eyes. “What?”
Was he upset? Frustrasted? Concerned? What did Sam O’Rouke need from her?
He dipped his face close to hers, close enough to feel the caress of each soft breath across her cheek. “Where were you a few minutes ago? Before Charles of the Ritz showed up.” His grip and his tone gentled. “You were scared to death. Something in that jewelry case set you off. What was it?”
Jessica shook her head, twisting her arm in his grasp. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t fall prey to Irish charm or her own confused heart. She had to keep herself—and her feelings—safe. “I’m not going to discuss it with you. Not now, not ever. Now let me go.”
Sam stepped back, his hand raised in what she guessed was only a temporary resignation to her wishes. She turned and left him behind, excusing her way into the thick of the auction, raising her card when she spotted the Queen Anne breakfront she wanted already going for $185. “Two hundred,” she bid.
But though she immersed herself in her quest to strike a few quality deals, Jessica never lost the sensation that a pair of intense, ice-gray eyes were watching her every step of the way.
Chapter Six
Sam had investigated numerous crime scenes, interviewed countless witnesses and interrogated dozens of suspects in his eleven-year tenure as an FBI agent. But nothing had ever plagued his conscience the way digging through Jessica Taylor’s lingerie drawer did.
In the hour since she and the dog had left to attend Charles Kent’s party, he’d picked the lock on her front door, rifled through her desk, scanned her computer and climbed the stairs to her bedroom loft. He didn’t need a search warrant, he wasn’t on an official mission. Nothing he found would ever stand up in court, but then, he wasn’t sure he trusted justice for Kerry to the legal system, anyway. He was hoping for a showdown with the bastard, long before he ever got to court.
His coldhearted detachment had served him well. He’d been quick and neat, and had learned that his pretty boss was a unique dichotomy of creative chaos and businesslike efficiency. She kept meticulous financial records on her computer, yet marked client folders in some sort of code with colorful stickers or frowny faces drawn in black marker. Boyce, Riegert and Winston, a local PR firm for whom Jess had purchased some items at the auction and who had placed the big order yesterday, must be a particularly good customer, judging by the stars and teddy bears pasted to their file.
But no clues. Nothing to piece together her fateful trip to Chicago. No letter or journal where she’d written down a name or detail he could use to track the man he hunted.
He should give it up, lock the cabin and go back to his apartment to establish his alibi for the night. She’d said she’d be gone a couple of hours. He figured he only had about fifteen minutes more to find something and get out, in case she left the party early. The clock was ticking.
On his entire investigation.
But as he stood in front of the open top drawer of Jessica’s refinished oak dresser, Sam had the feeling that he was the bad guy here. That he’d taken his quest for vengeance too far.
This was too personal. The delicate scents of rosemary and ginger wafted up from the clothes before him. It was her smell. The clean, natural delight of herbs and citrus from her shampoo or perfume. Part of him wanted to breathe in deeply, to cleanse his battered soul with her fresh scent and shy touch.
But the saner, less selfish side of him ached at the transformation of personality he saw inside that drawer. Jess’s rapist had stolen much more than her sense of security.
He’d stolen her confidence.
Plain, functional bras and panties of white cotton were piled in neat stacks at the front of the drawer. Though Jessica Taylor would be a beautiful woman in anything she wore, he could tell she’d once been a more adventurous woman. More daring. More fun.
Tucked into the back of the drawer were undergarments that belonged to a woman who was proud of her attributes, a woman who indulged herself in a ladylike way. Gathering dust in the back were bras of black lace and red silk. A sheer silver camisole. Panties and thongs cut high at the thigh and low at the waist. Sexy things.
He couldn’t bring himself to touch them. As much as his fingertips had itched to wind themselves into the silky waves of her hair or stroke across her velvety skin, he couldn’t disturb her most private things. It was too great a violation. If
the answer to his quest was in her top drawer, Sam wouldn’t find it.
Reverently he slid the drawer closed and moved on to the rest of her bedroom. He was ready to resign himself to the fact that she’d erased all trace of her attack from her life when he uncovered a thick manila envelope beneath the blankets in the antique trunk at the foot of her bed.
Sam sank back on his haunches and exhaled an anticipatory sigh of air. Chicago PD. The official label on the front of the envelope showed that these were the personal effects recovered from the scene of her “mugging.” He cradled the package between his hands and searched for a calm, objective center before he looked at the contents inside. If the MO of Jess’s attack was identical to Kerry’s, then she’d been snatched on some seedy, remote street and taken to an apartment or motel room nearby. These items would have been found at the abduction site.
Swallowing his hopes and suspicions and fears, Sam opened the package and pulled out a copy of the same sketchy report he’d read in Chicago. “Items stolen: purse. Coat? Jewelry?” The reporting officer had speculated, but could only write down what the victim said. Apparently, Jess had been too distraught to even remember whether she’d worn a watch or earrings.
Or, since she hadn’t wanted the rape on record, the omission of anything she’d lost during the attack might have been intentional. Had her rapist stolen a sick souvenir she never wanted to see again? A scarf? A necklace? Is that what had set her off this morning? Had Jess seen something in that jewelry case that reminded her of that struggle?
“Oh, crap.” Sam swore as the memory of his sister’s battered face caught him off guard. She’d struggled. Not every wound on her body had been inflicted as a means of torture. She’d fought hard. And lost.
A new image crept in to expand the nightmare. Jess. She would have struggled, too. He could picture cruel hands against her throat, and that sweet, sweet mouth shouting for help, begging for mercy.
“Damn!” Sam shot to his feet and paced to the top of the stairs and back. Maybe, for the first time, he truly understood that Jessica had suffered just as much as Kerry had. Maybe more so because she had to live with the memory of what had been done to her.
“Tell me the truth.” He prodded the still air of the empty cabin for answers. “Give me a name, a face, and I will find him for you.” His vow reverberated in a low-pitched whisper. “I won’t let him hurt you or anyone else again.”
But, of course, the cabin had no answers for him. And he’d lost too much in his life to believe that some kind of divine inspiration would gift him with the answer he needed.
That left the facts and Jessica herself.
And she wasn’t willing to talk. Yet.
There was only one item besides the report in the envelope—Jessica’s black leather day planner. Sam turned on his tiny flashlight and thumbed through the pages of the book. He found the addresses for her family, business cards from dealers and flea markets all across the country, and a flat, dead flower, pressed with loving regard between the last two pages of the book.
He flipped to the date he knew by heart. He found the record of her March trip to Chicago. A Thursday flight from KCI to O’Hare. Friday had “Alex” and a heart written across the top. The rest of the day had a line drawn through it. Saturday had two entries: “Eppley Estate Sale” and “Museum Fund-raiser—8 p.m.” The photo he’d seen in the newspaper must have been taken that very night, hours before her attack. Had she been abducted on her way home? Had she taken a walk to get some fresh air? And how had she gotten all the way from the fine arts museum near Lake Michigan down to the low-rent, high-crime district more than seven miles away?
It wasn’t much, but it was something. He could talk to the guests who’d attended the fund-raising event, see if any of them remembered anyone suspicious lurking around Jess. A waiter. A cabdriver.
Downplaying his disappointment that he hadn’t uncovered anything more concrete, Sam carefully replaced the planner and report and knelt down in front of the trunk at the foot of Jess’s bed. He was up to his elbows in blankets and quilts when the telephone rang.
Sam jumped inside his skin as if he’d been caught. But when he breathed out, he was calm and thinking clearly. The ringing phone served as an alarm, reminding him it was time to get out. With everything secured in its original place, he hurried down the stairs. He’d reached the armoire that divided her office space from the sales floor when the answering machine clicked on and Jess’s professional voice invited the caller to leave a message.
“Where are you, kiddo? It’s Cole.” Sam paused to eavesdrop on the strong, yet weary man’s voice. “I’m in town for the day and wanted to take my favorite sister to a late dinner. We haven’t talked for a while. I could use someone to…” Her brother hesitated, then shifted gears. “Ah, hell. You’re probably out on a date. Hopefully, with someone better than that Chicago jerk. I had a bad feeling about him the moment I laid eyes on him. But, hey, he’s history, right? I love you. Tell Ma and Dad the same. I’ll call you next time I’m around.”
The caller had disconnected and the machine was beeping by the time Sam was out on the porch, locking the door behind him.
That Chicago jerk? Interesting. What if Alex and the “jerk” were the same guy? He wondered if said jerk had hurt Jess. And Kerry. And four other innocent women.
Inside his apartment, he dug out the file photo of her from the newspaper. In the background of the picture, there was a tall man with dark hair. Sam read the caption. Alex Templeton.
He looked closer at the picture. Alex was standing in the same group with Jess, smiling for the same camera. But his arm was tucked behind the back of a cool, Nordic blonde, not Jess. The caption listed the blonde’s name as Catherine Templeton.
This was the Alex with the heart in Jess’s book?
“You son of a bitch.”
Jerk was right. Templeton sure wasn’t holding on to his sister. The creep might not be guilty of anything more than adultery, but if he had no compunction about leading a woman on, about using her…
Sam picked up his phone and put a call in to Virgil.
GERTRUDE WALLACE Kensington Kent should run for political office, thought Jessica, hiding a yawn behind her cider punch while admiring her hostess. The sixty-five-year-old woman was a force of nature. Standing tall and slender with a stunning upsweep of silver-blue hair, Trudy Kent worked the room like a pro, making her agenda clear. She wouldn’t sacrifice the natural beauty or quiet pace of small-town, country living to economic development and the population explosion of Kansas City’s suburbs.
She’d filled her Monticello-inspired home, with its stately white columns and domed roofline, with guests from all walks of life. City politicians, local farmers, small business owners like Jessica, old-money landowners and capital investors. Though ostensibly gathered to celebrate the apple crop from the Kents’ orchard, there was no mistaking the underlying message of this party.
The Kents liked things the way they were, and they were doing everything they could to keep it that way.
But Jessica had already heard the spiel and pledged her support. She, too, enjoyed country living. And she was close enough to the city to enjoy its activities and culture and opportunities, as well. Trudy had reiterated what Jessica had already promised Charles when he’d shown her the massive, colorful, indoor jungle he modestly called an arboretum. If she ever decided to sell Log Cabin Acres, she’d give the Kents the opportunity to buy it first.
There was no point in prolonging the evening. She had a long day ahead of her tomorrow since Sunday was generally her busiest time for customers. And two hours of putting on her just-like-old-times face for old friends and new acquaintances had stretched her nerves to the limit. She wouldn’t feel guilty for lying to her parents and missing her nephew’s birthday party now, but she was tired of making nice and pretending her life was normal. She wanted to go home, kick off her low-heeled sandals and relax.
The decision made, she set her cup on the tray o
f a tuxedo-clad waiter and caught Trudy’s attention as she moved from one group to the next.
“You’re not leaving us, are you?” Just as she had when she’d first greeted her, Trudy hugged Jessica and pressed her cheek to Jess’s in a lipstick-saving version of a kiss. “The night is young.”
Jessica shrugged as the older woman pulled away to adjust the sleeves of her bronze silk jacket. “I’m an old-fashioned working girl with a business to run. The customers will be there tomorrow whether I’m ready or not, and I prefer to be ready.”
“Absolutely.” Trudy linked her arm through Jessica’s and escorted her through a high, white archway into the marble-tiled foyer. “You Taylors have always had a wonderful work ethic. And you have some of the dearest, quaintest things at your shop. I still have those Polly’s Pop soda bottles I bought there. Reminds me of my childhood.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”
As they passed another archway leading to the west wing of the house where other guests had gathered in the conservatory, Trudy’s friendly tenor changed. “Charles.” It was the strict, no-arguments-allowed call of a mother to her recalcitrant child.
It made no matter that the child was thirty-six years old and engaged in a conversation with an attractive redhead. Jessica bristled right along with Charles and offered an apologetic smile as he turned to face them.
“Jessica is leaving.” Trudy stated the obvious. “You need to thank her for coming and say good-night.”
“Of course.” After the slightest of bows toward her and his mother, Charles dipped his mouth close to the ear of the auburn-haired woman and whispered. The woman laughed in response and Charles smiled. The smile stayed fixed in place as he adjusted his yellow silk tie and joined them in the foyer.