“Who would have tapped our phone?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I don’t know. Though I wouldn’t put it past Wingate to be involved in things he shouldn’t be.”
“Criminal activity?”
“Maybe.”
John’s gut tightened. “You need to hire a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard?” She scrunched up her face, as if the word tasted bad on her tongue.
He’d known she wouldn’t like the idea. But it didn’t matter. Until he knew who wanted her dead, he was damn well going to be sure she was safe.
And he couldn’t protect her himself.
He grabbed his cordless phone and glanced around the kitchen for the phone book. “I’ll call Runyon and get him on it.”
Andrea’s hand closed around his. She slipped the phone from his hand. “Why are you doing all this, John?”
His throat tightened. What could he tell her? That he was doing it because he believed her? That he was doing it because he cared? “You deserve justice. You deserve someone to fight on your behalf.”
“But why you? You’re supposed to be helping the police. You’re supposed to be prosecuting me, not coming to my rescue.”
She had it right there. As if he needed the reminder. But it didn’t matter. Somehow nothing mattered but her. “In Chicago I told you I believed in you. Well, that’s not all. I care about you, Andrea. I care what happens to you.”
Tears pooled in her eyes, turning them a watery blue.
He tried to shrug, as if his admission didn’t carry the weight she seemed to think it did, but the tension bearing down on his shoulders prevented them from moving.
“No one has ever stuck by me like you have. Not in my entire life.” Andrea leaned toward him. Her gaze held his. Her lips parted.
Heat rushed through him. Want. Need. He circled her with his arms, pulling her close. Dipping his head, he claimed her mouth with his. Her lips were soft, just as he’d known they’d be. Soft and warm and intoxicating.
When he’d told Mylinski he would stay away from her, that he wouldn’t help her any more, he’d assumed he had a choice. But looking into her eyes, feeling her warmth, tasting her lips, he realized how wrong he was. He had no choice.
Maybe he never did.
A HALF HOUR LATER, Andrea watched John over her ham sandwich. He’d insisted on feeding her again, but her stomach wasn’t having any more luck accepting food today than it had last night. And for all his talk about the importance of eating to keep up strength, John hadn’t touched his food either.
She looked out the window, trying to keep her mind off their kiss, but it was no use. She could still feel the press of his lips on hers, still taste the flavor of him. She’d never felt so warm, so safe, so at peace as she did in his arms.
And that’s what scared her.
It didn’t take much to draw parallels between the need she felt for John and the need that had led her mother to choose a man over her own daughter—the same need that had convinced Andrea to marry Wingate Kirkland.
She was lucky that kiss hadn’t gone further. John would only have had to crook his finger and she would have followed him to his bedroom. Even now the desire to kiss him again, to make love with him haunted her.
John looked up at her. Sighing, he set down his fork. “You’re about as hungry as I am, aren’t you?”
She forced a smile to her lips. “Less.”
“I keep going over the conversation I had with Al Mylinski at the police station. He’s not convinced you killed your husband.”
“He could have fooled me. He seemed to already have me tried and convicted.”
John shook his head. “Not Mylinski. He’s not one to narrow an investigation down to one suspect prematurely. Not until the evidence is in. He’s very thorough.”
“Maybe the evidence is in.”
“No. If he had enough evidence, he would have arrested you.”
“So what are you saying?”
“If we can come up with something, anything that points to the person who really killed Kirkland, I’m sure Mylinski will look into it.”
Andrea nodded. “So how do we go about doing that?”
“We figure out who has as much to gain from your husband’s death as you do. And then we find a way to prove it.”
“Whoever it is didn’t kill Wingate for his money. I’m his only beneficiary.”
“What if something happens to you?”
A shiver crept up her spine. The image of the black truck surfaced in her mind along with the crack of gunfire. “Something like being hit by a truck or a stray bullet?”
John nodded. “Or being convicted of murder. If any of those things happened, who would inherit?”
“I suppose Joyce would.”
John nodded. “Then we start with Joyce.”
Chapter Ten
Joyce’s husband, Melvin, had always struck Andrea as meek at best. But today, standing spread-legged in front of the door to block her and John from entering his house, he seemed anything but. “No, you can’t speak to her. Joyce has dealt with enough. I won’t let you put her through any more.”
John nodded, his face a mask of perfect understanding. “I know this is hard on her. But I need her help.”
“She’s helped enough. She sat in the police station all night. She’s finally sleeping. I’m not going to wake her up and let you put her through all that again.”
“I’m sure she’ll want to help, Melvin.” Andrea tried to make her voice as calm and understanding as John’s had been.
Melvin narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here? Joyce says you killed Wingate. She’s not going to be happy to see you.”
John held up a hand. “I asked Andrea to come. There are some inconsistencies between Andrea’s version of events and Joyce’s. I think we should find out if these inconsistencies point to another murderer altogether.”
Andrea gave her brother-in-law her best smile. “What do you say, Melvin? May we come in?”
Melvin’s eye twitched, a tick that showed itself whenever he was under stress, which seemed to be whenever Andrea saw the poor guy. “Absolutely not. I won’t stand—”
“Stand aside, Melvin.” Joyce’s shrill voice shattered the quiet blanketing the upscale suburban neighborhood. “I’m not afraid of that little gold digger. And if the man wants to examine inconsistencies, or whatever his line of bull is, I’m more than happy to oblige.”
Melvin shrank back into the house.
John stood to the side and allowed Andrea to squeeze past him and through the door. She caught the essence of cinnamon, musk and male, the scent bringing back the feel of his embrace this morning. The taste of his kiss. A tremor fluttered in the vicinity of her stomach. What she wouldn’t give to stop in her tracks, to lean against him, to soak up his strength instead of standing on her own.
She couldn’t do that. Besides, if she didn’t find some evidence that someone besides her killed Wingate, she wouldn’t have to worry about standing on her own. She’d be spending the rest of her days behind bars.
She forced her feet to move past him and into an entry hall the size of a small ballroom. Looking up to the sweeping staircase, she met the daggers in Joyce’s gaze.
Her sister-in-law descended the staircase and shifted her attention to John. “Now what lies of hers did you want me to refute?”
Andrea pressed her lips into a tense smile. After six years as Wingate’s wife, she should be immune to Joyce’s venom. She wasn’t.
John focused on Joyce. “You mentioned you just returned from Paris. What day was that?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Wednesday.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Of course. I keep telling myself if I’d only come home Monday as I’d originally planned, maybe I could have prevented what happened to Wingate.”
“And how would you have done that?”
“I visit my brother often. If I had been at the estate, she co
uldn’t have killed him. I would have stopped her.” She turned a glare on Andrea.
“How do you know when your brother was killed?”
Joyce’s gaze snapped back to John. “I—I guess I don’t.”
“Then how do you know that you could have prevented his death if you had come home two days earlier?”
She glanced around the room, seemingly at a loss to explain.
“Do you have your plane ticket handy?”
“Why? You want to check the date? You can believe me. It was Wednesday.”
John wrinkled his brow. “Well, I’m afraid that doesn’t make sense. At Wingate Estate last night, you said you’d voted for Dex Harrington. I believe you said you went into the voting booth and marked your ballot for him. The election was Tuesday. How did you go into the voting booth and mark your ballot for him if you were still in Paris?”
“I—” Joyce looked around the room.
“She filled in an absentee ballot, Mr. Cohen. You have heard of those?” Melvin narrowed his already beady eyes and stepped up behind his wife.
“I’ve never heard of them being marked while in a voting booth, Mr. Pratt.”
“It’s merely an expression. Nothing more.”
“Really?”
“Really. I picked up Joyce at the airport. I saw her get off the plane. She returned home last Wednesday.”
John held up his hands, as if surrendering. “Not a problem. I’m sure the airline records and the voter registration rolls will back up your story. A couple of subpoenas should answer any questions.”
Melvin’s hands balled into fists by his sides. “Even if voter registration shows Joyce was in town last Tuesday, it proves nothing.”
“Maybe not. But it is an inconsistency I’m sure the police will be interested in following up.”
Hands on her hips, Joyce stared down at them from where she’d stopped on the third step. “You tell the police they shouldn’t be spending their time on ridiculous things like that. They should be putting her behind bars.” Joyce swung her attention to Andrea, her lips pulling back from her straight, white teeth in a snarl. “You’re in more trouble than you know.”
Andrea forced herself to meet Joyce’s stare. “Is that a threat, Joyce?”
“Not a threat. A promise. You never should have killed Wingate. Now you’re done for. Your life of luxury is over. Now your gravy train has run out.”
John glanced from Andrea to Joyce. “How is that so? I was under the impression Kirkland left his entire estate to Andrea.”
A smile curled Joyce’s lips. “Maybe he did, but she isn’t going to be able to touch it. The police have frozen Win’s assets. Did you know that? I heard it while I was at the police station.”
Andrea raised her chin. “I’ve never cared about Wingate’s assets, Joyce. Why should I start caring now?”
“Why? Because lawyers cost money. A lot of it.”
Realization ripped through Andrea like a bullet. Joyce was right. For once in her life, she really did need Wingate’s money. Without it, she’d have no lawyer. And without a lawyer, she’d have no defense. She turned to John. “Is it true? Can they freeze Win’s assets so I can’t pay for my defense?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Joyce snapped. She circled her arm in Melvin’s. “I talked to my lawyer this morning, too. No matter what the police do, we’re contesting the will. My lawyers won’t let you spend a dime of that money until the court can decide who it really belongs to. Unless Win stashed away some money no one knows anything about, you’ve finally reached the end of your little game.”
ANDREA GATHERED her coat tightly around her neck and struggled to keep her steps even as she and John escaped from Joyce and Melvin’s house. She couldn’t stop shivering. Moisture hung in the air, penetrating her coat. The wind held the scent of snow on the way. But nothing could match the chill of Joyce’s accusations that she wanted Wingate’s money. Nothing could match it, because after all these years, her accusations were finally true.
Although she’d stashed some money away to start a new life, it wasn’t nearly enough to pay for a murder defense. She didn’t have to know a lot about the legal system to know that good lawyers cost good money. A lot of it. Only Wingate’s fortune could finance the kind of defense she needed.
The irony lodged like a lump in her throat. She’d always told people she didn’t want Wingate’s money. But now…now she’d be forced to fight for it. Either that or she’d have to rely on an overworked public defender. And with the way evidence seemed to be stacking up against her, that would probably mean she could kiss her freedom goodbye.
Unless Win stashed away some money no one knows anything about… Joyce’s comment rang in Andrea’s ears. Her head pounded. She held her hand to her forehead.
“Are you all right?” John touched her shoulder.
What she wouldn’t give to lean against him, to let his warmth wrap around her, to let his caring wipe the bitter memories away.
Memories.
She closed her eyes tight. Shadowy images played across her mind. Wingate in his study. Wingate arguing. Wingate standing near the wall behind his desk. Wingate closing…
“A safe. Wingate has a safe in the house.”
“Where?”
“It’s in his study. He was closing it that night. I walked in on him after dinner.”
John grabbed her arms and turned her to face him. “What else do you remember?”
Her head felt as though it would split apart. Leafless trees swam in her vision. She gritted her teeth. “The safe, it’s in the wall.”
“Was anyone else there? Did you see anyone else?”
She tried to open her mind wider. Sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Her head throbbed. Nausea swirled in her stomach, almost doubling her over. She leaned against John, his solidness, his warmth. Gradually the headache faded, the memory dimming along with it. “It’s no use. I can’t remember.”
John waved a hand. “It’s not important.” His words fell flat.
A hollow ache settled into Andrea’s chest. He was trying to make her feel better. He might as well not have wasted the words. It was important. To her. And also to John. Vitally important. But try as she might, she couldn’t cut through the fog. She couldn’t see what had happened that night. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We have more to go on now than we had just a few minutes ago.” He opened the passenger door of his car and supported her as she ducked inside. Once she’d settled into the seat and strapped on her belt, he gave her a determined smile. “Let’s go find that safe.”
IF BUILDINGS could talk, John had no doubt the old mansion that was the heart of Wingate Estate would sound as pompous and self-important as it looked. It was certainly a grand old house. From the crystal chandeliers and marble floors of the ballroom-sized foyer to the three-story window overlooking rolling hills to the enormous garage, the place oozed money and classic luxury. But instead of the gleaming show-place it was meant to be, the place looked a bit dirty around the edges. The after effects of two days of crime scene technicians and police dusting the place with fingerprint powder and combing every inch of the twelve-thousand-square-foot mansion.
John turned to Andrea. He could only imagine what she was feeling. Even her home resembled the wreckage her life had become. “I’m sorry about the mess. The police are pretty careful, but things still…”
She dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. “No need to apologize. The house was Wingate’s. Not mine.”
The house wasn’t hers, the apartment in Chicago wasn’t hers. “Was there anything in your life that was yours?”
One corner of her lips curled into a half smile. “There’s a cabin up north. Wingate only used it once in a while during hunting season, so I fixed it up the way I wanted it. It’s small by Kirkland standards, but it’s cozy. The only place that ever felt like home.”
He nodded. At least she had someplace, something. At least her life wasn’t as desolate as his.<
br />
At least, as his had been until he met her.
Memories of the taste of her lips, the softness of her skin, the scent of her hair niggled at the back of his mind. He wanted to pull her into his life for good, to let her make a difference in his life—permanently.
He blew a stream of air through tight lips. Too bad things didn’t work that way. He of all people should know that. As soon as he started to expect too much, to want too much, he was disappointed. Betrayed.
The only sure thing in life besides death and taxes.
Andrea stopped in front of a pair of rich cherry pocket doors. “This is it. Wingate’s study.” Careful not to get her hands in the black powder dusting the door’s handles, she slid back one of the doors.
If the rest of the place looked disordered by the police’s and crime scene unit’s presence, this room was a war zone. Furniture scattered the periphery, books tipped on shelves and lay in piles and black fingerprint powder coated everything from door knobs to desk. The bare hardwood floor lay exposed where the rug had once been. Several planks had actually been removed, leaving a gaping wound.
And in the center of the mess stood the housekeeper, Marcella Hernandez.
“Marcella,” Andrea said.
Kirkland’s housekeeper gasped in a breath and whirled around. “Dios mio. Missus, what are you doing here?” Crow’s feet fanned out from narrowed eyes. The gentle lines of her face deepened in a frown.
John leveled an all-business stare at the woman. “We could ask you the same question, Marcella.”
“I am cleaning up. Those police, they left a mess.” She gestured to the disarray as if they might not have noticed.
The scene had just been released by the police, and already she was here to clean up? Either she was the most efficient housekeeper in the state, or she was here for a different reason.
“Why are you here?” Marcella asked anxiously.
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