"Pizza's ordered. Be here in twenty-five minutes," Jace called just before he came out of the kitchen.
Marcy and Aaron jumped apart as if they'd been caught on the verge of committing a crime. Heat rose up from inside Marcy, flushing her face, creating moisture on her upper lip and between her breasts. When Jace walked into the living room, she forced a casual smile.
"Why don't you see if you can find us something to watch on TY" Marcy said. "I'm going to change into my sweats. Be right back."
She practically ran out of the room, but not before she caught a quick glimpse of Aaron, who had the oddest expression on his face. Whatever he was thinking, however he was feeling had to be a jumble of thoughts and emotions as crazy as hers. He had to know that things would never be the same between them. Not after he'd all but come out and said he wanted her. Wanted her the way a man wants a woman. At twenty-eight, she should be sexually experienced; but she wasn't. Of course, she wasn't a virgin either. Her own father had sexually abused her from the time she was eleven until she ran away from home at sixteen. She hadn't seen either of her parents since and a part of her hoped they were both dead. She blamed her mother as much as her father for those years of abuse because her mother had known and done nothing to stop it. And although she'd been halfway in love with Quinn since he'd rescued her and helped her turn her life around there had never been anything of a sexual nature between them.
Once inside her bedroom, she went straight into the connecting three-quarter bath, turned on the faucets and filled her cupped hands with cold water. After splashing her face several times, she yanked a hand towel from the rack and patted her skin dry. Lifting her gaze, she stared at herself in the mirror.
"How do you feel about Aaron?" she asked herself aloud.
You quivered inside when he touched you. Got butterflies in your tummy and your heart beat ninety to nothing. And when you thought he was going to kiss you, you didn't try to turn away from him. Did you want him to kiss you?
"Yes," she told the image staring at her from the mirror. "Yes, I wanted him to kiss me."
Quinn hadn't spoken a word to her since they drove away from Kendall Wells's house and headed away from South Bluff. His big hands gripped the Porsche's steering wheel forcefully. With his jaw taut and his eyes glued to the road ahead Annabelle more than sensed his anxiety—she actually felt the edgy unease radiating from him. Alone with him in the semi-dark confinement of his car, she wondered what had possessed her to come to his rescue, to whisk him away from what she perceived as harm's way. Yes, it was in her nature to be a protector, a caretaker, to soothe and nurture. But why Quinn Cortez of all people?
Have you forgotten that he's a suspect in Lulu's murder?
No, she hadn't forgotten. And for all she knew, he might wind up being a suspect in Kendall Wells's death, also. But every instinct within her told her that this man was no murderer.
Was she a fool to trust her own instincts when everything feminine within her was drawn to all that was masculine in Quinn? She had never been so physically captivated by a man, so sexually enticed, so emotionally connected. These odd yet powerful feelings confused her. How could she be so strongly attracted to a man who was not only a stranger, but possibly a dangerous stranger? A wise woman would steer clear of him or at the very least learn everything she could about him before she disregarded common sense. If she asked Griffin Powell for a condensed report on Quinn, enough to give her some insight into who the man really was, would he share that information with her?
When Annabelle realized how close they were to her hotel, she felt a strange urgency to keep Quinn with her. Do something, she told herself. Don't let him drop you off and drive away.
She said the first thing that popped into her mind. "You don't suppose Griffin might have a report for us by now, do you?"
Quinn let out a long, deep breath as if her breaking the silence eased some kind of ache trapped inside him. "I doubt it. Nothing that would actually help us."
"We could call him," Annabelle said. "Or just drop by his suite."
Quinn pulled the Porsche up to the front entrance of the Peabody. "If you don't want me to leave, just say so." Turning to face her, he draped his arm over the passenger seat and leaned toward her.
Annabelle's breath caught in her throat. "I don't want you to leave."
Squinting his dark eyes into mere slits, he studied her, his gaze raking over her face with pensive intensity. "I'm trouble, honey. Bad trouble. Trouble with a capital T. Are you sure you can handle me?"
With her nerves quivering and her femininity clenching, she shook her head. "When it comes to you, Mr. Cortez, I'm not sure of anything."
* * *
Wythe rushed out of the elevator and ran down the corridor to the apartment that Vanderley, Inc. maintained in Memphis. His pulse raced. His heart was practically jumping out of his chest. When he tried to unlock the door, his hand shook so badly that he nearly dropped the key.
God what if someone had recognized him? If anyone found out where he'd been and what he'd done—no, he couldn't let that happen. He'd been discreet, taken every precaution. But what if the police were already involved?
Finally managing to insert the key, he unlocked the door, opened it and hurried into the apartment. Thank God Annabelle hadn't stayed here with him; otherwise she'd be here now and might suspect what he'd done.
Wythe locked the door behind him and went straight to the bathroom. He needed to shower and get rid of his clothes. He'd send them to the cleaners first thing in the morning. Just in case. No point taking any chances.
Once he had stripped and stood under the delicious warm water, he sighed. She wouldn't identify him. He'd made sure of that. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He never meant to hurt any of them. But sometimes he simply couldn't stop himself.
Griffin Powell stared at the faxes in his hand. A gnawing sense of unease spread through him as he considered the implications of the information in both faxes. It was too soon to jump to conclusions, not without more facts. Initially, he'd put three of his best people on this job, investigating Lulu Vanderley's murder at the same time the Memphis PD was scrambling to find and arrest her killer. His people understood how important it was to stay just under law enforcement's radar whenever possible. It was counterproductive to step on John Law's toes. The Powell agency didn't actually work with the law, but rather alongside it and never in opposition. He scanned the first fax sent from his Knoxville office. If this was true, then Wythe Vanderley was a real sicko. Griffin grunted. He had no sympathy for sexual predators, no matter how mentally ill they might be or how badly they might have once been abused themselves. He was a man who believed in basic, ancient principles. Some people didn't deserve to live. If he had his way, sexual perverts would be wiped off the face of the earth. And if half of what his investigators had discovered about Wythe Vanderley was true . . .
There was no point in confronting Annabelle with these findings. Not yet. It was possible she had no idea what kind of man her cousin Wythe actually was. But she had vacated Vanderley Inc.'s executive apartment as soon as Wythe had moved in, so that had to mean something.
Griffin put the second fax atop the first. This was the one that filled his mind with questions. Questions he wanted answered. Questions it would take more than three investigators to track down and unearth the answers to.
If the MO wasn't identical and if Quinn Cortez wasn't involved, he could chalk it up to coincidence. One of the things he'd told his crew at Knoxville headquarters to do was start searching for any other murders similar to Lulu Vanderley's, starting with Tennessee and working out to surrounding states.
New Orleans lounge singer Joy Ellis had been murdered in her apartment. Smothered to death. No report of rape or any physical violence, other than what it took to subdue her. And no evidence leading to a suspect. Another investigative team might not have dug any deeper, but that's why his agency was the best. They always went one step furth
er. Far enough in this case to learn that the lady's right index finger had been severed. Postmortem. A fact never released to the press.
Griffin huffed. Damn, Quinn, if you knew about this, why didn't you tell me? By hiring me, you had to know I'd find out. That fact led Griffin to believe there was a good chance Quinn had no idea that Joy Ellis, the woman with whom he'd shared a very brief affair when he'd vacationed in New Orleans almost a year ago, had been murdered the day he left town.
Was it possible Quinn killed both Lulu and Joy?
Griffin survived by his instincts. They had kept him alive in numerous dangerous circumstances. He never ignored what he felt in his gut. And his gut told him Quinn Cortez was capable of killing, just as he was, just as most people were, given the right set of circumstances. But unless he'd badly misjudged the guy, Griffin didn't believe Cortez was a murderer.
"Excuse me, sir." Sanders stood in the doorway to his bedroom.
"Yes, what is it?" Griffin kept his back to his old friend.
"You should turn on the television. They've interrupted local broadcasting to go live to the scene of a murder in the South Bluff area."
Griffin glanced over his shoulder at Sanders. The man never made idle requests. Griffin nodded then walked over, picked up the remote control and turned on the power to the television.
"Channel three. WREG's late night news."
He clicked in the number, then focused on the screen.
"The police have not commented on any details of the murder," the reporter said. "We've been told that Director of Police Jay Danley will issue a statement in approximately an hour. This is the second murder of a well-known and highly respected Memphis resident in seventy-two hours and speculation is running high as to whether or not there is a connection, considering renowned trial lawyer Quinn Cortez was involved with both women."
A tight knot formed in Griffin's gut. He cast Sanders a Goddamn-it glance before returning his attention to the television screen.
"Kendall Wells was Mr. Cortez's lawyer and it's rumored the two have been close personal friends for a number of years," the reporter continued.
Griffin clicked the off button, dropped the remote onto the coffee table and stomped across the room to the telephone. As he dialed the number, he looked at Sanders. "See if you can get in touch with Cortez. I want to see him. Tonight."
"Yes, sir."
Griffin nodded, then when the office manager for Powell Investigations answered her home phone, Griffin said, "This is Griffin Powell. Hunt down Ben Sullivan and tell him to contact me ASAP. I need half a dozen more investigators on the Cortez/Vanderley case and I need them on it yesterday."
"Yes, sir. I'll find Mr. Sullivan and give him your message. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Powell?"
"Not unless you're psychic, Charisse, and can tell me if one of my clients is a murderer."
Chapter 14
As they started to enter the elevator at the Peabody to go up to Annabelle's suite, Quinn's cell phone rang. She tensed. Flush with the anxiety of admitting to Quinn and to herself that there was something sexual between them, Annabelle tried not to think about what lay ahead for them tonight. The rational part of her mind warned her that she shouldn't become just one more of Quinn Cortez's women, that their becoming lovers was an unwise course of action. But the purely emotional part of her that acted and reacted on gut instinct rather than pure logic wanted this man as she'd never wanted another.
Quinn whipped his cell phone from his pocket. "I have to take this call."
Pausing at his side, Annabelle nodded then glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby, either hotel employees or guests. Oddly enough, they seemed to be all alone, as if they were the only two people on earth. Crazy notion.
Quinn answered the phone call. "Cortez here."
Noticing Quinn's frown, Annabelle assumed the call wasn't good news. But then how could there be any good news, considering two women—both important in Quinn's life— had been murdered in the past seventy-two hours?
"Yeah, Marcy. Thanks for passing along the message. I'm at the Peabody now, with Annabelle Vanderley. We'll go straight to Mr. Powell's suite." Quinn nipped his cell phone closed and shoved it back into his coat pocket.
"We're going to see Griffin?" Annabelle asked.
Quinn grasped her arm and herded her into the elevator, then punched the number for Griffin's floor. "That was my assistant, Marcy, on the phone." Quinn slipped his arm around Annabelle and maneuvered her so that she faced him. When she looked up at him, he said, "I suppose Griffin has heard about Kendall. No doubt it's on the local newscasts."
"Tell him you didn't kill Kendall and he'll believe you." Just as I believe you. Or at least, I desperately want to believe you. I will not allow myself to think that a man I'm so strongly attracted to could be a murderer.
"Do you believe me? Can you honestly tell me that you know"—he gently tapped her in the center of her chest— "deep down inside, that I didn't kill either Lulu or Kendall?"
Annabelle's mouth gaped open, the words caught in her throat. In that moment of hesitation, Quinn released his hold on her and his facial expression hardened. She wouldn't lie to him.
Before she could think of an acceptable response, the elevator stopped and a middle-aged couple holding hands smiled at them. "Going down?" the man asked.
"Going up," Quinn replied, then hit the close button and within seconds, the elevator continued its ascent.
"I don't think you killed Lulu or Kendall," Annabelle said softly. "Is there even the slightest bit of doubt in my mind? Yes, of course there is. I don't know you. Not really. We're little more than strangers. You could be hiding all kinds of deep, dark secrets and I'd have no way of knowing."
"I told you before we got out of the car a few minutes ago that I'm trouble. My track record with women is abysmal and I'll be the first to admit it. There has never been one special woman in my life. That's not my thing. Commitment. Fidelity."
"I already figured that out about you."
"Yeah, sure." Quinn's grimace conveyed his barely controlled anger. "As for deep dark secrets . . . I've never killed anybody. Although when I was thirteen, I came damn near close to beating the hell out a guy. You see, I had a shit childhood. No father and a worthless bitch mother. When mama dearest's latest boyfriend tried to beat the crap out of her, I stepped in and did to him what he'd been trying to do to her."
"I'd say you were justified in what you did. After all, you were defending your mother."
The elevator stopped on Griffin Powell's floor. Quinn's gaze locked with Annabelle's. "I'll bet your mother was as beautiful and elegant as you are," he said. "And I'll bet she loved you more than anything and was very proud of you."
Tears born of tender sympathy filled Annabelle's eyes.
"Don't cry for me, honey," Quinn said. "It would be a waste."
Blinking several times to dissipate the tears, Annabelle wanted to put her arms around Quinn, hold him and tell him whatever it was that he needed to hear. All those things his mother apparently never told him. That he was special. Handsome. Smart. And loved.
But she didn't love him. She couldn't love him. She didn't even know him.
When Quinn stepped out of the elevator, Annabelle joined him in the corridor. He grasped her arm and said "Why don't you go to your suite and let me see Griffin Powell alone? I'll call you in the morning."
She shook her head. "I'm involved in your life now, whether I want to be or not. We're partners in hiring Griffin and we're . . . well, we're something. Not friends."
"And not lovers. Not yet. And if you're smart, you'll get the hell away from me and stay away."
"If you try this hard to run off every woman you meet, then I'm amazed that you consider yourself such a Don Juan."
"Don't say I didn't warn you." Quinn slid his hand beneath her elbow and guided her down the corridor to Griffin's suite.
He knocked; they waited.
"
You should ask Griffin to let you see the report he has on me," Quinn said. "I'll give him permission to let you read it. If that doesn't make you run from me as far and as fast as you can, then nothing will."
A tall, muscular man with a shaved head and pensive dark eyes opened the door to Griffin Powell's suite. On first sight, the man was intimidating, but the minute his wide mouth curved slightly into a semi-smile, he seemed a little more welcoming.
"I'm Quinn Cortez and this is Annabelle Vanderley. I believe Mr. Powell is expecting me."
"Yes, sir, he is. Please come in."
Once they entered the suite, the man announced them. Was he Griffin's servant? she wondered. Odd that she hadn't met him before now, but perhaps he had just arrived in Memphis.
As they walked toward the lounge area, Quinn ran his fingers beneath the high collar of his lightweight turtleneck sweater. Was he nervous? Was he concerned about why Griffin had requested his presence?
Griffin stood with his back to the windows. When they approached him, he turned, came forward and instructed them to sit. "Would either of you care for something to drink?"
"No, thank you," Annabelle replied as she took a seat.
Quinn shook his head.
"I guess you heard about what happened to Kendall," Quinn said standing face-to-face with Griffin.
"Oh, yes," Griffin replied. "It's already on the local TV news and I'm sure her murder will make the front-page headlines in tomorrow's Commercial Appeal."
"Before you ask—no, I didn't kill her."
Clenching his teeth, Griffin glowered at Quinn. "It looks bad for you. Two of your lovers have been murdered in the span of seventy-two hours. I imagine that, as with Lulu's murder, you're the number one suspect in this one, too. How does that make you feel?"
Annabelle held her breath as she studied the two powerful men, gazes melded, bodies battle-station ready. Don't do this to him, she wanted to tell Griffin, but remained silent. She instinctively knew that Quinn wouldn't appreciate her coming to his defense. Not in this situation.
Killing Her Softly Page 17