Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  Moaning, she ran her hands underneath the back of his T-shirt and caressed his waist before moving all the way up to his shoulder blades.

  "I want to make love to you," he whispered in her ear as he maneuvered one hand up and around to cover her left breast. "I've wanted that for a long time."

  "I—I think I want that, too," she said breathlessly be­tween kisses. "But you have to know that I don't love you . . . that it's Quinn I really want."

  "Yeah, I figured that out already."

  He eased her pajama bottoms down over her hips and legs. When they pooled around her feet, she kicked them aside and inserted her fingers inside the waistband of his pa­jamas.

  "I haven't been with anybody," she said. "I mean . . . I'm not a virgin, but I'm not experienced."

  "If I do anything you don't like, just tell me." He removed his pajama bottoms, then bent down and lifted her up by her waist. She wrapped her legs around his hips as he walked them over to her bed.

  "Aaron?"

  "Huh?" He lowered her slowly, easing over her, his knees straddling her hips.

  "I really do want you." She emphasized the word you.

  "It's okay, honey. If you want to pretend I'm Quinn, I won't mind. Not this first time."

  And before she could respond he inserted a couple of fin­gers into her, testing her readiness. She wasn't gushing, but she was wet. Wet enough. Hurriedly, he licked one nipple and then the other, smiling when both instantly went pebble hard.

  He quickly reached out and yanked his shaving kit toward him, then unzipped the pouch and removed a condom. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so eager. In sec­onds, he was ready. God, was he ready!

  Grasping her hips, he lifted her up and forcefully thrust into her. She was tight and hot, her body gripping him. A humming sound vibrated in the back of her throat. He waited, making sure she was all right with what had happened and when she began moving, pushing herself upward, urging him into movement, he retreated, then lunged again. And again. She caught on fast, her upward and his downward thrusts in perfect unison.

  For a fairly inexperienced woman, she was wild, as if she couldn't get enough of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that it wasn't him she was fucking; it was Quinn. And when she came, moaning, groaning and cry­ing softly, it was Quinn's name she whispered in his ear. But he didn't care. Not now. Not when release was so close.

  And then he came, his juice shooting out and filling the condom. No matter what name she called out this time, next time the only man on her mind and in her heart—the only name on her lips—would be Aaron Tully.

  Shocked at the news of Joy Ellis's murder, Quinn felt as if he'd been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. He and Joy had spent only a few days together—wild, fun hours similar to ones he'd spent with dozens of other women. Nothing more. Nothing less. When he met her at the club where she worked, she had told him that she had recently ended a two-year relationship and wasn't looking for anything more than a few laughs and some hot sex. Now nearly a year since he'd been with her, he remembered little about her, except she'd been a bosomy redhead with a loud laugh.

  "You're telling me that three women with whom I've had affairs are dead, all three murdered in the same way." Quinn's stomach knotted and sour bile burned his throat. "And Joy's and Lulu's right index fingers were cut off."

  Something odd was going on, something he didn't under­stand. He hadn't killed Lulu or Kendall and he'd had no idea that Joy was dead.

  "Exactly when was Joy murdered?" he asked.

  "The day you left town," Griffin said. "According to what my detectives found out, her estimated time of death was ac­tually a couple of hours before you flew out of New Orleans that morning, so unless you have an alibi for those few hours . . ."

  "I don't remember right offhand" Quinn said. "Hell, man, that was nearly a year ago. And I was on vacation. I drank more than usual, parried more than usual and to be honest, I kept a perpetual hangover for days, something I seldom allow to happen."

  "If you were drunk, is it possible that you could have done something and not remembered it?" Griffin looked right at Quinn as if daring him to lie.

  "Anything's possible, but I'm telling you that I didn't kill Joy. Yes, I did spend some time with her the night before I flew back to Houston, but I left her apartment around dawn. I took a cab back to my hotel and grabbed a few hours of sleep before going to the airport. I remember that much."

  "Were you alone in your hotel room?"

  "Yes."

  "And Joy Ellis was still alive when you left her?"

  "Of course she was." Quinn glanced at Annabelle who sat perfectly still and quiet, her face pale, her expression strained. Did she believe he was a murderer? Had learning about Joy Ellis's death given her second thoughts about his innocence in Lulu's and Kendall's murders?

  Please, honey, please don't lose faith in me.

  Griffin turned to Annabelle. "Do you still want to be part­ners with Quinn? I've put half a dozen investigators on this case and that's going to cost a lot of money. Are you willing to split the tab with him or do you want to pull out now?"

  "I'll pay for everything," Quinn said. "You keep digging, keep looking for the person or persons who killed Lulu and Kendall. And Joy."

  "Cortez, you're either an innocent man or you've got a split personality. Or you're doing your best to play me like a fiddle." Griffin studied Quinn, apparently trying to figure out which scenario fit.

  "I don't want out," Annabelle said her voice raspy soft as if she were on the verge of crying. "Do whatever it takes, spend as much as necessary, but find out who killed Lulu."

  Griffin nodded. "I think we have one killer, not two or three. From what we can find out, the MO is the same. All three women were smothered with a pillow and we know two had their right index fingers removed postmortem. There was no evidence of sexual assault and no signs of other injuries. It's as if the killer didn't want to hurt these women. He just wanted to kill them gently. Their physical appearances varied as did their backgrounds and ages. Lulu was only twenty-seven, never married a slender blonde and a filthy rich heiress who hadn't done an honest day's work in her life. Kendall was in her mid-forties, a trim brunette, divorced and a partner in a Memphis law firm. Joy Ellis was thirty-six, a buxom red­headed nightclub singer, divorced and had a thirteen-year-old daughter living with her father. The only apparent connec­tion among the three women is you, Cortez. You seem to be the common denominator."

  "I didn't know Joy had a child." Quinn rubbed the back of his neck as he paced about in the lounge area. In retrospect, he realized that he usually didn't waste time getting ac­quainted with most of the women he screwed. Kendall had been different only because they'd known each other for years.

  "I work for you, Cortez," Griffin said. "And as a general rule, I don't volunteer information about my clients to any­one else, including the police. But in this case, I also work for Annabelle." He focused on her. "Do you want me to con­tact the police and tell them what I know about Joy Ellis?"

  Quinn felt as if an invisible noos8 had just been draped around his neck and Annabelle alone could decide whether to keep the rope loose or to hang him with it.

  "Don't put her in that position," Quinn said. "Call Lieutenant Norton and tell him everything."

  "No!" Annabelle shot up off the sofa and looked back and forth between Quinn and Griffin. "Not yet. You know that once the police learn another woman Quinn knew was mur­dered, they're going to think he's guilty of all three crimes."

  "And you don't think he is?" Griffin asked.

  Quinn held his breath, waiting for her response. He couldn't remember the last time a woman's answer to any question had meant so much to him. But this was no ordinary ques­tion and Annabelle Vanderley was definitely no ordinary woman. He couldn't explain even to himself what it was about her that affected him so strongly. Yes, he wanted to screw her. But there was more to it than that. Exactly what, he wasn't sure. But he did know one t
hing—he desperately wanted her to believe in him.

  "No, I don't think he killed Lulu or either of the other women." With tears in her eyes, she looked at Quinn and their gazes melded together.

  "I agree with you," Griffin said. "Going strictly by my gut instinct, I don't think he killed any of them. And my instinct and experience also tells me that these three women might not be the only three."

  "What?" The question came simultaneously from Annabelle and Quinn.

  "That's one reason I've put extra personnel on this case," Griffin told them. "I have a feeling we might be dealing with a serial killer."

  "Then maybe you should tell the police." Annabelle moved toward Quinn.

  "Not yet. It's just a theory," Griffin said. "I need evidence. And we want something that will point the finger away from Quinn, not toward him. No pun intended."

  Relief washed over Quinn in gentle, soothing waves. Not only did Annabelle believe him, but so did Griffin. Together they could fight the accusations with the truth, whatever that truth might be. All that mattered was that someone else had killed those women—three of his lovers—and they had to find this person and prove what he'd done.

  Quinn took Annabelle's hand in his. Standing at his side, the two of them facing Griffin together, she squeezed Quinn's hand.

  "If your theory is right and there have been more women murdered by this one person, what are the odds that it'll turn out to be a coincidence that three of them were my former lovers?" Quinn asked.

  "If my theory is correct, then every murder victim—be it three or thirty—will have been one of your former lovers."

  "You think someone is killing women who have been sex­ually involved with Quinn?" Annabelle frowned. "But why would—"

  "At this point, it's only a theory," Griffin said. "The killer could be female, someone wanting to eliminate what she perceives as the competition. Or if the killer is male, and se­rial killers usually are, he could be motivated by some warped sense of jealousy or revenge."

  "We won't go to the police with any information until you can either prove or disprove your theory, right?" Annabelle's question sounded more like a command.

  "Right." Griffin looked directly at Quinn. "It would help if you could give me a list of the women you've been in­volved with in the past couple of years. We'll start with the most recent and work our way back. If my theory is correct, there will be a starting point somewhere. A year ago . . . two years ago . . . five years ago."

  Five years ago? Surely not. That could mean countless women. No, if that many of his former lovers had been mur­dered that fact would have surfaced before now. As far as recit­ing a list of his former lovers' names in front of Annabelle—that was the last thing Quinn wanted to do. Besides, if he had to go back further than a couple of years, he doubted he'd re­member most of them by name. Calculating quickly in his mind he counted two women this year. Only two. Lulu and Kendall. And last year? Joy Ellis, then the Parisian model, Claudette, when he'd gone to France in May. After that came Carta, an interior designer from Houston. He'd met Lulu at Thanksgiving last year and began an on-again/off-again af­fair. Only four women last year. He was slowing down. There had been a time when he easily went through at least a dozen or more in a year.

  Not wanting to name names in front of Annabelle, Quinn gave Griffin a help-me-out-here look, which prompted Grif­fin to say, "Why don't you go over to the desk and write down the names for me. In the meantime, I'll make a phone call to a friend of mine, a Chattanooga lawyer who will prob­ably be willing to come to Memphis to represent you as a favor to me."

  Quinn stared quizzically at Griffin. "Who's your Chatta­nooga lawyer friend?"

  "Judd Walker."

  "I figured as much. He and I locked horns several years ago when he worked in the Chattanooga DA's office. He's not going to want to represent me. I actually thought of Judd then I decided I needed a Memphis lawyer ASAP and called Kendall."

  "He's the best Tennessee has to offer," Griffin said. "And he owes me a favor."

  "And you're willing to call in that favor for me?"

  Griffin chuckled. "Not only that, but I'm going to contact an old buddy of mine who just happens to be on the Memphis police force and is the lead detective on the two murder cases. Jimmy Norton and 1 played ball together at UT."

  "Lieutenant Norton is an old teammate of yours?" Annabelle released a delayed gasp of surprise.

  "When this is all over, I'm going to owe you big time," Quinn said.

  "Yeah, you will," Griffin replied. "And someday I may call in that marker. But for now, write down those names for me while I make a couple of phone calls."

  Quinn knew what he had to do. The honorable thing where Annabelle was concerned. "While we're both busy, how about giving Annabelle that basic report you had compiled on me," Quinn said.

  "You want her to read that report?"

  Quinn nodded.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure." He squeezed Annabelle's hand, then released it and walked away from her, toward the desk.

  "I'll get the report for you," Griffin told her, then left the room.

  Annabelle laid the file folder on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Taking a deep breath, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Although the Powell Agency's report was brief—only three pages—it was a precise, condensed version of Quinn Cortez's life from birth to the present. A poor kid who grew up on the streets of San Antonio, a half-Mexican delinquent who stayed in trouble from the age of ten until he wound up in Houston and was arrested for va­grancy. He'd been sixteen at the time. A runaway with no place to go. A renowned Houston judge, Harwood Brown, who had a reputation for saving teens in trouble, had helped Quinn turn his life around in a few short years. After law school and passing the bar, he'd been a street-smart, power and money hungry young lawyer, willing to do whatever it took to succeed. And succeed he had. He was considered one of the top criminal lawyers in the country and his astro­nomical fees had made him a multimillionaire.

  Quinn had won ninety-five percent of his cases and had a reputation that made other lawyers quake in their boots. And on a personal level, he was known as a Latin lover, a lady-killer, a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy. He'd never been married or engaged. Not even close.

  So this was the man she had chosen to believe in, to trust, to stand by his side against all odds. What made her think that he wasn't using her as he had used so many other women?

  "Are you okay?" Quinn asked as he rose from the chair across the room and laid the list he'd written out for Griffin on the desk.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. "How many women are there on that list?"

  He picked it up, walked across the room and handed it to her. When she took the list, her hand quivered just the slight­est bit.

  She glanced at the sheet of paper. Five names in all. Five lovers since January of last year. A hysterical giggle bubbled up inside her. She'd had three lovers in the past eleven years. Hell, she'd had a total of three lovers in her whole life and one of those—the only one who had counted—had been her fiancé, a man she had dearly loved. That giddy chuckle in­side her erupted suddenly, vocalizing as a squeaky laugh.

  "Annabelle . . . honey . . . ?"

  "You don't owe me any explanations. You've been com­pletely honest with me and I appreciate that fact." After handing the list back to him, she clasped her hands together and held them in her lap, then stared downward avoiding making direct eye contact with him. "I'm going to return the favor. You need to under-stand something about me." She paused gathering up her courage. "I hate myself for being attracted to you. You're not the type of man I would choose to become involved with and even though I do believe you didn't kill Lulu, I don't entirely trust you. You could very easily break my heart."

  Quinn knelt in front of her and grasped her hands. "Look at me, honey."

  She forced herself to do as he'd requested. When their gazes met, she clenched her teeth tightly and willed herself no
t to cry. Right now she wanted him to hold her, to swear to her that she had nothing to fear from him, that what he felt for her was different from anything he'd ever felt before for any other woman.

  "You're right. I could break your heart. And I don't want to do that." He laughed the sound hollow and anguished. "You can't imagine how much I want you. But I've wanted a lot of women and I've had just about every woman I've ever wanted."

  "Are you trying to warn me off again?"

  "I'm telling you that you should run from me. Run like hell."

  Griffin Powell cleared his throat when he entered the room. Quinn released Annabelle's hands and rose to his feet to face the other man.

  "I've got Judd on the phone," Griffin said. "He wants to speak to you."

  "I suppose he wants to hear me beg a little before he agrees to become my lawyer."

  Griffin grunted. "Yeah, something like that."

  "While I'm on the phone with Judd would you mind see­ing Annabelle to her suite?" Quinn asked.

  "Sure thing."

  When Quinn disappeared inside Griffin's bedroom and closed the door behind him, Griffin turned to Annabelle. "If you're ready . . ."

  "I'm ready."

  She wanted and needed a straightforward uncompli-cated relationship with a man. Annabelle Vanderley was a mar­riage, children and ever-after kind of woman. Even if she was certain of nothing else in her life right now, she was cer­tain of that.

  "You'll do all you can to help him, won't you?" Annabelle stood.

  "You sound as if you're walking away from this situation, away from him."

  "I am. I have to." She followed Griffin to the door.

  "So you'll be going home then, back to Mississippi?" he asked as he opened the door for her.

  "Yes, as soon as they release Lulu's body, I'll take her home to Uncle Louis. He needs to see that she has a proper funeral and a burial in the family cemetery."

  "And will you come back to Memphis after the funeral?"

  "If it's necessary, yes, I'll come back. But in the mean­time, I expect you to keep in touch with me. I'll want full re­ports on whatever you find out about Lulu's murder. And I want you to do whatever is necessary, regardless of the cost, to prove Quinn is innocent."