Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  He'd done the lady a big favor last night by allowing her to read Griffin Powell's report on him. Even after learning the truth about him, she would have still given him the bene­fit of the doubt if he hadn't warned her to run like hell.

  You implied that you wanted her the way you d wanted and had countless other women. You lied to her. She's noth­ing like any other woman you’ve ever known. And the way you want her is different because she's different.

  "I'll go get Aaron and Marcy up and herd them out of here before your lawyer comes," Jace said. "Is there any­thing I can do for you before we leave?"

  "I can't think of anything," Quinn told him. "Y'all give me about an hour alone with Judd Walker and if I'm not here when y'all get back, I'll leave a note. I figure the police will want to question me sometime today."

  Marcy heard a loud gasp. Her eyelids flew open and she shot straight up in bed. Only then did she realize she was completely naked and she wasn't alone. After grabbing the sheet up to cover her breasts, she cut her eyes toward the open door. Jace stood in the doorway, his hazel eyes wide and round behind his glasses, an expression of pure shock on his face.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Jace asked in a trem­bling, wispy voice. "You slept with Aaron? I thought you loved Quinn. How could you—"

  "Put a lid on it, will you?" Aaron rolled over, yawned and draped his arm across Marcy's belly. "It's none of your damn business who Marcy sleeps with. And hell, man, we all love Quinn, don't we? But none of us are screwing him, so we gotta look elsewhere for our fun."

  Marcy jabbed Aaron in the ribs. Clutching his side and moaning, he scooted away from her and got out of bed. Standing there totally naked, with a morning erection, he winked at her when she glared at him.

  "You're vulgar, you know that, Aaron?" Jace frowned, the action scrunching his facial features.

  Aaron grabbed his discarded pajama bottoms and slipped into them. "Yeah, so what else is new? What are you doing coming into Marcy's room without knocking?"

  "I did knock," Jace said. "But when she didn't say any­thing, I came in to wake her. Quinn wants us out of the house for an hour or so. He's expecting some lawyer in from Chattanooga anytime now and they'll need some privacy."

  Marcy wanted to get up and run, to escape from this em­barrassing moment and from having to talk to Aaron after spending the night having sex with him. Three times. The first time, she had pretended he was Quinn, but the next two times, she'd known exactly who was giving her so much pleasure. But that didn't change the fact that she wasn't in love with Aaron. Not the way she was in love with Quinn.

  "What's the lawyer's name?" Marcy asked, trying her best to act nonchalantly as she sat up in bed and pulled the sheet up to her neck.

  "Judd Walker," Jace said. "Ever heard of him?"

  "Judd Walker? Yeah. One of the only cases Quinn ever lost was in Chattanooga, about seven years ago," Marcy said. "Walker was with the DA's office back then. The man's good. I mean if he can beat Quinn . . ."

  "He may be good and he might have won that case, but he'll never be as good as Quinn," Jace said adamantly.

  "No, of course not." Aaron rolled his eyes toward the ceil­ing. "Jace, there's something you've got to realize—Quinn Cortez ain't God!"

  Jace blushed. "Just get ready, will you? Quinn said for us to go out for breakfast." Just as Jace turned around so that his back was to Marcy and Aaron, the doorbell chimed. "Hurry up, will y'all? That's probably Mr. Walker now."

  "Why don't you go let Mr. Walker in," Marcy said. "Aaron and I will be ready to go in just a few minutes."

  When Jace disappeared down the hall, Marcy slid out of bed dragging the top sheet off the bed and wrapping herself in it.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Aaron laughed. "Honey, I've already seen it all. And touched it. . . and tasted it."

  "Jace is right. You are vulgar." But the way he'd called her honey reminded her so much of the way Quinn called her— and every other woman on earth—honey. Aaron's voice had even sounded a lot like Quinn's.

  "I think the kid's a virgin. And probably asexual. I've never seen him ogling a girl or another guy. And if he's ever had a hard-on, I've never noticed it."

  "Are you in the habit of noticing other men's hard-ons?"

  Aaron laughed. "Hey, the guy and I share a room some­times. And most guys, especially nineteen-year-olds like Jace wake up with a woody. He doesn't. That kind of thing you notice."

  "Whatever you do, don't ever say anything to him about it. He's a sweet kid. A little strange, but sweet."

  Aaron came up behind her, grabbed the edge of the sheet and whipped it off her. Standing there naked Marcy groaned. "Forget it. It's not going to happen," she told him.

  "Is that a not now or not ever?"

  Good question. Did she want a repeat of last night? What if Jace told Quinn that she and Aaron were sleeping to­gether? So what if he did? Quinn wouldn't give a rat's ass.

  She hurriedly picked her clothes up off the floor. "It's a not now."

  Aaron popped her on her naked butt. "I'm grabbing a quick shower. Are you sure you don't want to join me?"

  Pulling on her pajama bottoms, she turned and glared at him. "Quit wasting time. You heard Jace. Quinn wants us out of here pronto."

  "Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. I'm beginning to hate hearing the man's name. You know you called it out last night, the first time you came."

  Marcy blushed. Her fingers stopped in their task of but­toning her pajama top. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't sweat it," Aaron said. "I knew you were pretend­ing I was him."

  Only the first time, she wanted to tell him, but didn't. It wouldn't be fair to let Aaron think there could ever be more to their relationship than sex. Maybe Quinn could never be hers, but that didn't mean she'd ever stop loving him.

  Annabelle nibbled at the whole wheat toast she'd ordered from room service. In between thoughts of Quinn and trying to stop thinking about Quinn, she'd gotten perhaps a total of three hours sleep last night. She'd never obsessed over a man the way she was doing with Quinn Cortez. It was as if the man had somehow infiltrated her mind and had taken pos­session of her heart. She didn't love him. How could she? But she felt something for him. Something powerful and all-consuming.

  He was not the kind of man she wanted or needed. He was nothing like Chris, who'd been kind and gentle, trust­worthy and honorable. But what she had felt for Chris bore little resemblance to the raw emotions Quinn evoked in her. There was something primitive and wild in the way she felt about Quinn, a hunger that went soul-deep. The tender emo­tion called love that she'd shared with Chris had absolutely nothing to do with the savage desire she felt for Quinn.

  Unease quivered in her stomach. She dropped the toast to her plate, scooted back her chair and stood. Crossing her arms over her waist, she clasped her elbows and hugged her­self.

  Pick up the phone, call Griffin and ask him for Quinn's cell phone number. Then call Quinn. Tell him you don't care about all the other women. Tell him that you want him, that you 're willing to have an affair.

  No! You can't do that. You aren't that kind of woman. If you appease your sexual desire by becoming just one more of Quinn Cortez's women, you '11 regret it for the rest ofyour life.

  She had spent most of the nine and a half years that Chris had lived after his car accident completely celibate. They had shared kisses and hugs and even intimate touches, but sex hadn't been possible for Chris. Aunt Perdita had encour­aged her to have an affair and even Chris had told her that he would understand if she turned to another man for what he couldn't give her. She had waited five years before having a one-night stand with an old friend someone she reconnected with on a business trip and had seen only rarely since then. Afterward the guilt had eaten her alive. Only Aunt Perdita's warning that if she told Chris it would serve no purpose and would hurt him terribly had kept her from confessing her sin. After that one infidelity, she had returned to her nunlike existence until she'd met Lance Holt two years later. Lanc
e's wife had been a paraplegic for three years at that time and he had been completely faithful to her. Annabelle and Lance had met through her work with the Christopher Knox Thread­gill Foundation and they had become instant friends. They'd had so much in common, shared the same grief and carried a similar emotional burden. Mutual admiration had fired their passion, never love. Each had understood the other's need for physical gratification without the complications of ro­mance. Their on-again-off-again, six-month affair had ended amicably when Lance's wife died. Her death had set Lance free to live again. And to love again.

  Annabelle hadn't been with anyone in four years. She could tell herself that it wasn't Quinn she wanted it was just sex. That any man would do. But that wasn't true. She'd had numerous chances for one-night stands and brief affairs. And if she'd wanted a serious relationship, even marriage, she could have had her pick of men.

  Face, it—you want Quinn Cortez. And only Quinn Cortez.

  Why him? Of all the men on earth, why did her body yearn for him? Why did her heart cry out for him?

  The police think he could have killed Lulu, she reminded herself.

  He didn't kill anyone. Not Lulu. Not Kendall. Not Joy Ellis.

  That's what she wanted to believe, that he was incapable of murder, that he was innocent. If he was a murderer, she'd know. On some deep, purely instinctive level, she'd sense it, wouldn't she?

  Not necessarily. He's a high-priced lawyer who has gotten filthy rich by using his silver tongue to influence juries. He's a charming womanizer. A real lady-killer.

  Annabelle's gaze fell on the newspaper lying beside her breakfast plate. She had read every word of the article and felt heartsick about the ugly picture the reporter had painted not only of Lulu, but of Kendall and of Quinn. He hadn't stepped over the line between truth and slander, but he'd cer­tainly stretched that line as far as he possibly could. In the hopes of protecting Uncle Louis, she had phoned his house and given instructions to the servants and his nurse to con­tinue making sure her uncle never got his hands on a copy of the Commercial Appeal. Especially not this morning's edi­tion.

  Annabelle tensed when she heard someone knocking at the door. Her first thought was that her early morning visitor was Quinn. She wanted it to be Quinn.

  Please, God, let it be Quinn.

  Pulling the lapels of her lavender silk robe together and tying the fabric belt, she hurried to the door and peered through the viewfinder. Her heart sank when she saw Chad George on the other side.

  Putting on a happy face, she unlocked and opened the door. "Good morning, sergeant. Won't you come in?"

  Before entering, he studied her carefully, as if searching for any sign that she had been contaminated by Quinn Cortez.

  Was Chad wondering if Quinn had spent the night, if he might still be here with her?

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I be?"

  When Chad walked in, she closed the door and came up beside him.

  "I was concerned when you left with Quinn Cortez last night. I wanted to come after you, but. . ." He shrugged. "What you did was dangerous and foolish, Annabelle. You realize that, don't you? Quinn Cortez may have killed two women and you went off alone with him."

  Three women, Annabelle thought. Three of Quinn's for­mer lovers are dead. But he didn't kill them. I know he didn't.

  "I was perfectly safe. Quinn and I went to see Griffin Powell, the investigator we hired to look into Lulu's murder."

  "You don't have much faith in the Memphis PD, do you? Do you have any idea how that makes me feel—to know you don't believe I'll bring in Lulu's murderer without any out­side help."

  He would bring in Lulu's murderer? Chad had said that as if he thought he and he alone would apprehend the person who had killed Lulu and Kendall. It had been an arrogant statement made by an overly confident young man.

  "Chad I'm sorry if I have offended you by leaving with Quinn the way I did last night. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision." She didn't owe Chad any explanations, but there was no point in antagonizing him. "As for hiring Griffin Powell—"

  "I can't understand what possessed you to go into part­nership with Cortez to hire a private investigator."

  Annabelle sighed. "Both Quinn and I had contacted Mr. Powell and he refused to take the case unless it was a joint effort. Since we both want the same thing—to find out who murdered Lulu—we saw no reason not to join forces."

  When Chad reached out and gently grasped her shoulders, she tensed; and when he smiled her muscles tightened even more. "Annabelle, Annabelle, you're far too trusting. Don't you think that Cortez would use you if he thought it would help him? You can't trust him. You don't dare. Everything points to him as the man who killed both Lulu and Kendall Wells."

  "What do you mean everything points to him?"

  Chad eased his hands down her arms, all the way to her wrists, then grabbed her hands and held them. "I'm not at liberty to discuss details. Just believe me when I tell you that he's a dangerous man and you have to stay away from him."

  Annabelle's mind weighed everything Chad had said and came to the conclusion that there weren't really any details he wasn't at liberty to discuss concerning evidence against Quinn. That meant Chad had lied to her. But why?

  He's jealous!

  She pulled her hands from his grasp. "I won't be seeing Quinn again, unless it's absolutely necessary."

  Chad's smile spread from ear to ear, his expression like a little kid's, one who had just been told he was being given the toy he'd always wanted but thought he'd never have. A sense of uneasiness settled over Annabelle. Chad saw her as that toy, as a prize, something to be won or lost. And he in­stinctively knew that Quinn Cortez was his greatest compe­tition.

  The only problem with his reasoning was that she was no man's prize. He could neither win nor lose her. There was no competition. No decision to be made as to who the better man was.

  Annabelle's heart had already decided for her.

  Chapter 17

  Jim Norton hadn't seen Griffin Powell in several years, not since Powell's agency represented a local art dealer, Monty Addis, whose gallery had been robbed of several mil­lion in paintings and sculptures. On that case, he and Griffin had become the buffers between Addis and the police de­partment. Neither had trusted the other. The police had sus­pected an inside job and all but accused Addis of stealing his own paintings. Addis had been very vocal about how inept he thought the police were and had told the press and every­one who would listen that that was the reason he'd hired re­nowned investigator Griffin Powell to find out who had actually stolen his property. As it turned out, Jim and Griffin figured out that Addis's wife and her current boyfriend were the culprits.

  When Griffin had phoned Jim yesterday, he'd hadn't been surprised. He knew his old UT teammate was representing Quinn Cortez and Annabelle Vanderley. Now, those two were a real odd couple, if they actually were a couple. Being a fairly good judge of character—despite his judgment failing him when he'd married Mary Lee—he pegged Ms. Vanderley to be exactly what she seemed to be:'a rich, cultured blue blood. And Quinn Cortez might be rich and powerful and feared by his opponents in a court of law, but the man was, by nature, a ruffian. A more generous way to describe him might be as a diamond in the rough. All the fancy clothes, Rolex watches, Porsches and manicures would never turn Cortez into a gentleman.

  Griffin's assistant, Sanders, opened the door to the suite and ushered Jim into the lounge. "Lieutenant Norton," Sanders announced then disappeared into one of the two ad­joining rooms.

  Griffin sat at the dining table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a folded copy of this morning's Commercial Appeal in the other. When he glanced at Jim, he tossed the paper down on the table and invited him over with a wave of his hand.

  "Join me for breakfast," Griffin said. "I ordered a couple of Western omelettes and buttermilk biscuits. I seem to re­call that's what you had the last time we ate breakfast to­gether."
r />   "You have a good memory." Jim walked over to the table, lifted the coffee pot and poured the cup sitting by his plate full of the hot black brew.

  "I appreciate your meeting with me," Griffin said. "I as­sume you know I'm representing Quinn Cortez."

  Jim pulled out a chair and sat. "And Annabelle Vanderley as well."

  Griffin nodded. "Yes, and Ms. Vanderley."

  "Those two are an odd combination, don't you think? For her it has to be kind of like sleeping with the enemy." Jim lifted his cup to his lips.

  Griffin eyed him speculatively. "I wouldn't put it that way. Not exactly."

  "Then there's nothing personal between them?"

  "I didn't say that." Griffin removed the cover from his plate and set it aside, then picked up his fork and sliced into his omelette. "Whether or not there's anything of a personal nature taking place between Quinn and Annabelle is no­body's business, but theirs, is it? As for my working for both of them—it's a com-promise. Since they contacted me practi­cally simultaneously, it was either say no to both of them or ask them to join forces."

  "I'm surprised they agreed. Especially Ms. Vanderley. She doesn't seem the type who would be easily charmed by Cortez's Latin charisma."

  "Why not? She's a woman."

  Jim chuckled. "Shot you down, did she, Griff?"

  "I'll never tell." Grinning, Griffin speared a slice of omelette and brought it to his mouth.

  After removing the lid from his plate, Jim split open a biscuit, buttered it and then smeared it with blackberry jam. How the hell had Griffin remembered blackberry was his fa­vorite? The guy had a mind like a steel trap. Back in their days at UT, he'd been one of those rare athletes who'd starred academically as well as in the sports arena. The big guy had graduated summa cum laude. Of course, Jim hadn't done too badly himself, graduating cum laude. But on the field and in the classroom, Griffin Powell had been The Star. Funny thing was, Jim had never minded being a runner-up; after all, every other guy at UT had been, too.