Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  Griffin gave Judd a how-about-that grin. "I'll use the phone in my bedroom to call Sullivan and give you a little privacy."

  "Thanks."

  As Griffin headed out of the lounge, he paused and looked back at Judd. "Who's the lucky lady?"

  "Jennifer Mobley."

  "Former Miss Tennessee, Jennifer Mobley?"

  "One and the same," Judd said proudly.

  "Wasn't she in some sort of freak accident the year after she was a runner-up in the Miss America pageant?"

  "During an ice storm, her car skidded off Lookout Moun­tain. She nearly died. But after plastic surgery and a year of therapy, she recovered fully. She's as beautiful as ever and come May, she'll receive her doctorate degree from UT in child psychology. And in June we're having the biggest, fan­ciest wedding Chattanooga has ever seen."

  "Congratulations," Griffin said. "And by the way, tell the lady that I think she's way too good for the likes of you."

  "I've already told her, but she's going to marry me any­way."

  "Then you're the lucky one."

  "Don't I know it."

  Griffin closed the door behind him after he went into his bedroom. So Judd Walker was getting married. Every marriage-minded woman in Chattanooga must be heartbro­ken. The heir to the Walker fortune, old money that went all the way back to reconstruction days in Tennessee, was con­sidered the number one eligible bachelor in the city, if not in the state.

  Griffin sat down on the side of his bed and pulled the tele­phone to the edge of the nightstand. Of course, he was con­sidered quite a catch himself, another sought-after bachelor. But where men like Judd could and would marry and live normal lives, with wives, children and a shot at real happi­ness, Griffin would never have any of these things. Destiny had dictated his future years ago.

  He lifted the receiver and dialed Sullivan's cell number. Ben answered on the second ring. "This is Griffin. I need for you to fly to Baytown, Texas, right away. Track down all the info you can on a woman named Kelley Fleming." He spelled both the first and last name. "According to the Memphis PD, she was murdered in Baytown approximately two years ago. The lead detective on the case was a guy named Lieutenant Stovall. I need to know everything there is to know about this woman as soon as possible. Find out if the lady knew Quinn Cortez or had any kind of connection to him. And send me a recent photograph just as soon as you get hold of one."

  * * *

  Quinn entered Annabelle's suite with no expectations. He was just grateful that she had returned to Memphis, that she wanted to be with him. During the days she'd been gone, back to Austinville for Lulu's funeral, he had missed her. When had he ever missed anybody, least of all a woman? Under different circumstances, he would have gone to Mississippi to attend Lulu's funeral. And yes, it would have been for Annabelle's sake far more than to show his respects to Lulu, although he would have liked to do that, too.

  He and Annabelle hadn't so much as held hands during the elevator ride, hadn't touched at all during the short flight down from one floor to another at the Peabody. And they had glanced at each other only once. When she had smiled at him, he'd felt as if he'd been awarded the grand prize in a very important contest.

  God, he was acting like a lovesick teenager. And he was nervous. Quinn Cortez, nervous? Unheard of. He had nerves of steel and balls of brass. He didn't get nervous. He didn't sweat. And no woman had ever intimidated him. Not until now.

  Annabelle Vanderley intimidated the hell out of him.

  "I can order room service for lunch, if you're hungry," she said as she laid her purse and key on the table just inside the entrance.

  "Maybe later, unless you want something now."

  She shook her head. "I just want to be with you."

  Her soft voice wrapped the words around him like a silk blanket. Quinn closed his eyes and savored the moment. God in heaven, don't let me hurt this woman.

  "Annabelle, I. . ."

  She turned to him, there in the entranceway, her eyes glis­tening with unshed tears, her cheeks flushed and her sweet, pink lips parted on an expectant sigh.

  He reached for her. As she came to him, he slipped one arm around her waist and brought her close, close enough to kiss. When she tilted her face up and gazed into his eyes, he desperately wanted to kiss her. Ravage her. Strip her naked and make love to her the whole afternoon. And then he wanted to start over again and pleasure her repeatedly, all night long.

  "You don't know me, honey," he told her, his mouth al­most touching hers.

  "I know all I need to know." Breathless, she closed her eyes and brushed her lips over his.

  Instant hard-on.

  He pressed his cheek against her. "Do you know that I call all women honey?"

  She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. "Are you trying to warn me that I'm just like all the others?"

  No! You 're not like all the others and that's the problem. I never cared what the others thought of me, just as long as they considered me a great lover. But with you, Annabelle. . .? With you I want—no, I need—your respect. "Would you be­lieve me if I said no, that you're special? Very special."

  Her breasts pressed against his chest; his erection pressed against her belly.

  "Don't say it if you don't mean it," she told him, then dot­ted tiny kisses up the side of his neck.

  He swallowed hard ordering himself to go slow, to not lose control.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her back­ward forcing her to open her eyes and look up at him. "Quinn?"

  "I want it to be different with you," he said. "I want it to be different for the two of us. I need more than just sex with you. I need to make love to you. I want us to make love to each other."

  She sighed. "That's what I want, too."

  "Then let's slow down, honey." He grimaced. "No, not honey. Darling. My darling Annabelle." He spoke the words slowly, in his sexy Texas drawl, then said in Spanish, "Querida."

  Although his father had been Mexican and many of his friends had been Hispanic when Quinn was growing up, English was his native language because he'd been raised by his Anglo mother. Sheila Quinn Cortez hadn't known more than a dozen words in Spanish. He'd picked up the language on the street, where he'd picked up most of what he'd learned as a kid. He spoke Spanish fairly fluently and was told with barely any accent.

  Annabelle looked at him as if he were the dearest thing on earth to her. And that's when he knew he could have her. Right now. He could lift her into his arms, carry her into the bedroom and . . .

  "Honey's an easy word. A meaningless endearment as far as I'm concerned," he told her. "And by calling all women honey, I never make the mistake of saying the wrong name at the wrong moment." He grasped Annabelle by the nape of her neck. "I've never called a woman querida before."

  Quinn kissed her. Using every ounce of his willpower to not ravage her, he settled his lips on hers with tender force and savored the taste of her. She opened her mouth, inviting him inside, and he accepted her welcome. Deepening the kiss, his tongue dueled with hers. Savage, yet tender.

  He ached. Ached with the need to be inside her.

  When they were both breathless, he lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. He wondered if she saw in his eyes what he saw in hers. More than passion. Something far beyond mere desire. A wanting that went soul deep. A need as es­sential as air to breathe.

  What was this thing between them—this powerful ele­ment that defied description?

  "Annabelle . . . querida . . ." He cupped her face with his open palms. "Why did I meet you now when my life is falling apart?"

  "I've asked myself that same question," she said. "And the only answer I can think of is that fate likes to play cruel jokes on us. Why else would I have fallen in love with a man I barely know, a man who is a suspect not only in my cousin's murder, but in the murders of four other women?"

  A fiery strumming radiated throughout his body as if he were burning from the inside out, the blaze ignite
d by Annabelle's confession of love.

  "I—I don't know what to say. Annabelle, I—"

  She placed her index finger over his lips to silence him. "I don't want you to tell me that you love me. Not now. Not ever—unless you mean it."

  Quinn didn't know what love was—any kind of love. He understood friendship and loyalty and duty. He revered power and wealth. He played fair, but he played by his own rules.

  "I swear to you that I'll never lie to you," he told her. "I care about you in a way I've never cared about anyone else. Is that enough for you?"

  "For now."

  Quinn lifted her up and into his arms. Squealing softly, she flung her arms around his neck and put her cheek to his. He carried her across the room, then sat on the sofa, cradling her on his lap. She snuggled against him.

  "We might be more comfortable in the bedroom," she said.

  "Later," he told her. "Right now, I think we should get to know each other. Talk, kiss, do a little light petting." Annabelle smiled.

  "Quinn Cortez, are you trying to be a gentleman?"

  He traced the back of his hand down her cheek and held it against her chin. "Si, querida, I'm trying, but it's not easy for a bad boy like me."

  Chapter 23

  Annabelle reclined on the sofa, her back resting against Quinn's chest, her legs spread out across the seat and her an­kles crossed. The back of her head lay against his shoulder, his chin pressed against her temple. They had spent the past couple of hours talking, mostly about the days and nights she had recently spent at home in Austinville . . . and about Lulu, both of them choosing to remember only the good things about her. Annabelle had ordered lunch, which they had eaten leisurely and had only a few minutes ago finished with dessert and coffee. The remains of their meal littered the small dining table across the room and their empty coffee cups and dessert plates cluttered the cocktail table. Except for when they'd eaten lunch, they had sat together, Annabelle curled in Quinn's arms, here on the sofa, soft kisses and lin­gering caresses interfused with their conversation.

  A comfortable togetherness. Easy and relaxed. No pres­sure. No demands. Only a sweet, gentle prelude to lovemak-ing, tender expressions of two people who wanted to be with each other more than they wanted anything else on earth.

  After lunch, while she had poured their coffee, Quinn had found a jazz station on the radio, one that played mostly cool jazz, then he'd brought their dessert plates over to the cock­tail table. They had wound up eating first her dessert and then his, each feeding the other. Quinn had licked whipped cream from the side of her mouth and she had wiped choco­late from his lips with the tip of her finger, then licked her finger. The whole experience had been romantic and sensual. The moments they had shared seemed to be moments out of time, when nothing and no one else existed.

  As he wrapped his arms around her waist and planted his big hands across her belly, Quinn kissed her temple. "What were you like as a little girl?"

  "I was spoiled terribly by two parents who adored me. My father helped run Vanderley, Inc., but he never put work before his family." She sighed. "Something my Uncle Louis didn't do with Wythe, but he learned from his mistake and then devoted himself to Lulu." But he had failed his daugh­ter, too. He had loved her dearly, but had failed to protect her from her own brother's sexual attacks.

  Don't think about that now. It's too late to do anything to help Lulu. In truth, it had been too late to help Lulu even a few years ago when she'd finally told Annabelle the truth about her relationship with Wythe.

  "What was your mother like—like you?" Quinn asked. "Beautiful and smart and sexy?"

  "Sexy—me?" She pivoted her head so she could look him in the eyes.

  He cupped the back of her head kissed her tenderly and replied "Yes, you. Don't tell me that you aren't aware of how sexy you are."

  "If you say so." Annabelle smiled then turned back around and laid her head against his shoulder. "My mother was beautiful and kind and loving. I have her build and smile, her mouth, but I really look more like my father. He was a blue-eyed blond. Very Vanderley looking." She laid her hands over Quinn's where they rested on her stomach. "What were you like as a boy? Precocious? Into everything?"

  Quinn didn't reply immediately and she wondered why he was considering his answer so carefully. Weren't child­hood memories easily recalled and happily recounted?

  "My parents got married because my old man knocked her up. She did a lot of barhopping, liked to party, screwed around. Rico Cortez didn't think beyond getting laid one night and was none too happy when she told him she was pregnant with his baby," Quinn said, his choice of words crudely descriptive. "Their marriage lasted less than a year. The old man split when I was too little to even remember him."

  "Oh, Quinn, how terrible for you and your mother, being deserted that way." She nestled against him. "So, did you grow up without a father? Or did your mother remarry?"

  "She got herself engaged a couple of times, but the guys wised up before saying I do. As for my old man leaving—yeah, it was bad for me," Quinn said. "But lucky for him. He got away from her, and left me stuck with her for the next sixteen years."

  "She wasn't a good mother?"

  Quinn harrumphed. "Let's just say Sheila Quinn Cortez wouldn't have won any Mother of the Year awards. She'd leave me for days at a time with anybody who'd keep me. Then she'd come back and get me after she sobered up. My mother was a lush and the older she got the worse the drink­ing. We didn't have any money and there were times I stole things just so we wouldn't go hungry. If it hadn't been for her men friends . . ." Quinn grunted. "I had so many damn 'uncles' over the years that I lost count."

  "Didn't your mother have any family? Didn't you have grandparents who would have—"

  She felt the tension as it gripped his big body. "My mother's parents didn't want anything to do with her wetback baby. She went home once, when I was about five or six. They told her that she could stay, but that no son of some dirty, lazy, good-for-nothing Mexican would ever be welcome in their home."

  "Quinn.. ." She turned in his arms and hugged him, burying her face against his chest. What must it have been like for a little boy to hear his own grandparents say such ter­rible things about him?

  He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her, from neck to hips. "She might have been a sorry excuse for a mother, but I'll give the old lady credit—she told her parents they could kiss her happy white ass, grabbed my hand and dragged me back to her old ragged Pinto and then we high­tailed it out of there."

  "You loved your mother, despite everything, didn't you?"

  Silence.

  With her head resting on his chest, she listened to the rapid thumping of his heart. She sensed his pain, knew how badly his childhood must have affected the rest of his life.

  "Quinn?"

  "Yeah, I guess I loved her, at least as much as I hated her."

  "Is your relationship with your mother the reason you—?"

  His hand shot up and grabbed her chin, jerking her head up from his chest. With wide eyes, she stared at him, startled by his actions. But before she had a chance to react, he low­ered his head and kissed her.

  This kiss was different from the sweet, almost reverent kisses they had been sharing. His mouth took hers not only with hungry desire, but also with desperate need as if seek­ing something from her that he hoped she could give him. Could it be love he wanted needed and didn't even realize it? Suddenly the kiss consumed her, took her over com­pletely and ended rational thought. So swept up in the tide of Quinn's passion that she could barely breathe, Annabelle re­turned the kiss, participating fully and on an equal level. Eventually, Quinn moved his mouth from hers, over to her cheek, then down to her neck. He nuzzled her. Her neck drooped languidly to one side as she floated back to reality. When he lifted his head and looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes, she smiled. "Let's leave discussions about my mother and my child­hood for another time," he said. "Why ruin a perfectly beau­tiful afternoon?"
>
  Annabelle wanted to ask him more about his mother and their relationship. Playing amateur psychiatrist, she could put together several scenarios to explain why apparently Quinn had never been in a long-lasting, committed relationship. He probably didn't trust women in general because he'd never been able to trust and rely on his own mother. And since his only example of male/female partnering had been his mother's promiscuous liaisons, becoming a ladies' man must have seemed the most natural thing in the world to him.

  "All women aren't the same, you know," Annabelle said as she cuddled once again in his arms.

  "A man knows some things, here." He tapped the side of his head. "And some things here." After tigh-tening one hand into a fist, he pressed it against his belly.

  Annabelle grasped his hand, unfurled his fingers and placed his open palm over her heart. "And some things in here." She kept her hand over his. "That's where I want you to know how you feel about me and how I feel about you."

  "I'm not very experienced at using my heart," he admit­ted. "I use my brains, my gut instincts and on occasion, my animal needs. Feelings are something I don't think about much and I sure as hell don't talk about them." He flipped his hand over and grasped hers, then dragged it down her body until they reached the apex between her thighs. "I know more about what a woman feels down here than I do about what's going on in her heart." He pressed their joined hands against her mound.

  At his touch, her body clenched and tingled, sending out sexual signals. "I want us to make love and if that's all you can give me, then I'll take it and be glad to be your lover," Annabelle told him. "But I'll warn you, Quinn Cortez, I want more. I'm one of those women who prefers that sex and love be combined in a relationship. And even if you think you aren't capable of loving someone the way I want to be loved, it doesn't change the fact that I've fallen in love with you."

  He hugged her fiercely, yet tenderly. Leaning forward and burying his face against her neck, he whispered, "That fact should scare me. It should make me want to run. But it doesn't scare me and God knows I never want to run from you." He lifted his head and rubbed his cheek against hers. "But Anna­belle, my darling Annabelle . . . you deserve so much bet­ter."