Next to her, Conor reclined on two pillows. He was still dressed in his jeans, but he’d removed his shirt and shoes during the night. His eyes were closed, and his jaw was shadowed, as usual. Her gaze drifted down. After all, she knew what his face looked like, but she’d never seen him without a shirt. Oh my. The arm flung over his head stretched his torso taut. His body was all about understated power. A scattering of dark hair swirled across his pectorals. Firm muscle expanded his broad chest and shoulders and defined a lean abdomen. She swallowed, the sight of his body stirring a primal need inside her. Her eyes followed the line of dark hair that swirled into the waistband of his jeans and led to—
“Good morning.” His throaty voice startled her.
Her cheeks heated. She blinked away from admiring his flat belly, and then some. “I’m sorry. I was staring.”
“Yes. Men hate it when women ogle their muscles.” Conor rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to put my shirt back on?”
How could she answer that question? “It’s not necessary.”
The turquoise in his eyes brightened with roguishness. “Necessary isn’t a factor. What do you want?” He dropped his voice to a husky whisper.
Oh Lord. Warmth flushed her torso. She pushed the covers back. Was the heat on?
“If you took off your shirt, then we’d be even,” he teased.
“Doesn’t the dog need to be fed or walked or something?”
He rolled on his side to face her. “Kirra was fed and walked at seven.”
At the sound of her name, Kirra, lounging at the foot of the bed, raised her head and wagged the stump of her tail.
Touched by his thoughtfulness, she said, “Thank you. Did she eat?”
“Not much. I’ll give her until Monday to start eating, then it’s back to the vet.”
He was studying her face. Oh my God. Her face. She raised a hand to her jaw. The skin was puffy under her fingers. She could only imagine . . .
He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “You look beautiful.”
“How do you always know what I’m thinking?”
“I have a sister, remember? That bruise looks like it hurts. I’ll get you some ice.” Muscles rippled as he sat up.
She tried not to stare, without success.
“Kirra and I bought breakfast while we were walking. Let me bring you food so you can take an aspirin.” He moved to the edge of the bed, stretched, and stood. Glancing back, he caught her staring again. “I’ll leave the shirt off.” He left the room grinning—and still half-naked, giving Louisa an eyeful of hard and powerful back that made parts of her sing through the soreness of her bruises.
She fell back on the pillows. He wasn’t the first man she’d seen without a shirt, but none had affected her this way. The hardness of his body concealed kindness that made her heart do a triple-espresso flutter. But she had to admit, though it felt superficial, she wouldn’t complain about the hot body attached to his generous soul.
If she wasn’t hurt . . .
What? She’d have him instead of her breakfast?
Why not? Clearly, he was interested. Neither of them was attached. Though she hadn’t had a relationship for some time, she enjoyed sex. Sex had never been her issue. It was the emotional expectation generated by physical intimacy that had always been her problem. Typically, she was one who preferred to keep sex and her relationships casual. But eventually, most men wanted to see a relationship progress. They wanted marriage and children and all the associated connections that Louisa was unable to make.
Something warned her that sex with Conor would be more intense than any she’d experienced in the past. Could she handle it? Or would he end up joining her short list of failures? Even worse, was she ready to risk hurting both of them?
On that depressing note, she pushed to a sitting position. Her limbs were achy and stiff. Pain throbbed through her jaw, but she felt better than she’d expected. Today was Saturday. No work. She could stay in bed all day . . .
Saturday.
Oh no.
“What’s wrong?” Conor walked back into the bedroom carrying two cups of coffee and a white bakery bag.
“The museum fund-raiser is tonight.” She pressed a bandaged palm to her forehead.
“I think they’ll expect you to cancel.” He set the coffee on her nightstand.
Louisa swung her legs over the side of the bed. “We have a lot riding on tonight.”
“Take it slow.” He took her hand as she got to her feet, his grip solid and steadying as the floor pitched beneath her feet like a cruise ship in high seas. His gaze assessed her, doubtful and worried. “Dizzy?”
“Not at all,” Louisa lied as she limped toward the bathroom, her equilibrium steadying. She switched on the light and looked in the mirror. Ugh. Her jaw was puffy, and a bruise extended from her chin nearly to her ear. She was lucky she hadn’t knocked out any teeth.
Her palms weren’t so bad, and her black-and-blue, scabbed-up knees could easily be covered with slacks. But her face . . . Major concealer work to be done there.
“Considering you took a swan dive into pavement last night, you look pretty good.” Conor leaned on the doorframe. “Why don’t you just call your boss and explain? I’m sure he’d understand.”
“The museum is largely dependent on donations.” She brushed her teeth. “This is the first big fund-raiser since I started. The opening of the new Celtic Warrior exhibit is the biggest event this autumn. I have to be there to talk about my qualifications and the new exhibit. Patrons want to see where their money is being spent.” Plus, she didn’t trust her boss. What would he say in her absence?
Conor shook his head. “So you still intend to go?”
“I don’t have a choice.” She shooed him out of the bathroom and closed the door to use the toilet. When she emerged, he was lounging on the bed drinking coffee, as relaxed as if he spent every morning in her bedroom. “I don’t want to lose this job.”
Conor looked around the apartment. “Do you really need it?”
“I don’t need the job in the financial sense, no. But I love what I do.” Losing another job would no doubt disappoint her father again. What would he think if Louisa didn’t work? If she just managed her trust fund and spent her time organizing charity events? Could she even do that? Her entire life had been focused on this career. It was a major part of her identity. The thought of leaving it behind was disconcerting.
Louisa pointed at her chin. “Do you think I can get this swelling down at all before tonight?”
“Maybe. Keep your head elevated and be diligent with the ice pack.”
“That’ll help?”
“It should. Back in my boxing days, I used to pack my face in ice after every fight. It wasn’t pretty.” He reached for his shirt.
Too bad. “I saw the picture the media released. It looked painful.” Though even battered, he’d been attractive in a virile, primal way. “And they tied in the fight you had with Kirra’s owner with your altercation with Heath. They succeeded in making you seem violent.”
“Which is exactly what Damian said they would do.” He grimaced. “I have to run by Jayne’s house and pick up the laundry I left there. Everything in my apartment was ruined. Are you all right here by yourself?”
“I’m fine.”
“OK then. I’ll bring lunch back with me. Anything special you want?”
Louisa moved her aching jaw. “Something soft.”
“I’ll be quick.” Conor kissed her gently on the uninjured side of her face before leaving.
Louisa put an ice pack on her face for twenty minutes, then grabbed her laptop and brought it back to bed. Turning it on, she propped a pillow against the headboard. Kirra jumped onto the duvet and stretched out next to Louisa.
She skimmed through her e-mails. Twenty messages into her inbox, she spotted a message from h
er father, the subject line: “Itinerary.” She clicked on it and copied the details of his upcoming holiday visit to her calendar. Nerves rattled in her belly. What was he going to tell her? She glanced at the clock. Nine a.m., three p.m. in Stockholm. It was time for their weekly phone call. Ward Hancock kept a strict routine. Saturday afternoons were spent in his study, working. If she was lucky, and she phoned early, she’d catch him still relatively sober.
She wasn’t the luckiest soul in the world.
She picked up her cell and speed-dialed his number, her stomach knotting as the line rang again and again. Where was he? She left a message and set her phone aside.
“Something’s wrong, Kirra.”
The dog rolled closer and flipped Louisa’s hand with her nose. Louisa settled a hand on the dog’s head. “Something is definitely wrong.”
The phone rang as Conor emerged from the shower in Louisa’s guest room. After toweling himself off, he pulled jeans from the duffel bag on the dresser. The basket of laundry he’d retrieved from Jayne’s house was all the clothes he had left. Almost everything else Conor owned was destroyed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and caught his breath. Renter’s insurance would cover most of the damage, and he didn’t have many personal possessions that couldn’t be replaced, except the photographs the scumbags had piled up and pissed on.
He’d hired professional cleaners to strip the place bare. Then what? Would these kids ever leave him alone? Why the hell were they so determined to have Kirra? The streets were teeming with pit bulls, and Kirra wasn’t much of a fighter. Why did they want her back so badly?
And how could his life have gone to complete crap in the course of a week?
He’d been questioned for murder, attacked with a knife and a gun, and his apartment had been ransacked.
Someone knocked on the bedroom door.
“Conor?” Louisa called.
He stepped into the jeans, walked into the bedroom, and opened the door. Her eyes blinked on his bare chest.
Conor grinned. Not everything about his week had been bad. “Can I help you?”
The pretty green of her eyes sobered. “The police are on their way up.”
“Be out in a minute.” He went back into the bathroom, tugged on the T-shirt, and brushed his teeth. He didn’t want Louisa to have to face the two cops alone. Jackson and Ianelli were walking into the foyer when Conor emerged. Louisa led them into the living room. The detectives eased onto the overstuffed couch.
“Coffee?” Louisa asked.
“No, thanks.” Jackson pulled his notebook from his pocket. “You might want to sit down.”
She chose an overstuffed club chair on the other side of the coffee table. Conor perched on the arm.
Jackson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Just a short while ago, the body of a young woman was found in an abandoned building in North Kensington. The cause of death and disposal were similar to Riki LaSanta’s murder.” He took a breath. “If you turn on the TV, I’m sure you’ll see the story. The news crews were at the scene when we left.”
Louisa sagged. “Is it Zoe?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Conor put an arm around her shoulders. Her body was stiff, unyielding, prepared for the blow.
“We can’t confirm the body’s identification at this time.” The detective clenched and unclenched his hand on his knee.
Louisa let out a breath. Her frame trembled. “But?”
Jackson broke eye contact. He examined his fist for a few seconds before meeting Louisa’s gaze. “Her identity hasn’t been determined by the medical examiner.”
“But you’re here,” Conor said. “So you think the remains might be Zoe.” In fact, if the cops had a body, why weren’t they slapping cuffs on him?
Jackson deadpanned. “We have reasons to consider Zoe as a possible identity of the dead woman.”
“So it might be Zoe.” Louisa interlocked her fingers on her lap. Her knuckles blanched. “You’re not sure it’s her.”
“No. Not yet,” Jackson said.
“So there’s hope.” Louisa took a shaky breath.
Jackson didn’t respond. His lips thinned to a bloodless line. Conor’s heart squeezed. Louisa didn’t want to believe Zoe was dead, but Detective Jackson was convinced. Otherwise, why were the cops here?
“Was she burned?” Louisa’s tone matched Jackson’s with its lack of inflection.
The cops exchanged a glance.
Jackson nodded. “Yes, she was burned. Dr. Hancock, where were you on Wednesday evening between six p.m. and midnight?”
Louisa recoiled as if his words had struck her. Conor squeezed her shoulders. All this time, they’d been hoping Zoe would be found alive, but the poor girl had been lying in an abandoned basement, murdered. “That’s when she was killed?”
Jackson leaned forward. “Where were you, Dr. Hancock?”
“I was here.” Louisa’s face drained of color, her pallor adding contrast to the darkening bruise on her jaw.
Jackson pulled out his notebook and wrote something down. “Can the doorman verify that?”
“Yes.” Louisa’s hand twisted in her lap.
Jackson looked at Conor.
“Hey, you know I was at the bar.” He raised his palms. “You had a cop watching me all night.” He stiffened. “Does this mean I’m no longer a suspect?”
“No,” Jackson said. “We don’t even have an official ID on the body. Until we do, you are on my short list.”
But if the body was Zoe, Conor couldn’t have killed her. It was hard to do better than two cops for an alibi. “So you have other suspects?”
Jackson ignored his question.
“Can you think of anyone who would want both of these girls dead?” Jackson asked.
“Why would anyone want to kill two young women? It’s sick. It’s crazy.” Two bright spots of pink flushed on Louisa’s cheeks, and her voice rose with an edge of hysteria. Conor rubbed her arm.
“But the stolen knife suggests the association is with the museum.” Ianelli tilted his head. “Has anyone been acting strangely this week?”
“No.” She stared down at her clasped hands. “Was this woman killed with the same knife as Riki?”
“That will be up to the medical examiner to decide,” Jackson said. “What would you expect to see in an ancient Celtic ritual murder?”
Louisa leaned back and breathed through her nose as if she was nauseous. “Sometimes the Celts killed a victim with multiple methods to appease more than one god. They would likely have made offerings with the sacrifice. There might be symbols to indicate which gods were being targeted.”
Unable to sit still any longer, Conor got to his feet and paced. He dragged a hand through his hair. He turned to Louisa. She was too quiet, too still. Her face and body were frozen. Even her eyes looked empty. But he’d spent enough time with her now to understand that her ice-queen facade meant the opposite of her appearance. Her emotions were escalating faster than she could process.
Jackson stood. “If you think of anything else, please give us a call,” he said to Louisa.
She gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
Ianelli turned to Conor. “You’re not off the hook yet, Sullivan.”
Jackson tucked his notebook into his pocket. “By the way, the DNA report just came back positive on Riki LaSanta. The results will be made public today.”
Louisa flinched.
Conor showed the detectives out. He closed the door. Silence blanketed the air like August humidity. He returned to Louisa and knelt down in front of her.
“I won’t believe Zoe is dead.” Louisa’s bruised chin lifted. “The police don’t even have confirmation that the body is hers, and they’ve stopped searching for her.”
“They didn’t say they’d stopped looking.” Conor moved to the chair and wra
pped an arm around her.
She leaned into him. “They have, because they think Zoe is dead.”
22
Through the glass facade of the museum’s entrance, Louisa scanned the street and sidewalk. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic flowed with the usual rhythm. A taxi pulled up to the curb. A couple in cocktail attire climbed out, walked into the museum, and passed through the metal detector. Cool, damp air followed them, sweeping through the atrium lobby and ruffling the hem of the woman’s black A-line dress. On the black-and-white tiled floor, well-dressed people congregated. Conversations echoed on metal, glass, and marble. A waiter circled, extending a tray loaded with glasses of champagne to any guest with an empty hand. In small groups, patrons drifted toward the arch that led to the exhibit rooms. Everything appeared normal.
But it wasn’t.
Could Riki’s killer be part of this group mingling in the lobby right now? Holding a flute of champagne and smiling, making polite conversation about the exhibits, leaning close and gossiping about the murdered girl in hushed whispers?
“Welcome.” Louisa greeted the newly arrived couple with a smile and nod, then checked their names off her guest list. The pen and clipboard in her hands saved her from handshakes. She’d worn a white silk poet blouse with a ruffled cuff that extended over her palms. Black dress slacks covered her bandaged knees, and Ferragamo ballet flats were a concession to her overall soreness. Concealer dimmed the bruise on her jaw. The overall effect was acceptable but more casual than she would have preferred for such an event.
On her right, April plucked two name tags from the small table and handed them to the couple.
April leaned close and turned her face away from the crowd. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a chair?”
“I’m sure.” Louisa shifted her weight to ease her aching knees. “Now that the initial crush seems to be over, I should move inside anyway.”
“Go ahead.” April took the clipboard. “I got this.”
Midnight Betrayal Page 17