The Overnight Alibi

by Marilyn Pappano

  When she nodded, he led her through room after room, past fireplaces of serpentine marble and rough-hewn granite, over elaborate inlays of exotic wood, around furniture that looked every bit as expensive as it no doubt was. With each new display of luxury, she felt a little more out of place, a little shabbier, a little poorer.

  At last they reached the master bedroom suite—Sandra’s bedroom, Mick called it. It was a restful room in soft tones of peach and teal, not frilly but definitely feminine. The bed was kingsize and made up in fine cotton. The sofa and chairs were overstuffed, the breakfast table delicate in comparison. The bathroom was as big as Hannah’s bedroom, and Sandra’s closet was twice the size.

  They were leaving the closet when Mick came to an abrupt stop. The corner he was staring at was filled with custom storage compartments, and most of the cubbies were filled with matching pieces of fancy luggage. The bottom compartments, though, were empty, and judging from the look on his face, they shouldn’t have been.

  “What’s missing?”

  He didn’t glance at her. “Two suitcases.”

  “Maybe she loaned them to someone.”

  At that he did give her a look. “Sandra’s friends don’t borrow luggage. They all have their own matching twelve-piece sets.”

  “So she took them with her to the resort last weekend.” Two large suitcases for an overnight trip was a lot, granted, but Sandra seemed like the sort of woman who didn’t know the meaning of traveling light.

  But Mick was shaking his head. “She drove down for the sole purpose of causing me trouble, and then she was coming back home. She had plans that night.”

  “What time did you argue with her at the resort?”

  “Two-thirty, maybe three o’clock.”

  “And by midnight she was dead. Where did she go when she left Eagle’s Haven?”

  Mick shrugged. He hadn’t given the question any consideration. She certainly hadn’t gone to a motel in the area. His in Yates was the nicest available, and Sandra wouldn’t have set foot in it. “To Brad’s house, I guess.” For once in their endless fights, Mick had walked out first, getting into his truck and taking a long drive before returning to his motel. Brad had probably told Sandra that she was too upset to drive, had offered her comfort, a sympathetic ear and refuge at his place. He had lured her there with the intention of killing her a few hours later.

  Had she had any hint of his plans before it was too late? Had she been scared? Or had he kept up his game until the very end?

  “Can you tell if anything else is missing?”

  He gave the closet a long look. It was better stocked than many shops, with more clothing, shoes and handbags than one woman could possibly need. With such quantity and the fact that he’d lived elsewhere for the better part of eighteen months, it would be impossible to know whether anything that should be there wasn’t. Except...

  He checked a distant corner, then scowled. “Her black dress is gone.”

  Hannah gave a long rod of black dresses a skeptical look, and he impatiently shook his head. “This was her favorite black dress. It was an Armani or something. It cost a fortune, and she loved it. It hung over here with some other designer clothes. They’re all gone.”

  “It looks as if some shoes are gone, too.” She gestured toward the racks, where the neat rows of shoes showed a number of empty spaces.

  The lingerie drawers were half-empty. A check of the bathroom showed an absence of makeup and toiletries. The diamonds, emeralds and rubies were gone from the jewelry cases.

  “She didn’t need luggage for a one-day trip to the resort,” Hannah said quietly. “She certainly didn’t need an Armani or precious gems. She had plans, all right, but they didn’t include coming back here after fighting with you.”

  He leaned against the dressing table. “Let’s assume she and Brad were having an affair. She would want marriage. Being married to someone with money was okay. Being married to someone with money, power and prestige would be better.”

  “But Brad wouldn’t want to marry her,” Hannah said, “because he’s a snob. When he marries, he’ll choose someone whose pedigree is as impressive as his own. I assume Sandra wouldn’t take his refusal lightly.”

  Mick’s smile was humorless. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “She would make threats—make problems. She would certainly refuse to give him whatever share she got of Blue Water Construction. Instead of having you for a partner, he would have you and Sandra, and I imagine she would make doing business impossible.”

  Mick nodded.

  “So he made plans to get rid of both of you at once. He told her to go to the site, to fight with you, to goad you into making threats in front of the crew. Then he took her to his house, waited until he was sure you were set up with an unprovable alibi, and he took her to the site, where he killed her.” Hannah gave an exasperated shake of her head. “And we don’t have a shred of proof.”

  Worse, he wasn’t convinced there was any proof. If Brad hadn’t put together the perfect frame, he’d come damn close. Mick had been the sheriff’s prime suspect from the beginning, and if Hannah’s alibi didn’t check out—and he felt relatively sure it wouldn’t—it would be easy for Brad to move her into suspect status right alongside Mick. But no one suspected Brad of anything, except possibly poor judgment in choosing his partners, both business and sexual.

  Wearily he rubbed his eyes, then let his hands drop. “After the first four or five affairs, Sandra stopped trying to hide them from me. Maybe she left something that connects her to Brad.”

  “Photographs of the two in bed would be nice,” Hannah said skeptically.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” He left the closet, glad to be free of its close spaces and the heavy fragrance of Sandra’s perfume. The fragrance was in the bedroom, too, though, faint but unpleasantly familiar, fading as soon as he stepped into the hall.

  Sandra had claimed the room at the end of the hall for her own as soon as she’d seen the blueprints. It was glass on three sides, specially treated to keep out the hot summer sun, and gave a sense of being suspended above the earth. He’d originally intended it to be a sort of family room, back when he’d still hoped that, protests to the contrary, there might be a family. When she’d made clear that there absolutely, positively wouldn’t be, he’d lost interest in the room—hell, in the whole house.

  Sandra had turned the space into an office, complete with a computer system that, to his knowledge, she’d never turned on, with a fax machine, a multilined phone system and a social calendar that filled two leather-bound daybooks. Basically, that was what the room had been used for—making sure that she was the most popular belle at all the balls.

  Searching her desk took only minutes. Most of the drawers were empty, and the few that weren’t held nothing of interest. There was a stack of faxes—invitations issued and accepted, lunches planned, trips discussed. She’d said nothing to anyone about going out of town last week, and her date for Saturday evening—an appearance at a charity ball—was penciled in on the calendar. So were her plans for the rest of the week.

  So why had she taken suitcases, clothes and jewelry to the lake last Saturday? And where were those things now?

  Across the room, seated in a chair of fine leather and primitive wood, Hannah stifled a yawn. She’d been up since six, and it was now approaching ten-thirty. If she got to bed before one tonight, she would be lucky. He felt guilty for bringing her along, but he was glad she was here. Somehow she made a difference.

  “Are you ready to go home?”

  She yawned again. “Take your time. I’m fine.”

  “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.” He left everything on the desk exactly as it had been and pulled her to her feet. They walked silently through the house, their footsteps muffled on antique carpets, echoing on tile and stone.

  They hadn’t gone more than five miles in the truck before Hannah dozed off. A bump jerked her awake, and she straightened, but her head began droopi
ng again immediately.

  “Take off your seat belt and lie down.”

  In spite of her weariness, he could recognize the apprehension in her gaze. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m driving, Hannah. I’ll keep both hands on the wheel. I won’t do anything to you while going seventy-five down the interstate—though I’m flattered that you think I could.”

  Apprehension turned to disdain. “If I thought you were the kind of man who would cop a feel from a sleeping woman, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

  “Then lie down. Get some rest so I don’t feel guilty for keeping you out so late when you’ve worked a long day.”

  She still hesitated. There was something intimate—something vulnerable—about one of them sleeping while the other was awake. He’d felt it Saturday night when he’d awakened to find her watching him, all big eyes and shadows in the dimly lit room. He’d felt defenseless, exposed—and incredibly aroused. She had been aroused, too. He’d realized it the instant he’d raised his hand to her, unerringly cupping her breast, feeling the hard nub of her nipple, seeing the anticipation that quivered through her, hearing the soft catch of her breath. Just like that, with one look, one touch, they’d both been ready, and with no preliminaries beyond the necessary condom, he’d pulled her astride his hips and...

  Feeling beads of sweat pop out across his forehead, he gritted his jaw on a groan, turned the air conditioner a notch higher and locked his gaze on the road ahead. “Suit yourself, darlin’,” he said as if the matter were of no importance. At least that was how he wanted to sound, but the strain in his voice and the tension in his muscles made a liar of him.

  Within a few miles she was asleep again. She dozed fitfully, awakening every few minutes to seek a new, more comfortable position. Finally, with a scowl, she yanked off the seat belt and stretched out sideways on the seat, drawing her knees close to her chest. Her head was bent at an awkward angle, the back of it pressed against his thigh.

  “Come on, Hannah,” he coaxed softly. “We’ve seen each other naked. I’ve lain underneath you, on top of you, inside you. I think it’s all right for you to lay your head on my leg.”

  After a long moment of stillness she sighed and moved. The instant her head touched his leg, though, the very instant her cheek rubbed his thigh, he wanted to call the words back. It wasn’t all right. It was too intimate, too tempting.

  He managed the miles by concentrating on everything else in the world but the woman asleep in his lap. He stared at the road, gripped the steering wheel, controlled his breathing, thought only of getting home and going to bed. Alone. When he pulled into the Last Resort parking lot in front of room 17 and shut off the engine, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. They were home safe, and he had nothing more than the beginnings of an erection, not even enough for Hannah to notice.

  Uncurling his fingers from the steering wheel, he sat back and gazed at her. She’d slept without moving for the last hundred miles. The sleep of the exhausted. He’d slept that way himself after the last time they’d made love Saturday night. It had been months, maybe years, since he’d felt so satisfied, so peaceful, and he’d slept like it. Even when he’d awakened alone and with no sign of his mystery woman, he had still felt incredibly good. He’d thought there just might be a happy ending, after all. They would manage to sell the resort, he and Sandra would go ahead with their divorce, and he would somehow find lovely, sexy Elizabeth again.

  Then he had gone back to his motel, and the sheriff’s deputies had come calling with the news of Sandra’s murder.

  Lightly he touched his fingertips to Hannah’s cheek, brushing across her jaw, tucking her hair behind her ear. She was every bit as lovely and sexy as her red-haired alter ego and a hell of a lot more real. Elizabeth was perfect for an affair. Hannah was perfect for forever.

  For a long time he simply sat there, stroking her face, taking pleasure in simple touches that would have made her shy away if she’d been awake and on her usual guard. Finally, though, when the midnight heat became uncomfortable, he gave her shoulder a shake. “Hannah? Sweetheart, we’re home.”

  She didn’t want to wake up. He gave her another shake, and slowly she stirred, tried to stretch but couldn’t and opened her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, dazed, then looked around. “We’re home?” Her voice was husky, thick, erotic.

  “We’re home,” he repeated, more comfortable with calling this place home than the house they’d left two hours ago. Three guesses why that was—and any that didn’t include Hannah didn’t count. “Want me to carry you to bed?”

  She smiled sleepily, then pushed herself up. “I think I can make it.”

  Even though he’d known her answer before he’d asked the question, he felt a bit of regret as he climbed out. He walked to her door with her, leaning against the jamb after she’d stepped inside. “Want to invite me in? I’d be very good.

  There was that smile again, soft and drowsy. She’d worn it Saturday night, it and nothing else, and he had been lost. He was feeling pretty damned lost right now.

  “I know you would,” she said quietly. “That’s why you’re not getting an invitation.”

  When she started to close the door, he blocked it with his arm. “Are you ever going to make love with me again?”

  “I’m trying very hard not to.”

  “Why?”

  For a long time she gazed into the distance before finally meeting his gaze. “I don’t have a lot to lose, Mick. I need to hold on to what I’ve got.” Too quickly she said good-night and closed the door in his face.

  As he walked to his own room, he wondered about her words. What would a relationship with him cost her? There was the potential for hurt, for disappointment, for falling in love and not being loved in return. There was the hassle of location. His home was, for the time being, in Oklahoma City. Hers was here. Long-distance affairs often failed for just that reason. But he wasn’t overly fond of the city or his house there, and his future with Blue Water Construction was nonexistent. He wouldn’t mind relocating.

  Provided he wasn’t relocating to the state penitentiary.

  There was Saturday night standing between them. Her shame. His initial anger. And, to some extent, tonight. She hadn’t liked his house, hadn’t liked the pretentious display of money. He’d seen the way she looked at all of Sandra’s high-dollar extravagances, had watched her draw a little further into herself with each new excess. She had compared that place for which he was responsible with this one and found hers lacking.

  But he didn’t like the house, either. It hadn’t been home for a long time. The minute he’d seen it through the gate this evening, he’d known it would never be home again. Other than the few personal things he still kept there, he wanted no part of it.

  Suddenly tired, he went into his room, switched on the air conditioner and stripped for bed. He would work on changing Hannah’s mind tomorrow. As long as the sheriff didn’t haul him off to jail—thank God he didn’t yet have sufficient evidence—he would have time.

  And that was all he needed, all she needed. Time.

  Hannah lay in bed Friday morning, tired but unable to sleep again, dry-eyed and staring at the ceiling. She had known from the beginning that Mick had money. He and Brad were equal partners in the business, and Brad had a ton of money, not just family money, so Mick had plenty, too. In an abstract way it was easy to accept.

  But there was nothing abstract about his house. He had money, with lots of emphasis. Some might consider him wealthy. He certainly earned a hell of a lot more than she did—more, probably, in one month than she made in five years. He was no longer just Mick, who wore faded jeans and scuffed boots, who worked hard and lived in a shabby motel, whose only sign of prosperity was the truck he drove. He was Michael Reilly, successful businessman, part-owner of a remarkably prosperous company and a fabulously grand mansion. He socialized with the city’s rich and powerful, lived in their midst, went to their parties.

  He was, like Brad, a m
an who would find her good enough for a little fun, but not anything more. With Brad she’d been willing to settle for that.

  With Mick she wasn’t.

  Feeling blue, she forced herself to focus on what was before her. The ceiling in her quarters hadn’t been painted in longer than she could remember. Once it had been white, but now it was a grayish muddle with yellow water stains where the roof leaked. Her walls had been white, too, the same plain white as every other wall in the entire motel, worn now to the same dirty beige. There were cracks in the drywall, old nail holes that had never been filled in, gaps around the window and door frames where the caulk had shrunk long ago.

  Maybe she couldn’t afford new carpet, new furniture or a new roof. Maybe a few coats of paint couldn’t disguise the fact that the motel was on its last leg. Maybe she was foolish to even make the effort. But there was a five-gallon can of Morning Blush in the storeroom and all the brushes, Spackle and mineral spirits she needed. There was no reason to let them go to waste.

  And what would it matter? Would the fact that she had pretty walls for the first time in years make more guests stay at the Last Resort? Would it impress Brad enough to make him leave her in peace? Would it help Mick forget that he was living temporarily in a run-down threadbare motel? Would it make her look any less run-down or threadbare?

  Wearily she left the bed, showered and dressed for the day. In the office Ruby was watching her predawn aerobics show, the knitting needles in her hands clicking in rhythm with the too-perky instructor’s count. The smells of breakfast were drifting out from the kitchen, where Earlene and Sylvie were already hard at work, and across the dining room, Merrilee drifted from table to table, putting chairs on the floor, dreamily wiping a cloth across each top. Her hair was done, her makeup perfectly applied, her patent leather heels showing not a smudge. If only she’d remembered to trade her nightgown and robe for a dress, she would have looked lovely.

  “Morning, Ruby. Good morning, Mom.”

  Merrilee came one table closer, and Hannah could hear her soft, tuneless humming. She moved the chairs, wiped the surface and never noticed that she wasn’t alone.