Her body should have been relaxing. Instead it flexed like tensile steel. Her breathing had picked up a rapid pace. Her fingers curled into a fist and thumped on his collarbone demanding…something.
The way he had been touching her—an asexual touch meant to soothe, not arouse—had nevertheless incited her to fever pitch. “I thought you were going to cure me of my morning-after blues,” she complained.
Shane stopped his ministrations and gentled his finger under her chin, tipping her head up. She didn’t even try to hide her wanting. Her need.
He smiled at her patronizingly, charmingly. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
Impatient, she reached down to encourage him to hurry. He pushed her hand away.
“No. Not like that,” he told her. He reached out and shut off the water, then grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her like a mother buttoning a child’s winter coat before sending him out into the snow.
After carrying her to the king-size bed in the back of the cabin and securing the blinds on the window, he did take care of her. Very good, very thorough care.
The kind of care that left her shuddering and weak, lying in a puddle of her own sweat and twisted sheets within minutes.
The kind of care that made her very glad he’d shaved.
The Arizona sun bore down a little harder each day. Spring in the desert was giving way to hard-boiled summer, and even the deceptively cool blue sky and the crystal glitter of Lake Pleasant couldn’t keep up the illusion of comfort against the fiery fingers of the sun reaching out to blister the land.
Wiping his forehead on the sleeve of the golf shirt he’d picked out of Fitz’s closet, Shane squatted and looked Oliver in the eye. “This is it. Show me what you’ve got, big guy.”
He waved the orange Frisbee he’d found in the laundry room in front of the dog’s nose, then stood and flung the disc across the yard. Oliver ran after it, his eyes on the sky.
The young dog hadn’t recovered completely, physically, but he’d put on some weight. He no longer walked all curled in on himself, his back hunched, head sagging and tail tucked tight between his legs. Best of all, he’d learned to play, running and jumping and barking like the pup that he was as Shane taught him a few simple games.
Frisbee proved to be his favorite. The bright disk hit the grass, and Oliver dutifully carried it back to Shane, panting and shaking his head for Shane to throw it again. This time Shane tossed the toy lightly, careful not to send it too far. Oliver loved games, but he tired easily. Shane didn’t want to overtax the dog’s healing system.
This time Oliver caught the disk in the air. Gigi clapped and whistled from her place on the porch. She’d been the one to encourage Shane to take Oliver out for some exercise, and she liked to watch. He hadn’t wanted her outside, but she’d seemed so disappointed at having to observe through a window that he had compromised, and agreed she could watch from the porch. Besides, that way, he could keep an eye on her.
And he did like keeping his eyes on her.
Three days of making love should have dulled his craving for her. Instead it had only put a desperate edge on it.
Even now, watching her watch him from the porch, his mind conjured powerful, arousing images. Moving pictures of him carrying her inside, laying her in the middle of that big bed downstairs and doing every unmentionable act to her that he knew how to do—plus a few he didn’t, but had always wanted to learn.
Even as he thought it, he knew that wouldn’t be enough. He wanted her again and again and again. He couldn’t get enough of her.
Maybe because he knew they were running out of time.
They were living in a bubble—a fragile sphere of fiction detached from the cold facts of murder, hit men and crooked cops. Sooner or later, their bubble had to burst. When it did, it was over. They were over.
The hell of it was, he wasn’t sure he wanted it to end.
Unfortunately it didn’t look like he had a choice, since Margo Maitland’s Jaguar had just turned into the drive.
Margo, a short woman with a personality as wiry and irrepressible as her curly gray hair, got out of her car and wrapped her reedy arms around him and squeezed tight enough to break ribs. He gave her a brief hug and then pushed back, searching for the words and knowing that nothing he could say could right what had happened.
“Margo, I’m so sorry.”
Her warm, brown eyes latched on to him. “Did you shoot my husband?” she asked sharply as he opened the front door.
“No.”
“Did you purposely set him up so that someone else would shoot him?”
“No, but—”
She dismissed him pointedly and turned to Gigi. “Then stop apologizing and introduce me to your friend.”
When Margo Maitland ended a discussion, even Shane didn’t dare argue. What good were apologies anyway? They were just words. Words couldn’t make up for almost losing her husband. He’d find some other way make amends, through actions not words. However long it took, he’d find some way to make sure she never regretted the day Bill Maitland brought him home for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Margo, this is…” He looked to Gigi, not sure how to introduce her. A slight tilt of her head told him it was his choice. “…Julia Ferrar. But you can call her Gigi.”
Gigi-Julia’s smile said she approved of his choice.
“Gigi, meet Margo Maitland,” he finished.
The women exchanged greetings as he ushered them inside.
Shane led Margo to the den while Gigi went to pour them some iced tea. “Do you have anything on the shooter?” he asked, his mind still on Bill.
“Nothing concrete.”
“But he was looking for me.”
“I think so.”
Shane dragged his hand through his hair. “How did he know about you, about Bill?”
“Like you told Ronnie, someone on the inside is involved in this.”
“Someone with access to a hell of a lot of information.”
“Maybe.” Margo shrugged. “Or maybe they just did the legwork. It’s no secret in Phoenix that we’re friends.”
Gigi came into the den carrying a tray of tumblers and a pitcher of tea. Margo gave Shane a strange look. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Why don’t we all sit down and take it from the beginning.”
Shane lowered himself to the couch and Gigi sat next to him. Margo sat in a tufted chair, its floral print faded by the Arizona sun lambasting it through the windows.
“What have you found out, Margo?” he asked, impatience getting the better of him.
“Just the basics of the murders in New York.” Margo set her tea on the coffee table. “But I’d like to hear Gigi tell her story before I draw any conclusions about what I’ve learned.”
The style was vintage Margo Maitland—no-nonsense, down-to-business analysis of the facts—but something in her tone of voice gave Shane pause. She’d sounded a little too objective. As if she were having to work at it.
He watched her carefully as Gigi related her story again—how she’d seen her father’s partner and a man she later learned to be an assistant D.A. in the stable; the car rushing by; the shots; being whisked away and warned not to talk to anyone. As he watched, Shane was more and more sure that Margo knew more than she admitted. She was a master in terrogator, but so was he. And he had the added advantage of knowing her well. He read her reaction every time one of Gigi’s answers triggered a moment of suspicion or a hint of disbelief.
“You said your father’s partner gave the A.D.A. a book. What kind of book?” Margo asked.
“A notebook.”
“Did you see what was in it?”
“Yes. I-I picked it up after I checked Uncle Ben’s and the man’s…after I verified they were dead.”
“What was in it?”
“Just dates and columns of numbers. Except for the first page that had a Ferrar Industries logo on it.”
“Your father’s company.”
“Yes.”
�
�Where Ben Carlisle worked?”
Gigi shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”
Margo took a sip of tea and leaned back. “You remember the details of that night quite clearly, don’t you?” she said coolly. “Even after all this time.”
Shane’s jaw tightened. He knew what Margo was implying—that Gigi had rehearsed her recount of that night. Suspects sometimes memorized their stories, including vivid detail to add realism, to keep from slipping up or giving a tenacious investigator a reason to doubt their lies. But Gigi wasn’t a suspect, was she?
“I should,” Gigi answered just as coolly, her face such a mask of purposeful dispassion that Shane had to wonder if she, too, hadn’t guessed what Margo had been implying. “I’ve seen them in my dreams almost every night for three years.”
One point for Ferrar. Good for her.
But Margo wasn’t finished yet. “Did you ever ask the D.A. what the numbers in the book meant?”
“He said he couldn’t crack it.”
“It was encoded?” Shane intervened.
Gigi answered, “I don’t know. He just said he couldn’t make sense of it.” She lowered her head, then looked up at him through a forest of tawny lashes. “I thought it might have been evidence of some sort of gambling operation,” she said.
“Why would you think that?” Margo asked.
“Uncle Ben liked the horse races. He was a regular around the track. He liked to gamble—sometimes legally, sometimes not. I thought he might have gotten in over his head.”
“And decided to turn in his bookie so he wouldn’t have to pay his debts.”
She shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Did you tell Paul Branson your theory?”
“Yes.”
Margo took a long drink of tea. The seconds ticked away interminably. Margo was headed somewhere with this line of questioning, and he didn’t think he was going to like where she ended up.
“Ben Carlisle and your father had worked together a long time, hadn’t they?” Margo asked.
“Thirty years,” Gigi confirmed. “Since the beginning of Ferrar Industries.”
“He was chief financial officer of your father’s company?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose he would handle a lot of numbers in that capacity.”
“Yes.”
“And your father would be familiar with his system—his code—for recording data?”
Shane’s chest froze midbreath. Margo’s question had hit him like a punch in the gut. He’d been expecting bad. He got worse.
Confusion rippled across Gigi’s face in the form of a frown. “I suppose.”
“Do you suppose your father could have deciphered the numbers in the book?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did the D.A. go to him for help?”
“I—I don’t think so.”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why?”
“It never occurred to me.”
“Didn’t it?” Margo asked sharply.
“Margo!” Shane barked. Both women snapped their heads around toward him. The room fell so quiet that Shane could hear the pounding of his own heart. “What are you getting at, Margo?” he asked with more calm than he felt.
She leaned forward and set her empty tumbler on the table, meticulously folding a napkin beneath the condensation-coated glass. “Nothing. I told you, I haven’t drawn my conclusions yet.”
“But you have your suspicions.”
“Suspicions aren’t the same as proof,” she said darkly, then brightened and straightened her back, blatantly changing the subject. “My, I believe I could use another cool drink.” She looked pointedly at her empty glass.
Gigi’s bewildered gaze glanced from him to Margo, then she ducked her head and reached for the tray she’d brought the drinks in on. Shane felt torn, his loyalty drawn and quartered between his old friend and his new lover.
He stopped Gigi, clasping her forearm. “No,” he said, his gaze fixed firmly on Margo. “You don’t have to send her away so we can talk.”
A silent warning flashed in Margo’s eyes, stirring his thick anxiety. She wanted to talk to him privately. But he couldn’t do that to Gigi.
“We’ll hear whatever you have to say together,” he said.
“Shane…” The emotion that replaced the warning in her eyes set alarms clanging in Shane’s blood.
Sympathy.
What could she have to say that would hurt him so badly she’d regret having to be the one to tell him?
“Spill it, Margo,” he said.
Margo squared her shoulders. “The D.A. never went to her father for help.”
“Why not?”
“Because one of his own cryptographers broke enough of the code to know that it was a record of money laundering, not gambling. Millions of dollars over several years.” She looked from Shane to Gigi and took a deep breath before continuing. “The money was being filtered through Ferrar Industries.”
Gigi gasped and Shane waited in silence, his blood chilling. He suspected the worst was yet to come, and he was right.
“The records implicated John Ferrar in the crime, although the D.A. could never make enough sense of the numbers to bring it to court,” Margo finished.
“No!” Gigi cried.
Facts toppled one after the other in Shane’s mind like a row of dominoes. Ben Carlisle was killed trying to turn over evidence of a money-laundering scheme to the district attorney’s office. If John Ferrar was behind the money laundering, then that made him the chief suspect in the murder case as well—a murder case that had never gone to trial because the only witness—his daughter—had run away.
Or had she?
“There must be some mistake,” Gigi pleaded.
His breath too short, Shane looked up at Margo. God, he hoped Gigi was right. That there had been some mistake.
“That doesn’t prove Gigi knew anything about it.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Margo, or himself.
Again he saw the sorrow flood her eyes and he prepared for another blow. She turned her gaze to Gigi.
“Did you see Ben Carlisle that day, before you saw him at the stables?”
The very way that she asked told Shane that Margo already knew the answer.
Gigi’s gaze darted around like an animal looking for escape. “I—he was at my father’s. I used to have dinner there the first Sunday of every month, and he was just leaving when I arrived.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No.”
“Why not? You said he was like an uncle to you.”
Margo’s hard interrogation twisted like a knife in Shane’s gut, but this time he didn’t interrupt her.
“He was in a hurry.”
“Why was he in a hurry?”
“I don’t—” She swallowed hard. The pulse point at the base of her neck danced frantically. She looked at Margo. “How do you know all this?”
“The police interviewed your father’s household staff. I read the transcripts.”
“Then you already know why he was in a hurry,” Gigi chided.
“But Shane doesn’t,” Margo answered quietly. “Why don’t you tell him?”
Gigi turned to him, and the bleeding wound inside him dried up. He turned to stone. She was finally going to tell him her secrets, and irrationally, he wished she wouldn’t.
“They were arguing,” she said, her eyes bright with suffering.
“Did you hear what they were saying?” Margo asked.
“No. When I walked in the house I just heard angry shouting. Then Uncle Ben stomped out. He didn’t even stop to say hello or goodbye. He just left.” Her bright eyes flared defiantly. “It doesn’t mean anything. They’d argued before, about business.”
“What time was that, Gigi?” Margo prodded.
“A little after five.”
“Phone records show that at 5:22, Ben Carlisle made a call from his cell phone. The call went to the New York County District Attorney’s office
. By nine-thirty, he was dead.”
Shane let his eyelids fall shut.
“Did you tell Branson about the fight between Mr. Carlisle and your father?” he heard Margo say.
“He didn’t ask,” Gigi answered.
“And you didn’t volunteer.”
Gigi kept her silence.
Shane couldn’t have forced words through his thickened throat, even if he had something to say. Even if by some chance Gigi hadn’t known about the money laundering, she’d known that her father and his murdered partner had had a blowout just hours before that partner was killed. She had to know that would put her father under suspicion, yet she neglected to mention that little fact to the D.A. or to him. And he’d bet there was more she was holding back.
He smiled tightly to himself. Just like in bed—he knew when she didn’t give herself up completely.
He was a fool. Twice a fool, because he should have known better. This wasn’t the fist time a woman had lied to him to protect her family.
But it would damn well be the last.
Every nerve in his body screamed at him to jump up. He was too close to her. He was suffocating. One thing he’d learned working undercover, though, was how to control his impulses. At least most of them. Where the hell had his iron control been when he’d decided to make love to her?
He tamped down his emotions, schooled calm onto his face, and forced himself to stay on the couch, his hands still, no matter how badly he wanted to do something, break something. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him lose it.
No, he’d lose it later. In private.
“What do you want to do, Margo?” He purposely cut Gigi out of the discussion.
“I spoke to the D.A. in charge of the case. He wants to talk to her ASAP.”
“Fine by me,” he said, cutting his gaze to the floor. “The sooner she goes back to New York the better.”
He tried not to look at Gigi, but he couldn’t help but see the bewilderment on her face as his gaze skimmed by her.
“Shane?” The quaver in Gigi’s voice drilled straight through to his heart, but he’d get over that in time.
Shane couldn’t stand the pressure any longer. The air seemed to push at him from all sides. He had to get out of there. Out of the room. Out of the house. Out of the damn desert. Maybe he’d go back to the mountains, where it was green, and cool….
The Lawman's Last Stand Page 15