by Anne Stuart
It took him a moment to realize what she was talking about. “Shari Derringer’s body was found this afternoon in a quarry in eastern Virginia. She’d been raped, her throat was cut, and she’d been dead for approximately ten days.”
Elizabeth put down her fork, and he didn’t blame her for losing her appetite. “Mary Nelson disappeared ten days ago.”
“So she did. Shari’s been positively IDed. She was in pretty rough shape, with her face bashed in, but her father identified the body, and the dental records matched.”
Her eyes widened. He wondered briefly where she’d left her wire-rimmed glasses, and if she actually needed them for anything other than a barrier between the cruel world and her own frailties. “Then it must be her.”
“Unless the secretary of state and the FBI are lying,” he said blandly, continuing to eat.
“Is that possible?”
He shrugged, reaching for his beer. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I thought you would.”
He drained half the bottle, setting it down with a snap. “Distrust our government? The people I’ve spent more than half my life working for?” he mocked. “How could you think I’d be that cynical?”
“I wonder.”
“Funny thing, though. When Shari disappeared she was wearing a white linen suit. It wasn’t very white when her body was found, but it was definitely the same outfit.” He paused, watching her.
“Go on.”
“Are you waiting for the other shoe to drop?” he inquired in a dulcet voice.
“Sam, get on with . . . what?” His words finally sank in, and her eyes widened as she stared at him.
“That’s right. She was only wearing one red shoe. And no one could find any trace of the other one.”
“Damn,” she said unexpectedly, and reached for her untouched beer.
“They’re saying she’s the victim of a serial killer, of course. And that she’s been in the quarry for the past ten days. No chance of her taking a little detour by the way of Colorado.”
“Maybe the killer could have kept the shoe as a souvenir? I mean, if I’m wrong, maybe it really was a random killer, and he’s been crisscrossing the country, picking victims on a whim.”
“All right, we’ll consider that scenario. If he happened to have some sort of shoe fetish, why would he leave that shoe behind at the cabin, then? If he collected footwear from his victims you’d think he’d hold on to it, not let it get shoved underneath a deserted cabin.”
“Maybe once he got Mary Nelson’s shoe he didn’t need Shari’s.”
He just stared at her in fascination. “You have a sick mind, do you know that?” he said finally.
She took another generous slug of her beer. “No, I don’t. I just happen to have been witness to a few sick minds. I know the way people can think.”
“Is that the way this killer thinks? Did he just happen to kill Shari Derringer and Mary Nelson? Is he a shoe fetishist?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I really don’t know.” She drained the bottle, then stared at it in surprise. “I don’t like beer,” she said.
He tipped back his chair, watching her out of hooded eyes. “Your fall from grace, swami. You’ve tasted red meat and survived, you enjoyed a beer, you’ve kissed a man and wanted more. Pretty soon you’ll start wanting to put on the red dress, and then who knows how it will end.”
“You know how it will end,” she said, reaching for her tangled sheaf of hair and attempting to braid it. “So there’s no way on earth I’m going to put that dress on. Return it to the store. And the clothes you bought me were too small. I wear a size ten, not eight.”
“You may wear a size ten, but your body is a size eight, or smaller. Take it from a man who knows. Your clothes are too baggy.”
“My clothes are comfortable. Besides, what does it matter to you what I wear?”
A small, wry grin lit his mouth and he swallowed the obvious answer. She was tired; she was reeling from all the unexpected occurrences of the past thirty-six hours. He could only push her so far and so fast. It was time for a decent man to back off. He just wasn’t sure how far his decency extended.
“What’s going to happen next?” she said, and again he thought about her. About him. About them. He couldn’t afford to do that, couldn’t afford to let himself be distracted. Their lives were on the line, and if he was busy thinking about getting between her legs and not about who might come knocking at his door, who might be bugging his phone, who might be putting a knife in his back, then he was putting them both at risk.
“I go in to work tomorrow. I find out the details on the official line on the Derringer case, and I see what I can ferret out. I’m good at getting at the truth, and I have friends who trust me, hard as that may be for you to believe.”
“That you have friends or that people trust you?” She’d wrapped a piece of string around the end of her thick chestnut braid, but she still didn’t look like the pale schoolmarm he’d first seen in Colorado. “Neither surprises me. Phil was your friend, and Phil trusted you. He wasn’t someone who gave his trust or friendship lightly.”
“Therefore I’m trustworthy?” he suggested.
She managed a tiny smile. “I didn’t say that.”
“Or a worthy friend.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Are you my friend?”
There was a leveler, he thought wryly. He took friendship seriously. In a world where love and God didn’t exist, friendship took their place. If he decided he was Elizabeth Hardy’s friend it meant he’d be chained to her for life, and that was something he didn’t want to risk.
It also meant he couldn’t go to bed with her, not if he thought he might hurt her. And, damn it, he knew that he would, sooner or later.
She was waiting for an answer, a simple answer to a simple question. She’d put her life in his hands, and she wanted to know if he was her friend.
He considered saying, “Sure,” but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t placate her with an easy lie, particularly since she probably wouldn’t be placated.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said, unable to come up with anything closer to the truth. She was going to run again; those beautiful brown eyes would probably fill with tears, and he’d have to stop her. Have to touch her. Hold her. His body tightened at the thought.
But she didn’t run. Didn’t cry. This time her eyes met his without shrinking, and she nodded. “I suppose that will have to do. I appreciate your not lying to me.”
If he’d felt like a sleaze before, now he felt like the worst sort of monster. And now he had no excuse to touch her, none at all. “Where do you want to sleep?” he asked abruptly, as if that hadn’t been on his mind all evening. For days, even. “The bed’s big enough, and I don’t thrash around much. If I did, I never would have survived on your torture chamber of a sofa.”
“I think it only fair that I endure your uncomfortable sofa as penance,” she murmured.
“You’re safe in the bed with me as long as you don’t wear a red dress.”
“You think so? Only red turns you on?”
God, why did he feel suddenly lighthearted? “Any chance I could convince you of that?”
“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”
He wondered what would happen if he touched her. Part of him wanted to find out. At least if he touched her, if he took her to that bed she seemed determined to avoid, he might be able to stop being obsessed by her. He might be able to stop thinking about her when he should be thinking about who killed Mary Nelson and why Shari Derringer’s father was willing to have everyone believe his daughter was dead.
That was simply an excuse. He could think of a million reasons to touch her, to stretch her out on that big bed and make love to her until she shattered and all her secrets simply washed away. A million reasons to do it, and one reason not to. He was afraid she might start to matter. And he couldn’t let anyone matter.
“You can have
the pillows,” he said, covering the sudden disturbing thoughts with a lazy yawn. “You think you’ll be able to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Just do me one favor.”
“What is it?”
He kept his hands on his side of the table, fighting the impulse to touch her. “Don’t dream.”
“CAN I GET YOU anything else, Mr. O’Donnell?” In first class they knew your name, and this 747 just now winging its way over the Atlantic Ocean came equipped with very pretty, very blond flight attendants who probably would have cleaned his shoes with their tongues, they were so eager to please. Muhammed Ali Reza looked up and smiled.
“No thank you. I think I’ll just nap.” He slid down into his comfortable seat and closed his eyes. He’d never thought he would mind the weather, but he’d been too cold for too long. He was glad to be leaving his little problem behind, much as it galled him to accept assistance. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t have handled Oliver and the woman. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to, with a desire quite unlike his usual sangfroid. That had been a warning signal, one he’d heeded. When something began to matter too much, he pulled back. Sending Kempton in to finish the matter showed that he was above such mundane emotions. Efficiency, that was all that mattered.
He shifted, and the gun dug into his ribs. He would have preferred his knife, but he only used one kind of knife, and it was of cold metal. The gun beneath his armpit was made entirely of plastic, undetectable by airport security, but very deadly, nonetheless.
He had no intention of using it. He simply wanted to get back to the decrepit, supposedly deserted blue house on the Rio Benedetto and warm up. But there was no way he’d go anywhere without a weapon. Life was too capricious.
No, he’d warm his bones and wait for Kempton’s report. And then the Spandau Corporation could finish its work, no matter what silly games the United States government tried to play. Never again would he set foot in a place as cold as Colorado, even if it meant leaving his recent, enjoyable activities to the Kemptons of this world. Warmth, that was what he needed. Bright Italian sunlight.
“Are you staying long in Venice?” the chirpy woman asked, leaning over him. His fault for being too charming. He hoped that the next time one of his confederates blew up a plane she’d be on it.
“Not long,” he said, his faintly Irish accent perfect. He was lucky—with his dark looks he could pass for any number of nationalities, but he particularly preferred Irish. It was more of a challenge. “Just a short vacation. I’m meeting my girlfriend.”
The wattage of the flight attendant’s perfect smile dimmed noticeably at the mention of his fictional girlfriend. “I hope she packed warm clothes,” the woman said. “It’s snowing in Venice.”
Chapter 11
WHEN ELIZABETH awoke the next morning the apartment was flooded with a murky half-light fighting its way through the miniblinds, and Sam was gone. She woke up stiff and aching, cursing the uncomfortable sofa. Boredom warred with her constant state of dread, and she cursed her house arrest—she was suddenly famished, and she’s promised she wouldn’t venture outside.
Sam had left a pot of coffee warming, and she offered a silent prayer of thanks as she poured herself a huge mug. She ate cold spicy Chinese noodles and leftover steak, then moved on to macadamia nuts and a Granny Smith apple as she wandered through the empty apartment. She was tempted to top it off with an ice-cream bar, but even her newfound appetite had its limits. It was only seven-fifteen in the morning. She’d wait till nine to start on the ice cream.
Whoever had once shared Sam’s pillows had left some perfumed face cream in his medicine chest. While she didn’t want to smell like his previous lover, she was a little tired of smelling like deodorant soap, and she took a long, leisurely shower, then rubbed herself all over with the cream. It was only as she was heading back to the kitchen and her promised ice-cream bar that she realized she’d thought of the perfume woman as a previous lover. Who said she was in the past? Elizabeth chided herself. And who was supposed to be the future?
She told herself that she had no choice but to put on the lacy underwear Sam had bought her. Her own serviceable cotton was dirty, and she had orders not even to attempt finding the laundry room in this anonymous apartment complex. She had no intention of washing her underthings out in the sink and leaving them draped around his bathroom. Besides, there was no way he was going to see the lacy things she was wearing. Was there?
He was right, of course. Size eight fit a lot better than size ten, and even that was a little baggy. He’d tossed the red dress on a chair when he’d gone back to bed, and she carefully avoided it, afraid even to touch it as she pulled on the jeans and cotton sweater Sam had bought her. At least she had to give him credit for more or less following her usual tastes for the rest of her clothes. She lived in jeans and cotton sweaters. These were slightly different. The jeans were stone washed, soft and clinging, even brand-new, and the sweater, was a deep rose color instead of the neutrals she preferred, and it made her skin look warm and her eyes sparkle. There was no way she could fault him on his choices, but deep down she suspected he’d picked that color on purpose. Just as he’d picked the red dress.
Ice-cream bar in hand, she wandered back into the living room and the complex audiovisual setup that seemed to be the only purchase Sam had made. She’d owned a television in Colorado, a small model she’d used to check the weather reports when a storm was due. Savoring the rich, creamy ice-cream bar, she picked up one of the remote controls and aimed it at the television, preparing herself for a long, boring day.
That was before she discovered the music channels. She stumbled on them by accident, flicking past news stations and game shows and sitcoms from the ‘80s and ‘90s, and paused, enraptured, letting the music flow through her. She cautiously turned the sound up, but clearly Sam’s apartment was either soundproofed or surrounded by working tenants, for no one banged on the wall, ceiling or floor. By eleven o’clock she began to dance, her long veil of hair swinging around her. Never in her life had she danced. Her aunt and uncle had considered music and dancing just more tricks of the devil, and Granny Mellon hadn’t been blessed with anything as complicated as electricity. By the time she was on her own and met Alan, she’d learned to beware of men putting their arms around her, and she was too inhibited to dance alone.
Not today. The door was locked, and only Sam had the keys. The windows were tightly sealed, with no chink of light, and if the place was bugged, all they’d hear was loud music and a few artistic thumps.
She ate sausage pizza and beer nuts for lunch, washed down with one of Sam’s beers, and went back to dancing for the afternoon. By the time Sam came home she was exhausted, anxious and feeling more alive than she’d ever felt in her entire life.
She was so happy to see him, and to smell the Chinese food he brought with him, that she ignored his bad temper as he slammed in the door once she’d unbarred it and stomped into the kitchen. After dumping the white boxes down on the counter, he stormed out again without a word, this time heading into the bedroom and slamming that door shut behind him. A few minutes later he emerged, dressed this time in jeans and an aging black sweatshirt with a faded orange tiger on the front and the words Princeton University almost obliterated. That was something new, she thought. He didn’t strike her as the sort of man who would have gone to Princeton. He looked impossibly grim.
“Hi,” he said grudgingly, the first word he’d spoken since he arrived home.
“Bad day?” she inquired, wondering if she should be a proper housewife and make him a drink. She hadn’t been a proper housewife at all; she hadn’t even bothered to make the bed.
“To put it mildly.” He solved the problem by making his own drink. “Do you want one?”
She shook her head. “Anything new?”
“Too much. And too little.” His eyes suddenly focused on her, on her flushed face and loose hair. “Why are you wearing those glasses?”
She
reached up and touched the wire frames. “Because I need them.”
“You didn’t need them yesterday,” he growled. “Take them off.”
“Don’t be absurd.” He’d already snatched them off her face, holding them up to his own fierce blue eyes and peering through them.
“These are practically clear glass,” he said.
She grabbed for them, but he was much taller, and he held them out of her reach. “Give them to me. I need them.”
“Forget it,” he said. And without another word he crumpled the fragile wire frames in his big hand, letting the thin glass lenses pop out.
She took a deep breath, wondering how far she’d get if she hit him, which she very much wanted to. Not very far. He was much bigger, stronger, and if she touched him, he’d touch her back, and there would be no end to it, red dress or not.
She took a step backward, calm once more. “Just because you had a lousy day,” she said, “doesn’t mean you have to come home and torment me.”
He dropped the ruined glasses on the counter, and if there was a trace of regret in his usually cool eyes, he didn’t let it surface for more than a moment. “Sorry,” he said briefly. “How’d you spend your day?”
“Dancing.”
He laughed, thinking she was kidding. “Did you watch the news?”
“Absolutely not.”
“No wonder you’re in such an uncharacteristically cheerful mood,” he grumbled, opening one of the boxes of Chinese food and dumping it on a plate.
“I’m usually a lot more cheerful than you are,” she replied, taking another box and unearthing egg rolls.
“That’s not saying much.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t. We don’t make a very jolly couple, do we?” she said, unwrapping the chopsticks.
“I wasn’t aware that we made a couple at all.”
Elizabeth could feel her face flame brightly, and she was glad they were in the artificial light of the kitchen. She ducked her head, concentrating on the pork lo mein. “I was speaking in general terms,” she said.