THE TROPHY WIFE

by Ginna Gray

  "He said he was Mrs. Riordan's uncle Melvin."

  "My wife doesn't have an uncle. Melvin or otherwise."

  "Damn. I knew there was something not right about that guy," Officer Murphy declared. "For starters, he looked like a mob guy. And he talked with a strange accent."

  "What do you mean, strange accent? Was it Italian? French? Russian?"

  "No, sir. Nothing like that. It was more like a Yankee trying to sound like a Texan."

  That would have been funny, if Max hadn't been so worried. "What did he look like?"

  "Big guy, around six-three, six-four. Must've weighed in at around two-seventy or eighty. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Cold as all hell, but dark. Wouldn't meet your gaze. Oh! And I thought he walked kinda funny. Greg here disagrees," Office Murphy said, nodding at the other officer.

  "Funny? Define funny."

  "Well … it wasn't a limp, exactly, but I thought he was favoring one leg, and trying hard not to let it show."

  "Yeah, maybe," Palowski agreed. "I wasn't watching the way he walked. I had my eye on that leather trench coat he wore. Real expensive-looking. At least from the front. From the back the coat looked like a sieve. It had at least a dozen or more tiny holes in it."

  "Ah, damn!" Max grated through clenched teeth. "That was our shooter. The one who's tried three times to kill Elizabeth."

  Max thought for a moment. "You two stay here. Don't let anyone inside. And I mean anyone. Not doctors, not nurses, not orderlies, not your best friend, not other police. Not anyone. I'm going to make arrangements to have Elizabeth moved. Now."

  "Gee, we're sorry Mr. Riordan, we—"

  "Don't beat yourselves up, guys. At least you kept him from making a fourth try." Max shook his head. "Damn, this guy's got nerve, coming here so soon after shooting my wife. Plus he's got to be hurting himself. Mrs. Whittington is sure that she shot him in the leg."

  "Are you crazy? You can't make another attempt so soon."

  "The hell I can't," Angel snarled into the cell phone that he held between his jawbone and shoulder. "And you're going to help me."

  "Me! I can't be involved in this. Why do you think I hired you the first place? I can't be connected to this in any way."

  "Too bad," Angel grunted. Sitting naked on the edge of the hotel bed, he squeezed antibiotic salve onto the gouge in his upper-right thigh. Damn nosy, interfering, sassy little blonde. If it wasn't for her he'd be home in New York by now, a hefty stack of thousand dollar bills in his pocket.

  Damned broad. Came stomping out there in her ridiculous high-heels, banging away with that big, bad-ass six-shooter. The recoil alone should have knocked her on her butt. Who the hell did she think she was, Annie Oakley? Texans. Huh. Bunch of damned maniacs.

  "I'll tell you what. I'll talk to your boss," his client said. "He'll understand why we need to delay. He's a reasonable man. Look how understanding he's been with me."

  Angel stopped doctoring his wound, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits, even though he was alone in the plush hotel room.

  If Tony Voltura got wind of this foul-up, that his number-one enforcer couldn't take out one small woman, not even in three tries—four, if you counted his early-morning trip to the hospital this morning—he might start thinking Angel was getting too old for the job. If that happened, Angel knew that he might as well make out his will and have his best suit cleaned, because he was a goner. He knew where too many bodies were buried.

  "Listen, and I mean listen good," Angel growled into the cell phone mouthpiece. "If you talk to Tony Voltura about this, if you visit him, send him an e-mail, if you so much as think of getting in touch with him—hell, if you send up a smoke signal—you'll be the one to die. You got that?"

  "I … I…"

  "Yes is the only sound I want to hear out of you."

  "Y-yes."

  Angel waited a few seconds. He could almost smell the fear coming through the cell phone. "Okay, then. And stop worrying. I've got it all worked out. Here's what we're going to do…"

  It had taken Max less than five minutes to get approval for Elizabeth's immediate move to the Stanton Wing and any record of her stay in the hospital expunged from the regular records. Amazing how much a little money could grease the wheels of bureaucratic paperwork, Max thought, striding back to the cubicle.

  "Well? What took so long? What was so important that the guards couldn't discuss it in front of me?" Elizabeth demanded the instant Max returned.

  "We're moving you to a suite in the Stanton Wing. Remember? Dr. Alexander told us that last night."

  "Why? I don't need a suite. I'm getting good care here."

  "Yeah, but I'm not. There's not enough room in here for another bed."

  "Oh, Max, I'm so sorry. How selfish of me not to think of that."

  "No problem." Max suppressed a grin. It wasn't fair to use Elizabeth's thoughtful nature against her, but in this case it was for her own good. The fewer things she had to worry about the better.

  "The fifth floor of the Stanton Wing is a locked wing and the door is four inches of solid steel. No one can get in without the consent of the patient or the patient's next of kin or guardian," Max said, scanning the ICU cubicle for anything of a personal nature belonging to Elizabeth and coming up empty. "What did they do with your belongings when they brought you here?"

  "You mean my black silk nightgown that got shredded by rose thorns and my black bikini panties? That's all I had on when I went running and screaming from the house at almost midnight. As I recall, I didn't even have on any house slippers."

  Max stopped his search and looked at her for a long time before he shuddered from head to toe. "I don't like to even think about that."

  "Sit down, Max. Please," she begged, her eyelids at half mast. "You're giving me a headache, just watching you."

  "Oh, right. They'll be here any minute to move you, anyway." He moved to the bedside and took her hand again. "By the way, do you by any chance have an uncle Marvin that you haven't told me about?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Not even on your mother's side?"

  "No. Please, Max, tell me."

  Max fixed her with a long hard look. "All right. I promised that I would be honest with you, so here goes. A large, dark-haired guy wearing a black leather coat came to see you about two hours ago. He was angry when he couldn't get past the door."

  Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. "Oh, my Lord. He's not going to give up, is he? Not until he kills me."

  "Or until we catch him." Max hitched up one leg and sat down on the side of the bed, hip to hip with her. "I'm not going to let him get to you again, Elizabeth. So don't worry."

  She gave a mirthless little chuckle. "Easy for you to say. Sorry. I can't just shut my mind off. Okay, so maybe he won't get to me here. But what about when I go home? Or a week from now? A month? Six months? This man has proved that he's tenacious."

  "First of all, I'm not leaving your side until this is over—not for business deals, not for anything. Also, in addition to me, you'll have a personal bodyguard with you twenty-four-seven until we've got this guy, and the name of the person who hired him."

  Max rubbed his fingers back and forth over the back of her hand and marveled at the difference between them. His hands were large, the skin dark and marred with scars from various nicks and cuts. Some were reminders of his days in the oil fields, but far too many were the result of youthful indiscretions. God knew he'd chugged his share of beer and rotgut whiskey and gotten into his share of brawls.

  Elizabeth's hands were smooth and flawless, just like the rest of her. And they were so small, each movement as graceful as the flutter of a dove's wings.

  He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand, over and over. "Do you remember last night?" he asked, still gazing at his big, stroking fingers.

  Elizabeth looked down as well. "Yes. I remember," she whispered.

  "Do you remember what I said?"

  "Yes," she replied in an even softer voice.

&nb
sp; "I meant it. I'm in love with you." He tipped his head up to one side and tried to read her expression, to get her to look at him, but she demurred.

  "I … I'm glad," she whispered.

  "Good. Do you remember what you said?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you mean it?"

  Elizabeth raised her head at that and looked him straight in the eye. "Yes. I meant it. Are you sure?"

  "I've never been more sure or meant anything more in my life," he vowed, holding her gaze. "I will love you until the day that I take my last breath, and beyond, to the end of time."

  "Oh, Max." Elizabeth gazed at him, overcome. Happy tears began to fill her eyes, and her bottom lip trembled. Her heart was so full she felt it would surely burst. She pulled her hand free of his grasp and touched the short hairs at his temple, ran her fingertips along his jaw, touched the corner of his mouth—that sharply carved, deliciously masculine mouth. "And I love you. With all my heart and soul. I always will."

  Something flared in the beautiful blue depths of Max's eyes. He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. It was a gentle kiss, an almost reverent kiss. Quivering lips touched quivering lips, breaths mingled, tongues touched ever so briefly, while hearts soared and bodies shuddered sweetly with desire held in check.

  With excruciating slowness, their lips pulled away, almost to the point of parting, then pressed together again, and again and again.

  When at last they reluctantly parted, Elizabeth cupped Max's face with her one free hand. "When did you know that you loved me?"

  "I'm not sure. I think it came on me gradually. It started the first time we stayed at Mimosa Landing, a few days after the wedding, when you took me on a tour of the farm. The look in your eyes, the passionate love you have for that place, I found extremely appealing. It's your heritage, the place where generation after generation of Stantons have put their roots down deep in that soil.

  "There were other things, too. I mean, I don't know any woman who would actually want her mother-in-law to live with her and her husband. Nor have I ever known one who would jump out into the pouring rain and ruin a several-thousand-dollar dress to rescue a scrawny, muddy stray kitten."

  Elizabeth shrugged. "A dress is just a dress. An inanimate thing that can be replaced or repaired. A kitten is a living, breathing creature. Thank heavens I did rescue her. Bar Code saved my life last night."

  "What do you mean?"

  Elizabeth told him about the kitten's part in the frightful events of the night before.

  "Thank God for Bar Code. From now on, that kitty is going to live the life of a queen," Max vowed.

  "I thought you'd—"

  A knock on the door made her jump and brought a look of unmitigated terror to her face.

  "Take it easy, babe. I'm right here with you." Max went to the door and opened it a crack.

  It was the hospital orderlies and a nurse, come to move Elizabeth.

  The VIP suite actually consisted of one large room that could be turned into two—a bedroom and a sitting room—if the patient so desired. With her aunt and mother-in-law in mind, Elizabeth chose to leave the sliding dividing wall open, so that the two old ladies could visit in the comfort of soft recliners.

  The room had the very latest in hospital equipment, but most was camouflaged to look as though it belonged in a home bedroom. What could not be camouflaged was hidden by silk-screen room dividers.

  Long brocade draperies and ivory silk sheers covered the windows, and the style of the cherry-wood and walnut furnishings was Queen Anne, with a smattering of Chippendale. The colors of soft teal, pale peach and cream were soothing and the furnishings were elegant and comfortable.

  "As I recall, Aunt Talitha had a hand in decorating all of the suites," Elizabeth said as the nurse and Max got her settled in the four-poster bed.

  "Yeah. It looks like her," Max said, looking around.

  The nurse had barely left the suite when someone knocked on the door. Max opened the door a crack. "What?"

  "Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Riordan," Officer Palowski said. "But Detective Braddock is here to see you."

  "Did you see his badge? You're sure he's police?"

  "Yes, sir. I know him by sight."

  Max told Elizabeth that he had to go to the lockout door at the wing's entrance and let in a detective. "He says he wants to talk to both of us, but if you're too tired I can talk to him on my own."

  "No. I'd like to get this over with."

  "That's my girl."

  Max returned in less than a minute with the detective. He looked the man over as he greeted Elizabeth.

  Detective Braddock was of medium height and build. He had salt-and-pepper medium brown hair and an ordinary face, not handsome, not ugly, either. Mr. Average Joe. Max guessed him to be about forty-three or four.

  He looked exactly like what he was: a tough, smart cop with dogged determination. He also looked like the kind of cop—and man—that you could trust.

  When the pleasantries were done, the detective wasted no time getting down to business.

  "If you're feeling well enough, and you don't mind, I'd like to take your statements now."

  "I don't mind at all. I was just about to tell my husband everything that I remember."

  "Ah, good. We can kill two birds, so to speak. Do you mind if I record your statement? My penmanship is almost illegible, even to me."

  "No. I don't mind."

  The man pulled a small recorder out of his pocket, placed it on her pillow and punched the record button.

  "This is Detective First Grade, Paul Braddock, Fourteenth Precinct." He named the date and time, the case number and the crime. Then he turned off the recorder momentarily.

  "When I turn the machine back on I'd like for you to identify yourself, state the date and the time, as I did, then tell where you are and that you are giving the statement of your own free will."

  "All right."

  "And when I nod again and hold up two fingers, tell the entire story from start to finish, leaving nothing out, not the tiniest detail. Okay?"

  "Yes. I'll do my best." Elizabeth cleared her throat, ready to begin.

  "I may say something from time to time, for clarification, but you just pick up where you left off."

  "All right."

  Detective Braddock started the machine and Elizabeth did as he'd instructed.

  "I had just returned to my Houston home after having dinner out with my best friend, Mimi Whittington, who lives next door to our Houston home. We were celebrating."

  "What were you celebrating, Mrs. Riordan?" the detective asked.

  "I had just received verification from my doctor that I am going to have a baby."

  That brought the detective's head up, a look of surprise on his face. "I see. Congratulations." He looked back and forth between the couple, and could discern nothing but happiness and love in their faces.

  "I had dropped Mimi off and gone home. Increasingly these days, my energy level nosedives around ten. Anyway, my housekeeper and her husband, who is our handyman, had gone home to their apartment above our garage, so I was alone in the house. I thought.

  "After locking up and setting the alarm system I went upstairs to begin my nightly routine in preparation for bed—"

  "Uh, excuse me, Mrs. Riordan, but are you certain that you set your alarm?" Detective Braddock questioned. "We all forget at some time or another."

  "I am absolutely positive that all the doors and windows were locked. I'm an orderly person, Detective. Some things are so habitual—like brushing my teeth, cleaning and moisturizing my face, combing my hair—that I do them by rote. Locking up is one of them."

  Elizabeth continued slowly, relaying every detail, right up to the time she ran out on the terrace to pull Mimi back inside.

  "I guess that's when I was shot. Because the next thing I knew my husband was bending over me shouting at me to wake up. The rest of the story you'll have to get from Mimi and Dooley."

  "We already have. A
nd their statements gibe with yours. We also conducted a search of your home."

  Max frowned. "Without a search warrant?"

  "Didn't need one. Your house and the Whittington place are both crime scenes. Besides, Miss Talitha Stanton gave us permission."

  "And?" Max prodded.

  "The bathroom door received some damage. The perp tried to shoot off the lock, but those old woods are like iron and those old-fashioned locks, while they're easy to pick, don't give way easily to brute force. He never did get into the bathroom."

  "He must have heard me when I ran down the stairs," Elizabeth said.

  "Most likely. The only other damage was to the study door. We dug a bullet out of the pecan wood."

  "Yes. That was the first shot. That must have been when he switched weapons from a garrote to a gun."

  "You say you don't know this man?" the detective asked, aiming the question at Elizabeth.

  "That's right. I'd never seen him before our trip to New York."

  "Hmm. That's another thing we'll get to later. The reason I asked if you knew him is, there were no signs of forced entry. Not anywhere. Our man let himself in with a key and turned off the alarm system."

  Detective Braddock had spoken carefully, keeping his tone neutral. He'd watched both of the Riordans for their reactions. They both seemed equally surprised.

  "Are you positive?" Elizabeth asked. "I always set the alarm. It's the last thing I do before retiring for the night when I'm in Houston." She shook her head just a tiny bit. "I distinctly recall setting the system last night because I was still walking on air after seeing my doctor, and hoping that Max would come home soon so that I could share the good news with him."

  "I see," the detective said. "Well, either someone supplied this guy with a key and the combination to the system or he's a pro at picking locks and disarming alarms. Can you give me the names of everyone who has keys and the alarm code?"

  "Mmm, that's hard to say. I know for certain that, other than Max and myself, there are several people who have keys and who know how to turn off the alarm. There's Aunt Talitha, Mimi, Gladys and Dooley, but there are probably others. The locks haven't been changed in … oh … fifty or sixty years. I suppose there have been generations of family and employees who have keys to those old locks."