by Cassie Miles
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Oh, but I did. It’s my job to facilitate the discussion and make things easier for the investors. Instead, I created a big fat problem.” A tear slipped over her lower lashes and slid down her cheek. “I’m going to get fired for sure.”
He wanted to wipe away her tears and tell her that everything was going to be all right, but he wasn’t a liar. He was a cop, and the proper procedure for answering a 911 call didn’t include cozying up to the witness.
Circling the counter, he rifled loudly through the cabinets until he located a stainless-steel teakettle, which he filled with water and placed on the burner. When he faced her again, she had regained her composure.
“Okay,” he said, “skip ahead to the time when you felt like you were being watched.”
She thought for a moment. “When we were at the front desk, finding out how the key cards for the hotel rooms worked, I started to take my parka off. I shivered. Then I felt the prickling up and down my arms. It was like a warning. I looked around, but I didn’t notice anybody watching me.”
The front desk was located in the wide-open atrium area where dozens of people came and went. Plus there was a balcony overlooking the marble pond and the statue of the huntress. They could have easily been spotted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt. It seemed like we were making some progress. The key cards were a pretty good clue.”
Using the computerized system, they’d learned that key cards had been made for the suite on the sixth floor. The key had been activated prior to the time when she saw the couple having dinner, indicating that someone could have been in the room. “If the security cameras in the hallway had been operational, we’d have this all wrapped up.”
“Do you think he was planning to kill her from the start?” She bit her lower lip. “That the murder was premeditated?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it was,” she said. “It took some planning for him to get her alone in that room without anybody knowing.”
Premeditation made sense to Brady. The slick way the body had been whisked away without leaving a trace seemed to indicate foresight. For the sake of argument, he took a different view. “He might have just wanted a free night at a classy hotel, eating free food and enjoying the view.”
“When I was first watching them, I thought they were a couple. They weren’t talking much, and I thought it was one of those comfortable silences between people who have been together for a long time.”
“Like a husband and wife?”
“Not really.” She shook her head. “The woman was all dolled up, and that made me think they were on a date. Her fancy gold necklace isn’t the kind of thing a wife would wear.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too formal. I think she wanted to impress him with her outfit, and he was doing the same by taking her to the expensive suite.” As she chatted, she began to relax. “If he was trying to impress her, he wasn’t planning to hurt her.”
“And his attack wasn’t premeditated.” He found a couple of striped mugs in the cabinet above the sink, and she popped a tea bag in each. “Is that your theory?”
“That’s one theory,” she said. “But it leaves a lot of details unexplained. I saw him pick her up in his arms. He must have gotten blood on his clothes. How could he risk walking through the hall like that?”
The teakettle whistled, and Brady poured the boiling water over the tea bags. He had a couple of theories of his own. “When the forensic guys went over the room, they didn’t find a single drop of blood. Not even when they used luminol and blue light. He was tidy. He could have covered the blood with a jacket and slipped on a pair of gloves.”
She nodded. “And he could get rid of those clothes when he left the hotel.”
Brady didn’t often handle complicated investigations, and he appreciated the chance to discuss the possible scenarios. He probably shouldn’t be having this talk with her, but there wasn’t anybody else. Due to the lack of evidence, the sheriff was going to tell him to forget about this investigation. Jacobson might be inclined to throw around a few ideas, but his plate was full with getting the hotel security up and running.
Brady sweetened his tea with sugar and took a sip. The orange-scented brew tickled his nostrils. “His real problem was disposing of the body. If he carried her any distance, there would have been a trail of blood drops.”
When she lifted the mug to her lips, her hand was trembling so much that she set it down again.
“Sasha, are you all right?”
“It’s okay.” She lifted her chin. “Keep talking.”
Her struggle to control her fear was obvious. He didn’t want to make this any harder for her. “Maybe we should go and sit by the fireplace.”
“I said I was fine.” Her voice was stronger. “You were talking about a blood trail.”
“If he’d planned the murder,” he said, “he could have arranged to have one of those carts that housekeeping uses to haul the dirty sheets.”
“That doesn’t seem likely. How could he explain having a maid’s cart standing by?”
“It’s hard to imagine that he wrapped her up in a sheet or a comforter and didn’t leave a single drop of blood. What if he ran into someone in the hallway?”
“But he didn’t have to go far,” she said, “only down the hall to the elevator. That goes all the way down to the underground parking.”
Brady preferred the idea of the maid’s cart. “He could have been working with someone else.”
A shudder went through her, and she turned away from him, trying to hide the fear that she’d denied feeling a moment ago. “Would there be a lot of blood?”
He didn’t want to feed her imagination. “There’s no way of knowing. This is all speculation.”
“The red blood stood out against her white clothing. It happened so fast. One minute she was fine. And the next...”
Witnessing the attack had been hard on Sasha, more traumatic than he’d realized. And he was probably making it worse by talking about it. He set down his tea and lightly touched her back above the shoulder blade. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She spun around and buried her face against his chest. Her arms wrapped around him, and she held on tight, anchoring herself. Tremors shook her slender body. Though she wasn’t sobbing, her breath came in tortured gasps.
“I’m sorry, Brady, really sorry. I don’t want to fall apart.”
“It’s okay.”
“I can’t forget, can’t get that image out of my head.”
Her soft, warm body molded against him as he continued to hold her gently. He wished he could reach into her mind and pluck out the painful images she’d witnessed, but there was no chance of wiping out those memories. All he could do was protect her.
Chapter Five
The next morning, Sasha put on a black pinstriped pantsuit, ankle-length chunky-heel boots and a brave face. After her breakdown last night, she felt ready to face the day. Being with Brady had helped.
Not that he had treated her like a helpless little thing, which she would have hated. Nor had he been inappropriate in any way, which was kind of disappointing. He was sexy without meaning to be. She wouldn’t have objected to a kiss or two. Usually, she wasn’t the kind of woman who threw herself into the arms of the nearest willing male, in spite of what her obnoxious brother thought. But Brady brought out the Trashy Sasha in her.
In the condo bathroom, she applied mascara to her pale lashes and told herself that she was glad that he hadn’t taken advantage. He was different. Brady believed her, and that made all the difference.
She checked the time on her cell phone. In fifteen minutes, Brady would stop by to pick her up. He still had concerns about her safety
and wanted to drive her to her meeting with the four investors, and she was excited to see him. As for the meeting? Not so much.
It’d be great if the partners treated her the way they usually did, barely noticing her existence. But she feared they’d be critical about her behavior last night, accusing her of not acting in the best interests of the resort. Applying a smooth coat of lipstick, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and said, “I can handle this.”
Her cell phone on the bathroom counter buzzed. She read a text message from Damien that instructed her to conference with him. In the kitchen, she opened her laptop and prepared for the worst.
Damien Loughlin’s handsome face filled the screen. His raven-black hair was combed back from his forehead. He was clean-shaven and ready for work in a white shirt with a crisp collar and a silk necktie.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he growled. It was so not what she wanted to hear.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“Spying on the hotel through binoculars.” Unfortunately, he had it right. “Why would you do that?”
She didn’t even try to explain. “I witnessed an assault, a possible murder.”
“And then you traipsed over to the hotel and got everybody worked up.”
“By everybody, I’m guessing you mean Mr. Reinhardt.”
“Damn right, I mean Reinhardt. He’s one of my most important clients, and you brought a cop to his doorstep.”
Damien hadn’t asked if she was all right or if she needed anything at the corporate condo, but then again, that really wasn’t his problem. She was his assistant, and her job was to fulfill his needs in the investors’ meeting.
“Last night,” she said, “I was working with the police, following a lead.”
“You’re not a cop, Sasha.” His dark eyes glared at her with such intensity that she thought his anger might melt the computer screen. “I expect more from you.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” she said. “I’m prepared for the meeting today.”
“If anyone asks about last night, I want you to tell them that it’s being handled by local law enforcement. You’re not to be involved in any way. Is that clear?”
“I understand.” But she couldn’t promise not to be part of the investigation. Witnessing a crime meant she had an obligation to help in identifying the killer or, in this case, the victim.
Hoping to avoid more instructions, she changed the topic. “How is Mr. Westfield’s family?”
Damien leaned away from the computer screen and adjusted the Windsor knot on his necktie, a move that she’d come to recognize as a stalling technique. When he played with his tie, it meant he wasn’t telling the whole story. “The family is, of course, devastated by his unfortunate death. Virgil P. Westfield was in his nineties but relatively healthy. He had several good years left.”
Sasha tried to guess what Damien wasn’t saying. “Are the police investigating his fall down the staircase?”
“They are,” he admitted, “and you’re not to share that information with anyone, especially not the Arcadia investors.”
She hadn’t been aware of a connection between Westfield and the people who founded the ski resort, but there were frequent crossovers among the wealthy clients of Samuels, Sorenson and Smith. Damien also represented Virgil’s primary heir, a nephew. “Are there any suspects?”
“Let’s just say that we’re looking at the potential for many, many billable hours.”
That was a juicy tidbit. Was the heir a suspect? For a minute, she wished she was back in Denver working on this case with Damien. If the nephew was charged with murder, the trial would turn into a three-ring circus, given that Westfield was a well-known eccentric and philanthropist who had left a substantial bequest to a feral-cat shelter. Criminal cases were much more interesting than property disputes and corporate law.
“I’ll stay in touch today,” she said.
“No more drama,” he said before he closed his window and disappeared from the screen.
No more drama. The last thing she wanted was more trouble.
* * *
TUCKED INTO THE passenger seat of Brady’s SUV, she fastened her seat belt and watched as he took off his cowboy hat and placed it on the center console. He combed his fingers through his unruly dark brown hair. He looked good in the morning. Not all sleek and polished like Damien but healthy, with an outdoorsy tan and interesting crinkles at the corners of his greenish-brown eyes. She wondered how old he was. Maybe thirty? Maybe the perfect age for her.
He gave her a warm grin. “You look very—”
“Professional?” She turned up the furry collar on her parka. “That’s what I was going for.”
“I was going to say pretty. I like the way you’ve got your hair pulled back in a bun.”
“A chignon,” she corrected, “which is just like a bun, only French.”
“And I especially like this.” When he reached over and tucked an escaped tendril behind her ear, his fingers grazed her cheek. “Your hair is a little out of control.”
“Like me.” His unexpected touch sent a spark of electricity through her. She pushed that sensation out of her mind. They weren’t on a date. She continued, “I’m a little out of control but very professional.”
“If you say so.”
He drove through the condo parking lot and turned onto the main road. Today his features were more relaxed, and his smile appeared more frequently. The optimism she’d felt when she first came to Arcadia returned full force. Who could be glum on a blue-sky day with sunlight glistening on the snow?
“Anything new on the investigation?” she asked, even though Damien had specifically told her not to get involved.
“The sheriff doesn’t want anything to do with it. He says looking into a murder without a body is a fool’s errand. Then he said it was my assignment. I guess that makes me the fool.”
“Ouch.”
“It’s not so painful,” he said. “I’d rather be hanging out at the hotel than writing up speeding tickets. If I plan it right, I might even find a reason to investigate on the ski slope.”
“Are you a skier or snowboarder?”
“Both,” he said. “You?”
“Neither.”
“Are you a Colorado transplant?”
“I’m a native, born in Denver, the youngest of five kids. Our family moved around a bit when my dad changed jobs, but I came back here for college. I just never got into skiing. Lift tickets are too expensive.”
“So you’re a city girl.”
“But I’m in pretty good shape.” Thanks to a corporate membership in a downtown Denver gym, she took regular yoga classes and weight training. Neither of those indoors exercises would impress Brady. “I do a little figure skating.”
“You can show me. That’s where we’re headed, right? The brand-new Arcadia ice rink?”
“As if I’d get on ice skates in front of Katie Cook.” Sasha scoffed at the thought. “Ms. Cook has won tons of championships. She was with the Ice Capades.”
Katie Cook was one of the four investors. Her agenda for the Arcadia development had been crystal clear from the start. She wanted a world-class ice-skating rink capable of hosting international events and rivaling the facilities in Colorado Springs, where many athletes trained.
The first meeting was scheduled to be held in the owners’ box overlooking the ice. Construction costs on the rink with stadium seating had gone over budget, and Sasha suspected that Ms. Cook intended to placate the other three business investors by showing how well her ideas had turned out.
The drive took them past the ski lodge and hotel into the town. At eight thirty-five several vehicles were parked at a slant on the wide main street that split the town of Arcadia. Unlike the gleaming new facili
ties for the lodge and hotel, the town was plain and somewhat shabby, with storefronts on either side of the street and snow piled up to the curbs. Brady pointed out the Kettle Diner. “They have really good banana pancakes.”
“I’m not really a fruit person, but I love bananas.”
“Why’s that?”
“I like something I can peel.”
“Me, too.”
She’d like to peel him, starting with his hat and working her way all the way to his boots. Before she got completely sidetracked with that fantasy, she looked over at the small grocery store on the corner.
“I should stop there,” she said. “I need some basic food supplies for the condo.”
“We’ll do that after your meeting. I’ll be back at the rink at noon to pick you up.”
Having him chauffeur her around seemed like a huge inconvenience to him, especially on a gorgeous day when she couldn’t imagine anything bad happening. “Maybe I should arrange for a rental car.”
He pulled up at a four-way stop and turned toward her. “Until we know what’s going on, I’m your bodyguard. You don’t leave your condo without me.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“I’m not taking any chances with your safety.”
She didn’t bother arguing. His stern tone convinced her that he wasn’t joking. She remembered how she’d felt last night in his arms—safe, secure and protected. “I’ve never had a bodyguard before.”
“Then we’re even. I’ve never needed to protect anyone 24/7.”
“Really?”
“Arcadia isn’t like the big city. The last time we had an unsolved murder up here was over ten years ago. That was before I became a deputy.”
“You were a cowboy.” She picked up his hat and would have put it on but didn’t want to mess up her chignon.
“I never stopped being a cowboy.”