Deadly Fall

by Ann Bruce

  * * * * *

  Augusta’s body was canted forward at the waist, as if the extra bit of distance closer to Peter Donovan help her comprehension.

  “Are you certain about that?” she asked.

  “Quite certain. Drew was very explicit in his instructions.” The attorney glanced down at the papers spread out in front of him on the desk. “You’re still his main beneficiary. He had no intention of changing his will after the divorce.”

  Augusta couldn’t stay in the chair one moment longer. She got to her feet and paced across the room, coming to a stop in front of the glass wall that, with the heavy blinds open, offered a dizzying view of Manhattan. Burberry raincoats and furs that would enrage animal rights activists everywhere mingled with tattered blue jeans and equally tattered leather jackets on the sidewalks. The streets were a slow moving mass of steel dotted with yellow taxi cabs. For once, Augusta longed to be outside with the suffocating mass of humanity that was New York City. It was preferable to being inside Peter Donovan’s plush, quietly handsome office discussing Drew’s final will and testament. Peter was under Drew’s orders to go over the will with her before dropping the bomb that it was on the rest of his family, namely Drew’s aunt, Phyllis Langan. Of Drew’s family, Phyllis was the most vehement and verbal in her disapproval of her nephew’s marriage to “that scheming opportunist.”

  “Phyllis is going to hit the roof when she finds out,” she murmured.

  “But that’s all she’s going to do.” Augusta could hear the smile in the attorney’s voice. “She can’t contest the will,” he went on quite cheerfully. “Well, she can, but she won’t get anywhere.”

  Augusta laughed quietly, surprised the sound wasn’t rusty. She turned around but didn’t return to her chair in front of Peter’s desk. Both men were patiently studying her.

  “So,” she began, “I now own thirty-four percent of LSI. I’m not sure if I want a say in LSI.”

  “Drew suggested that you let Adam and myself have your proxy.”

  She nodded in agreement. “What about everything else?”

  Before Peter could answer, Adam’s cell phone rang. He flashed them a sheepish smile as he reached inside his jacket. “Sorry.” He looked down at the number. “Peter—”

  The attorney waved him from the room. “Go.” He waited until the door was shut behind Adam before continuing. “What you want to do with the rest of your inheritance is up to you.”

  She nodded slowly. “Okay, then.” She made her way back to the leather armchair as she considered her options.

  “What are you thinking about?” Peter asked.

  “I want to sell whatever Drew owns of the high-rise building, including the penthouse.”

  Peter made an understanding sound. “I’ll get a realtor on it as soon as possible. We’re going to have to wait until after the investigation before we can list the properties, but I don’t see a problem. That is prime real estate. What about the furnishings in the penthouse?”

  “I-I’ll go through it and see what I want to keep. Maybe the paintings.” Her paintings, her creations. “I’ll have his clothes donated to a shelter, but other than that, you can sell the furniture with the condo.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard. What about the other prop—”

  They were interrupted this time by a knock on the door, followed by Adam opening it and poking his head inside.

  “Excuse me.” He threw an apologetic look at Augusta. “I have to take off. There’s an emergency at work.” He raked his hand through his hair. “It’s complicated. Would you like me to have a taxi waiting for you?”

  “No, thank you. Go do whatever it is you need to do.” She grinned, forcing it to reach her eyes. “I’m thirty-one, not thirteen. I can get my own taxi, or even take public transit.”

  His smile was sheepish. “Right. I’ll see you later, then.” Adam tipped his head at Peter and disappeared.

  * * * * *

  It wasn’t long after Adam left before Augusta and Peter wrapped things up to both their satisfaction. After repeatedly reassuring the attorney that she was quite capable of finding her own way home, Augusta was allowed to go. After the initial shock, Augusta could understand why Drew left everything to her: he was still taking care of her.

  But she had never thanked him for forcing her to accept that she didn’t have to do everything herself.

  And she was never going to be able to.

  Her eyes stung. Cursing silently, she sucked in a breath and fought back the tears.

  By the time the elevator doors slid open, she was back in tight control. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she crossed the lobby. Then her pace slowed, her heart sped up and her control wavered.

  Nick Markov saw her at the same moment. He slowly got up from the chair, straightened his powerful frame and waited for her to come to him.

  Curiosity got the better of her, she told herself, and she stopped several feet before him. “Detective Markov.”

  “I saw your escort leave, but I haven’t seen him come back. Are you stranded?”

  Her lips parted, closed, then, exasperation tingeing her words, she remarked, “Why does everyone seem to think I can’t find my own way home?”

  His grin was slow and easy, and Augusta found it disconcerting. “I didn’t offer you a ride.”

  She closed the distance between them, eyes narrowed. Her voice lowered a notch. “What do you want, Detective Markov? To ask more insulting questions? Not quite finished with your false accusations? On that matter, why did you and your partner not haul me off in handcuffs this morning—”

  “Afternoon,” he corrected, studying her too calmly and too closely.

  Her hand sliced the air in front of her, just inches from his face. Exhaustion and sadness burned away under the heat of her anger, which was coming into full steam. “Whatever. Why not question me in an interrogation room instead of turning my kitchen into one—”

  “You wouldn’t like it,” he said, sounding too reasonable, which only infuriated her more.

  “Why bother sparing me the humiliation of that when you’re so convinced I pushed Drew over the terrace and to his death?”

  To her annoyance, her voice caught on the last word. Furious with herself for losing it, especially in the lobby of such a public place, and furious with him for causing it, Augusta made an angry, abrupt move to storm past him. She wanted to get as far away from him as fast as possible. Nick Markov, however, wasn’t having it. His hand shot out and his fingers curled around her upper arm, detaining her.

  “Don’t,” he warned, his voice soft and tight.

  Augusta heard the warning, but she wasn’t heeding it. Her eyes stared pointedly at the hand wrinkling the sleeve of her suit, traveled up—way up—to meet his dark, dark blue eyes and remained there.

  “Let go, Detective.”

  “I’ll take you home.”

  She gave an unladylike snort. “I don’t think so. And you weren’t offering, remember?”

  Like the Neanderthal he obviously was, Nick Markov ignored her and pulled her with him as he escaped the building and the curious stares they were drawing. In a daze, Augusta found herself being dumped into the passenger seat of an unimpressive sedan and buckled in like a child. She was too startled by his high-handedness to protest along the way. It was only as she watched him walk around the front of the vehicle to get to the driver’s side that she snapped out of it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, as soon as he yanked open the driver’s side door.

  “Stopping you from making a scene and taking you home.”

  “Adam was coming back to get me,” she lied.

  “Well, he’s going to be in for a surprise, isn’t he?”

  “Damn you, kidnapping’s a felony.”

  “Thank you for the legal lesson, Dr. Langan, but I thought art history is your area of expertise.”

  She glared at him, then realized she could simply unbuckle her belt, open the door and leave. Sh
e began to do just that when Nick Markov threw her another curve ball. He dropped his hands on the steering wheel, fell back into his seat, closed his eyes tight and muttered a curse. He looked exhausted. Augusta paused.

  He opened his eyes and turned to her. “Look, all I want to do is take you home and ask a couple more questions. We can do the question part with or without your lawyer. With the lawyer, we can go down to the station house and make it all official. You choose.”

  But she didn’t have a choice with the former?

  Augusta drew in a slow drag of air. Her answer was quiet and equally slow in coming. “Without.”

  He continued holding her gaze for long moments, searching them. Not sure what he was seeing, she broke away to look out the window, but her pulse was already heavy and rapid.

  When they stopped at a red light, without taking his eyes off the road, he asked her, “Why did Adam Langan come over this afternoon? Did you call him while you were upstairs?”

  “No.” Her voice softened and Nick strangled the steering wheel. “He came over because he thought I might need some company. He didn’t want me to be alone.”

  Nick loosened his grip. The light turned green and he took his foot off the break, forcing himself to ease down on the accelerator. “How considerate.” The words were one step away from being a sneer.

  “Yes. Adam’s that type of person. Considerate.” Then she added, “And he’s the closest I have to family with Drew gone.”

  “You were divorcing Andrew Langan.”

  “Yes, but I’m closer to him than I am to my remaining blood relatives.”

  The light turned green, and he stepped on the gas.

  “Where are they?”

  “My half-siblings are living on the West Coast. My mother moved here after the divorce. She got me and the man she married got the other two. Mother and I haven’t seen any of them since. We weren’t exactly the Partridge family.”

  Nick regarded her. There was no anger or bitterness in her voice or on her face. There was nothing, really. Simply acceptance and a kind of detachedness, and perhaps a touch of wry amusement, as if she was talking about a third person.

  He didn’t ask about her mother. From the little background on her file, he knew Francesca Sutherland Kincaid had died almost ten years ago.

  “How close are you and Adam Langan?”

  She slanted him a look that said she didn’t appreciate this turn in his questions, but he didn’t take it back.

  “We’re not lovers,” she explained. “Adam and I were never lovers, Detective Markov, despite the rumors of my wanting vengeance for Drew’s affair. Adam and I were friends long before I even met Drew.”

  “Nick. This ‘Detective Markov’ and ‘Dr. Langan’ thing is getting on my nerves. Call me Nick.”

  “My sincerest apologies. After all, we wouldn’t want to be getting on your nerves,” she said dryly. “Nick.”

  He overlooked the sarcasm. “Augusta.” The right corner of his mouth kicked up. “Augusta,” he repeated. “I like that name.”

  “I was named after my grandmother.” She glanced at the side and rear view mirrors. “You missed a turn somewhere back there.”

  “I need to make a stop at the station house to pick up something,” he explained. Noticing her frown, he added, “It won’t take long. We need to get your prints to eliminate them from the ones found in the apartment.”

  She didn’t say anything or look directly at him, but Nick took the small nod of her head as consent.

  The East Sixty-seventh Street station house looked more like Augusta’s preconception of a firehouse than a police station. It was aged and tired-looking, like it had seen too much—and it probably had. The stones were mellowed and worn, but still very solid-looking. Somehow, in the small sea of blue and white police cruisers and unmarked vehicles, Nick found a spot into which to squeeze his vehicle.

  “Come on.” He held the passenger door open, his hand thrust at her, palm up. “I’ll be there to make sure it’s painless.”

  Despite herself, amusement tipped up the corners of her lips. Augusta reached out and placed her hand in his. There was something reassuring in the way his warm, callused hand completely engulfed hers. She didn’t think about the fact that he thought her capable of murder, or that a few hours ago, he had all but accused her of it and she had truly, vehemently detested him.

  Nick led her through the heavy double doors beneath the semicircular arch and into the lobby. It was jammed full of those who enforced the law and those who defied it—and those who were believed to have defied it. Like me, she thought. Something cold and oily slid down her spine. She didn’t protest or draw away when Nick Markov released her hand and slipped his arm around her shoulders, securing her against his side.

  * * * * *

  Half a block away, Augusta saw her relatively small four-story townhouse and it eased her. This tree-lined block in the East Seventies was peaceful, a trait she cherished above all else in her home and neighborhood. The simple double-hung windows with the blinds open and drapes drawn back allowed the remnants of the fading October sun in to light the rooms the best it could. She wanted the quiet and space of her home after being subjected to the packed zoo Nick called his place of work. She was looking forward to a drink and to curling into her favorite leather club chair in the study.

  The car slowed. Nick parked it a townhouse down from her own.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, looking at her, his arms resting on the steering wheel.

  “I’ll live.”

  “Still pissed off at me for not bringing you in and booking you earlier?”

  She scowled at him. That wasn’t worthy of a reply.

  “Thanks for the lift, Detective.”

  “Wait.” He caught her wrist. “I thought we were past that ‘Detective’ stuff.”

  She faced him and lifted her dark eyes to his blue ones. “Thanks for the lift, Nick.”

  “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  Augusta blinked, mind blank. Then said, “The five-second rule applies here. You can take the invite back and we can pretend you never asked.”

  He scowled and repeated, “Have dinner with me.”

  Her tongue flicked out to dampen her lips. “Isn’t there some kind of rule about cops not dating their murder suspects?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Don’t be flippant.”

  She offered him a shaky, somewhat rueful smile. “I-I can’t.”

  “You can’t what? Not be flippant or have dinner with me?”

  “The latter.” Her laugh was a short, nervous sound. “Maybe both.”

  “Why not?”

  Instead of telling him why she couldn’t have dinner with him, she arched a brow. “Is this how you get dates? You drag women to your car, lock them inside and don’t let them out till they’ve agreed to go out with you?”

  His mood changed in a heartbeat. He didn’t release her, but the lazy grin returned, the one that shook up her insides and made her want to forget he considered her a suspect in his murder case. “Usually, it’s the other way around. You’re the first woman I’ve kidnapped.”

  “I’m flattered,” she said flatly.

  As he continued looking at her, something hot and intense and wholly sexual slid into his eyes, darkening them. Simple, teasing seduction was forgotten. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, rested against her pulse. It quickened, betraying her. His hold tightened, and he leaned in closer. “If you don’t want this, say so now,” he said, tone roughened.

  She remained silent.

  He cupped her cheeks, his palms very warm against her skin. His exhalation slowed and stretched out.

  Giving her ample time to protest, he lowered his head. Augusta didn’t stop him or draw away. She wanted this, needed this, as much as he did. So much so that the anticipation was almost a physical pain. However, he didn’t press his mouth to hers, didn’t ease her lips apart with his tongue, didn’t stroke it with his. He simply rested his forehea
d on hers, closed his eyes and gently rubbed the rough pad of his right thumb back and forth over her cheekbone. He seemed content to do just that and nothing more.

  Augusta, however, wasn’t content. Wanting him more than she recalled having ever wanted any man, including Drew—especially Drew—she lifted her mouth and closed the short distance to his, desperately seeking relief.

  But the relief was only short-lived. There was that moment when her sigh mingled with his and a small pocket of sensation burst at the first touch of his lips, firm and warm and oh-so-enticing. Then another sound escaped Augusta; it was a sound of need that came from deep within, one that demanded instant satisfaction.