Moonlight Scandals

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  Rosie sucked in a sharp breath as the hand in her lap curled into a tight fist. Had he overheard them? Revulsion churned in her stomach. She wasn’t sure she could trust that he was being honest about not hanging around and listening, because truth was, she didn’t know the man sitting before her. She’d thought she did at one time, but not anymore. “Did you . . . did you hear us?”

  He hesitated, and Rosie knew. She freaking knew that he’d heard something, and that was enough, but before he could continue or she could respond, a waiter in a white button-down appeared.

  “Would you like to order something?” the waiter asked, his gaze moving back and forth between them.

  As Ross shook his head, she forced her hand to unclench. Her nails had dug into her palm, leaving little indents behind. “We’re not ordering anything,” she said.

  The waiter raised a brow but wisely backed off, moving to check on other tables while Rosie focused on taking a deep, slow breath.

  Ross briefly closed his eyes. “Rosie—”

  “Shut up,” she hissed. “I’m not here to hear about your perverted, creepy stalker tendencies. Why was this picture—”

  “The de Vincents killed my girlfriend.”

  Every muscle in her body locked up as she stared at Ross, her body reacting to what he said before her brain caught up.

  Ross leaned forward, holding her wide gaze. “You want to know about this picture?” He slapped his palm down on the photo, rattling the glasses and silverware. “They killed my girlfriend and covered it up. I know they did. I just can’t prove it. Not yet.”

  She still clutched the strap of her bag. “What are you talking about?”

  The lines of his face were tense. “Do you remember a woman named Andrea Joan?”

  She gave a little shake of her head as she searched for the name. “It’s familiar.”

  “She was an intern for Stefan de Vincent,” he replied, his voice hushed.

  The intern—the missing intern. Holy crap balls. Rosie’s eyes widened even further. Now she remembered the name. It had dominated the news for months before everyone just . . . stopped talking about her, stopped discussing what could’ve happened to her and if she was alive or dead.

  “I see you remember now,” Ross said with a dry, broken-sounding laugh. “That woman in the picture with me? That’s Andrea.”

  “Holy shit,” she whispered, her mind going in a thousand different directions as she drew in a shallow breath. “I thought she was missing—”

  “Missing?” His lip curled as he coughed out another dry, broken laugh. “That’s what they want everyone to believe. After all, they made it look like that. To the world it looks like she just up and left, leaving everything behind, but I don’t think that’s what happened to her.”

  She felt cold as she stared across the table. “I don’t know what to say, but that doesn’t answer how a photo of you two is hidden in my closet.”

  Ross took a drink of water and cleared his throat. “We met at Tulane. Never believed in love at first sight. Thought it was a crock of shit until I saw her sitting in my comm class freshman year. Thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen and the first time she argued with me—told me that three elven rings were not forged by Sauron—I fell in love with her.”

  Her brows lifted. “Lord of the Rings?”

  “Huge fans.” A quick smile appeared and then faded. “When she was offered the internship with the senator, a paid internship, she thought this was her foot in the door. It was a big deal. Andrea had been so excited, and before she . . . she disappeared, I . . .” He halted and then took another drink of his water. “I was going to propose. She . . . vanished a little over two years ago and people have already forgotten she even existed.”

  Sadness seeped into her as she watched him curl his fingers over the photo. She was still angry with him, but this . . . God, this was sad.

  “Before she disappeared, she started acting strange.” He slid his hand off the table and left the photo there. “Working odd, late hours and she became detached and distant. She was—I don’t know how else to describe it other than she became paranoid. Convinced that someone was following her. I couldn’t get her to open up to me, to tell me what was going on. She would always tell me she didn’t want me to get involved, because she knew me—knew everything about me, and knew that I would, most definitely, get involved.”

  He paused, glancing around the mostly empty restaurant. “Something was going on with the senator—with the de Vincents. That much I knew, because I . . . I started to follow her. A week before she went missing, she met with Lawrence de Vincent at the Ritz.”

  Keeping her expression blank, she couldn’t help where her mind went with this information. To her, it sounded like Andrea might’ve been having an affair. “How do you know it was Lawrence and not Stefan? They were identical twins, right?”

  “Right. But I got close enough to him to tell the difference. I did my homework, Rosie. Stefan always wore a gold Rolex on his right wrist. Lawrence wore his on his left,” he explained. “Besides, Stefan was at some event in Baton Rouge that night. She met with Lawrence.”

  As much as she probably shouldn’t continue this conversation, she couldn’t stop the curiosity from growing. “But what does that mean? Why would she go to Lawrence?”

  “I think that she went to Lawrence over whatever she knew Stefan was involved in. I don’t know why she would’ve trusted him, but I guess that doesn’t matter now.” His jaw flexed. “Because Lawrence is dead.”

  “Lawrence committed—”

  “No. No, he did not, Rosie.” Ross flattened his hands on the table again. “That’s utter bullshit. The police knew it. That chief? The one who died?”

  “The one who had a heart attack while driving?”

  “The man was in his forties with no known preexisting heart problems, but he had a massive heart attack that caused him to lose control of his vehicle and crash?” He snorted. “Come on.”

  Many people didn’t know they had heart conditions until they woke up dead from a heart attack. “Ross—”

  “I know it sounds weird, but hear me out. The de Vincents are involved in some bad shit and they have unlimited money and resources behind them to cover up said bad shit,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Look at what happened with the Harringtons. Parker’s dead. Sabrina’s missing?”

  Rosie stilled. The reporter had no idea that Nikki was involved in Parker’s death, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him. “Okay. What if the senator was doing something shady that your girlfriend got mixed up in? What does that have to do with Devlin and what does that have to do with your picture being in my closet?”

  Dipping his chin, he lifted his gaze to hers. “I think Devlin killed his father.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and for a long moment she couldn’t think of anything, but then the night with Sarah came rushing back to her.

  Murdered.

  That was what Sarah believed the spirit had said, and if they’d been correct in assuming that the spirit was Lawrence?

  But to suggest that Devlin was a murderer? Rosie shook her head. “Why do you think that?” she asked.

  “Besides the fact that man has the cold, dead stare of a sociopath?” he asked.

  Rosie flinched. “He does not.”

  “Really?” Ross leaned in. “You’re involved with him, aren’t you? Rosie, God, you need—”

  “What I am or am not with Devlin is none of your business,” she said, cutting him off. “But what is my business is why that was in my apartment.”

  Ross fell back, lips pursed. Several moments passed. “Your place used to be Andrea’s.”

  Her stomach pitched. Words completely left her. Holy . . . A tremor coursed through her. She’d moved into her apartment two years ago. Andrea had gone missing a little over two years ago, and there’d been a delay in moving in, because the previous tenant had left . . . their belongings behind.

  “Oh God,” she
whispered. She was living in the same apartment as the missing intern? The apartment owned by the de Vincents? Did Ross know that? Did he . . . ? “Wait.” Her gaze centered on Ross. “Wait a second.”

  “What?”

  “You . . . you came to me to do that piece on ghost tours in the Quarter. It was, like, a month after I moved into the apartment. I never saw you before then.”

  Ross tipped forward again, clutching the side of the table. “Rosie—”

  “Did you know that I moved into her place when you sought me out?” she demanded, eyes widening. “Is that why you sought me out?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “I started investigating the de Vincents and their staff. You came onto my radar when I saw that you were back from Alabama and were friends with Nikki, the daughter of their main house staff.”

  Stunned, she sat back. “Holy God, Ross, you sought me out because I was friends with Nikki and living in your girlfriend’s old apartment?”

  “Listen, you still don’t understand. You were connected to the de Vincents in a way and you moved into my missing girlfriend’s place,” he explained. “That’s suspicious as fuck.”

  Everything . . . everything was suspicious as fuck at this point.

  “I didn’t know about the hidden thing in the closet,” Ross said. “That’s really strange she’d hide a photo album in there. Are you sure that’s the only thing that was in there, Rosie? It’s really important. If there was anything else, it could be really important. Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Rosie lifted her gaze to his. “I’m sure.”

  Chapter 28

  For the second time in one day, Rosie was about to do something that sort of made her want to punch herself.

  And it wasn’t even noon yet.

  Fingers tightening around the strap of her heavy bag, she lifted her other hand to knock, but before she could make contact, the door swung open.

  Richard Besson stood in front of her, the lines in his forehead increasing as his brows lifted. “Rosie! What a surprise.”

  “Hi.” She smiled as the man stepped forward, giving her a quick, warm hug.

  “Are you here to see Nikki?” he asked, clasping her shoulders. “She’s in Gabe’s quarters. I can take you there—”

  “I’m not here to see Nikki. I’m here to see Devlin.”

  The surprise that filled the man’s face was tangible. “You’re here to see Devlin?”

  “Yes.” She fixed what she hoped wasn’t a creepy smile on her face. “I know that sounds weird, but I really do need to see him. Is he here?”

  Nikki’s father’s expression smoothed out and for a moment she feared that he was going to tell her no and shoo her away. “He is here, actually. He hasn’t left for his office yet.” Richard stepped back, holding the door for her. “I can see if he’s available.”

  “That would be awesome. Thank you.” She followed him inside, stopping in a massive, grand foyer that she was positive was the size of her entire apartment.

  Richard closed the door behind them. “Come. I’ll have you wait for him in the sitting room.”

  Her wide eyes swung from the sparkling chandelier to the grand staircase to, finally, Richard’s back. He was leading her to the right, through an archway that connected to a long hallway. Everywhere she looked, there was something to gawk at. “The woodwork is amazing. My word,” she said, staring at the trim that had what appeared to be vines engraved into it.

  “Yes. Isn’t it?” Richard walked them past several closed doors before stopping in front of one that looked like others they’d passed. “Gabriel did all the woodwork you see in here and most of the furniture.”

  “Wow.” Nikki had mentioned Gabe’s side business, but Rosie really hadn’t realized how talented he was until that moment.

  “Why don’t you have a seat in here, and I’ll go see if Devlin is available. Okay?” When Rosie nodded, Richard smiled at her. “Would you like anything? A drink?”

  Rosie shook her head as she glanced around the sitting room—a room that had the kind of fancy chairs and sofas that looked like people didn’t sit in them. “I’m fine.”

  Richard nodded and then started for the door. He stopped and turned back to her. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for being there for my daughter.”

  “Oh.” She felt her face warm. “It’s no big deal. That’s what friends do.”

  “That’s what real friends do, Rosie. There is a difference.”

  Richard left before she had a chance to respond. Watching him shut the door, she closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

  She’d left Ross sitting in the café and gone straight to her apartment and grabbed the rest of . . . Andrea’s belongings. Devlin’s paranoia must be catching, because she waited to make sure Ross hadn’t followed her before she got in her car and drove out to the de Vincent manor.

  Part of her hadn’t been thinking, because she could’ve called Devlin, but this was something he needed to see and not hear over the phone. Rosie exhaled loudly as she neared the velvet-cushioned sofa. Coming here could be a mistake, but for some reason, and maybe it was instinct, she didn’t believe what Ross had told her. That Dev had killed his father. But that didn’t mean the family—possibly the senator—didn’t have something to do with that poor woman’s disappearance or Lawrence’s death.

  Rosie honest to God had no idea what the hell was going on, but she didn’t trust Ross. Not after what she’d learned, and she did know that Devlin had no idea that her apartment was owned by his father until this weekend. He sure as hell hadn’t known what was hidden in that closet.

  Whatever was going on, he needed to know about this.

  Biting down on her lip, she turned in a slow circle and checked out the room. It was beautiful. Stunning furniture set around a large fireplace. Interesting artwork adorned the walls. Placing her bag on the Victorian-style sofa, she walked over to one of the paintings. It appeared to be of a cemetery—tombs shaded in grays. Goodness. The artwork was so well-done that it nearly looked like a photograph. Only upon close inspection could you see the brush strokes. Her gaze fell to the right corner, to the initials LDV.

  Rosie’s head cocked to the side. “LDV . . . ?”

  “Stands for Lucian de Vincent.”

  Letting out a little shriek, Rosie spun around and found that she wasn’t alone. “Oh my gosh.” She pressed her palm into her chest. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

  The blond de Vincent smiled. “I can be very quiet when I want to, which isn’t very often.” He grinned as he leaned against the fireplace mantel. “We haven’t had the chance to meet . . . officially, have we?”

  “No.” She stepped away from the painting. “I’m—”

  “Rosie,” he answered for her as his grin turned into the kind of smile she hadn’t yet seen on his brother’s face. “I know who you are and I have so many questions for you.”

  Dev was feeling the effects of too much bourbon and too little sleep as he stepped off the treadmill and grabbed a fresh towel.

  He was sweating liquor, Jesus.

  Probably would’ve been wise of him to take the day off, but running shut his head down. Always had. The moment his sneakers hit the belt or the pavement, he thought of nothing. His head was quiet, and he realized this afternoon that the quiet he experienced when he was running was different from the quiet he felt around Rosie. He’d mistaken that time for the same kind of quiet, but it wasn’t. When he was with her, he didn’t think about Lawrence or his brothers, Sabrina, or what was in Nebraska and now in his condo. But he was still thinking. Not like when he was running, but his mind was solely focused on her when he was with her, and damn, if that was just about as good as the silence he got when he was running.

  “You can trust me.”

  Fuck.

  Those words were going to haunt him.

  Wiping his face, he tugged the earbuds free as he walked toward the laundry hamper. He tossed the towel in and then opened the door. He m
ade it about three feet when Besson rounded the corner.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” Besson’s long strides were that of a much younger man. “You have a visitor.”

  “Please tell me it’s not Stefan,” he remarked, stopping.

  The man was too professional to show a response. “No. It is Rosie Herpin.”

  Dev blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Rosie Herpin,” Besson repeated, clasping his hands behind his back. “She’s a friend of—”

  “I know who she is.” He couldn’t believe that she’d come here. “Where is she?”

  “In the formal sitting room.”

  Pivoting around, he started down the hall, his heart thumping heavier than it did when he was running.

  “Devlin,” called Besson. “A moment please?”

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder, impatient. “Yes?”

  A look of confusion settled into Besson’s expression. “Would you like to take a moment to . . . get ready?”

  For a second, Dev wasn’t sure what Besson was referring to and then the man looked pointedly at Dev’s bare chest.

  “I can have Nikki keep her company while she waits,” Besson offered.

  That would be the appropriate thing to do. His shirt and body were soaked in sweat. “That won’t be necessary.”

  There was a flash of surprise that replaced the confusion on his face, and he couldn’t blame the old man for that look, but he wasn’t going to waste time on showering and changing. He prowled to the end of the hall and hung a right. Within moments he was nearing the sitting room, and his steps slowed as he heard laughter coming from the room.

  What the hell?

  His steps picked up and he cursed under his breath as he reached for the handle. He heard Lucian’s laugh joining Rosie’s. Shit. Rosie alone with Lucian was not going to end well for him. Yanking open the door, his gaze immediately found Rosie. Weird as hell, but the first place he looked was where she was, sitting on the sofa. In that moment, he completely forgot that she wasn’t alone. There was only her.

  Her gaze flew to him and those hazel eyes widened. Those wild, thick curls were loose, falling over her shoulders and framing her heart-shaped face. She was dressed casually, wearing a long-sleeve shirt that slipped, exposing the tantalizing skin of one shoulder. Who knew a shoulder could be so . . . enticing?