Lethal in Love

by Michelle Somers

‘Then all I can say, amico mio, is you are blind.’

  Luckily for her and the wayward direction of the conversation, a table of solo, very alluring women called for Antonio’s attention, enticing him away.

  Seth shot her a triumphant grin and returned all concentration to his medium-rare steak. ‘That went well.’

  She didn’t know what annoyed her more. His apparent lack of concern over the conversation, or her preoccupation with it. After all, he’d only done as she asked.

  She stared at the barely touched chicken breast on her plate, stuffed with fetta, spinach and sun-dried tomatoes that had tempted her taste buds earlier, and dropped her fork. Antonio’s choice in wine was ambrosia between her lips, and to her nerves. Seth didn’t know what he was talking about. The liquid was sweet and fruity, and the bubbles tap danced along her tongue before slipping easily down her throat.

  ‘I still believe Eric trashed your car.’ Seth’s knife sliced effortlessly through his meat as he spoke. ‘But he’s too young to be the Night Terror. So, what was his motive? Unrequited love?’

  Amusement—and a generous serving of red liquid—spluttered from her mouth.

  He raised his brows, using his serviette to first daub his shirt, then his steak. ‘I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

  ‘Well, that’d be a first.’

  ‘In any other situation I’d say your humour is only exceeded by your beauty. But you might think it was a come-on, which it isn’t, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He didn’t seem at all moved by the snap in her voice. Instead he helped himself to another mouthful of steak with unaffected gusto, then picked up their earlier thread of conversation. ‘So, back to Eric.’

  ‘And his unrequited love?’ She tried—and failed—not to snort. Just as well it wasn’t a date. Spluttering and snorting wouldn’t snag a place on any how-to-get-a-man list. ‘Only in a world where I sported a mouse and motherboard, and could store twelve or more gig of RAM.’

  ‘A computer geek could easily interfere with the security camera system.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To get your attention. To encourage you to turn to him for help. My presence must have put a colossal spanner in the works.’

  ‘If your theory is right, which I doubt. Men don’t pine over women like me. That’s a role left to the beautiful women of the world. Like Bec.’

  The wrench embedded in her heart since last Friday squeezed tighter. Seth dropped his knife and fork onto the plate and reached across for her hand, his voice soft, his gaze softer. ‘You are beautiful, Jayda.’

  Flutters filled her heart.

  She slid her hand from his grasp and dropped it into her lap. ‘And that’s not a come-on?’

  ‘No. It’s a rock-solid fact.’

  Her blood heated, and she pushed back the need that accompanied it. ‘Either way, this isn’t getting us closer to the Night Terror. He has to be around forty-five to fifty-five years old, more Dad’s generation than ours.’

  ‘Funny how he came to the same conclusion we did.’

  ‘You did, you mean.’

  ‘No, we did. Solving this case is a team effort.’

  She stared, searching for a hint of insincerity. There was none.

  ‘What? Don’t tell me there’s a great glob of spinach between my teeth.’

  ‘You just surprise me.’

  ‘I take it that’s a good thing.’

  ‘It is. In my experience, reporters don’t tend to be so . . .’

  ‘Good looking?’ He shot her a cheeky grin.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Honest.’

  Her gaze threatened to undo him.

  He carved another serving of steak, then dropped his fork without bringing it to his mouth. ‘What happened?’

  She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t come to have a perspective like that without foundation.’

  ‘I’ve got plenty.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Teeth frustrated her bottom lip, her stare pensive. Then she sighed. ‘I recently worked a case where a man murdered his wife and two daughters.’

  He nodded. ‘Ian Trentham.’

  No surprise that he’d guessed. For weeks the story had been all-encompassing, splashed across every media outlet, Australia-wide. Until the Night Terror stole the limelight.

  ‘We knew he was guilty, but there was no proof. He had an alibi—shaky, but it was still an alibi. And there were no bodies. Trentham told police he and his wife, Noeleen, had fought. In fact, he was open about it, stating he believed she’d followed through on previous threats, that she’d taken the kids and run.’

  She double-folded the serviette from her lap and arranged it beside her plate. ‘We investigated other suspects, other leads, but the trail always led back to him. So we tapped his phones and watched, waiting for him to slip up. We also put a trace and tap on Noeleen’s mobile, in the hope that evidence would surface, if in fact she was still alive. And it did.’

  Jayda’s fingers toyed with the edge of the serviette, folding, unfolding.

  ‘Twenty-four hours after Noeleen’s disappearance, her voicemail was cleared. Proof she was alive. New life flooded into the investigation, we pulled out all stops, upped the search. We had to find her. No one ate or slept or worked on anything but the case. We couldn’t. Not until we’d safely located Noeleen and her two little girls.’

  Her hand froze. ‘Thirty-five hours later we discovered the truth. The calls were deleted remotely. The person responsible? A reporter. When Noeleen’s voicemail filled, he created space in the hope that new messages might come through that he could use in his story.’

  Her hand drew into a fist, crumpling the white paper into a tight ball.

  ‘Precious time was wasted hunting red herrings instead of catching a killer. Eventually, we found the bodies and convicted Trentham. But it was despite that reporter’s actions, not because of them.’ She looked up at him then, her gaze narrowed and intense. ‘Can you see why I might be more than a little suspicious of your actions?’

  ‘No.’ The word cut across his tongue, low and controlled, through a jaw so tight he thought it might crack. ‘From memory, that reporter was some two-bit bottom dweller, digging more for dirt than truth.’

  ‘That may be the case, but he couldn’t have sold the story if the media wasn’t willing to buy.’

  His shoulders met the hard frame of his chair as he leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘So, we’re all tainted with his brush?’

  ‘Until proven otherwise, yes. You can’t tell me you were upfront regarding your motives when we met in the Traveller. You were after an easy mine of information. A cop to ply with alcohol before wheedling out whatever details you could.’

  He steeled his chin so it didn’t drop to the floor. It wasn’t surprising she knew his motives, but his MO was another thing. With a smug expression, she took another swig of her second—or was it third?—glass of red.

  He shook his head and her brow arched. ‘Surprised? We’re not as obtuse as you think. When a cop leaks information from a case, more often than not it’s because it suits our purposes, not yours.’ She cocked her head. ‘Makes you wonder who the real patsy is, doesn’t it?’

  One minute she was soft, dissolving into a wanton release of sweet, sensual vulnerability, and the next she was as tender and accessible as an echidna. Firmly placing him on the back foot.

  His fingers tapped the starched white tablecloth. ‘You’ve made your point.’ He heard the grumble in his voice, and hated it. ‘What you don’t take into consideration is that while we all want the story, some of us have scruples. Unfair to punish an entire profession for the sins of a few.’

  ‘Welcome to the real world, Seth. Where fairness is only an illusion based on pretext.’

  ‘You weren’t exactly the woman I thought you were when we first met.’

  She blinked, a gratifying surge of red colouring her cheeks. ‘That was work.’

  ‘All o
f it?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Even the kiss?’

  She glowered. ‘Especially the kiss.’

  ‘Then I congratulate you. Your acting was flawless.’

  Her subsequent seat-shuffle, eye-avoidance was a dead giveaway. She knew it. He knew it. That first meeting, she’d been acting as much as he.

  ‘What did Antonio mean, when he congratulated you for not giving in?’

  His amusement clotted in his throat. She’d successfully swapped positions and was scrutinising him again, in that way of hers.

  ‘Just old uni talk.’

  ‘Really? Now who’s telling pork pies?’

  The appetite that had led him to order the 300-gram dry-aged steak fled.

  She picked up her fork as he pushed back his plate. ‘This is about your parents, isn’t it?’

  Never date a detective. It should be one of those top-ten health warnings, along with cigarettes and too much fried food being bad for you.

  Not that this was a date. She’d said it often enough. And yet she wanted into machinations of his mind that even he didn’t dare probe.

  ‘Have they got back to you?’

  A bass drum took up residence behind his right eye. ‘I told you, there’s no phone or internet access where they’re based.’

  ‘Surely they call once in a while, to keep in touch?’

  ‘Of course.’ His fingers weren’t crossed, but he doubted the white lie would see him earn God’s wrath.

  ‘When did you last speak?’

  ‘Not long ago.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Damn, you’re persistent.’ He returned her glare with one designed to make the hardiest of opponents baulk.

  Not even a blink. ‘And you’ve just got that figured? Maybe you’re not as sharp as I first thought.’

  ‘Ever thought of swapping to comedy?’

  ‘I’d miss the rush too much.’ Her gaze narrowed and she tapped the table with her right index finger. ‘Are you going to tell me or will I have to drag it out of you?’

  His gaze drifted across the restaurant floor, to where Antonio was charming the proverbials off an entire table of women. What was the big deal anyway? It wasn’t as if his parents’ disinterest still affected him. ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘Two . . . You’re kidding.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sighed. ‘Oh, you—’ Something in his expression must have hinted at the truth, because first there was silence, then a soft, almost sorry, ‘you’re not.’

  He positioned his knife in perfect alignment with his fork, then daubed his mouth with his serviette before dropping it on top.

  His gaze flicked to the half-eaten meal on her plate. ‘If you’re done, perhaps we should ask for the bill and get back to work. Unless you want dessert?’

  All she did was shake her head. The question was a feeble excuse for a distraction, and unsurprisingly, it failed.

  ‘All over your choice of career?’

  ‘This has nothing to do with—’

  ‘Damn, Seth. Would it kill you to admit it?’

  ‘Much as it’d kill you to let go.’ Something inside squeezed at his gut, then twisted. ‘Why does my screwed-up life interest you so much?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a matter of evening the score. You’ve seen my dirty laundry, now I want to see yours.’

  ‘If nothing else, at least you’re honest.’

  ‘Of course.’ The tight set of her mouth said what else is there?

  ‘The intrigue lies in the mystery. Once you know, you’ll see my story’s really not that remarkable.’ He reached for fortification, only to discover his glass was empty. Dropping it back onto the table, he drew in a deep breath instead. ‘My parents are geophysicists and they expected the same career choice from their son.’

  ‘You mean Callum?’

  ‘And me.’

  ‘But you were never into science.’

  ‘One isn’t into science, one lives it. Anything else is a phase, something to grow out of. Something a perfect son would never consider.’

  ‘So now you’re into the hardnosed reporting, you think their viewpoint will change?’

  ‘They have nothing to do with my wanting success. This for me.’

  Raised brows indicated she believed otherwise. Steak and mash churned in his gut as he told himself it didn’t matter what she thought.

  She opened her mouth then clamped it, her gaze still firmly locked to his. Then her lips bucked in the merest of smiles.

  ‘Funny, your parents wanted you to follow in their footsteps, and my father was dead-set against me following in his.’

  His hand froze midair as he reached for the water. ‘I never would’ve guessed.’

  ‘Once he realised it was what I wanted more than anything, he back-pedalled. Although, I now have a funny suspicion my mother might have had a hand in his turnabout.’

  He poured himself a glass before offering to do the same for her. She shook her head.

  ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘I am. Was.’ She pushed her plate and grabbed her purse. ‘You’re right. I think we should get back to it.’

  He caught Chanel’s eye and pulled out his wallet. ‘My treat.’

  ‘That may have been Italian, but we’re going Dutch.’

  He grinned. ‘I won’t ask for payment in return.’

  Her hand flew to her chest. ‘Thank heavens you cleared that up! I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  Chanel arrived, expertly removing the plates and cutlery from the table, balancing them as only an experienced waitress could. ‘How did you enjoy your meal?’

  ‘Tell Antonio the chef has outdone himself.’

  ‘He’ll be pleased to hear it.’

  He handed her his credit card, pushing Jayda’s away when she tried to do the same. Chanel shot them both a wide smile before making her way towards the kitchen.

  ‘I told you we’d go halves.’

  ‘And I told you I’d pay. If it’s really such an issue, you pay next time.’

  ‘If there is a next time.’

  The corner of his lips kicked up as he watched irritation heighten her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. There will be.’

  If not for the dark, everyone they passed en route to the car would have seen steam shooting from her ears in wild, fiery bursts.

  Seth was oblivious. He’d paid the bill, man-hugged Antonio, then hustled her out before his friend could do more than kiss her effusively on both cheeks. He was beginning to smell of a control freak, and she wasn’t one to roll over or play nice. Not for anyone, least of all for an infuriating, pulse-racing reporter who didn’t know when to quit.

  ‘Damn!’

  Jayda sidled up next to him and her thoughts stilled in silent agreement. Scrubbing his hand through his hair, Seth scanned the area. She could have told him it was a waste of time. Whoever had slashed all four of his tyres was long gone.

  ‘Still think it’s Eric?’

  The glower he threw her way said he considered her less than funny. She agreed. The feeling that they were somehow being targeted wouldn’t leave. One incident could be disregarded. But two . . .

  ‘Bastard had to wait till I got new tyres!’ Grumbling under his breath, he inspected for further damage, the tender stroke of his hand over buffed-within-an-inch-of-its-life silver paint adoring enough to make her jealous.

  She left him to his sufferings and reached for her phone, circling the vehicle as the operator answered.

  Unlikely she’d find anything after the evidence-lacking state of her own car, but still she had to check. Rounding towards the driver’s side, she identified herself to the woman at the emergency call centre.

  Her foot planted. Froze. She tried to breathe, tried to speak past the catch of saliva in her throat. Impossible.

  The mobile slipped through her fingers and slammed the concrete with a sharp crack! She wondered vaguely whether the screen had smashed, or i
f the operator would dispatch the officers now with more urgency than a 34 on a vehicle required.

  ‘What—’

  Pine wrapped round her mind as familiar hands grabbed her elbows and moved her aside. Seth stepped in and wrapped an arm round her shoulders, shifting his gaze to where hers had frozen. The car door, or rather, what was wedged inside.

  A tiny scrap of fabric, the familiar outline of yellow sunflower tinged with blood.

  24

  ‘We’ll get the material to the lab, but it looks a perfect match to the missing portion of Bec’s dress.’

  Jayda knew it was, without Georgie or Teddy or the three blue-and-whites and her entire squad on the scene to tell her that.

  The wind had picked up, moon and stars swallowed by a blanket of puffy grey, while barbed fingers of blue-black leached down from the sky and clutched at her heart.

  ‘Thanks, Georgie.’

  ‘How’re you holding up?’ Brown eyes assessed her, as if searching for the truth.

  She blocked her expression and forced a smile. ‘I’ve had better weeks.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The caring in her friend’s voice, the gentle squeeze of her arm, tapped at the thin veneer of her control. Was it only two days ago she’d shared coffee in her living room with Georgie and Chase and assured them she was doing okay?

  She swallowed.

  Seth reached for her hand and when he squeezed, the rigidity of her shoulders eased. Even the cold night air lost its edge.

  Her heart flip-flopped. ‘How’s everything back at the station?’

  ‘Much the same.’ Georgie tapped her fingers, ticking them off one by one. ‘Sam’s moved off his couch and onto a friend’s. Christine’s not answering his calls, so if you thought he was grumpy before . . .’ Georgie’s mock anguish tugged a smile to Jayda’s lips.

  Sam in grouch mode was anything but pretty. And a regular occurrence for the past six months, since little Robbie had introduced his parents to the concept of three hourly night-feeds. Then, at least, Sam had enjoyed the comfort of his own bed. She could only imagine what he’d be like now.

  Georgie lowered her voice. ‘Hackett is, well, Hackett,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘and Chase walks round like he’s got an entire beehive up his butt. Men and power! Go figure. Everyone misses you.’ Her voice trailed off as Chase approached, her gaze cooling, ping-ponging between Jayda and her partner before she made herself scarce.