Veil of Night

by Linda Howard

  Jaclyn wrapped both arms around him, lending him her support, and even though he no longer needed it he didn’t think it was all that important to share that information with her right now. Holding on to her was nice.

  She leaned into him, held on, and he watched as the Atlanta P.D. assisted Taite from her car. He’d radioed that she was armed, and they were treating her as armed and dangerous, which she was, which meant they weren’t being very solicitous of her. Her nose was bleeding, too, and he felt a rush of satisfaction because, unless he missed his guess, her nose was broken. He hoped it healed crooked.

  He’d have liked to coldcock the bitch, but he kept his distance. For one, he wasn’t about to offer her the chance for a civil lawsuit, and it was more important to stay with Jaclyn. And two, if he decked her, the paperwork would damn near kill him. The car was going to be bad enough.

  Taite wiped the blood from her nose, squared her shoulders even though her arms were being wrenched behind her back, and called to him, “I want to make a deal! I can give him to you. I can give you the man who killed Carrie!”

  “Of course you can,” Eric said softly, and smiled.

  Eric couldn’t help but smile, even though it made his face hurt. This time around, Senator Dennison was on his turf. Earlier in the day a warrant had been issued for the car Dennison had been driving the day he’d killed Carrie Edwards, and Taite Boyne was singing like a birdie. She still thought she could cut a deal and get off with probation, but she’d soon be disabused of that notion. With the blood evidence in the car, the district attorney didn’t really need her testimony to make the case.

  The senator fidgeted in the uncomfortable chair in the interview room. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer yet, but he would soon. Eric was doing his best to make sure the senator was comfortable, for the time being. Maybe he’d say something that would make this process easier.

  He gave a sigh and shook his head. “I guess I can kind of understand how it happened,” he said in a sympathetic tone. “From everything I’ve heard, Carrie Edwards could be hard to get along with.”

  “Yes,” Dennison said nervously. “She was.” He glanced toward the closed door. “Is my wife out there? She really shouldn’t be here, but when you called she insisted …”

  “Sergeant Garvey is taking care of your wife, Senator. She’s in good hands.” Poor woman. She was about to get the shock of her life. She might’ve suspected that the dirtbag she was married to was unfaithful, but Eric doubted she’d had a clue that he was capable of murder. On the other hand, she was also a strong woman, and this wouldn’t break her. “What did Carrie do? You aren’t the type of man who commits cold-blooded murder.”

  “No, of course not!” the senator said, jerking back.

  “She had to have done something, something that made you so mad you lost your head for a minute.”

  The senator paled. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, I’m just going by what Ms. Boyne has told us, so far, but of course she wasn’t there. You were.”

  Eric hadn’t thought it was possible for Dennison to get any whiter, but he did. “I don’t know what Taite’s told you, but she’s just as unstable as her friend. You can’t believe a word she says.”

  No, but they could definitely believe the smears of blood that had been found in the senator’s car. Someone had cleaned that car well, but not well enough, because Taite hadn’t told them to use bleach—and the tests could even work around bleach. It was harder, but it was possible. A detailer wouldn’t have used bleach on expensive leather, anyway.

  “Come on, Senator,” he said softly. “What did she do? Was it blackmail? Did she keep pushing and pushing, wanting more and more?”

  The senator must’ve seen the certainty on Eric’s face, because the next words brought the interview to an end. “I want my lawyer.”

  Eric sighed and nodded. “I’ll have someone bring you a phone.” It would have been nice to get a confession, but it wasn’t necessary. They had the evidence, and they had Taite’s confession. Other people might have started singing, but Dennison was a politician. He knew all about lawyering up. This was something else that was rarely as easy as it was on television.

  Eric left Dennison in the interview room to stew, while he waited for a phone to call his lawyer. He caught sight of Garvey talking to a very distraught Fayre Dennison. He hated that she’d be hurt by all of this. He doubted she was one of those stand-by-your-man types—she was too tough, too realistic—but it would hurt her.

  Eric walked toward them, and as he approached Mrs. Dennison’s head snapped around and she stared at his battered face. “Is this really true?”

  He nodded once, and that was enough. Mrs. Dennison was going through so many emotions, and they all showed clearly on her face: disbelief, hurt, acceptance, and then rage. She’d loved her husband, once, maybe still did, but that strong streak of realism kicked in fast.

  “Did you know?” he asked.

  “That he’d killed Carrie? No. I’m still not sure I believe he could do such a thing.” She somehow managed to remain regal, put together in spite of her pain. “About Taite … I knew there was someone. We haven’t had a real marriage in years. But I had no idea he’d taken up with someone so young. Good heavens, Taite’s younger than our son.”

  “He’s asked for a lawyer,” Eric said.

  “That’s too bad,” Garvey said under his breath.

  Fayre seemed to regain some balance. She lifted her chin. “I need to make some phone calls of my own. I’ll be damned if Douglas will use my family lawyers, or my family money to pay his legal fees, or Ms. Boyne’s. My husband doesn’t have much money of his own; he’s always been content to live off mine. I want him to feel every penny he has to pay out for lawyers. By the time he goes to prison, he won’t have a dime left.”

  Nope, Eric thought. Not a stand-by-your-man kinda woman at all.

  There had been interviews to give and paperwork to fill out, but finally, Jaclyn was home. She turned on the lights as she walked through, since it had been dark for a while. It was late, past her usual bedtime. Nothing made you appreciate home like having it taken away for a couple of days. Her couch, her chair, her kitchen. Her own bathroom. Her bed. Home. Knowing that the woman who’d tried to kill her was locked up added to Jaclyn’s appreciative mood. For the first time in days, she could relax.

  Garvey had picked her and Eric up at the scene of the accident and had transported them back to Hopewell, where Eric had very quickly managed to get another city car. He’d refused to go to a hospital to be checked out, of course, but Garvey had given him an order—the city’s insurance demanded it—and he’d given in with bad grace. Garvey had also offered to arrange for a new rental car for her, but he also said he thought her Jag would be released tomorrow and he’d be happy to take her anywhere she needed to go until then. She declined the rental car. Who was she kidding? She’d been running from this for days, and the time for running was over.

  Jaclyn walked into the kitchen and reached into a cabinet for a bag of decaf coffee. It was late, it had been a long day, but there wasn’t any way she’d be going to bed anytime soon. She was absolutely too wired to sleep. She intended to just sit here, in her home, and be. It was over.

  She was measuring the coffee into the filter when her doorbell rang. Mom, she thought, because of course she’d called Madelyn and given her the lowdown on everything. But when she looked through the peephole, it wasn’t Madelyn on her doorstep. She opened the door and stepped aside so Eric could enter. He had on a clean shirt, and butterfly bandages closed the cuts on his forehead and across the bridge of his nose. He had two black eyes. He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

  Silently she put her arms around him, and his closed tightly around her. Deep inside she felt herself surrender, let go of the fear that had all but paralyzed her life. She’d been fighting this since she’d run into him at city hall, and she wasn’t fighting it a second longer. The
re was something real between them, and she wanted to find out what it was, where it might lead them. Maybe they’d had a rocky start, but he’d saved her life; without hesitating, he’d rammed his car into Taite’s, put his life in jeopardy to save hers. How much more trustworthy could a man get? He was a good guy, her own Studly Do-Right. Hell, all he needed was a white hat.

  She eased away from him, tried to think. It was so hard to know what to say to make this right. She’d been pushing him away for days: falling for him, holding on to him, then pushing as if her life depended on it. She didn’t want to push anymore. This could be an important moment, a turning point in her life, and she didn’t want to screw it up. She didn’t have a plan for this, no chart, no neat list to check off.

  “You snore a little,” she finally said. “That might take some getting used to, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”

  His eyebrows rose, a bit. “You make the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted in my life, but you’re worth the pain.”

  Her head jerked up. “I do not!”

  He looped his arms around her waist. “Yes, you do. I spit it out. What the hell was that shit, anyway?”

  “Hazelnut raspberry. It’s one of my favorites.” Well, not really. She could tolerate it, but mostly she’d just been using up what was in the bag. He could find that out later, though. But she really did like flavored coffee, just not that particular one.

  She couldn’t help but smile. “I work really strange hours, some days.”

  “So do I.”

  “Lots of weekends.”

  “Ditto.”

  She laid her head on his chest, listening to the sturdy thumping of his heartbeat. He held her tightly, but she could feel the difference in the way he held her, the very subtle shifting of his body. Already, she knew him surprisingly well.

  “Sore?” she asked.

  “Some,” he admitted grudgingly. So like a man, not to want to confess that a car wreck might’ve left him less than one hundred percent.

  It was a flaw, but one she could live with. “Poor baby. How about a nice, hot soak in the tub?”

  Oh, she liked that sigh. The one that came from deep inside, that revealed without a word that he was affected. “Only if you’ll soak with me.”

  Jaclyn smiled and rose up on her toes to kiss him. “Sounds good to me.”

  Eric just wanted a decent cup of coffee. Coffee that didn’t taste like chocolate, or hazelnut, or—he still could hardly believe it—crème brûlée. A fine dessert when served with coffee, but damned if he wanted that taste in his coffee. Still, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Turned out that god-awful swill from the first time had been a onetime thing.

  It had been a couple of weeks since Taite Boyne had been arrested and had rolled on the senator. The case had fallen together perfectly, piece by piece. Of course, the resulting press had been epic. The paperwork had been epic. But things were settling down, and even his personal life seemed to be in order.

  He was all but living with Jaclyn. At least, he had a toothbrush and a change of clothes at her place, and he was there more nights than not. She even had him watching HGTV, though to be fair they didn’t spend a lot of time in front of the television. Soon enough they’d make the living arrangements full time—he could see it coming, wanted it surprisingly badly. By fall, Christmas at the latest, they might as well get married. He’d let Jaclyn do all the planning.

  The arrangement was almost perfect. He hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to confiscate her coffee and take command of her coffeepot; she kept thinking he would grow to love chocolate-flavored coffee in the morning, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He loved her, more than a little. Eventually, though, they were going to have a come-to-Jesus talk about her coffee. Maybe his and hers coffeepots were in order. Surely she’d let him keep a can of Maxwell House in the cabinet.

  But for now, he wondered if it was safe to stop somewhere and buy a cup of coffee. He hadn’t dared try it, but maybe that particular streak of bad luck was behind him. Still, he didn’t want to go to the Mickey D’s drive-through, and the gas station/convenience store was off-limits. Jaclyn had been bragging about Claire’s, and he thought he could kill two birds with one stone. Muffins for Jaclyn, a cup of decent coffee for himself, and brownie points for bringing her the muffins.

  Naturally, a place like Claire’s didn’t have a drive-through, so he had to go inside. He glanced around, liking what he saw. Plants—either real or very good fakes. Little round tables and uncomfortable-looking chairs. Gentle, unobtrusive music played through hidden speakers. Best of all, middle-aged, nicely dressed people—mostly women—were sipping coffee and nibbling at muffins. Couples talked and ate. Women chatted. One woman sat alone and read a book, another was on her laptop. What could be safer? This was not the kind of place where he had to duck behind a stack of motor oil.

  Eric ordered his coffee and a half dozen muffins. Different flavors, since he didn’t know exactly what Jaclyn’s favorite was. He fantasized about feeding them to her, one pinch at a time. The woman behind the counter was handing over his coffee—he didn’t even have the muffins yet—when the door chime signaled a new arrival. The cashier who’d just released his coffee cup turned white, and she stepped back so abruptly she crashed into the coffeemaker.

  An angry voice split the silence. “You bitch! I knew I’d find you here!”

  Eric glanced over his shoulder. Then he closed his eyes and dropped his head forward. “Oh, shit, not again!”

  About the Author

  LINDA HOWARD is the award-winning author of many New York Times bestsellers, including Ice, Burn, Death Angel, Up Close and Dangerous, and Drop Dead Gorgeous. She also writes a paranormal romance series with Linda Winstead Jones. They have recently published Blood Born. She lives in Alabama with her husband and golden retriever.

  Veil of Night is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Linda Howington

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52196-5

  www.ballantinebooks.com

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