Gossip (Desire Never Dies)
Page 2
Jamie regarded Nick, feeling uneasy. Conventional wisdom said letting him drink himself into a coma wasn’t what was best for him. But what did she know? It wasn’t her spouse who had just been murdered. “Okay, you win. But only if you let me stick around and make sure you don’t drink yourself into a double funeral.”
He said nothing. Just stared out the window, eyes glazed over like he’d already shut out the world. She felt for the guy. Really felt for him. Couldn’t imagine how awful he must feel. Refilling his drink, she made one for herself and took a seat in the recliner beside him.
“That’s Janelle’s chair,” he said.
She got up. “I’m sorry. I can sit somewhere else.”
“No. It’s okay.” He motioned her to stay put and slugged down about half the drink she’d just handed him. “I like having you there. Makes me think I’m not really alone.”
His voice cracked as he spoke, and Jamie said nothing.
“You look a little like her, you know. When she was younger.”
She’d heard that from him before, when they’d first met. Hearing him say it today sounded eerie. She sipped the scotch she’d poured herself, suppressing emotions now warring inside. She liked Nick. A lot. With his dark, graying curls and tall, well-built body, she’d been attracted to him since the first day they’d met. But he was a married man. And she didn’t do married men. Now his wife was dead, but it would be a long time before that reality would make him single. And it wouldn’t matter even then, she reminded herself with finality. Marriage had a tendency to end in unhappiness.
Her parents had been miserable. She’d grown up listening to them fight. Her four siblings totaled five divorces between them. And like her, big brother Jeremy had never walked down the aisle. That made five divorces between three siblings. Fairy tales might exist for a lucky few, but most relationships were doomed to messy break-ups, or simmering resentments that would be better served by a messy break-up. Giving your heart away wasn’t worth it. She’d learned that with Dean.
“I’m going to find out who killed Janelle,” Nick said, bringing the subject up again. “Did you see her face?”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes. Drank more scotch. It was a sight she would never forget. Janelle’s eyes wide open and round with fright. Grape-sized, purple bruises on the front of her throat.
“She looked so afraid.” As Nick spoke, the glass he’d been holding slipped from his grasp, bounced once and crashed, spilling onto the polished stone floor. He remained seated, watching the scotch fan out over the floor and make its way toward a silk, Persian area rug.
Jamie got up. “I’ll take care of that.”
He shook his head. “Leave it.”
She began cleaning anyway, retrieving a damp cloth from the bar and using it to soak up the spreading liquid.
Nick held his hand out in her direction. “I said you could leave it.”
She continued cleaning. “You’ll feel differently in the morning.”
“No,” he said. “Nothing’s going to change between now and then.”
She heard the heaviness, the hurt when he spoke, and thought to comfort him, but didn’t. Her comfort wouldn’t really help, and one tender touch between them might cause the sympathy and attraction she felt to give way to something more.
“I wish things had been better between us,” he said.
Surprised, Jamie stopped cleaning. “I thought the two of you were happy.”
He shook his head. “We’d been fighting a lot these past months. Or make that not talking. The fighting stopped last spring. I could have handled her leaving me again, but it shouldn’t have ended like this.”
“She was going to leave you? Why? No, never mind. That’s too personal. It’s none of my business.”
A weak smile crooked the corners of Nick’s mouth. “Never make it in the tabloid business with an attitude like that.”
Smiling back, she finished picking up the last shards of broken glass and threw them in a small, porcelain trash can near the bar. “Guess it’s a good thing all I want to do is take pictures.”
“You take such beautiful pictures.” His words came out slurred. “One of these days, you’re going to stop freelancing and start publishing coffee table books.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But not before I help you find out who killed Janelle.”
He looked at her, staring, seeming to probe her thoughts with his gaze. “Do I have your word on that?”
Jamie hesitated. Giving her word was something she rarely did, because breaking her word was something she never did. She could think of no reason she’d want to break her word, however, so she nodded. “You have my word. Until Janelle’s killer is caught and you’re the one with the front page headline, just consider me part of your investigation team. You do want to be the one breaking the story, right?”
He gave her a slight nod. “Be a cold day in Hell before I let the competition scoop me on Janelle’s murder.” He paused, still staring at her, and held out his hand. “Come here.”
Jamie studied Nick’s hand. She’d never actually touched him. Not in an entire year of selling him pictures.
He beckoned again with a wave of his fingers. “Please.”
Loneliness played in his eyes, mirroring a pain she carried in her heart, and pulling her to him. She stood facing him, hesitating before sliding her hand into his. Warm, strong fingers circled hers. His touch jolted her. It felt intimate. Too much so. Her breath caught in her throat, and while she stood there, marveling at his touch, he pulled her into his lap. She landed, gasping. Warmth rolled off him like a Florida summer day. Her body responded instantly, and with utter disregard for what she’d already decided, softening to him, molding into his embrace.
Twisting his fingers in her hair, Nick guided her lips to his. The smoky flavor of his scotch sluiced through her, his tongue gliding into her mouth. As he tasted her, he pressed her close, crushing her breasts against the hard muscles of his chest. Jamie allowed the kiss long enough for the heat of desire to spark to life, then pulled away. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he was looking for something to ease the pain. “This is not a good idea.”
He looked at her, his eyes almost pleading. “It would feel so good to make love to you.”
No kidding. For both of them. She ran her fingers across the day’s growth of stubble on his chin. “You’re probably too drunk to make love to me.”
He grinned. “You’re probably right.”
She climbed off his lap and went back to the drink she’d left on the bar, unwilling to look at him; determined he would not see how much he affected her. She took a few more sips of the scotch, instructing her hormones to calm down. God, but he was one hundred percent man. “Think you’ve had enough to drink for the night?”
She waited for him to answer, but heard no response. “I should be going, and you should go to bed.”
Again, he said nothing. She was greeted only by the quiet sound of heavy breathing. When she looked over at him, she saw he’d slumped over in the recliner and gone to sleep.
Chapter 4
Morning brought Nick a stinging hangover and an unwanted trip to reality, otherwise known as a question and answer session with the Coral Gables Police Department. One where they asked the questions, and he supplied the answers. He sat at the desk of Ernesta Freeman, looking the woman in the eyes. He probably had more questions than she did. Sergeant Freeman, Sarge as she’d insisted he call her, had offered him first coffee, then a soft drink, and lastly some water. All of which he’d refused.
A quick scan of her office revealed a woman who, like him, played her cards close to the vest. The place was neat as a pin. Nothing on her desk save a phone, a computer monitor shoved to the corner, and a picture of a German Shepherd lying next to a palm tree. Her filing cabinets were closed and, he guessed, in perfect order. The walls held a clock and a corkboard filled with mug shots. No family photos or personal mementos anywhere, save the one of the dog. Her personal life had been closed off
, separated from her place of employment. When she was here, he suspected, she was all about work.
She smiled at him from the opposite side of her desk, showing off perfectly straight, white teeth, highlighting her beautifully caramel-colored skin. “Mr. Beck, how was your relationship with your wife?”
The woman wasted no time making small talk, just got right down to business. He liked that about her. “It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
She frowned at him, like his answer was less than satisfactory. Knowing he shouldn’t act defensively, but unable to feel otherwise, he clenched his teeth. The pounding headache of his hangover wasn’t helping his self-control any. “It was fine,” he repeated, and wondered how much Janelle had told her friends and family about their marital problems. Though neither of them had spoken the word divorce, he’d sensed it coming. He didn’t see how telling Sarge that, however, would do any good. That single detail would only make her suspicious. Then she’d waste her time following him around instead of looking for Janelle’s killer.
“You never fought? The two of you?”
“Of course we fought. Sometimes.” Whenever they were bothering to talk anyway. “All couples fight sometimes. That’s only normal.”
She made no acknowledgement of the latter statement, staring at him like she was a living polygraph machine. Looking all business. “What did you and your wife fight about?”
“Lots of things.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. What we were having for dinner. Whether to go to this function or that. Whether I left the lid on the toilet seat up or put it back down. You know, stuff.”
“I see.”
He noticed she’d pulled out a tape recorder and had turned it on. He wondered if she had any idea how many interviews he’d conducted himself, and how familiar he was with how this game was played.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, indicating the machine.
“No.” He knew cops. Best not to look like he had something to hide or they’d do everything but crawl up his ass. “Go ahead.”
“Good. So then, did you and your wife fight about anything more substantial than dinner or leaving the toilet seat up? Did you fight about any major issues?”
He hesitated, and instantly knew that wasn’t good. Her gaze narrowed in on him.
“Go on,” she prodded. “What major issues did you and your wife fight over?”
Might as well just tell her. If Janelle had confided in her family and friends about the issue pulling them apart, Sarge would find out anyway, and then it would look like he was holding back. And Sarge would wonder why. And admitting they fought over the issue wasn’t the same as saying they were headed for a split because of it. “Children,” he said. “We fought about children.”
“You mean whether or not to have them?”
“Yes.” As far as he knew, Janelle had never been pregnant.
“Which one of you wanted to have children?”
“I did.”
“And your wife didn’t?”
“No. She thought she was too old. She was worried about birth defects and what it might do to her physically.”
“You could have adopted,” she pointed out. “Or used a surrogate.”
“Janelle didn’t want to. She liked our life the way it was and she was afraid we were both too set in our ways to make room for a child.”
“Especially if the two of you were having trouble in your marriage.”
“We weren’t having trouble in our marriage.” At least, they wouldn’t have been if the children issue hadn’t come between them. He’d wanted them badly. He’d accused her of being selfish, told her forty-year-old women had children all the time. “Look, I get you have to ask these questions, but everything was fine between us.”
“Maybe. I can assure you we’ll find out. One way or the other.” She looked him over a moment before continuing. “So you were facing the prospect of being denied a chance at fatherhood. To leave behind a legacy.”
She had a gleam in her eyes Nick recognized. Like she’d just glommed onto some important piece of news. Much the way one of his reporters looked when they had a hot tip. “Janelle didn’t want to have children,” he said. “I was learning to make peace with that.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
He wasn’t sure. He’d been pissed as hell about it. And he didn’t like Sarge’s questions, or the way she looked at him. Stirring up the mess his marriage had been when Janelle died wasn’t going to change a damn thing.
“Okay then. Tell me about your business arrangements.”
She’d dropped the subject of children, but he could tell by the look on her face she was a long way from forgetting about it. “What would you like to know about my business arrangements?”
“Was your wife a part of them?”
“Yes.”
“She had an ownership interest?”
“Yes.”
“How much of an interest?”
“Fifty percent.”
“Fifty percent? So, you couldn’t have divorced your wife without losing half your business.”
“I wasn’t divorcing Janelle.” It was probably going to be the other way around. Janelle divorcing him. Again. Damn it, but Sarge was starting to piss him off. “What is it you’re getting at?” he asked. “Am I a suspect now?”
“Until I find out who killed your wife, Mr. Beck, everyone’s a suspect. Including you.”
The thought of being a suspect really pissed him off. “You think I killed Janelle?”
“Did you?”
“No!” He yelled, louder than he’d intended. “I did not kill Janelle. I was at my office at seven in the morning. You can ask anyone who works there. What’s the point in wasting your time chasing after me, when I obviously didn’t kill her?”
“You could have been at your office and still arranged to have your wife killed, Mr. Beck. It’s not like we haven’t seen that done before.”
“If you want to continue this line of questioning, maybe you should talk to my attorney.”
She shrugged, as if the thought didn’t bother her a bit. “You want to lawyer up and look guilty, that’s your choice.”
He’d had it. Damn woman was shredding every ounce of self-control he had. He stood, practically jumping from the chair and slapping his hands down on the desk in front of her. “Lawyering up, as you put it, does not make me look guilty. It’s called exercising my constitutional rights.”
She continued sitting. “If that’s the way you want to play it, fine. Go get your lawyer. In the meantime, don’t leave town.”
“Fine.” His emotions overwhelmed him to the point he had to remind himself he still had the option of controlling them. He took a deep breath. “I’ll appreciate hearing from you if you find out anything about who did kill Janelle.”
She nodded. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Beck.”
“Right. Have a nice day, Sergeant Freeman.”
He noted a roomful of turned heads as he stomped out of the station. All looking at him. Making their judgments. Sizing up whether he killed Janelle or not. If they were any good at their jobs, they’d know he wasn’t the sort of man who would needlessly kill anyone. They’d go look for the real killer instead of hunting for clues that didn’t exist.
Sunlight blinded him as he stepped outside, and before he knew it, Peter Arnold, a cameraman and a news reporter at his side, ambushed him. Nick stepped back, trying to move around them, but they pressed in tighter.
“Mr. Beck, what are the details of your wife’s death?” Peter asked. “Did they bring you in for questioning? Are you considered a suspect?”
That did it. Nick’s fist reared back and before he could think better of it, he’d slugged the bastard, connecting squarely with his jaw and sending him down on his ass. At the same time the cameraman’s flash exploded in front of him, immortalizing the moment in a photograph.
Chapter 5
“Are you okay, Sir?” A uniformed officer rushed outside the door and looked hesitantly at Nick, already halfway across the parking lot.
“It’s okay,” Peter said, knowing without asking what the cop was thinking. “I have no intention of pressing charges. I got exactly what I wanted out of that cocksucker.” He nudged his cameraman in the arm. “Let’s go get a beer, Mike. My day couldn’t have gone better if I’d scripted it myself.”
Mike smiled. “You mean you didn’t?”
He laughed. “You’re right. I’ve been waiting thirteen years for that prick to get what’s coming to him.”
Chapter 6
Peter Arnold ran his story on Janelle’s murder three days later, on the bleak and stormy day of her funeral. The timing, Nick was sure, was not coincidental.
“You’ve seen the front page of Tidbits today, right?”
Nick nodded in response to Danny’s question. The front page showed an unflattering photograph of him as he left the police station, punching Peter Arnold in the jaw. The story that followed was filled with rumor and innuendo, also unflattering, quoting unnamed sources who fingered Nick as the prime suspect. A small inset picture of Janelle’s corpse outside the country club accompanied the story inside. He’d nearly lost his breakfast seeing it. “Yes.” Words finally found him. “I’ve seen it.”
“Low, even for him.”
Nick nodded, unable to think about it anymore. They stood outside on the steps of the cemetery chapel, looking out over a grassy field littered with headstones. Danny stood to his left, holding an umbrella over their heads. If it had been left to Nick he wouldn’t have bothered. He would have stood in the downpour unadorned, letting the rain pelt him with reckless abandon. As it was, he stood only partially under the cover Danny offered, feeling the cold water splash the right side of his face. A loud peal of thunder cracked in the clouds overhead and brought with it an intensified onslaught of the storm. Rain lashed him like a whip, tasting of sorrow. The dampness seeped slowly into the fabric of his black suit coat.