“I’ll get it.” Simone squeezed past a couple of men and picked up a fancy curved dagger. She took a moment to admire the hilt, richly decorated in antique gold with a large garnet in the pommel, before returning it to the table. “Wow, that’s some weapon.”
“William has a collection of old weapons,” the auction chairwoman said of her husband. “I’m hoping to give this one to him as a Christmas gift. It’s a ceremonial dagger. The blade even has a blood groove.”
Too much information. She’d never noticed Galen’s bloodthirsty side before. Normally the auction chairwoman seemed, well, timid. At the moment, with her eyes glittering and her cheeks flushed, Galen seemed anything but.
“Here’s hoping you win the bid,” Simone said.
Spotting Al Cecchi across the room, she noted the lawyer had caught up to his wife. Teresa Cecchi looked stiff with anger as she straightened the peplum of her Christmas-red suit. Simone figured she’d better try to smooth things over between the couple before the argument drew notice. She didn’t want any negative press to spoil the success of the evening.
“You’re delusional!” Al was saying loud enough for Simone to hear as she approached.
“I know what I know, Albert. I smelled perfume on your jacket.”
“Perfume I was buying you for Christmas. But you decided I had a mistress and gave away Mama’s desk! I need to make my final bid to get it back.”
Teresa stormed away. Al turned and practically ran into Simone.
“What the hell do you want?” he demanded.
“Only what’s ours.” Simone hadn’t meant to speak to him about the money in public, for heaven’s sake. The words just seemed to slip out of her. Embarrassed, she lowered her voice. “We need to talk about the business, Al. Not here, but soon. I have a son to support.”
“I told you to wait until the fiscal year ends.”
“Why are you stalling?” Something he’d been doing for eight months now.
“I don’t have time for this!”
Before Al could get past her, an amplified voice said, “All bids are now closed.”
“What?” His face darkened as he turned to Simone. “I lost Mama’s desk because of you!” He gave her a shove that made her stumble backward.
Catching herself, she gasped, “How dare you!”
He shoved her a second time.
Temper flaring, she said, “Touch me again and you’ll regret it!”
Suddenly realizing that several sets of eyes were on them and embarrassed by her public outburst, Simone shrank from the angry lawyer, who turned back to the bar and ordered a double scotch. Though she could use a drink herself, Simone knew that wouldn’t be wise. A private person, she would never choose to air her dirty laundry in public. No doubt that champagne had loosened her tongue.
Not wanting to see any questioning gazes on her, Simone looked straight ahead as she made her way through the crowd to the ladies’ room to calm down. She felt eyes following her around the end of the bar. No doubt Al was staring daggers at her. She glanced back, but he was gone. In her moment of inattention, she rammed into a big pillowy body in a red suit.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
“Sorry, Santa,” she muttered, head down as she hurried into the hallway.
A woman was coming out of the ladies’ room, a pretty space decorated in the blues and reds of the club. Thankfully, it was empty. After freshening up, Simone took a seat on an upholstered stool in front of a mirror, where she spent an inordinate amount of time fussing with her long dark hair and re-applying some gold eye shadow that made the green of her eyes sparkle. Anything to postpone going back into the club proper. If she were lucky, Al would be gone when she rejoined the party.
Not that it felt much like a party to her anymore. Between seeing the ghost from her past and being confronted by the bane of her present, all she felt was stressed out.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Simone breathed deeply and slowly, tried to use the meditation technique she’d learned to help her after she’d lost her husband. But rather than calming her, the technique brought to mind an image that made her pulse race—a handsome face framed by slick blue-black hair.
The face of the man who had broken her heart.
If she did nothing, if she walked away from the club and never came back, would it be over then?
It had to be. She couldn’t go back in time. He wouldn’t want to.
What was he even doing here in Chicago?
Did he have a death wish?
As the questions crowded her mind, Simone realized this wasn’t making her feel any better. She needed to come out of hiding and find some pleasant company until the end of the evening.
Simone opened the door and took a step out, but her foot caught on something. She staggered back and looked down. In the split second it took her to process what she was seeing, her heart raced into overdrive.
Before she could say anything or call anyone, a woman’s scream froze her in place. Nikki Albright was standing at the opening to the hallway, staring at her, eyes wide. Behind her, several people hurriedly gathered.
“Is he dead?” someone asked.
“I’m a doctor,” a man said and pushed into the hall. He knelt at Al Cecchi’s side and felt for a pulse. A jeweled dagger was sticking out of Al’s chest.
Chapter Three
“She killed him!” Nikki Albright gasped when the doctor had declared the lawyer dead. Turning to the people behind her, she yelled, “Simone Burke killed Al Cecchi!”
“What?” Simone’s heart felt as if it were slamming against her ribs. “No! I didn’t kill anyone!”
Guests crowded the opening to the hallway. All eyes on her were either accusing or suspicious. The already narrow space became claustrophobic, making Simone feel as if she were trapped in a jail cell, which—if the police believed Nikki—would be her next address.
“All right, everyone back off. No one leaves until the police get here! Gabe, you secure the area. Have your men secure the exits.”
Through a haze of fear, Simone heard the familiar voice issue orders.
This couldn’t be happening to her; it just couldn’t. She was the DeNali who’d broken the mold, the first DeNali in four generations to turn away from the family business. Her father was still paying for his crimes, though he’d been incarcerated for one he hadn’t committed.
But who would believe her?
“Come on, let’s go to my office.”
Gideon held out a hand to her.
Throat tight, she ignored the offer and, spine stiff, walked past him. He was right behind her, his voice low, speaking for her ears only.
“Head for the stairs, Simone. Go down and then across the club floor to the main entrance. My office is on the other side of the foyer.”
Simone stared straight ahead. Tunnel vision. Ears blocked to the cacophony of voices around her. She ignored the questions directed at her by a reporter. Gideon used his body as a barrier so the woman couldn’t get too close.
It had been nearly two decades since she’d felt so vulnerable, pummeling her with questions she couldn’t answer about her father who’d just been indicted for a murder he swore he hadn’t committed.
She’d struck out at one of them in fury, had ripped the mike from his hands and had hit the guy in the head with his equipment. Her brother Michael had saved her that day. He’d pulled her away from the crowd before she could do more damage. Later, he’d made some financial settlement that had made the charges against her for aggravated battery disappear.
Michael…where was he?
Descending the stairs, Simone looked around wildly for her brother, but she couldn’t spot him in the crowd below.
Had Michael settled with Cecchi for her as he’d threatened to do?
Dear Lord, surely not!
Glancing back to look for her brother on the upper floor, she almost missed a stair. A large hand grasped her arm and kept her from falling.
“Careful.”
Careful. She had been.
All these years, she’d lived a careful life. No blemishes on her record. Why would anyone believe she could be capable of murder?
What if Nikki was covering for herself?
As they stepped foot onto the main floor of the club, Simone realized Gideon was pressed up against her as he tried to get her through the crowd. Despite herself…her resolve…the years spent away from him…she felt long-repressed emotions bubble through her. She tried not to panic, but she felt trapped—no way to get away from him, no way out of the situation.
Is this the way Papa had felt after being convicted of killing this man’s father?
GIDEON’S HAND burned. He burned. After all this time apart, he still was attracted to Simone.
When they got to his office, Simone wrenched her arm free and, with as much dignity as she could muster, preceded him into the room.
“Sit,” he said, picking up the phone and dialing Logan’s cell. He needed to talk to the member of his team who was also a Chicago police detective. Voice mail. “I need you here,” was all he said.
Simone was still standing. Her eyes seemed unfocused, her thoughts turning inward. Was she thinking of him…or scrambling for an alibi?
“Why did you bring me in here?”
“I thought you would appreciate getting away from the crowd until the police arrive.”
Blanching, she said, “I should appreciate that,” as if she really didn’t. Waves of defiance pulsed from her as she asked, “Um, what was the name again?”
“Gideon will do.”
“Gideon…a far cry from Joseph Ruscetti.”
Her green eyes glittered, challenging him to deny it. Which, of course, he couldn’t.
He’d had many identities in the past seventeen years, but he’d never been able to forget who he was. Joseph Ruscetti, only son of mobster Frank Ruscetti, who’d been gunned down by rival Richard DeNali. Her father.
He’d witnessed the murder.
His testimony had put Simone’s father away, and she’d refused to see or speak to him. Then after the trial, he, his mother and younger sister Angela had been placed in the witness protection program and been given new identities and a new home far from Chicago.
But somehow, Michael’s men had closed in on his new home, and though the mobsters had been arrested—and he and his family had been moved again— he’d known staying in one place hadn’t been safe. He couldn’t endanger his mother or kid sister.
At age eighteen, he’d taken off alone.
He’d changed names, occupations and cities so often that sometimes he’d had to stop to think about who and what he was supposed to be on any given day.
But now he knew exactly who he was. And he wasn’t running anymore.
Simone was the question mark. Only eight months before, her husband had died under mysterious circumstances. And now her husband’s law partner had been murdered.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
Glaring at him for a moment, Simone reminded him of the teenager who’d won his heart. Her defiance soon wilted, and her eyes watered. Shaking her head, she felt behind her for a chair and nearly fell into it.
“I didn’t like Al Cecchi,” she admitted, “but of course I didn’t kill him.”
She looked so out of place in his office. Her plush femininity against the stark masculinity of chrome, black furniture and deep blue walls. She belonged in a room with lush colors and soft edges.
“There’s no of course about it,” he said, cutting off his wandering thoughts. “Not to the authorities.”
“Because I’m a DeNali.”
“That…and because you threatened him.”
Her brow wrinkled for a moment as if she didn’t know what he meant. Then her expression changed to one of surprise, as if his meaning finally dawned on her.
“He shoved me. Twice. I was simply warning him to keep his hands off me.”
“I heard someone say you told him he would regret it if he touched you again.”
“I lost my temper.”
“Did he touch you again?”
“No!”
“What did happen?”
Gideon watched Simone closely as she told him she’d retreated to the ladies’ room to cool off and that when she’d opened the door, she’d tripped over the already-dead lawyer.
His gut told him she was telling the truth. The tightness that had gripped him inside eased a bit. He knew she wasn’t like her father and brother. Call him sentimental, call him a fool, but he still believed she was the same Simone he’d once loved.
“When you were in the ladies’ room, did you hear anything?”
“I—I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Someone gets killed right outside the door. There must have been a struggle. But you don’t hear anything.”
She blinked and her voice quivered as she asked, “You don’t…believe me?”
“The question is, will the police believe you?”
“You don’t think they will?”
“Did you have a motive?” he pressed her.
“No!”
“You said you didn’t like Cecchi. Why not? He was your husband’s partner.”
Simone’s eyes widened, and Gideon realized she was shocked. Her mind was working, putting it together.
“You knew?” she finally asked.
“I know a lot of things,” he said vaguely.
Gideon knew she hadn’t waited long before turning to another man and making a new life.
He knew she’d had a successful marriage and had devoted herself to her husband and son.
He knew she’d been struggling financially for months since David Burke had died in that car crash.
“You know a lot of things about me?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t I?”
“For how long?”
“For as long as I’ve been back in Chicago.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “More than a year.”
“Why?”
Gideon shrugged. “Curiosity, I guess.” Before she could ask him anything more, he said, “Back to Cecchi. What’s the story there?”
“He owes me money.”
“How much?”
Simone shrugged. “The question of the century. Half of the business. At least a million, I imagine, if his accountant ever gets around to preparing a report.”
Gideon whistled. “A million. At least. And that’s not much of a motive?”
Simone popped out of the leather chair. “I don’t kill people!”
“You threatened—”
“To make Al regret touching me, yes.” Color rose in her neck and cheeks, and her spine seemed to grow steel. “I never threatened to kill him!”
This was his Simone…the one he remembered.
Fighting the urge to take her in his arms, to crush her to him and find out if her lips still had the power to make him forget everything but her, he said, “I believe you.”
“That I didn’t say the words or that I didn’t mean it?”
“Do you always mean what you say?” He couldn’t help himself. Even though he was over it, the memory wouldn’t die. She’d done a disappearing act before hearing his side of the story. “Let me think. Mmm, no.”
Her expression went rigid. Obviously she knew he meant their past.
“It doesn’t sound as if you believe I’m innocent,” she said through stiff lips.
“I’m playing devil’s advocate. You don’t think the cops are going to do me one better?”
She shuddered, and he softened a little inside. He could only imagine the horror Simone felt at the possibility of being arrested.
Tried.
Convicted.
Maybe he was a fool, but he believed her story. Despite all the years that had passed and how she’d betrayed him, he couldn’t let her take the fall for something she hadn’t done.
AT LEAST the police hadn’t arrested her.
They’d questioned her at the club along with every one else.
They’d also threatened to hold her for twenty-four hours until she’d demanded she be allowed to call a lawyer. That hadn’t been necessary; at least, not yet.
Thank God for small mercies, Simone thought, pulling her car into the garage in the middle of the night. She hoped Drew was asleep. He’d known she would be late, just not how late. If he heard her come in, her son would be sure to question her. Not that she could keep this from him.
The situation was serious—she’d been told not to leave the city.
By the time she’d left Club Undercover, the news media had set up camp outside. The club was in a trendy, gentrified area of the city where things like parking lots were non-existent. She hadn’t left the club alone—the benefit committee, all questioned in the same manner as she, had left as a group—so she hadn’t been singled out. Galen O’Neill had been quite comforting, assuring her that she believed in Simone’s innocence. Nikki Albright hadn’t been so kind, but at least she’d kept her mouth shut as the detective in charge had told her to do.
Simone had been relieved as she’d sped home, Mozart blaring from her tape deck. She’d tried to lose herself in the music, but for once she couldn’t forget that she’d touched the dagger. If they checked her fingerprints…
Then there was the media, who would run with the story and dig into her background.
Shuddering, Simone crossed the backyard. Her home was a two-story greystone with other buildings abutting hers on both sides. The yard was tiny, but stretching to the lakefront, Lincoln Park was only a half block’s walk away. She lived in a neighborhood of renovated nineteenth-century million-dollar-plus homes—lots of greystones and brownstones—sitting between the busy park and lively Clark Street. The main thoroughfare of the neighborhood was rife with restaurants and specialty shops.
She couldn’t imagine living elsewhere.
Especially not in a jail cell.
Letting herself into the house through the kitchen—a cook’s dream with an island preparation area, two sinks and enough cabinets for multiple sets of dinnerware—Simone heard voices and stiffened until she realized the living room television was on.
“Drew, honey, what are you doing up?” she asked, walking through the dining area to the front room, where the only lights came from the television and the giant Christmas tree they’d dragged home just a few days before. They hadn’t even had a chance to decorate it, but they had wound several strands of lights through the branches. “It’s late.”
Red Carpet Christmas Page 3
