But what if she’d made it big? What if she’d gotten just one lucky break and wound up becoming a star? Mike would have despised being thought of as Mr. Lorie Hammonds, the redneck hick husband that she’d brought with her from Alabama. He would have hated the glitz and glamour, the endless parties, the other social events, the premieres, and especially being hounded by the paparazzi.
So, he guessed that if he could do it over again, he’d make the same decision. He had done what he had to do. He had stayed in Dunmore. And Lorie had done what she had to do. She had gone to LA to seek fame and fortune.
Mike walked past Lorie’s bedroom and glanced into the other rooms, searching and finding the room that Shelley Gilbert had used. The ABI folks had gone over that room with a fine-tooth comb. If Lorie had a second guest bedroom, he would prefer not sleeping in the room the murdered Powell agent had used.
He slipped his hand along the wall inside the open door of the pitch-black room at the end of the hall and flipped on the overhead light. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it actually was a bedroom of sorts. A mahogany spindle double bed had been placed against the wall and covered with a white spread like the one his mother used on her own bed. He’d heard her call it a Martha Washington bedspread. Funny what a guy remembered.
A treadmill occupied the opposite wall in front of the wooden blind-covered double windows facing the backyard. A large desk, probably an antique, had been painted a dark green to match the old Windsor chair that had been painted the same color. A mahogany barrister bookcase stood beside the closet door, the case filled with a variety of hardcover books and paperback novels.
Mike dropped his vinyl bag down beside the bed, removed the four decorative pillows from the bed, and placed them in the armchair shoved into the corner. It had been a very long day. He was bone weary and all he wanted was a good night’s sleep. He pulled back the covers—bedspread, lightweight quilt, and top sheet—and decided he really had no choice but to take a shower. The bed linens were light green, the hems of the top sheet and both pillowcases trimmed with lace. A guy couldn’t lie down on stuff that fancy without cleaning up first.
After retrieving his pajama bottoms, a clean T-shirt, and a clean pair of briefs from his bag, he headed for the bathroom situated between the two guest rooms. He flipped on the light, closed the door, and turned on the shower. He’d searched through every drawer in his dresser at home before finding the one pair of pajamas he owned. He had stuffed the bottoms into his duffel bag, along with his shaving kit, underwear, and a change of clothes.
Dead on his feet, he nearly fell asleep beneath the warm spray of soothing water, but he managed to wash, step out of the shower, and dry off as quickly as possible. Once dressed in the PJ bottoms and white T-shirt, he gathered up his dirty laundry wrapped in his damp towel and walked out into the hallway. He’d had every intention of going straight to the guest room and falling into bed, but the same stupidity that had brought him here tonight urged him to check on Lorie.
He knocked softly on her door. No response. He called her name. She didn’t reply. He grasped the doorknob and turned it. The door eased open.
She hadn’t locked it.
He stood in the doorway and looked into her room, his gaze settling on her bed. She lay there, sprawled sideways, her body semi-curled, one arm draped over the second pillow. Plantation shutters covered both windows, their slats partially open. Only the light from the hall wall sconces and the minimum of moonlight from a crescent moon illuminated her still figure. He took several uncertain steps into the room and then paused.
What the hell was he doing?
He was checking on Lorie, making sure she was all right.
She’s fine. She’s sound asleep. Now get your ass out of here pronto.
Walking backward, he eased out of her bedroom and left the door open. If she needed him during the night…Once out in the hall, he turned and moved quietly toward the guest room.
He dumped his dirty clothes in a loose pile beside his bag, then partially opened both window blinds to allow in a little moonlight. After turning off the overhead light, he crawled into bed and pulled the covers to his waist. He lifted up his arms, entwined his fingers, and slipped both hands under the back of his head. He lay there and stared up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling.
Why, Mike? Why are you doing this? Lorie’s words played repeatedly in his mind.
He had told her the truth, or as much of the truth as he had been able to admit to himself. He was here because he had to be here. If he didn’t do everything within his power to keep Lorie safe and the Midnight Killer murdered her, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He had let Lorie down more than once, first when he hadn’t been able to make himself leave Dunmore and go to LA with her. And the second time had been when she came home, her life in shambles, her pride destroyed and her reputation ruined. The first time, she had been equally at fault. She could have stayed with him. But the second time, when she returned to Dunmore nine years ago, he could have, at the very least, treated her with human kindness. His mother had pleaded with him to befriend Lorie. Even his wife had wanted him to offer Lorie a helping hand.
A man couldn’t tell his mother and certainly not his wife that his bitter hatred for his former girlfriend was deeply rooted in one unbearable fact—deep down in the depths of his heart and soul, he still loved Lorie as much as he hated her. He didn’t want to love her. God knew he tried not to love her, not to want her, not to need her on some basic, primal level. And over the years, he had been able to convince himself that all he felt for her was hatred and contempt. Odd, how a man could lie to himself so easily and could make himself believe what he wanted to believe.
So, what now? Now that he had finally admitted the truth to himself?
He could stop hating Lorie. Actually, he’d already done that.
And he could keep her safe. He could protect her from a deranged killer. He could do what he needed to do. This time, he wouldn’t let her down.
Mike tossed and turned, flipping from one side to the other in an effort to relax and get comfortable. He tried resting flat on his back, but that didn’t work. He flopped down on his stomach and flung his arms, elbows bent, on either side of his head. Damn it, he needed rest, needed sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come.
When this was all over, when the Midnight Killer had been stopped, when he knew for sure that Shelley Gilbert’s murder wasn’t in any way connected to Lorie, then he could resume his normal life. But in the meantime, he had to keep reminding himself that he and Lorie had no future together. It didn’t matter that his mother liked her or that his kids adored her or even that he still loved her. And it really wasn’t about forgiveness. He could forgive her and maybe she could forgive him. He might even get past the fact that every man in the county, including his friends, employees, and neighbors, had seen Lorie naked in Playboy. But how did he erase the memory of watching her having sex with two other guys?
Face it, Mike, some things just weren’t meant to be.
She lay in his arms, her back to his chest, her naked butt pressed against his arousal. He nuzzled her neck and breathed in the sweet, floral scent of her hair, still damp from the shower they had taken together. He kissed her neck and her jaw and then moved up to circle her ear with his tongue. She moaned softly and cuddled closer as she grasped his hand and brought it to her mouth. She licked up and down each finger and laughed when he groaned deep in his throat.
“You’re wicked,” he told her as he turned her in his arms, bringing them face-to-face.
“And you love it.” Smiling seductively, she winked at him.
“I love you,” Mike said. “I love you so damn much.”
“Not any more than I love you.” Lorie reached up and twined her hands behind his neck. “Sometimes I love you so much it hurts.”
He slipped his hand between her thighs and touched her intimately. “Tell me where it hurts, baby, and I’ll make it stop hurting.”
�
�Now who’s being wicked?” She laughed as he lifted himself up and over her, bracing himself with a hand on either side of her head. “You know where and you know just what to do.” She spread her legs in a blatant invitation.
Mike lifted her hips as he delved deeply and completely, taking her with a fierce hunger that equaled their mating in the shower less than an hour earlier. He could never get enough of Lorie. The more he made love to her, the more he wanted her.
She came first, crying out his name as her nails bit into his buttocks. That action sent him over the edge, headlong into an explosive orgasm.
He melted down on top of her and lay there until his heartbeat slowed and the aftershocks stopped rippling through his body. When he slid off her and onto his back, she eased away from him and got out of bed.
“Where are you going?” He held out his hand to grasp her and prevent her from leaving.
“I have to go,” she said. “He’s waiting for me.”
“Who’s waiting for you?” Mike sat up in bed.
“The Midnight Killer.”
“No! You can’t go. I won’t let him have you.”
She paused halfway to the door, and then turned and offered him a farewell smile. “I have to go. I have to pay for my sins. Once I’m gone, you can forget me. I can never hurt you or disappoint you ever again.”
Mike jumped out of bed and tried to catch Lorie before she left the bedroom, but his feet were so heavy that he couldn’t move.
“Lorie! I’ll never forget you. Never. Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me again.”
She disappeared down the hallway.
Mike’s chest ached. His breathing became labored. He tried to move, to run after her, but it was as if his feet were glued to the floor.
If he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t save her, then she would die.
If she died, he would die.
Then he heard the gunshots. One. Two. Three. Four. And in between each shot, Lorie screamed, each an agonized plea for help.
He cried out her name repeatedly, his voice intermingling with her screams and the gunshots.
Suddenly silence.
He managed to lift his heavy feet and move toward the door. It seemed to take forever to reach the hallway. Halfway down the hall, he felt something wet beneath his feet. He looked down and saw a narrow red stream trickling along the hardwood.
And at the end of the hall—God, please, no!
Lorie’s bloody nude body lay there, her beautiful brown eyes staring sightlessly through the slits in the decorative mask covering her face.
Mike woke instantly, but his head felt groggy and he ached deep inside, feeling the loss as if the dream had been real.
He sat up in bed and wiped the sweat from his face with his open palm. God in heaven, he had never had such a realistic nightmare. Yeah, sure, he’d had his share of wet dreams, a lot of them starring Lorie. But despite the orgasm that would require him to change into another pair of clean briefs, what he had experienced was far more than a sexual fantasy. It had been a horror show, a hellish vision that he couldn’t seem to shake.
After pulling himself together, he got out of bed, searched his bag in the semidark and found another pair of briefs. He made his way to the bathroom, disrobed, washed off, and put on the clean briefs.
Before returning to his bed, he once again paused outside Lorie’s room. Her bed was empty. Where is she?
Just as he barged into her room, halfway convinced that somehow the Midnight Killer had gotten to her, Lorie came walking out of the bathroom connected to her bedroom. When she saw him standing there wearing nothing but his briefs, she stopped cold and surveyed him from head to toe.
“Want something?” she asked.
“Just checking on you. When I saw that your bed was empty, I thought…” He huffed. “Hell, I don’t know what I thought.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I can see you are.”
“It’s three-thirty.” She pointed to the lighted bedside clock. “I’m going back to bed. I suggest you do the same.”
“Yeah, sure. I…uh…I…”
“What?” she asked.
He took a few tentative backward steps. “You know that you don’t deserve what’s happening to you, don’t you?”
She eyed him quizzically. “Yes, I know.”
He nodded.
“Is there anything else?”
He shook his head.
“Good night, Mike.”
“Yeah, good night, Lorie.”
He turned, walked away, and couldn’t get back to the guest bedroom fast enough.
Chapter 24
When Nicole Powell woke, she found herself alone in bed. She stretched her arm out over Griff’s side and caressed the wrinkled sheet. The room lay in darkness, only the glow of dawn glimmering through the windows and balcony doors hinting of the time. Since Griff occasionally couldn’t sleep and would get up at odd hours, she wasn’t overly concerned. But she knew that Shelley Gilbert’s murder weighed heavily on his mind, as it did hers. The death of a second Powell Agency employee so soon after Kristi Arians’s brutal murder had the entire agency in an uproar. They had sent Mitch Trahern to Dunmore to represent the agency. As a former federal agent, his investigative skills were unequaled, so Griff trusted him to find out every detail, even confidential information.
She lifted her head enough to look at the bedside clock. 5:38 A.M. Groaning softly, she turned over and lay flat on her back. When Griff got in one of his pensive moods, she usually left him alone. He often sought her out in his own good time. And if he sometimes kept his thoughts to himself, she knew that he found comfort merely in her presence. She knew because he had told her so. Even now, after three years of marriage, she didn’t always understand her husband.
Flipping over onto Griff’s side of the bed, she grabbed his down pillow and hugged it to her body. She might not always understand him, but she always loved him, even when she was angry with him. He wasn’t an easy man to live with and he would be the first to admit it. Demons from the past haunted him. Dark secrets lay buried in the depths of his soul, secrets that he had been unable to share with her. Secrets that bound him to Sanders and Yvette.
Nicole shoved the pillow aside and got out of bed. After putting on her robe and slipping into her satin house shoes, she went in search of her elusive husband. As she descended the stairs to the main level of their home, the early morning quiet surrounded her. The first place she looked was Griff’s study, his private sanctuary from the world. But the door stood wide open and the room was empty. Had he left the house? Gone for a solitary walk around the lake? If so, he would return soon enough.
Knowing she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, Nic headed for the kitchen. She could make coffee. She might even make scones or muffins and scramble some eggs and have breakfast waiting for Griff when he came in from his walk.
As she neared the kitchen, she noted light coming from beneath the closed door and heard the mumble of voices. Griff was in the kitchen. And he wasn’t alone. Or perhaps he was on the phone talking to Mitch Trahern or one of the other agents.
She tiptoed up to the door and stopped. Listening quietly, she recognized the other male voice. Sanders.
“We must not assume anything,” Sanders said. “Reading more into these deaths than there actually is would be foolish.”
“And ignoring the possibility that Kristi Arians and Shelley Gilbert were killed solely because they were both Powell Agency employees would be just as foolish,” Griff replied. “If someone is targeting our employees—”
“If someone is—and that is a big if—then we have no way of knowing what his motive might be. It could have nothing to do with Malcolm York.”
Nic gasped silently. What would make Griff think someone connected to Malcolm York had targeted Powell agents? York, the man who had kidnapped Griff when he was twenty-two and held him captive for several years, was dead.
“Sanders is right,” a female voice said. “I t
hought we had agreed that the rumors being propagated in Europe about York being alive were entirely false. We know York is dead. We killed him. He has not come back from the dead.”
An odd mixture of emotions swirled through Nic’s mind. Griff was having a private meeting with Sanders and Yvette, and once again, he had not included her. He had shut her out and was continuing to keep secrets from her.
Her next thought was a totally unselfish one. How terrifying it must be for Yvette to even consider the possibility that her sadistic husband might still be alive.
“York is dead,” Griff said. “On that, we all agree.”
“And the deaths of the two Powell agents could be a coincidence,” Yvette suggested.
“The murders were no mere coincidence,” Griff told them.
“What do you know that we don’t?” Sanders asked.
Nic swung open the door and entered the kitchen. “Yes, Griff, exactly what do you know that the rest of us don’t know?”
Yvette and Sanders turned instantly and stared at Nic, each of them looking as if they wanted to explain their presence and yet waiting for Griff to respond.
Griff’s body stiffened as if preparing for battle, bracing himself for the onslaught of enemy fire. He turned slowly to face her. “Good morning.”
“Apparently not so good,” Nic said.
“Sanders woke me half an hour ago with a report from Mitch Trahern,” Griff said.
Nic slid her gaze over her husband, from his tousled blond hair, across his broad shoulders, and down to his size fourteen leather house slippers. He wore a silk robe over his silk pajama bottoms. When they had gone to bed last night, he had been naked.
“I must have been sleeping soundly,” Nic said. “I didn’t hear Sanders knock.”
“I was already downstairs in my study.”
“Then you were having trouble sleeping?” Not giving Griff a chance to respond, she glanced at Yvette. “How long have you been here?”
“Only a few minutes,” Yvette told her. “Sanders phoned and asked me to come to the house immediately.”
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