Moving toward the bathroom, he began stripping out of his clothes, dropping them haphazardly on the floor as his went. Naked, his clothes strewn from bedroom to bathroom, Derek turned on the shower and then grabbed the guest soap and toiletries. As he lathered his hair and the steamy warm water pelted his body, he tried to figure out just what kind of relationship he did have with Maleah.
They were coworkers. They were partners, albeit reluctant partners.
Yeah, that was it—they were reluctant partners.
So, why would Nic and Barbara Jean think he, of all people, would be able to rein in Maleah? If he said or did anything that even hinted of trying to control a situation, she overreacted. If ever there was a woman over whom he had absolutely no control, it was Maleah Perdue.
Chapter 18
With her eyes closed, Maleah lay in the tub, bubbles up to her chin and soothing warm water surrounding her tired body. As hard as she tried to empty her mind, to concentrate on her breathing so that she could relax, her mind wouldn’t slow down and allow her a few precious moments of peace. She didn’t want to think about anything or anyone. She didn’t want to worry herself sick about her brother Jackson and his family. The thought that they could be in danger had crossed her mind ever since Winston Corbett’s murder, but she had managed to subdue her concerns in order to do her job. But no longer. Not now. Not after what Derek had told her.
Browning said to tell you that he’s eager to see you again. And . . . he sends his regards to your brother Jack and his wife and son.
But did Browning actually know who the copycat had targeted as his next victim or did that evil bastard just want them to think he knew?
Logic told her that the best way she could help her brother, his wife, and son was to continue her visits with Browning. For the time being, he seemed to be their only link to the killer. Pure emotion urged her to go home to Dunmore, to place herself between her brother and his family and any danger that might come their way. But Griff had already sent in other agents—one each to guard Jack, Cathy, and Seth. Knowing the danger they were in couldn’t be good for Cathy or the baby she was carrying. If anything happened to that innocent little life . . .
Maleah slid down into the tub until her head hit the water, separating the thick bubbles into two big mounds on either side.
Stop thinking, damn it, stop thinking.
She sunk lower until she submerged her entire head under the water.
Jack and his family are safe. And you’re going to do what you have to do—see Jerome Browning again.
Maleah rose from the watery grave, rivulets of soapy water racing down her head, across her shoulders and over her bare breasts. As she grappled around at the bottom of the tub searching for her washcloth, she shook her head sideways to dislodge any water trapped in her ears.
“Always shake your head,” Jackson had told her the first time he’d given her a swimming lesson. “Like this.” He had demonstrated the motion for her. “It’ll help get the water out of your ears. I don’t want my kid sister getting swimmer’s ear.”
She loved Jack more than anyone on earth. He was not only her brother. He was her hero.
“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry that my being a Powell agent has put you and your family in danger.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. God, how she hated weak, weepy women. Women like her mother. She would never be like that. She would never let some man beat her into the ground and walk all over her. Even if it meant spending the rest of her life alone, she would never willingly give any man the power to hurt her.
After finally finding her washcloth, she brought it up from the bottom of the tub, wrung out the excess water and wiped her face with the damp cloth. She had no idea how long she’d been in the tub, thinking, trying not to think and fighting the almost overwhelming urge to cry. But the once hot water was now tepid and her fingertips were puckered, so she figured she had been in the tub too long.
She rose from the water, stepped out onto the bathmat and reached for a thick, fluffy towel. She draped a towel around her wet hair and then retrieved another and dried off, from face to feet. As she slipped into her clean panties, she debated about putting on a bra, but quickly dismissed the thought of going braless. After all, she didn’t want Derek to think she was trying to be provocative.
If only she didn’t have to see Derek again tonight. If only he wasn’t her partner on this case. But he was her partner and for a very good reason—his expertise as a profiler could prove invaluable. And she did have to see him again tonight. They had work to do.
While she dressed, she reminded herself that Derek really was not a problem. He was her partner. She needed him as much as he needed her. Like it or not, they were a team.
Once she’d gotten to know him, when they had worked together on the Midnight Killer case, Maleah realized that some of her preconceived notions about Derek were wrong. But some were dead on. He was arrogant. But only occasionally. Most rich, handsome, intelligent men were. He was a womanizer who went through women as if they were Kleenex. Stupid women. And from the first day they met when he had tried to charm her, she had begun putting up a protective barrier between them. No way was she going to fall for a guy who thought he could sweet talk any woman he wanted into his bed. But what she hated most about Derek was the way he tried to boss her around and make all the decisions for her. Or at least he had in the beginning. Now, he actually made an effort not to go all macho he-man on her, delegating her to the role of helpless female.
No, Derek was not the major problem in her life right now.
Jerome Browning was the problem.
She needed to know whatever Browning knew.
She had to find a way to make him talk.
And she would do it, no matter what the cost to her.
Alone on the patio, Nicole stared up the night sky filled with countless tiny, sparkling stars, distant light peeping through pinpricks in a heavenly black canvas. An overwhelming sense of doom settled over her, a foreboding feeling of desolation and danger. But she was safe. Everyone within the protective walls of Griffin’s Rest was safe. So why did she feel as if she were dying by slow, excruciating degrees?
God, Nic, don’t be overly dramatic. You’re not dying. You’re worried and upset and pissed at your husband.
If she didn’t love Griff so damn much, she would have packed her bags and left long before now. She would have put some distance between her and Griff, for her own sanity. But she had tried that before, spending time away from him, and in the end, she always came home. Home where her heart was. Home to the man she loved more than life itself.
And the bittersweet thing about loving Griff was knowing that he loved her in the same wildly, desperately passionate way.
She didn’t doubt his love or his loyalty.
And yet she didn’t trust him to be totally honest with her.
In her gut, she knew he was keeping something from her, something possibly so terrible that he couldn’t bear for her to know.
But Sanders knew.
And Yvette knew.
Tears lodged in her throat. She wouldn’t cry. Crying was pointless. It served no purpose other than to give her a splitting headache.
Griff had left the house less than an hour ago. He had asked her to go with him. She had declined. Before leaving her, he had searched her face as if seeking her approval. He didn’t need it. He did as he pleased. If she had asked him not to go, he would have gone anyway. And he would have asked her to understand.
But how could she understand?
Her husband loved another woman.
How many times had Griff told her that his love for Yvette was that of a brother for a sister, of one battleweary comrade for another, of a friend for a friend? She believed he meant what he said.
And yet she wondered what would happen if he ever had to choose between the two women in his life, the two women he loved. The bond he shared with Yvette and Sanders, a bond he told her had been forged in hell, could not be br
oken and it was a bond she couldn’t share. She had not lived on Amara, a captive of billionaire madman Malcolm York. She had not shared their particular torment and torture and inhuman treatment. At best, she was a sympathetic outsider to their goddamn holy Amara trinity of wounded souls.
She had lived through her own particular hell when she had been kidnapped by a psychopathic serial killer who had hunted his victims as if they were animals. After she escaped from her captor, Griff had told her about the time he had spent on Amara. Knowing that he truly understood what she had gone through had helped her not only recover and believe she could return to a normal life, but it helped her trust Griff. Trust him with her life. Trust him with her heart.
It had taken quite some time after they married for her to realize that he had not told her everything about his experience on Amara, and that he had no intention of ever telling her.
“We made a pact, Sanders, Yvette and I,” Griff had told her. “We would never tell another living soul everything we endured and that only with the other two’s permission would we ever discuss any part of our experience with someone else.”
Sanders and Yvette had allowed him to share a part of their story with her. To help her heal. And she knew that the threesome had agreed to bring Derek Lawrence, Luke Sentell and the Powell Agency lawyer, Camden Hendrix, into the inner circle that also included her. Their knowledge was limited, even more so than hers; but they knew that Griff, Sanders, and Yvette had killed Malcolm York, a monster who had tortured and murdered numerous people on his private Pacific Island of Amara.
Griff had not wanted her to tell Maleah, but she had finally made him understand that she badly needed to confide in her best friend. During the past few years, Maleah had become the sister she never had.
Nic rose from the chaise lounge, walked off the patio and onto the pathway that led from the house to the lake. Suddenly she sensed his presence, a gigantic form coming out of the shadows. She didn’t bother to turn around and look his way. Griff had assigned Shaughnessy Hood as her personal bodyguard and she was never to leave the house without him. Ignoring her protector, she made her way down to the peacefully serene riverbank.
Damn it, Griff, why did you have to go to Yvette? Why did you feel it necessary to check on her in person? You could have called her. It’s not as if Michelle Allen isn’t at her side night and day, protecting her just as Shaughnessy protects me.
Room service arrived and set up their dinner on the balcony overlooking the ocean as Derek had requested. He phoned Maleah and she arrived promptly just as the waiter left. He took one look at her, hair hanging to her shoulders in soft blonde waves, a pale pink cotton sweater loosely covering her hips that were encased in white jeans, and wished she were any other woman on earth. If she wasn’t Maleah Perdue, the personification of I-am-woman-hear-me-roar, he would move heaven and earth to get her into his bed tonight.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re looking at me funny. Do I have toothpaste on the corner of my mouth? Or did I forget to zip my jeans?”
“No toothpaste, no unzipped jeans,” he said. “Come on in. We’re having dinner on the balcony. I hope that meets with your approval.”
“Isn’t it a bit too warm to eat outside?”
“Actually, it’s not.” He took her hand in his. Surprisingly, she didn’t jerk away from him. “It’s a beautiful, balmy evening.”
When they reached the door, she paused. “Dinner by candlelight? Isn’t something that romantic wasted on us?”
He opened the door, held it, and quickly ushered her onto the balcony. “It’s not romantic, just pleasantly civilized.”
She glanced down at the candle lanterns and the covered dishes. “What am I eating tonight?”
“Madame will begin with a traditional Caesar salad, followed by Creole Florida black grouper topped with creamy Cajun crab and shrimp sauce over a bed of sautéed baby spinach.”
“Oh my God, that sounds delicious.”
Acting the gentleman, he helped seat her and then took his place across from her. “I know you said not to order dessert, but . . .”
“I am not eating dessert,” she told him.
“It’s triple chocolate cheesecake.”
“You sure know how to torture a girl.”
“Honey, dessert every once in a while is not going to ruin that gorgeous figure.”
She snapped up her head and stared at him. He knew what was coming. She was going to tell him not to call her honey. She had chastised him repeatedly, but every once in a while, he simply forgot.
But then, to his surprise, she said, “Thank you for the compliment, even if you didn’t mean it.”
“You’re welcome.” He waited a few seconds before adding, “And I meant it.”
She removed the cover from her meal and sighed. “This looks wonderful.”
He followed her lead, revealed his twelve-ounce rib eye, and lifted his knife and fork. For the next twenty minutes, they ate in relative silence, occasionally exchanging a few words.
While Derek enjoyed his slice of cheesecake, Maleah excused herself to go inside and make a phone call.
“I want to check on Jack,” she said.
“Give him and Cathy my best.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
After Derek finished with dessert, he blew out the candles inside the glass lanterns on the small table and waited around outside on the balcony for another five minutes, giving Maleah her privacy. He understood how concerned she was about her brother and his family. She had every right to be worried because they had no way of knowing where the copycat killer would strike next. And that was the reason he had asked Griff to assign agents to discreetly guard his mother as well as his sister and her family. There was no way the Powell Agency could provide private protection for every employee’s family, but considering Derek’s personal connection to Browning now, Griff had agreed that it was wise to guard Derek’s family.
By the time he went inside, Maleah was ending her conversation. “Derek sends his best,” she told her brother as she smiled at Derek. “Yes, I’ll tell him. That works both ways, you know.” She laughed. “Take care, big brother.”
Maleah slid her thin phone into the front pocket of her jeans.
“What did Jack want you to tell me?” Derek asked.
“Oh, he said as my partner, he expects you to have my back.”
“Ah. And you told him that it works both ways. You’ve got my back, too.”
“Isn’t that the way a partnership works, each partner takes care of the other?”
“Yes, ma’am, I believe you’re right.”
“Should we call down and ask them to clear away our dinner dishes?” She glanced at the remains of their delicious meal still on the balcony.
“I’ll take care of it before I go to bed,” he told her.
“All right then, partner, let’s get to work.” Maleah pulled out the swivel chair from the desk and indicated for him to sit. When he did, she plopped down on the blue and white striped sofa directly across from the desk.
He turned to face her. “Barbara Jean called earlier this evening.”
“And?”
“Nothing really. She just gave me bits and pieces of information that she thought might help me work up a profile on the copycat.”
“Would you mind sharing the information with me?”
He quoted Barbara Jean almost word for word and waited for Maleah to respond. When she didn’t, he added, “You should know that, at least for the time being, Sanders is completely in charge of the copycat case. Griff is preoccupied with proving his theory that someone calling himself Malcolm York is behind the murders. Luke Sentell is in Austria, following a lead.”
“I hope Griff is wrong,” Maleah said. “Besides, don’t you think it would be a truly odd coincidence if it turns out that someone impersonating Malcolm York is behind the murders, considering the fact that we now know someone is impersonating
Albert Durham?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Do you think the fake Albert Durham and the elusive risen-from-the-dead York could be the same person? ’
Derek got up, walked around the white coffee table and sat down beside Maleah. She turned sideways and faced him.
“It’s possible,” he said. “Anything is possible.”
“A lot of help you are.”
He shrugged.
“Do you think you can put together a profile with what little information we have?”
“I’m going to try. We have to start somewhere and as we learn more about our copycat killer, I can revise the profile if necessary.”
“Will it help to talk it out, to discuss—?”
“Absolutely. Some good back and forth discussion between the two of us could help,” he told her. “We’ll combine your thoughts and mine on the subject of our copycat killer.”
“You talk. I’ll listen and comment.”
“The Copycat Carver is an odd bird.” Derek leaned back against the thickly padded sofa cushions and spread out his arm, bringing his fingertips within touching distance of Maleah’s neck. “He’s gone to a great deal of trouble to copy Jerome Browning’s MO and yet he deliberately sent the pieces of flesh he removed from the victims’ bodies to you instead of hiding them away somewhere the way Browning did. Why?”
“Why did he send them to me or why did he alter Browning’s MO in respect to the pieces of flesh?”
“Either. Both.”
“The reason he didn’t stick strictly to Browning’s MO was because he wanted to send me a message and what better way of doing that than by giving me what would have been the Carver’s most prized possessions.”
“Very good reasoning.”
“Thanks.”
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