“Peyton,” Rhett growled.
She stopped pacing and lifted her gaze to meet his formidable stare.
“Do you have her address? You need to tell me.”
She’d been evasive before, but now, the paper burned against her breast and she wanted nothing more than to be rid of the dangerous information. She nodded, reached into her bra, and held out the envelope.
Rhett’s eyes widened. “That’s it?”
“Yes,” she squeaked.
He growled, grabbed a sandwich bag from a drawer, took the envelope from her fingers, and put it inside. “Who’s seen this? Was the envelope open when you took it?”
She shook her head. “No, it was sealed.”
His stare hardened. “You opened it?”
Fear tickled her spine—not because of Rhett’s anger but because of the gravity of the situation she was stuck in. “Yes.”
A stream of curses left Rhett’s mouth, and he slammed his palm on the island counter. “Do you realize how dangerous this is?” He shook his head, and shame swallowed up her chest.
She ached to put her hand on his shoulder, but she curled her fingers into balls at her sides.
“I’d like to know how Moretti got this in the first place.”
“Jeremiah, a cop, handed it to Moretti when he boarded the yacht.”
“You saw the cop hand this over?” he asked, waving the bag.
She gave one firm nod.
“How do you know Jeremiah’s a cop?”
“Max told me his name and gave me his description. He said he’s one of the top police officers on Moretti’s payroll.”
Rhett drummed his thumbs against the countertop. “If the envelope wasn’t opened then Moretti hasn’t seen the address. No wonder he’s after you so hard.” He pulled out his wallet and pocketed the paper.
She wound her fingers into her hair. Her brain spun with each piece of the puzzle that fell into place. “Moretti was going to kill her.” The full weight of what she was tangled in hit her like a cement truck.
Rhett pulled her against him and rubbed his hand down her back. The motion didn’t bother her. Instead, she welcomed being against his muscular chest. She’d never felt such an easy connection with guys she’d dated in the past. Rhett was burrowing under her skin, getting dangerously close to the shield she’d put up. But every minute she spent with him, every time he touched her, the reasons not to get involved with him, reasons she’d hammered into her brain, became blurrier. She drank in the sharp line of his beard—how did he get it so straight?—and studied his lips. Smooth, pale pink, and surrounded by scruff. Her tongue craved the heat and taste of his mouth, the flavor of minty coffee.
“He was, yeah. But you did the right thing. The question is, who else would want the woman’s whereabouts? And how the fuck did they know Moretti would have it?”
She settled her hand on his sternum, and her palm rose and fell with his breaths. “Let’s concentrate on what we know: whoever hired Max must know someone very close to Moretti’s inner circle. They’re working against him, so that means they’re trying to stop Moretti from harming Jenny, right?”
Rhett winced and rocked his head from side to side. “Yes and no. It could be someone else is after Jenny—someone who has something just as big to lose, or who doesn’t want their name attached to the scandal.” He dropped his arm from around her back and grabbed the car keys from the counter. “I know you don’t want to do this, but we really need to talk to Max.”
Peyton cringed and knotted her hands in front of her abdomen. God, this would be difficult. Max hated cops and likely wouldn’t give Rhett a chance. And he’d be even more pissed when he found out she couldn’t give him the envelope because Rhett had it in his possession.
“What is it?”
She dropped her hands and fought the urge to gravitate to his body. “Nothing, it’s just . . . he’s not going to be happy when I show up with you, that’s all.”
Rhett’s biceps jumped against the thin material of his shirt. “Is he dangerous?” The question came out on a low drawl, and his focus on her face didn’t waver.
She shook her head. “No, of course not. I just don’t want to freak him out, you know?”
“Maybe I should talk to him alone,” Rhett said.
“Uh-uh.” Peyton crossed her arms and planted her feet on the tile. “I’m going to be there or the deal’s off.”
Rhett blew out an exasperated breath and rolled onto his heels and then back. “I guess you don’t give me much choice. But if he goes off his rocker, I want you to leave immediately.”
She raised both of her hands in surrender. “Fine.”
He pressed his lips together and skimmed his gaze over her body. Then he reached out and caught her chin in his hand. His touch was gentle but firm. “I mean it, okay? These things can go south fast, so when I say leave, you need to listen.”
She resisted puckering her lips in annoyance. Clearly he needed some assurance that she wasn’t some misbehaving three-year-old. She lifted her finger to her chest and marked an X over her heart. His gaze followed the movement and lingered on her chest then dipped to her legs and back up. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Arousal stirred beneath her skin.
If she didn’t make a move now, she wouldn’t be able to resist if he took her lips in his. She circled her hand around his wrist. “Rhett,” she said on a breath.
He lifted his thick black lashes, and the intensity of his steely eyes slammed into her. She wet her lips with her tongue, and his grip on her chin tightened—wrong move.
“I can’t stop touching you, dammit. You drive me crazy, Priss.”
His words lifted her toes from the ground. Hope wanted to grab his words and hug them to her chest, but hanging onto something like that wouldn’t do her any good.
“I know we shouldn’t get involved,” he continued. He dragged his thumb over her bottom lip, and her teeth ached to nip his flesh. “But I can’t get you out of my head.”
Her insides softened like melting butter, and she smoothed her thumb over the indent of his wrist. God, she wanted to taste him again, to have his mouth on her body and to lose herself in the affection of a man.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She dipped her chin. He tilted his head to read her face.
“You’re right,” she whispered. “We shouldn’t get involved.”
His hold loosened and his hand fell away from her face. He adjusted his shirt and bobbed his head in agreement. “We should get to Max’s.”
She followed him out of the house and to the car. After she gave him Max’s address, they rode in silence. The energy between them had shifted. Gone was the zap of chemistry, the lick of excitement in her abdomen. She’d had her opportunity to seize the connection she so desperately craved, but for once, she’d taken the responsible route. She’d let the thought of the consequences of sleeping with an FBI agent override her head, heart, and desires. Instead of relief, a ball of disappointment expanded in her belly.
As Rhett turned onto the street Max’s apartment building was on, traffic came to a halt. “What the hell’s going on?” He sat forward and peered through the windshield.
Peyton frowned. Several police cars crowded the street in front of the high-rise apartment. Ambulance sirens screeched nearby, and a large white van inched onto the street, its horn blaring to get stray vehicles out of the way. A cop stood in the middle of the chaos waving traffic around the patrol cars. People clogged the sidewalks like confused cows in a herd. Several people held their phones over their heads trying to take pictures.
Nausea built at the back of her throat, and she gripped the buckle of her seatbelt. “I need to see what’s going on. It could have something to do with Max.” She unclipped the belt, but Rhett’s hand clamped down on her arm.
“Stay inside. You’re going to get hit by a car.” He steered the vehicle to the side of the road, shifted into park, and got out. She opened her door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Not waiting for him t
o meet her pace, she shoved through the excited bodies to get to the front of the building.
“Excuse me! Move, please. I live here,” she called, elbowing her way through.
Rhett’s presence burned her back, and the rough skin of his palm slid on the inside of her bicep.
“Slow down,” he pleaded. He pulled her to his side and held his badge in his palm. “Everyone, back up! FBI!”
A few gasps sounded around him, and a path cleared, revealing a body lying ten feet away facedown on the cement.
Nearby, an officer exited his patrol car. “Police! Everyone back up!”
She had to get closer before they closed down the scene. Moving away from Rhett’s side, she skirted her way around the crowd to the front entrance and toward the body. Paramedics dragged out a stretcher and another cop approached with a white sheet folded under his arm.
Rhett caught her hand. “What are you doing?”
“We have to see if it’s Max.”
Rhett’s lips firmed, but he followed her a few steps closer to the scene. A cop who was focused on pushing the crowd back looked over his shoulder, and his features pinched into a scowl. “I said, get back!”
“Peyton, we have to go,” Rhett hissed behind her.
She didn’t move. Denim shorts and a white tank top covered the woman’s slim body. Her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, and blood pooled on the sidewalk beneath her. Her long, dark, curly hair spread over her shoulders and billowed onto the concrete. Her arm sprawled away from her body, and fluorescent pink coated her inch-long nails.
Vicky.
CHAPTER 14
“You’re sure that’s her?” Rhett kept his hand linked with Peyton’s. Only because he didn’t want her to dart off into the crowd again. Or at least that was the bullshit he told himself. Never mind that her fingers meshed perfectly with his and she clung to his hold. As they walked back to his car, the hair on the back of his neck stood up as if he’d just taken off a staticky blanket in the middle of winter.
Peyton stopped short before they broke away from the gathering crowd. “Positive. Same hair, same fingernails.”
“Fingernails?”
“She had a fresh manicure on the yacht. I noticed because of the neon color and unusual length.”
“I’ll call Eric and—”
“We need to get into Max’s unit. He could be inside and hurt.” Peyton’s free hand curled at her breastbone and worry contorted her features.
They couldn’t just waltz into a crime scene. The smart thing to do would be to alert the authorities that they had a hunch as to which unit Vicky had come from, but then they’d get tied up with the cops and with that came questions. And with questions came suspicion. Peyton would end up smack-dab in the middle of the investigation.
She was right, though. Max could be hurt. Or dead. And the murderer would be long gone. Besides, Vicky’s death directly related to his case, so he wasn’t doing anything he shouldn’t be by searching Max’s place. He just had a head start on the cops. He nodded. “They probably haven’t started to investigate where she fell from, so we have an advantage if we can hurry and get upstairs before they evacuate the building.”
They turned back toward the crowd. An officer was monitoring the entrance, but residents were still coming and going. A young man entered the building directly in front of them. Rhett caught the door and Peyton preceded him inside.
“Do you know where his unit is?”
“Yeah, fourteenth floor.” She led them to the elevator and hit the button.
Inside the cart, Peyton curled her hands around the rail at her back. Her face had taken on a pasty-white hue. The color his kiss had brought to her lips and cheeks only an hour before was a fading memory. She kept her stare on the tiled floor at their feet. He wanted to reassure her, but fuck. If Vicky was dead and she’d been pushed out of Max’s apartment, it didn’t bode well for Priss’s friend—or his case, for fuck’s sake.
The elevator slowed, and he stepped out first and scanned the floor. A woman at the far end of the hall entered her unit, and an older man on the opposite end locked his door and strode in their direction. Rhett resisted the urge to pull his gun. People were already spooked, and if the man saw someone on his floor with a weapon, the cops would be on top of them in minutes.
Peyton came up beside him and pointed in the direction of Max’s suite. For once, she didn’t jet ahead and make him chase her but stuck close by his side. He glanced over his shoulder and watched the man enter the elevator. His empty hand itched for the security of his Glock. “Whoever killed Vicky could still be around.”
“You don’t think they would’ve left right away?”
Rhett shrugged. “Probably. I don’t want to take any chances, though.”
Peyton’s footsteps slowed. “This is it,” she said, gesturing to the unit.
He studied the closed door and reached for the handle. The cool metal filled his palm. “Let me sweep the place first, okay? Just wait inside by the door.”
Unease clouded her eyes, but she nodded. He pressed down on the handle and the door swung open. Not locked, which wasn’t a surprise, given that the last person in the room would likely have been Vicky’s killer. Rhett finally grasped the gun at the small of his back and pointed it at the floor as he entered. The open-concept design allowed copious amounts of light to shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass patio door. As Peyton moved inside, he shut the door behind her then swiftly moved through the masculine, dark-toned space. When he finished in the bedroom and office, he returned to the kitchen-entryway area and let his weapon hang at his side.
“It’s clear.”
Peyton’s frown made him stop. “Did you find something?”
“Come here,” she said, beckoning him to the front door. She pointed to the handle. “Don’t you think it’s strange there’s no sign of forced entry? I mean, if Vicky was here with Max and someone was after her—or them—the killer would have come in unannounced, right?”
Rhett slid his hand over the smooth black door casing. It was an observation he would have made had he not been so personally invested in the case. Shoot, who was he kidding? It wasn’t the case he was invested in but the woman who sent his dick into a frenzy every time he got within arm’s reach—like right now. “You’re right.” He dropped his hand and pinched his bottom lip. In his time at the bureau, he’d seen many cases that didn’t add up, and this one was rapidly turning into a circus. She wouldn’t like what he had to say, but the agent in him couldn’t avoid the obvious possibility. “Unless it was Max who killed Vicky.”
Peyton inhaled sharply and pulled back. “Max isn’t a murderer.” Her voice rang with certainty, but something flickered in her eyes. Doubt?
He bit back what he wanted to say. How many times had he heard that phrase? So-and-so isn’t a killer. No one was a murderer until they committed murder. He held up a hand in his defense.
“No point speculating too much right now. Let’s have a look around. We need to hurry before the cops come.”
Peyton glanced toward the kitchen. Dishes cluttered the counter. “What are we looking for? Max isn’t here.”
“It doesn’t make sense that Vicky would have been here by herself unless the two of them were closer than just colleagues.”
Priss wrinkled one corner of her top lip. “It’s possible, but Max didn’t mention that he was dating her—or anyone, for that matter.”
For a moment, Rhett’s heart felt as if it had been struck with a rubber band. Jealousy wasn’t lining her voice, but something was. Surprise? Disbelief? It hadn’t once crossed his mind that Peyton could be involved with anyone. She hadn’t given any indication that she was romantically tied up, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have history with Max—or fuck, maybe more.
This was bad. He was making himself crazy over a woman he hadn’t even slept with yet. Yet. He forced the hopeful word from his mind. If he didn’t get a handle on his shit, he’d be a useless, quivering man
with nothing but blue balls to show for his pathetic attraction to Priss.
He worked the grogginess from his throat. “It would make a big difference if they were dating. In fact, I’m sorry to say it, but it would heighten the chance that Max murdered Vicky. I’ll check the bedroom for women’s clothes.”
Peyton breezed over to a laptop on the kitchen counter. “I’ll see if I can log in to his computer. Maybe his email will reveal who he’s been working with.”
“Make sure to wipe down anything you touch.” Rhett returned to the front door and snapped the dead bolt in place using the material of his shirt then headed to the bedroom. A rumpled charcoal-colored duvet coated the mattress, and throw pillows were stacked neatly between the wall and nightstand. Not many men Rhett knew had throw pillows—a signature female touch. He moved around the room and a cloud of perfume, sweet and powerful, floated from the closet. He sneezed, stepped forward, and peeled apart the hangers of clothes.
A red corset and whip dangled between a pink trench coat and black leather pants.
Either Max had a night job, or Vicky was more than just a colleague.
* * *
Incorrect password.
Dammit. Peyton wiped down the keyboard with a dish towel and closed the screen. Scanning the living room, her gaze landed on the patio door, which was open a crack. A breeze floated through the gap and lifted the sheer curtain covering the glass, making it billow toward the couch. She crossed the living room and stopped at the door. Two patio chairs sat on the balcony with a table wedged between them. The concrete was free of anything that would indicate there had been a struggle.
She gripped the handle with the dish towel and the door coasted open. She stepped onto the balcony. A strong wind carried over the rail and lifted her hair. A knot of unease built inside her gut as she inched toward the steel bars. The many vehicles still trying to get down the clogged street honked repeatedly.
She curled her fingernails into her palm to stop herself from grabbing the top of the rail. No need to get close and have someone spot her. By now, Vicky’s body would be on a stretcher and zipped up in a black body bag. The cops were undoubtedly working their way through the units, but there were hundreds—it would take some time for them to get to Max’s. Nausea crashed against her insides, and she gulped down a mouthful of air to prevent vomit from firing down on the unsuspecting people below.
Straight Shooter Page 12
