by Rachel Woods
After Icarus managed to calm me down and keep me from completely unraveling, he’d determined Joshua was still alive. His pulse was faint, but he was still breathing. Icarus called an ambulance, and fifteen minutes later, the paramedics arrived. Immediately, they began attending to Joshua, and despite his attempt to extort money from me, I prayed he would make it.
Soon after, Detective François and several other police showed up. Presently, the detective, Icarus, and I were standing near the kitchen area while the deputies collected evidence.
“No,” Icarus said. “He was barely breathing when we found him.”
“How did you two find him?” the detective asked, his gaze shrewd. “What were you doing at his apartment?”
“We came to talk to him,” I answered.
Detective François asked, “About what?”
“I don’t think Quinn should talk to you without her lawyer present,” Icarus said.
“I’m not accusing Ms. Miller of anything,” the detective protested, clearly irritated. “I just want to know what the hell happened here.”
“We told you what happened,” I said, thankful Icarus had stopped me from making the mistake of talking to the police without Octavia’s guidance. “We found Joshua in his apartment and he’d been stabbed. That’s all we know.”
Detective François gave me a skeptical look. I could tell he thought I knew something about how that knife had found its way into Joshua’s stomach and was about to voice his suspicions, but he was interrupted by the deputy he’d instructed to take a look in the bathroom.
“There was more blood in the sink, sir,” the attentive deputy said. “Looked like someone had washed their hands and then wiped the sink, but they left behind some smears.”
Nodding, the detective said, “The crime scene techs should be able to get specimens to test.”
“Found this, too, sir,” the deputy said, handing the detective a small plastic bag. “It was wedged behind the toilet. Got a few blood smears on it.”
As the detective took the plastic bag, I stole a look at the contents. Seemed to be some kind of flat, gold-colored hockey puck, but something about it seemed familiar to me, though I wasn’t sure why.
Frowning, the detective peered at the gold hockey puck for a moment and then looked at me. “This pendant wouldn’t happen to belong to you, would it, Ms. Miller?”
“Pendant?” I asked, and shook my head.
“That belongs to Henri,” Icarus said.
I glanced at him and then back at the gold hockey puck the detective held up in front of me. At once, I knew Icarus was right. What I’d mistakenly thought was a golden disk was actually the cheesy wanna-be-rapper medallion Henri had been wearing during our ill-fated waterfall fantasy. The medallion Stazia had stolen from Doris.
“This belonged to Henri Monteils?” The detective gave Icarus his piercing, shrewd stare. “You sure?”
“Henri always wore that stupid-looking thing,” Icarus said. “I don’t even think it was real gold.”
“Any idea how it ended up behind the toilet in Joshua Christophe’s apartment?” the detective asked us, his tone suggesting he might suspect I’d snatched it from Henri’s lifeless, bloodied corpse and then placed it in Joshua’s bathroom in some desperate attempt to deflect suspicion from myself.
“No idea at all,” Icarus said.
Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know, either.”
“Well, Ms. Miller, hopefully, we won’t find your fingerprints on that pendant,” the detective said, and something in his tone made me think he was being sincere. “I would like to get official statements from the two of you about this incident. Call your lawyer, Ms. Miller, and come down to the station tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Staring out of the window that faced Icarus’s backyard, I felt slightly forlorn.
My last day on St. Mateo should have ended a few days ago. But I hadn’t been able to leave the island because of the charge against me, and I wouldn’t be going anywhere until the situation with Henri’s murder was resolved. Or solved, rather.
So far, I was still the only suspect the police had, but I knew I wasn’t the best suspect. The person who killed Henri was on the island somewhere, probably laying low, waiting for me to be tried and convicted, allowing them to get away with murder. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to clear my name. But finding a better suspect wasn’t going to get me off the hook. I had to find the actual killer.
But how? My attempts, to date, hadn’t helped my case. I was convinced one of Henri’s so-called alliance members had killed him, probably over some dispute with the extortion payment. Problem was, one of the alliance members had suffered the same fate as the alliance founder.
Sam Collins was dead and thus off the suspect list.
Although, in the strategy meeting yesterday, Octavia had suggested that just because Sam was dead didn’t mean he hadn’t killed Henri. “There was definitely no honor among those thieves,” Octavia had said.
Icarus had agreed. “Maybe Sam and Stazia plotted to kill Henri and steal the money.”
“But then Sam wanted to keep all the money for himself,” I’d said, warming up to the theory. “So, Stazia killed him.”
It was an interesting theory, but how the hell could we possibly prove it.
“And we’re sure Joshua didn’t kill Henri?” I’d asked. “He could have stolen the money from the locker and then, somehow, Henri might have found out and confronted him.”
“I don’t think so,” Octavia said. “I told the police about the video Joshua filmed for you.”
“But, Icarus is on that video,” I said. “What if the police—”
“Tavie told the cops they would see me on the video,” Icarus said. “And she told them what I was doing there that day.”
“Did the police believe you?” I asked Octavia.
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said and then shrugged. “But I agree with Ish. I don’t think Joshua was working with Henri or that he killed anyone.”
“Well, once Joshua is out of ICU, he’ll be able to tell the police who stabbed him,” I said. Though considering the long road to recovery Joshua was facing, I wasn’t exactly relying on him to provide us with another suspect to focus on.
“Did you tell Quinn about Henri’s pendant?” Icarus asked.
“Almost forgot. Glad you reminded me.” Octavia focused on me. ”The pendant the cops found at Joshua’s apartment was identified by Doris as belonging to Henri. There were fingerprints on it but not Quinn’s.”
Octavia said the prints were a match for Stazia Zacheo, and the cops wanted to question her. They’d said nothing about her as a possible suspect, though I was starting to think the elusive island girl was a heartless killer.
“The interesting thing about the pendant?” Octavia shook her head in amazement. “It was a secret audiovisual recording device.”
“There was a camera in the pendant?” I was beyond flabbergasted.
“That’s how he recorded us,” Icarus said.
“The police believe the videos Henri secretly made were downloaded onto a laptop they found when they searched his house,” Octavia said. “It appears you might not have been his only blackmail victim, Quinn.”
Sighing, I stood and walked to the picture window in Icarus’s bedroom.
Since Sam’s attack, I’d been staying with Icarus, and now that my checkout date at the Heliconia had come and gone, I didn’t have any place else to go. Except, of course, to another hotel, which was what Lisa wanted me to do, but I didn’t want to check into the Hibiscus or one of the other luxury resorts on the island.
I liked staying with Icarus. Lisa called it “playing house” and had warned me I’d end up disappointed, but I enjoyed falling asleep in his arms and waking up to the smell of breakfast and coffee. Still, I wasn’t sure if Icarus and I were in a relationship. Did we even want to be in a relationship? Could we make a relationship work? We hadn’t exactly had one of thos
e “meet cute” moments. Our introduction to each other had been ignited by lust, a combustible passion. But, passion wouldn’t sustain us. We had to get to know each other. We had to learn, and then attempt to understand, each other’s goals, perceptions, hopes, wishes, prayers, and dreams.
On the heels of desire, blackmail and murder had distracted us from finding out more about each other. Getting to know each other would be suspended until either Henri’s real killer was caught or the charge against me was dropped, or both.
And there was still my anxiety. The dreams had stopped, but I’d been trying to figure out why they’d started and had come to startling conclusions …
My anxiety had begun after I’d won a huge case. The victory should have had me walking on cloud nine, but instead it had become an albatross around my neck, weighing me down. Lisa had said the anxiety was most likely the result of some hidden fear, and she’d been right. Winning a case for a crooked, dishonest client left me with the fear of losing my soul, ignoring my conscience and abandoning my principles. I wanted to make partner so badly, driven to prove I didn't need the support of my dad or the safety net of my grandfather's firm to be successful. I forgot myself, forgot the kind of person I was raised to be. Not just astute and clever but compassionate, caring, honorable, and, most of all, ethical.
I came to St. Mateo to get my so-called mojo back and to become, once again, the superstar litigator. I'd been duped into believing I was only valuable if I was winning cases, securing favorable verdicts on behalf of powerful companies. I'd been convinced I was nothing if I wasn't who the firm expected me to be.
Now, the last thing I wanted to be was a woman so hell-bent on career success she would willingly give up her morals, her sense of what was right, good, honest, and fair.
Well, I was no longer willing, or maybe even able, to sacrifice my morals and ethics for professional gain. The best weapons in my arsenal would no longer, and never again, be used to defend shady, crooked conglomerates.
First, and foremost, my weapons would be used to make sure I didn’t end up in jail. And then … well, I wasn't sure, but they would be used in more altruistic, sympathetic, and philanthropic endeavors. Maybe I'd go to work for my dad, after all. Or, maybe—
“What are you thinking about?”
Turning from the window, my heart fluttered as Icarus walked out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Oh, nothing really,” I said. “So, are you headed to work?”
“Later,” he said. “This morning, I’m meeting with a home inspector.”
“A home inspector?”
“It’s related to the loan I’m trying to get to renovate my aunt’s house,” Icarus said. “The bank wants the inspector to write up an assessment of the potential repair items and associated costs before they make a decision about the loan.”
Walking to him, I slipped my arms around his waist and then stood on my toes to give him a kiss. “Well, I hope it goes okay.”
“You wanna come?”
Delightfully surprised, I nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to see your aunt’s house.”
After the loan officer left, Icarus showed me around the property his aunt had willed to him, a sprawling estate called Esperança House.
“Esperança means ‘hope’ in Portuguese,” Icarus had explained. “That was my aunt’s name. Hope. Her husband, Mr. O’Reilly, named the estate for her.”
As Icarus gave me a tour of the grounds, I noticed lots of wear and tear, and some outright neglect, but the bones of the house were excellent. At one time, it had been a glorious showplace. At more than 20,000 square feet, with three stories, and ten bedroom suites, it could easily be made over into a luxury boutique hotel.
Large double doors opened into an expansive foyer with a double curving stairway leading to the second floor. Behind the stairway, a wall of pocket doors opened to reveal a wide hallway leading to a large great room, a ballroom, a huge kitchen with a hearth, a library, a study, an office, and a den.
The mansion sat nestled among five acres of lush, tropical rainforest and had its own private beach.
“Your aunt’s house is so perfect,” I told Icarus over dinner at sunset, another romantic meal in his backyard beneath the string lights. “The bank has got to give you the loan. It would be such a great investment. And good for the east side economy, too.”
“That’s what I’m really excited about,” Icarus said, his whiskey-colored gaze dancing with his hopes and dreams. “The east side has a lot to offer, and people in this area deserve the chance to show everyone that we can be just as enterprising and financially stable as the west and south sides of St. Mateo. But, I have to be realistic.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, pouring the last of the wine into our glasses.
“Well, part of the bank’s reluctance is because the house is close to the Double-H,” Icarus said, sighing as he grabbed his wine glass. “So, I feel like I have to work three times as hard to convince them that a hotel so close to an area that most tourists have been told is scary and sketchy could be profitable.”
“I think you can convince the bank,” I said and then finished my wine.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” he said, pulling me closer to him and then dropping his head to kiss me. Instantly intoxicated by his mouth, the wine on his lips, and his tongue swirling slowly around mine, I wrapped my arms around his neck and moved onto his lap.
Quickly, our kisses led us into the bedroom. Icarus lit a candle and when a soft, sepia-toned glow spread across the room, he placed the candle on the bureau near the doorway.
Small, but cozy with tropical furnishings, the bedroom was dominated by a queen-sized bed with four posts draped in gauzy mosquito netting. Across from the bed was a large picture window, opened slightly, allowing a sultry breeze to slip into the room, like the incense of an incantation, casting a spell over us.
Turning to me, Icarus pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I parted my lips, and as soon as I felt his tongue slip into my mouth and swirl slowly, I lost control. Standing on my toes, I wrapped my arms around him and whipped my tongue around his, thrusting it into his mouth as I rubbed against the hard throbbing below his navel, grinding slowly at first but then faster as the lust took hold, guiding me.
Icarus broke the kiss and pulled away just long enough to help me out of my sundress and panties. With frenzied movements, I helped him get naked and then he picked me up and carried me to the bed. Writhing against the cool duvet, I was aching for him, desperate to be filled, but he wanted to make me wait. With his tongue and fingers, he taunted and teased me until I decided to take the lead. Coaxing him onto his back, I straddled him and then guided him inside. Moaning from the exquisite feel of that hard thickness separating me, I clamped my knees against his hips and started to move up and down.
Smiling at me, Icarus put his hands behind his head and watched as I gave him a show.
Feeling sexy and sinful, I touched my breasts, twirling my fingers around the nipples. Staring at Icarus, I could tell he was starting to squirm, and inside me, I felt him jerk forcefully. Relishing in his unabashed desire for me, I trailed my hands down from my breasts to my waist and then lower to touch myself.
Circling my hip as I slid up and down, I moved in sensual undulations, the fingers of one hand dancing around my clit while I grabbed my breast with the other hand, pulling the nipple as the sensations intensified. I moved faster, imagining that I was giving Icarus the best damn lap dance of his life. Rocking with a force that was almost feral, I leaned forward and clutched his broad shoulders, desperate to explode.
Crazed with lust, I moved from a straddle to squat, my rhythm frantic as Icarus thrust upward into me as I bounced up and down on him, groaning and panting.
The eruption came abruptly before I was fully prepared. The force of it was so violent and yet so blissful. In the clutches of rapture, I trembled and shook and thrashed wildly as the pleasure grabbed me, refusing to let me go.
As my thrashing subsided, I felt myself being rolled over onto my back against the warm, damp sheets, and then Icarus was inside me again, thrusting with such vehemence that his velocity stoked the dying embers and I was wet and ready in an instant, rocking my hips against his, matching him thrust for thrust until I caught his frantic rhythm and we moved together. Whispering his name, I arched my back, and with one leg hooked over his shoulder and the other leg stretched out toward the edge of the bed, I pumped with relentless vigor, feeling the stirrings of the release that was coming. The pleasure intensified as we moved faster, desperate and seething, both of us anxious to erupt. Once again, I felt rabid with lust, addicted to the feeling of Icarus inside me, huge and pulsating, driving me insane.
With a primal cry of desire, Icarus bucked violently as he came. His tumultuous spasm sent an eruption through my body that shook me until I was limp and dazed. Icarus was still twitching inside me, causing slight aftershocks of pleasure, and as I moved my hips slowly to take advantage of the subsiding feelings, I became aware of Icarus’s mouth on mine.
He kissed me, slow and sensual, as he whispered words against my swollen lips, words that, as I realized what they were and, more importantly, what they meant, filled me with emotions that were too profound to acknowledge and yet impossible to ignore.
Chapter Forty-Four
“She sent me a text about the blackmail money.”
Confused, still somewhat half-asleep, I rolled over on my back and stared up at the ceiling, listening. At first, I thought I was dreaming about Icarus, dreaming he slipped out of bed to make a phone call, but as I turned my head to the left, I saw him standing in the middle of the room, a gray silhouette in the darkness.
What was he doing? Who the hell was he calling at—what the hell time was it? I lifted my head to glance at the clock on the bed table. 1:07 a.m.?
