Deception

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean anything, Josh. Dane isn’t the type of man who sends anonymous, romantic gifts to his female employees. If he wanted me – which he doesn’t – he would just smile and assume I’d fall at his feet. He only has to breathe to attract women, so what would be the point of all this?” She waved toward the offending flowers.

  Josh had to admit that she had a point. Dane Wilcox was so supremely confident that this whole secret admirer approach didn’t seem in character. But he’d seen enough seemingly inexplicable behavior in his career to allow that point alone to sway his opinion. “Think about it, Samantha. The guy goes out of town right after you get the mysterious negligee, and then all’s quiet until he blows back in. You tell him where you’re living now and poof! Suddenly the hallway’s sprouting roses.”

  Sam frowned. “Yes, but think about this, Detective Hardhead. Dane was at the bar with me from the time you came in this afternoon until he sent me home a little after ten. So he rushes out, finds a couple dozen roses at those ever popular twenty-four hour florists, and then delivers them all before eleven.”

  “He could have had someone let him in later,” he pointed out. “And picked up the flowers at one of the local supermarkets.”

  She made a small noise of disbelief. “Why pick the best lingerie store in the entire city, yet settle for bargain basement roses? Definitely not in character, if I were crazy enough to buy this theory. And these roses look like one of those special hybrids. Not something you’re likely to find just any old place.”

  He begrudgingly allowed her another point. Her hand snaked over and slipped into his.

  “Look, I know you’re only trying to protect me because you’re a male and it’s etched in your DNA, but even if Dane were interested in me in a romantic fashion, this is not the approach that he would take. Whatever he may be, he’s not… cowardly. Nor is he menacing. And this stuff is partly one, and a whole lot of the other, I just haven’t quite figured out which is which yet.”

  Josh squeezed her fingers gently between his, thinking that Clay had been accurate in what he’d told him. When someone you cared for was being threatened it was almost impossible to maintain perspective. “I’ll grant that you’ve raised good questions, but please accept that I’m not convinced. I won’t embarrass you and confront the man flat out, but I’m keeping him on my short list. Unfortunately, the connection between the negligee and the breakin is even more tenuous when you factor in the roses, so any chance I had of getting a warrant for Intimate Expressions’ sales records is pretty much a pipe dream. But I’ll still head by there tomorrow and see if I can find out anything that might help us.” He glared at the roses again. “I’ll take the vase and the card into the station tomorrow, see if they can lift any prints. Other than mine.” He rolled his eyes. “Then maybe I’ll call around to some different florists.”

  Sam glanced at the roses, then looked away. “So you’re still convinced this is somehow criminal?”

  “Legally, at this point… not technically. Even with today’s stalker laws there isn’t enough here to prove any threat has been issued or even implied. But it’s creepy, and insinuating, and it really pisses me off. So until I get some answers I want you to continue to be extra careful. What are your plans for tomorrow?”

  “Well, Dane forced me to take the day off so I’m going to be making the rounds at the hospitals – visiting Karen and of course with Donnie. Then… I usually volunteer at the center, but I think I’m going to do something female and pointless. Maybe bake something or… I don’t know. Paint my nails.”

  She looked so adorably mystified by the prospect that Josh had to rein in a grin.

  “And I’ll be doing the cop-slash-irate-and-overprotective-male thing,” he sent her a bland look, “and then I have the, uh, wedding so I’m not sure exactly when I’ll see you.”

  “We could always rendezvous for coffee and breakfast. I’ll even volunteer to cook.”

  “Pancakes?” He perked up. “With butter and real maple syrup?”

  “You have some real maple syrup, Mr. Picky?”

  “No, but it sounds good, doesn’t it?”

  Sam laughed, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I’ll run to the market in the morning.” She pulled away slowly and for the briefest of moments their breath mingled in the space between them. Hers was sweet, minty from her toothpaste, and Josh figured screw it, moved in for the kiss.

  But Snickers barked, and Sam jumped, bringing her forehead solidly against his chin.

  “Ouch.” He tasted blood.

  “I’m sorry.” But she was laughing again. “Poor baby.”

  “Yeah, you really thound like you mean it.”

  She bit her lip to preclude laughing at his lisp.

  “Great.” He stuck his injured tongue out. “You’ve given me a thpeech impediment.”

  She clamped her hand over the lower half of her face, but her eyes were dancing with amusement. Josh decided that some minor maiming was small recompense for her happiness. “Before I do any more damage, I’ll go get Snickers settled and get back into bed. Goodnight, Josh. Sleep well.”

  “Thweet dreams,” he called after her, cursing that stupid dog for its piss-poor timing. He’d been close… oh so close. Patience, he reminded himself. This was not the best time to push things between them.

  But hell, he’d waited for eight years, and he figured he’d been patient enough.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  VINCENT Santone didn’t care for loose ends, and Donnie Martin was due to be snipped. The man knew things, and comatose or not, that was a problem. He understood his southern compatriot’s reticence to do anything that would draw attention, but figured by this point no one was likely to connect Martin’s passing with the fact that he’d been shot. It would simply be one of those unforeseen and unpredictable setbacks – of the permanent variety – that were all too common in so many long-term patients.

  It amused Vincent that the wisdom of getting rid of Martin once and for all was one of the very few points of agreement he had with his late nephew, who was a disappointment all the way around. His sister would mourn his passing, of course, just like she had for that waste of a husband. But in the end, Vincent figured she was better off. No more abusive husband, no more wastrel of a son, no more reason to hide herself away in shame and embarrassment.

  Slitting that boy’s throat had been a favor to them all.

  He looked at the large bouquet of flowers that disguised the hypodermic he planned to use on Martin, and figured he was probably doing that man’s sister a favor, also. From what he’d heard about the girl, she was wasting her life by her brother’s bedside. And as far as they could tell, the young woman knew nothing about what had landed her brother in the hospital. Watching her had been prudent but fruitless, and the search of her apartment had turned up nothing, so there was every chance that the incriminating items Martin had taken from Joey had been hidden someplace else. Someplace where Samantha Martin hadn’t seen them. It was worrisome that the items were still out there, but at this point it seemed foolish to worry about the girl any longer. She clearly knew nothing, was just a woman who loved her brother like every good sister should. And with her own brother wasting away uselessly, someone should look after her, like Vincent looked out for his Maria Theresa.

  So he’d help ease her burden by easing Martin into the afterlife.

  Smiling, Vincent stepped off the elevator, following signs toward Martin’s unit. No one gave him a second glance. A man carrying flowers through the corridor was like white noise in a hospital. And between the ball cap he wore and the bouquet hiding his face, he worried little about the cameras. He’d slip in, unplug Martin’s monitors, inject the hypo into the man’s intravenous line, and be long gone before anyone realized Martin was dead. And if foul play was ever suspected, he’d be back in New York by the time the police got around to watching any security videos. There was nothing to tie him here, nothing to connect him to this patient. Reall
y, this whole loose-end snipping would be a piece of cake.

  This area of the hospital was considerably quieter than the ones he’d come through, probably because the patients here were only half-alive anyway. Glancing around the corner toward the nurses’ station, he was pleased to find it empty. The hospital was grossly understaffed at the moment – they were currently minus one nurse and one orderly, not to mention all the employees out due to the virus Joey had complained about – so there was a good chance only a single nurse was present. In an area like this, where the patients needed little tending, it would only make sense. Casting another glance over his shoulder, Vincent crept quietly toward Martin’s room. The door was ajar, and he peered in just to assure himself that there were no conscious inhabitants. The monitors hummed steadily, but otherwise the room was silent.

  Vincent withdrew the hypodermic from amidst the baby’s breath. It would only take a few seconds, and Martin wouldn’t even suffer. Not that Vincent really cared, but unlike his nephew he got no real thrill from inflicting pain. Death was simply an unfortunate part of his business, to be taken care of as efficiently as possible. Unless of course, the intended victim was a lying, sonofabitch wife-beater like his ex-brother-in-law, who’d died as painfully as possible.

  “Can I help you?”

  Vincent forced himself not to react. He turned, palming the needle so it was out of sight, and looked at the woman behind him. Manufacturing a smile and a befuddled manner, he did his best to appear disarming.

  “I certainly hope so, young lady.” He affected a southern drawl, played the lost senior citizen to the hilt. The silver wash he’d used on his hair made him look ten years older. “My niece just had a baby, and I’ve been wandering around trying to find the maternity ward. All these signs look alike after a time. Eyes aren’t quite what they used to be, I’m afraid.”

  “You got off the elevator too soon.” She reached behind him to close the door to Martin’s room. Eyed him with suspicion. “One floor up, first hallway to the right.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He tipped his hat and slid the hypo into his pocket, ambling away from her in an easy, shuffling gate. She was the type to stand and watch where he headed. He glanced over his shoulder as he rounded the corner, and sure enough the bitch was standing there, a scowl on her bulldog face. So he’d come back in a day, maybe two, though the flower-bearing great uncle ruse would have to go. Maybe he could nab some scrubs and slip in as an orderly.

  He knew there was an available slot.

  Plotting, Vincent pushed the elevator call button just as it dinged to signal the car’s arrival. When the doors slid open a young woman in a white peasant blouse and ruffled blue skirt wandered out, nose stuck in a book. She caught herself just before running into him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said contritely, smile lighting her pleasant face.

  A face that Vincent had familiarized himself with recently. Donnie Martin’s little sister looked like a good, wholesome girl and he approved of her manner of comport. Despite working at the same bar where her brother had been employed, she didn’t appear to drink, didn’t hang with a rough crowd, and didn’t seem to be easy with men. Joey, the little shit, had made numerous derogatory comments about the woman’s physical assets, but that was only because Joey was a chip off his father’s block. Another reason the boy deserved his fate. He had absolutely no class.

  Vincent, however, had class. And so did Samantha Martin.

  “No problem, honey,” he told her with a smile, pleased that she presented no threat. It was actually fortuitous that that awful nurse had interrupted him, because if Martin’s sister had come in while he was in the room, he’d have had no choice but to take her out, too.

  Vincent stepped to the side, allowing her to pass, and she appraised the flowers as she moved past. “Very nice,” she concluded.

  “Thank you. You enjoy that book, now, you hear?” He did the southern gentleman thing very well, if he did say so himself.

  “I’m certain I will.”

  Very pleasant young woman indeed, he thought as he watched her go on her way.

  It would have been a shame if he’d had to kill her.

  JOSH fought with his bowtie in the dining room mirror as he listened to Chris tap away at his laptop, currently set up on the table. A wave of guilt washed over him for shamelessly using his friend again.

  “Are you sure this isn’t grounds for disciplinary action?” he asked, whipping the tie off and starting over.

  “These are our cameras,” Chris reminded him, turning slightly to catch Josh’s gaze in the mirror. On the monitor behind him, Josh could just make out a streetscape from a swanky part of the city’s shopping district, the confectionary pastels of the historical buildings lined up like petit fours for a tea party. “The cops on traffic detail look at this feed all the time. And hell, half the cities in the country have this stuff set up live on their websites so that commuters can check the traffic on the highways.”

  “But this isn’t live feed and this isn’t from our website. This isn’t even official police business. This is archived footage from a week ago, and you didn’t get permission from anyone to access it. That just smacks of a breach of… something.”

  Chris lifted a meaty shoulder and returned his attention to the keyboard.

  “You’re awfully blasé about this,” Josh commented, wondering if he was going to be out of a job on Monday. Unlike Chris, that sort of concerned him.

  “Relax, Josh. It’s not like we’re hacking into the Pentagon.”

  “Which is something you do for entertainment?” When Chris didn’t say anything, Josh turned sharply from the mirror, but those broad shoulders started shaking with mirth.

  “Christ, you’re gullible lately, Harding. I think I like you being in love.”

  “Bite me.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  Off-balance because the jokes were suddenly on him, Josh turned his back on the other man and resumed negotiations with the tie. He still wasn’t totally comfortable letting Chris do this without explicit permission, though he was grateful to the other man for the suggestion. Earlier in the day Josh had gone by the boutique from which Sam’s negligee had been purchased. The manager had been closemouthed about the establishment’s customers, which wasn’t unexpected. He had, however, discovered that the negligee in question was a new item which had only been on display since Saturday last, which meant Josh could narrow the date of purchase down to the past weekend. And the woman had been helpful enough to inform him that the item was only available in-store, meaning whoever had bought it had to have actually physically entered the establishment to retrieve it. When he’d talked his frustration over with Chris, his friend had pointed out that there was a traffic camera at the intersection in front of the store which may have captured their suspected stalker as he entered or exited. So Chris was burning that footage onto a disc for Josh to peruse.

  “Almost finished.” Chris’s thick fingers flew with unexpected grace around the keyboard. Finally finished with his tie, Josh slipped his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, loving the unfettered feel of a garment which had been tailored exactly to fit him. He put his hand on Chris’ shoulder in thanks just as the front door unexpectedly opened.

  “Oh my God.” Despite his sexual preferences, Chris was obviously impressed by the way the wet fabric of the peasant blouse clung to ripe lushness of Sam’s breasts. Her hair dripped onto a makeup-free face, and she looked both innocently bedraggled and infinitely sexy. The ruffled edge of her skirt was torn at the seam and her ballet flats looked like she’d dunked them in a mud puddle. “It’s like… Pollyanna Does Dallas,” Chris summed up.

  Josh smacked the other man’s head, eyes raking Sam head to toe in blatantly carnal assessment. His body thickened to the point that he became thankful he was wearing a jacket. She looked… well, like every wet dream he’d ever had. Pun intended. And being around her again had become an exercise in physical restraint.

  But t
hen the more worrisome aspects of the state of her dress sunk in and he crossed the room in the space of a heartbeat. “What happened?” he demanded, stopping just short of grabbing her. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just soaked.” Her smile bloomed rueful. “My car had the bad timing to break down just as it started to rain, and I tore my skirt on the door after I got it off the road.”

  “So you, what, walked home?” Josh asked, horrified. And maybe just a tiny bit angry.

  “Yeah, well, there was a dearth of white knights with available laundry carts.”

  He wanted to be warmed by that shared joke, but he was just too worried. And okay, definitely angry. “You should have called me, Sam. At the very least, I could have given you a ride.” It had been pouring up until about ten minutes ago. “And given the state of things lately, did you stop to consider that the breakdown may have been no accident?”

  WELL, no, Sam hadn’t really considered that, just the fact that she was only a few blocks away and didn’t want to bother him. She thought it unlikely that someone had tampered with her car, and besides, she didn’t want to depend on him. He had his own life and shouldn’t have to be responsible for hers. “It’s not like it’s midnight and I was stranded along some dark and deserted road. It was the middle of a crowded city during broad daylight.”

  That earned her no quarter with Josh, who didn’t like being thwarted in his protecting and serving.

  Sam glanced over his rigid shoulder to the big man sitting in the dining room, looking every bit as uncomfortable with the situation as she did, although he, at least, was dry.

  It was the man from the Roadhouse, she realized. Josh’s… friend, Chris. Her discomfort went up another notch. Here was Josh, looking like the crown prince of her every girlish fantasy, and she looked like the scullery maid. Not to mention the fact that the crown prince’s… faithful squire was sitting across the room, looking anywhere and everywhere but at the shining beacons of excess revealed by her wet shirt, reminding her that this was not your typical Cinderella story.