by Debra Webb
Her face crumpled. “Yes. Oh my Lord, is she hurt?”
“She was in an accident,” Pierce explained, “but we took care of her injuries.”
“So she’s all right?” The older woman looked from Pierce to Bella and back.
“She was when we last saw her,” Bella explained. “She left the hospital this afternoon and we’re concerned for her safety. We believe she may be involved with a dangerous man.”
Her mother shook her head. “I knew something was wrong when she paid my house payment for the next two months.” She sighed. “This place should have been paid for years ago but I’ve had to borrow the money for upkeep every now and then. I guess I’ll be making payments for the rest of my days.”
“We want to help your daughter, Mrs. Maynard,” Pierce said. “If she was in trouble, where might she go?”
“She’s got lots of friends that do...” She shrugged. “...what she does. But they probably wouldn’t tell you a thing if you asked them.”
Bella drew a business card from her bag and gave it to Mrs. Maynard. “The police will be visiting you as well, probably today. Tell them anything at all you can remember about whatever your daughter said to you in the past few days. Any friends who might know where she is. Any place she might hide.”
She stared at the card for a moment, then asked, “You’re a private investigator?”
“Yes, ma’am. I want to find your daughter before anyone who might want to hurt her does.”
The lines on the woman’s face deepened. “You talk to her friends. They might talk to you since you’re not a cop. You can find them over on East Ontario. But if they think you’re a cop, they won’t say a word. I know those girls.” She looked Bella directly in the eyes. “I used to be one of them. They don’t trust cops and they’re always looking for the customer that will give them a way out.”
Bella turned to a fresh page in her notebook. “Can you give me names, descriptions of some of her friends?” Otherwise finding them would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. Bella needed a starting place.
Mrs. Maynard got up, taking her portable oxygen supplier with her, and went to the table where the television sat. She picked up a framed photograph and brought it to Bella. “She printed that from a picture she took with her phone. She said that way I know who her friends really are.” She pointed to the redhead in the photo. “That’s Jasmine. The brunette is Talia and the other blonde is Miranda. They’ve been friends for a good long while now. They’re the best chance you’ve got at getting the truth.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maynard.” Bella snapped a pic of the photo with her cell and then stood. Pierce followed her lead. “We’ll do all we can to find her,” she assured the lady.
As they left, Bella warned Mrs. Maynard to keep her doors and windows locked and her phone close. She urged the woman not to allow anyone inside unless he or she showed proper credentials. Audrey likely didn’t realize she’d put her mother in a perilous position as well. Sometimes people just didn’t think.
Once she and Pierce were in her car, Pierce asked, “What now?”
“Now we find her friends and see if they’ll talk to us.” Bella thought about that for a moment. “Actually, I’m reasonably certain they would talk to you before they would me.”
He stared at her. She kept her attention on the street but she could feel that blue gaze boring a hole into her.
“Whatever’s necessary.”
Bella glanced at him. He stared forward. If the man had a so-called red room, he shouldn’t have any trouble approaching and charming a few ladies of the night.
The drive to Audrey Maynard’s territory took just over twenty minutes. It didn’t take long to spot the blonde and the redhead. Bella pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the street from the ladies.
She looked to her passenger. “Good luck.”
He stared at her for a long moment and then got out. Bella watched as he closed the center button on his elegant suit, then squared his shoulders and strode across the street. The two women immediately started to smile and wave at him.
Bella couldn’t hear the conversation but she could easily imagine how it was going down just watching the back-and-forth. The redhead, Jasmine, hugged his arm and leaned in close. He stared down at her upturned face for a moment and a spear of something hot cut through Bella.
Not jealousy, she told herself.
She shook it off and watched as he spoke, smiled and allowed the women to hang on him like he was Santa and they had waited all year for a chance to tell him what they wanted for Christmas. The blonde, Miranda, trailed her fingers up his back and into his silky hair. Bella had to look away for a moment.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered. Shaking her head, she forced her attention back across the street. The longer the women stroked him and leaned into him, the more uncomfortable she grew. She squirmed in her seat, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel.
Finally, when Pierce broke from the two, she was able to draw in a breath.
He returned to the car and settled into the passenger seat.
“Did you learn anything?” Her voice sounded too high to her own ears.
Pierce turned to her. He frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Bella started to ask what he meant but then she caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Her face was flushed.
“I’m fine. Did you find out where Audrey might be?”
Before he answered, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell. He glanced at the screen, touched the accept-call button and said, “Pierce.”
Bella struggled to gather her composure while he listened to his caller. She relaxed her shoulders, took three deep breaths and loosened her grip on the steering wheel. Being so attracted to her client that she couldn’t focus on the task at hand wouldn’t do. It was out of character for her, and she didn’t intend to let it become a part of her character now—no matter how ridiculously alluring Devon Pierce was.
Pierce thanked the caller and put his phone away. He turned to Bella. “That was Detective Corwin.”
Bella braced for bad news. She did not want to hear that Audrey Maynard was dead. She thought of the worried mother they’d just visited who had likely introduced her daughter to the life.
“Have they found her?” She held her breath.
Pierce gave his head a shake. “No. But they did find a mechanic from the Lexus dealership. He’d been shot with a .32. Apparently the blood in the trunk of the stolen car was his. I’m guessing he was their way into the dealership for the vehicle.”
Dread trickled through her. “Please tell me you don’t own a .32.”
“I don’t.”
Thank God. Bella started the car. Whether Pierce realized it or not, they were in trouble. The case just went from potential kidnapping and sexual abuse to murder.
And Dr. Devon Pierce was the only real person of interest.
Before heading to his home, they stopped by the hotel where Audrey Maynard had said she met with the man who hired her. The hotel refused to give out any information or to share security video footage without a warrant.
Maybe the police would have better luck.
Chapter Five
Arbor Drive, Lake Bluff, 7:48 p.m.
When they arrived at his home, Devon would have preferred to go inside alone. To have peace and quiet in which to consider the moving parts of this nightmare until he could put the pieces together and come up with some sort of logic.
If Richard was behind this insanity, and he must be, why now? Why involve Cara?
The answer echoed inside him. Because Richard understood. He knew without doubt that resurrecting the circumstances around his late wife’s death was the only way to truly do harm to Devon. The nasty rumors of murder had died down not long after the funeral. But that didn’t mean stirring them
up wouldn’t damage his reputation—and his industry-changing work at the Edge.
Ms. Lytle parked between the fountain and the front door. She shut off the engine and turned to him. “We need to talk and I expect total honesty.”
He met her gaze in the fading car interior lights. “We haven’t talked enough?”
His brain needed to shut down. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to make proper decisions or to hold a civil discourse at this point. To bring this here—to bring her here again—was too much.
“I don’t think you fully grasp the weight of the situation. Someone is framing you and they’re doing a hell of a good job. It’s imperative that we stay ahead of this. By morning, the police could show up with a warrant. It’s only logical that reporters will follow. We need to be prepared.”
“Very well.” He reached for the door. “We’ll talk.”
He’d wanted to return to the Edge to pick up his car but she’d insisted that she would be chauffeuring him everywhere until this nightmare was over. He thought the suggestion was ludicrous and yet here they were. He had other vehicles at his disposal. If he decided to dismiss her, other transportation was not an issue.
He trudged up the steps and to the front door. A few seconds later, they were inside. He locked the door behind them and reset the alarm out of habit. “Would you like a drink?”
Devon intended to have several. He rarely allowed himself more than one but tonight was different. Tonight he needed...more.
“No, thank you.” She hesitated a moment then added, “You should eat first.”
She stood several feet away and still she felt too close. A few strands of her dark hair had come loose and fallen around her face, softening her all-business appearance.
“My kitchen is at your disposal if you’re hungry.” The craving roaring inside him right now would not be satisfied with anything in that kitchen.
He made it to the bar and had reached for the bottle of Scotch he reserved for celebrations. This was certainly no celebration but he didn’t care. He downed a substantial serving of the smoky, dry whiskey. Then he closed his eyes and willed himself to relax.
“What’s on the page you stuffed into your pocket besides blood?”
He reluctantly opened his eyes and met her impatient stare. “It’s a page from my late wife’s private journal.”
She looked surprised. No more so than he.
“How did someone get their hands on a page from her journal?”
He poured himself another drink. “That is an answer I would sincerely like to know myself.” He lifted the glass to his lips but her hand on his arm stopped him from turning up the bottom as he’d intended.
“I need your head on straight for the rest of the questions I have.”
He stared at her for a moment, the glass mere centimeters from his mouth, her fingers somehow searing his skin through his clothing. “Trust me, Ms. Lytle, this is merely a bracer.” He searched her dark eyes. “In fact, I’m certain you will prefer me without the fierce edge I’m experiencing at the moment.”
Her hand fell away. He downed the drink.
When he’d savored the promised relief for a moment, he set the glass aside and turned to her. “Ask what you will. I’m all yours.”
Had the last part been a Freudian slip? She stared at him as if she wondered the same.
“We can talk while we eat,” she announced before turning and walking away.
He watched the determined strides, the sway of her hips, her back as straight as a ballerina’s. That she had entered his private world troubled him immensely. This—he looked around the room—small sliver of his existence was intensely personal. The rest of his world was work. At work, he was in control, untouchable, respected. Here he was alone, desperate, needy. He kept the two worlds completely separate.
Isabella Lytle did not belong in this part.
He licked the lingering taste of Scotch from his lips. He couldn’t deny his attraction to her. The challenge she represented intrigued him. Never had he seen a woman handle herself the way Bella Lytle did. She wasn’t easily intimidated and her mind was quicksilver sharp. A part of him desired to throw caution to the wind and discover the woman underneath that professional facade. But no matter how much he craved her...no matter how much he wanted to take her completely apart, that would be a mistake.
He was well aware why he was suddenly so fascinated by this woman he hardly knew. The hunger for a physical outlet kept his mind away from the ugly past that had abruptly come back to haunt him.
In no hurry, he moved toward the kitchen. As he neared, he heard cabinet doors closing, dinnerware settling onto stone. When he entered the room, she stood at the open door of the refrigerator browsing the shelves. His house manager ensured the kitchen was stocked, providing numerous options. Usually he prepared dinner for himself each night, though recently he’d had no appetite.
She didn’t inquire as to what he wanted to eat. Instead she prepared two small plates with cheese, fruit and cold cuts. To occupy himself, he went to the pantry and grabbed a box of crackers. She took the box and arranged the crackers next to the rest and then passed a plate to him.
Another trip to the refrigerator and she returned with two bottles of water. He reached into a drawer and retrieved linen napkins. They sat at the island and ate in silence. He forced himself to chew and then swallow. She was right about the alcohol. She was right about the rest as well. By morning, the police would be at his doorstep. He had to prepare.
She wanted him to tell her everything...to open himself up to her.
He caught himself staring at her and looked away. Whatever questions she had, she should ask them. Anything would be better than his preoccupation with her lips sliding across the tines of the fork or resting against the mouth of the water bottle. His control was slipping away quickly and he loathed the desperation clawing at him.
Not since Cara had anyone got under his skin quite like the beautiful and elusive Ms. Lytle.
“You had questions?” His tone was sharper than he’d intended.
She dabbed the napkin to her lips, and he stared at the place she had touched. Her lips were far too lush, too deeply colored. He licked his own, the urge to taste hers building deep inside him.
“Your wife kept a journal. Was there a particular reason she kept a record of her feelings while you were married or was this something she’d always done?”
He tossed his napkin atop his plate. He’d forced himself to eat a few bites but he couldn’t stomach any more. “We were married for five years. I had no idea she kept a journal until shortly before her death.”
“You discovered it and didn’t like what you found?”
Her dark eyes probed his, looking for signs of untruths. She was very, very good at spotting those. He’d recognized her intense stares for what they were: a silent interrogation. Underneath her scrutiny, he felt his desire for her rise.
He wasn’t used to being unsettled by a woman—or anyone else, for that matter. And the sensation made him want to unsettle her back.
“That’s correct.”
“Was this around the time of the accident?”
“Of course.” He gave his head a slight shake. “Would the story be even half as titillating had I not made the discovery on the precipice of such a tragedy?”
“This is not fiction, Dr. Pierce,” she chastised.
“Certainly not.” He looked away for a moment. “I found her journal the day before we left for Binghamton, New York, her hometown. It was too late to change our plans. Her family was expecting us.” He shrugged. “I suppose I was still in denial.”
“You fought about it?”
“We fought, yes.” The voices from that evening whispered through his mind, her ranting at him at the top of her lungs. Tears streaming down her beautiful face. His deeper voice, simmering with rage
and threats of an ugly divorce, of leaving her with nothing. She threw her perfume bottle at him. He’d dodged and the elegant glass had smashed against the hearth of the fireplace in their room.
“Did you threaten her in any way?”
There was the tiniest glimmer of sadness in her eyes now. Or perhaps it was sympathy. Of all the things she had to offer, her sympathy was not what he wanted.
“I never threatened my wife with anything other than a divorce.”
She tilted her head and stared at him. “The journal contained something inflammatory enough to make you consider a divorce? Did you have a prenuptial agreement?”
“I had suspected she was having an affair for some time. As I told you before, I hoped it would pass. But the journal made it clear that would not be the case.” He exhaled a big breath. “And no, there was no prenuptial agreement.”
Ms. Lytle slipped from her seat and took her plate to the sink. She folded her napkin and left it on the counter. While he did the same, she said, “Do you still have the journal?”
“Yes.” He braced his hands on the counter, his back to her. He knew it was only a matter of time before she asked to see it.
He felt raw, exposed, and he hated it. He was unused to being tipped off center, which this investigation had done. He wanted to rage against the unfairness of it. Unfortunately, the only outlet he had was Bella Lytle, who was off-limits. A professional contact only.
So why was he drawn to her in such a primal way? Why did he want to unsettle the coolheaded investigator as he’d been unsettled?
“What secrets did you discover?”
“The journal intimately detailed the affair that had been going on for six months.”
“With your partner?”
Devon faced her then. “I didn’t believe so at the time. Though the entries in her journal were quite explicit, she never named her coconspirator.”
“Where is it?”
“I keep it in my bedside table.”
Dismay claimed her face. “You’re serious.”
It wasn’t a question. She recognized the truth.
