THE MIDDLE SIN

by Merline Lovelace

  It wasn't the best le­ad-in, but Cleo grab­bed it, an­y­way. Whi­le Marc gently swir­led the con­tents of a sle­ek Bac­ca­rat mar­ti­ni pit­c­her, she drop­ped her bom­b­s­hell.

  "Spe­aking of re­la­ti­on­s­hips, I fo­und out this af­ter­no­on Trish might be preg­nant."

  The pit­c­her stil­led in mid-swirl. Sla­te-gray eyes loc­ked on her fa­ce. "And you're won­de­ring if the baby is mi­ne?"

  "The pos­si­bi­lity oc­cur­red to me."

  "Yes, I can see how it might."

  The pit­c­her ma­de anot­her slow swirl. Fil­ling two long-stem­med glas­ses, Slo­an ske­we­red an oli­ve for one, swi­ped a le­mon twist aro­und the rim of the ot­her, and car­ri­ed both to whe­re Cleo sto­od be­si­de the harp.

  "If Trish is preg­nant, I'm not the fat­her of her child." Tip­ping his he­ad in a bri­ef, moc­king sa­lu­te, | he ho­is­ted his glass. "Che­ers."

  Cleo did the sa­me.

  As the Tan­qu­eray went down, tho­ugh, Slo­an's moc­kery di­sap­pe­ared. His brow cre­asing, he ga­ve the to­ot­h­pick spe­aring his oli­ve a lit­tle flick. "May­be when you find the fat­her, you'll find] Trish."

  "May­be."

  "Whe­re do you plan to lo­ok next?"

  "I'm still wor­king the ba­sics. Pho­ne bills. Gro- j eery re­ce­ipts. Doc­tor and phar­macy re­cords."

  "I tho­ught me­di­cal re­cords we­re con­fi­den­ti­al."

  "They are, ex­cept in cer­ta­in in­s­tan­ces. The! He­alth Pri­vacy Act pas­sed af­ter 9/11 in­c­lu­ded] pro­vi­si­ons for ob­ta­ining in­for­ma­ti­on re­gar­ding pos­sib­le cri­me vic­tims."

  Actu­al­ly, the ma­in pro­vi­si­ons of the act had be­en aimed at gat­he­ring in­for­ma­ti­on on sus­pec­ted ter­ro­rists, but ter­ro­rism wasn't Cleo's con­cern at j the mo­ment.

  "The mis­sing-per­sons re­port Trish's pa­rents fi­led sho­uld gi­ve me ac­cess to her he­alth re­cords. I'm go­ing to pick up a copy to­mor­row mor­ning, when I me­et with the de­tec­ti­ve wor­king the ca­se."

  "What ti­me's yo­ur me­eting?"

  "Ni­ne."

  "I'll gi­ve Chi­ef Ben­ton anot­her call la­ter and ma­ke su­re his de­tec­ti­ve af­fords you full co­ope­ra­ti­on."

  "He so­un­ded co­ope­ra­ti­ve eno­ugh when I spo­ke to him this af­ter­no­on. I'll let you know if I ne­ed help."

  He got the mes­sa­ge. Mr. Ta­ke-Char­ge Exe­cu­ti­ve bac­ked off, yi­el­ding his pla­ce to Smo­oth, Han­d­so­me Rich Guy.

  "Po­int ta­ken," he sa­id with a smi­le every bit as po­tent as the gin.

  The mar­ti­ni put Cleo in a mel­low mo­od, but the su­gar­ca­ne shrimp mel­ted her in­to a pud­dle of min­d­less ec­s­tasy.

  Thre­aded on ca­ne ske­wers and char-gril­led with a te­qu­ila, ho­ney and li­me ju­ice gla­ze, the suc­cu­lent mor­sels mel­ted in her mo­uth. They we­re ser­ved with jas­mi­ne ri­ce and a long, stemmy ve­ge­tab­le that lo­oked li­ke a cross bet­we­en as­pa­ra­gus and broc­co­li. Cleo wasn't in­to veg­gi­es as a ru­le, but the­se we­ren't bad. Not bad at all.

  After din­ner the­re was cof­fee and a wic­ked cre­me bru­lee ser­ved on the scre­ened-in pi­az­za with a spec­ta­cu­lar vi­ew of the har­bor and a flo­od­lit Fort Sum­ter. Slo­an to­ok the con­ver­sa­ti­on from his brot­her's slow re­co­very from the bul­let in his skull and the de­al his as­sa­ilant had cut with the feds, to so­me of his firm's la­test pro­j­ects.

  "We just won a con­t­ract to con­vert At­lan­tic-class con­ta­iner ves­sels to SL-31-class ships. We're go­ing to mo­dify the hull and add ad­di­ti­onal po­wer from a di­esel-ge­ne­ra­ted elec­t­ric mo­tor. It'll re­du­ce the con­ta­iner ca­pa­city from fo­ur tho­usand TEU to just a lit­tle mo­re than three."

  "And that's go­od?"

  "It is when the re­duc­ti­on is ac­com­pa­ni­ed by a cor­res­pon­ding in­c­re­ase in spe­ed from eig­h­te­en to twen­ty-one knots. Get­ting car­go whe­re it's ne­eded fas­ter is the na­me of the ga­me the­se days, par­ti­cu­larly with our mi­li­tary for­ces en­ga­ged in hot spots aro­und the glo­be."

  That Cleo co­uld un­der­s­tand. Her ye­ars in the air for­ce had ta­ken her to se­ve­ral of tho­se hot spots.

  "How much of yo­ur bu­si­ness is de­fen­se-re­la­ted?"

  "Al­most eighty per­cent at pre­sent. Af­g­ha­nis­tan and Iraq dra­ma­ti­cal­ly up­ped the de­mand for car­go ves­sels to aug­ment the mi­li­tary's pre­po­si-ti­oned fle­et."

  No sur­p­ri­se the­re. They tal­ked abo­ut the war for a whi­le, dra­wing on the­ir se­pa­ra­te mi­li­tary per­s­pec­ti­ves, be­fo­re Cleo set asi­de her cof­fee cup.

  "It's get­ting la­te. We both ha­ve busy days to­mor­row. I'd bet­ter ma­ke it a night."

  Slo­an wal­ked her thro­ugh the gar­dens and ac­ross the al­ley to the car­ri­age ho­use. Cleo was all too awa­re of the warmth of his hand on her el­bow-and the brush of his mo­uth over hers when they re­ac­hed the do­or.

  She was tem­p­ted to ta­ke him up on the un­s­po­ken of­fer that ca­me with the kiss. Lord, she was tem­p­ted! He tas­ted of ca­ra­mel cre­me bru­lee, dark cof­fee and very hot, very in­te­res­ted ma­le. She was al­re­ady men­tal­ly kic­king her­self in the butt when she eased away.

  "Thanks for din­ner, Marc."

  "You're wel­co­me." Amu­se­ment ad­ded anot­her la­yer to his rich ba­ri­to­ne. "You do re­ali­ze we're go­ing ta­ke this to the next sta­ge one of the­se days?" "I re­ali­ze the pos­si­bi­lity exists. I'll see you to­mor­row."

  Marc par­ted with her at the do­or. Re­luc­tantly.

  The con­t­rast bet­we­en Cleo North's en­ti­cing ex­te­ri­or and cle­ver mind had in­t­ri­gu­ed him from the first mo­ment they'd met. The sub­se­qu­ent dis­co­very that she'd sus­pec­ted his twin of mur­der had ta­ken so­me of the ed­ge from that fas­ci­na­ti­on. But then she'd tur­ned aro­und and hel­ped pro­ve Alex's in­no­cen­ce. A wo­man of many fa­cets, Ms. Cle­opat­ra North.

  He'd only ne­eded a few mo­ments with her this af­ter­no­on to fe­el the spark aga­in. He still wan­ted her, and he was a man who got what he wan­ted. One way or anot­her.

  Sho­ving his hands in his slacks poc­kets, he whis­t­led a few bars from Aida and ret­ra­ced his steps.

  5

  An an­no­ying lit­tle ping drag­ged Cleo from sle­ep. She po­ked her he­ad out from un­der silky cot­ton she­ets and fum­b­led for the pho­ne on the bed­si­de stand. Sin­ce the stand was an­ti­que and al­most as wi­de ac­ross as her kit­c­hen tab­le at ho­me, it to­ok her a co­up­le of at­tempts to find the so­ur­ce of the ir­ri­ta­ting chirp.

  Scow­ling at the light bars slan­ting thro­ugh the plan­ta­ti­on shut­ters, she stab­bed the Talk but­ton and jam­med the in­s­t­ru­ment aga­inst her ear. She didn't do mor­nings well. Gi­ven the cho­ice, she didn't do them at all. Not un­til she'd dow­ned her third or fo­urth cup of cof­fee, an­y­way.

  "What?"

  The snarl pro­du­ced a stark si­len­ce on the ot­her end of the li­ne. She ga­ve it a co­up­le of se­conds. This hap­pe­ned a lot.

  "Ms. North?"

  She didn't re­cog­ni­ze the vo­ice. Prop­ping her­self up on one el­bow, she tem­pe­red her to­ne to a se­mi-growl.

  "Ye­ah. Who's this?"

  "Tho­mas Ge­rard, Mr. Slo­an's chef. He ad­vi­sed me you ha­ve a ni­ne o'clock ap­po­in­t­ment this mor­ning and sug­ges­ted I call to as­cer­ta­in yo­ur wis­hes re­gar­ding bre­ak­fast."

  She was re­ady to tell him she didn't do bre­ak­fast when he sa­id the ma­gic words.

  "I've pre­pa­red my spe­ci­al blend of cin­na­mon moc­ha ca­fe au la­it."

  That was clo­se eno­ugh to re­al cof­fee to get her at­ten­ti­on. What fol­lo­wed ma­de her fe­el al­mo
st che­er­ful.

  "I've al­so ba­ked a fresh batch of cro­is­sants to ac­com­pany the eggs Flo­ren­ti­ne. Or, of co­ur­se, you may or­der any ot­her dish you pre­fer."

  If this guy's eggs ca­me an­y­w­he­re clo­se to his shrimp, Cleo wan­ted in. "Cro­is­sants and eggs Flo­ren­ti­ne so­und go­od."

  "Shall I ha­ve a tab­le set on the pi­az­za? The vi­ew is qu­ite lo­vely in the mor­nings."

  "Wha­te­ver Mr. Slo­an wants."

  "Mr. Slo­an is out for his mor­ning run. He'll jo­in you when he re­turns."

  "Then the pi­az­za it is. Put the cof­fe­epot on the tab­le, ple­ase. I'll be the­re in ten mi­nu­tes."

  Dri­ven by the be­ast in­si­de that cra­ved caf­fe­ine, she re­du­ced her al­re­ady mi­ni­mal mor­ning ro­uti­ne to the ab­so­lu­te es­sen­ti­als. Her sho­wer to­ok all of six mi­nu­tes. Pul­ling on je­ans and a red tank top, she wrap­ped her ha­ir in a man­go-co­lo­red to­wel and thrust her fe­et in­to flip-flops. A few qu­ick swi­pes with a to­ot­h­b­rush ba­nis­hed the over­night fuzz, but flos­sing wo­uld ha­ve to wa­it un­til she fed the mon­s­ter.

  Altho­ugh it was ba­rely se­ven-thirty, the warm Ap­ril sun had al­re­ady co­axed a he­ady per­fu­me from the gar­de­ni­as li­ning the brick walk. The star-sha­ped whi­te blos­soms had mas­sed so thick they al­most ob­s­cu­red the dark, glossy fo­li­age. Cleo snif­fed ap­pre­ci­ati­vely, but it wasn't un­til she drop­ped in­to one of the wro­ug­ht-iron cha­irs on the pi­az­za and gul­ped down her first cup that all systems be­ca­me fully fun­c­ti­onal.

  One of Mr. Ge­rard's mi­ni­ons ma­te­ri­ali­zed with a bas­ket of cro­is­sants that still had ste­am ri­sing from it. Cleo de­vo­ured two be­fo­re the eggs Flo­ren­ti­ne ap­pe­ared. Or­di­na­rily, she wasn't in­to spi­nach for bre­ak­fast-or any ot­her me­al, for that mat­ter. Last night's ad­ven­tu­re with the broc­co­li-as­pa­ra­gus had her re­con­si­de­ring her ge­ne­ral phi­lo­sophy re­gar­ding gre­en stuff.

  This par­ti­cu­lar gre­en stuff went down li­ke am­b­ro­sia of the gods. The gra­ted Gru­ye­re che­ese and whi­te sa­uce top­ping the spi­nach hel­ped. So did the thick slab of su­gar-cu­red ham and swe­et gre­en gra­pes that ac­com­pa­ni­ed the dish. She had just pop­ped anot­her gra­pe in­to her mo­uth when Marc strol­led on­to the pi­az­za.

  Cleo al­most cho­ked. Smo­oth, Han­d­so­me Rich Guy was go­ne. So was Mr. Ta­ke-Char­ge Exe­cu­ti­ve. In the­ir pla­ce was Swe­aty Hunk. He wo­re an old gray swe­at­s­hirt with the sle­eves rip­ped out and run­ning shorts that sho­wed long stret­c­hes of ha­iry thigh. Cleo co­uldn't re­mem­ber the last ti­me she'd se­en so much glis­te­ning ma­le mus­c­le.

  Wa­it. Yes, she co­uld. Fo­ur months ago in San­ta Fe, to be exact. And the sli­me­ball had zin­ged off only a co­up­le of e-ma­ils sin­ce.

  Pas­ting on a smi­le, she tip­ped Swe­aty Hunk a gre­eting. "Mor­ning. How was yo­ur run?"

  "Too short, but I've got a me­eting with so­me Japa­ne­se in­ves­tors to get to. How was yo­ur bre­ak­fast?"

  "The­re aren't eno­ugh su­per­la­ti­ves in the En­g­lish lan­gu­age to des­c­ri­be Mr. Ge­rard. Wha­te­ver you pay him, you sho­uld do­ub­le it."

  "I ha­ve. Twi­ce."

  Drag­ging up a cor­ner of the to­wel dra­ped aro­und his neck, Slo­an swi­ped his fo­re­he­ad. "Mind if I jo­in you? I'll sit dow­n­wind."

  She wa­ved an airy hand. "It's yo­ur pi­az­za."

  His buns hadn't even to­uc­hed wro­ught iron be­fo­re the sa­me ef­fi­ci­ent mi­ni­on who'd ser­ved Cleo ap­pe­ared with his bre­ak­fast and a fresh pot of cof­fee. High test this ti­me, thank God. This au-la­it bu­si­ness was okay but didn't pro­du­ce qu­ite the sa­me kick as the re­al stuff. She hel­ped her­self to anot­her cup whi­le Slo­an po­ured skim milk in­to his ce­re­al and sprin­k­led Swe­et 'n Low on the fla­kes.

  "What's this? Cro­is­sants and po­ac­hed eggs for me, Spe­ci­al K for you?"

  "Fi­ne wi­ne and go­ur­met me­als are all part of the plan. It won't work if I put on a pa­unch in the pro­cess, tho­ugh."

  She fi­gu­red she knew the an­s­wer, but as­ked the qu­es­ti­on, an­y­way. "Okay, I'll bi­te. What plan?"

  "To fi­nes­se you in­to bed," he con­fir­med bet­we­en crunchy spo­on­fuls.

  Cleo tap­ped a fin­ger­na­il aga­inst her cup. "Inte­res­ting that you wa­ited un­til one of yo­ur em­p­lo­ye­es went mis­sing to im­p­le­ment this plan."

  "Alex ne­eded me," he sa­id, ma­king no ex­cu­ses.

  She knew his twin's re­co­very and re­hab had con­su­med Slo­an for a go­od chunk of the past few months, just as deb­ri­efing the tra­itor who'd shot Alex had con­su­med a cer­ta­in air for­ce spe­ci­al agent. But it was com­for­ting to know at le­ast one of them had mo­ved get­ting Cleo in­to the sack up a notch on the­ir agen­das.

  She clic­ked her na­il aga­inst the cup aga­in, won­de­ring why she bal­ked at let­ting Slo­an press ahe­ad with his sche­me to se­du­ce her. May­be af­ter she'd an­s­we­red the qu­es­ti­ons swir­ling aro­und in her mind abo­ut his re­la­ti­on­s­hip to Trish Jac­k­son, she'd ret­hink this bu­si­ness abo­ut not get­ting in­vol­ved with cli­ents. A girl co­uld only go so long be­fo­re her bat­te­ri­es lost the­ir ju­ice.

  "Hel­lo, Marc."

  The gre­eting flo­ated from in­si­de the ho­use. Di­ane Wal­ker flo­ated out a few se­conds la­ter.

  "I bro­ught the con­t­ract by for you-"

  Ms. Su­per Ef­fi­ci­ency stop­ped ab­ruptly just in­si­de the tall do­ub­le do­ors ope­ning on­to the pi­az­za. Her glan­ce cut from her em­p­lo­yer, spraw­led at his ease in shorts and swe­at­s­hirt, to Cleo, all cuddly in man­go to­wel tur­ban and flip-flops.

  "Ex­cu­se me." A to­uch of frost co­ated the words. "Is this an in­con­ve­ni­ent ti­me to go over the Mit­su­bis­hi con­t­ract be­fo­re yo­ur me­eting with the Japa­ne­se in­ves­tors?"

  "Not at all. Cleo and I are just fi­nis­hing bre­ak­fast. Co­me jo­in us."

  "Thank you, but I've al­re­ady eaten." She un­bent eno­ugh to pro­du­ce a co­ol smi­le. "I'll ha­ve so­me cof­fee, tho­ugh."

  Whi­le Slo­an sig­na­led for anot­her cup, Cleo pus­hed back her cha­ir. "I'll le­ave you two to Mit­su­bis­hi. I ha­ve to hus­t­le to ma­ke my ap­po­in­t­ment with De­tec­ti­ve De­ve­re­a­ux."

  Her sho­wer sho­es slap­ping on the ti­les, she ma­de her way to­ward the do­or at the end of the pi­az­za.

  Di­ane fo­ught for con­t­rol as she fol­lo­wed the wo­man's prog­ress. Acid rol­led aro­und her sto­mach, every bit as cor­ro­si­ve as the com­po­unds Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering's dry-dock wor­kers used to cle­an the hulls of oce­an-go­ing car­go ves­sels. So­me­how, she ma­na­ged to ke­ep it out of her vo­ice as she swung her ga­ze to the man op­po­si­te her.

  "Anot­her con­qu­est, Marc?"

  "Not yet.

  He flic­ked a glan­ce at the ret­re­ating fi­gu­re. A smi­le pla­yed at the cor­ners of his lips.

  "So­on, tho­ugh."

  She might as well be in­vi­sib­le, Di­ane tho­ught on a wa­ve of re­sen­t­ment so bit­ter it clo­sed her thro­at. She'd wor­ked with the man for fif­te­en ye­ars, had lo­ved him des­pe­ra­tely for al­most as long, and he still didn't see her.

  She'd chuc­ked a fat pen­si­on at Nor­t­h­rop to help him start Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering. They'd bu­ilt the com­pany to­get­her, from the gro­und up. Along the way, she'd ta­med her frizzy curls in­to a sle­ek bob, had go­ne for LA­SIK sur­gery to get rid of the glas­ses that used to perch at the end of her no­se, and le­ar­ned to dress li­ke a mo­del. An ol­der, mo­re ma­tu­re mo­del, may­be, but one who still tur­ned he­ads when she wal­ked in­to a ro­om.

  Every he­ad but
Marc's. If the fo­ol wo­uld lo­ok at her, just lo­ok at her, he might see the li­ving, bre­at­hing wo­man be­hind the mac­hi­ne that ran his of­fi­ce.

  But, no! His tas­tes ran to yo­un­ger, brig­h­ter, bol­der wo­men.

  Li­ke this Cleo North.

  The acid to­ok anot­her roll and ro­se in Di­ane's thro­at. She fo­ught it down. All the­se ye­ars she'd wat­c­hed Marc mo­ve from one qu­ar­ry to the next, al­most wit­ho­ut ta­king a bre­ath in bet­we­en. She'd le­ar­ned to mask her fe­elings, was so go­od at it he ne­ver sus­pec­ted her frus­t­ra­ti­on and pa­in each ti­me he mo­ved in on new prey.

  But she was get­ting ti­red of stan­ding in the sha­dows, wat­c­hing him bag trophy af­ter trophy. And God knew she wasn't get­ting any yo­un­ger.

  May­be it was ti­me she up­da­ted her re­su­me, she tho­ught with a pa­in that was li­ke a kni­fe bla­de thro­ugh her he­art. She'd put ever­y­t­hing she had in­to Slo­an En­gi­ne­ering. Men­tal­ly. Physi­cal­ly. Fi­nan­ci­al­ly. But she'd be dam­ned if she'd stand by, twid­dling her thumbs, whi­le Marc went af­ter yet anot­her pri­ze. Pul­ling the thick con­t­ract from her bri­ef­ca­se, she slap­ped it on the tab­le.

  "Pa­ge twel­ve-cla­use 16C ne­eds to be re­vi­sed to in­c­lu­de the la­test wel­ding es­ti­ma­tes."

  Fi­ve mi­nu­tes af­ter me­eting De­tec­ti­ve Ser­ge­ant La­fa­yet­te De­ve­re­a­ux, Cleo had dis­co­ve­red he was di­rectly des­cen­ded from So­uth Ca­ro­li­na's most no­to­ri­o­us black pi­ra­te and had on­ce ser­ved in the sa­me Spe­ci­al Ops unit as her per­so­nal tra­iner.

  "Ye­ah, I tal­ked to Go­ose last night, af­ter I ma­de the con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en you two."

  The drawl was down-ho­me so­ut­hern. The smi­le ca­me with a dis­p­lay of blin­dingly whi­te te­eth.