Betrayed by Trust

by Ana Barrons

  Joe turned her slowly and with his hands gripping her waist, lifted her onto the counter, then reached up for a glass, filled it with water and handed it to her. She swallowed down the pills and wiped the pink smear from her hand on a dishtowel. He stood between her knees, wearing only boxers, his broad chest with its V of hair close enough to kiss, his male smell defeating all her good intentions. She raised her face to his. His eyes were heavy lidded, his hair rumpled, his jaw dark with whiskers. Holy mother of God, he was the sexiest thing in the world. She swallowed more water to ease the sudden dryness of her mouth.

  “Wrap your legs around me and I’ll carry you upstairs,” he said.

  She almost laughed. Wrap your legs around me and I’ll take you to paradise would be more like it. Well, her better judgment was already out the window so she did. His arms came around her bottom and she wrapped hers around his neck. He lifted her effortlessly and carried her up to his bedroom, taking his time. The feel of his arousal between her legs caused her to instinctively squeeze them tighter around his waist. By the time they reached the bed their bodies were pressed together so intimately that Catherine was losing the battle not to move her hips.

  Joe bent over and laid her gently on her back. She let go, but still he hovered over her, his upper body balanced on his arms. In the dim light filtering in from a street lamp, his gaze roamed over her face and down her body. The throbbing had moved from her foot to her erogenous zones.

  He wanted her. And God help her, she wanted him.

  She should have been moving back on the bed, away from him, reminding herself that this man had betrayed her. It wasn’t as though she’d forgotten, but in this moment it didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it would matter later. But right now her breasts felt heavy, and the ache between her legs was nearly unbearable. Her heart pounded. Was she breathing?

  Holding his gaze, she lifted a hand and eased her palm down his upper arm, barely touching, then back up. And down. And up, each time adding a tiny bit more pressure. She did the same with her other hand, then ran them both down his sides and felt him shiver beneath her touch. His skin was hot and soft, unlike the muscles bunching under her hands. She licked her lips.

  Joe lowered his head and rubbed his scratchy cheek against hers, then nuzzled the tender skin of her neck, sending a thrill of pleasure through her. The legs she’d had wrapped around his waist were still parted, her knees bent over the side of the bed. She arched in blatant invitation, and he pressed his arousal against that place she wanted him so badly. His arms came around her and his face moved lower, nuzzling under her arm, then circling her breast, slowly, the pressure and heat of his face causing her nipples to harden.

  “Joe,” she whispered, surprised at the urgency.

  He brushed his mouth across the hard peaks and she pushed into him, wanting his mouth on her skin so badly yet loving what he was doing to her. Her fingers played through his thick hair as he circled her other breast with his face, blowing warm air over her erect nipple. Oh God, he was killing her with all this teasing, teasing.

  “Joe,” she urged, and he took her nipple between his teeth, tugging on it gently through her tank top. She grasped his shoulders and arched higher, pressing her breasts to his mouth as he tormented them with lips and teeth. “Oh God, Joe.”

  Still, he took his sweet time, moving lower until his cheek rasped over the bare skin of her belly. He grasped her hips with his big hands and let out a long, hot breath as he slid his face back and forth, hip to hip, almost there—

  She groaned and dug her fingers into the comforter, then pulled her body back just enough and cried out when he fitted his mouth over her mound and exhaled slowly, the blast of damp heat shocking her. Preparing her.

  “Please,” she breathed.

  She writhed and tugged at his hair and he pressed his nose lower, pushing and circling her entrance until she begged louder. “Joe, please.” But he didn’t stop, didn’t pull down her boxers, just continued to caress her through them with his nose, his mouth, the top of his head, increasing the pressure as the tension built and built—and suddenly the climax burst through her and she came apart, crying his name.

  He lay still for several seconds, his cheek on her belly, and then moved up the bed and pulled her against him, held her while she trembled. Through a haze of pleasure and bewilderment she felt the thrumming of his heart, his strained breathing, the big hand stroking her hair and rubbing circles on her back. She clung to him, letting her body relax into his, and knew a sense of safety. Of welcoming. Caring. She wouldn’t question it, not now, not when she felt so light and contented.

  I’m alive, she told herself. Alive.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hours later, Catherine opened her eyes and found Joe standing beside the bed in jeans and a worn gray T-shirt, sipping a cup of coffee and holding out the clothes she’d left on top of his washing machine last time. He nodded to the cup sitting on the nightstand beside her. “I brought you some tea. Earl Grey with orange blossom honey and whole milk. Taylors of Harrogate, no less.”

  “No,” she said, disbelieving. She raised herself on one elbow, closed her eyes and sniffed the air. Joe chuckled. She brought the cup to her lips, blew once and sipped. Perfect. She groaned. He laughed.

  She pushed herself into a sitting position with a pillow behind her back. “I’ll be your slave forever,” she said. Joe sat on the bed beside her legs.

  “Slave, huh? That’s a new one. I believe you told me you’d marry the man who brought you tea in bed. But slavery works for me.”

  “I have to admit, I’m impressed that you remembered how I took my tea. Were you recording all our conversations or—”

  Joe’s smile fell.

  “Forget I said that.” But it was too late. The ugly reality of his betrayal hung between them like a living thing.

  “You know I wasn’t,” Joe said after an awkward pause. He stared at the cup between his knees.

  “Anyway, thank you.” She sipped her tea in silence. When he rose to leave, she said, “Last night... You didn’t—”

  He smiled, his expression soft. “No. I didn’t.”

  She gazed into her tea.

  “Because you would have regretted it.”

  She closed her eyes, silently acknowledging the truth of his words. After a moment he left the room and returned a few minutes later to ice her foot. It wasn’t swollen, so he wrapped it tightly in an ACE bandage, making it possible for her to hobble without too much trouble. Afterward he fixed pancakes for her and the kids and drove her to the apartment to meet a locksmith he knew and trusted.

  Kenny Payne, a handsome black man with a goatee and a twinkle in his eye met them in the lobby. On the way up to the fifth floor, Joe explained that Kenny had also grown up in D.C. and gone to Wilson High School with Joe and Evie, Tiffany’s mother. Kenny seemed genuinely upset to hear about Evie’s losing battle with AIDS.

  “So Evie left her kid with you?” he asked his eyes wide. “She actually did?”

  “Hard to believe, I know.”

  Catherine said nothing, but she admired Joe for taking Tiffany in, and Kenny’s expression said he did as well.

  At Joe’s request, Kenny checked the lock carefully for signs that it had been forced. “Nah,” he said. “Dude had a key.”

  “Well,” Joe said. “I guess that narrows the field somewhat.”

  It was strange and unsettling to be back in Blair’s apartment, even though she’d been gone little more than twelve hours. “Whoever he was,” she said, “he must have known I was out for the evening. That totally freaks me out.”

  They passed through the bedroom to the bathroom. Joe flipped on the light and stood with his hands on his hips in the doorway, staring at the mirror.

  “I don’t fucking believe this,” he said.

  Catherine stuck her head a
round the door frame and gasped. Fear crept up her spine and settled at the base of her neck. “He erased it,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound right. Her eyes met Joe’s in the mirror. “He came back, during the night.”

  He frowned and nodded. For several seconds he said nothing. “My guess is he knew you’d left with me. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come back.”

  That could only mean one thing. “He’s been watching me.” Her gut was a hard, cold ball. Instinct won out over pride and independence, and without thinking she grabbed onto Joe’s arm. He pulled her in, and they wrapped their arms around each other.

  Safe.

  Joe rested his chin on the top of her head. “Let’s get the rest of your stuff and move it over to my house. I don’t want you staying here alone.”

  If she stayed at his house, they’d end up sleeping together, as they’d nearly done last night. In the light of day she had to wonder what in hell she’d been thinking. If she started sleeping with him, she’d fall for him all over again, harder, and then she’d be in deep trouble. Again.

  “I think I proved to you last night that I can restrain myself.”

  She gazed up into those deep brown, knowing eyes. “What are you, a mind reader now?”

  “Maybe I know you better than you know yourself sometimes.” Then he smiled that damn roguish smile that had probably lured dozens of women to their emotional deaths. “Besides, where else would you stay?”

  She shook her head. “Nowhere. I can’t afford a hotel, so I’ll have to tough it out here.”

  Joe let go and moved toward the door. “Suit yourself. After Kenny finishes up I want to go down and talk to Martin at the desk. Maybe he saw someone hanging around.”

  “After this I’ll be surprised if he still wants to work here,” she said. Joe’s quick rollover bothered her—and that bothered her more.

  “I think he’ll wonder why we didn’t call the police.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Ever since Luis was murdered he has no love lost for the police.”

  Joe frowned. “Luis? Who’s that?”

  “The other doorman. Luis Ramirez. Surely you’ve heard the name.”

  “Why would I?”

  It was her turn to be confused. “He’s the guy who was murdered shortly after Blair disappeared. The night guy on the desk.”

  “What?” he thundered. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

  Catherine was taken aback. “I asked myself the same question. In fact, I meant to bring it up to Sadler but he pissed me off so—”

  Joe grabbed her hand and all but dragged her out of the room.

  * * *

  Martin was behind the reception counter as usual, and he greeted Joe and Catherine in his pleasant, lilting tone.

  “How well did you know Luis Ramirez?” Joe asked without preamble. Martin’s eyes widened. “I’m not a cop, Martin, I’m a reporter. And I never heard a thing about Luis’s death. I think that’s very strange, don’t you?”

  Martin glanced at Catherine.

  “I’d appreciate you telling him what you told me,” she said.

  He swallowed. “All the paper said was that a Hispanic man was found dead in an alley, and that they couldn’t say who he was until they notified his next of kin. Which was a lie. His brother, Carlos, found him lying in a pool of blood. He was the closest relation Luis had.”

  “Did the police ever come here to talk to you?” Joe asked.

  Martin shook his head. “I don’t think they talked to anybody here. We were waiting for them to come, but they never did. It was like they didn’t care.”

  Joe wasn’t so sure that was true. In fact, he had the uneasy feeling that the police cared very, very much that no one make the connection between the death of Luis Ramirez and the disappearance of Blair Morrissey.

  “Do you know where Carlos lives?”

  “South Arlington,” Martin said. “Or maybe Alexandria. I don’t know the address, but he lived with Luis, so the management of this place must have it.”

  “Can you get it for us?”

  “I’m not supposed to go into the files.” Martin glanced between them. “Carlos and Luis used to hang out at a bar in Alexandria. The Green Lantern. But I doubt Carlos will talk to you. Luis told me his brother was a very private person, not too sociable, you know?”

  Joe turned to Catherine. “I think we can get Carlos to talk.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Carlos Ramirez?”

  Carlos looked up from his drink slowly then leaned back in the wooden booth. “Never heard of him,” he said to Catherine. His gaze slid down her body and back to her face. “But I would like to know who you are.”

  Catherine had felt deeply self-conscious since she’d walked into the Green Lantern at half past nine wearing Blair’s clothes—a slim black dress, cut lower than she liked, and high heels—and felt the stares of the mostly male patrons. At least the outfit’d had the desired effect. She sat down across from him. “I’m trying to find a man named Carlos Ramirez. Is that your name?”

  His expression went blank. “What do you want with this Carlos?”

  “My name is Catherine Morrissey. I’m Blair Morrissey’s sister.”

  Carlos stared at her, his deep brown eyes wide. “Madre de Dios,” he whispered, and crossed himself.

  On cue, Joe picked up his beer from the bar and slid into the booth beside Catherine. He passed his business card across the table. Carlos glanced between them, frowning, then at the card without touching it.

  “Reporter,” he said with disgust.

  “Do you have any idea why your brother was killed, Carlos?” Joe asked.

  “Where were you people nine months ago? Maybe we could have caught the guy. The police didn’t give a shit, that’s for damn sure.”

  “I didn’t know about Luis’s death until this morning,” Joe said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  Catherine laid a hand on Carlos’s arm. “Please. It’s important. We think the two murders were related, and we agree with you about the police. They’ve botched the investigation and we’re looking for answers.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you.”

  “Anything,” Joe said. “Can you tell us a little about your brother?”

  Carlos sighed, then began talking, his tone nearly flat. “Luis was a student at George Washington University. He worked at that apartment building at night and studied, took classes and slept a little during the day. When he had a night off he liked to go out and have a few drinks, you know, after classes before he came home.”

  “You lived together?”

  Carlos nodded. “With his fiancée Elena and my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Anyway, Luis got a big kick out of it when important people lectured in his classes or he saw them in the street.” He glanced at Catherine. “Or when he saw them at the apartment building.”

  Joe leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “I know what he means,” Catherine said quietly. She was sitting very still, her eyes on Carlos. “And so do you. Luis saw Blair with some important men, isn’t that right?”

  Carlos nodded slowly. “He used to tell me about the men who would bring her home. Sometimes they stayed and left early in the morning. Here and there he recognized someone. Usually they were married.”

  “Representatives? Senators?” Joe asked.

  “All the guys you mentioned in your articles and more.”

  Catherine closed her eyes. Did one of them kill you, Blair?

  “They looked right through my brother in that lobby, and he pretended he didn’t see them. Who was he to them? Some poor, uneducated peon supporting his relatives back in El Salvador. Sometimes they didn’t come inside, but he would see the cars they pulled up in, and he started to see the s
ame car over and over. A black Lincoln.”

  “He kept track of the license plates?” Joe asked.

  Carlos hesitated. “You going to print this?”

  Joe shook his head. “Not unless I have a damn good reason to think it’s relevant to Blair’s murder. I’ve been burned once, I’m not—”

  “It’s not because I am afraid for myself, but I don’t want anyone bothering Elena.”

  “You were talking about Luis seeing the same black car dropping off Blair,” Catherine prompted.

  “Right. He figured it was one of the married guys, you know. But then, one day he stepped outside to watch the motorcade going down Connecticut Avenue and what does he see?”

  “That car,” Joe said. He ran his hand back over his head. “Holy shit. It fits.”

  “Wait,” Catherine said, frowning. “Back up. When you say ‘motorcade,’ do you mean—”

  Carlos nodded. “Yeah. That car was at the very end of the line.”

  Catherine’s heart froze. What had her sister been doing in a car that was part of the president’s motorcade? “So Luis told you these things and then what?”

  “He didn’t only tell me. That was the problem. Luis was a happy drunk, and he wagged his tongue when he had a little too much to drink.”

  “He was talking about this in a public bar?” Joe asked.

  “Yeah, but he didn’t mention the car to anyone. At first.”

  “You think the gossip about my sister got him killed?” Catherine asked. “How do you know it wasn’t a random act, some junkie looking for cash, something like that?”

  “Because a few nights before he was killed, a guy came into the bar, nobody we’d ever seen before. He was friendly, big smile, you know, started buying us beers. Somehow he got Luis talking about the busty blonde in— I mean, your sister.”

  “Did Luis name names?” Joe asked.

  Carlos sighed. “Yeah, he named names.” He said nothing for a couple of minutes. Neither Joe nor Catherine pressed. His voice was bitter when he spoke again. “Luis worked the next two nights and the guy didn’t show up.”