A Just Deception

by Adrienne Giordano

  Don’t go there.

  Peter didn’t want to think about Izzy with anyone else. Primitive, yes, but oh well. He popped Vic on the arm. “I get your drift. No worries. It’s under control. You flaming asshole.”

  “Well, this looks interesting,” Izzy said, tossing her purse—if that little beaded thing could be considered a purse—on the table.

  Vic’s eyebrows headed to the sky and they both cracked up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Peter got out of the Challenger and focused on the empty space in Izzy’s driveway where Kendrick’s car had been. Gone. Good. The warm ocean air slipped over him and he drew in the salty smell. Gentle breaking waves sounded from behind the house and he made a mental note to check the charts for high tide.

  He opened the car door and watched Izzy’s dress ride up her thighs when she slid out.

  Yow.

  Instant hard-on.

  It didn’t help when she dragged her hand across his stomach and scooted by him. Throw in the eyes and pouty lips and he was done. Cooked.

  He suddenly found himself praying Creepy Izzy had gone on sabbatical for the night.

  The gravel driveway crunched under their feet and he marveled at her ability to balance on the fuck-me heels. His hand grew a mind of its own and skimmed her bare back while a jolt of heat blasted him.

  They stopped on the dimly lit porch while she shoved the key in the lock with one hand and reached back to touch him with the other. Truth be told, she was probably aiming for his hip, but nailed an eager Monk Junior instead.

  Helloooo, baby.

  “Oh, my.” She turned, hooked her hand around the back of his head and pulled him in for a mind-melting kiss.

  And, oh yes, a good shagging was definitely the order of the day. Particularly because he’d been thinking about it nonstop from the moment he saw her. How much waiting could a guy take? He flattened his hands against the door and leaned into her, the heat of her body nearly scorching his.

  “Ow,” she said.

  He jumped back, but she pulled him close again. “The key stuck me.”

  Peter heard the lock tumble. She must have turned it with her free hand, because the door opened and the inside light she’d left on washed over them.

  Izzy threw her arms around his neck, pressed against him and slammed her tongue into his mouth. Demanding and hot. His breath caught and he couldn’t release it. Thank you, Jesus. He’d never known anything better than this kiss.

  He backed her through the doorway, kicked the door closed behind them and shoved her against the wall. Her slinky hair flew around her face and her chest heaved with each breath. When she slid her leg around his and gave him a wicked-ass grin, every bit of self-control crumbled.

  That’s it. She was going to get it. Right here. Right now. Fuck off, Creepy Izzy.

  A beep echoed in his head.

  What was that?

  “The alarm,” he said.

  “Who cares?” Izzy was clearly riding the same euphoric wave because she started clawing at his shirt buttons.

  He reached behind him to the keypad by the door. Couldn’t reach. Dammit.

  “Iz, the alarm will go off in about five seconds. Just let me…”

  WHAAAAAAAA!

  Too late. The shrieking wail of the alarm permeated the house, but Izzy didn’t seem to hear it. She now had his shirt unbuttoned and his T-shirt pushed up.

  Those lush lips trailed kisses across his chest and his body went ballistic. Seriously fucking insane.

  He had to get that alarm off, but moving would be a freaking tragedy.

  With one arm around her, he dragged her with him to the keypad and punched in the code. Silence shrouded the house.

  “Good. Back to business,” Izzy said, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms until it hit the floor. The undershirt came off next and she raked her hands and mouth over his chest again.

  “They’ll…call,” he said, trying to concentrate on anything but what she was doing to him.

  “Who?”

  “Dispatch.”

  The phone rang and he glanced in the direction of the cordless on the entry table.

  Figures.

  He’d been dreaming of this every night for five days and had his fantasy list completely up to date, tucked safely in his wallet where no one would find it. The phone rang a third time.

  “Izzy,” he said, shoving the phone at her while she headed south. “You have to answer and give them the code or they’ll send the cops. And right now, the cops are the dead last thing I want.”

  No, what he wanted was to rip that dress off, shove her against the wall and pound his aching body into her.

  Just as she reached to unfasten his pants, she stopped. No. No. No. If his body could talk, it would be screaming for her to keep going. Screaming.

  Too bad his brain was in charge at the moment. He punched the speaker button on the handset and she straightened up before shoving her rumpled hair out of her face. Major league hot and totally shaggable.

  “Hello?” she said and kissed him again.

  Tongue and all.

  No longer able to keep his hands still, Peter slid her dress up and his fingers skimmed her bare ass.

  A thong.

  Good thing he hadn’t known about that all night or he’d really have to be committed.

  “Ms. DeRosa?” a voice asked, filling the room from the speaker.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Peter mentally checked his willpower and pulled back. “Just talk to her.”

  “Ms. DeRosa, this is Connie from Taylor Security. Are you all right?”

  Great. Connie from central station in Chicago. Ballbuster of the year.

  “We are fine,” Izzy said giving him the nymphet smile again.

  “Can you give me the code?” Connie asked.

  But Izzy had no interest in Connie or the code. She had her arms wrapped around him and was busy kissing his neck.

  “Iz, give her the code.” Please, give her the code. Now!

  “The code?”

  Oh, come on.

  “Connie?” He rolled his eyes because Izzy had her hands all over him and was moving down his body. Good God. He had to get rid of Connie. “This is Peter…uh…Monk Jessup. The code is I-P-9-5-3. Everything is fine. I was—” Oh, hell, Izzy hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants. “Uh…showing Ms. DeRosa how to work the alarm and we didn’t turn it off in time.”

  Connie let out a sarcastic snort. “Sure you were, Monk.”

  He’d never live this down. As soon as they hung up she’d be on the phone to the rest of his team and they’d call his cell constantly for the remainder of the night.

  “You two have a lovely evening,” she said.

  Peter stabbed at the button, tossed the phone over his shoulder, and it hit the wood with a crack.

  “I think you broke my phone,” Izzy said.

  “I’ll buy you a new one.”

  He reached down, hooked his hands under her arms and hauled her up against the wall. Their eyes met for a second and the heat nearly scalded him. Now it was his turn to make her crazy. And he’d enjoy every damn minute of it.

  “Born to Run” blasted from his pocket into the quiet of the house. Connie worked quick. Let the games begin. He retrieved his phone, shut it off and turned his attention back to Izzy.

  Her eyes were closed.

  Nuh-uh. She’d closed her eyes. Crap. “Look at me, Izzy.” Hope nestled in the back of his mind. Not to mention other parts of his anatomy.

  She didn’t open her eyes, but dragged him against her and kissed him, nearly swallowing him. She worked at it, doing everything she’d been doing just a few minutes earlier. But this kiss lacked the spontaneous heat of the others.

  The mother of all hard-ons, and Creepy Izzy comes home. Rotten luck.

  His whole body deflated. Well, maybe not his whole body, but it came damned close. Her words from earlier in the week nearly drowned him. It’s a coping thing. />
  Could anything destroy a great lay like a woman needing a coping mechanism to endure it? He doubted it. Particularly when all he wanted was to get said woman in a bed and send her into the atmosphere.

  He backed up a step, his breath heaving. She slowly opened her eyes and the only thing there was a big neon vacancy sign. She’d flipped the switch.

  “What?” she asked, grabbing him, but he backed away again.

  “Creepy Izzy.”

  She stepped closer. “It’s okay, Peter. It’s what you want. It won’t make a difference. It’ll still be good.” She hit him with the man-killer eyes and ran her fingers across his chest. “I promise.”

  And, holy hell, the profound weight of what he was dealing with hit him. Staring into those barren eyes nearly gutted him, because she had no capacity for sex beyond the physical act. Nothing. She was probably a silver bullet in the sack, but had to emotionally shut down to do it.

  Did she even enjoy sex?

  More than that, when did he become such an honorable guy that he’d turn down a hot woman because of her emotional detachment? Seriously, seriously fucked-up. That’s what he was. Totally off his rocker.

  He grabbed her hands. “It makes a difference to me. I want you involved, not mentally out to lunch. I’ll wait for Fun Izzy.”

  She dropped her hands, sighing. At least he wasn’t the only one suffering.

  “We talked about this the other night,” she said. “Fun Izzy doesn’t have sex.”

  “Then I guess we’re not having sex.”

  Her mouth flopped open. “You’re turning me down?”

  Apparently she had never been turned down. That didn’t to stop her, because she slid her hands over the jagged scar on his stomach.

  Uh-oh.

  He wanted this. Bad.

  “We’d be good together,” she said.

  He stepped back. “Please, don’t do this to me.”

  The bright white of his shirt against the stained hardwood floor caught Peter’s attention. Izzy looked down, hesitated, then picked it up and handed it over. The undershirt was somewhere, but he’d find it later.

  “I wish I could give you what you want, Peter.”

  He attempted a smile, but he didn’t have the energy to fake it. “Me too. It’ll happen though.”

  “I’m not so confident.”

  “Why?”

  “Outside of sex, I’ve never been able to give a man what he needed. They always want more than I can provide. Emotionally speaking.”

  He slid the shirt on and she reached to button it for him. The simple act of fastening his shirt offered an intimacy of its own, and his body turned to stone.

  “We don’t have to rush this,” he said. “Let’s take it slow. Like we talked about.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know if I know how. I’m not sure I can let go of myself enough to make you happy.

  I’d love to change that.

  He rested his forehead against hers. “Stop thinking. That’s when Creepy Izzy takes over.”

  “But that’s the problem. When things get hot between us I have to force myself to stop thinking. I need to flip the switch because I’m not comfortable with what I’m feeling. You have no idea how much that vulnerability scares me.”

  Yeah, actually, he did because he wasn’t feeling too confident right now himself. Not after ten years of living with no emotional connections.

  “You’re going to push me away aren’t you?” he asked.

  A rush of tears filled her eyes.

  Please, no tears.

  “Did I ever mention how much I love a challenge?” he cracked.

  Before backing away, she swiped at her watery eyes. “I’m more than a challenge, Peter.”

  “Even better.” He kissed her quick and brought her a little closer. “I think you’ve conditioned yourself to push everyone away. As crazy as you make me, I like you. I can’t help it. You’re so much more than you think.”

  “Peter—”

  He shook his head to silence her. “I dare you to make me not stick.”

  Izzy leaned in, rested her head on his shoulder and her warm breath slipped across his neck. “I know you can stick. I’m just not sure if you’re going to want to.”

  And here we go again. This woman would take some work. Lucky for him he had time.

  He backed her up and extended his arms into a dance hold. “Time for your first rumba lesson.”

  “Now?”

  “Might as well do something with our hips.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Isabelle poured the last of the coffee into her mug. The Sunday paper lay sprawled across her kitchen table, and she settled down to scan the circulars.

  Morning sunlight drenched the kitchen and she glanced out the windows along the back of the house. A great beach day loomed ahead. After reading the newspaper, she’d grab a book and let the warm sand soothe away the fatigue from her evening out with Peter.

  Would he call her today? The little voice inside whispered no, but that was simply a defense. The truth of it was she’d be damned disappointed if he didn’t.

  Trouble.

  Big trouble.

  A knock sounded at the front door just as she brought the coffee to her lips. Who is that at eight forty-five on a Sunday? After her surprise visitor yesterday, she didn’t want to hazard a guess.

  She walked to the front windows and peeked out. Two men. One in a sport coat. The other, younger, in jeans and a golf shirt. Her stomach wrenched.

  With the security chain still on, she opened the door an inch. “Can I help you?”

  The older man, maybe mid-fifties with dark hair graying at the temples, flipped out a badge. “Villa Point P.D.”

  She noted the detective’s shield then moved to his ID. Detective Ron Cherald. Villa Point police. Her uncle lived in Villa Point.

  “Isabelle DeRosa?” the younger detective asked.

  “Yes,” she said, taking in the features of his face. Long nose, narrow jawline, small mole on his right cheek and dark eyes to go along with his midnight-black hair.

  “We need to speak to you regarding Kendrick Edmonds.”

  Oh, no. What the hell was he up to? Could these two guys be impersonating police just so Kendrick could get in here? She wouldn’t doubt it.

  “I need to verify who you are. Hold on while I call the police station.”

  Cherald nodded and provided the phone number.

  Yeah, well, she’d just double-check to make sure he wasn’t giving her a bogus number. After closing the door and resetting the lock, she ran to the kitchen, grabbed the cordless and dialed information.

  Her stomach hitched again when the operator gave her the same number the detective had. She dialed it, asked for the detective’s squad and received her verification.

  Crap. Kendrick must have decided to press charges.

  She took a good, solid breath and prepared herself for the burden of telling the police about her history with Kendrick. She suddenly wished Peter were here.

  She slid the chain off the door and opened it. “Come in, gentlemen. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem,” the younger man said, giving her legs the once-over.

  She couldn’t even wear shorts in her own house. Men. So easy to figure out. Most of them anyway.

  He held out his hand and she shook it. “Detective Mark Pratt.”

  “Why don’t we sit in here?”

  Isabelle motioned them to the two striped chairs in the living room while she took the couch. Tension bubbled inside her and she squeezed her fingers closed.

  “Ms. DeRosa,” Cherald said. “We have some bad news for you. Kendrick Edmonds was found dead in Abram’s Park this morning.”

  The words pummeled her and she most definitely processed them, but the jolt forced her to slouch back. The drumming at her temples left her no choice but to close her eyes and try to quiet the madness in her mind.

  The intricate stitching of her grandmother’s afghan pressed i
nto her and she remained still for a moment, absorbing the comfort.

  Kendrick. Dead.

  She’d wished it a thousand times, yet felt nothing. Not happiness. Certainly not sadness. Maybe he didn’t warrant her feeling anything at all. “What happened?”

  “He was beaten to death.”

  Beaten.

  To. Death.

  “Ms. DeRosa, where were you last night between twelve-thirty and one-thirty?”

  And there it is. She was a suspect. A throbbing began in the back of her skull. She wished she had her lawyer clothes on. Sitting here in shorts and a tank top did not offer her the same armor.

  She stared into Cherald’s eyes. No looking away or they’d think her a liar.

  “I was here. I went to a wedding last night and arrived home around twelve-forty.”

  “Can anyone verify that?” Pratt asked.

  Peter could.

  Damn. Now she’d have to drag him into a murder investigation. Her morning coffee swirled in her stomach.

  “Yes. My date brought me home. We had to drop his grandmother off in Nosrum at Beach Haven Assisted Living.” Cherald pulled his notepad and started jotting. “We walked her to her room. The lobby attendant saw us. We came straight here after that. In fact, we set the alarm off when we came into the house and the security company called to make sure everything was okay.”

  Cherald and Pratt shot each other a look.

  “We’ll need that phone number,” Pratt said. “And the number for your date.”

  “Of course.”

  She went to the kitchen, her heart slamming so hard she thought she’d come apart from the pressure. She was a murder suspect. She’d need a lawyer. They hadn’t Mirandized her yet. They were still in fact-finding mode.

  She wrote down Peter’s number and Taylor Security’s dispatch number under it.

  When she went back to the living room, Cherald took the paper from her, stuck it in his jacket pocket. “We spoke to your uncle this morning when we notified him of his son’s death. He indicated you had an altercation with Kendrick.”

  She shot Pratt a glance then went back to Cherald. “He came, uninvited, into my house in the middle of the night and tried to rape me.”