A Just Deception

by Adrienne Giordano

  “We also believe someone from inside the organization may have murdered Mr. Edmonds.”

  The pounding behind her eyes crept away. Now she saw where they were going with this. “I’ve been questioned by the P.D. in this case. They won’t have a problem with me leaving the state?”

  “We’ll take care of that.”

  “Because this is a federal case and your case trumps theirs?”

  No answer.

  “Okay then. Am I correct in assuming that if I go in there and dig up something that leads you to the murderer, it clears me?”

  “Possibly,” Sampson said.

  Isabelle tilted her head. “The police have probably already cleared me.”

  “True,” Watson said, “but if they have cleared you, they won’t make it public. The news media will probably continue to mention your name in connection with the case.”

  The sharp end of a hot knife seemed to puncture her spine. She’d spent most of her life hiding her secrets and didn’t want her name to be forever associated with Kendrick’s murder. It might happen anyway, but not if she could help it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Peter was getting impatient. He pulled the car closer to where Izzy stood talking to the feds. They had to be feds. He saw them pull up in a Crown Vic that should have had a sign on it reading law enforcement.

  Part of him didn’t want to know what was going on, but he also didn’t like the idea of her being alone with these guys.

  After parking the car and shutting the engine, he contemplated getting out when an unsmiling Izzy, her face drawn and blank, turned her head toward him.

  The taller dude angled to see what had captured her attention. Peter waved.

  Dude said something to Izzy and she did a bobblehead impression.

  What the hell’s going on here?

  Izzy finally stepped away and walked toward the car, teetering when her heels dug into the grass. The two feds nodded at Peter as they drew closer, but the taller one glanced back at Izzy. A dormant sting of jealousy blasted Peter, but there was no denying she had an effect on men. Any red-blooded man would be a fool not to take a second look.

  He got out, swung around to the passenger’s side and opened the door for her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yep,” she said, but the crispness in the word confirmed she lied.

  He slid back into the driver’s side. “Feds?”

  She slapped her hands over her eyes. “How’d you know?”

  “Pretty obvious, Iz.”

  She hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t discuss it with anyone.”

  Yeah, right. “Oh, you’ll tell me about it.”

  He gave her the hard stare until she folded. “They think Kendrick’s charity is into something illegal.”

  “Well, hot damn.” He pulled out of the cemetery. “Where to?”

  “My office. I need to make some calls.”

  “What do they think Kendrick was up to?”

  Izzy shook her head. “They don’t know. They want me to leverage Kendrick’s invitation to visit so I can get into the compound.” She slouched down in the seat. “Peter, they want me to be an informant. A source.”

  A sudden burst of shock made his cheeks hot. “O-kay.”

  “Exactly.”

  No way she could handle that. Not with her emotional issues. She’d have to go into the home of her abuser, be among his things. Batshit central. “What did you tell them?”

  She rubbed her fingers across her forehead. “I said I’d get back to them.”

  “What? It would be emotional suicide.”

  She turned to him, those gorgeous eyes snappy and mean. “You don’t think I know that?”

  He held up a hand before turning right onto Broad Street for the last half mile to her office. “Sorry.”

  “Drop me off in front.” When he pulled into the circular drive, she said, “There are kids there. At Kendrick’s. Girls.”

  “Ah, shit.” Peter shook his head. Friggin’ feds went right for the jugular.

  “How do I turn away from that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.”

  The early evening sun eased over Isabelle’s cheek as they cruised down Ocean Avenue in Peter’s Mustang, and she decided being chauffeured around wasn’t a bad thing. He’d picked her up from work, brought her home to change and informed her he would be making her dinner at his place.

  The man could cook. Who’d have thunk it? Peter Jessup continued to be chock full of surprises and, for once, she didn’t mind.

  When they pulled onto the Jessup estate she once again marveled at the palatial surroundings. These people were loaded. Filthy rich.

  They passed the main house, drove around the tennis court and pool to a small cottage five hundred yards below. A simple two-story structure painted a vibrant white with pale blue trim, it had four windows lining the front with a porch that spanned the length of the home. Two white rocking chairs gently moved with the wind.

  “So, this is it?” Isabelle asked as Peter pulled around the side of the house to the small driveway.

  “Yep.”

  “It so homey.”

  “It is. It’s a two bedroom. My mother wanted to make sure there’d be enough room for people with children.” He laughed. “It’s not like she has any extra room with the ten bedrooms in her house.”

  He held open the car door and she followed him along the path to the front door. “Why don’t you stay in the main house?”

  After flipping through his keys and finding the right one, he jammed it into the lock. “Because my family doesn’t understand the meaning of privacy. If I stay here, I’m not underfoot all the time.”

  Isabelle stepped into the cool air and chill bumps peppered her bare arms. The large, open living room and the casual sectional, upholstered in a beige cotton, immediately drew her attention. Two vivid blue chairs in the same fabric sat opposite the sofa. The walls were a lighter beige, and she breathed in the coziness around her. The decorators earned their money on this job.

  She dropped her purse on the floor and followed Peter to the small kitchen, but he promptly settled her on one of the iron stools by the breakfast bar.

  “Anyway,” he said, “back to the feds. What are you thinking about this informant thing?”

  He pulled a plate of partially cooked chicken from the fridge.

  “I don’t think I can do it. What do I know about that sort of work?”

  After pouring olive oil into the skillet sitting on the stove, he said, “Good. Tell them no.”

  He retrieved two small bowls from the fridge, dumped the contents into the pan and the sizzle brought the aroma of onions and garlic.

  “I can’t believe you know how to cook.”

  He shrugged. “Marguerite taught me. All those years of being punished resulted in me sitting in the kitchen most evenings. Eventually, I started to help. No big deal.”

  Maybe not to him.

  “Anyway, I’m going to tell the feds no. I think that’s what I should do.”

  “Good,” he said again and a fuse inside her blew.

  “Are you going to say anything other than ‘good’?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. After a minute he stopped sautéing and turned to face her. “Do you want me to say something other than good?”

  “Well, I’d like your opinion. We’ve had all afternoon to think about it. Besides, you know more about this type of thing than I do.”

  He scrubbed his right hand over his face, took a deep breath and went back to cooking. The smell of the sautéing onions and garlic wafted her way and she let the comforts of a home-cooked meal settle her.

  “I’m not sure,” Peter said. “Part of me is relieved that you’ll say no. I think they’re withholding information until they get a commitment from you. They’d be stupid to give you any details about an ongoing investigation until you’ve agreed to work with them. Plus, they think the
re’s a murderer in there, and I can’t wrap my mind around you being on your own.

  “The other part of me, the part that drives most of what I do, is telling me this op could clear you of murder. And let’s not forget the kids.”

  The children. Mostly girls. That’s what the agents had said. Probably girls just like she had been at eight years old when she discovered the male anatomy long before she should have. Her stomach clenched.

  “You think I should do it.”

  He twisted around to the fridge again, grabbed a bottle of white wine from the bottom shelf and, without measuring, poured some into the pan. Amazing. Next came some sort of broth. She guessed chicken.

  “I didn’t say that,” Peter said. “I think you need to decide for yourself, but whatever you decide, I’ll help you.”

  She glanced up at him. “Help me how?”

  “Not sure yet. I’m still processing it, but there’s no way you are going into that circus alone while a murderer is running around.”

  Lemon juice went into the pan next and then some chopped greenery. Parsley? “Peter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you making?”

  He forked the chicken into the skillet, turned each piece to coat it and covered the pan. “Chicken Limone.”

  Her stomach growled. Roared actually. “Yummy.”

  “We’ll eat in a little while.” He came around the breakfast bar and reached for her hand. “Let’s have a rumba lesson while I think about this FBI deal. I want to work on your hips. You won’t let yourself go and it’s holding you back.”

  A rumba lesson? Now? “Are you insane?”

  He laughed and dragged her with him to the stereo. “Vic seems to think so. He took all my guns.”

  He tried to make it a joke, but something in his tone said otherwise. Could this be him wanting to open up about what happened on his last assignment?

  “Do you want to talk about that?”

  He punched a button and Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes’ version of “The Fever” wailed from surround sound speakers.

  “That’s a little loud,” Peter said, turning it down a decibel. “This song will work though. Let me move this coffee table.”

  Moving to the center of the room, he shoved the coffee table toward the breakfast bar to give them room.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Isabelle said.

  “Nope.”

  “Nope, you didn’t answer or nope you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Yep.”

  He held out his arms for her, but she fisted both hands and shook them at him. “Why won’t you talk to me about this?”

  Something in his stance changed. He still stood with his arms outstretched, but his shoulders sagged. “I’d really just like to dance with you.”

  Shutting down. She understood it and now realized how frustrating it could be for those who cared enough to want to help. She had forced away many people with her own version of shutting down and it suddenly seemed like an awful form of rejection to bestow on someone.

  “Fine.”

  The million-dollar smile split his face and he reached for her, hauled her forward and kissed her in a way that had nothing to do with gentility. Rough. Needy. The scorching heat drilled to her core.

  No. No. No.

  Flip the switch. He needs something you can’t give.

  Maybe, but her hands found the way into the waistband of his shorts and landed on his butt, while Southside Johnny whined about having the fever for a girl. Southside had no idea the fever brewing in this room.

  Peter pulled away from the kiss, streaked kisses down her neck as his hot hands roamed under her tank top to her breasts.

  No. No. No. Don’t let him touch you like this.

  Too late. His fingers were inside her bra, playing with her nipples and it felt sooooooo good. Something pooled deep within her, and she grabbed his face for more kisses. She needed them. Needed to be close to him.

  Flip.

  The.

  Switch.

  He moved his calloused fingers down her body until they reached the bottom of her shirt. “Get this off,” he said, still devouring her mouth.

  The shirt went flying and he unclipped her bra, tossed it, before grinding his hips into hers. His erection poked at her and his eyes turned the color of the ocean during a raging storm.

  Oh, baby. This would be good.

  Flip. The. Switch!

  But she moved her hands under his shirt, pulled it up and over his head, taking the do-rag off with it, before exploring the hard planes of his chest and the nasty scar on his upper abs. Remembering his weak spot, she went for his neck. His palms pressed against her nipples, shooting more heat into her.

  What was happening? This crazy need for…something. Not just the sex. Something else. Something she couldn’t define.

  No. Don’t think. She closed her eyes, concentrated on smothering his neck with kisses.

  “Izzy, you’re killing me.”

  The edginess of his voice seeped into her and she moaned. The swirling tension looped tight, forcing the breath from her.

  Peter finally shoved her backward, onto the couch, and his swarming hands moved into her pants while he trailed kisses over her breasts.

  Can’t breathe.

  Flip the switch.

  What will be left if you give yourself over?

  Closer. If she could just get closer, maybe her mind would go silent.

  The room contracted. No air.

  She locked her arms around him and pulled him close. “Kiss me. Please, Peter.”

  Anything to make the panic disappear. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make this feeling of losing herself go away.

  She closed her eyes one last time, let herself enjoy the tumbling, downhill fall these moments of pure lust brought. Lust that only Peter seemed to be capable of giving her.

  A sob caught in her throat as she opened the door for Creepy Izzy.

  Finally, finally, finally. Fun Izzy was in the house and looking for some serious nookie. Peter would have liked to hop around the house like Daffy Duck screaming Woohoo! Woohoo! Woohoo! but he couldn’t risk giving Izzy even a second to think about flipping that goddamned switch.

  Nope. In the next minute and a half, he’d have her pants off and Fun Izzy would get a shagging that neither one of them would forget. Happy day.

  Dinner would be trash by the time he got done with her, but this qualified as a good reason to ruin a Chicken Limone. Holding himself up with one arm, he reached for the button on her denim shorts, felt the heat of her stomach under his fingers and nearly ripped the damned shorts in two. His head—make that heads—wanted to erupt. Literally.

  All because Monk Junior was about to meet Izzy up close and personal. Very personal.

  Something clicked. Not in his brain either. By the door. The lock tumbling?

  Shit.

  But Izzy. Right here under him. He shot a look at the door—nothing moving yet. He lowered his other arm, pushed himself up on both hands and spotted Izzy’s closed eyes.

  Dammit.

  “Open your eyes.” He needed to make sure Creepy Izzy hadn’t gotten nosy. Before she could comply, the front door opened.

  “Peter?” his mother called.

  The sound of his mother’s voice at this exact moment should have sent every stinking bit of his hard-on bye-bye. He launched himself off the couch, gawked at a half naked Izzy—those glorious breasts just waiting for his hands to be on them again—and nearly cried. He finally made it to her face and almost laughed at the horror displayed in her eyes. In total contrast, her lips were pressed tight to conceal a smile.

  Holy shit. His mother just busted them about to have sex.

  “Mom,” he yelled when he heard the door close, “Don’t take another step”

  She skidded to a stop. “What is it?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Izzy slap her arms across her chest and try to bury herself deeper into the couch.
He retrieved his shirt from the floor, tossed it to her and hauled ass to keep his mother from coming any closer.

  “You have to stop walking in on me,” he said.

  The twinkling blue of his mother’s eyes faded in confusion. “Why?”

  Why? He dropped his chin to his chest, saw his still raging hard-on tenting the thin material of his basketball shorts and burst out laughing.

  This could not be happening.

  “Hi, Mrs. Jessup,” Izzy said from behind him.

  Going up on tiptoes to look over his shoulder, his mother’s smile immediately softened his angst. His mom liked Izzy.

  “Hello, Isabelle. How are you, dear?”

  Now they were going to exchange pleasantries while Monk Junior waved a white flag. Peter scrubbed his hands over his face. Could this get any worse? At least Izzy was clothed now.

  “Oh my,” his mother said, angling from Izzy back to him, her face seeming to grow longer by the second. “Am I interrupting something?”

  He cleared his throat. “Uh, sort of.”

  The lightning bolt of realization flashed over her face. She focused on his bare chest and then, oh crap, her gaze dropped to his crotch.

  Oh, no. Oh, Jesus. His mother was staring at his engorged dick. Someone needed to plunge a dagger into his heart. Right fucking now. Death would be the only suitable escape.

  How he could still be hard, he had no idea, but his shriveling intestines—at least something was shriveling—told him he’d just suffered a rare humiliating moment.

  Mom slammed her eyes closed. Like that would wipe away the vision of her oldest son in flagrante delicto.

  “I am so sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

  “Like I said. You have to stop doing this.” Peter heard Izzy moving around behind him. “Iz, would you turn off the stove please? Before dinner goes up in flames.”

  Like everything else.

  He grabbed his mother’s wrists and squeezed before she stroked out. “Relax. It’s all right. Just knock next time. Please. If the door is locked, there’s a reason.”

  Finally, she scrunched her nose and brought her gaze to his. He wanted to hug her, but with his current state of Señor Raging Hard-On there was no way he’d move any closer. Oh, damn, that had such an ick factor to it.