by Dee Davis
At first the narrow strip of room between the bedside and the wall seemed empty. But then a shadow shifted, and most definitely something moaned.
"There’s somebody here," Gideon said, as Declan found a light switch and flooded the room with light.
In front of him on the floor, Gideon could see a body, blood staining the carpet and spattered against the far wall.
"Son of a bitch," Declan said as he moved to stand behind Gideon.
Gideon approached the body cautiously, kneeling down to gently roll the man over. "It’s Wetherston," he said, sliding a finger along his neck in search of a pulse. "He’s still alive."
Declan pulled his cell phone from his pocket as Gideon leaned over to better see Wetherston’s face. The man’s eyes fluttered for a moment, and then opened, his mouth pinched in pain. He tried to say something but there was no sound.
Gideon turned to Declan, but Wetherston grabbed his sleeve.
"Must…help…" he gasped, an underlying wheeze accompanying the words.
"We’re calling for an ambulance now," Gideon said. "Just hold on."
"No." Wetherston shook his head. "Not…" He closed his eyes, clearly struggling to breathe, and Gideon noticed the blood stain on his shirt was getting larger. Grabbing a small pillow from the bed, he pressed it against the wound.
"We’re here to help you."
"No…" He shook his head, fighting to get the words out. "Emily… Emily."
Gideon felt his blood run cold. He leaned closer, still pressing the pillow to Wetherston’s chest. "What about Emily?"
"Help… her…"
"Help her with what?"
Wetherston’s gaze met his as he gasped from breath. "Emily...needs you…" The last word came out on a soft release of air, and Gideon realized the man was no longer breathing. He reached out to feel for a pulse, already knowing what he was going to find.
Jack Wetherston was dead.
*****
EMILY SIGHED, ROLLED over onto her side, and looked at her bedside clock. Exactly eight minutes since the last time she’d checked. Only it felt more like hours than minutes. Her mind kept replaying the events of the evening. First Jack’s warning and then Gideon’s kiss. Well…their kiss. It did take two, and she hadn’t exactly shoved him away.
But she should have.
Shouldn’t she?
That was the problem. A part of her had wanted him to kiss her. Had wanted him to do a whole lot more, actually. Despite the duplicity that lay between them, she’d never stopped wanting the man. Which made her feel guilty because of her father. Which of course brought her full circle back to Jack’s warning and the idea that her father could have had reason to want Tom Irwin out of the picture.
Only there was no way he’d have put her in the middle of his fight. But worry still tugged at her sleep-deprived brain. What if the whole pushing her at Irwin had been in response to whatever the man had held against her father? What if her refusing to marry Tom had somehow made things worse?
Surely, even if that were the case, her father wouldn’t have resorted to murder.
And he wouldn’t have involved her. But even if she couldn’t bring herself to believe that her father had had anything to do with her being drugged—twice—she couldn’t deny the possibility that Tom had held something over her father and that whatever it was had pushed him to do something desperate. Something that possibly could have led to a chain of events that might have ended with her being charged with murder. Or worse, if Gideon hadn’t found her at the brownstone, winding up dead.
Which brought her back to Gideon, and his lips against hers. Hungry, demanding. Her body tightened at the memory and she closed her eyes, heat pooling between her legs.
Oh God.
She flipped over onto her back and stared up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling. Everything was so messed up. But one thing remained clear. When she’d needed Gideon, he’d put aside everything and come for her and he’d been with her every step of the way since. But that couldn’t alter the fact that all those years ago he’d betrayed her father and walked out of her life without even an apology.
She blew out a breath and sat up. Bailey’s tail thumped once as he shifted to lay his head on her thigh. She reached over to scratch behind his ears, his doggy sigh letting her know she’d found the right spot. At least with Bailey she always knew where she stood.
"Want to go for a walk?" It was late, but there were doormen on duty all up and down Sutton Place. And she’d known most of them since she was a kid. And besides, Manhattan was the city that never slept.
Emily pulled on her jeans and slipped into a pair of flats. Bailey had already jumped off the bed, tail wagging as he went to the chair and retrieved his leash. "Always up for adventure, huh?" She slipped on a jacket and hooked Bailey’s leash to his collar. "But you have to be quiet. If we wake my father he’ll not only be mad, he’ll stop us from going out. So no barking. Got it?"
Bailey tugged at the leash in answer and Emily followed him down the hallway. She stopped for a moment in front of her father’s doorway, surprised to see a lamp on and the bed still made. It was only around one, so not that surprising that he wasn’t home. But after making such a big to-do about her staying in the apartment, she’d have thought he’d have been standing guard or something.
Not that it mattered really. She was feeling fine. Just restless. And confused.
Bailey tugged again. "All right, I’m coming."
She shortened the lead as they walked out of the apartment and onto the elevator. And then with a wave at Patrick on the door, she stepped out into the night. The Queensboro Bridge glowed against the sky on her left, but she turned her back and headed down the street toward the little park on 56th instead. Technically, dogs weren’t allowed inside, but it was late and the warning sign had been put up by the neighborhood, not the city. Besides, Bailey was well behaved. And so was she.
Emily tipped her head back, inhaling the crisp, cold air. It was early fall—the leaves just starting to change. Her favorite time in the city. She waved at the doorman of a building just down from hers. Bertram, if she remembered correctly. It had been a while since she’d spent a lot of time on this street, but things in this neighborhood, at least, tended to stay the same.
Shadows filled the spaces between buildings, the glow of lobby lights spilling out like little pathways leading to the street. Emily sped up her pace, shivering a little and drawing her jacket closer around her. It wasn’t really that cold, but somehow the dark seemed invasive.
Probably just nerves. It had been a tricky couple of days, after all.
She slowed a little as she neared the corner marking the dead-end that led to the park. Just a greenspace between two buildings bound on the far end by the FDR, park was probably too grand a moniker. But Bailey had already smelled grass and God knew what else, and was pulling on the leash, tail eagerly turning in rotor fashion, his whole butt moving with the excitement of adventure.
"Hang on a minute." She tugged to slow him down and then froze as a shadow detached from across the street. A man. Moving in her direction. Despite the fact that there were lit doorways all around her, Emily felt her heart start to pound. Her dog, blithely unaware that there might be anything amiss, continued trying to pull her forward, intent now on rounding the corner and heading to the park.
She sucked in a breath, preparing to sprint for safety. There was no sense in being foolhardy. But before she could muscle Bailey into reverse, the shadow stepped into the pool of light cast by the street lamp and her heart stuttered to a stop.
Gideon.
CHAPTER 13
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING out here alone?" Gideon grabbed Emily’s arm, his grip like a vice.
"Walking my dog," she said, feeling simultaneously frustrated and guilty. "There’s a park just over there." She waved in the direction of the wrought iron fence that marked the greenspace.
"It’s after one in the morning," Gideon replied as if that explained everything.
And of course in a very literal sense it did. But she’d be damned if she’d let him make her feel any worse than she already did.
"And I live here. You don’t. So the real question is what you’re doing here at this hour."
"I was coming to see you." He propelled her around the corner, toward the gate to the park. Bailey, oblivious to the undercurrents running between the two of them, trotted happily forward, nose to the ground. Emily resisted the urge to come to a stop. At least he wasn’t dragging her back to her father’s apartment. And, if she were being honest, she had to admit that there was a part of her that was truly glad he was here.
They walked up the steps to the gate and then into the park without talking, Gideon intent on surveying their surroundings, Emily trying to restrain the urge to throw herself into his arms again. Clearly, she was losing her mind, the events of the past few days affecting her judgement.
Gideon Sloan wasn’t the man for her. Not anymore. No matter how much he made her blood sing.
They reached the railing that looked out over the FDR and the East River, the lights from the surrounding buildings reflected in the water. "So why are you here?" She kept her attention on the river and the cars rushing to and fro beside it. Even with the dark, she was afraid he would somehow read her conflicting thoughts.
"I needed to talk to you." He blew out a long breath. "Maybe we should sit first."
Her heart rate ratcheted up a notch, her gut clenching with the certainty that he hadn’t come with good news. He led her to the bench and they sat, Bailey tugging at the leash as he sniffed everything within reach. "Okay. What is it? You’re scaring me."
"I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to say this. I’m not sure where Wetherston fits into your life."
Confusion replaced concern and she turned to face him. "You’re worried about me and Jack?"
"I know you care about him."
"No. I don’t. At least not like that. Gideon, what is this really about?"
He reached for her hands. "Jack Wetherston is dead."
"What?" Her stomach clenched so hard she thought she might throw up. Bailey whined, picking up on her fear. "Oh my God. Are you sure?"
"Yes." His fingers tightened around hers. "I saw the body."
"You were there?" Her head began to swim, her breathing coming in gasps. Gideon’s arm slid around her shoulders.
"Come on, Em, breathe." He stroked her hair, his steady gaze holding with hers. "Deep breaths. That’s it, sweetheart, just breathe."
She sucked in air as if she were starving for it, her mind reeling. She forced herself to focus on the soothing rhythm of Gideon’s palm against her back and the calming cadence of his voice.
"Are you okay?"
She nodded, still not trusting her voice. Bailey dropped down to sit by her feet. Despite the sinking feeling, she felt safe with the two of them here.
"I’m sorry to have to be the one to deliver bad news. But you needed to know." He paused, the heat in his eyes igniting a fire deep within her. "And I needed to see you. To make sure that you were all right."
"I’m fine. I’m right here—with you."
"Out on your own in the middle of the night." His expression shifted to anger, his fingers digging into her shoulder. "This isn’t a game, Emily."
"I know that. I know how serious it is. I was there in that hotel room—with Tom. I see his face every time I close my eyes. That’s part of why I’m out here. Every time I try to sleep I see him lying there soaked in his own blood."
She leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest, his breath stirring the hair on the top of her head. His arms tightened around her and for a moment he just held her. Emily let his warmth fill her, subdue the fear that raced through her. And then with a sigh, she pushed back, lifting her face to his. "What happened?" She squared her shoulders, bracing herself. "To Jack, I mean?"
"Someone broke into his townhouse and shot him." He shifted to take her hands again. "Declan and I must have just missed the killer. When we got there the door was open and so we went inside. Wetherston was up in his bedroom, on the floor. We tried to help him."
"He was still alive?"
"Yeah. But he’d lost too much blood. There was nothing we could do. It was too late."
"Did he…did he tell you who did it?"
"No. He didn’t have much strength. It was hard for him to talk."
She could feel his hesitation. "But he did say something."
"Yes." His fingers tightened on hers.
"Gideon. Tell me." She searched his face, suddenly not sure she wanted to hear what he had to say.
"He asked me to watch out for you. Implied that there was reason for you to be afraid."
"Oh God, this just keeps getting worse and worse. Did you call the police?"
"We did. And we waited until they came."
"So now they know everything?" She wasn’t sure if she was frightened or relieved at the idea.
"No. I…we didn’t say anything that would incriminate you. Just that Triad was following up on a tip concerning a client. And that you and I had spoken with him at the gala. I told them he was asking about your conversation with Irwin."
"That’s pretty much all I told the detective, too."
His brows drew together in concern. "What detective?"
"The one that was waiting for me when I got home. His name was Ceraso. Logan, I think."
"Yeah, that follows. He came to Wetherston’s, too. NYPD assigned him to oversee anything that might have a connection with the senator’s death." He paused for a minute, blowing out a breath. "He’s not a bad guy. We grew up together. Just ended up working different parts of the same equations. Why was he questioning you?"
"He knew that I’d talked to Tom at the club. And I told him about Jack implying I knew something. And assured Ceraso that I didn’t. I felt like such a liar. I’m impeding an investigation, Gideon. And now…now Jack is dead. And we’re still withholding information."
"Information that might lead to your father’s arrest. Or at least to some serious accusations if Wetherston was right about the blackmail."
"If Jack had proof, then the police are going to find it. And it’s all going to come out anyway. Maybe I should just come clean." Even as she had the thought she knew she couldn’t do it. Not if it might implicate her father. She shivered and Bailey whined.
"I need to get you out of the cold," Gideon said. "But I’ll be honest, I don’t like the idea of leaving you with your father."
"He’d never hurt me." It was the truth. She had to believe it. "But it doesn’t matter; he isn’t there. Or at least he wasn’t when I left."
"Then you’re coming home with me." Gideon pushed to his feet and held out his hand.
For a moment she thought about refusing. About heading back to her father’s or even just going home to the brownstone. All she had to do was stay strong and tell him she could handle it on her own. But the truth was that two men were dead and somehow she was caught up in the middle of it all—another loose end.
So she swallowed the words and took his hand.
*****
THE PARKING GARAGE was dark, a buzzing neon exit sign the only light, the blinking red glow not illuminating anything. Vincent straightened his jacket and pushed away from the side of his car. Margaret Grossman was standing a few feet away; he recognized her silhouette even though he couldn’t see her face.
It was late, really late, and he hated the idea of exposing himself like this. But Margaret had insisted. And since the congresswoman’s support was key to the success of his plans, he couldn’t afford to turn her down. She’d sounded panicked on the phone and his thoughts had immediately gone to Patanko. Although there was no logical reason why the man would have contacted Margaret. Unless it was to threaten her.
Vincent shook his head. He was letting all this falderal with Emily go to his head. Senator Irwin was dead. And that was more than enough reason for Margaret to have wanted a meeting. There was no way she could
possibly connect Vincent with the event. Hell, in truth, he wasn’t directly connected.
More tangentially. Although in point of fact that might be more than enough.
His mind trotted out the image of Gideon Sloan. Damned perseverant bastard. If he kept digging there could be hell to pay.
None of which was relevant to this meeting. Vincent forced a smile.
"I wasn’t sure you’d come," Margaret said, moving into the weak light.
She was a passably pretty woman, thin without being skinny, her auburn hair twisted into an intricate chignon. Vincent had wondered on more than one occasion what she’d look like lying across a bed, with all that hair splashed across his silk sheets.
"Of course I came. You said it was important," he answered, pushing his lascivious thoughts to the side. "But I confess I’m surprised at the need for all this secrecy."
"I’m probably over-reacting, but I just heard that Jack Wetherston was murdered."
Vincent felt his heart hitch. Wetherston tied back to Emily and if somehow the truth had come out about Irwin… "What the hell happened?"
"The news is conflicting. The police are saying it was a home invasion. But I heard from a trusted source that it was more like an execution. And no matter what it was, Wetherston’s life is going to be under a microscope now. And if his involvement with our scheme comes to light…"
"It won’t." Jack Wetherston had been a periphery player at best. A man with his ear to the ground, he’d been an important source of information, but never someone Vincent would have trusted in his inner circle. "He was helping us, it’s true, but he hadn’t any stake in the matter."
"Just the money you paid him."
Wetherston had been the one to provide confirmation about Irwin’s perverted tendencies. Information that had provided leverage they needed, but had also sent frissons of worry through Vincent, knowing that Blake was set on Emily marrying Irwin. Only Vincent hadn’t told Blake the truth, or warned Emily. Doing so would have tipped his hand.
