Twenty minutes go by and all we’ve discussed, barely, is small details. The victim’s name: Randall Walker. His age: fifty-five. His occupation: owner of Walker & Co, big name accounting firm. Last point of contact: his wife.
That’s it.
They know nothing more than Ruby and I, leaving us in another lull of strained silence. Everyone has busied themselves—or rather, distracted themselves—with something or the other and I’m growing more fidgety by the second.
Tapping my pen relentlessly against Blackstone’s desk.
I was hoping it would annoy him, coax him into a fit that would get us the fuck out of here, but he seems immune to the pestering sound, going on about his business as though I’m not even there.
Glancing over at my partner, I find her examining her nails as she was through most of our brief exchange, half-scribbled notepad balanced on her crossed leg. It’s moments like these where she brings the vain, bimbo stereotype to life. Jared isn’t far behind with his nearly clueless, jock-type persona, either. He’s made it out to look like he’s drowned himself in deep in our notes, but he’s sitting there doodling in a child-like fashion.
And Nathaniel?
He’s on his desktop, but every few seconds or so, his personal cell will vibrate on the desk beside him and he’ll snicker. I’ve been watching him, nearly boring a hole into the phone to catch a glimpse of his screen, but he positions it in a way that’s nearly impossible to see every time.
Whatever he’s having a good laugh at, it rubs me the wrong way.
Keeps my senses on high alert.
Shady as fuck if you ask me, but that could just be me given I feel a certain type of way about the douchebag.
“It’s awfully quiet over here,” Captain Porter’s voice erupts suddenly.
The four of us snap our heads toward him in a flash.
Coffee mug in hand, his lips are set in a grim line, eyebrows cinched together in contained indignation.
“We’re just brainstorming,” Blackstone answers evenly. “Trying to figure out who’s going where.”
“Doesn’t appear that way from my office, Blackstone. You’ve been sitting here for almost thirty minutes doing nothing but wasting time. I suggest you all get your asses in gear before you find yourself written up and sent home.”
And with that, he disappears to the break room, leaving us once again to our own devices.
“Quinn and I can take his wife, if you want to handle his office,” Ruby suggests almost immediately, clearly in a panic at the mention of a write-up.
Nathaniel eyes her keenly but sighs and rolls his eyes. “I was going to suggest the same, but fine, take the wife this time. We’ll meet back here after lunch, yes?”
With some sort of a half-assed plan in place, the four of us head out to finally get our damn day started. Blackstone and Lee slip out in a hastily covert exit, giving Ruby and I no choice but to check in with the Captain prior to leaving ourselves. I let my partner handle the talking while I pull up the navigation on my phone.
And it’s then when I discern why Blackstone was so willing for us to take Walker’s wife.
She lives an hour or so out, meaning Ruby and I are likely skipping lunch just to get to and from on time.
Fucking dick.
Sighing, I accept the directions Maps has laid out for me and give the Captain my attention.
“Is there a problem, Quinn?” he questions, clearly taking note of my frustration.
“No, sir. Just hoping we can make it to Walker’s wife in a timely fashion. Their home is about an hour away.”
“What?” Ruby screeches.
All I offer her is a nod and silent warning to shut the hell up with my eyes.
“Ah, I see. And Blackstone? Where did he and Lee run off to?”
“They’re heading to his accounting firm,” I answer.
Hopefully, someone will give us some sort of a lead, no matter how small, but I’ll bet money we’ll all end up here empty-handed.
“Do not be misled: ‘Bad company corrupts good morals.’” - Corinthians 15:33
Mrs. Walker? Wasn’t at home. Locating her wasn’t possible, either. Not that we didn’t try. We did. Multiple times throughout the day.
Unless Ruby and I wanted to rush all over downtown Boston, tracking the woman down as she flitted from one place to another in preparation of tonight’s event, it just wasn’t feasible to get her in one place and question her about her husband.
Her dead husband. The one she’s apparently not mourning as she celebrates at a posh event tonight.
Yes. Another fucking event. It’s all these rich-types seem to do. And although I’ve dealt with the upper-class of Boston society in the past during investigations, have seen that many of them are capable of humanity and emotional pain, this case keeps introducing me to the coldest of the cold.
Wives that can lose their husbands of many years and not even blink an eye at the loss.
The only lucky part is that we knew exactly where Mrs. Walker would be starting at 8:00pm tonight—the Boston Harbor Hotel located on Rowes Wharf.
“Isn’t the Academy of Arts and Sciences in Cambridge?”
I chuckle wryly at my partner’s question as we head across the street to the massive, sixty-foot stone archway that cuts through the hotel and opens onto the wharf beyond it. “You know how it is. Whoever organizes this will pick what they believe is the flashiest place and everyone else will travel just to be seen.”
“And donate more money than most of us see in five years’ time.” Ruby studies the flag hanging from the middle of the arch, then searches out one of the many entrances to the hotel. “At least it’s for a good cause, huh? Always drive by this place, never actually been.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, leading the way through the archway.
The ballroom the event is taking place is in its own separate building on the pier.
Taking a quick left, it’s only a few steps and we’re in front of the building that holds the Wharf room, the main ballroom of the hotel and the one rented out by the Academy of Arts and Sciences.
The priority for the employees of a five-star hotel like this will always be the comfort of the guests, especially their high-class ones. If we stop to announce we’re from the Boston P.D., they might deny us entry.
Ruby and I both agreed: we might be here for Mrs. Walker, but staking out everyone else in attendance doesn’t hurt. Especially if the killer is picking her victims from within the same circle of people.
Hence our decision to skip going through the main entrance of the hotel and just head straight here.
Once inside, we bypass the coat room and head into the Wharf Room foyer. As expected, it’s elegance left and right, with a navy blue carpet featuring cream-colored, intricate designs. Overhead, black chandeliers hang from the ceiling, but the bulk of the illumination is trickling in from outside, the sheer, gossamer curtains doing nothing to block the nighttime view.
We walk through one of the doors leading to the ballroom and all it takes is one look for me to realize this place is two times—possibly three times—larger than the space at the DuBois mansion. “We’re going to need to split up,” I tell Ruby, studying the packed, blue-hued ballroom.
“Are you sure?”
“We’ll cover more ground that way. Trust me on that.”
She agrees with a nod and spins to head to our right.
I take the left side of the room, pulling up my phone real quick to study the picture of Mrs. Charlize Walker. Once I’m sure I can spot her and recognize her, I slip my phone in my pocket and head into the crush of people.
Of course, many of them turn to study me. Everyone here is dressed to the nines in their finest and I’m in a navy-blue business suit, sticking out like a sore thumb. Ignoring them, I ease my way past idling guests, trying to see if I can catch sight of Mrs. Walker on the dancefloor—
I bump into a small form, a woman, and she stumbles a bit at the impact. “I’m so sorr
y, ma’am. I wasn’t looking where I was goi—”
The words die in my throat as the brunette turns to face me, the lights bouncing off every inch of her in a dazzling display of what looks like glitter and gold.
Ice-gray eyes widen at the sight of me.
I nearly swallow my tongue as I realize who it is, my heart punching my chest as if I’ve just been hit with a thousand volts of sheer electricity.
Kiera’s cheeks, already dusted with a light pink hue, darken further, her pupils dilating almost scarily as we stare at each other.
I try to talk past my shock, the raging, infernal need that’s reawakened at the sight of her.
The man standing next to her, the one I’m just noticing is even there, turns to face me.
Gray eyes the exact shade, as cold as hers can be, but something about this pair of irises continues to be unreal. Barren.
Lifeless.
Dark brown hair like hers slicked back from a face that almost makes them seem like twins.
Elon DuBois.
Her brother.
The one I had that staring match with the day I first met her.
“Well, if it isn’t the detective,” Elon greets in a smooth tone, inclining his head.
Kiera’s eyes drop, lashes blinking rapidly. “Detective. Good evening.”
I don’t like that tone. At. Fucking. All. It’s almost as if she’s trying to sound as detached as her brother. As if she’s trying to hide the very obvious reaction she just had when seeing me.
Of course she is, you idiot! You should be, too.
How the fuck am I supposed to when she’s fucking blinding me with how beautiful she looks? Strapless, form-fitting gold gown. Gold choker around that pale neck. A freaking gold crown gracing the top of her head, her hair pin straight and falling down her back.
Lips as red and luscious as I remember.
“Good evening to you both,” I finally force out, focusing on Elon before I give myself away.
If I haven’t already.
“Ms. DuBois, I apologize sincerely. I didn’t mean to bump into you.” I incline my head in her direction briefly.
Clasping her delicate hands in front of her, she returns my nod. “It’s quite alright, Detective. We shouldn’t have been standing in the middle of the path.”
My confusion overrides any sense of caution and I stare directly at her once more. Yet again, it’s like she’s a different woman. I met the vixen, met the gracious, cheery version of her, but this one? This one’s too contained.
Too controlled.
Subdued to the point of inaccuracy.
All wrong.
Elon’s glacial stare lands on the side of my face with enough force to penetrate the layers of skin. Once again, his attention on me rises my hackles, messing with every instinct. “What brings you to this event, Detective?”
“It’s work related.” Because I’m damned sure not going to give him more than that.
There’s an actual flicker of an expression along his face, then he turns to wrap his hand around Kiera’s arm.
Not only do I tense, but it isn’t fucking lost on me how she tenses as well.
“Well, we’ll let you get back to it. Have a good evening.”
I’m forced to stand here and watch as he rushes Kiera away from me and she follows along dutifully.
Meekly.
Silently.
Not even a “goodbye” sent my way.
I step in their direction and almost don’t realize what I’m doing until it’s too late.
What am I thinking? I’m here to work. Work. Not to chase after her and her brother.
The same brother that I hated on sight, who I don’t trust for shit, and who I just watched drag her away while she allowed it.
Her solemn nature irks me. No, it worries me. I barely know the woman, but it rubs me entirely wrong. Besides, even though he’s her brother, what fucking right does he have to just jerk her away like that?
None. He has no fucking right.
My face flushes hot with fury and I find myself heading after them once again—
You’re working. Stop your shit. Are you trying to lose your job?
When it comes to Kiera, I fear the answer to that might be yes.
Spinning away, I walk blindly in the opposite direction. My veins are pounding. My skin grows even hotter. My heart is a manic racehorse in my chest, no rhyme, no reason. I find myself back outside the ballroom, in another white and navy blue hallway, mind in tatters.
Why can’t I shake the feeling that something is really off?
Why is my gut screaming at me to go back to her? To find her?
To help her.
There was nothing in the scenario that pointed to her being in any sort of danger. Sure, her behavior was off, but what do I really know about their family dynamics?
Nothing. I don’t know anything and I think that’s what’s bugging me. The holes. The lack of facts. The questions and my sick obsession with her.
Just her? My conscience taunts, bringing forth the memory of the killer on her knees, lips wrapped around my cock.
It means nothing. The memory still sets me on fire, yet it’s a banked fire. A dimming blaze. I’ve set eyes on Kiera again and every molecule I’m made of is locked on the idea of finding her.
Of ripping her away from her seemingly psychotic brother.
Son of a . . . I’m about to have a freaking breakdown in this hallway, where anyone from the event can see me. Where Ruby can.
What’s worse is the demon in me rising, the one that keeps leading my alcoholic-self back to the drink. It’s whispering there’s a bar in the ballroom I left behind. That one drink, just one, will be enough to help ease the madness.
An insidious lie. It’s never enough. If I get even an ounce of liquor in me, my inhibitions will falter completely, and I’ll be after Kiera in the blink of an—
Sparkling gold among all that white.
Pivoting toward that flash of color, I find her, the object of my mania, the infatuation that’s poisoning me from within.
She’s standing by the wall, that gold dress hugging her curves.
Reminding me of what I had once.
What I’m dying to have again.
Kiera eyes me with that hunger, the one that’s like a truckload of gasoline to the spark of my own, tempting me to dominate her again.
To force her to come around my dick as I take her raw.
Yet something else is leaking off her. It’s indecipherable, an odd energy in the air. It hovers above her shimmering skin.
Swims in those gorgeous irises.
It’s a level of emotion I’ve never seen from her before. As if she’s silently pleading with me.
But for what?
Turning slightly, she opens a door next to her and retreats within, throwing me a last glance over her bare shoulder.
Signaling that she wants me to follow her.
I slam my teeth together, grinding hard enough to spark pain, and turn away.
Can’t go in there.
Only a fool would doubt what’s going to happen if I do.
God I want it. I want it so fucking bad.
Pacing back and forth, I struggle with this devil inside me, one even worse than my desire for the drink.
Struggle with right and wrong.
Decency and indecency.
Lust and duty . . .
Ah, fuck this. That’s Kiera waiting for me in there. Fucking Kiera.
Spinning on my heel, I head straight for the door I saw her disappear through, throwing all caution to the wind.
Ready to burn for one more taste, if I must.
Ready to fucking lose it all.
“A man without self-control is like a city broken into and with no walls.” - Proverbs 25:28
When I get to the door, I realize it’s a bathroom.
Manners compel me to knock.
Instincts compel me to barge in.
I do both—knock, then throw the door op
en.
She’s standing there, propped up against the vanity with that off-kilter look in her gray eyes. We don’t speak, neither of us can seem to move, until finally, she glances behind me and whispers, “Close the door.”
Body moving of its own accord, I do as she asks and secure the lock, stepping further into the small, private space.
And there it is again, that fierce magnetic pull. The tilt of the world’s axis, shifting of the tectonic plates. It’s eons stronger than the last time, blazing through me like a wicked forest fire.
Licking up my spine, tunneling my gaze on her and only her.
I’m moving. Find myself closing in on her with slow, precise steps—the hunter cornering its prey. Mere inches separate us when she grips the vanity, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Maverick,” she breathes.
Her voice, it’s so unsteady, amplifying that odd energy fizzling in the air. And yet, hearing her call for me—hearing her say my name again, in that forlorn, pleading tone.
Fuck.
It ruins me.
I’m on her with a single step. Hands cupping her face, lips smashing together. They’re softer than I remembered, which seems nearly impossible. But they are. So plump and soft. I trap the lower one between my teeth, suck on it, groaning at the little appreciative sound she makes in the back of her throat.
The second I release it, her tongue slides into my mouth. Small hands clutch the lapels of my suit. Wild and desperate, she presses herself closer, coaxing me to increase the pace.
I do, completely cage her against the vanity with my large frame. Each kiss is deeper than the last, hungrier. Wet and fucking delicious. Cracking my eyes open, I’m both aroused and disturbed by the look on her face.
Her eyes are clamped shut, but her brows—they’re cinched together almost painfully.
A pain that lances its way right through me, unleashing rage and this irrational sense of propriety.
God help anyone who’s fucked with this woman . . .
On a growl, I scoop her up in my arms and toss her onto the marble countertop, effortlessly wedging my way between her legs thanks to the slit in her dress.
Hands.
Corrupted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Two Page 4
