Then he pulled away as quickly as he had started the kiss, his eyes nearly black as he seared her with a look, his fingers still knotted in her hair. “One word, kid. All it’ll take is one word.”
Yes.
Her eyelids fluttered with the weight of wanting to say that word.
Yes.
Her throat was so damn dry, she might not have been able to say that word.
Yes!
“But first you better answer one more question, Cori Cooper.”
She inched away, but not too far. “First? You’re that sure of me?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll change your mind when you hear the question.”
“I don’t like that tone. What?”
“I want to know…I need to know something.” He threaded his fingers and tightened his grip on her hair ever so slightly. “Was it the money or the power?”
She jerked a little in response, pulling her own hair. “Excuse me?”
“That attracted you to William Peyton. Money or power?” He narrowed his eyes and she could see that little scar above his right eye throb. That was usually the last sign when Max lost his control—but right now, he looked very much in control. Despite the scar, despite the tightness of his breathing, and despite the erection still throbbing between them.
Why would he ask a question like that right now? “If you’re looking for something to cool you down, Max, there’s a shower in the guest house. The right knob is ice cold.”
He released his grip, dropping back against the sofa, and she took that as a silent acknowledgment that, once again, she’d nailed him. “Why did you marry him? I have a right to know.”
She coughed in surprise. “Since when?”
“Since you got married less than a year…after…”
“After what? Come on, Max. Say it,” she demanded, taunting. “I got married less than a year after we broke up.”
“We didn’t break up,” he almost spat. “You disappeared in the middle of the night.”
“You killed my father in the middle of the day.”
He let out a dark curse under his breath. But not, she noticed, a denial.
She pushed herself up in one move, needing to get away from him. “We’re not going there. Screw your games and your answers, and screw you, Max. We’re not going there.”
She turned toward the window and placed both hands on the cold glass, staring out at the blackness of the bay. “You don’t have a right to know,” she finally said, softly. “But I’ll tell you anyway. You wrecked my life, broke my heart, and stole my joy, and I found someone else. It happens a million times a day to a million different couples.”
“He was a father figure to you.”
She snorted softly. “If you already know why I married him, why the hell are you asking?”
“Am I right?”
“I met him at DePaul.” She dropped her head against the glass and closed her eyes. They had to talk about this, eventually, otherwise they’d both go crazy. Just like they had to get that kiss out of the way. “There was a fund-raiser held at the Law School, where he had made an endowment.”
“I didn’t ask how, Cori. I asked why.”
She didn’t reply
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the soft, indistinguishable hum of a tiny refrigerator and the growl of a motorboat in the distance. Cori peered into the darkness, unable to see the lights that went with that sound.
“Your friend, Breezy, told me she introduced you two,” he said.
Good trick, Max. Change the subject…just a little. “She might have made the actual introduction. I don’t remember, I’d just met her that night, too. Giff is a DePaul alum.” She lost her train of thought, watching a shadow in the bay. Was that the boat? No more than a hundred and fifty feet away. “That’s weird.”
“What is?” She sensed, rather than saw, Max square himself and follow her gaze.
“How come I can hear a boat, but not see it?”
He leaped to his feet so fast that she didn’t even get a chance to turn, but simply tumbled as he threw her to the ground at the precise moment that the window cracked like a firework and shattered.
“Oh my God!” Her cry was muffled by the force of his body, his hand protecting her face as it hit the floor.
“Stay under me!” he demanded.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her hammering heart sending a deafening rush through her ears, Max’s weight pushing her against the floor so hard that pain shot into her hipbone and her breasts as they smashed on the marble.
“What is it?” she demanded, her voice strained from terror and the crush of his body.
Over her raging pulse, she heard the double click of an automatic pistol. “Shhh. Listen.”
The motorboat raced into the night. She felt Max lift his head an inch, snapping his attention from window to window.
She tried to rise up, but he pushed her head down with his chin. “Wait,” he whispered. “Wait until I know it’s clear.”
“What happened?” she demanded again, a tremble starting to overtake her.
He eased off to her side, his thigh still over her lower back and one strong arm across her shoulders. His other hand held the gun, aimed out and ready to fire.
When she lifted her head, she saw that the glass looked like a five-foot-wide spiderweb, perilously suspended in the woodwork.
He slid his hand under her throat and used one finger to gently turn her face toward his. “You okay?”
“I think so.” Their faces were inches apart; she could practically count his eyelashes and the thud of his pulse vibrated her body. She closed her eyes and steadied her breath. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. You can thank the person smart enough to put bulletproof glass in this place,” he said.
“William did it,” she said softly.
“Then he saved your life,” Max said. “Because someone just took a shot at you, kid.”
Chapter
Six
M ax blessed the shadows he’d cursed earlier, whisking Cori into the guest house through the full-coverage foliage.
“Why here?” she asked as he locked the French door behind her.
“You’re a target in your house. Did your husband install bulletproof glass there, too?”
“No.” She curled onto the sofa, still looking a little dazed.
He snapped the plantation shutters closed, then moved to the kitchen and turned off the light. “Do us both a favor and don’t stand in front of any more windows.” He could still hear the sound of the glass pop just as he landed on her. So close, so damn close.
The thought of almost losing her the same way he’d lost Coop landed like a boxer’s punch to the head. Could a person endure that twice?
“Any chance I can go home? I mean to my own room?”
“That’s exactly where they’d expect you to be.”
She dropped her head back on the sofa, and even in the dark he could see her chest rise and fall with uneasy breaths. His hard-on threatened to make a return visit, so he left the room long enough to case the house, and cool off.
Somehow that interrogation had gotten way too personal. Of course he didn’t get any worthwhile intelligence about her husband’s death. He got all tied up in knots over why she married William Peyton before she ever even talked to him again.
Can you keep your emotions out of this?
Shut up, Lucy.
“Does Billy have a key to this house?” he called as he checked the window locks in the downstairs bedroom.
“He doesn’t have a key to anything on this property. I had every lock changed after William died.”
“Why?” he asked pointedly as he returned to the room. “I thought the first threat to you just happened, up in Bal Harbour. Was there something else?”
Her head was still back, her eyes closed, her throat exposed. He went to the French doors to listen for any unusual sounds on the patio and maybe look at something, anything, that wasn’t g
oing to light his fuse again.
“Gifford Jones suggested it. Or maybe the insurance company. I don’t remember. I was still in a bit of a fog, then. Still in shock.”
“I gotta say,” he mused, opening one shutter an inch and peering into darkness. “Shooting you from the bay just doesn’t strike me as Billy’s MO.”
She choked a little. “Billy’s MO? You met him once. He was totally wasted. How would you know what his MO is?”
“Because totally wasted drug addicts are my specialty, remember? First of all…” He closed the shutter and walked closer to her. “He never got his car. It’s still in the drive outside your garage.”
“This guy was on a boat, Max,” she said.
“But the fact that he didn’t bother to get his car tells me he may have spent the day as high as he was last night.”
“Drunk enough to go out and do something really stupid.”
“No drunk took that shot. Does he own a boat?”
“No, but he has a zillion friends who do.”
“Friends who would escort him into the bay to shoot you? That’s some pal.”
She pulled her legs in tighter and with a small sound, buried her face in her knees.
She was hiding something. Max knew it, as well as he knew she was freezing. He got up and went back into the bedroom and tugged the pastel comforter from the bed. Obviously, the maid didn’t get the message when he’d tossed it on the floor the night before. He dropped it on her lap. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
While she gathered the down comforter around her, he settled on a bar stool where he could see most of the rooms and the only entrance. Questioning her would be a hell of a lot easier ten feet away, and with her covered by a blanket.
“Tell me about the night your husband died.”
Even in the dark room, he could see her expression turn wary. “Why?”
“Because I want to know.” Adrenaline and fear and survival instinct made his tone sharp—along with disgust that he couldn’t ask her a question without getting emotionally involved in the answer. “Somebody just tried to kill you. If I can help figure out who, then I can do my job, which is to stop them.”
She stiffened, opened her mouth to say something, then shut it just as fast. Hiding, hiding. But what?
Son of a bitch, he didn’t want this woman to be guilty of murder.
“He had a heart attack. In his sleep.”
“And you were there.”
“Of course I was there.” She pushed the comforter off. “When can I go to my room?”
“You can’t.” He pushed off the bar stool and went to the refrigerator to get water. “What were you doing in the cabana?”
“Tonight? I needed to relax and get away from the office. I wanted to think about the board meeting and…a bunch of stuff.”
“Did you tell anyone you were going there? Or is this something you do regularly, on scheduled nights?”
“No and no.”
He held up a bottle of water. “Want one?”
“Please.”
He tossed it over the counter and she caught it with one hand. “Forget about the board meeting,” he said. “You’re not going.”
“Yes.” The hiss of her word matched the air suction when she opened the bottle. “I am.”
“Cori, rule number one of security is: Don’t make it easy. Don’t be exactly where you’re expected to be.” He opened his own bottle and took a swig. “Can’t someone vote proxy for you?”
“Giff can, but I want to be there.” She pulled the comforter around her again. “No one knows I’m going except Gifford’s secretary. I called her late in the day and told her. As of yesterday he was attending as my proxy, so no one would have any idea I’m going to be there. The agendas were already printed and distributed by the time I reached Gifford’s secretary. I planned it that way.”
The admission snagged his attention. “You did.”
“I have to find out why William’s signature was on that paper.”
“And no one else knows you’ll be there?”
“Marta arranged for my driver to come early tomorrow, but even he wouldn’t know where we were going.”
“In that case, maybe you can go.”
“Maybe?” She almost choked on her drink. “Isn’t that the whole reason you’re here, so I can go wherever I want? So I can go on with my life? That’s all I need you to do.”
He caught the tiny emphasis in her voice, but it was too dark to read her expression. All, as in no poker, no kissing, no sex? Or all as in stay away from my secrets?
“A big part of personal protection is being prepared for anything. You can go tomorrow, but tonight, I don’t want you crossing that patio or standing in front of your bedroom window or…” He froze at the sound of skittering steps across the patio. “Get down,” he barked, pulling out his weapon and walking toward the door. “On the floor.”
She froze as a sharp rap hit the glass. “Mr. Roper? Mr. Roper, are you awake?”
“It’s Marta,” Cori said.
“Stay there.” He halted her move with one hand held out. “What is it, Marta?”
“I can’t find Mrs. Peyton!” The woman’s voice was tight with panic. “I’ve looked all over the house. Something’s wrong.”
He took four quick steps to the door and opened it just a crack. “She’s okay,” he assured her.
He’d only met the housekeeper for a few minutes that day, but he could tell by her face that her fear was genuine. Her dark eyes blazed with worry, and she hadn’t even taken the time to tie her bathrobe.
“Are you sure?” Marta asked. “We just received a phone call from the Star Island security about a shooting. And I can’t find her anywhere.”
“I’m right here, Marta. I’m fine.” Cori was beside him in an instant, and Max let her pull the door open wider. “What did they say?”
Marta’s narrow shoulders shuddered with relief. “Oh, Mrs. Peyton!” She reached for Cori, and Max stopped her with one hand.
“Max, please.” Cori pushed him away. “Come here, Marta. Look, you’re shaking.”
“Thank God. I’d thought I’d lost you both.”
For a moment, Max thought she meant Cori and him, then he realized she meant Cori and William.
“Tell me what they said,” Cori prodded. “About a shooting.”
Without makeup and curly hair falling loose, Marta looked younger than he’d first thought, with unlined olive skin and a full lower lip, which she bit as she looked from one to the other.
“They called to say that there had been some vandalism around the island; some kids in a boat with a BB gun were shooting at the houses and boats. The Security Force is alerting everyone on the island.”
That was no flippin’ BB pellet.
“Really?” She sounded as disbelieving as Max. “Kids fooling around shot at the cabana.” No, she didn’t buy it either.
Marta’s eyes widened like two black olives. “Were you down there, Mrs. Peyton?”
“Yes, but I’m fine. We’re fine.”
“Fine enough, but she’ll stay here tonight,” Max announced.
For a moment, Cori looked like she’d argue, then she relented with a tilt of her head. “Thanks, Marta. Keep the doors locked and the alarm on. Max will walk over with you.” She looked up at him and added, “I’ll be right here. I swear.”
He stepped outside with the housekeeper, but gave Cori a sharp look. “Don’t move until I come back.”
By the time he returned, not forty-five seconds later, the comforter was gone and the bedroom door locked.
As if that could keep him out.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Cori jumped at Max’s demand, the comforter she’d wrapped around her falling to the floor as she peered at the thermostat on the wall. “I can see my breath,” she answered, pressing the set button to read the tiny digital gauge. “And no wonder, since you have it set to fifty-five.”
“Fit f
or humans.” He pulled himself up from the way-too-small sofa to let her know where he was. He could see in the dark; but then, he’d been lying awake for hours. Had she, on the other side of that door?
“Fit for Eskimos.” She tapped the button several times and the soft hum of the air conditioner stopped, leaving the room bathed in silence.
“C’mere.”
She froze at the command, then scooped up the blanket and turned in the direction of his voice. “It’s almost dawn. I can go back to my room now.”
“Come here. You’re barefoot and in shorts. I’ll warm you.”
She pulled the heavy comforter around her like armor, then approached the sofa. “Did you sleep?” she asked.
“I rested.” He tapped the seat next to him. “Come on. I know your feet are like ice cubes.”
She sat sideways on the sofa, leaning against the armrest and lifting her legs. As she settled the blanket around her, he took her feet and pulled them onto his lap. “You should wear socks.”
“We’re in the subtropics, Max. And I thought I’d be in my own bedroom where the temperature is a healthy seventy-two degrees.”
“Shhhh.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, rubbing the soft skin of her instep and letting the heat of his hand warm her chilly flesh. “Don’t talk.”
“Why not?”
“I’m still resting.”
Max concentrated on her feet, fighting his body’s reaction to the contact. Everything was tight, pulled and strained, but not hard. Not yet.
“Max?”
“Hmm?”
“Why did you take this job?”
His fingers stilled.
“Don’t stop.” She wiggled her toes. “This is no coincidence, is it?”
He circled his thumbs against the balls of her feet. So smooth. He didn’t answer.
“Since I never met Lucy Sharpe I can’t say for sure,” she continued, “but I’d bet nothing that woman does is accidental.”
He let his right hand slide up her ankle. Delicate. Narrow. Satiny. “Good bet.”
Thrill Me to Death Page 7
