She didn’t mention the accusing tone of Bruce Savoy’s fax, or his suggestion that she had leaked the story to besmirch his son’s reputation. He knew that even though she’d been assigned to cover William Savoy’s campaign, her loyalties were with his opponent.
Reaching up, Chris cradled her head. Her silken curls wound their way around his fingers. He lowered his head and stared down at her, his gaze calm. “Let it go, Emily. Let the law enforcement officials do their job.”
“But what if there’s a cover-up?”
“Let it go, baby,” he crooned softly.
“What you’re asking of me is impossible.”
“Why, Emily?”
“You know why,” she shot back.
“No, I don’t know why.”
She swallowed back her rising anger. He didn’t want to understand; he refused to understand her. And she knew Chris was close to losing his temper; a vein throbbed in his temple.
“I stand to lose my job because I reported the truth.”
“Your job!” The two words were thrown at her like large stones smashing into her face. “Is that all that matters? Your damn career. What about you? What if whoever shot Bettina saw you? What if he decides to come after you because he thinks you’ve seen too much? What about me? Us? I didn’t marry you to become a widower.”
Sitting up straighter, she shifted her eyebrows. “I care about us.”
His lips twisted in a sardonic sneer. “You have a perverse way of showing it.”
His mocking tone snapped the last thread of her self-control. “What the hell do you want from me, Chris?”
“I want you to be my wife.” His tone had softened, becoming almost pleading.
“I am your wife.”
His mood shifted abruptly. “No, you’re not! You’re too busy being Emily Kirkland, political analyst for KCNS-TV News.”
“And what are you, Mr. Politician?”
“I am Christopher Blackwell Delgado, madam. Or, as our marriage certificate reads, Cristobal Blackwell Delgada-Quintero.”
Snorting delicately, she shook her head. “Don’t you mean Christopher Blackwell Delgado, wannabe governor?”
“No, wife. I’m your husband. I’ve wedded and bedded you, but I’m beginning to feel like your whore, Emily.”
She went completely still, her eyes paling until only the dark pupils were visible. “How dare you say—”
“I dare anything,” he snarled, interrupting her. “Don’t,” he warned softly when her hand came up quickly.
She ignored his warning, her arm arcing toward his face. He caught her wrist in midair, pulling her to his chest. Her heaving breasts were molded to his as she lay half on and half off his body. The very air around them shimmered with repressed rage, frustration and lust.
His hot breath seared her face. “All I want,” Chris whispered between clenched teeth, “is to go to bed with you at night and wake up with you beside me in the morning. I want to be able to share breakfast and dinner with you. I don’t want to have to watch you get dressed, then close the door behind you when you leave me, not knowing when I’ll get to see you again. I think I’ve been reasonable, reasonable and very patient. But I rue the day we agreed to this sham of a marriage.”
A thick lump rose in Emily’s throat, not permitting her to swallow without difficulty. He was sorry, sorry he’d married her. He claimed he loved her, yet he regretted marrying her.
“If you want, we can annul the marriage.” A spasm of pain gripped her as soon as the words were said, and she didn’t recognize her own voice.
His frown deepened. “I’m not talking about an annulment, Emily.”
A flicker of hope flared. “What are you talking about?”
“The secrecy. The pretense. The sneaking around and having to hide my feelings for you. If my father hadn’t intervened after the memorial service for your grandfather, I doubt whether we’d be sitting here having this conversation, because I would’ve punched out my own father-in-law.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked for the second time in less than a minute.
“Your father confronted me about us.” Her eyes widened, an expression of complete surprise freezing her features. “He wanted to know what I was doing with you.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Daddy,” he drawled sarcastically.
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Did you want me to tell him that I’d taken his daughter’s virginity? That I had married her in Mexico? And that we’d sworn an oath not to tell anyone that we’re husband and wife because to do so at this time would jeopardize our careers?”
She wanted to tell Chris that she, too, was tired of hiding her feelings. That she wanted to tell the world that the man she had fallen in love with the year she turned twelve was now her husband. That she, too, yearned to go home at the end of the day and be with him. They’d shared only one night of unbridled ecstasy since their wedding night, the night they stayed in Juárez. She felt Chris’s frustration as surely as if it were her own.
Resting her forehead on his shoulder, she whispered, “What do you want from me?”
His arms curved around her midriff, holding her close. “One week, baby girl. Am I asking too much from you when I ask for one week?”
She knew she didn’t have a week. “I’m waiting to be reassigned. I may not have a week.”
“Then ask Richard for a week off. Plead occupational trauma.”
“You want me to lie?”
“You’re falling apart, Emily. When I walked through the door, you were trembling so hard that if I hadn’t held you, you would’ve collapsed.”
“What if he won’t give me the time off?” She shook her head. “You’re asking me to sacrifice all I’ve worked for since graduating from college. What are you prepared to sacrifice in return?”
Easing her back, his dark eyes moved slowly over her flushed face, the fire radiating from them searing her delicate skin. “I’d give up anything you’d ask of me. I love you just that much.”
She blinked slowly, digesting his statement. “You’d give up this election? The chance to become governor of New Mexico?”
He stared at her, unblinking. “Yes, Emelia. Just say it and I’ll call Grant and tell him that I’m dropping out.”
Shaking her head, she went limp against him. “No,” she moaned. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re so close,” she whispered into the soft texture of his sweater. “You’ve wanted this all your life.”
“I’ve wanted you all my life.”
Closing her eyes, she felt hot tears well up behind her lids. A wave of helplessness overwhelmed her. She had married a man she’d loved for more than half her life, yet she was willing to sacrifice that marriage for her floundering career.
“Okay, Chris.”
“Okay?” He tightened his grip on her waist.
“A weekend,” she conceded. “I can give you a weekend.”
Chris wanted to shake her senseless. Shake her until she pleaded with him to stop. She was the most stubborn, single-minded, determined woman he’d ever met, but he loved her. Loved her enough to agree to anything just to be close to her.
He dropped a light kiss on her parted lips, inhaling her moist breath. “Why do I have to be a beggar with you?”
Emily gave him a sensual smile. “Because you love me.”
“That I do.”
She sobered, her smile slipping away. It was replaced with an expression of determination. “I’ll make it up to you, Chris. I promise.”
He placed his fingertips over her mouth. “Don’t promise, baby. Just sh
ow me.”
She pulled his hand down. “I don’t know if I’m going to be available this weekend. I have to wait for my reassignment.”
“It can’t be this weekend. I’m meeting with major supporters in Gallup and Farmington.”
“So, it’s begun.”
“Yes.” He sighed. Lowering his head, his lips touched hers with a tantalizing persuasion that fired her blood and left her wanting more—much more. But it ended as he raised his head. “I have to go. Keep your cell phone and laptop charged so we can communicate with each other.”
“I’ll try to find out my schedule for the next two weeks.”
He nodded. “Once we settle on a weekend, I’ll have someone contact you.”
“Where are we going?”
Leaning forward, he dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “Just bring yourself and warm clothes.”
“Chris,” she wailed, “I’m not skiing.”
“I doubt if we’ll find time to ski, Mrs. Delgado, because we’ll probably be too exhausted to get out of bed.”
Emily couldn’t stop the heat from stealing into her face when she remembered the last time they’d shared a bed. Her husband’s sexual appetite had been insatiable.
He rose from the love seat, then extended his hand to her. She caught his fingers, and he pulled her to her feet in one strong motion. “I have to go. I have a breakfast meeting with Grant and Reanna.”
She felt a rush of jealousy at the mention of the publicist’s name. “Is she beautiful?”
“Who?”
“Reanna.”
Chris grimaced. “She’s hideous.”
Emily landed a soft punch to his chest. “Liar.”
“If you know what she looks like, then why did you ask me?”
“I just wanted to know what you’d say.”
Moving closer, he cradled her face between his hands. “You don’t ever have to concern yourself with me and another woman, Emelia. I’ll never be unfaithful to you.”
“Or I you.”
His eyes tilted upward in a beguiling smile. “I know that, baby. Maybe it worked out for the best that you won’t be covering Savoy’s campaign, because if he ever came after you, I would kill the man.”
“Please, Chris. I don’t want to hear you talk about killing someone. You forget that someone tried to kill me.”
He touched the minute scar along her hairline, then kissed it. If it had been a bullet instead of a piece of glass that had become embedded in her head, he never would have claimed Emily Teresa Kirkland as his wife.
“I’m sorry.” He gave her a hard kiss. “I’ll be in touch.” He kissed her again. “Love you.”
Emily clung to him, inhaling his scent, feeding on his strength. He released her and she turned her back. It wasn’t until she heard the soft click of the door closing that she turned around. Tears filled her eyes and stained her face.
She loved Christopher Delgado, but he loved her more. He loved her enough to sacrifice becoming governor for her, while she wasn’t willing to give up wanting to become lead anchor for a television news station for him.
When had she become so selfish? So stubborn? So very ambitious?
Now she knew what Sara Lassiter meant. Sara had married a man she loved, had given birth to a beautiful son, yet she wanted more—a career outside of her home.
What Emily had to ask herself was what would happen if Chris did become governor. Would she be content to assume the role of first lady of the state, or would she forfeit that title to continue as a television journalist?
Without warning, all of the events of the day came crashing down on her, and for the first time in her life she wanted to escape—escape to a place where no one knew her. A place where she and Chris could forget everything in their lives except each other.
But she couldn’t leave Santa Fe—not yet. She had to wait to see if Bettina would recover from her injury. She would call Bettina’s parents, then plan for her weekend with her husband.
Chapter 24
February 5
Emily was never given the opportunity to contact the Gibsons about their daughter’s condition; Bettina had succumbed to the gunshot wound eight hours after a team of neurosurgeons attempted to remove bone fragments from her brain. The single bullet had splintered bone and tissue, lodging itself in the left side of her brain. Even if she had survived, the woman would have been severely brain damaged.
Emily spent the morning in front of the television, flipping from one station to another. Every network covered the same story, while each correspondent added his or her own dramatic touch. None of them mentioned her name, but she was reminded that she was the only witness when her telephone rang. She answered it, listening to the authoritative voice of the detective who was assigned to gather evidence on the murder of Bettina Gibson. She agreed to meet with him in her home at three o’clock that afternoon.
* * *
Homicide Detective Vincent McGrady’s dark blue gaze hadn’t strayed from Emily Kirkland’s face more than twice in the three quarters of an hour he’d sat on the love seat in her living room. She wasn’t wearing any makeup—not even lipstick—but he was still awed by her incredible natural beauty. He watched her as she studied a stack of photographs she’d balanced on her knees.
“The medical examiner found traces of gunpowder on Ms. Gibson’s right hand.”
Emily pulled her gaze away from the image of Bettina sprawled on the rug. “Don’t tell me you’re ruling this a suicide!”
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean, not yet?”
“We don’t have a suspect, Miss Kirkland.”
“Bettina wasn’t alone in that room. There was a man with her. I heard his voice.”
“You heard his voice, yet you didn’t see him?”
She took a deep breath. “If I’d walked into that room, then I can assure you that I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.” Her gaze shifted to the photographs. “The medical examiner found gunpowder on her right hand?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Bettina is right-handed. What did she do, reach across her chest and shoot herself in the left temple?”
“It could’ve been an accident,” the detective said, deciding to play the devil’s advocate.
Emily gathered the photographs, handing them to the police officer, who slipped them into a large manila envelope. “How close were you and Ms. Gibson?” he continued.
“Not close at all. We met in graduate school. Tina and I shared several classes and interned together, but after graduating we lost contact. We ran into each other a couple of times during the past few years, shared lunch or dinner, but that was it. She had her career and I had mine.”
“How about the men in her life?”
Arching a brow, Emily gave him a narrowed stare. “Shouldn’t you be asking her parents about who she was seeing?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“They said they didn’t know.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you either.”
“Did she appear upset? On edge when you saw her?”
“She wasn’t herself.”
“What do you mean?”
“She seemed uneasy. She was talking a mile a minute, and that wasn’t like her. Tina told me that she’d stuttered as a child, and after many years of speech therapy she’d forced herself to speak slowly. If she was rambling, then I suppose you could say she could’ve been upset by something or someone.”
“Upset enough to take her own life?”
“You’re finished here, Detective McGrady.” She rose gracefully to her feet. “Someone murdered Bettina Gibson, but you want to rule it a suicide. Who got to you,
Detective?”
Vince McGrady stood up, his jaw hardening. “What are you accusing me of?”
“Nothing at all,” she spat out. “A word of warning,” she continued when he turned and headed for the door. She was several steps behind him. “Don’t risk your pension by becoming involved in a cover-up. You’ll only come up a loser in this one.”
Halting, he reached into a pocket of his jacket. Turning, he extended a small white business card. “If you remember anything else, call me at the number on the card.” She took the card, staring at the number. It was missing the familiar logo of the Santa Fe Police Department. “It’s the number to my cell phone.”
Emily nodded. She wasn’t disappointed when he returned her smile. The gesture transformed his rugged features, making him a very attractive man.
“Thank you, Detective McGrady.”
“Vince.”
“Vince,” she conceded.
“You’re wrong about me, Miss Kirkland. Like you, I don’t believe she killed herself.”
“Thank you.” The two words were barely a whisper.
Walking to the door, she opened it, waited for Vincent McGrady to leave, then closed it quietly behind his departing figure. Shaking her head, she returned to the living room and sat down. The images of the crime scene were vividly imprinted in her mind. The police wanted to rule Bettina Gibson’s death a suicide. Well, they were wrong; the woman had come to the Savoy fundraiser to meet someone, and that someone had killed her.
She decided to wait until after the funeral before approaching the older Gibsons. Perhaps they would have the answers she needed to assist the police in apprehending their daughter’s murderer.
* * *
Tension gnawed at Chris’s confidence during the flight from Albuquerque to the Juan N. Alvarez International Airport, and when the jet landed in Mexico he doubted whether his quaking knees would support his body. His overwhelming confidence had been the result of an enthusiastic meeting with his Gallup and Farmington supporters. Both headquarters were ready to begin a vigorous campaign effort on February 18—the day following his fundraiser celebration.
Private Passions Page 22
