Private Passions

by Rochelle Alers

  * * *

  After their bathtub coupling, Chris and Emily washed, dressed, then searched through Steve Washington’s freezer, selecting two large-mouth bass that had been cleaned and vacuum-packed in plastic bags. The vegetable bin yielded several baking potatoes, and the vegetable crisper in the side-by-side refrigerator-freezer green, yellow and red peppers that were still fresh. Looking for something green, she decided on a package of frozen spinach. A further foray in a pantry turned up a spice rack with the ubiquitous garlic powder and olive oil. She would sauté the spinach.

  Chris slipped several Maxwell CDs on the carousel of the powerful mini-stereo system resting on a kitchen countertop, and whenever one of his favorite selections came on he pulled Emily away from her task to dance with him. What should’ve taken her an hour to complete stretched into twice that long. It was nearly ten when they finished eating, cleaned up the kitchen and returned to the loft.

  * * *

  Emily lay beside her husband on the large bed, her fingers threaded through his. He’d only mentioned Alejandro once, and that was to tell her that her now deceased father-in-law had requested that their son carry his name.

  Squeezing his fingers gently, she turned on her side, facing him in the darkness. “Did Alejandro suffer?”

  Inhaling deeply before letting out his breath, Chris shook his head. “No. The doctor made certain he was comfortable, even to the end.” Reaching over with his free hand, he pulled her smooth leg over his hair-roughed one. “He left us the house in Puerto Escondido, all of the surrounding property and enough money to last us well into old age.”

  There was profound silence before she spoke again. “Why?”

  “Who else was he going to leave it to? Distant cousins? Sonia’s husband has provided for her, so it was either us or the church. And the church did receive a very generous donation.”

  She thought about the amount of money she’d inherited from her grandfather, and now Alejandro. Money she wouldn’t be able to spend in her lifetime even if she squandered half of it.

  “What are you thinking about, baby?” Chris asked after a prolonged silence.

  “I was thinking about the money my grandfather left me.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’d asked my mother to invest it for me.”

  “Has she?”

  “Not yet. I think I’d like to take half of it and set up a foundation to offer college scholarships for African-American students who are considering a career in journalism.”

  Releasing her hand, Chris reached out and pulled her effortlessly atop his body. His arms curved around her waist. He placed light kisses on her mussed hair.

  “I should’ve thought of that myself. Call your mother and have her put Samuel Cole’s money into a foundation that will make it exempt from the exorbitant inheritance tax.”

  “Would you be opposed to setting up a foundation honoring the memory of Samuel Cole and Alejandro Delgado?’

  Tightening his hold on her body, Chris kissed her forehead. “Of course not. I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

  “I think so, too,” she teased without a hint of modesty.

  “I think you’re wonderful, Mrs. Delgado.”

  Cradling his lean, clean-shaven cheeks between her palms, she searched for his mouth, covering it with hers. She moaned softly as she felt his hardening flesh stir against her belly.

  “Haven’t you had enough?”

  Without warning, he reversed their positions, looming above her. “How can I get too much of something I don’t get enough of?”

  She wasn’t given the opportunity to ponder his question as he pushed into her body without his usual foreplay. She knew this coming together would be different from any other they’d shared.

  They utilized every inch of the large bed, rolling and reversing positions as they tried to get close enough to meld into one. Mouths joined, fingers entwined, Chris and Emily tore at each other as their passions rose higher and higher. She arched, meeting each relentless thrust of his powerful hips. Moans, groans and grunts punctuated the silence, escalating with the lust spinning out of control.

  Love flowed through Emily like heated honey, and when they reversed positions she sat astride him, threw her head back, cried out her release, then melted all over him. Slumping to his chest, she lay there spent while he exploded, leaving his seed planted deep within her womb.

  She didn’t, couldn’t move, staying sprawled over his body, waiting for sanity and reason to return. Moisture from her face and hair dripped onto Chris’s sweat-covered body. They’d made love as if it would be their last time together. Each time they came together they refused to hold anything back, not knowing when or if they would make love again before the first Tuesday in November.

  Chapter 28

  February 25

  Santa Fe

  Emily was thoroughly bored. She’d spent the past hour reading newspaper accounts of Chris’s successful fundraiser.

  She felt her mind wandering as her gaze shifted to the typed copy on her desk. Her intern wasn’t scheduled to come into the KCNS office until the following day, so she’d spent the morning editing copy. She had approached Richard Adams about reassigning her, but he would not relent. Her desk assignment would continue until further notice.

  In two days she would turn thirty-one, and Emily looked forward to traveling to Las Cruces to celebrate the occasion with the Lassiters and Sterlings. Her parents had planned to fly to New Mexico from Florida but had canceled their return. Vanessa was diagnosed with the flu, and the Coles’ physician recommended she remain in Florida until she made a full recovery.

  Light from the desk lamp glinted off the stones of the ring on her left hand. Once she returned from her weekend tryst with her husband, she refused to remove the ring. Several people at the station mentioned her “nice ring,” then waited for her to offer an explanation. When none was forthcoming they whispered among themselves, speculating as to who might have given it to her.

  The small, flip-top cell phone in an open drawer in her desk chimed softly. Picking up the palm-size instrument, she pushed a button. “Hello.”

  “It’s me.”

  Her heart lurched. It was the mysterious woman. This was only the second time she’d called. “Yes?”

  “I want you to meet me.”

  “Where?”

  “Church of the Savior. Get there before the twelve-twenty mass. Sit in the middle of the church. Don’t go up for communion or turn around. I’ll be sitting behind you. Ignore these instructions and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “I understand.”

  The call ended and Emily stared at the phone. A knowing smile curved her lips. “You’re a liar,” she whispered.

  It was obvious the woman knew Bettina personally or she wouldn’t have contacted her to elicit her help in solving the murder. It was also obvious that she might have been privy to secrets Bettina hadn’t told her parents. Glancing at her watch, Emily noted the time. She had to leave now if she intended to make it to the church before the afternoon mass.

  Shoving her wireless phone and a beeper into her purse, she scribbled a note for the receptionist to page her if Richard Adams needed to contact her.

  Taking the elevator to the parking lot, she slipped into her Corvette. The morning sun had disappeared, leaving behind gray, overcast skies. Winter had tightened its grip on New Mexico’s northern region, with heavy accumulations of snow in the mountains. Skiers were coming to the resorts in record numbers.

  A rush of adrenaline made Emily almost light-headed with anticipation as she drove toward the church. It had been exactly three weeks since someone had murdered Bettina Gibson, and when Emily called Detective McGrady he’d reported that his investigation had come to a complete standst
ill. Without the elder Gibsons’ cooperation and any new leads, he was ready to label the case unsolved.

  It had taken all of her self-control not to scream at him for his lack of enthusiasm in solving the case. She told him that if the victim had been the governor’s wife, she doubted whether he would be so laid-back in his attempt to apprehend the murderer. Not waiting for his response, she hung up. She thought of contacting Steve Washington but changed her mind. The highway patrol officer was her only link to Chris, and she didn’t want to compromise his friendship by drawing him into a murder investigation.

  She drove quickly, making certain to stay under the speed limit. Glancing up at the rearview mirror, she noticed a dark, four-door sedan behind her. The driver was too close, nearly tailgating her. Her gaze narrowed as she slowed and changed into the left lane. The driver of the other car moved over to the left, dropping back several car lengths. Without signaling, she depressed the clutch, shifted into a higher gear, then moved across two lanes of traffic and turned off at the next intersection. It had taken less than ten seconds, but she lost her pursuer when she sped down a one-way street, turned off into a two-way, then reversed direction. The shrill of rubber hitting the roadway disturbed the quietness of the working-class residential neighborhood. Three minutes later, she maneuvered into the tiny parking lot abutting the small Roman Catholic church.

  There were at least half a dozen cars in the lot, which meant parishioners had already arrived for the weekday noon mass. Gathering her purse, she opened the door, glancing around to see if she was still being followed. There was no other vehicle in sight along the street. Letting out her breath, she walked the short distance from the parking lot to the church entrance.

  Flickering candles behind red and blue chimneys, along with votive candles in the same colors, winked in the cloaking shadows of the baroque-style structure. She sat down in the middle aisle. The pews in front and behind her were empty. She noticed that all of the worshipers were elderly men and woman. Most carried rosaries that were laced between clasped hands.

  Without turning around, Emily felt a presence behind her. A shiver raced up her spine. Her sensitive nose detected a familiar masculine cologne. Why would a woman wear a man’s fragrance? She did not have long to ponder the question.

  “Bettina Gibson was pregnant,” announced a soft male voice.

  Emily stared straight ahead, her gaze focused on the altar. Her pulses were racing with excitement. “Whose baby was she carrying?”

  “That’s for you to uncover, Miss Kirkland.”

  “Who are you?” she whispered, rising to her feet as a young priest made his appearance.

  “A friend of a friend.”

  “A friend of the woman who has been calling me?”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  She felt movement behind her but didn’t turn around. The informant had given her information that elicited a modicum of uneasiness. She didn’t know why, but Grace Clark’s name came to mind. Was there a connection between Salem Lassiter’s late wife and Bettina Gibson? Had both women become involved with William Savoy? Were they both carrying his child when they died? Emily planned to call Detective McGrady and corroborate the information her contact had given her. He would be privy to the results of Bettina’s autopsy—if the Gibsons had agreed to an autopsy.

  * * *

  Detective Vincent McGrady rose to his feet at Emily Kirkland’s approach. She looked vastly different from their first encounter. She wore a dark green sheepskin swing coat, a pair of low-heeled black riding boots, a slim, black, midi-length wool skirt and a matching cashmere twinset. Her curly hair was brushed off her face and forehead, while a light cover of makeup highlighted her beautiful face. She’d called his private number the day before, leaving a message that she wanted to meet with him, and he’d suggested a small Italian restaurant in a Santa Fe suburb.

  Extending her gloved hand, Emily offered him a warm smile. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

  He shook the proffered hand, returning her smile. “Your message said you might have some information for me.” Moving to her side, he assisted her in removing her gloves and coat.

  Emily nodded when Vincent sat down opposite her. “Yes, I do.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk over dinner. I highly recommend the ziti.”

  She hadn’t planned to eat because she had at least a four-hour drive ahead of her. She wanted to tell the detective what she’d uncovered before she left Santa Fe for Las Cruces. Glancing at the menu on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth, she perused the selections.

  “I’ll just have a seltzer.”

  Vincent raised his sandy eyebrows. “Are you on a diet, Miss Kirkland?” His dark blue eyes moved slowly over her upper body.

  She ignored his backhanded compliment, placing both hands on the table. The light from an overhead fixture caught the blue-white flash of diamonds on her left hand.

  He shifted uneasily in his chair. He’d made a mistake. Keith Norris had held a televised press conference, revealing that he and Emily Kirkland had called off their engagement, but the ring on her finger indicated that they might have changed their minds again. The awkward moment passed when a waiter came to the table to take their orders.

  Emily waited until the man walked away, then said, “Are you aware that Bettina Gibson was pregnant when she died?”

  Vincent’s expression did not change. “You told me that you didn’t know whether Ms. Gibson was seeing a man.”

  “I told you the truth. But you didn’t answer my question, Detective McGrady. Did you know she was pregnant?”

  He nodded. “An autopsy revealed that she was at least two months into her term. Only the Gibsons and my office were privy to the medical examiner’s findings. How did you come by your information?”

  “That’s privileged.”

  “If it’s so privileged, why are you telling me?”

  “I needed you to corroborate what my source told me.”

  “Who’s your source?”

  “That’s also privileged.”

  Resting his elbows on the tablecloth, Vincent McGrady gave Emily a long, penetrating look. “What else has your source told you?”

  “That’s all for now.”

  “It appears that your source knows a little something about Bettina Gibson’s private life.”

  The waiter returned with their beverages and all conversation ceased until he was far enough away not to overhear their discussion.

  Emily took small sips of the seltzer, then moved the glass aside. “I’ll be in touch with you when I get more information. I suggest you talk to her coworkers at the magazine again. I’m certain there is someone who might have seen Bettina with a man outside the office.”

  Vincent took a long swallow of his sparkling water. “I’ll follow up on it.”

  He stood when Emily pushed back her chair, coming around to help her with her coat. He’d hoped to share dinner with her—get to know her better. His own marriage had ended eighteen months earlier, and the ensuing divorce had turned ugly. In all that time, he hadn’t thought about dating a woman until now.

  Emily flashed her recognizable smile. “Thanks, Detective McGrady. I’ll be in touch.”

  He nodded, staring at her departing figure until she was out of his line of vision.

  * * *

  Emily pressed a button on the car radio for an all-news station. She listened absentmindedly as the newscaster updated the evening’s rush-hour traffic but became suddenly alert when he offered the political news. Her fingers tightened on the leather-wrapped steering wheel as she heard the news Chris had been anticipating.

  “Investigators hired by gubernatorial hopeful William Savoy have uncovered information that his opponent, State Senator Christopher Delgado�
��s biological father was charged by Mexican authorities with trafficking in marijuana and cocaine more than thirty years ago. Mexican police records reveal that Alejandro Delgado, a former diplomat, fled Mexico before he could be apprehended. After he was diagnosed with cancer, he was permitted to return to Mexico where he died earlier this month. There has been no response from Senator Delgado or anyone at his campaign headquarters.”

  Emily mumbled a savage curse under her breath. The mudslinging had begun. The threat that Savoy would expose Alejandro Delgado’s past had manifested.

  Concentrating on the taillights in front of her, she whispered a silent prayer that her husband’s brilliant strategists wouldn’t wait too long to call a press conference to give their candidate the opportunity to reply to the insinuations.

  Politically astute Savoy had begun a blitzkrieg of television ads, while Chris’s image was visible on billboards and campaign buttons. She’d noticed a number of vehicles with bumper stickers bearing his name, but his image was not as visible as she would’ve liked it to be.

  What were his strategists waiting for? They had to know that voters were fickle and unpredictable. The slightest hint of a scandal could sway the most staunch supporter.

  The word scandal was branded on her mind, along with Bettina’s murder. Savoy’s press secretary had released a report that the alleged suicide of Bettina Gibson at his candidate’s fundraiser was an attempt to malign William Savoy’s impeccable reputation. When asked why the journalist might have elected to take her own life at the country club on that particular evening, the response was that no one would ever know because dead people don’t talk.

  How true, Emily thought. Bettina had come to the event with a purpose. She suspected she was there to meet someone—and that someone was probably a man. A man she’d been arguing with, a man who had killed her to keep her from talking.

  Maneuvering into the lane for southward traffic, Emily’s delicate jaw hardened with determination. Bettina was dead, her own career was in limbo, and her husband’s personal life was about to be dissected by the press.