by Maggie Price
He cocked his head. “What can I do for you, Jules?”
“Like I said, we need to talk.”
“Have you found out who killed Vanessa?”
She took a step toward him. “I think I’m getting close,” she said evenly. “We need to talk. Now.”
He flicked a glance toward the house. “Where’s your partner?”
“Busy.” She took another step forward. “Now, Sloan.”
He shrugged and rose, a pool of dripping water forming at his bare feet. “All right, Julia, talk....” His voice caught when her gaze veered to the point just below his stemum. Damn, how the hell had he forgotten the scar?
He felt the intensity of her eyes as her gaze traced the line the scalpel had taken across his flesh.
Slowly, her eyes rose to meet his. “What happened?”
He forced a shrug. “Exploratory surgery. No big deal.”
Her eyes narrowed and he saw the silent questions forming.
Later, he would excuse his actions by telling himself he could feel the damnable scar heat beneath her gaze. But at this instant, his only thought was to divert her eyes, erase from her mind the questions he could never answer. His hand shot out, cupping her nape, and he closed the distance between them.
“Why don’t you peel off that fine white dress and slide into the hot tub with me, Jules?”
Her lips parted and he saw the stark surprise in her eyes that rendered her motionless.
The familiar warm scent of Obsession pulsed off her in little waves, sending the low, drugging ache of need to his gut. Beneath his hand he felt the tenseness in her spine...and the gratifying hard, quick stutter of her pulse.
Reason told him to stop, to slide his fingers from that soft, heated flesh, step back and rid his lungs of air that so maddeningly smelled only of her. He would have...God, he would have, if he hadn’t seen the flutter of her lashes, heard the soft hitch of her breath that had him wanting to pick her up, crush her to him.
Thought left him, as did sound judgment. He dipped his head, his mouth hovering inches from her ripe, glossed lips. “You and me, Jules,” he suggested softly, meaning it, wanting it. “Like old times. You remember—”
She moved so fast, it was all he could do to keep his balance when she whacked his hand away, clamped onto his arm and twisted it like a pretzel against his spine.
“You’re right, I remember.” The same bitterness he heard in her voice flashed in her eyes. “Everything. Touch me again and I’ll have you flat on your back before you can draw your next breath.”
He tightened his jaw to hide a wince. “As I recall,” he said in a smooth voice, “you having me on my back can be an exceptional experience.”
She jerked back, almost pulling his arm out of the socket before she released her hold. “The days are gone when your smooth lines work on me, Sloan. I have no desire to jump into a hot tub. much less a bed, with you.”
He cocked his head and resisted rubbing at the ache in his arm. “I didn’t say anything about a bed, Jules, but I’m flattered you’re thinking about it.”
“Go to hell! And stop calling me Jules!”
His lips curved. Time had not dulled the fiery passion that simmered just beneath her controlled-cop exterior. Three years ago he’d walked into the governor’s inaugural ball and seen not only a sharp-eyed uniformed officer with an automatic holstered at her waist, but the gorgeous woman behind the tough, aloof shell. And through he’d been mad with desire for her, he’d taken great pleasure in slowly, methodically, breaking through that shell, peeling away the layers of controlled resistance until, weeks later when she came to him, all that remained was drugging softness and heat.
Softness and heat that he suddenly found himself desperate to have again.
His hands fisted at his sides to keep from reaching for her. It was no surprise that his desire for her was as sharp as ever. What surprised him was that for a fleeting instant, he’d felt his resolve waiver.
Pulling in a deep breath, he took in the woman standing before him, her dark hair a ravishing frame around her face, her eyes sparking like hot, black coals. He was tempted, very tempted, to forget every gut-wrenching decision he’d made...but he had no intention of forgetting. He’d returned to Oklahoma City solely because of business, and he’d leave when he had things finalized. Julia Cruze represented the life he could not have. And he was damn sure going to remember that.
He crossed his arms over his bare chest and flicked her a mild look. “Interesting, isn’t it, how fate has entwined our lives again?”
“Not fate, Sloan. Murder. If you refuse to talk to me, I’ll cuff you and haul you in on a material-witness charge. It’s up to you.”
She might be bluffing, but the hard line of her mouth told him to take her seriously. “The handcuff part sounds intriguing,” he drawled. “But in a few hours I have to dedicate a hospital wing in my parents’ memory, so going to jail this evening would be a real inconvenience. If you’ll make yourself comfortable on the terrace, I’ll get out of these wet trunks, then we can talk. Does that suit you?”
“Talking to you will never ‘suit’ me, Sloan, but I do whatever it takes to put a murderer behind bars.” Turning, she hiked the strap of her purse up on her shoulder and walked the length of the pool to the wrought-iron table that sat in the shadows of the flower-laden terrace.
Watching her, Sloan expelled a resigned breath. For the second time that day she had as good as accused him of murder, yet foremost in his mind was the alluring way her hips swung beneath the white dress.
Five minutes later, Sloan stepped onto the shaded terrace wearing a pair of white shorts and a faded denim shirt.
Halfway through a glass of lemonade, Julia looked coolly elegant sitting beneath the breeze-stirring ceiling fan, while magnolia boughs spilled from a Lallique vase on the table before her. The hem of her white dress had fallen back from her bare knees, revealing those long, lean calves so beautifully shaped.
The serene picture didn’t fool him. She wasn’t any less angry than she’d been when she crashed through his front door in rage-boiling fury. The brooding agitation was there, hidden behind that idle brown stare.
Sloan settled into the chair opposite hers, poured a glass of lemonade and took a sip. “Well, Jules, as you’ve so aptly shown, it’s not my charm that brought you here. I assume it’s business—yours, not mine.”
“You assume right.” She set her glass aside, slid her recorder out of her pocket and snapped it on.
He flicked the machine a look. He was beginning to dislike the damned thing.
“Mr. Remington,” she began in a crisp voice, “you’re entitled to have counsel present during this interview.”
His brows rose. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Yet?”
The slight breeze from the ceiling fan fluttered wisps of dark hair against her cheek. “You’re not under arrest at this time,” she said, tucking the errant tendrils behind her ear.
“Then we’ll leave the lawyers out of it for now.”
Uncrossing her legs, she leaned forward, her eyes intent. “Why did you lie to me?”
He felt the hard kick of his heart. What had she found out? “Lie to you?”
“About your relationship with Vanessa West.”
“I didn’t lie.”
She pulled a folded page of newsprint from her purse. “Explain this.”
The paper landed on the table before him. Sloan stared down at the picture of himself and Vanessa West taken the previous night—had it only been last night?—at the museum fund-raiser. He vaguely remembered the scurrying photographer who’d asked him to pose beside the prized Remington bronze he’d donated to the museum, indistinctly recalled Vanessa stepping up before the shutter clicked to slip her arm through his while nudging her breast against his sleeve. Sloan studied the beautiful, flawless face that gazed up at him with a sultry mix of desire and ownership. Ten minutes after the photographer had clicked the
camera’s shutter, the look on Vanessa’s face had transformed to iced fury.
“Want to change your statement?” Julia asked quietly.
He looked up. “What part of my statement are you referring to?”
“The part where you claimed your relationship with Vanessa West was strictly business.”
“It was.”
“She’s looking at you like she’s planning on having you for dessert.”
“Plans change.”
“Are you telling me there had been something other than business between you?”
“I’m telling you there wasn’t.”
“The victim desired you.” Julia leaned in, her painted fingernail tapping against the photograph. “From the look on her face you could have had her without breaking a sweat.”
“Nevertheless, I didn’t have her. It would have been unprofessional for us to become sexually involved.”
“Did you go to the museum alone?”
Sloan lifted a hand, rubbed his forehead. “Technically, no.”
“Technically?”
“I didn’t have a date. Vanessa called while I was on my way out the door. She said her Jaguar wouldn’t start, and asked if I’d swing by and pick her up. I did.”
“What was wrong with her car?”
“She didn’t say.”
“She drove it to work this morning.”
Sloan nodded. “I’m aware of that.”
“So, technically, you attended the fund-raiser together,” Julia mused, her gaze flicking to the newspaper. “There, the two of you posed for a photograph. One might think it’s unprofessional to behave in public as intimate friends when that’s not the case.”
She was good at this, Sloan realized, matching Julia’s even stare. Cool and calm...and deadly.
“Most photographs are posed, as was that one,” he noted. “Vanessa was into control. She liked power.”
“Sex is one way to gain control and power.”
“True, but if you can’t achieve them by that means, there are others. Vanessa knew people would see us arrive together, see that photograph in the paper and read into it the same thing you have. If you think someone is sleeping with your boss, what do you do? You avoid conflict with them. You go along rather than cause waves. That gives a person power, control.”
Julia leaned back, her tanned skin luminous against the chair’s pale upholstered cushions. “Must have been maddening,” she said coolly.
Sloan cocked his head. “What?”
“To have a beautiful woman throwing herself at you, and all that kept you from taking her was your strong sense of professionalism.”
Sloan took a long draw of lemonade. “You’re good.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“The way you conform things to fit into the puzzle you’re trying to piece together.” He smiled. “If I didn’t kill Vanessa over some torrid affair, then I killed her due to the lack of one.”
“I’m glad you’re amused, Mr. Remington. Maybe you’ll take me seriously when I charge you with murder.”
“What makes you think you’ll do that?”
“The records from your own security equipment show you arrived in the garage right after Vanessa. The person who drove in next says he found her dead.”
“Who was that?”
She picked up her glass, drank. “Don Smithson.”
Sloan shrugged. “You can believe him. Don’s one of the most honest men I know.”
“And I can attest that you’re an excellent marksman. You had both the opportunity and the means to kill her.”
“What about motive, Julia? Why would I kill Vanessa?”
She scowled as her long, slender fingers tightened on her glass. “I’m working on it.”
“I didn’t do it,” he said quietly.
Saying nothing, she studied him across the table with such absorbed intensity that Sloan fought the urge to shift in his chair.
He dropped his gaze to her left hand, forcing himself to examine the ring that circled her finger. In size, the stone couldn’t touch the diamond he’d given her, but it was just as much a symbol that a claim had been staked.
How much easier it would be to accept that she belonged to another man if the memory of her soft laughter wasn’t branded in his brain. If he’d never felt her gentle touch against his flesh. If he didn’t know that her smiles were breathtaking in their warmth. If she hadn’t been everything he’d ever wanted...and the one thing he could never have.
A tightness settled in his chest, curled into a hard fist of regret. Because he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “What’s he like, Jules?”
A crease formed between her brows. “What’s who like?”
“Your fiancé.”
She set the glass down with ice-rattling force and hit the recorder’s Stop button. “I’m not going to discuss my private life with you.”
Sloan reached out and settled his hand over hers, over the ring. When she tried to jerk away, he tightened his fingers on hers. “I’m asking because I’d like to know if you’re happy. That he makes you happy.”
Time inched its way forward while she stared down at their linked hands. Above them, the ceiling fan stirred the heated air. The magnolia’s sweet fragrance drifted across the terrace. Water lapped softly against the sides of the pool.
Slowly, Julia’s eyes rose. “People who meet Bill like him immediately. I was no exception. He’s kind and caring. Full of confidence and strength.” She paused. “Yes, he makes me happy.”
Sloan nodded and said nothing—he couldn’t have gotten any words past the lump in his throat if he’d wanted to. Damn, why the hell had he asked?
Across the terrace, a door slid open. Tray in hand, Hattie stepped into view and made her way toward the table. “Here’s your salad, sir.”
Sloan nodded. “Just leave it, Hattie. And you can call it quits for the day. I’ll bring the tray in when I’m done.”
He caught the rise of the housekeeper’s brows when Julia jerked her hand from beneath his, the diamond scraping his palm.
Hattie picked up the pitcher and refilled his glass, then turned to Julia. “More lemonade, Miss Cruze?”
Julia moved her clearly perplexed gaze from the heaping green salad Hattie had delivered. “No...I’m leaving soon.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, you come back and visit anytime.”
Julia reached out, squeezed the woman’s sinewy hand. “Thank you, Hattie. It was good to see you again.”
As Hattie disappeared into the house, Julia shifted her gaze back to the tray, and scowled.
“Something wrong, Jules?”
“I’m just wondering what you’re planning on doing with that salad.”
Sloan reached out, grabbed a radish and popped it into his mouth. “I cleaned up my act. No more French fries and greasy hamburgers. I even quit drinking.”
“I see.”
He watched her rise and slip the recorder into her purse. “I take it you’re not going to put a chink in my evening by tossing me in jail.”
“Not this evening.”
He stood, wishing he could touch her. Wishing he had the right to do a lot more than just that.
“Julia, I didn’t kill Vanessa. I give you my word.”
She lifted her chin, bitterness sliding into her eyes. “Your word doesn’t hold much weight with me, Sloan. I’m sure you understand.”
He had told her he loved her, then two days before their wedding, he’d told her he lied. “Yes. I understand.”
“Like I said this morning, don’t take any trips.” Instead of going through the house, she headed across the terrace toward the side gate, her sandaled heels tapping against the granite tiles.
Sloan shoved an unsteady hand through his hair. He knew she’d been unaware of how her voice had softened when she talked about her fiancé, but he’d been aware, and it had hit him with the force of a speeding truck.
He grabbed her glass off the table, stared broo
dingly at the half-moon lipstick kiss on its crystal rim. He’d known, of course, that she would find someone else. Someone who could keep the promises he made her. But it had never occurred to him, not for one instant, that any man could ever possess her as he once had.
He’d been wrong. Dead wrong.
Muttering a raw curse, Sloan raised the glass, then deliberately set his mouth over the place hers had been.
Chapter 4
Hoping speed would ease the tension from her meeting with Sloan, Julia stepped on the gas and steered toward the interstate.
She attributed the knot that had settled in her belly to her cop instincts. Sloan, after all, was a suspect. Interviewing suspects always shot adrenaline through her veins. Gunning the car’s engine, she rolled through a yellow light, her knuckles bone-white on the steering wheel.
“Who are you trying to fool, Cruze?” she muttered, acknowledging it was not the interview that had left her nerves as taut as a bowstring. It was the sight of that scar.
What sort of surgery had left it? What had happened to Sloan?
Why the hell do you care?
“I don’t!” she shot back, then felt like an idiot for yelling at herself. Flipping a lever on the dash, she turned the air on full blast and positioned the vents so the cold hit her heated face.
She had stopped caring about Sloan Remington a long time ago. He was just another suspect now. She had a job to do—bring Vanessa West’s killer to justice. If that was Sloan, so be it. With determination setting her jaw, Julia focused on the case, clicking off a mental list of everyone who had access to the parking garage where the woman died.
“Damn,” she whispered after a few minutes when her thoughts drifted back to an area that had nothing to do with murder. Blowing out a resigned breath, she let her mind go.
The scar originated just below Sloan’s breastbone and extended down the center of his abdomen. Exploratory surgery. No big deal.
A scar that resembled a long zipper with a slight pucker here and there looked like a big deal, Julia thought as she squinted out the windshield against the long rays of the setting sun. A very big deal.
