Incriminating Passion

by Ann Voss Peterson

  She turned away from the view and glanced at John. She’d been surprised when he’d announced they were going to Chicago to check on the rug dealer’s story. Heck, she’d been shocked. So shocked she hadn’t thought to resist. The only thing she’d considered was finding Win’s killer. She hadn’t taken the effect of a road trip with John into account. Not until she’d been in the close confines of his car for the two-and-a-half-hour interstate drive.

  Not that they’d touched on any intimate subjects on the drive down. Not unless what little she knew about Wingate’s wide array of business investments could be considered intimate. But although the topic was relatively safe, the way John had watched her and listened to her made her feel as if she was trusting him with her deepest secrets. As if they were forging some kind of bond.

  She squirmed in the plush reception-room chair. She couldn’t let herself think that way, feel that way. She’d been weak when she’d met Wingate. She had to be strong now. She had to go it alone. And that meant she had to be on her guard around John Cohen.

  At the sound of her movement, John’s gaze found hers. “What is it?”

  She looked away. “I was just thinking about Wingate,” she lied. “About what Ryman said.”

  “That your husband ordered the rug?”

  “Yes. Hank Sutcliffe must have mistaken Win’s voice.”

  “That or he lied about it.” John glanced around the office. “Did your husband order a lot of rugs?”

  “He has—had a number of personal properties, but I wouldn’t say he’s ordered a lot of rugs for them.”

  “How about for Kirkland Development property?”

  She choked back a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Kidding? Why?”

  “His properties in Madison are upscale, but that’s not where he got his start. He may have liked to call himself a real-estate baron, but slum lord was more like it.”

  “The places he owns are that nice, huh?”

  Her windpipe constricted as if squeezed by an invisible hand. She didn’t want to think about the rundown apartment buildings Wingate owned or the people who were forced to live in that squalor. Desperate women. Fatherless children. Teenage boys looking for a place to belong. And teenage girls searching for a way out. “Yeah. That nice.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve been here?”

  “To this office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never been here.”

  He raised his brows. “Never?”

  “Wingate never invited me. He kept his business and personal lives separate. Not that I was clamoring to visit. I’ve never had much of a head for business.”

  “I get the impression you could do anything you want to. Including making a business success of yourself.”

  Despite the cold surroundings, warmth kindled inside her at his words. She tried to douse the spark. “It would be nice to think so.”

  “Then think so,” he said. “Because I mean it.”

  She could feel John’s gaze move over her face, heat smoldering where it touched. She shifted in her chair, careful not to look in his eyes.

  “Assistant District Attorney Cohen?”

  He looked up. Shoving himself to his feet, he thrust his hand toward the woman with short red hair and guarded eyes. “Ms. Graham?”

  “Yes,” Ramona Graham, the office administrator, confirmed. She shook his hand. “The receptionist said you have some questions?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave Andrea a dismissive glance, as if deciding she was merely John’s assistant and not worth the bother of a handshake. “I don’t have much time, but I’ll do my best to answer. Follow me.” She spun on a high heel and bustled past the reception desk and into a catacomb of offices. Taking a sharp corner, she led them into a spacious office with a million-dollar view of the lake.

  Once inside the office, Ramona hunkered down behind the large marble-topped desk that dominated the room as if retreating into a foxhole. She gave John a bullet-proof smile. “Now, how can I help you?”

  Sitting in a white leather chair, Andrea faced the desk. John lowered himself into the chair next to her. “When was the last time you talked to Wingate Kirkland?”

  “He was in the office two weeks ago.”

  “And you haven’t talked to him since? On the phone? E-mail?”

  “No. He always takes a couple of weeks off in November. He’s an avid deer hunter. Both rifle and bow hunting. And this year with the expanded hunting season, I assume he’s decided to take even more time. Have you tried reaching him at Wingate Estate?”

  “Yes.”

  She pursed her lips and twisted them to the side. “He might be on a hunting trip. With chronic wasting disease affecting the deer in southern Wisconsin, maybe he went out of state this year.”

  Andrea tangled her fingers together in her lap. Win’s office administrator seemed to know more about Win’s comings and goings than she did. Not a surprise. Andrea hadn’t known her husband for a long time. Maybe she’d never really known him.

  “What did you say this was about?” Ramona Graham glanced at her watch, a reminder she was a busy woman.

  “I didn’t say.” John set his briefcase on his lap, opened it and pulled out the glossy flyer he’d gotten from the rug dealer. Holding it up for Ramona’s inspection, he pointed to the picture of Sutcliffe. “Do you know this man?”

  She slipped on a pair of gold reading glasses. Her lips flattened into a straight line. “No. I can’t say I do.” Slipping the glasses off, she dropped them, letting them swing on the chain around her neck. “Is there anything else?”

  Whether Ramona Graham was hiding something or really didn’t recognize Hank Sutcliffe, Andrea didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Even if John pressed her, it wouldn’t do any good. No doubt her job as Wingate’s gatekeeper had made her good at burying skeletons. And keeping them in the ground.

  Apparently John recognized that fact as well. “There is something else. Do you know if someone here ordered a rug for the Kirkland home about a week ago?”

  “A rug?” A furrow struggled to appear between Ramona’s brows. “I could check. Was it for the Chicago apartment, the Wisconsin cabin, Wingate Estate, or the Florida house?”

  John glanced at Andrea as if tallying up the extent of her inheritance.

  She tried to hide her cringe. With riches like that, no wonder he and everyone else thought she was after Win’s money. But what John didn’t understand was that she’d give it all up tomorrow never to have succumbed to her insecurities and married Wingate in the first place.

  John turned back to Ramona. “Wingate Estate.”

  She gave a nod and bustled out the office door. When she returned, she held a folder in front of her. “It appears no order for furnishings of any kind has been made since these offices were redecorated several months ago.”

  Redecorated? Andrea eyed the glass-and-chrome decor. Who had they hired as a designer? Jack Frost? She shouldn’t be surprised. The cold interior fit the Wingate she’d come to know to a T.

  “Maybe Mrs. Kirkland ordered the rug,” Ramona offered. Andrea glanced at John. Little did Ramona know that Mrs. Kirkland was sitting right in front of her.

  John met her gaze for a second before returning his attention to Ramona. “Maybe I could call Mrs. Kirkland and ask her.”

  Ramona nodded as if to encourage him, anything as long as he let her get back to her important business. “She’s probably the one who placed the order. I’m sure she’ll be able to help.”

  “Do you know where Mrs. Kirkland is staying?” John asked.

  “I believe she’s at the John Hancock building apartment. I haven’t spoken to her since she stopped in last week.”

  Shock ripped through Andrea. “She stopped in last week? Mrs. Kirkland? Are you sure?”

  Ramona frowned at Andrea as if she’d lost her mind. “Yes, I’m quite sure. She has been here many times with Mr. Kirkland. Now, if we’re finished, I have s
ome urgent business to attend to.” Ramona stood and stretched out her hand over the desk.

  John and Andrea both rose. Turning his attention to Ramona, John shook the hand she offered. “Thank you for your time.” Cupping Andrea’s elbow, he steered her out the office door and down the hall to the reception area.

  Andrea stared straight ahead as she walked, numbness giving way to disbelief. Damn Wingate. If someone had told her he’d be able to hurt her even more after all she’d been through, she wouldn’t have believed it. But somehow, the realization that he was having an affair right under her nose cut her just as surely as if she actually cared.

  The warmth of John’s hand on her arm seeped into her. Learning her husband had had an affair was bad enough without having John find out along with her. If there were times curling up and dying were preferable to taking another breath, this was certainly one of them.

  They stepped out of the office suite and into the hallway. As soon as Kirkland Development’s door swung closed behind them, John turned to face her. Even though the sun streaming in through the window behind him cast a shadow over his eyes, she knew he was looking straight through her. Seeing her hurt. Her weakness. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  She cringed. “For what? Did you introduce Wingate and the woman passing as Mrs. Kirkland? Or did you force him to set up house with her? No, don’t tell me. You must have forced me to shuck my self-respect and marry the bastard in the first place.”

  “You have the right to be angry. Damned angry.” A corner of his mouth quirked into a half grin. “I like seeing a little fight in your eyes. It’s a hell of a lot better than those damned bruises.”

  “Bruises?” Her fingers automatically flew to the tender spot along her jaw where her chin had hit the steering wheel of her Lexus.

  “Figurative bruises.” He raised a hand to her face and skimmed a finger along her cheekbone. “You deserve better. Much better.”

  Warmth skittered along her skin at his touch. She expelled a breath through tight lips, her indignation going with it. She looked at the gray carpet, at the bank of elevators, at anything but John’s face. But no matter how she tried to shield herself, she could feel those piercing brown eyes penetrate her defenses and peer into her soul.

  She sucked in a breath. “For the record, I didn’t know about the other Mrs. Kirkland. Not until today.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I see guilty defendants all the time. I cross-examine them. I gauge their weaknesses and try to rip them apart. I’m far from figuring you out, but I do know that Ramona’s bombshell was a surprise.” He trailed his finger down her cheek and brushed her hair back behind her ear.

  Shivers marauded over her skin. She raised her gaze to meet his, as if pulled by a magnet.

  She wanted to trust him. Wanted to rely on him. Wanted to give in to the loneliness building inside her like a physical ache.

  If only she didn’t have to lose herself in the process.

  “So what happens now?” She forced the question past her lips, though she knew what his answer would be.

  He paused for a long time, as if weighing the options. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. “We talk to the other Mrs. Kirkland.”

  JOHN WELCOMED the hard cold slap of the Chicago wind as he and Andrea reached the sidewalk outside Kirkland Development. Maybe the wind could smack some sense into him. God knew he wasn’t doing a good job of getting a grip on his own.

  He never should have touched Andrea. Never should have stroked her satin cheek. Never should have fingered the heavy silk of her hair. Now, not only did he have to fight the look of need and vulnerability in her eyes, he had the memory of caressing her knocking around in his head. And tempting him to do it again.

  Before they reached the parking ramp where he’d stowed his car, the bleat of his cell phone cut through the noise of traffic and his jumbled thoughts. He slipped the phone from his belt, hit the talk button and held it to his ear. “Yeah.”

  “I missed you in your office today, Ace. It’s not like you to take an afternoon off.” Al Mylinski’s voice boomed over the phone.

  “I’m not taking it off, Al. Trust me. What’s up?”

  “I’m at the Green Valley police station. I just left the Kirkland place.”

  “Tell me you’ve found a body.”

  “No such luck. Not yet, anyway. But we found something.” Al paused dramatically in that maddening way of his.

  “Cut the suspense, Al.”

  “So it’s working?”

  “Spill it.”

  “There was a gun hidden in one of the fireplaces. A Ruger SP100. It’s registered to Kirkland himself. It was fired recently. Could be the murder weapon. Can’t tell until we find a body with wounds to match. I’m heading back out to the estate now. The dogs should arrive any time to start searching the grounds.”

  John’s mind spun with possible implications. “An SP100?”

  “Yep. It’s a smaller-framed version of their GP100. Just the right size for a woman’s hand. And that brings me to the rest of the reason I’m calling.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Seems Andrea Kirkland has gone missing. She never checked out of her hotel, just left.”

  John glanced at Andrea walking beside him. “I know.”

  “Any idea where she went?”

  “She’s fine. She’s with me.”

  Andrea’s gaze flicked to him. If she had any questions about whom he was discussing, she had no reason to wonder now.

  “Damn it, John.” Mylinski’s voice roared over the phone. “What the Sam heck do you think you’re doing?”

  “Someone’s trying to kill her, Al. I was there this morning. A truck tried to run her over. I’m guessing it’s the same truck that put her car at the bottom of Green Valley quarry. She needs protection.”

  “And you’re going to protect her from this truck? How?”

  “I figure I’ll throw a law book at the windshield. Or threaten to sue.”

  Mylinski let out a bark of laughter. “Joking aside, you might need protection from her more than she needs it from you. If Kirkland’s dead, she’s the number-one suspect.”

  “Another reason to keep an eye on her.”

  “Just so you’re careful. You don’t want to relive the past.”

  John glanced at Andrea out of the corner of his eye. He might believe someone was trying to kill her. He might even hope she was innocent. But he wasn’t about to forget she could be a murderer. And he wasn’t going to relive past mistakes. “Not a chance.” The el roared and screeched on the tracks overhead, drowning out his words.

  “Ace?” Mylinski yelled in John’s ear. “It sounds like you’re in the middle of a steel mill. Where are you, anyway?”

  “Chicago.”

  “You took her out of state?” John could hear Mylinski’s teeth grinding over the phone. Either that or he was munching those damn candies he never seemed to be without.

  “She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Even so, you know how this is going to look. Damn it, John, after that last thing, you’d better hope Dex Harrington doesn’t find out about this.”

  “Dex? He’s still celebrating his reelection as district attorney after that Andrew Clarke Smythe mess.”

  “You’d better hope so.”

  John fished a roll of antacids from the pocket of his overcoat, popped several in his mouth and tried not to look in Andrea’s direction. “We’ll be back in Madison tonight, Al. And I intend to bring a few answers with me.”

  “I hope they’re good answers, Ace. Good enough to cover your ass.”

  So did he. For his own sake—and for Andrea’s.

  JOHN WATCHED lighted numbers flash over the elevator door. His ears popped with the change in altitude as he and Andrea rode to the upper floors of the John Hancock Building. He tried not to look at her, standing so close in the confined space. If he did, he’d only want to lean toward
her, to draw in her fragrance, to touch the silk of her hair once again.

  It wasn’t her looks that lured him in—though God knew, she was attractive as hell. It wasn’t even the intelligence sparkling in her eyes. It was something else. Her vulnerability, maybe. Or the way she looked at him, as if she believed he could fix her problems, as if she believed he could make a difference.

  The elevator door slid open, and they stepped out. His shoes sank into carpet the color of fresh cream. Cream-on-cream patterned wallpaper graced the walls, punctuated by gold-framed artwork, mirrors and console tables laden with fresh flower arrangements.

  Nice digs. He tried to picture Andrea living in a place like this. Dressed to the nines for a night on the town. Busying herself with her pet charities while her husband worked long hours. Polishing her nails so she would look beautiful for him while he was setting up house with another woman.

  It made him sick.

  “This is it.” Andrea eyed the white, paneled door as if it might bite, and made no move to knock.

  He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to face what was on the other side of that door. When he’d told her he didn’t like seeing the bruises in her eyes, that he preferred her angry, he’d meant it. He’d seen victims every day of his professional life. He didn’t want to see her as one.

  Almost as much as he didn’t want to see her as a murderer.

  He rapped on the door.

  A brunette with large dark eyes peered out into the hall. Though the woman had to be even younger than Andrea, she had a brittleness about her that only came with hard living and meanness. The corners of her red lips dipped.

  John pulled identification from his wallet and held it up for her inspection. “I’m John Cohen from the district attorney’s office in Dane County, Wisconsin. The office manager at Kirkland Development said you were staying here, Mrs. Kirkland.”