by Heidi Betts
Simple.
And if Brandt had a problem with that, she would just have to remind him exactly what she was capable of with her little pearl-handled stiletto. Only this time, a measly cut wouldn't be the extent of the damage.
Chapter Fourteen
At exactly midnight, beneath a crescent moon, the dark-haired prostitute was returned to the edge of the wharf, to the very spot where she had been standing not two hours earlier. A perfect white rose rested between her breasts, clasped tightly between hands folded in prayer.
Chapter Fifteen
Despite being tired enough to rest comfortably on a bed of nails, Brandt didn't sleep after leaving Willow's room. He'd lingered in her sitting room for several minutes, gathering and organizing the files and photos they'd been looking over. A part of him was relieved that Willow had kicked him out, saving him from having to say something when he wasn't quite sure what to say. But another part of him hoped she would come out and let him explain. Not that he had a clue how to go about that. If he had, he'd have done it much sooner.
He was used to sharing a few blindingly passionate moments with a woman—sometimes one he barely knew—and then walking away. But with Willow, he didn't want to walk away. He didn't want to leave with this animosity between them. And it had very little to do with the fact that they still had to work together.
So Brandt lingered in the sitting room. And when it became apparent that Willow wouldn't be coming out, he meandered across the hall to his own room. Then he lingered there, pouring himself a drink, staring into the flames of the fireplace, wondering how in God's name he could have bolted from one of the most pleasant sexual encounters of his life. Calling himself ten kinds of fool.
When the clock on the mantel chimed eight and he lifted his head to see daylight pouring in through the open drapes, he rubbed his tired eyes, threw back the last swallow of scotch in his glass, and steeled his resolve.
Willow had wanted them to begin their partnership at eight o'clock this morning, so they damn well would. He set his glass on the fireplace mantel with a clink and moved toward the hallway.
He opened the door, only to find Willow standing on the other side, a hand raised to knock. The moment he saw her, a spark of awareness flared in his belly and spread outward through his bloodstream. She wore a gown of deep, vibrant plum that perfectly matched her eyes. Her hair was braided and twisted into a complicated coronet that gathered at the back of her head, a few sprigs of flowers stuck in the strands for decoration. Except for the slight hint of shadows beneath her eyes, she looked entirely rested and ready to tackle another day.
Brandt, on the other hand, looked like hell, and he knew it. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep, was still wearing the same clothes as last evening, and probably smelled like a distillery since he'd nursed a bottle of whiskey ever since returning to his room.
He immediately experienced another sharp jab of regret at the way they'd parted and tried to make amends. “Willow,” he began, “about last night. . ."
A flare of hurt darkened her eyes a moment before her shoulders pulled back and her spine snapped ramrod straight. “I'd rather not discuss last night, if it's all the same to you,” she informed him in a lofty tone.
His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the doorknob under his hand. “No, it's not all the same to me,” he told her, struggling to keep hold of his temper. “We need to talk about what happened, about where we go from here."
Willow toyed with the drawstrings of her matching purple reticule and shot him a glare filled with cool indifference. “Last night's incident isn't worthy of debate. It's over and done with and never should have happened in the first place."
A measure of her righteous indignation seemed to be replaced by modest chagrin as she turned her head away. Her eyes refused to meet his as her tone softened only a degree. “And since there's absolutely no chance of it happening again, I see no reason to waste time conferring over what occurred."
He could see she had no intention of uttering another word on the subject. And most times that would be just fine with him. This time, however, it wasn't. And damned if he knew why.
He only knew that his jaw throbbed from the grinding of his teeth. His hand squeezed the crystal-cut knob of the door hard enough to draw blood, and if he let himself touch her, he'd most likely rattle the teeth right out of her head.
So he would let the subject drop. For now.
After several seconds of tense silence, Willow crossed her arms beneath her breasts and assumed an agitated stance. “I take it you're once again planning to hold up my investigation,” she stated primly, slanting a distasteful glance over his wrinkled shirt and breeches and summarily dismissing their prior topic of discussion.
Caught slightly off guard by the change of subject, he opened his mouth to correct her—it was their investigation, not hers alone—but realized he was too tired to pick up that argument once again.
"On the contrary,” he said instead, deliberately relaxing his muscles and loosening his hold on the door. “I was just on my way over to wake you. I thought you might have slept in but knew how eager you were to get an early start this morning.” He stepped out of the room, forcing her back a pace. “Shall we go?"
"Like that?” she asked. “You intend to walk around like that?"
He looked down at himself, wondering just how bad he must look for her to be offended. After all, this was the same woman who had stumbled in last night dressed in fisherman's garb and smelling like week-old carp.
A small amber stain marred the front of his shirt Scotch, no doubt. Spilled when he was concentrating more on Willow than getting the liquid fully into his mouth. Lifting an arm, he took a quick sniff and admitted that he smelled none too pleasant this morning, himself.
Catching his subtle self-assessment, Willow raised a brow. Her haughty air set his teeth on edge. So he hadn't bathed or changed clothes since early yesterday morning and was beginning to turn ripe. She had lived in a brothel and sung to a roomful of cowpokes who smelled much worse than he, he was sure. Which didn't give her much room to judge, in his opinion.
"Come in,” he ordered, pushing the door open once again. “I'll just be a minute.” He turned and marched across the room, not bothering to make certain Willow followed. As he reached the bedroom, he heard the main door click shut and out of the corner of his eye saw the swish of her skirt across the room. He gave a silent huff of approval. At least she'd done one thing without argument.
"What do you have planned for today?” he asked as he discarded his wrinkled clothes and poured a bit of tepid water into the deep sink of the connected wash-room.
"Does the name Yvonne Xavier ring any bells?” she asked from the other room, her voice raised to clearly reach his ears.
He rolled his eyes, wondering if Willow thought him daft. “The name on the file. Of course,” he answered shortly.
"Yes, but I mean otherwise. Other than the fact that she was murdered, have you ever heard her family's name before?"
With a damp cloth and a sliver of soap, Brandt swabbed his chest and under his arms, trying to recall any recognition of the name. “I don't think so; why?"
"Being from Boston, you might not be familiar with some of the wealthier families here in New York. I didn't even catch the relation at first.” Her voice drew closer and he quickly fastened the clean pair of trousers he'd just slipped on.
"The Xaviers live here in town. The father owns a local fabric mill. Yvonne was their only and very beloved daughter. This morning I remembered reading a newspaper article on the train back to New York about how she disappeared after a function at the family's home one evening last month. She was only nineteen years old."
Willow's form appeared in the doorway as she rested a shoulder against the jamb. She didn't bother glancing in his direction. Just as well, he decided as he tugged at the waistband of his clean pants.
"Since Charlie Barker was working Yvonne Xavier's case, I can only assume her family hi
red Pinkerton to find her."
For a split second, as he looked up from tugging on his boots, he caught Willow staring at him, her eyes centered on his still-bare chest. As soon as she realized he'd raised his head, she quickly turned away. With her mouth turned down in a frown, she stared across the room, focusing on a rather unspectacular piece of artwork, in Brandt's opinion. Once again, she began to fidget with the strap of her satchel.
Like hell it was over, he thought, fighting a grin. She may think their bout of lovemaking was only a fluke. She might even believe it. But if he had anything to say about it, last night's events most certainly would occur again.
He turned toward the bureau for a clean shirt, nearly breaking out in a whistle. Willow could be determined and mule-stubborn, but she'd never yet run up against him when his mind was set. And right now, his mind was set on her.
"You were saying. . .” he prompted casually over his shoulder. He took his own sweet time deciding on a shirt. Studying first one, then another. Feeling the fabric and making sure to flex the muscles of his back as he moved.
After a moment he felt Willow's heated gaze on him and smiled. He'd known that water lily painting couldn't occupy her for long.
"I was saying . . . what?” she mumbled.
"You thought the Xavier family had hired the Pinkerton Agency to find Yvonne, since Charlie was working the case,” he reminded her. He chose a shirt and turned, using slow motions to slip his arms into the sleeves, pull the sides closed, slide each button through its proper hole.
"Yes.” She cleared her throat and forced her eyes to his. “Yes, that's what I thought,” she said more strongly. “And when Yvonne was found dead, Charlie apparently stayed on to find the killer."
"Until someone murdered him,” Brandt added, knowing Willow was thinking the same thing. He tucked the tails of his shirt into his pants, done toying with her. For the moment “Do you think he figured out who killed the Xavier girl?"
"Possibly.” The lines on her forehead deepened in distress.
"And whoever that person is, he killed Charlie to cover up his crime?"
"Most likely,” she reluctantly agreed. “Otherwise. . ."
"Otherwise, there was no reason for Charlie to die.” New York might be crowded and have a higher risk of crime than other cities, but even so, people did not go around stabbing innocent people on crowded passenger trains.
There was no reason for Charlie to die, regardless, Willow thought with a spurt of anger. Charlie had only been doing his job. And anyone who would murder a young girl deserved to be brought to justice.
"There was no mention in the file of who Charlie suspected of Yvonne's murder.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
Brandt finished dressing and moved to stand before her. She lifted her head absently, meeting his hazel eyes. Being so close to him brought back a wash of memories from the night before and she quickly looked away. She didn't care to think about last night. Nor did she care for a repeat performance.
And she didn't even want to consider why witnessing his bare torso had sent her pulse rate soaring. It was just a chest, for heaven's sake. She'd seen the male variety before and would no doubt see it again upon occasion.
If Brandt Donovan's bare chest seemed to be exceptionally well chiseled, if the muscles seemed to flex and flow a bit too gracefully, the smooth skin to glisten a golden bronze . . . why, that was just a trick of the early morning sunlight streaming through the open drapes.
She hadn't slept, was forced to deal with Brandt again this morning, still needed to find out who had killed Charlie, and had so far been unable to dispel the unfortunate memory of her misspent lust not two hours before. All of these things combined to lower her defenses. Otherwise, she was sure she would find Brandt Donovan loathsome rather than sinfully handsome.
Give her half a minute to gather her wits and she would. Turning the other way, she strode across the sitting room.
"Do you think she knew her attacker?” he asked from several feet behind her.
Willow's brows knit and she stopped, his pointed question bringing her back to the matter at hand. It was possible she knew Yvonne's attacker. Gideon. That was, if Charlie's note was accurate and connected to the girl's death, as she suspected. Unfortunately, she couldn't be sure. She couldn't even be certain Gideon was a person. It could just as easily be a social club, a street address, or the name of some man's horse.
"Why do you ask that?” she questioned Brandt, turning slightly to face him.
"You said she disappeared from a function at her family's home. Chances are, she remained at the house all night. She would have had no reason to be out where a stranger could abduct her."
"True. She could have known the person and gone willingly."
"Or known the person and not realized the danger she was in until it was too late. Which means that we may not be looking for just anyone. We may be looking for someone in Society. A wealthy aristocrat, an acquaintance of the Xavier family. What do you think?"
He had a good point, which might narrow the scope of their investigation. “There's something else I discovered in Yvonne's file this morning. A handwritten note on the back of one of the photographs, which is probably why we missed it the first time.” She didn't bother to add that the only reason she'd spotted it at all was because she hadn't slept a wink last night and had ended up poring over all of the notes and evidence in the hours before she decided to get dressed and pretend nothing had happened between Brandt and herself.
Her eyes narrowed as she concentrated on the proper wording. “It said, ‘Exactly like the others, but Yvonne wasn't a prostitute.’ Do you have any idea what that might mean?"
Brandt stiffened, his spread-legged stance growing even more rigid. With his hands on his hips and his eyes narrowed, he said, “I believe it means we're in more trouble than we thought."
Chapter Sixteen
"And might I ask just how you came by this information?” Robert stood behind his desk, hands on hips, fixing a pointed gaze at Willow.
"You might,” Willow replied, “but I would rather you didn't."
Robert's nostrils flared as his eyes shot daggers. “Allow me to rephrase that,” he clipped out through lips stiffened in outrage. “How—exactly—did you come by the information?"
His tone brooked no arguments, but Willow wasn't about to admit to having broken into his office. “I dropped by to visit Charlie's widow yesterday,” Willow told him, the lie falling easily from her lips. “Once I told her I was working to find Charlie's killer, she gave me his most recent case file in hopes that it would aid the investigation."
She glanced absently at Brandt, only to find him staring back at her, eyes wide, mouth agape. She widened her own eyes for a fraction of a second, silently urging him not to naysay her. If he did, if Robert caught so much as a whiff of deceit, they would both be thrown out on their ears.
Robert's brows winged downward at her account. “It's Agency policy to keep only two copies of everything involved in a case—one for the agent's supervisor, the other for the archived records room after the agent has closed the case. We have both copies of Charlie's most recent files here in the office. Are you saying he had a third at home?"
"Yes, there was a third,” she responded readily with the answer that Robert himself had provided. She refused to look in Brandt's direction again, for fear he would give something away.
Lips pursed, Robert began to pace the short space behind his desk.
"Excuse me,” Brandt finally spoke, shifting in his chair. “It's beginning to look as though Charlie was killed because of his work on the Xavier case. Are we all in agreement on that fact?” He glanced at Robert, then Willow, not waiting for affirmation. “So regardless of how many copies of the file exist, I'm wondering why we weren't simply given the information in the beginning,” he said with a pointed glance at Robert. “We might have tracked down the killer by now, if we'd known what Charlie was working on."
"It didn't se
em pertinent at the time,” was Robert's reply.
It was Brandt's turn to raise a brow, Willow noted.
Robert had the grace to look contrite. “This was my lack of foresight, and I apologize,” he said, nobly taking the blame. “I didn't realize that Charlie's connection to the Xavier case had anything to do with his death. I should have, but I didn't."
He took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. “Charlie didn't report any of this to me. Which is not to say he wouldn't have; he may not have had the chance before he was killed."
When Brandt and Willow had told Robert of Charlie's scrawled note and the other details they were beginning to piece together, Robert had immediately informed them of the recent string of killings down by the docks. Apparently, someone was murdering working girls and leaving their bodies on the wharf to be found. The authorities suspected the same man of committing all the crimes because of the similarities in the way the girls were killed, as well as how the bodies were arranged. A recent newspaper article that Robert showed them mentioned the victims’ arms being crossed over their chests, a single white rose found clutched in their hands.
The very thought made Willow's stomach revolt.
"The Xaviers are a very influential family. They wanted their daughter found, and after her death, they wanted her killer found. They did not, however, want the details of Yvonne's death or the subsequent investigation revealed.” He shook his head sadly. “I didn't even have much knowledge of the case myself. It never occurred to me that her murder was connected to the others."
Willow understood Robert's regret and sense of failure. “Apparently, it only recently occurred to Charlie. Yvonne wasn't like the other girls; she hadn't been walking the docks. It's understandable that no one put the two incidents together."
