He turned his head to look at her. “This scene was a set-up, staged to make it look as if Matt had walked in on his friend about to get it on with his naked woman, killing them both in a jealous rage.”
“But?” She met his gaze with hers. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
“But…” He spread the photos, indicating specific details one by one. “See these two flattened areas right here? That’s where both men fell after bein’ darted with a high dose of GHB. You can see the lines in the carpet indicating that they were dragged from there over to where we actually found them. As you can see, there is blood spatter everywhere—except where you would most expect to find it—on Matt. His shirt and pants are completely clean of anyone’s blood but his own. You see the bloody knife near his right hand? Matt is left-handed, and neither of his hands bore any traces of Patti’s or Ogre’s blood. Nor are his fingerprints on the knife.”
He pointed to another photograph. “These two bloody footprints were made by boots that don’t belong either to Ogre or Matt. And, as you will notice, they’re movin’ toward the door. Whoever wore these boots was leavin’ the bedroom. These other, smaller footprints indicate the presence of a second perp.
“Matt said Patti was late gettin’ off from work, due to a last-minute emergency appendectomy. When they got to her house, the two of them decided to wait out in the car while she ran inside to throw some clothes in a suitcase. When she didn’t come out, they went inside to see what was keepin’ her. The last thing he remembers is seein’ her, naked and covered with blood on her bed. That’s when he and Ogre were darted.”
Sarah winced.
“Evidently, he came to while they were stagin’ the scene. That’s when he managed to call me, just before they broke the lamp over his head.”
She looked at the array of photos. “So, this clears Matt, then.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Beyond any and all doubt.”
She slumped against the back of the couch. “Oh, thank God.”
“Two men have been arrested in the deserted buildin’ across from the Brigands’ complex. They’re bein’ interrogated at headquarters right now. They had a spy nest set up in one of the upstairs rooms, binoculars, plenty of snacks, and a cooler fulla beer. They’ve been takin’ shifts, so I’ve got deputies lyin’ in wait to round up the next team to report for duty. They’ll be charged with stalkin’, trespassin’ and criminal mischief.” He permitted himself a tight smile. “And anythin’ else we can hold ‘em on.” His smile broadened. “There’ll be enough evidence to make somethin’ stick.”
She just stared at him in growing horror. “You knew this was going to happen,” she said accusingly. “You’ve known all along that this was going to happen!”
“No, baby,” he shook his head, turning toward her and lifting his hand to palm the side of her face in a reassuring gesture. “There’s no way in hell I could ever have foreseen this. I just knew, as soon as I saw that fake photo of Matt with Chester Andrews that somethin’ bad was goin’ down. I also knew that it wasn’t directed at Matt, so much as it was directed through Matt straight at me. You see, sugar, you’re not the only one Ryder Malone has a grudge against.”
Her stare never wavered, although her voice did. “You mean…be-because of…that day? Because you called the cops and…pulled him off of me?”
“Partly. But I suspect it’s more because of somethin’ I did that night,” he corrected, “before I left town. Malone, Rendell, and Blanchard had been released on bail, and they were out celebratin’ and havin’ a high ol’ time in a redneck bar on the outskirts of town. They were drinkin’ heavily, braggin’ and laughin’ and trash talkin’ about”—Jesse’s expression hardened, his lips tightening in disgust—“doin’ you’. And how they were gonna get away with it because of who their fathers were. So I waited for them, and when they came outta the bar, staggerin’ and laughin’, I just…lost it.” He paused then shrugged. “Suffice it to say that the next mornin’ when they showed up in court, they were lookin’ a little the worse for wear.”
“I remember that,” she said. “Their pictures were in the paper the next morning, splashed all over the front page with a banner headline, ‘Youths attacked by biker gang.’ They looked like they’d been tossed into a cage full of angry wolverines. That was you?” A note of awe crept into her voice. “You were the biker gang?”
Another shrug. “I was pissed.”
“How did you look?”
He grinned. “Didn’t have a mark on me.”
“Jesse!” She punched his arm in pretended outrage. But couldn’t suppress her answering grin.
Chapter Nine
Both Matt and Ogre were released the next day. Patti’s funeral was the day after that. It was a heart-wrenching affair. Matt, dressed in a suit Jesse and Brian had gone with him to buy, his head swathed in a stark white bandage, was inconsolable. As were her parents and brother, Jacob. The gathering at the Rendells’ house afterward was equally somber, with a steady stream of friends and neighbors and well-wishers stopping by and leaving food, and Sarah was relieved when she, Jesse, and Adam were finally able to take their leave. She hugged and kissed Matt and Brian good-bye, then Don and Martha Rendell. She left with Adam, insisting that he take her to work.
“”Home,” he said with a shake of his head. “You need to rest.”
“I don’t need to rest, Adam. I’m not an invalid.”
“You’re upset.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I’m mourning the death of a close friend, one whose wedding I should be attending instead of her funeral. Nevertheless, I am completely capable of going to work,” she continued stubbornly when he didn’t respond. ‘In fact, I have to go to work. My star witness is taking the stand this morning. I don’t even need to stop by the house to change.” She looked down at the conservative black silk suit she was wearing. It was an old one that, fortunately, had been at the dry cleaners on that day two months ago when Ryder Malone had vandalized her bedroom at Marshall’s Hill and slashed all the rest of her clothes to shreds. “This is perfectly fine for work.”
“Okay, angel, work it is. I’ll be back at four to take you home.”
Once Adam had delivered her safely back to her office in the courthouse, he went to meet with a new client, leaving her in the capable hands of Frik and Frak, her two helpful bodyguards whose real names, she’d learned, were Kyle and Tom. When court resumed at ten thirty, she called her last witness, Nora Sutton, to the stand.
The mousy little woman with the dull, brown Mamie Eisenhower bob was badly in need of a makeover, although it suited Sarah’s purposes for her to look drab and subdued on the stand. The courtroom was theater, and Nora Sutton had a definite role to play. She sat on the edge of her seat, twisting her hands nervously in her lap, mangling a handkerchief. Her testimony was a litany of all the beatings she had received over the years at the hands of her husband, Harold, recited in a low monotone. Until Sarah’s questions led her to the last beating, three and a half months ago.
Haltingly, in harrowing detail, she described how, in a drunken rampage, he’d punched her, kicked her, grabbed her by the hair, and slammed her face against the edge of a table, all the while yelling at her over and over, “I’m gonna kill you, bitch!” She echoed the testimony of the emergency room doctor who’d been on duty when the paramedics had brought her in, describing the broken cheek bone, the broken nose, the three broken ribs, the damaged kidney, and the deep, painful bruises that had lasted for weeks. She described how she’d lain dying in a pool of her own blood for two days while Harold had gone on a drinking binge. She corroborated the testimony of the UPS man who, by sheer happenstance, had heard her moans and faint cries for help and had called 9-1-1.
Everyone knew that Harold Sutton had been beating Nora for years, but this last time he’d nearly killed her. And the next time he surely would. Sarah had gone to see her in the hospital, but convincing the badly injured woman that this time was different…that this time she
definitely needed to press charges, had been a Herculean task. After years of escalating mental and physical abuse, Nora Sutton had been so cowed by her abusive husband, she was way too terrified of reprisals to speak out against him. So Sarah had spirited her out of the hospital and taken her to the local battered women’s shelter.
When Harold had found her there, threatening to kill her if she didn’t come home, Sarah had driven her to a private group home in Virginia Beach, personally footing the bill for the much-needed counseling Nora received. Counseling that had finally broken the thrall Harold had had her in for seventeen years and helped her discover her hitherto-unknown inner strength. Just this past week alone, Nora had filed for divorce, moved into a small apartment in Hampton Roads, and had gotten a job working in a used bookstore.
Sarah finished her questions and turned Nora over to the defense attorney, Ray Martinez. He tried to unnerve Nora, tried to get her to change her testimony, but the woman was steadfast and refused to be rattled. Score one for Nora. When Martinez finished, the judge looked at Nora and said, “The witness may be excused.” As she descended from the stand, Sarah stood and said, “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Martinez?” Judge Walters looked at the defense attorney, who was head to head in an agitated conversation with his client, “Is the defense ready to present its case?” Looking slightly flustered, Martinez stood, jerking his chin up as he smoothed his tie. Buttoning his suit jacket, he stepped out from behind the defense table, shooting his cuffs. “Your Honor, at this time we respectfully request that all charges against Harold Sutton be dismissed on the grounds that the prosecution has failed to meet its burden of proof.”
“Denied. Call your first witness.”
“Your Honor, if it pleases the court, in accordance with the wishes of my client, and, I might add, over my strong objections”—he shot an angry glare at Harold Sutton—“the defense rests.”
An audible gasp went up from the people in the gallery.
Judge Walters leaned forward, focusing sharply on Ray Martinez over the tops of his reading glasses. “Seriously, counselor? You’re not calling any witnesses?”
“At my client’s insistence, Your Honor.”
The judge switched his focus to the defendant. “Mr. Sutton, I strongly advise you to allow your attorney to present your case.”
But Harold just sat, stone-faced, shaking his head.
“Very well, then.” Judge Walters looked a little nonplussed. “We’ll hear closing arguments Friday morning at nine a.m.” He banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”
As soon as Judge Walters entered his chambers, Sarah turned around to grab Nora’s hand. She was sitting in the front row of the gallery, right behind the prosecutor’s table, amidst a group of housewives who came to court every day to discuss their favorite soap operas and to exchange recipes, books, and baked goods. As they listened to the court proceedings, they knitted, crocheted, embroidered, and cross-stitched.
“You did great, sweetie,” she said to Nora. “And now, I have a surprise for you.” She laughed at Nora’s apprehensive expression. “Relax, it’s a good surprise. In fact, you could even say it’s a great surprise.” She paused. “We…all your friends here,” she indicated the women sitting around her, their needlework lying idle in their laps, “have decided that you need something to make you feel like a new woman. Because you are a new woman. A strong, proud, courageous new woman.
“But,”—she paused for effect—“and don’t take this the wrong way, but you still look like the old woman. So, we are sending you to Hunter’s Glen Salon and Day Spa for a full body massage and complete makeover—hair, nails, makeup—the works.” As she spoke she watched a middle-aged black man dressed in chauffeur’s livery and cap enter the courtroom and approach them.
“Ladies,” he said tipping his cap with a slight bow. “I am looking for Mrs. Nora Sutton.”
“Right here,” Sarah said, giving Nora a little push forward.
He smiled, turning to Nora and offering her his arm. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sutton. My name is George, and I am here to escort you to Hunter’s Glen Salon and Day Spa for an afternoon of pampering and relaxation. Are you ready for your life to change?”
“I—” She looked at Sarah helplessly.
At her hesitation, the ladies all made shooing motions with their hands. “Yes. Yes, you’re ready. You deserve this, Nora. Go. Enjoy,” they chorused, waving as, giggling, she took the proffered arm and let the chauffeur escort her out of the courtroom. “Come back Friday looking like a million bucks.”
After Nora left, Sarah returned to her office, with Tom and Kyle trailing faithfully behind her. She was standing in her outer office talking to Heather, when Adam arrived. “Hello, Heather,” he said in passing as he reached for Sarah and pulled her into his arms. “And hello to you, too, sweet pea,” he said, rocking her gently back and forth before lowering his head and taking her mouth in a kiss that started out slow and sweet, a tender exploration of lips lifting, touching, sliding, dragging. A kiss that went on and on, melting every bone in her body. A kiss that had her clinging desperately to his shoulders to keep from dissolving into a puddle of goo at his feet.
After what seemed like forever, he finally raised his head, keeping his lips hovering just above hers, just barely touching. She looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, seeing him through an unfocused haze of lust and longing. Then he lowered his head again, slanting his mouth over hers, opening her up to his marauding tongue, igniting the kiss into a conflagration that blazed so hot, it threatened to immolate them.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you two, behave, or I’ll call the cops,” Heather grumbled good-naturedly, opening her desk drawer and taking out her purse.
“Go ahead,” he challenged her, lifting his mouth from Sarah’s only far enough to be able to say, “They’ll just ignore you. She has a special arrangement with the Chief,” before slanting his head and claiming her lips once again.
Sighing loudly, Heather walked around the kissing couple. “Well, at least someone I know is gonna be havin’ a good night. Unfortunately, it’s not gonna be me. Of course, I could always stop by Victoria’s Secret on the way home and get a sexy little red teddy or something. Then, when Tucker gets home, I could greet him at the door on my hands and knees…woo-ee! He’ll be so shocked, he won’t know what to do with himself!” They could near her conversing with herself all the way down the hall.
Adam smiled against Sarah’s mouth. “Poor bastard,” he murmured, then resumed kissing her. When he finally lifted his head, they were both panting for breath. “C’mon, angel, let’s blow this joint before we get arrested for public indecency.”
“Don’t worry,” Sarah reassured him. “I have a special arrangement with the chief.”
By the time they got home, Jesse was right behind them, pulling his Humvee into the garage alongside Adam’s Land Rover. He opened Sarah’s door and leaned in to give her a thorough, toe-curling kiss before unbuckling her seat belt and handing her out. He swatted her bottom as she preceded him up the concrete steps into the house. On the way through the kitchen, she stopped to take a container of homemade spaghetti sauce out of the freezer before going upstairs to take a shower.
She’d barely had a chance to adjust the shower heads before the glass door clicked open, and both of her men entered the large cubicle. Without a word, Jesse grabbed her around the waist and lifted her onto his steel-hard erection, pushing up into her in one long, smooth glide. Crying out at the jolting pleasure of his sudden penetration, she threw her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles behind his back and holding on for dear life. “Christ, sugar, what you do to me!” he growled in her ear. “I’ll never get enough of you. Not in a hundred million years!” He claimed her mouth in a devouring kiss that she returned with equal hunger. He shifted his hands to grab her beneath her buttocks, separating her ass cheeks to facilitate Adam’s entry into her anus.
She felt
one lubed finger gently probing her puckered opening, then two fingers, then three. Then the fingers withdrew and Adam stepped into her, pressing his hair-roughened chest against her back, fitting his penis to her back hole and pushing forward. She sighed into Jesse’s mouth as Adam breached the tight ring of her sphincter, opening her up to his invasion. As he slid inexorably home, his cock scraped against the hard length of Jesse’s through the thin membrane separating her two channels. For a long moment, they all just stood there groaning, not daring to move lest they all climax too soon. Then Adam reached around and pulled Sarah’s torso back away from Jesse’s chest, weighing her breasts in his palms before pinching and twisting her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.
As if that were the signal he was waiting for, Jesse pulled out of her sheath in one long, excruciatingly slow retreat. As he drove back in, just as slowly, Adam slid out of her ass and her throat closed around a shuddering groan of abject surrender. They set up an alternating rhythm, one pushing in, the other pulling out, back and forth, back and forth, gradually increasing both the force and speed of their strokes. Pleasure built inside Sarah, coiling tighter and tighter, like a spring rapidly approaching its breaking point. Trembling, moaning, her muscles contracting with a pleasure so violent it was almost painful, she hung there, her body rigid, until a swipe of Adam’s thumb across her clit catapulted her, screaming, into an orgasm that ripped through her like a million stabbing knives, shredding her into a gazillion pieces before flinging them out into the vastness of space.
She was still convulsing when they both slammed their full lengths inside her, their balls exploding, sending bursts of hot cum jetting into her, fore and aft, triggering a continuing series of devastating aftershocks. They rippled through her, convulsing her inner muscles in liquid spasms that wrung every last drop of cum out of the two cocks. With a half-sigh, half-moan, she sagged against Jesse’s broad chest, utterly spent. Adam collapsed over her back like a masculine quilt. Terrified of dropping them both, Jesse did a swift quarter turn and sagged back against the tile wall, just in time to lock his wobbly knees in place so he could support all their weight with just the strength in his muscular thighs and calves.
Owning Sarah [Sequel to Loving Sarah] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 22
