Guarding the Socialite

by Kimberly Van Meter

  Cari looked at her fellow boarders and when no one stepped forward, she hesitantly raised her hand. “I will,” she said. “Whatever I can do to help. I don’t want to be murdered in my bed. I have a baby to think about.”

  “The way this freak operates it won’t be in your bed,” quipped the black woman, earning a look from Emma.

  “That’s not necessary, Olivia, thank you,” she lightly chided the woman into silence. She turned to Dillon. “You can use my office if you like.”

  “Thank you. Shall we?” He gestured, allowing room for the pregnant woman to pass and then followed her up to Emma’s office. He wondered at the circumstances that had brought the teen to Iris House. It was likely a sad story. It appeared Emma plucked the ones she thought she could save from the streets. It only served to deepen the mystery that was Emma Vale—and increase his desire to know all that made her who she was and why.

  Now he had a reason aside from personal interest to dig deeper.

  The key to what was happening to those prostitutes might actually lie with Emma.

  And that didn’t sit well at all.

  Chapter 6

  He coveted.

  An image of perfection, she never failed to brighten his day. The anticipation of their union slicked his hands and he had to rub them on his pant leg to dry the sweat.

  Soon. He’d had so much fun with Charlotte. It was always such sweet sorrow when his dolls became broken. So pretty, so delicious.

  But not fresh. No, those girls were dirty. Used and spoiled before they ever came into his possession. He watched and waited. Selecting his dolls with the utmost care. Everything had to be perfect. He was not an impatient man. He’d waited so long for Emma. One glance from her blue eyes and he’d been lost. And he knew. She was the one he’d been waiting for.

  Even as he sat in the park, surrounded by people enjoying the view and the crisp yet clear San Francisco day, his enjoyment came not from the beautiful surroundings, but from his unobstructed line of sight.

  A team of agents swarmed the front of Iris House, dusting for prints. His lip curled in disdain. As if he’d leave behind such easy evidence. He wished he’d been able to see her expression when she read his note. Had her pupils dilated with fear? Had she stared uncomprehending at the letter, wondering what it meant only to drop it in horror as the meaning became clear? She didn’t know the honor he would bestow upon her. She would be the queen of his dolls. The only one worthy.

  But first…he had work to do so that he was the worthy one.

  It was late afternoon and Dillon wasn’t finished interviewing her girls. Emma was on edge. Chick put a large Chai tea in her hand and she accepted it gratefully.

  “How’d you know I desperately needed this?” she asked, taking a sip and closing her eyes briefly to savor the moment.

  “It’s been a rough day,” Chick said, smiling as she sipped her own beverage that Emma knew would likely be some kind of premium roast so strong it could put hair on your chest. “And I needed one, so I figured, what the hell. A splurge on coffeehouse drinks seemed in order.”

  Emma wearily lifted her cup. “So true.”

  They drank in silence until Chick caught Emma glancing for the third time in as many minutes toward her office, where Dillon was interviewing the girls.

  “Who’s he with now?”

  “Bella.”

  “I thought you were going to be sitting in on that meeting.”

  “I was. At the last minute, she said she wanted to do it alone.”

  Chick chuckled. “Did you frisk her for sharp objects first?”

  Emma laughed at that. “I considered it but she’s been pretty subdued today. I’m guessing therapy went well?”

  “Well, she didn’t come out spitting mad like she usually does. Maybe she hit a breakthrough. Or maybe she’s contemplating all of our deaths while we sleep. You never know with that kid.”

  Emma’s laughter died away at the sobering thought. Bella was so damaged. So broken. Sometimes she looked into those gorgeous eyes and saw desolation staring back at her. It only served to strengthen her need to help put her pieces back together. Hope drove Emma with a master’s whip, demanding everything from her, and she gladly gave it—most days. But for a selfish moment, she wished for something that was far less absorbing than the endless struggle to save girls from the streets, and themselves. She exhaled softly but kept her thoughts private where they belonged. Without her, Iris House would crumble and what then? Iris House had become more than her passion and redemption…it’d become her life. She couldn’t let it fail for any reason—personal or otherwise. She shuddered at the thought.

  “You know, if she keeps up the violent outbursts at school, they’re going to pull her from your care,” Chick said, interrupting her thoughts, for which Emma was glad.

  “They can try,” Emma said, the light tone betraying the thread of steel. She was willing to fight tooth and nail to keep Bella. Everyone in that girl’s life had given up on her; she wasn’t going to be another in a long line.

  Chick sighed, the sound pulling at Emma. She knew Chick worried that she was being reckless because of her feelings for Bella. She couldn’t deny it. “She’s not Elyse,” Chick said quietly.

  A pain so raw and angry slapped Emma and it took a moment before she could speak without her voice betraying her. Leave it to Chick to pull no punches. She had to remind herself at times that she appreciated that facet of the woman’s personality. “I know that.”

  Chick held her stare. “Do you?”

  “Yes, Chick,” she answered but she didn’t have the guts to hold her best friend’s gaze. Chick might be younger than her by a few years but she saw too much. She knew. The sound of her office door opening gave her a reprieve from where the conversation was going. She jumped to her feet and rushed into the hallway to catch Bella’s expression. The teen looked deceptively fine. “Everything all right?” she asked, striving for a normal tone but her nerves were strung taut.

  “He wants to see you,” Bella said. “And yes, I’m fine. Stop treating me like I’m some kind of basket case.” She looked to Chick. “Is there any food? I’m starved.”

  Emma pursed her lips. Perhaps Bella had a point. She had been hovering. She’d hate that, too. She gestured to the kitchen, saying, “You can heat up the leftover spaghetti Cari made last night during one of her late-night cravings. She made enough to feed an army.”

  She opened the door to her office and found Dillon standing by the wide window that graced her south wall. His profile, sleek and sinewy without looking feminine, cut an impressive silhouette that was hard to overlook. Her thoughts raced without her permission to all sorts of things she imagined he was good at without the encumbrances of clothing. Perhaps it was because he was a foreigner. She’d always been a little weak for the ones with an accent. There was also the mystery. How did an Englishman come to join the FBI? Of course, those were personal questions and none of her business but the curiosity remained.

  “How’d the interviews go?” she asked, almost loath to pull him away from his thoughts. Was he thinking of someone special? She suspected it was hard to keep a relationship going with the long hours and dangerous cases he worked but it wasn’t impossible. Especially given that he was devastatingly handsome. Devastating? Oh, truly, Emma. You’re sinking fast into melodramatic territory. He was passing attractive. Perhaps a little too slim for her tastes. No, that wasn’t true at all. She found men who were covered with lumps of muscle to be off-putting but he surely filled out his clothes nicely. She cut sharply away to take a seat behind her desk. “I assume none of the girls gave you any trouble,” she said, trying to keep the worry or distraction from her voice. Evie and Bella were her prime suspects in the trouble department. Either one could deliberately become difficult with the switch in the wind.

  Instead of answering, he startled her with a statement. “You have interesting criteria for your boarders at Iris House. Has it always been this way?”

  �
��Whatever do you mean?” she asked, folding her hands neatly in front of her, if only to keep the trembling hidden. He affected her in the worst way. Plain and simple, she was wildly attracted to him. She was an adult; she could admit it. But where did that put her? In a terrible predicament. It could go nowhere and she wasn’t in a habit of being casual so she had no choice but to bottle that annoying little jitterbug in her stomach and move on as if it had never been acknowledged.

  “A pregnant woman, a drug addict—”

  “A recovering drug addict,” she corrected automatically.

  He lifted a brow at the correction and continued. “Recovering drug addict, a surly teen with a record, a working prostitute and an ex-con…not your typical sorority house.”

  “We pride ourselves on that,” she said, taking careful note that although he hadn’t talked to Ursula he had found out that she was still hitting the streets. It made her wonder what else he had gathered from the girls. “They all have a past…but that doesn’t mean they can’t have a future.”

  “Is that the Iris House motto?” he asked.

  She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her but it didn’t feel much like a compliment. She regarded him coolly. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  He seemed to catch that he’d offended her. Something flickered across his gaze—regret, curiosity—she wasn’t sure, but he didn’t give her the chance to find out. Pushing his hand through his hair, he shook his head with a weary sigh. “No.”

  “So my girls are clear?” Relief was immediate as he answered with a nod.

  “All except Ursula,” he added. He moved away from the window but leaned against the wall. He was the most puzzling man she’d ever come across. She didn’t have a habit of working with FBI agents but Dillon McIntyre wasn’t what she would’ve imagined if she were drawing a picture. He managed to make slouching look sexy. She straightened her own spine. He gazed at her, tucking his hands in his trouser pockets. “Any particular reason why you got all snarly earlier? I sense a story.”

  She shouldn’t tell him. It was Ursula’s business but he was bound to find out eventually and she didn’t want to make it seem as if she’d been hiding anything. She drew a short breath before answering. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t divulge such personal information but due to the extraordinary circumstances I feel it may be pertinent to share. Ursula has remained in her room because she is recuperating from an unfortunate incident with a…client.” She met his inquiring gaze evenly, without reservation. “She was beaten by a john. Severely.”

  If she expected recriminations she didn’t get any, which elevated Dillon a fraction in her estimation. She was even willing to give him extra points for the dark frown of concern pulling his brows as he asked, “She okay?”

  Emma drew away, leaning back in her chair, the day wearing on her reserves. “She’ll live. Chick said she’s bruised pretty badly but nothing is broken.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t take her to the hospital.”

  “I would’ve. Ursula refused medical treatment. I respected her wishes.”

  “She should’ve made a police report for assault,” he said, but they both knew why she didn’t. Prostitutes who got banged up during the commission of a crime weren’t usually given the red carpet treatment. Emma had witnessed the prejudice firsthand with her sister. Her mouth tightened as the memory bloomed and it took great will to keep her comments on the subject from spilling out. If he noted her reaction he didn’t push. He seemed to realize she was skirting something personal and even if his eyes lighted with interest in the mystery he simply returned to the business at hand. “Since Ursula is unavailable tonight for questioning, that leaves my evening open for you.”

  A jolt of something hot and unfamiliar sparked along her nerve endings but she managed a sensible agreement. He needed to interview everyone in the house; that included her. There was nothing above and beyond protocol that prompted his statement, and if his gaze seemed to linger it was only because he was trained to watch for subtlety, not because he was checking her out. What a thought. She suppressed a melancholy sigh that came from out of nowhere.

  “Of course,” she said, gathering her hands in her lap, prepared to answer whatever question he might pose. “I expected as much. What would you like to know?”

  He zeroed in on her gaze, pinning her with that dark and unwavering stare and she could’ve sworn her heart stuttered a beat. It was hard to look away but she schooled her expression into one of neutrality even if every nerve snapped and sizzled at the raw heat that emanated from those eyes.

  “Are you dating anyone?”

  So much for finesse. So much for protocol. But Dillon needed to know. He had his reasons. Ones that were grounded in logic. But he couldn’t lie. He had reasons that were purely selfish, too.

  The pink tip of her tongue snaked out to touch her top lip, as if without thought and his body hardened. Get a hold of yourself, man. Your cheese has done slid off your cracker.

  “Uh…” She faltered at the personal question he’d lobbed at her with all the grace of an elephant but she shook her head in answer. “No. I don’t have time for much of a personal life. Iris House is a large commitment that leaves little room for…much else. Why?”

  “Is there anyone—rebuffed suitors, angry ex-boyfriends—who might have a score to settle with you?” he asked. In theory, a less-secure man might find her rejection too much to handle. He needed to rule out former flames as suspects. “Anyone who might have suffered a broken heart?”

  “At my hands?” Her mouth twisted in a small but wry smile. “No. Like I said, I haven’t had much opportunity to break hearts or enjoy company.”

  He tucked that away, absurdly relieved. But he also found it telling. “Why would someone—pardon my saying—who is as attractive, intelligent and accomplished as you remain single?”

  “Agent McIntyre, I was raised in an age where a woman doesn’t need a man to feel complete,” she answered with a smile. She was playing with him but he saw the loneliness that she tried to hide, burying it under work, obligation and responsibility. She continued with a shrug. “Besides, it isn’t as if I’ve avoided dating. I just value my time and have rarely found anyone worth sacrificing it for.” In theory it sounded plausible but he sensed a ghost lingering in the room, something that constantly pushed her to relegate her needs to the farthest corner and he wanted to know why.

  “But you would if you found the right person?”

  A small, tremulous smile followed. “Are you asking me out, Agent McIntyre?”

  He straightened. “No. Just trying to figure a few things out.”

  “Let me make it simple for you,” she said, rising. “Iris House means everything to me. I would never jeopardize the success and stability of the house for the sake of personal involvement. I’m a busy woman, as you can imagine. I hardly miss the complications inherent in a relationship.”

  That was a bold-faced lie. At least part of it was.

  And he wanted to know what was behind door number two. He just had to figure out how to get the key.

  Chapter 7

  Emma took a moment to compose herself before she pushed the doorbell on her parents’ palatial home, stuffing down the trepidation that usually followed a visit to Veronica and Nigel Vale.

  It wasn’t always so difficult to go home but after Elyse died—she swallowed the familiar lump when thoughts of her sister arose—and the opening of Iris House, the visits became more like tense negotiations rather than family get-togethers. And frankly, as her parents aged, they became less interested in tact than they were in their single-minded desire for her to shut down Iris House and take her place in society, as if they were living in the Victorian age and Emma was shaming them for her career choice.

  She had no taste for pointless dinners and parties. Perhaps at one time she’d been seduced by the lavish social events, but after Elyse died Emma had realized how shallow and meaningless it all was. She also recognized that to keep Iris
House open she had to continue to circulate in the same nauseating circles as she had before, only now she was more interested in their generous donations.

  The door opened and she smiled a greeting to Phillipe, their butler since she was a child, and allowed him to take her coat.

  “So good to see you, Miss Vale. Your parents are enjoying a cocktail in the drawing room with Mr. West,” Phillipe said, his voice strong in spite of the full head of silver and the fact that he suffered terrible arthritis in his hands. She paused for a moment. “Isaac is here? I thought he was still out of town,” she mused.

  “Apparently, his business concluded early and he heard of your troubles and wanted to show his support.”

  “How sweet of him,” she said, smiling.

  “Yes,” Phillipe agreed amiably, adding, “Perhaps he will provide a welcome buffer should things become…uncomfortable with your parents.”

  “Yes, perhaps,” she said smothering a giggle, resisting the urge to hug the older gentleman. With her parents milling about she didn’t dare embarrass Phillipe with such a display. But Phillipe was as much a part of her childhood as was Maura, the family cook, and she refused to ignore that fact simply because they were in a different tax bracket. “How are you, Phillipe?” she asked, taking note of the subtle stiffness in his gait. “Are you using that cream I sent for your joints? I found it in Chinatown. It’s supposed to be wonderful for arthritis. And since I got it from a little old Chinese lady who swore by it, I figured it was worth a try.”

  He bent his head ever so slightly and a smile played on his lips. “It’s very soothing, Miss Vale. If you’ll allow me to take the cost out of my paycheck I’d be most obliged.”

  “I will not, which is why I won’t tell you how much it cost because I know you’ll try and slip me the money somehow. Besides, it was very little and I’m happy to do it.” She savored the warm feeling in her chest for just a moment as she enjoyed being able to help in some way. Then with an inward sigh to bolster her nerves she asked, “So what’s the mood in there?” Phillipe’s brow furrowed as if troubled and that gave her pause. Usually, Phillipe didn’t mind giving her a heads-up on the sly but now he clearly seemed bothered by something. She paused. “What’s wrong?”