Guarding the Socialite

by Kimberly Van Meter

  “And there goes any hope of a future together,” Emma surmised. She looked ready to vomit but she didn’t sit there in a stunned stupor for long. She jerked open the front drawer and pulled out the guest list for the Winter Ball.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She grabbed a fine-tipped pen from her tidy pen holder and purposefully uncapped it with a fluid movement before meeting his gaze. “Amending the guest list, Agent McIntyre. I’ve suddenly lost my affection for a certain person,” she said icily, then deliberately struck Robert Gavin’s name from her list.

  Emma was shaking inside. Robert Gavin. Of all the horrible, despicable, wretched… She shuddered. And she’d allowed him to sit at her table, while laughing at his inane jokes. Oh, horror upon horror, she’d briefly entertained the idea of accepting his offer of a night on the town. “Do you think he killed her?” she asked, pausing a moment to look at Dillon. “Do you think it’s him?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered carefully. “I’ve got someone going through his phone records right now. The warrant should be processed by tomorrow. We’ll know more then.”

  “But something tells me your intuition is saying he’s not the one,” she said, taking note of his closed-off expression. “Why?”

  “Because men can be rutting bastards but that doesn’t make them killers. And frankly, I don’t see Gavin having the kind of mental agility that this guy has to pull off the murders we’ve been seeing.”

  “Damn. You’re right,” she admitted, but she was too incensed at Robert’s duplicity to let it go entirely. “Still, one can’t be too careful. Perhaps a cavity search is in order,” she suggested, eliciting a rueful laugh from Dillon.

  “From the pictures I saw…he might enjoy it.”

  “Oh, Lord,” she blushed with a mild groan of distress. “I’m getting a mental picture and it’s horrifying.”

  “Yeah, I felt the need to wash out my retinas, too. But you’re right…we can’t be too careful because even though I’m not sure Gavin is the guy…I’m not sure he’s not. And I can’t take the chance.”

  She replaced her list in the drawer and then tried to focus on something productive but her gaze kept going to the scar on Dillon’s cheek. Her curiosity was an annoyance. She didn’t want to know more about the man than was necessary. At least that’s what she told herself with frightening regularity.

  “Why aren’t you married?” she blurted, stunned that the words had somehow slipped from her mouth with such a desperate ring. Heat crawled into her cheeks and warmed her entire face. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where that came from…. I’m not myself right now—” Understatement if there ever was one. If she started a list of all the uncharacteristic things she’d done since meeting Dillon McIntyre…well, she’d have a very embarrassing list.

  “I never met anyone who made me want to be a better man,” he answered, his gaze intense even if he was lounging in the chair across from her. “I’m a man with plenty of vices. Up until last year I was a chain-smoker, I drink too much and for very little reason, I find most people annoying at best, unbearably ignorant at worst, and I’ve been told I can be terribly rude without even trying.”

  She blinked at him. “Oh,” she said, trying for a small smile as she asked. “Is that all?”

  He shrugged. “If we’re being totally honest, I’ve also been accused of being a bed hog.”

  Since they hadn’t actually done any co-sleeping, she wouldn’t know but she wasn’t averse to finding out, she realized.

  “You sound very disagreeable.”

  “Exactly. Now you know why I haven’t married. Much to Mum’s disappointment,” he added in a surly grumble.

  “I’m sure there’s more to the story,” she said. She wasn’t going to point out that he was a handsome man—he surely knew this—and good-looking men didn’t stay unattached for long unless there was some kind of truly fatal flaw. Although he’d been seemingly honest about his, she sensed a bigger reason. “How’d you get that scar on your cheek?”

  He forced a smile. “It’s not a very interesting story.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” she returned, using his own words.

  “Well, perhaps I should’ve said, it’s not a very nice story.” When she remained silent, refusing to back down, he looked away but not before she caught the sense that whatever had happened had left more than a physical scar. “It was the last case I was assigned with my partner. You may have heard it on the news. The Babysitter.”

  “Oh, goodness, yes. That was awful. A woman killing children? I can’t even imagine.”

  “Yes, well, she was quite the peach,” he quipped darkly. “All because she lost her own baby. Frightening thought…her being a mother.” He grimaced then continued. “In the course of the investigation we were following a lead and me and a fellow teammate, Agent Tana Miller, went into an abandoned old house only to be blown to bits by a homemade bomb the Babysitter left behind as a present. Tana was killed instantly. I recovered eventually.”

  “You lost a teammate?” Emma asked, sympathy softening her voice. “That’s awful.”

  His tone roughened as he said, “Yes, well, terrible things happen in the field. It’s a risk we all take. Tana was as good as they came. The Bureau lost a good agent that day.”

  “And you lost a friend,” she surmised.

  It was a long moment before he answered again, and when he did she thought she almost heard a catch in his voice. “Yeah…the entire team lost a friend. After that case, we all went our separate ways. Kara retired, D’Marcus transferred and Zane, well, he was never quite right after it all went down. He left the Bureau and I don’t know where he went.”

  Emma stilled. There was pain there. Lots of it. This was the darkness she’d seen lurking under the surface of the irreverent jokes and biting sarcasm. Considering his mother was still in London, it was likely his team had become his family, which had become fractured after their teammate had been killed and the case solved. What a cost to bear. She reached out to him in the only way she knew how—in sympathy.

  “I know it doesn’t make it better and it’s in no way supposed to be a trade, but I’m sure Tana would’ve wanted to do anything to keep that psychotic woman from killing another child…even if it meant sacrificing herself.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked sharply, though his eyes were sad. “She was young. Never married. She wasn’t even dating anyone seriously at the time because she wanted her career to come first. Why her? Why not me?”

  Ah, she realized with a small bubble pop of intuition. Survivor guilt. She knew there was little she could say that would be what he needed to hear, but she wanted to try anyway, if only to show him that he wasn’t alone. She stood and came around the table to where he was sitting. He watched her approach, his gaze never leaving her. It was almost as if he were challenging her without saying a word, begging without moving a muscle.

  “I don’t know why it was her instead of you,” she answered honestly. “Terrible things happen all the time and we don’t always know the why of it. Please don’t cringe when I say that everything happens for a reason.” When his mouth tightened, evidence that he hadn’t liked what she’d said, she continued undaunted. She knew that even as painful as it was to lose her sister, her death had been the catalyst to create something good in the world. “When Elyse died I didn’t know how I’d get through it. I felt alone and adrift. My parents aren’t the touchy-feely type. They don’t give hugs or sympathy. They just march on. At least that’s how it felt. It wasn’t until recently that I learned maybe my perception of their reaction wasn’t entirely accurate.” She drew a deep breath, remembering her father’s overbearing demands and her mother’s fearful expression. Momentarily distracted, she refocused. “The point is, losing Elyse drove me to create Iris House in her memory. I help women like Elyse get back on their feet. But the truth is—and I’m not comparing Elyse to Tana—Elyse’s dying…was probably a blessing. She was tearing our fa
mily apart with her drug addiction. I couldn’t have seen that at the time but I do now.”

  “I don’t believe in fate and all that rubbish,” he said, his expression flat. “There was no good reason Tana died and I didn’t. End of story. If believing that your sister died so you could start Iris House is the way you cope with losing her, fabulous. I just don’t buy into that woo-woo New Age belief. No offense.”

  “Have you ever noticed that when people say no offense or don’t take this the wrong way they are usually saying something that is either quite rude or offensive and likely to make the other person angry, hurt or defensive?” she asked, coolly. She was just trying to help and he was being downright nasty. Fine. She got the message loud and clear. “I’m sorry to have bothered you with my attempt at sympathy, Agent McIntyre,” she said, moving to the door, intent on leaving him behind so she could clear her head. But he was there, having bolted from his chair as if he had rocket blasters cleverly installed in the heels of his shoes, and now he was hovering over her in the most disconcerting way. She attempted to back away but he was in her space. “Agent—”

  “Dillon,” he reminded her with a husky growl, his mouth moving ever so closer to hers, causing a shiver of anticipation to tickle her skin.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “But I don’t want to stop.”

  She inhaled sharply, intent on reminding him that this wasn’t appropriate, and damn it, she was angry with him for being so closed off and uncommunicative—basically, for acting like every man she’d ever dated—but before she could get the words out, his lips were sliding over hers. Her knees trembled, threatening to send her dropping to the floor if he didn’t catch her, and she forgot what she’d been planning to say.

  That is until she heard a hissed “My God!” from the hallway and she realized they had an audience.

  Robert Gavin, plump face turning red while his lips seemed to all but disappear as his mouth tightened with rage, speared Dillon with a look full of hatred and something else equally ugly as he said, spittle flying from his mouth in his delivery, “Your career is mine, Agent McIntyre,” he snarled, looking briefly to Emma. “You can count on it.”

  Emma wasn’t sure she could’ve said anything useful, her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth from shock and mortification, but she’d also been a bit scared by the look of murder in Robert’s eyes. If he’d had a gun, she didn’t doubt the both of them would be sporting bullet-sized holes in their heads. “This is bad,” she whispered, looking to Dillon to either put her fears at ease or confirm them.

  She was hoping for the former but got the latter as Dillon’s mouth turned down with grim acknowledgment. “Oh, yes. This is bad. I have to do some damage control,” he said, grabbing his coat and slipping it on as he rummaged in a pocket for his phone. Once it was in his hand, he gestured to her as he dialed. “Stay put. I’ll figure this out.”

  And then with the phone to his ear, he was gone as quickly as Robert, leaving Emma to wonder how the hell her world had gotten so screwed up.

  Chapter 17

  Dillon skidded into the director’s office, knowing by the tic going off in the creases of the man’s eyes that things didn’t bode well for him.

  “I can explain,” he started, but he was cut off.

  “I told you to walk the line,” Director Pratt growled, slapping a folder on the desk. “What part of walk the line escaped you, McIntyre? English is your native language, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for an answer to his sarcastic question and wisely Dillon didn’t try to offer one. “There are rules for a reason. You can’t go around doing whatever the hell you want just because you want to do it. You’re supposed to be protecting Ms. Vale, not washing her tonsils. This is a serious breach of protocol. You leave me no choice but to pull you from the case.”

  Dillon tensed but fought to keep his cool. It wouldn’t do any good to take a backhoe to the hole he was already knee-deep in. “Director, if I may…I’ll admit kissing Ms. Vale was an error in judgment on my part but I think pulling me at this stage would be a detriment to the case. The Winter Ball is this weekend. I’ve been studying the donors and I need to see them face-to-face. It’s my hunch that the killer is one of the people on the guest list.”

  “What proof do you have?”

  “None yet, but I will. I have a gut feeling,” he protested but Pratt waved him away.

  “Sorry. We deal in hard evidence around here. You’ve lost your objectivity and we need a cool head. I’m putting Sanford on the case, effective immediately. That’ll be all, McIntyre.”

  Dillon’s skin pricked from the heat percolating from his temper and his growing fear that he’d royally screwed up and in doing so he just put Emma in real danger. Sanford was a decent agent but he didn’t have the background, the intuition or the drive to ensure that Emma remained safe.

  “This is a mistake,” he said, his tone laced with steel. “Don’t make—”

  “No, don’t you make another mistake,” Pratt interrupted, his gaze hardening on Dillon. “I’ve got that Gavin man calling for your head, demanding that I can your ass over this situation. And even though kissing isn’t grounds for termination, it sure doesn’t look good. I have enough pressure on me with this case, so if you don’t want to find yourself in even hotter water, you’ll pipe down, realize I’m doing you a favor and just say thank you. You’re no good to me, McIntyre. I had reservations about putting you on this case…. I can see now that I should’ve listened to my gut. Take the rest of the day off. And get your head on straight.”

  Yeah, sure. If it were that easy… As tempting as it was to continue to argue his case, he knew a losing battle when he saw it. Even though it went against everything in him, he forced himself to walk out the door and head to Sanford’s desk. He stopped by his own desk and scooped his files, notes and miscellaneous items, and dropped them unceremoniously on Sanford’s. “Seems you’ve been reassigned to the prostitute killer,” he said tightly.

  Earl Sanford—a man who thought he was slicker than he actually was, had a smarmy grin and drove a big, flashy car that was an obvious overcompensation for something—accepted the folder and leaned back in his chair to peruse the contents. “Tough break, McIntyre,” he said. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Word around the water cooler is that you should’ve gone out on a medical a long time ago. But I wouldn’t worry about it. This case doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It’s been weeks since the last dead prostitute popped up with the same MO as the last. Whoever it was has probably moved on.”

  That’s exactly the kind of thickheaded thinking the killer was banking on, Dillon thought darkly. He hit Sanford with a mocking look. “I have a tendency to trash office gossip. Otherwise I might’ve been inclined to believe that you enjoy wearing women’s panties and that you have a penchant for dressing in drag when you’re in strange cities.” Dillon paused a brief moment to enjoy the sickly blanching of Sanford’s normally florid face and shrugged. “But like I said, I tend to ignore the stuff heard around the water cooler. And don’t go soft, Sanford,” he warned, all hint of mockery gone from his voice. This was serious and he needed Sanford to remember that. “We aren’t dealing with your average dim-witted killer who slashes and runs. He’s methodical and he’s doing this for a reason.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me how to be an investigator,” Sanford retorted stiffly, casting a furtive glance around the room to see if anyone else had by chance caught what Dillon had said about the undergarments. “Anything else, McIntyre?” which was code for get the hell out and Dillon knew it.

  Dillon shook his head. He felt sick inside. If Sanford didn’t end up with his throat cut, it’d be a miracle. He wasn’t skilled enough to avoid a trap if the killer thought to set one.

  For that matter, he hadn’t been, either, and he was a better investigator than Sanford.

  Bloody hell.

  Dillon muttered something along the lines of “happy hunting,”
but he was already walking out the door before Sanford could respond.

  He’d known he was slipping into a bad place when he couldn’t get Emma out of his thoughts, but instead of pulling back he’d completely driven off the cliff and willfully allowed himself into her bed. After that, he’d known there was no going back.

  His feelings were all twisted and tangled up in Emma Vale and he couldn’t begin to know how to fix that. But the worst of it…he didn’t know if he wanted to.

  Emma pressed both hands to her cheeks and squeezed her eyes shut in some grasping hope of regaining her sanity. Robert Gavin had caught them kissing. She could almost hear the gathering storm awaiting her when this news hit the social circles. Some might titter at the gossip—which was harmless—but others might find it extremely distasteful and express those feelings by way of their financial donations.

  “Chick,” she hollered, needing to confess her fears to someone and knowing her best friend would gladly listen and perhaps even chastise her for her actions, which she certainly deserved. But as she rounded the corner she ran into Cari, who was leading with her rounded belly. She gasped and steadied the unwieldy young woman so they both didn’t tumble to the floor. “Are you all right? What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

  Cari shook her head as she supported the weight of her stomach with her hand. “No, it’s Ursula,” she answered, distress in her tone. “She won’t open the door and I think she needs to go to the hospital.”

  Alarm spiked through Emma, followed by guilt. She’d forgotten to check on the girl, assuming Chick had it under control. Grabbing her key ring with all the masters she rushed to the second level with Cari panting behind her in an effort to keep up. “When was the last time you spoke with her?” Emma asked, hurrying to Ursula’s door.