by Linda Barlow
She nodded against him. She understood exactly what he was saying, what he was feeling. After all he had been through, he needed her trust, just as she had once needed Charlie’s.
But how could she give him what she didn’t yet feel?
“Come back to bed,” he said.
She lay down beside him and he pulled the covers over them. She could feel his heart beating against hers.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Listen.” His voice hardened. “If someone tried to run you down, I’ll catch the bastard. If it’s the same man who murdered Francesca, I’ll tear him apart.”
Again she nodded against him. She believed him. She did.
She tried to turn onto her side, but he pressed her down on her back. He threw one heavy thigh over hers, holding her in position. “Your body trusts me, Annie,” he said. “Sooner or later, your mind will follow.”
Sometime during the night, after another bout of passionate lovemaking, he said gently, “Okay, let’s think about this together. Are you absolutely sure that the driver was trying to hit you?”
Annie forced herself to think back over the earlier events of the night. Had she overreacted? Had the car simply been speeding and a little out of control? A drunken teenager, perhaps?
She shook her head. “I don’t know if he was actually trying to hit me. But he was trying to frighten me, I’m pretty certain about that.”
“Tell me exactly what happened. From the beginning.”
Starting with the note on the windshield of her car, she described the rest of the evening’s events.
When she’d finished, Matt said thoughtfully, “So there are two possibilities—either Vico got around behind you, and, annoyed at being chased by you, tried to scare you off.”
“Vico was driving a different kind of car.”
“Okay. How about this, then? Somebody followed you to the meeting with Paolina and Vico and continued to follow you afterward. While you were concentrating on your pursuit of the teenagers, you didn’t realize that somebody was pursuing you.”
“But who? And why?”
“Well, the obvious suspect is the person who’s been writing you the threatening letters.”
“But he sounds like a crazy person, some sort of nut.”
“Well, suppose for the sake of argument he’s not a nut, but someone whose purpose is to frighten you into—Into what? Quitting your job?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question. Is there somebody who wants me off as project manager? Is that it? And if so, why? Does somebody else want my job? Sam said that if he hadn’t given it to me, he’d probably have given it to Darcy. But it can’t be Darcy—she and I are close friends… and why would she want the job anyway?”
“Who else besides Darcy?”
“Well, there’s Jack Fletcher, whom I’ve never really trusted. I keep getting the feeling that there’s something strange about him. But he’s the contractor’s job superintendent, which is a pretty good job in itself. He probably has more power on site than I have. So unless he just can’t stand working with me, it doesn’t make sense that he would be trying to get rid of me.”
“Maybe he can’t stand working with a woman.”
She shrugged.
“Or maybe it has nothing to do with someone wanting your job. Maybe it’s because you represent a threat to someone.”
“What sort of threat could I represent?”
“Annie, you’re not naïve. It could be something connected with the job itself. Some sort of fraud by the contractor or one of the subs. You’ve been the project manager for months, and maybe you know something that you don’t realize you know. Maybe somebody wants to get rid of you before you figure it out.”
He had a point, Annie thought. Paul McEnerney, for example, struck her as the type of guy who wouldn’t hesitate to get his hands dirty if the profit was high and the risk low. And then there was Sidney Canin, whom Sam had fired without telling anybody why.
“Last, let’s not forget that a man was just murdered,” said Matt. “The killer and the poison-pen writer could be one and the same.”
“It’s giving me a headache to keep thinking about it,” she said.
“I know the feeling, believe me. The last thing I need in my life is another murder.”
“Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry!”
He smiled. Then he leaned over and kissed her. “If you’re really sorry, I can think of several ways for you to show it,” he said.
Playfully, she struggled against him while he held her down. The night had been so intense that there had been no time for lighthearted sensuality. Now, for the first time, she realized that Matt could love her in a way that was both pleasurable and fun.
No, fun wasn’t exactly the word, she thought wryly a few minutes later. It was far too mundane a term for the passion that gripped them both.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Annie, you look a little pale. Are you feeling all right?” Fletcher asked the following evening. They were in the choir loft at the west end of the cathedral, watching the installation of the pipes for the great church organ. It was quitting time, and the workmen were leaving.
“I’m fine,” Annie said. “I’m leaving shortly. Will you close things down tonight for me, please?”
“No problem.”
Annie was in a hurry to get home because she had a date with Matt. She’d been thinking about it all afternoon, alternately nervous and excited. He’d called at lunchtime, and he’d made no pretense of talking about the project or the murder or anything else. “I need to see you,” he’d said, and the intensity in his voice had spoken volumes about a very private need.
“If you wait a few seconds I’ll walk you out to your car,” Fletcher added.
“Thanks, but you really don’t have to.”
“I know, but considering the murder and those threats you’ve been receiving, I figure you could use a strong man’s company, especially after dark.”
Not yours, Annie thought. Then she checked herself. She was being unfair to the guy. He’d never been anything but polite to her, and at the moment he seemed sincerely concerned.
“Well, okay, thanks,” she said.
They walked together to the elevator that had just been installed in the south bell tower. The cathedral was dark and gloomy, filled with shadows. Annie remembered what Barbara Rae had described of her premonitions and had to suppress a tiny shiver. Ever since Giuseppe’s death it had seemed that a pall lay over the cathedral. Instead of a place of beauty and divinity, it seemed to her a place of pain.
It was working, Fletcher thought as he accompanied her to the elevator. The method had been crude, but he liked the results. Annie was not quite as self-assured and cocky as she’d been a couple of weeks ago. She was frightened, and her fear softened her, making her even more feminine.
Of course, he would have to be careful. No more threatening letters now that the cops were on the scene. Too dangerous. He certainly couldn’t afford to take any chances.
And as for following her by car—no more of that, either. He remembered the sharp thrill of stalking her, and the even sharper thrill of hurtling down the dark street toward her. Scaring her. Hell, he had scared himself. It had actually crossed his mind: What if he struck her, sent her lovely body flying, left her crumpled and broken in the street and unable to torment him any longer.
God, you’re crazy,man, he said to himself. He didn’t want to hurt her, really. Hurting her was a weird, sick fantasy. He knew the difference between fantasy and reality—the therapist had drilled that into him in prison.
He just meant to scare her.
And so far the scare campaign was going fine. Although an anonymous phone call might be in order. He’d have to make it from a pay phone, of course. That was the only safe way. You never knew, nowadays, who had caller ID.
The best time to make it was the middle of the night. An hour or so after she had gone to bed. She’d be asleep, yet not so deeply th
at she wouldn’t hear the phone. She’d be groggy when she answered, and her natural defenses would be down.
He wondered if she slept naked. He imagined her rolling over, her body bare and fluid in the darkness, reaching for the ringing phone. When she answered, he wouldn’t say anything, of course. But she would feel the connection-—the intimate connection—with another living, thinking, dreaming mind.
Maybe he should get one of those electronic voice distorters so he could speak to her without her recognizing his voice. He wanted to speak to her in the darkness. Tell her what he was going to do to her when he had her alone. He would demand her complete surrender. Whatever resistance she had within her, he would methodically strip away. When he finished with her, she would be totally and irrevocably within his control. His for one night, his to do whatever he wanted to. And what he wanted… yeah, he wanted everything.
He’d bet it would turn her on too. Make her hot, make her wet, even though she was scared. It was there inside her—he could tell. She was yearning for a man who could take her outside herself, drive her to her knees, make her plead for the wild dark passions that only he could give her.
But first he had to make her vulnerable to him. And to do that he had to scare her so profoundly that she would turn to him for protection. He wanted her crying out her submission to him. He wanted her damp with it.
Late this afternoon he had used his knowledge of electronics to adjust the switches in the newly installed elevator. When he hit the button for the ground floor, it would descend instead to the lowest level, underground to the basement of the south tower.
When they stepped into the elevator, Fletcher let Annie push the button herself. Didn’t want her to think he’d had anything to do with the result.
They began to descend. The elevator was small, as was necessary in the narrow bell tower. The choir loft was only the second stop. It could ascend all the way up to a small room directly beneath the bells.
He loved being so close to Annie. He could smell her perfume, and the scent just about drove him wild.
The elevator passed the first floor and continued to descend. Fletcher shot a glance at Annie and saw that she was paying no attention to the control panel. She was staring straight at the door, her mind obviously a thousand miles away.
He wondered what she was thinking. What was responsible for that soft, dreamy look on her face?
The elevator stopped and the door slid open. Annie started to step out, then stopped abruptly. Fletcher was right behind her, so when she caught herself, she bumped into him. He felt her ass against the front of his thighs for a moment and it made his blood boil.
“This isn’t right,” she muttered.
“Looks like the basement,” he said. “Must have skipped right by the first floor.”
“I’m sure I pressed the right button.”
“Must be a malfunction,” he said, fiddling with the control panel. He pulled a wire he’d left loose earlier, and the dome light in the ceiling of the elevator went out.
Annie gasped. Then she stepped out of the elevator and into the equally dark basement. “The light! Turn on the light,” she said, and Fletcher felt a surge of lust as he realized that she was really scared.
“It’s not working. Damn electricians must have fucked up during the installation.” He banged around with the control panel, trying to make it sound as if he were attempting to fix it. “Shit, nothing’s working now,” he said as he followed her out into the bell-tower basement.
It was a small area, he knew. Both bell towers had basements, but the nave of the church was built on dirt and bedrock, with only a crawl space underneath it. Up at the far end, the east end of the church, there was a much larger basement under the sanctuary, but this space was small. It was also unfinished, with nothing but a thin concrete floor and dement block walls.
He could easily corner her here. If she screamed, no one would hear.
“Dammit, Jack, there must be a light in here,” she said, her voice rising in panic. “Don’t you at least have a flashlight?”
“No. Sorry.”
“I’ve got this childish fear of the dark.”
He exulted. She sounded terrified, and he was thrilled. “There’s a lightbulb overhead somewhere,” he said, moving toward her voice. But in fact all there was was an empty socket. He’d removed the bulb earlier.
“There’s a door somewhere, too,” she said, and he heard her moving her hands against the wall, searching for it.
Maybe he’d just do it. Do it now. Why wait, why plan? This was perfect. He had her. Seize the moment. The moment was now.
He heard her fumbling with something and then suddenly his eyes burned as a beam of light stabbed them. Shit. She had a flashlight. He should have thought of that.
“Oh, there you are,” she said, sounding very shaky. “I found it in my purse. Now, where’s the door to the stairwell? There. I see it, thank goodness.”
He was tempted just to grab her and get it over with, but she was too quick for him. She had no sooner located the door than she had dashed to it and flung it open. A second later she was clambering up the spiral staircase to the main floor.
Fuck. Fuck.
He raced after her. His erection felt like a fire hose hopping at full pressure. He caught her at the bell-tower exit. “Sorry about that,” he choked out. “I’ll make sure that elevator gets fixed first thing tomorrow morning. Come on,” he said, taking her arm. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
She shook off his hand and ran to her car, unlocked it with trembling hands, jumped inside, and locked the door. Her wheels kicked up gravel as she sped out of the lot.
So. He’d spooked her.
Good.
Annie drove home feeling sick and constantly checking her rearview mirror.
The elevator could have broken down.
These things happened. Hell, in new construction, they happened all the time.
It wasn’t fair she knew, to suspect a man just because she didn’t like him. Look how unfairly she’d treated Matt in that respect.
Jack Fletcher hadn’t done anything threatening. He hadn’t so much as touched her. And the terror she’d felt when the lights went out was an old one; it would have hit her just as strongly if she’d been down there with someone she liked and trusted.
Even so, she couldn’t stop shivering.
At gut level, she was convinced that she’d just had a very lucky escape.
Chapter Twenty-six
“What is this place?” Annie asked as Matt turned up a long driveway. A heavy rain was pelting the car and the windshield wipers could barely keep up with the demand. Matt was driving slowly and carefully, squinting through the windshield to see the pavement ahead.
Annie, seated beside him in the Porsche, concentrated on the grace of his body as it went through the simple motions of driving. His long legs pumping the brakes and the clutch. His well-shaped hand, encased in a black leather driving glove, skillfully manipulating the wooden-handled gear shift. His profile in the dimly lit car, so calm, so intent, so… well, so handsome.
Jeez, I’m really hooked, she thought. Look at me. I’m acting like a lovestruck teenager.
“It’s a beach house I own. Actually, it belonged to Francesea. It was part of her estate.”
The estate that he was now entitled to. If he’d been convicted of her murder, he would not have inherited it. Who, she wondered, would have?
“Matt, did Francesca have a will?”
“I know it’s ridiculous, but no, she didn’t. I have one, of course. And I asked her many times to make one. I even made appointments for her with our lawyer, but she refused. She was superstitious about wills.”
“Why?”
“Because her parents were killed in a boating accident the week after they executed their wills. One of those freak things. But she was convinced that making a will was bad luck, and she even tried to prevent me from making mine. She was afraid I’d die as soon as I signed it.” He paus
ed. “This all came out at the trial.”
She looked at him. “I didn’t follow the trial that closely,” she admitted.
“I’m glad. It was awful, sitting there in court and hearing the story of my life told to strangers, presented as truth, having only a shadowy resemblance to my own perceptions.”
“I guess truth is subtly different for all of us.”
“The prosecution wasn’t even trying to present the truth,” he said bitterly. “All they cared about was making up a story that convinced people I was a heartless killer. They did a pretty good job of it, too.”
He stopped the car in front of a dark structure. No lights were on in the place, although a couple of floodlights shone on the perimeters. From what she could see through the driving rain, it looked glassy and airy, an usual and striking piece of architecture.
“What was the extent of Francesca’s estate?” she asked.
“Compared to the average American, it was substantial,” he said. “This house is worth a fair amount, and the land has value. She also had a respectable portfolio, much of it inherited from her parents and wisely invested.”
“I don’t remember her estate’s being much of an issue in the news during the trial.”
“No, it wasn’t, because her separate holdings were negligible when compared with mine. No one ever thought I murdered her for her money.”
“No, they figured you murdered her to prevent her from divorcing you and getting half of your money.”
“Exactly. We were married for twenty years—the entire period of my building of Powerdyme. We had no prenuptial agreement, and with California’s joint property laws, she would legally have been entitled to half my fortune. Two billion dollars, in other words.”
Annie laughed a little shakily. As a motive for murder, two billion dollars was hard to refute. No wonder the prosecution had been so determined to nail him.
“So, instead of that, when she died, her entire estate-went to you?”
