Intimate Betrayal

by Linda Barlow

  “Actually, I gave her money to charity. It’s what she would have wanted done if she’d had a will. She spoke of it often—she wanted Barbara Rae and the United Path Church to be her beneficiaries. Francesca loved Barbara Rae.” He paused then added, “I think everybody at the church was pretty shocked to learn that Francesca hadn’t made a will. They were relieved when I turned the money over to them anyway.”

  “So the cathedral building committee benefited from Francesca’s death?”

  “Actually, it benefited a lot more from her life. She raised most of the building funds herself.”

  And a substantial portion of it, Annie knew, had been raised from Matthew’s own pockets.

  “You’re a generous man, Matt.”

  He shrugged. “It’s easy to be generous when you’re as rich as Croesus. I have far more money than I know what to do with.”

  “What, exactly, are we doing here?” she asked as she trailed after him through the empty house. It was kind of spooky. What furniture remained was covered with white dust sheets, creating an array of odd, ghostly shapes. In the library, Annie stood by the French doors looking out over the Bay, where waves were crashing against the rocks.

  Matthew came to stand beside her in the dark. She hadn’t realized he was so close, and at his touch on her shoulder, she jumped.

  “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

  She hadn’t told him yet about what had happened in the bell-tower elevator. That was for later. She hadn’t wanted to dampen the fire that was running between them.

  “There’s someplace special I want to take you tonight,” he’d said when he’d picked her up at her house. He’d shown up driving the Porsche instead of the dark sedan, and she’d laughed because it was the third different car she’d seen him in. The limousine he’d used after Giuseppe’s funeral didn’t count, he told her, grinning. That had been hired.

  “Yes, I’m a little jumpy, I think,” she admitted.

  “Why? Because you’re alone with me in a deserted spot?”

  It was going to take him a while to believe that she trusted him. But that was okay, she told herself. Trust should come slowly.

  She tipped her head back and smiled archly at him. “Yes, indeed. I feel like a maiden from the distant past. And you, dark lord, have abducted me to your fortress by the sea.”

  His eyes gleamed. “I can get into that.”

  “Can you?”

  “Absolutely.” He grasped her wrists and pushed them behind her back. “Lock your hands together, wench, and keep ’em that way, on pain of some very nasty punishment if you break position.”

  She obeyed, holding still for him while he ran his palms over her breasts, then, slowly, unbuttoned her blouse and pushed it back off her shoulders. She wore no bra, and his eyes admired her breasts for a long moment before repeating his caresses on her soft, naked skin.

  “You look very vulnerable like that,” he whispered.

  “I feel very vulnerable.”

  He bent his head and touched her lips. “I like it. It’s giving me a kinky surge of power.” He grinned. “Now I know why abducting maidens used to be so popular.”

  She smiled back. Was it a game… or a way to show her trust in him? Either way, it seemed to be working!

  “Kneel,” he ordered.

  She gulped. Kneel?

  His fingers lightly tugged on one nipple, then tightened.

  “Ahh,” she gasped, then giggled.

  “Don’t think about it, wench. Just do it.”

  She knelt, trying hard to be graceful while still holding her hands behind her back. She looked up at him and saw a kind of bemused pleasure on his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening but was thrilled about it anyway.

  “Wow,” he said. He dropped to the floor beside her and pulled her into his arms. “I’d take you into the bedroom but I don’t think I can wait that long.”

  She laughed joyously as they tore at each other’s clothes.

  Annie saw a different side of Matt that night in the isolated beach house. The first night they’d been together, he’d been beside himself and nearly out of control with passion, but tonight he was very controlled, very demanding. He showed her what a master of sensuality he truly was, and how helpless she was to resist him.

  That night she started to feel that anything he demanded of her, at least in the bedroom, she would willingly do. Kneeling, she soon learned, was just the beginning.

  There was an edge to him that was so commanding that it seemed unthinkable to thwart him. He swept her away. He didn’t ask, he laid claim. She could no more have refused him than she could have prevented the sun from rising in the morning sky.

  She gleaned that he liked to rule in the bedroom and that he relished her trust and her surrender. And yet, he was deliriously attentive to her needs and her desires. In a low, sexy voice, he ordered her to tell him her fantasies, to tell him things that she had never said to another living soul. Not even Charlie had known the contents of her most erotic imaginings. She’d been too embarrassed to discuss with him scenes and images of forbidden activities, some of which seemed too dark ever to discuss with anybody.

  But nothing, she quickly learned, embarrassed or startled Matt Carlyle. Indeed, his own dreams and yearnings, as he described them to her, were every bit as wild and outrageous as hers. “I want your honesty,” he said, his voice low and intense. “No, more than that. I demand it. It’s what I ought to have insisted on with Francesca. No secrets. Nothing hidden. You lie naked before me, but it’s not enough. I have to see your naked heart, your naked soul.”

  “You ask too much,” she whispered.

  “I know. But I will have what I ask for, just the same.”

  “I’ll give you all I can.”

  He swooped over her, pinning her with his hard, bare body. “And I’ll take everything you can give.”

  “Look,” she said to him sometime during that endless night. “Did you see that?” Rising, she went to the window that looked out over the cliff on the north side of the house.

  “What?”

  “I thought I saw a flash of light.”

  He joined her at the window and peered out, trying to see through the fog and the slashing rain.

  “Probably just lightning,” he said.

  He pulled her slowly into his arms. His big hands moved sensuously over the muscles of her back and shoulders. His headxame down, and he kissed her on the mouth.

  Annie responded warmly, but her feeling of unease persisted. The flash had looked like headlights, from a stationary vehicle, coming on and then immediately being doused. She pulled back a bit and whispered, “I have the most eerie feeling. As if we’re being watched.”

  He smiled. “Even if you were right, there wouldn’t be much for anyone to see. Too dark and too foggy.” He kissed her more deeply, his tongue tangling with hers. “Relax, Annie. Relax.”

  Matt dreamed that he was out on the coast road, looking up toward the house, which was a vague, ghostly mass in the fog and rain. In the dreamscape he saw a dark, late-model sedan begin, slowly, to close in from the shadows. Its engine purred too quietly to be heard above the noise of the storm, and its headlights were not on.

  The driver was staring up at the house and vowing that Matthew Carlyle would never be happy again.

  That he would suffer.

  That he would lose everything that had ever mattered to him.

  That he would die.

  Matt tossed restlessly in his sleep. He was with Annie. He was happy again.

  The driver didn’t like that. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It didn’t fit the plan.

  The plan was to destroy Matthew Carlyle.

  And if someone else—like Annie Jefferson—interfered with the plan, she too would have to die.

  He woke with a start, his heart pounding. He pulled Annie close and held her very tight.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The following afternoon, back at his Pacific
Heights estate, Matt was enjoying cooking somewhat mangled pancakes for his laughing new lover when he heard the front door bell. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Two o’clock on a Saturday. Who the hell-Mrs. Roberts, the housekeeper, came into the kitchen, her face impassive as always but her eyes alarmed. “Sorry to bother you, sir,” she said, trying not to look at Annie. “There are two people at the door who say they’re detectives with the San Francisco police.”

  Matt felt the old familiar sinking in his stomach. He glanced at Annie and he could see the concern racing through her. She was empathetic, he knew—she had shown that to him over and over again last night. But she could have no real inkling of what it was like, to him, to hear those words.

  Still, four months of sitting impassively in a courtroom under orders not to betray the slightest emotion that could influence the jury against him had trained him well. He was able to quiet the wild racing of his heart and nod calmly to Mrs. Roberts. “Show them in, please.”

  “Oh, Matt—” Annie began as the housekeeper left the room.

  “Shh, don’t fret. They were bound to get around to me sooner or later. As we said, they can put me at the crime scene. They’ve got my fingerprints all over the scaffolding, and I assure you, the San Francisco police have my fingerprints on record. Hell, they’ve probably got them in a special display case.”

  Mrs. Roberts reentered, two detectives in tow, a male and a female. Matt satisfied himself that he didn’t know either of them. They hadn’t been assigned to Francesca’s murder.

  They introduced themselves, and Matthew was polite. He was about to introduce them to Annie when she cut in, “It’s okay. I’ve already met Detectives Sullivan and Foster.”

  Sullivan did most of the talking. “We’re investigating the murder of Giuseppe Brindesi,” she said. “Did you know him, Mr. Carlyle?”

  Matt leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Coffee, detectives?” he said.

  They both shook their heads, although Sullivan glanced eagerly at the steaming coffeepot. Both detectives looked as if they’d been up all night.

  Matt thought with some amusement that he and Annie probably looked the same. But happier.

  “Look, Carlyle,” said Foster. “You know the routine. Let’s not beat around the bush. We have your prints all over that scaffolding in the cathedral. You care to explain that for us?”

  “Do you see my lawyer present, Detective Foster?”

  “At the moment, we’re not charging you with anything.”

  At the moment.

  “So, what, am I expected to do my civic duty and have a friendly little chat with you outside the presence of my attorney while you and the DA’s office try to put together another trumped-up case against me?”

  “There’s no need to be alarmed, Mr. Carlyle,” Sullivan interceded quickly. “Several of the workmen on the construction site have already explained your presence at what’s now become the crime scene.” She glanced at Annie.” ’As did Ms. Jefferson, of course.”

  “Then it seems to me, Detective Sullivan, that even if my lawyer were present, there would be no necessity for me to answer any of your questions.”

  “We’re trying to establish a time line and to understand various subtleties about the case,” she said.

  “Well, you certainly have my best wishes. I too would like to see the killer brought to justice as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s why we were hoping for your cooperation, sir. Perhaps your insights will assist us.”

  Matthew felt his anger rising. What kind of an idiot did they think he was? These people—or others from their department—were responsible for the eighteen months of fear and misery he’d endured at the hands of the state. Whatever innocence he’d had in dealing with the American justice system had been blasted forever. They were damn lucky he didn’t throw them bodily out of his house.

  Before he could respond, Foster cut in, “It has come to our attention, Mr. Carlyle, that the deceased, Giuseppe Brindesi, master stained glass worker, may have been acquainted with your late wife, Francesca. Do you have any comment on this, sir?”

  “Yes, I have a comment,” he said slowly.

  Both detectives leaned slightly toward him.

  “This is my comment, detectives: My days of cooperating with the San Francisco police and/or the DA’s office are in the past. If you intend to charge with me a crime, do so. I will then call my attorney, and any statement that I make to you will be made in his presence. Otherwise, I have nothing to say to you.” He forced a smile. “I’m sure you understand.”

  The homicide detectives glanced at each other. Matt knew damn well that there was nothing more they could say or do. This wasn’t—yet—a police state. They couldn’t force anyone to talk.

  They thanked him politely and left.

  “I can’t believe they suspect you!” Annie cried.

  “Yes, you can,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

  He felt her tremble against him, and he wondered if she was still uncertain of him. What would happen when she was alone and had time to think? Would she turn against him the way so many of his friends and acquaintances had?

  Why shouldn’t she? he thought grimly. What was to stop her—the pleasures of sex? Sure, the chemistry between them was powerful here, now, but sex hormones often acted as drugs clouding the judgment. She might begin to see him very differently once she got home and those hormones stopped flowing.

  All they had had together were two glorious nights.

  Two nights to balance against all the negative images of a long murder trial and all the publicity associated with it.

  It wasn’t much to count on.

  “Matt, I’m afraid for you,” Annie whispered. “What if it turns out that Giuseppe was Francesca’s lover?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. Hell, anything’s possible. It was a little odd that they had so much trouble finding her lover at the time, but if he was out of the country—”

  “It would give you a motive to kill both of them.”

  “Indeed,” he said dryly. “The fact remains, however, that I didn’t.”

  She looked up at him quickly. “I know that.”

  Sure, he thought.

  “They’ll have to prove it, though,” he said, “and that’s not going to be easy. God knows they tried to prove all sorts of allegations the last time. I’d be a lot happier if they didn’t have my fingerprints on the damn scaffolding, even though they have a perfectly good explanation for that.” He paused. “It’s much too neat, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The fact that my fingerprints are at this murder scene. It’s just too fucking convenient—for the killer, I mean. Look at the situation it creates: Instead of looking for the real killer, the cops are all excited about what they suddenly think is a new way to nail the infamous Matthew Carlyle, who got away with murder.”

  “You think someone is trying to frame you, Matt?”

  “I think someone has been trying to frame me from the start.”

  They both pondered the question that had tormented Matt for months:

  Who?

  “I won’t let this happen to me again,” said Matt.

  “What do you mean?” Annie was frightened by the vehemence of his tone.

  “I won’t go through it again, goddammit! The shame and humiliation—the publicity—the rumors—the strangers’ malevolent stares. If this is what my life has come to mean to everybody…” He paused. “By God, I’ve never been guilty of murder before, but when I find out who the man is who’s doing this to me…”

  “We will find him, Matt. We’ll find him and we’ll put a stop to this once and for all.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “May I come in, ma’am?”

  Annie had just returned home from work the following Monday when Detective Foster knocked on her door.

  “Please.” She waved him inside. He smelled of cigarettes, and she hoped he wasn’t going to light up i
n her home.

  Foster pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and consulted it briefly, then he looked up. “We have a few more questions to ask you concerning Giuseppe Brindesi’s death.”

  She stared at him. “I’m not sure that I should talk to you any further without consulting an attorney.”

  He smiled unpleasantly. “Maybe you’re being influenced by your—er… friendship with Matthew Carlyle.”

  She flushed angrily and was tempted to ask him to leave. Matt had left for a two-day business trip to Washington, D.C., and had told her not to answer any questions about him from the police.

  But then Foster added, “Actually, I’m pursuing another angle at the moment. We’ve recently had occasion to speak with some of your colleagues, including Mr. Brody and a Mr. Sidney Canin. You are acquainted with Mr. Canin, I understand?”

  “Yes. He used to work with me at Brody Associates.” Any angle that led away from Matt was an angle she was willing to assist them with.

  “And for you at your former place of business”—he glanced down at the notebook again—“Fabrications, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve known Mr. Canin for some time.”

  “Well, yes, but only in a professional capacity. I don’t know him well in any other respect.”

  “He is an architect, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you consider him a good architect?”

  Anne hesitated. They must know that Sidney had been fired recently by Sam. “It’s difficult for me to make that determination. I’m an interior designer. Although I work with architects, I’m no expert in their discipline.”

  “But in fact you are more than simply an interior designer, aren’t you, Ms. Jefferson? You co-owaned an architectural engineering firm that employed Mr. Canin. At Brody Associates, you are both the interior design manager and the project manager on several construction jobs, including the new cathedral. You have worked for, with, and above various architects for years, so you must have some means of evaluating their work. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, it is,” she conceded. “Okay, in my opinion, Sidney is a competent architect with a good head for details but very little creativity or artistic flair. He works best when partnered with other architects who are better at conceptualizing a project.”