“Can I put my pants on first?” His tone was surly and bewildered, an understandable reaction from a super-rich judge’s son who had never expected to be manhandled by the police. Or betrayed by a woman.
Grant motioned his assent. “Please do. Let’s all holster our weapons, so to speak, and proceed in a rational manner.”
Ben took it all in and came to the natural conclusion. “You’re a cop, aren’t you?” He jerked his pants up, shooting her an angry glare. “You lying fucking bitch. You’re a cop.”
Mitchell forced a laugh. “Look how bent out of shape he is. You must be dynamite in the sack, Vasquez.”
“Fuck you, Mitchell,” she bit out, mad at herself for letting him get the best of her, although her pride was stinging more than her face.
“Anytime, baby.”
Sonny dragged on her own clothes, aware that Mitchell was ogling her nude form and furious with Grant for allowing it.
She’d just been demoted, and this was part of her punishment.
“By the way, I like what you’ve got going on downstairs,” Mitchell added, elbowing Ben in the ribs. “Don’t see that every day, do you? Usually it’s the other way around. Light on top, dark down below.”
Ben wasn’t much of a fighter, but there was only so much insult a man could take in his own home. With a low growl, he drew back his arm and sent his fist into Mitchell’s stomach. Mitchell didn’t even flinch. Ben shook out his hand, wincing, and Mitchell had him facedown on the carpet, hands cuffed behind his back, before he could say Ouch.
“You want to resist some more, motherfucker?” Mitchell panted.
Ben’s response was muffled, but it sounded affirmative. Not amused by his attitude, Mitchell jerked Ben to his feet, handling him with deliberate roughness.
Grant turned his dispassionate gaze to Sonny. “Speaking of body hair, thanks for the sample, Special Agent Vasquez. We’ve got a positive match on Lisette Bruebaker, from above and below stairs.” He gave her a pitying look. “I regret that you had to take such extreme measures to collect it from this bed.”
Sonny began to pull on her socks and shoes in silence, clenching her jaw until her teeth ached. By implying that sleeping with Ben had been part of her official duty, Grant was protecting her, but she was too devastated to feel relieved.
Grant inclined his head at Ben. “You’re a popular man, Mr. Fortune. Getting your money’s worth out of that Egyptian cotton.”
Sonny glanced at Ben, gauging his reaction. The expression on his face, when he realized she’d been deceiving him from the beginning, tore her apart. She watched every tender emotion he’d felt for her wither up and die.
“I want my lawyer,” he said, eyes cold.
“Take him downstairs,” Grant ordered, dismissing Mitchell and Ben with a wave of his hand. When they were out of earshot, he turned to Sonny, his steely gray eyes speculative. Her boss was a hard-ass, but he’d never been deliberately cruel. He was aware of her history with men and had always treated her with respect. The look he gave her now was more paternal than professional, but it still cut her to the quick.
Knowing he cared enough about her to be disappointed, she felt twice as ashamed of herself for letting him down.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
She couldn’t help but flush. “A few hours.”
He squinted down at her, taking in her messy hair and casual attire. “Go make yourself presentable,” he said. “I need you to work a crime scene.”
Her stomach tightened. “Another victim? Who is it?”
“A local fisherman. Some guy named Arlen Matthews.”
Carly wanted to pay for the movie, but James wouldn’t let her. She had also suggested they skip the movie and go somewhere they could be alone together.
Honor demanded he refuse.
James took his promises very seriously, and he didn’t want to screw up the unspoken truce he and her dad had called over turkey-and-avocado sandwiches the night before. Ben had given James permission to take Carly to the theater, not anywhere else.
She sulked, but in a denim mini-skirt and black sheepskin boots, she looked damned good doing it. Her stretchy plum-colored knit sweater covered up what the top underneath didn’t. This morning, she’d been taunting him with flashes of silky midriff.
James didn’t argue with her choice of movie, even though it was an artsy flick, because he figured that on a date, ladies picked and gentlemen paid. He didn’t get a chance to go to the theater very often, and when he did, he preferred mindless action over thought-provoking drama.
So did everyone else, from the looks of it. Due to either the early-bird show time or the heavy subject matter, the theater was empty.
It dawned on him that she’d chosen wisely. “You have great taste in movies,” he said with a grin.
“Thanks,” she replied glibly, finding a secluded corner in the back row.
The multiplex was the new kind, with comfortable bucket seats and adjustable armrests. He pushed the one between them all the way up.
“Wait,” she said as he reached for her.
He looked around the empty theater. “Why?”
“The lights are still on. Someone might come in.”
James settled back in his seat, watching concession advertisements float across the screen. “Want some popcorn?”
She shook her head.
“Coke?”
“No thanks.”
The lights began to dim. Thank God.
“What do you want?” he whispered, putting his lips against the sweet curve of her neck.
“You,” she said in his ear, making him shiver. Then she pushed him away. “But let’s wait until the movie starts. Lots of people come in during the trailers.”
He groaned and sat back in his seat, counting the moments until he could kiss her. There would be four or five previews, at four or five minutes each. A freaking eternity.
Long before that time was up, he noticed her fidgeting in her seat beside him. In the dark, he couldn’t see what she was doing, but when she pressed a wadded-up ball of fabric in the palm of his hand and said, “Hold these for me,” he figured it out.
His heart started pounding in his chest, blood rushed from his head to his groin, and he swallowed convulsively. Getting rid of the evidence, he shoved her panties into his pocket, afraid someone would shine a spotlight on him and arrest them both for lewd conduct. He’d been painfully eager to kiss her, to make out with her, maybe even feel her up a little bit, but she’d just taken his innocent fantasy right into porno territory. What was a man to do?
Without turning toward her, he placed his palm on her bare thigh, picturing in intense detail what she was wearing. And not wearing.
She took his hand away and put it on his knee, giving him a reassuring pat. “Wait until the movie starts,” she repeated, and continued watching the previews with an incomprehensible serenity.
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he imagined pushing her back against the seat and climbing between her long, slender thighs. “I can’t fuck you in the theater,” he blurted out, loud enough for the first row to hear, if anyone had been sitting there.
Laughing, she covered his mouth with her hand. “Shh! Who asked you to?”
Her panties were burning a hole in his front pocket, and she was wondering where he got the idea?
“We don’t have to do anything,” she said, annoyed by his reticence. “Give me back my panties, and we’ll just watch the movie.”
He shifted in his chair. “No way. I’m keeping them.”
She wasn’t getting her way, and she didn’t like it, so she pouted for a few minutes. Then she said, “I’m going to get popcorn.”
He held her arm. “No you aren’t.”
She shrugged, digging a twenty out of her pocket. “You go, then. I want a small popcorn, a large Coke, and some Red Hots.”
“I can’t,” he grated.
“Why not?”
He brought her hand to his lap and let her feel why not.
“Oh,” she said, giggling. “That would be noticeable at the concession stand.”
In the end, she went herself, because even though he was too stubborn to return her panties, she was too proud to let him order her around. He seethed the whole time she was gone, imagining her flirting with the popcorn boy, whose tongue had already been hanging out when he’d watched her walk by on the way in.
If he only knew.
She got back, set the popcorn tub between her legs, and invited him to grab a handful. He declined.
James tried to pay attention to the movie, but it was a lost cause. Instead, he concentrated on stifling his overactive imagination.
Halfway through the movie, she asked, “What are you going to do with my panties?”
He turned to look at her beautiful face. In the flickering light, her hair was as black and shiny as a raven’s wing. “What do you think I’m going to do with them?”
“Try them on?” she guessed.
He couldn’t help but laugh. Then consider. “No,” he decided. “At least, not the way you mean.”
She crinkled up her cute little nose, not following his train of thought. “You’re not going to smell them, are you?”
He smiled at her ignorance. It was the least he was going to do. “You should have thought of that before you gave them to me.”
She bit into her lower lip, concerned. “What if they smell like…”
“Like what?” he teased, looking down at her lap. “Popcorn?”
“No.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Like me.”
“I hope they do,” he replied honestly.
Her breath caught in her throat. “Give them back,” she whispered.
“No,” he said, standing firm. Or sitting firm anyway.
Unleashing the fury of a thousand warrior ancestors, Carly leapt on him and raided his pockets. Popcorn spilled all over the floor. She didn’t find her underwear. What she did encounter gave her pause. “You’ve been hard this whole time?”
He wrestled with his conscience, gave up, and pulled her into his lap, sent over the edge by her touchy-feely version of the Spanish Inquisition. Shoving his hand between her pretty legs, he did what he’d been desperate to do since she’d taken off her panties. “You’ve been wet this whole time?”
She gasped. Then moaned, tilting her hips forward.
He froze, appalled by his own behavior. Turned on by hers.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Then she put her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his fervently, wriggling on his lap.
James groaned, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and stroking her with his fingertips. He had never gotten a girl off before-at least, not on purpose. In the past, expediency had been key, not technique, tenderness, or generosity. With Carly, he wanted to give everything, ask nothing in return, so when he paid attention to what her body wanted, rather than his, he gave them both their first orgasm. Hers was the first she’d had with another person, and his, the first he’d granted someone else.
Afterward, she lay panting in his arms, her face pressed against his neck. “Do it again,” she whispered.
“I’d love to, Carly, but I’m having some…technical difficulties.” He took his hand out from underneath her skirt, moving slowly, trying to think unsexy thoughts. The danger zone was about to explode.
He set her away from him, very gingerly.
“What happened? Did I hurt you?”
“Give me that Coke,” he ordered. When she did, instead of drinking it, he put it in his lap. Through the layers of denim (his own) and cotton (borrowed, after a hasty shower this morning in the poolroom), the cold didn’t do much good.
“Oh, God! I did hurt you. I’m sorry.” She knelt in front of him, trying to find out what was wrong. “Did I smash your…parts?”
“No, Carly,” he groaned. “I’m about to come in my pants. And since I’m wearing your dad’s underwear, that would be a bad, bad thing.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth, muffling a burst of hysterical laughter.
He closed his eyes. “I’m glad one of us is having a good time.”
She was still on her knees when the police found them.
Nathan was having a splendid afternoon on the deck of his sailboat with Peter. They were moored off the coast of Catalina Island, enjoying the cool breeze, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and each other.
When his cell phone emitted a few notes of “Wipeout,” the ring tone signaling a call from Ben, Nathan slipped his hand into his pocket. “I’ve got to take this,” he said, dropping a kiss on the top of Peter’s sun-warmed head.
Whistling cheerfully, he skipped down the steps leading to the galley, for privacy and to get out of the wind. The interruption couldn’t have come at a better time. Peter was charming, handsome, successful, and…yawn. Tediously boring.
“Hello?” he said into the receiver as his eyes adjusted to the change of light.
“Nathan? Where are you?”
Ben seemed frantic. Nathan felt a smile quirk his lips. “I’m out on the water. Must you always call when I’m otherwise engaged?”
“Sorry. I’m in jail.”
“In jail?” Nathan placed a hand over his heart, no longer enjoying his brother’s distress. “Whatever for?”
“Summer Moore is a cop.” He muttered a string of inventive curses, the volume fluctuating as he shifted the phone to his other ear. “That’s not even her real name. It’s Vasquez or some shit. She’s been investigating me the whole time.”
Nathan was astounded by this news. He considered himself a good judge of character and he’d liked Summer. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Now Carly’s friend is missing and they seem to think I had something to do with it.”
“Which friend?”
“Lisette.”
His stomach sank. Lisette Bruebaker was trouble with a capital T. She’d had a crush on Ben for years, and although she’d been quite overt in showing her affections, he’d never noticed.
“Why would they think you’re involved?” Nathan asked carefully.
Ben sighed. “She was last seen at my house, staying overnight with Carly. And the rest…the rest I shouldn’t say over the phone.”
Nathan gripped the phone in his hand until his knuckles turned white. His brother wouldn’t have touched Lisette, or any other underage girl, with a ten-foot pole. So why did he sound so worried? “Okay,” he said, checking his Rolex. “Hang tight. It will take me a few hours to get there.” He paused, considering the next course of action. “Have you called Dad?”
“No,” Ben said. And then, “Fuck, no.”
Fair enough. “What about Carly?”
“She went to the movies with James. I haven’t been able to reach her. You’ll have to call her cell phone, tell her where I am.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“It’s either that or let her freak out about the bullet hole in the ceiling when she comes home,” he said, raising his voice.
“Jesus Christ, Ben! Were you resisting arrest?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. They broke into my room like gangbusters. I almost had a heart attack. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.” The connection crackled with interference. “Is it even legal, for them to barge in like that?”
“In some cases,” Nathan admitted.
“Like what?”
“Murder investigations.”
Ben was silent for a moment. “What should I do?” he asked quietly.
Nathan was taking the stairs up to the deck two at a time. “Try to stay calm,” he said, motioning for Peter to pull anchor. They needed to get back to the mainland, pronto. “And whatever you do, don’t say anything.”
Before heading to the crime scene, Sonny went back to her apartment, took out her laptop, and ran Arlen Diels through VICAP, the FBI’s main informational database for the apprehension of violent criminals.
Sure enough, he had a history that read l
ike a Spanish-language telenovela.
As a teen, Arlen had spent some time at a boys’ home, and the resident psychiatrist, a man by the name of Sparks, had written detailed notes.
Arlen had been born in Beaufort, North Carolina, to fifteen-year-old Cora Lee Diels. Cora Lee died of a drug overdose in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district during the Summer of Love. It wasn’t a great loss for Arlen, who’d been raised by his grandparents and never known his real mother, but Grandma Lynelle took the news hard. She passed on soon after, leaving Arlen at the mercy of his grandfather, an Onslow Bay fisherman by the name of Max Diels.
Max taught Arlen everything he knew about fishing, fists, and force. Grandpa Max loved his daughter, Cora Lee, more than a father should, but he hated Arlen. Just as Arlen would do with his own son, in a sad, vicious cycle, Max varied between beating his grandson senseless and calling him queer.
After Max drowned, under suspicious circumstances, in the Albermarle Sound, Arlen was placed in protective custody. At Black River Home for Wayward Boys, he quickly obtained a reputation for brutality. He also spent a lot of time in psychotherapy with Dr. Sparks, who found Arlen an excellent subject for study. In the good doctor’s opinion, Arlen Diels was a sadist-and a sociopath.
By the age of nineteen, two years before meeting Anita Vasquez, Arlen had killed a man during a bar fight in Sarasota, Florida. Instead of waiting for the police to sort things through, he fled to California, just like his mother had done so many years before.
The rest of the story Sonny had to fill in from what information she knew of Arlen since his hasty departure from the Southern seaboard.
In San Diego, after spending some time with Anita Vasquez and her young son, Arlen found work aboard a small fishing vessel called Destiny. It was destiny, all right, because when old man Matthews died he left the boat to his only daughter, Gabrielle, along with a quaint little two-bedroom house in Torrey Harbor.
Arlen proposed immediately.
Gabrielle was probably delighted that Arlen offered to take her last name. Stephen came along nine months later. Gabrielle stuck around long enough to get pregnant with James, and to raise both boys into elementary school.
Then she disappeared. When Stephen was sixteen and James just eleven, Gabrielle Matthews fell off the face of the earth, and no one had heard from her since.
Crash Into Me Page 20
