by Maggie Price
“I don’t know. But why take a chance? How did you get here tonight?”
“I drove.”
“I’ll follow you home.”
With a tilt of her head, Allie eyed him with so much unrestrained curiosity he felt the urge to shift his weight. “Why would you do that?”
Because he had no real answer, he asked, “Did you notice Ellen Bishop made a phone call seconds after she threatened you?”
“Yes.”
“That call could have been to someone who could make good on her threat.”
“Well, PI Diaz, when it comes to making a girl feel secure, you suck.”
“I’m not trying to scare you. I want to make you aware.”
“You’ve succeeded. Because finding Mercedes dead and getting knocked out by the killer is enough excitement to last me for a long time, I’ll take you up on that offer to follow me home.” She laid the napkin aside. “I need to slip into the ballroom and tie up a few loose ends with the head of the auction committee. I might be a while.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be here when you’re ready to go.”
Rafe would have liked to believe that his offer was all about her safety and had nothing to do with the heat coiling in his gut.
He knew better.
Nearly an hour later, Rafe followed Allie out of the hotel’s elaborate main entrance into the heated summer night. The scent of rain hung heavy in the air.
“If you’ll give me the valet ticket, I’ll have your car brought around,” he said, holding out his hand.
“I didn’t use valet parking. I’m in the lot across the street.” Beneath the bright lights of the arched portico, her eyes looked as blue as a tropical lake.
And just as inviting.
Control, he reminded himself. “I’m parked there, too.”
As they walked side-by-side along a cobblestone path dotted on both sides by small landscape lights, Rafe’s thoughts zipped to the past. This was the woman who used to rack up citations for parking in loading zones because they were closest to a shop’s entrance.
“How come?” he asked as lightning flickered in the distance.
She sent him a sideways look. “How come, what?”
“Why didn’t you use valet parking?”
“Let’s just say I’ve learned the value of exercise.” She lifted a shoulder, bare save for the skinny, glittering strap of her gown. “Besides, the parking attendants had a line of cars waiting when I arrived. I decided it was best to let those prime parking spots go to the auction guests.”
“Who might not be as likely to bid on an item if they had to deal with the inconvenience of parking their own car,” Rafe theorized. Out of habit, he swept his gaze up and down the street that ran in front of the hotel. This time of night, traffic was light. He noted several vehicles parked along the curb, the streetlights reflecting off their darkened windshields.
“Or not bid as high as they normally would because they’re miffed about the service,” Allie added as they stepped into the parking lot that was illuminated by bright security lights. “The foundation depends on donations to operate. It’s important that every aspect of the annual auction goes off without a hitch.”
He watched her slide keys out of the beaded evening bag that matched her flame-red gown, then aim a remote at a hunter green Jaguar. The alarm chirped off and then locks disengaged with a muffled snick. She pulled the driver’s door open, then turned to face him.
The breeze was just light enough to stir her scent. The three-quarter moon bright enough to emphasize the golden highlights in her blond hair. Need, dangerous and unwanted, clawed inside him.
“Speaking of ‘hitches,’” she began, “I haven’t told you how glad I am that you showed up during Ellen’s tirade. She probably would have broken my nose with that evening clutch if you hadn’t caught it.”
Rafe thought about the strength it had taken to make the line drive that still had his palm smarting.
“She must pump iron to stay in shape.”
“Clay, actually.”
He furrowed his brow. “Clay?”
“Ellen is a professional potter. Once I did a fitting at her home for a robe she’d ordered. She gave me a tour of the studio Hank added on to their poolhouse. She even showed me how to form a bowl.”
“I’ve heard that potting takes a lot of manual labor.”
“It does. Just seeing Ellen pick up a mound of clay, then throw it around, beat it, twist and turn it left me exhausted. I remember thinking how great a workout she was getting.” Allie gave him a sardonic look. “Seems I was right.”
“A few years of that, anyone is bound to have arms and hands like a wrestler.”
“I suppose.”
“Suppose this. During your confrontation tonight, Ellen Bishop exhibited the characteristics of a pit bull. That’s undeniable proof she has a violent streak. Mercedes McKenzie fought her attacker. Hard. Whoever strangled her and clubbed you in the head was strong.”
Eyes going wide, Allie regarded him in dismay. “Do you honestly think Ellen is the killer?”
“If she found out her husband had moved his mistress into a condo, paid all of her expenses and was about to fly her to Paris, I don’t think she would have ignored it.”
“You’re right,” Allie agreed. “She would have felt threatened. Insulted.”
“She needs to be checked out.”
“Wouldn’t the police have already done that?”
“Should have. I prefer to find out for myself if she has an alibi for the time of the murder. If she does, it needs to be verified to see if she really was where she claimed to be. Even then that won’t prove her innocent.”
“Why not?”
“She has her own trust fund and doesn’t have to explain to anyone how she spends the money. She could have hired someone to strangle her husband’s mistress.”
“Thanks to you, I’ve gone from viewing Ellen as the humiliated wronged wife to a possible killer.”
“Possible being the key word.”
Allie nodded slowly. “When you talk about this case, you sound like a cop. I remember you always wanted to be one.”
His jaw went rigid. “Ancient history.”
“Not so ancient that it isn’t hanging between us,” she countered. “Rafe, if you were any other man, I’d think you were being gallant to follow me home. But that’s not the case. We share an unpleasant past. You didn’t like me then, and I get the impression you think very little of me now. I can’t help but wonder why you’re bothering to go out of your way for me.”
“You need someone to watch your back. I’m available. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more,” she murmured while reaching up to straighten his black bow tie. “All right, then.” She hesitated, her fingers brushing the black silk. “I’d like it some day if we could be friends.”
“Friends,” he repeated. He could almost feel the warmth from her fingers as she adjusted his tie. His lungs went tight. He didn’t want her touching him, not when her scent already had him precariously perched on the edge.
“Cautious friends,” she suggested at the same instant the tip of one of her fingers skimmed his jaw.
Heat. It was as instantaneous as the flare of a match, jumping from her flesh to his. His hand shot out, locked on her wrist. The jolting move brought her a teetering step forward.
“Be careful,” he said.
Her face was close to his now, their bodies just touching. With the sultry summer night and something even more sweltering between them, he fought the raw need twisting inside him.
Let her go.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the order nudged him. But instead of nudging her away, his wayward fingers tightened, drawing her closer.
“Be careful of what?” Her voice had gone as low and steamy as the air around them.
She was soft, the kind of soft that blew a man’s good intentions straight to hell. Her scent made his head spin. If she’d been a drug, she’d be wearing
a warning label. And like a junkie desperate for his next fix, all he could think of was tasting her, drawing her in.
Oblivious to everything but the feel of her silky skin under his hand, it took a moment to register the distant pulsing of an engine, then the squeal of tires.
Rafe jerked his head sideways, spotted the single headlight heading in their direction. Adrenaline and instinct taking over with a kick as quick and hard as a mule’s, he shoved Allie behind him, shielding her body with his.
A helmeted driver on a black motorcycle pulled to the curb. He glanced their way while revving the engine. The motorcycle did a U-turn, its back wheel skidding sideways. Then it righted, zooming off in the direction it had come from.
“Do you think that rider had anything to do with Ellen’s threat?” Allie asked from behind him.
“I don’t know.” Eyes narrowed, he tried to read the motorcycle’s tag, but the light over it was either burned out or had been removed. He kept his gaze on the single red taillight until it disappeared around a distant corner.
He shifted a step back. “It could have been some teenager out joyriding. Or some guy on his way to pick up a pack of cigarettes.”
“True. Guess I’m being paranoid.”
His gaze dropped to her glossed lips. Before the motorcycle showed up, he’d been close to kissing her. That knowledge had his gut clenching. He’d spent years rebuilding his life, fighting to take back the control that had been stolen from him. And here was this woman who was poised to make a mockery of that control.
Which was something he would not allow.
“Rafe?”
His gaze jerked to meet hers. He saw an awareness in her eyes that had him wondering if she had read his thoughts.
No matter who the man was on the motorcycle, Rafe figured he owed him thanks for preventing what would have been a huge mistake on his part.
“What?” Cool off, he told himself. Focus.
As if on cue, a light mist began to fall.
She flicked a look at the dark sky. “We’d better go.”
Nodding, he stepped back, pulling open wider the door of her Jaguar. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said.
And he would stay there, he told himself even as desire ribboned through him, as warm as a fever in his blood.
Far behind.
Chapter 5
The ringing phone dragged Allie out of a restless sleep.
Rafe, she thought as she fought to free her legs from the twisted sheet. She’d been dreaming about Rafe. A hot, lusty dream. One that seemed so real that finding herself in an empty bed sent a river of hot, frustrated need rippling through her.
The phone trilled again, jerking her fully awake.
A weak, muffled roll of thunder sounded in the distance as she leaned toward the nightstand. The storm that had set in while she drove home from the silent auction was moving on.
She snatched up the receiver at the same time she caught a glimpse of the glowing red numbers on her alarm clock. Who the hell was calling at 3:04 a.m.?
“Hello?” she muttered, dropping her head back onto her pillow.
“Is this Allie Fielding?”
She struggled to place the deep male voice. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“Detective Young. Ma’am, I’m calling about your warehouse. There’s been a break-in.”
“Oh, no!” Allie closed her eyes. All of the shop’s extra stock was stored there, many of her original designs, the layouts for the catalog that would soon be mailed in conjunction with the launch of her retail Web site. The one-of-a-kind trousseaus in various stages for three brides-to-be.
“I need you to meet me here so you can do an inventory for stolen items,” the detective added.
“All right.” She stabbed her fingers through her tangled hair, shoving it away from her face. “My warehouse is equipped with a new state-of-the-art alarm. How did the burglar get in?”
“Kicked open a door.”
“But, the alarm—”
“Ma’am, if you could just get here as soon as possible, I’ll answer as many of your questions as I can.” His voice had shifted into a flat police speak, the same tone Allie had heard Liz use when she went into cop mode.
“Of course.” Allie kicked off the sheet and climbed out of her pine sleigh bed. Anchoring the phone between her shoulder and chin, her fingers went to work on the small pearl buttons on her filmy peach teddy.
“I…can you at least tell me if the burglar got into the safe, Detective…?” She furrowed her forehead as she headed toward her walk-in closet. “I’m sorry, you woke me up out of a sound sleep. What did you say your name is?”
“Young. The safe wasn’t breached.”
“That’s a relief.”
“One thing, if you have a list of serial numbers for the office equipment you had here, it’d help if you could bring it. I’ll need the information for my report.”
Allie’s fingers went still on the buttons. The office equipment she’d had there? Her stomach dropped to her bare feet and her toes curled into the plush coral carpet. Holy hell, what all had the burglar stolen?
Telling herself she would find out soon enough, she eased out a resigned breath. Everything was insured. Heavily.
“I have the serial numbers on my computer. I’ll print the information and have it with me when I meet you.”
“Good. Hold on a minute.”
Across the line, Allie heard what sounded like the muted voice of a police dispatcher.
A second later, the detective said, “A call just went out on a burglary in progress at a nearby warehouse. I need to answer that. If I get tied up there, I’ll send another officer to meet you here at your place.”
“All right.” Allie stepped into her walk-in closet and grabbed the nearest pair of starched jeans. “I should be there in about twenty minutes.”
“Drive carefully.”
Surveillance was easy enough, Rafe thought. All you had to do was stay out of sight and watch. During the five years he’d been a PI, he had conducted uncountable hours of surveillance. Tonight, as always, the greatest enemy was boredom.
While a rumble of thunder sounded the storm’s retreat, he checked his watch for the hundredth time since he’d parked in a spot that gave him a prime view of Allie Fielding’s three-story boathouse. He scowled when he saw that only two minutes had passed since he’d last checked the time.
It had already been a long night. And it wasn’t over yet.
If anyone had asked why he’d set up a stakeout in the upper-class neighborhood where the river edged manicured backyards that boasted architect-designed boat docks, he’d have claimed he was there on business.
There was, after all, a measure of truth to that.
Earlier, he had witnessed the wife of one of his clients in major meltdown-mode. If the phone call Ellen Bishop made after threatening Allie had been to the same person she’d hired to kill her husband’s mistress—if she’d had the mistress killed—then said killer might possibly show up at Allie’s house to make good on the threat. If that happened, Rafe was in place to take down the suspect and clear his client of the murder charge.
A lot of “ifs,” Rafe thought, scrubbing a palm over his stubbled jaw. But for a man who in no way wanted to admit, even to himself, that the main reason he was there was to protect a certain blue-eyed blonde, those “ifs” would have to do.
She had no idea he was watching her house. And he didn’t intend for her to find out because it was a niggling in his gut, not any kind of hard evidence, that had kept him in the area after he followed her home from the silent auction. Unless something unforeseen happened on the case, he had no reason to see the woman again. No reason to try to figure out the enigma that the once society wild child had become in his mind.
No reason to even think about her.
That suited him. He needed to focus on business. Period.
Although he was currently running investigations for a handful of clients, his most urgent case was Hank
Bishop’s. The real estate developer had hired a cunning defense attorney, whose scorched earth tactics were legendary. But not even the best lawyer in the world could get Bishop a win in court if no evidence came to light to clear him.
“My job to find it,” Rafe muttered, then took a sip of the coffee he’d bought at the trendy convenience store that sat at the only entrance to the upscale neighborhood.
Air cooled by the recent rainstorm wafted through the car’s open windows while his gaze focused on the set of French doors just off the boathouse’s second-floor balcony. Light had flicked off behind those now-darkened panes several hours ago. Allie’s bedroom, he figured. What kind of sheets did a woman who smelled like all kinds of sin and designed sexy lingerie for a living sleep on? More to the point, what did she sleep in? One of the barely there pieces of silk he’d spotted on the one visit he’d made to her shop? Or nothing at all?
Remembering the feel of her soft flesh, he felt himself stir.
“Dammit,” he grated. He should just leave. Head for the 24/7 gym he belonged to, and pump iron until he forced her scent out of his lungs, and thoughts of her out of his head. Then he would head home, climb into bed and fall into a dead sleep.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Having Allie Fielding lodged in his brain wasn’t the only thing with the power to disturb his sleep, he reminded himself. There was prison, too.
After five years of freedom, the nightmarish images that had jolted him awake night after night in his cell should be a faded memory. But they still had the power to rip him out of sleep with razor-sharp talons, the heavy stench of days-old sweat and perpetual fear plunging him back into that living hellhole.
The dream came too often for comfort.
Yet it served as a reminder that when a man let the reins slip from his control, he was vulnerable. So whatever it was that had sizzled inside him for that one fleeting moment when he stood inches from Allie in that hotel parking lot, had to be held in check.
He would see to it.
Clenching and unclenching his fist, he kept his gaze on her boathouse while sipping his coffee. And tried not to think about how shallow his breathing had gone.
