by Maggie Price
“You got it,” Rafe said. “With that kind of anger and strength, she could have easily strangled her husband’s mistress. And slugged Allie in the head. In my opinion, your fellow officers arrested the wrong person for the murder. They might want to take a hard look at Ellen Bishop.”
“They might,” Liz said, her expression unreadable. “But you’re still a long way from getting your client off the hook.”
“Have to start somewhere.” Rafe shifted his attention to Allie, his black-as-midnight eyes locking on hers. “Because everyone except myself pitched in on making dinner, I told Claire I’d do kitchen duty.”
Allie arched a brow. “You did?”
“He did,” Claire said, raising her wineglass to salute. “I accepted.”
He looked back at Allie. “Want to keep me company?”
“Sure.” Even as she tossed her hair back in a careless gesture, Allie felt a frisson of anticipation. Maybe by spending some one-on-one time with Rafe she’d get a handle on why her senses screamed that the dynamics between them had changed. “I’m always up for watching a man slave in the kitchen,” she added.
“Good.” His slow smile, the first real one she’d ever gotten from him, caused her heart to thud.
She picked up her wineglass again. Just as quickly, set it down without taking a drink.
There wasn’t enough wine on earth to calm her jangling nerves.
Chapter 9
Never in a million years would Allie have thought there could be anything sensual about watching a man load a dishwasher. But there was something about the way Rafe’s impressive muscles rippled beneath his short-sleeved polo shirt while he slid plates into the bottom rack. The limber motion of his hips in nicely fitting slacks, his overall economy of motion had her thinking of a really good golf swing. Or other physically skillful activities.
She took a sip of the ice water she’d switched to after she and Rafe left the other two couples lingering over after-dinner coffee in the rooftop garden. The cool liquid did nothing to soothe the tightness in Allie’s throat. How could it when she was certain the dynamics between her and Rafe had changed? The fact she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what that change was—or why it had come about—had her tangled nerves feeling tight beneath her skin.
“It was nice of you to volunteer for kitchen duty,” she said while drying one of the wineglasses Rafe had washed by hand. “Not every dinner guest would do that.”
He added a handful of flatware to the dishwasher’s basket. “I believe in pulling my weight.”
She placed the glass in a cabinet, wondering how weighty all those powerful muscles, those massive shoulders would feel on top of her.
Aware that her thoughts had trespassed into unsafe territory, she gave herself a mental shake. Plucking another wineglass out of the drainer beside the sink, she went to work with her dish towel and changed the subject.
“So, after talking to the pilot, you now have proof Ellen Bishop knew her husband was having an affair with Mercedes. And Ellen had the address of the condo where Mercedes was murdered. Is that going to help your case?”
“Too soon to tell.” Rafe glanced up while positioning the last of the dinner plates in the dishwasher. “Just because Hank Bishop’s wife knew he was messing around doesn’t mean she did anything about it. And it doesn’t mean she didn’t.”
Rafe grabbed a dish towel and leaned against the counter while drying his hands, his expression thoughtful. “One problem is that if it was Joe Slater she called from the auction last night, I may never be able to prove it.”
The mention of the man who had probably broken into her shop, lured her to her warehouse, then tried to run down Rafe sent a chill up Allie’s spine. She stowed the last of the wineglasses in the cabinet. “Why not?”
“According to Liz, he had two cell phones. The one clipped to his belt came with him when you and I dragged him out of his burning car. The other was on the passenger seat and melted in the fire. About all the lab techs could tell about the destroyed phone was that it was the cheap type sold at convenience stores. You don’t need to subscribe to a service because the phone has prepaid minutes already loaded into it. When that time runs out, you toss the phone.”
“Does that mean there are no records to show who calls come from or are made to?”
“Exactly. And because Slater’s phone melted, it’s not possible to get its own number out of it. If he used it to call you, we’ll never be able to prove it. And even if the police had reason to get a warrant to look at Ellen Bishop’s cell records, they might show she made a call to a prepaid phone, but there won’t be a way to tie the number to Slater.”
Allie folded her dish towel and laid it on the counter. “That doesn’t sound like good news for your client.”
“It depends. Because of what the pilot told me, the police might decide to look a little harder at Ellen Bishop. Maybe recheck her alibi for the night of the murder.” Rafe shrugged. “It’s always possible they might find a hole there.”
“What is her alibi?”
“I don’t know. Ellen wasn’t in the mood at the auction to tell me, and Liz isn’t saying. But even if Ellen has an ironclad alibi, she still could have hired Slater to murder Mercedes.”
“With Ellen not talking and Slater dead, is your investigation at a standstill?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I have a couple of other things to check out.” He snagged a lone fork off the counter, added it to the dishwasher. Holding the door open, he swept his gaze around the kitchen. “See anything else that needs to go in here?”
“No.” Allie raised a brow as she studied the dishwasher’s contents. “I’ve never before seen dishes loaded so that there’s not one free inch of space left. That’s quite a talent.”
“I was assigned kitchen duty in prison.”
“Oh.” It was amazing, she thought, how flat a man’s voice could go in an instant.
Rafe closed the door with a snap. “If I didn’t fill the dishwasher the way the guards thought it should be done, I got written up.”
A sharp blade of regret had Allie’s fingers curling into her palms. “Everything,” she said softly. “Your having been in prison affects everything you do. There’s no getting away from it, is there?”
“Basically.” Rafe stepped toward her, his gaze locked on hers. “Look, I didn’t bring up prison just now to make you feel bad. I have a far different reason.”
“To remind me you’ll never get past the fact I helped send you there?”
“No, although at one time that’s pretty much what I believed.” He slanted his chin. “When your name first came up in the Bishop case and I realized I’d have to interview you, I wanted to make sure the good-time party-girl understood how much I resented her helping to take two years of my life away over something I didn’t do.”
“You’ve made that clear, Rafe. Crystal.”
“Which was unfair. And something I’ve done a lot of thinking about since I first talked to you at your shop.” His eyes stayed on hers as he closed the small gap between them. “And you. I’ve thought a lot about you.”
The incredible scent of musky aftershave and potent male surrounded her, making her pulse skip. “What about me?” She hoped her coolly polite tone belied the renewed tangle of nerves.
“I know who you used to be. I’m beginning to learn who you are now. But…you’re different.” He skimmed a fingertip along the curve of her jaw, leaving a trail of heat. “Even though I’m good at solving puzzles, I figure it’s going to take time to get you figured out.”
His voice resonated inside her like a tuning fork. “How do you plan to do that?”
“By spending time with you.” The steady intensity in his gaze sent a frisson of excitement along every nerve ending in her body. “There’s something about you, Allie. Something that’s gotten to me. I wasn’t looking for that to happen with any woman, certainly not with you. It isn’t a comfortable feeling for me, and I’ve tried my best to shake it. But it�
��s there, so I need to deal with it.”
He skimmed a hand down her bare arm until he reached the tight curl of her fingers. Silently he lifted her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. “I’d like to get to know you better. This you, the real you.”
The kitchen seemed to fade away. Her entire focus and awareness were on Rafe. She could hear her own pulse in her ears, feel the frantic rush of blood through her veins. “You might not like the present me any more than you liked the old me.”
“Not likely.”
“Look, Rafe, I…don’t do relationships.” His touch had kicked her heart into an urgent beat and she could barely get the words out around the tightness in her throat. “I just…don’t.”
“You don’t do relationships. I’m not at all sure I want one. We ought to get along fine.”
Temptation had never been greater. Or as appealing. Or as arousing. Which was the reason an alarm now blared in Allie’s head. She wanted him. Wanted to let go of the caution learned from watching her parents’ futile quest for happiness and just see what developed.
When his thumb brushed against the pulse point in her wrist, her breath hitched and she could feel herself melting, like a candle left too long in the Oklahoma summer sun. To shore up her resolve, she reminded herself of the feeling that gripped her when he’d kissed her. She had never felt that type of connection to another man and she knew instinctively if she dived into an affair with Rafe, she wouldn’t come out of it unscathed.
“We could take things slowly,” he suggested. “See how we get along.” His hand slid around the back of her neck. His thumb stroked the side of her throat as he lowered his head. “I already know how we get along when it comes to this.”
She felt a low tightening in her stomach as his mouth wandered to the edge of her jaw, the corner of her lips.
“We decided kissing each other was a mistake,” she managed.
His lips grazed hers. “I’m rethinking my position on that.”
The remembered taste of him sent a shudder of pleasure through her. His slow kiss explored without demand while his hand moved to cradle the side of her face. Disarmed by his gentleness, she let her body relax against his.
Closing a hand on her hair, he held it aside and kissed her neck, taking forever to work his way up to the hollow behind her ear. By the time he had reached it, she was twisting to get closer to him, her fingers gripping the unyielding surface of his upper arms.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow night.” His warm breath against her cheek had her heart pumping as if she’d run a marathon.
She struggled to think. “I can’t. I have…work for the foundation to do.”
Just then, the sound of voices drifted from the living room into the kitchen.
Rafe stepped back, his eyes staying steady on hers as he leaned against the counter. “Sounds like your friends are done with their coffee.”
“Yes.” Allie took a deep breath. The flesh on her throat where he’d trailed kisses felt flushed and tender, as if she’d been scalded.
“You’re busy tomorrow,” he said quietly. “What about the following night?”
Inside she felt hot. Twisted. And, she admitted, scared as hell. Not of Rafe, but of the power of her own reaction to him. She had to think, had to. But right now she could only feel.
“I don’t know.” The husky unevenness in her voice made it sound as if someone had attacked her vocal cords with sandpaper. She shoved an unsteady hand through her hair. “This is all so…sudden. I don’t know what to say.”
“It took me by surprise, too. You don’t have to say anything right now. Just let me know about Tuesday night. Okay?”
“I will.” She was aware of the sound of Claire and Liz’s voices growing louder as her friends neared the kitchen. Maybe by the time they walked in, she’d have her breathing back under control.
Maybe not.
Lord, she needed to think.
She gazed into Rafe’s face, his mesmerizing dark eyes, and felt that strange pull toward him. The man had “dangerous” written all over him.
Allie pressed a hand to her thundering heart. “As soon as I know, you’ll know.”
Rafe spent part of the following morning coaxing information out of a snooty clerk at an exclusive jewelry store. The facts he learned about the diamond bracelet Hank Bishop had left there for repair sent Rafe back to his client’s office. There, he dug through the real estate investment company’s cell-phone records.
By late afternoon, Rafe was sure Bishop’s son had lied to him when they’d spoken at the silent auction, and he wanted a face-to-face with Will Bishop to see his reaction to the evidence. Since Junior had called in sick to work that day, Rafe left several messages on his cell phone. When they weren’t returned, Rafe swung by Will’s townhouse. There was no answer when he rang the bell and no sign of the man’s red sports car.
Rafe finally spotted the car that evening in the parking lot of a trendy club Will Bishop was known to frequent. Before Rafe could get through the main door of The Blues, he had to pay a twenty-dollar cover charge. After being advised of the two-drink minimum, he stepped into the bar area where the sound system oozed earthy, mellow blues.
The sweet scent of marijuana floated on air thick with smoke. Fashionably thin women in clingy summer dresses swayed in the arms of their partners. Bishop, his golden tan and sun-streaked hair giving him the look of a professional surfer, sat at a table chatting up a sloe-eyed blonde wearing a strapless salsa-red dress that fit her body like a good paint job.
As he wove his way closer to the table, Rafe thought about the leggy redhead who’d hung on Will’s arm at the silent auction. Junior indeed had an eye for the women.
Still, neither the redhead nor tonight’s blonde could touch Allie Fielding when it came to class. Sexiness. Allure.
That sudden, unbidden thought had Rafe frowning. Last night, he’d taken a step with her that would have ramifications he knew he might not be able to handle smoothly. But handle them he would, no matter how she got to him.
Right now, the fact she hadn’t yet called to tell him she would—or wouldn’t—have dinner with him the following night had his insides churning. He didn’t want to acknowledge that her silence bothered him. But, dammit, it did. And he was going to have to figure out what to do about it if she didn’t call.
Knowing she could throw him off-balance was far from a comfortable feeling for a man determined to control every aspect of his life.
Rafe was nearly at the table before Bishop glanced his way. Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by a frown.
“Diaz, can’t take a hint? If I wanted to talk to you, I would have returned one of the messages you left.”
“You called in sick to work,” Rafe said, infusing concern into his voice. “I thought I’d better check on you.” Shifting his gaze to the blonde, Rafe jabbed his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. “It appears you’ve made a full recovery.”
“Thanks to Triana, here.” Bishop nudged aside one of the blonde’s dangly earrings that was as long as a finger and settled a kiss on her bare shoulder. “She’s taking good care of me, so you can just go on.”
“If I ‘go on,’ you’ll be talking to cops instead of me.”
Bishop leaned back in his chair, watching Rafe closely. “About?”
“A gold bracelet with heart-shaped diamonds.”
The corners of Bishop’s eyes tightened. “I don’t know what bracelet you’re talking about.”
“It’s a twin to the one your mother owns. The police will probably be able to refresh your memory when they take you in for questioning.” Rafe turned to leave just as the current dance music faded.
“Diaz, hold on.”
Rafe paused, glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
Bishop sent his date a smile so smooth that Rafe figured it had been practiced before a mirror. “Triana, give us a minute while I conduct business.”
Her red-glossed mouth settled into a pout as she r
ose and tottered past Rafe on flame-red ice-pick heels. A song that was low and bluesy, with a lot of sax flowed out of the club’s sound system.
The instant Rafe settled into the chair across the small table from Bishop, a waitress appeared. “There’s a two-drink minimum, handsome. What can I get you?”
“Tonic with a wedge of lime. Bring both drinks and my tab when you come back.”
After Bishop ordered another round, the waitress moved away. “Okay, Diaz, just what is it you think I know about a diamond bracelet?”
Rafe crossed his forearms on the table. He’d already gone over the facts he could prove and those he couldn’t. He didn’t intend to let Bishop know he was mostly on a fishing expedition.
“Your dad gave Mercedes McKenzie a gold bracelet with heart-shaped diamonds that’s a clone of the one your mother owns. When Mercedes’s bracelet needed repair, he took it to Trudeau’s. They called what they thought was his cell number when it was ready for pickup.”
“Interesting story. What does it have to do with me?”
“Plenty. You shop there, too, so they have your cell number on file. Because your family’s real estate company supplies your phone, that number is only one digit different from your father’s. Instead of calling him, the clerk screwed up and dialed your phone. When you answered, she said, ‘Mr. Bishop?’ You naturally said, ‘Yes.’ Things went from there.”
“I don’t remember that call.”
“The clerk does. She said there was blues music playing in the background. She happens to be a fan, too.”
“Good for her.”
“She also recalls that when she asked if you wanted to pick up the repaired bracelet or have it delivered to the address on Colony Lane, you opted for delivery. Then you had her verify the house number. Colony Lane, as you know, is the location of the condo your father moved his mistress into.”
“None of this sounds familiar,” Bishop said just as the waitress reappeared with their orders.
Rafe paid his tab before she left. “Better do something about your faulty memory, Will. I spent most of this afternoon at your dad’s office, going through cell-phone records. They verify the date, time and number the clerk jotted on the jewelry store’s paperwork when she called and notified Mr. Bishop—namely you—that the bracelet had been repaired.”
