Right now, she wanted to push thoughts of the investigation as far from her mind as possible. Armed with a legal pad and two pens, she headed toward Brita’s work area to begin portioning out Margo’s mail and reports. She took a shortcut through the hall that passed in front of the elevators and passed Martin Derlinger as he alighted. He was an oddly shaped person who wore cartoon ties to work and colored Puma tennis shoes. And he was sweating profusely, as if he’d just come in from the outside temperatures. He made brief eye contact, then looked down and headed toward his copy room cubbyhole and his menagerie of tiny stuffed animals. Wade was right—Archer was populated by a fairly exotic group of individuals.
She and Brita were awkward together at first, both skittish in view of the No Entry—APD Crime Scene sticker on Margo’s office door, but soon the projects and memos engrossed them past the point of unease. Brita, Belinda discovered, was clever and organized, which, in hindsight, made perfect sense; if nothing else, Margo had been a perfectionist. Belinda was glad for the distraction from the investigation, which hung over her like a black cloud. And for some relief from her guilt over abusing Mr. Archer’s trust, when he’d agreed to hire her.
She sent Brita home at 5:30 and carried a stack of memos on a new consumer financing plan back to her cubicle for take-home reading. She needed to stay late but conceded that she didn’t want to hang around after hours in a place where dead bodies tended to turn up, armed guard or no. Being a suspect was still significantly better than being a victim. She waved at Libby on the way out, but the woman seemed to be in a fog, albeit a happy fog.
“What’s up with Libby?” she asked Rosemary as they headed toward the exit.
Rosemary shook her head. “Maybe the hairspray has finally killed one too many brain cells. If she’s still like that when she picks me up in the morning, I won’t let her drive.” She touched Belinda’s arm. “Do you want to stay at my place tonight? I have a sleeper sofa now.”
A surge of warmth filled Belinda’s chest, but she shook her head. “Thanks, but I have a cat to look after, and…I’m fine.”
“Okay. See you in the morning.”
That evening’s commute was pure torture. The traffic was no worse than normal, but without Julian’s friendly voice in the sky, or companionship to pass the time, Belinda felt as if she’d aged a year by the time she steered the little yellow Ford into her garage. She expected Perry to be waiting for her, but thank goodness, his truck was gone and there were no reporters in sight. She checked her mailbox, and at the sight of an envelope from the Atlanta Police Department, her heart tripped double-time. When she tore it open, though, she frowned wryly—notice of a court date to pay her fines and/or produce proof of a valid Georgia driver’s license. She was a murderer and a bad driver.
She walked to the bay window to check the effectiveness of the sheet she’d hung—not bad. The only thing a Peeping Tom would see was the brand of bed linens she preferred. But at the sight of more smudged palm and fingerprints—large ones—she froze. The same person who’d left them before? The person Perry had seen skulking around today? It seemed likely. She swallowed hard and unlocked the front door, carefully turning the dead bolt behind her.
“Downey, I’m home.”
Nothing.
She looked to the left into the living room and knew instantly why the cat was in hiding—because she knew one of her nine lives was about to expire.
Torn sheets of aluminum foil were scattered about the living room, the apparent casualties of a war declared by Downey when she’d found her new favorite sleeping spot covered with the offensive stuff. And the feline must have worked herself up into a frenzy, because she’d also exorcised her hostilities on the red leather couch.
Belinda stared at the countless claw scratches, rips and tears in the soft leather. Ruined. Destroyed. Non-repairable.
She burst into tears. Her life was a disaster. She stood, leaning on the doorjamb, bawling like a newborn calf. Was this a sign for her to give up? To go back to Cincinnati with her tail tucked between her legs? That is, of course, if she wasn’t locked up in a holding cell by the end of the week.
At a brush against her legs, she sucked in enough air to hiccup. Downey looked up at her with big innocent green eyes, then rubbed her head against Belinda’s shin and purred like a clothes dryer. Belinda sighed and squatted down to address the cat, puss to puss. “You were very naughty today.”
Downey rubbed herself against Belinda’s chin like a contrite child, effectively neutralizing her master’s anger. Even more pathetic, Belinda’s heart went out to the cat. “I know how you feel,” she said, scooping the recalcitrant animal into her arms. “I wanted to tear Vince apart, too. But it’s better to let go of the unhealthy people in your life and move on. We’re stuck with each other, and we’re going to make it.”
She carried the cat to the kitchen and held her with one hand while opening a can of cat food with the other hand. Downey seemed content to snuggle, as if she realized they had come to an understanding. Belinda dumped the meaty food onto a saucer, then stuck it in the microwave for a few seconds. She tested it with her finger for appropriate warmness, then set it on the floor for Downey. The cat’s tail fairly shuddered with pleasure at the first warm bite.
Now, Belinda realized, they were friends.
But she had one more thing to do. She retrieved Vince’s card from the table, now smudged and wallowed, and reeking faintly of fish and French fries. She ran her finger over his name for old time’s sake, telling herself she would remember the fond moments together. With a purple felt-tip marker (Vince thought felt-tip markers were the scourge of all writing instruments), she wrote RETURN TO SENDER across the envelope in neat capital letters. Then she walked the envelope out to her mailbox, placed it inside, and raised the red metal flag so the mailman would pick it up tomorrow.
She made a mental note to weigh herself soon, because she suddenly felt as if those added pounds had evaporated. Yet she knew the scales wouldn’t reflect the fact that she’d shed the old Belinda Hennessey and the old Belinda Hennessey ways of needing for every day, every hour, every minute of her life to be planned. Life was an adventure, and the most she could wish for were that the good days outnumbered the bad. And along the way, hopefully she would meet people who cared about her, and she would be brave enough to let them in.
The warm summer day was passing through dusk on its slide toward night. The smell of freshly cut grass permeated the still air, and crickets chanted their evening song, mocking the idea that anything could be wrong with the world. At the sound of a car behind her, she turned to see a set of headlights heading toward her. Her heart jumped wildly, but her feet wouldn’t move. When she recognized a police cruiser, relief flooded her, but her heart continued to do funny things. Wade slowed, pulled into her driveway, and zoomed down the window. His face was alarmingly comforting.
She walked over and leaned down. “I hear you’re doubling as a night watchman.”
He reached out to finger a hank of hair that had fallen onto her cheek. “You would be safer inside,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”
She glanced toward the mailbox, then back. “Doing something I should have done a long time ago.”
He stared at her for a few seconds, then smiled. “Always good for the soul.” Then he pressed his lips together. “Truett and Salyers were a little hard on you today.”
She shook her head. “They were doing their jobs. I’m so ashamed of that deal I made with Margo, it’s just a relief for it to be out in the open. Remember what you said about everyone having the capacity to do something terrible?”
He nodded.
“I didn’t think I had that capacity. I guess I didn’t know myself very well.”
“So this secret deal you made with your boss is why you failed the polygraph.”
“I suppose.”
He gave her a little smile. “You know only a truly good person could be such a bad liar.”
She smiled back
. “Thanks. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Julian?”
“No, but the general consensus is he’s still in town somewhere. We’ll find him.”
“So, in light of my revelation about the Payton deal, has the D.A. dropped the conspiracy theory in favor of me doing away with Margo all by myself?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think the D.A. is sure of anything, but I’ve convinced her to hold off until we find Hardeman.” He wet his lips. “I just hope Hardeman doesn’t find you first.”
Her gaze locked with his, and she couldn’t look away. “You don’t have to be my bodyguard, you know.”
“I know.”
She waved vaguely toward the house. “Why don’t you come in?”
He looked away and shifted in his seat. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Was he remembering their kiss? Or was he thinking of what he’d heard her confess today? She straightened slowly. “Oh. Okay. Well, I appreciate you coming by, but you really don’t have to stay.”
“Still,” he said, in that inarguable one-word way of his.
“Goodnight, then,” she said with a little wave and a little jerk of her heart. When she closed the door behind her, she sighed. It was for the best. She was recovering, he was recovering. She was in a bind, and he was trained to come to her rescue. After the commotion passed, he, too, would pass.
She’d taken one step away from the door when the doorbell rang. Thinking he’d gotten word of a new development, she opened the door. His frame filled the opening. His dark hair fell over his forehead, into his eyes. “I changed my mind.”
The sexual energy bouncing between them put enough static in the air to lift Downey’s fur. Belinda wavered, knowing it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, that if she were planning her life, this attraction was leading nowhere. But she wasn’t planning her life anymore, and who knew how many more nights of freedom she might have?
She stepped aside to allow him to enter, and they were kissing before the door closed. When he folded her into his arms, she went loose all over, reveling in the sensation of having so much man around her. His maleness overwhelmed her and she had the ridiculous urge to submit to him, to let him take her where he wanted them to go. He lifted her off the ground and pulled her against his—arousal? Radio? Gun?
“Are you still on duty?” she murmured against his mouth.
“No,” he managed between hard breaths.
“Then can we lose the uniform?”
He laughed, and she’d never heard a more sexy sound in her life.
The clothes were coming off before they could make it to the living room. Her jacket fell in the foyer, as well as his button-up shirt. Her shoes were next, then his belt. He made a rueful noise when he saw the couch.
“The aluminum foil didn’t work,” she said, pulling her blouse over her head. “My couch is ruined.”
“How about the floor?” His gaze devoured her as he unzipped his pants.
“The floor seems to be in good shape,” she agreed, tearing off her panty hose. They were both on the carpet before their underwear landed.
He appeared to be fascinated with her breasts but not the least bit intimidated. Two tweaks in, she knew she was in the hands of a man who knew how to make things happen. Her body was one long, living nerve. He seemed to be everywhere at once, his mouth, his hands, his…well, the significance of having a large man make love to her was starting to sink in…literally.
Her knees parted like the Red Sea to bring him closer, but a couple of inches in, he set his jaw to restrain himself. “Whatever you got going on down there,” he said through clenched teeth, “it’s making me crazy.”
She was thinking likewise. So maybe the Brazilians were on to something with this inside and out wax job. Pain? What pain?
He groaned into her mouth as he drove inside her, and her eyes rolled back. This…this had to be breaking some rule, it felt too good.
He held himself above her, giving them both a few seconds to take each other in before falling into a delicious glide. She had never been so swept away on pure physical pleasure. He talked in her ear, asking if this felt good and if that felt good. Too soon and not soon enough, she came on a this and he came on a that. He rolled over, pulling her on top to recover. She lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, filled with feminine satisfaction that their bodies had interacted so supernaturally.
“Could you be suspended for this?” she asked against his nipple.
“Hell, yes.”
“Will you stay anyway?”
“Hell, yes.”
A few minutes later, they roused long enough to make omelets and drink the beer that was left. She marveled at the ease between them and resisted thinking past tonight. It was a good thing she had adopted that “men are unnecessary” rule, because Wade Alexander, with his omelet pan and his this and that, would be easy to fall for. But she wasn’t going there again. Not yet. Not for a long while.
They took a shower in the dark and made love again on her bed-in-a-bag animal print sheets, then settled down to share one pillow—not an easy feat, considering his size.
Belinda was quiet, studying the white fluted globe over her bed, trying to squash the panic fluttering in her chest beneath his warm hand. This was feeling dangerously good. Nothing this good could last—it would burn itself out. Wade would chalk it up to his rebound fling and move on. She wasn’t ready for another relationship either, but her heart was still needy and might not recognize a rebound fling. Might instead mistake the rebound fling for the real thing and incite her to crazy thoughts like picturing her furniture in his house. Or worrying that all those omelets weren’t good for his cholesterol.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Hm?”
“You’re sighing.”
“How many eggs do you eat in a week?”
“Huh?”
“I was thinking maybe…maybe you shouldn’t stay.”
Silence, then he swung his legs over the side and reached for his shirt. “Okay, I’ll leave.”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“I’m a big boy. But it could mean trouble for you if things…get worse. You’re right, I shouldn’t stay.”
She lay still, feeling miserable as she watched him dress. “Do you think things will get worse—for me, I mean? Should I get a lawyer, tell my parents?”
“Hardeman will turn up soon. Then you should be off the hook.” He gave her a flat smile. “For everything.”
“But—” She bit her tongue.
“But what?”
“What if he didn’t do it? Is there something you aren’t telling me? Do you have proof?”
“Not definitive proof,” he said, then expelled a sigh. “Are you still hung up on the guy?”
She sat up and pulled the covers to her neck. “What? Of course not.”
“You seem more concerned about his innocence than your own.”
She wanted to say she hoped Julian was innocent to prove her judgment wasn’t so off-base, that she wouldn’t just crawl into a dry sauna with a serial killer, but she didn’t think it would come out sounding very elegant. And then a thunderbolt hit her.
“I’m your revenge,” she said quietly.
He turned his head. “What?”
“I’m your revenge on Julian.” She touched her temples. “He slept with your wife, you thought Julian was hung up on me, so you slept with me.”
“That’s not true,” he said, shaking his head.
“Get out.” She set her jaw, reeling from her own gullibility.
“Belinda—”
“Get out now.” She looked away until she heard his footsteps on the stairs, in the foyer, the door open and close, then she slipped on her robe to go down and turn the dead bolt. She sat on the bottom step for a good half hour, rocking to stave off the lake of tears behind her eyes. Downey came to keep her company, settling next to her with little
mewling noises.
Their lovemaking hadn’t meant anything, so why should his betrayal hurt? She wasn’t looking for a relationship, and now she didn’t have one.
Fine. Everything was just fine.
Oh, except for the murder rap and the missing contracts and the unemployment line she was likely to be facing soon. She opened her mouth for enough air to fuel a marathon crying jag, and the doorbell rang.
She gulped back a sob, wondering what Wade could possibly have to say, hating herself for wanting to see him again. Already. Pathetic.
Belinda inhaled and exhaled deeply, then turned the dead bolt and opened the door. Moonlight streamed in around his head—she couldn’t see his face.
“Hello, Belinda.”
Her heart stood still. “Julian.”
Chapter 31
Her throat convulsed. “Wh-what are you doing here, Julian?”
“I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
She could smell the alcohol on his breath. “It’s late, Julian. Why don’t you call me tomorrow, or come by my office?” She started to close the door.
“No,” he said, blocking the doorframe with his body and forcing his way into the foyer. The light fell on his gaunt face, highlighting beard stubble and his glassy green eyes. “I have to talk to you now.”
Primal fear seized her. She had to get to the bathroom, lock herself in. She whirled to run up the stairs. Julian grabbed the back of her robe. She screamed, then fell hard on her chin. Despite the stars in her head, she kicked at him and clawed at the stairs.
“Be still!” he bellowed. “I just want to talk to you. You remind me so much of Jeanie. I loved her.” He covered her body with his, pinning her facedown on the rough carpet. The steps jabbed her painfully. His breathing rasped in her ear, his wet mouth sliding on her cheek. She felt faint and gasped for breath under his considerable weight.
“I just want to tell you something,” he wheezed. “I was in Margo’s office the day she died. I went to see that bitch because she killed Jeanie, I just know it. I went to confront her, to make her conf—unhhh!”
Kill the Competition Page 32
