02 Blue Murder (20 page)

Kate watched, tense all over, until certain
Sir Duncan was truly gone. Then she turned back to Hetheridge. To
her surprise, she found him standing with eyes closed, taking deep
breaths.

“
What is it? Are you all
right?”

Hetheridge’s eyes opened. “Sorry about that.
Just regaining my composure.”

“
What? Why?”

“
Because that man frightens
me to my very bones. I don’t suppose you felt the same?”

“
Not really,” Kate admitted.
“Maybe when he lost control and started to hit you. Proof positive
Sir Duncan’s not a sociopath?”

“
Indeed. And still nurses
protective feelings for Tessa Chilcott, a detail that may someday
prove helpful. I must say,” Hetheridge continued, pinching the
bridge of his nose, “during most of the interview, you looked
positively besotted. If Marks & Spenser sold a Sir Duncan
poster, would you pin it to the ceiling above your bed?”

Kate felt her cheeks go hot. “I haven’t been
reduced to dating plods on the beat,” she retorted, doing her best
Lord Hetheridge. “Feeling guilty for that?”

“
Not a bit. I don’t want Sir
Duncan thinking you mean something to me. I don’t want him thinking
of you at all.”

“
How did you find me up
here, anyway?”

“
That bartender. The one you
scolded me for overtipping. Quite an obliging fellow. Told me all
about you venturing upstairs in search of a loo and never coming
down again.”

“
So you created an
informant. I suppose that’s why you tip so big?”

Hetheridge’s hand curved around Kate’s
waist, pulling her close. “I tip so big because I can afford to.”
Face to face, lips close to hers, he asked, “Do you need a drink as
much as I do?”

Her heart was beating fast again. Why on
earth did Hetheridge have to look so good in evening dress? It had
been a long time since a man had held her this way. Too long …

“
I do believe Sir Duncan
threw us out.”

“
Not here. I know someplace
better.” He put their mouths together, kissing her softly, slowly,
until her lips parted. Then he pulled back, something almost as
predatory as Sir Duncan in those ice blue eyes. “Come with
me.”

Chapter Sixteen

T
ipping the valet, Hetheridge waved him away, opening the car
door for Kate himself. She was growing more accustomed to
navigating the world in formal dress, he saw. She seated herself in
the Lexus as elegantly as any lady born to a life of parties, fetes
and limousine rides. Yet as Hetheridge slid behind the wheel, he
spied Kate twisting her hands in her lap. Her nails were painted
red—a departure for a woman who usually wore only clear polish—and
chipped on the right, as if she’d nibbled at them while his back
was turned. Why? Even Sir Duncan had been taken by her.
Psychoanalyzing such a man might be impossible, but he was no snob
and no fool. Kate was warm and alive, her lush curves barely
contained by that ball gown, blond hair escaping her chignon and
curling along the back of her neck. True, Lady Isabel’s party had
been filled with beautiful women—slender, youthful and dressed to
the nines. But only Kate possessed such heat in her hazel eyes;
only Kate could be knowing yet not jaded, keenly observant but not
cruel. And she had the most perfectly formed lips Hetheridge had
ever seen.

He touched the nape of her neck. She made a
little sound, fingers tangling in those curls. Then he closed his
mouth over hers, careful not to go too fast, half convinced she
would pull away and bolt from the car. Instead Kate slid her arms
around him, pulling him closer. He closed his eyes. In that moment
Hetheridge forgot Sir Duncan, the case, even the Lexus itself. The
driver idling behind them had to sound the horn twice to make him
break away from Kate.

The valet was waving Hetheridge forward; the
driver of the Fiat behind him was supplementing the horn with his
middle finger. Cursing, Hetheridge put the Lexus in gear. Soon they
were back on the road, Lady Isabel’s house and Mayfair shrinking in
the rearview mirror.

Hetheridge didn’t engage the car’s audio
system; he had no interest in music, had almost forgotten such a
thing existed. He felt Kate’s hand slide up his trouser leg,
tracing a light pattern on his thigh before creeping further up. It
took everything he had to maintain the car’s forward motion. Kate
looked pleased with herself, smiling the way women do when they
have a man under complete control. All Hetheridge could do was
smile back. And drive faster.

For a quiet drink, the Nautilus Hotel was
his second choice. His first, an impossibly romantic bistro called
Julian’s, was closed for renovation. But the Nautilus was always
open, twenty-four/seven, Christmas and Easter and every day in
between. There were no velvet ropes and no valet. The hotel, built
in 1940, did not advertise and had never been touted as a tourist
destination; top travel guides mysteriously, uniformly rated it as
a place to avoid. At the Nautilus, patrons self-parked, registered
under any name they liked and relaxed in the lounge—MP and
girlfriend, pop star and groupie, tart and vicar. William and Kate
had shared many a late night in that bar, as Hetheridge well knew.
Diana and Dodi had also been known to check in, once upon a time.
The hotel offered few amenities but unparalleled discretion.

Hetheridge kept his hand on the small of
Kate’s back as they moved toward the bar. Most of the
leather-topped stools were taken, so Hetheridge helped Kate onto
one of the few free seats, standing just behind her to order. As
they waited for their drinks, his mind catalogued his surroundings.
It was every detective’s inner failing, a mental avalanche of
details—two exits, no windows, a house phone behind the bar and a
prison tattoo on the bartender’s forearm. Bleach soaking the bar
rags, fresh pint glasses clinking as they were unloaded, tiny
flames dancing in the tabletop lanterns. And Kate, eating her
entire strawberry before taking the first sip of Prosecco, well
aware he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her mouth.

Or from any part of Kate. Her hair had
fallen loose on one side; her heels sat empty on the floor. The
longer Hetheridge looked at her, the less he heard the giggles of
underage girls in the corner or noticed the rent boy chatting up
his married punter. The tsunami of the mundane faded away.

Before long, Kate’s slender flute glass was
empty, the strawberry reduced to a ragged green cap. Hetheridge
knocked back his own single-malt Scotch without tasting it.
Sinful—one might just as soon drink rotgut—but he hadn’t selected
the Nautilus because he was feeling saintly.

He checked in under his usual
alias—“Roderick Hetheridge and Companion.” One fine day Randy Roddy
would make yet another hypocritical speech about his “solid English
values” and some reporter would finally uncover a trail of
one-nighters in posh London hotels. Then perhaps Roderick’s
beleaguered wife would finally gather the courage to leave him, no
matter how fervently her eternally unzipped husband promised to
change.

Kate, still barefoot with
heels in hand, rested her head on Hetheridge’s shoulder as they
took the lift up to their room. He kept his arm about her waist,
watching the floors side past the lift’s old-fashioned iron gates.
When the attendant pulled it open—like the doorman he was careful
to make no eye contact, muttering only a half-audible
“sir”—Hetheridge passed the young man a folded bill, making sure
Kate didn’t see the denomination. Why had he bothered using
Roderick’s name here? No member of the Nautilus staff would ever
give it up. Not even
The Sun
provided sufficient incentive to make them crack
when the perks of employment were so good.

Hetheridge swiped his plastic card in the
room’s electronic lock, opening the door and letting Kate slip
past. He was perfectly content to follow. The unconscious swing of
those hips was mesmerizing.

The room was modest—writing desk,
television, half-bath. And a bed. Tossing her heels on the floor,
Kate went to the window and drew back the curtains. As she looked
down at the street, still bright and busy, Hetheridge doused the
room’s single lamp. Shrugging out of his suit jacket, he dropped it
on the bedside table. Next came his tie—undone, off. Putting his
hands on Kate’s shoulders, he kissed the back of her neck, pressing
his lips against one warm, fragrant blond tendril. For a moment she
trembled in his grasp, again like a wild creature threatening to
bolt. Hetheridge tightened his grip.

“
I love you,” he whispered.
“God knows I love you.”

Kate turned in his arms, kissing him
fiercely, and everything else he’d planned to say melted away.

***

“
I
kept thinking you’d come by. After I went home
from the hospital.” Kate was curled in Hetheridge’s arms, cheek
pressed against his bare chest. “But you never did. Except to pick
up Henry for his fencing lessons.”

“
I considered
it.”

“
Bet you were afraid we’d
have to talk about it.”

His hand was tangled in Kate’s hair,
fingertips tracing her scalp in a way that made her shiver. “About
what?”

“
You almost getting yourself
killed.”

Hetheridge made a dismissive sound.

“
What, then? Why’d you leave
me to recover at home alone like a pariah?”

“
I didn’t. I directed Mrs.
Snell to send you a plant.”

“
She did. It had slugs.”
Kate raised herself on one elbow. “Truth, Tony. Why?”

“
Because you’d just
miscarried. It hardly seemed like the time to pop round with a
bouquet of flowers and declare my intentions.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “I thought you’d
changed your mind about me. I thought you regretted—well.
Everything. And when you told me about tonight’s party … even told
me what to wear, like I might show up wearing red sequins and
chewing bubblegum …”

He retaliated by caressing her neck and
shoulders. “I told you. I wanted you visually optimized from an
undercover standpoint. That’s all.”

“
Undercover,” Kate sighed,
pushing the sheet aside to take full advantage of the massage. This
rendered her quite the opposite of undercover. And provoked such a
strong physical response in Hetheridge, he suddenly doubted he was
sixty.

“
I don’t know what was
undercover about it,” Kate continued. “Sir Duncan and Lady Isabel
expected us. Set up that effigy. They even—oi!” Kate sat up,
playfully covering herself with hands and arms when Hetheridge
snapped on the bedside lamp. “What’d you do that for?”

“
I’m old. I require better
light to see you,” he said placidly.

“
Tony.” The covering hands
and arms fell away, rendering Kate perfectly, gloriously nude. “If
we’re going to do this, you have to quit carping on your age. I can
count. And I’m not going to talk you off the ledge twice a week
because you’re a little older than me.”

Hetheridge didn’t bother to correct her,
unless by “little” she actually meant twenty-seven years. Instead
he let his hands travel, cataloguing her curves until she
giggled.

“
Are
we going to do this?” she
demanded, placing her fists on her hips with mock
severity.

“
Yes. Which brings me to
this.” Reaching for his suit jacket, Hetheridge located the square
bulge in the inner pocket. Before Kate could say a word, he’d
opened the silver-plated jewel box. Too fast for her to speak—but
not too fast to see the horror in her eyes.

“
Oh.” Kate put a hand to her
throat. She stared at the vintage ring—the cushion-cut diamond
paired with identical sapphires—as if it were a piranha or a dirty
bomb. “I—I can’t. I can’t.”

He was too experienced a policeman and
interrogator to let his inner despair show. “Why not?”

Kate gaped at him. “Because I can never be
Lady Hetheridge.”

Steeling himself, Hetheridge sat up, the
boxed engagement ring still in his hand. “Why not?”

Kate let out a pained laugh. The sound
rescued Hetheridge, saving him from true anger, from true hurt. The
moment he heard it, he understood instinctively, no matter how long
it took his brain and spinal cord to catch up.

“
Because everyone will
crucify you.” Blinking rapidly, Kate took a deep breath. “Your
family. The press. The Yard. Everyone. You’ll lose everything. Your
heir—Roddy Roddington or whatever he’s called—will haul you into
court, don’t think he won’t. He’ll say some young chippie from the
wrong part of London exerted undue influence. The Yard will sack us
both, or sack me and reassign you. And the press?” She gave a high,
hysterical laugh. “Can’t you just see it? Lord Hetheridge loses his
mind over a prostitute’s daughter! Now a lovely Christmas lunch
looms—the Hetheridges, the prostitute mum-in-law, the retarded
brother-in law and the mentally ill aunt!”

Hetheridge waited. He was no longer much
aware of the jewel box in his hand. He was, however, aware of the
tears Kate fought so hard to conceal. Finally he pressed the bed
sheet into her hand. She wiped her eyes.

“
I shouldn’t have called
Ritchie retarded. We don’t mean it bad,” Kate said with a shaky
smile. “In our family, we’ve always used the word. But I’m trying
to stop because it bothers people nowadays. Makes them
sad.”

“
No one loves Ritchie more
than you,” Hetheridge said, placing a hand against Kate’s cheek.
“Except possibly Henry.”