Every Breath You Take (24 page)

“No,” she said.

This, unlike all their previous questions and answers, she clearly thought required some amplification, because she lifted her brows and looked at him expectantly.

“I was married to Stavros’s daughter, Anastasia, for three years,” Mitchell added to satisfy her. It didn’t satisfy her. Rolling onto her side facing him, she reached up and pressed her finger across his sealed lips. “If I die of curiosity in this bed,” she warned, “you will have a lot of explaining to do to the hotel management.”

Mitchell tried to scowl, but a lock of her soft hair was brushing his cheek, her finger was brushing his mouth, and her smile was irresistible. “Anastasia was Stavros’s youngest child and only daughter,” he explained in defeat. “He kept her under his thumb and in his sight by preventing her from having any money of her own to spend.”

“I thought Greek heiresses ran wild.”

“So did Stavros,” Mitchell replied drily. “By the time she was twenty-one, she was so desperate to have some freedom and to ‘experience life’ that it was almost pitiful. Marriage was her only ticket out of bondage, but Stavros wouldn’t let men near her—except for a couple of them who suited him but not Anastasia.

“We’d known each other since we were kids and we understood each other. We also liked each other. So we made a deal. We got married and I allowed her to accumulate all the life experiences she wanted.”

“What went wrong?” Kate asked, searching his features.

“Anastasia decided she wanted one life experience that I refused to allow, one that she’d expressly agreed to forgo before we ever got married.”

“What was it?”

“Motherhood.”

“You divorced her because she wanted to have your children?”

“No, I let her divorce me.”

Warned by his tone that the topic was now closed, Kate dropped her gaze, wondering whether she ought to try to get more information. She decided she wasn’t likely to succeed right now, and she didn’t want their mood spoiled any more than it had been already.

She sought for an innocuous question to ask and after a moment decided to ask about the tiny scar on his right arm. “Where did you get this scar?” she asked, touching it with her fingers.

He looked down to see what she was talking about, and his tone lost its edge. “When I was fifteen, I bumped into a rapier.”

“That would have been my first guess.”

His blue eyes warmed with laughter and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Lifting his hand to
her face, he brushed his thumb over what he thought was a cleft in her chin and teasingly asked, “Where did you get this cute little dent in your chin?”

“When I was thirteen, I bumped into a U.S. mailbox.”

Mitchell laughed at the joke and started to kiss her chin, but she shook her head and said, “I’m serious.”

He pulled back in amused surprise. “How in the hell did that happen?”

“Just before my fourteenth birthday, I decided to make an unauthorized trip to Cleveland to visit someone I hadn’t seen in a long time. I persuaded a fifteen-year-old boy I knew to give me a ride, so Travis borrowed his brother’s car in the morning, and we cut school at lunchtime and took off. Three miles away, Travis lost control of the car, ran over a curb, and hit a U.S. mailbox. I banged my chin on the dashboard.”

“Are fifteen-year-olds allowed to drive?”

“Not legally. Which was one of the reasons we got busted when the police arrived on the scene.”

“What were the other reasons?”

“Possession of a stolen vehicle, truancy, possession of marijuana, and destruction of government property.”

Mitchell’s guffaw lifted his shoulders clear off the pillows.

“It was a bum rap,” Kate protested, rearing up on her elbows, and he guffawed again. “Well, it was. Travis simply ‘forgot’ to tell his brother he was taking his car, so his brother reported it stolen. And the marijuana wasn’t ours; it was his.”

“My choir-girl image of you is undergoing a radical change.”

“Those were my wild-child days. Anyway, they came to an end that same day.”

“Why?”

“I had to be taken to the hospital for stitches in my chin, and naturally, the hospital called my father. He was so scared and so furious that he ranted at me all the way back to the restaurant. When we got there, he sent me upstairs and told me I was grounded for two months. He said he was going to cancel my surprise party for my fourteenth birthday that week, and that there would be more punishment to come when he was calm enough to think straight. Then he walked into his office and slammed the door so hard that it popped back open.”

“Poor little wild child,” Mitchell teased, his thumb touching the dent in her chin. “Grounded for two whole months.”

“I didn’t intend to be grounded for two whole hours. I was just as furious with him for grounding me and yelling at me when I’d just had stitches. I hung around upstairs for a few minutes, and then I snuck downstairs, intending to go to a girlfriend’s house for a little while. As I tiptoed around the stairwell toward the back door, I heard a sound coming from his office, a sound that froze me in my tracks.”

“What was it?”

“Sobbing,” she said. “I could see his reflection in a wall mirror outside his office. He was sitting at his desk with his hands over his face, crying his heart out. He was such a strong, indomitable man that it never occurred to me that anything could make him cry. It was the most wrenching moment of my life.”

“What did you do?”

“I went back upstairs and grounded myself for two months. I never cut school again, and I stayed out of trouble—at least big trouble—from that day forward.”

Mitchell fell silent, assimilating what she’d told him,
trying to get a three-dimensional picture of her life, but he’d never known anyone from a background even remotely like hers.

“You never mention your mother,” he said finally.

Lifting her brows, Kate said, “You never mention your mother either.”

“Is she alive?” Mitchell persisted.

“I refuse to tell you, unless you tell me about yours first.”

“I think you’ll tell me anyway.”

“You couldn’t pry it out of me with a crowbar.”

“I can pry it out of you with two fingers,” he promised with absolute certainty, sliding his hand under the sheet.

“Don’t you dare—” Kate warned, clamping her legs together. Suddenly it was important that he not be able to keep his secrets while manipulating her so easily into divulging hers.

His fingers slid through the triangle at her thighs. “Open your legs, Kate.”

“No.” It hit her then that her logic was totally wrong and that she was silly to resist. She relaxed the tension in her legs, gasping when he slid one finger deep inside of her and rubbed his thumb against the curly hair above it; then she relaxed and let him spread pleasure and warmth through her.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked, slowly increasing the pressure and altering the movements of his fingers.

“Not yet,” Kate whispered faintly, putting her arms around his shoulders and closing her eyes. He was getting her so close she could barely stop herself from moving with him.

“Isn’t there something you want to tell me now?”

She was clinging to him, her heart racing, her nails digging into his back.

“No,” she gasped, but her body was on the verge of convulsing.

He stopped. “How about now?”

She was hanging on a cliff, desperate, and he knew it; he’d intended to deprive her of a climax just when she was on the verge and withhold it from her until she yielded. Somehow she’d mistakenly thought he believed he could get an answer out of her by giving her pleasure, while he intended to do it by depriving her of pleasure.

Her body was begging her to give in; her heart wouldn’t let her. She let go of his shoulders and dropped back onto the pillows, looking up at him with wounded eyes, silent and disappointed.

He stared back at her, his blue eyes heavy-lidded, his expression unreadable. Suddenly, he scooped her into his arms, his fingers seeking the same places he’d touched and left, driving her all the way to the climax he’d deprived her of before.

Kate clung to him while shudders shook through her, and when they passed, she lay back on the pillows and lifted her hand, sliding it across his hard jaw, tenderly smoothing back his thick black hair. “My mother lives in Cleveland,” she whispered, conceding victory to him—but a victory that was won on her terms, not his.

Unfamiliar emotions swelled in Mitchell’s chest, unfolding and unfurling. She was meant for him; they were meant for each other. But later today, or tomorrow, another man was going to come for her; a man who had more right to her than Mitchell did. …

In his mind, Mitchell heard the trumpets blast and the heralds calling out his name, summoning him to appear in the Coliseum of Commitments and present himself before the roaring crowd—a gladiator, without sword or shield, armed with only his secrets and fragile hopes. The
horns were already blaring, and he was already striding toward his fate, defenseless but fearless.

Kate’s hand was lying against his cheek, her fingers caressing his jaw while her green eyes beckoned him. Smiling, Mitchell turned his face into her hand, kissed her palm, and whispered, “We who are about to die salute you.”

S
EATED ON A CHAIR IN FRONT OF THE WINDOWS IN ROOM
102, with his feet propped up on the windowsill and a pair of binoculars in his lap, MacNeil yawned and stretched and watched in weary boredom as rosy pink streaks appeared in the sky above the sparkling waters of the Caribbean. He and Childress were sleeping in shifts, and Mac’s shift had just begun.

Hotel employees were already moving around at the beach, setting up for breakfast and wiping down chaise longues, and several taxis were in line at the front entrance, ready to take early risers to destinations of their choice. If Wyatt decided to leave the hotel, he had to pass by MacNeil’s window to get a taxi. From this same vantage point, Mac had been able to use the binoculars to watch Wyatt and the Donovan woman last night until they finally went up to their room.

At eleven, Childress and he switched places at the window, and Childress poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe that room service had delivered while MacNeil was on watch. “I’ve been here too long,” Childress remarked, spooning sugar into his cup. “Last night I read the hotel brochure, and I started thinking that my toenails really need attention, and I can’t go another day without aromatherapy.” He put his coffee cup on the table beside his chair and picked up the binoculars Mac had laid aside. Lifting them to his eyes, he slowly scanned the beach, looking for a particular
blonde. “There she is, lying on her favorite lounge chair. I’m falling in love. Look at that … she’s got a little tattoo on her butt on the left cheek. How did I miss that yesterday? He paused to zoom in closer and adjust the focus. “It’s a ladybug—is that cute, or what?”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Mac replied, then quoting from the same brochure as he started toward the bathroom, “and drown myself in the luxury of frangipani shampoo.”

Childress looked sharply over his shoulder and called, “Leave some for me.”

MacNeil chuckled, stopped at the closet to take out a fresh shirt and pair of pants, and then laid them on the bed, because his cell phone began vibrating on the dresser.

Gray Elliott’s voice was grim and brisk. “We just found William Wyatt’s body, with a shotgun hole in the chest, in an old well on a neighboring farm that was owned by the Udall family. Actually,” he corrected, “
we
didn’t find it; the developer who bought the farm a few months ago found it when he tripped over a rusty well cover underneath an inch of snow. While he was picking himself up, he noticed something wedged under the cover that struck him as odd. He knew William had disappeared when he was supposed to be at the farm next door, so he dragged the cover aside to have a look. The local cops responded to his call, and they’ve handed the whole thing over to us. William’s body and the shotgun that undoubtedly killed him arrived by helicopter a little while ago. Ballistics is going over the gun now.”

“Any prints left on it?”

“Not a one,” Gray replied, sounding surprisingly unconcerned.

MacNeil immediately guessed at the reason: “What was wedged under the cover?”

“A black leather button, about the size of a button from a man’s overcoat, with the thread still attached.”

“A button?” MacNeil repeated, frowning, and sat down on the edge of his bed.

“A very distinctive, handmade leather button,” Gray amplified, “with an interesting design stamped on the front and a symbol on the back, identifying its creator.”

“I take it you think you can trace it back to whoever made it?”

“We should be able to do better than that. It turns out that buttons like these are ordered exclusively by European tailors who keep careful records so that matching buttons can be obtained for their clients as needed.”

“Europe is a big place. How long do you think it will take to track down the tailor or the button maker?”

“Forensics says the leather and dye used on the button are British, so we’re focusing first on London tailors. Right now, my problem is time. It’s only a matter of hours before the media gets wind that we’ve recovered William’s body, and if Wyatt hears about it, that jet of his will take off from St. Maarten, heading as far away from U.S. jurisdiction as it can take him.

“If I can lure him back to Chicago, I have enough grounds to detain him for questioning and force him to surrender his passport. That will give us time to locate the tailor who made the overcoat for him, or better yet, the overcoat itself. Once we have either one, I can get a warrant signed for his arrest. I’ve already arranged with NYPD to search his New York apartment later today when I give them the go-ahead. He also has apartments in Rome, London, and Paris, and I’m trying to arrange for a simultaneous search of them, but the authorities in Europe won’t play ball with me yet. I’m going to start pulling some personal strings after we hang up.”

“You’re going to need a hell of a big lure to tear him away from the Donovan woman.”