Kiss in the Dark (4 page)

“Guess not.” He filled his cup and returned to the table. “Did your husband have any enemies?”

“He worked for the district attorney’s office,” Janine answered for her, practically snarling at Zito. “You know that. He was a prosecutor.” Just like Janine was. If Beth was arrested, Janine would be unable to help in an official capacity. “We all have enemies. It’s a hazard of the job.”

“Anyone in particular? Had he received any threatening phone calls or letters?”

“Not that I know of,” Beth said, but then, she and Lance had rarely spoken of that kind of thing. Toward the end, they’d barely spoken at all. She’d lost herself in her work at Girls Unlimited, a center for underprivileged teenage girls, and Lance had worked ungodly hours as one of Portland’s leading prosecutors. His political future had never burned brighter.

“That’s quite a security system you’ve got at the
house,” Zito went on. “Was he worried about someone
coming after him?”

Obviously, the detective hadn’t known the man whose murder he investigated. “Lance wasn’t scared of anything or anyone. He was born a St. Croix. It never occurred to
him
that something bad could happen to him.”

“And you?” Zito asked. “Did the thought occur to you?”

Icy fingers of certainty curled through her. “Bad times don’t discriminate. They touch us all.”

“Even the St. Croixs?”

“Yes, even the St. Croixs.” Especially one in particular.
But then, Dylan preferred it that way. He’d caused an uproar by dropping out of law school six months before graduation, opting for
private investigations rather over the formal justice system. His grandfather the judge had been furious, and while Lance had put on a good show, she knew he’d secretly embraced the opportunity to outshine his black sheep cousin.

Beth stiffened, shaken by the direction of her thoughts. She had no business thinking of Dylan now. No business remembering. He was a living, breathing reminder of mistakes she’d give almost anything to erase. Fire burned. Fire always, always burned.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” she said, and stood. The room spun like a tilt-a-whirl, prompting her to brace a hand against the chair. The two detectives looked at her oddly, Janine in concern.

“It’s late, I’m tired and my head is pounding.” And she was afraid she was going to be sick. Gingerly, she lifted a hand to the gash at the back of her head, but rather than feeling her fingers, she felt Dylan’s. Gentle. Disturbing. “I’d like to go now.”

“We’re not done—” Livingston started, but Zito cut
him off.

“Don’t leave town without letting me know first.”

* * *

She hardly recognized the woman in the mirror. Beth stared at the pale mouth and dark eyes in the reflection, and felt her throat tighten. Cupping her hands, she returned them to the stream of cold water running from the faucet, then lifted them to her face. Over. And over. Only when two female patrol officers strolled into the bathroom,
laughing, did she stop.

Very quietly, very
deliberately, she patted her face dry
and slung her purse over her
shoulder, walked out the door.

She saw him the second she stepped from the elevator. He stood not ten feet away, talking on his mobile phone and slicing a hand violently through the air. He had his back to her, but she didn’t need to see the hard lines of his face to recognize him. She always felt him first, that low hum deep inside,
followed by a tightening of her chest.

Somehow, she kept walking.

“No, damn it,” she heard him bark. “Let me handle this.”

Her heart revved and stalled. Handle what? she couldn’t help wondering. Her?
It didn’t matter. She’d—

“Beth, wait!”

She stiffened and, though she wanted to keep going, had no choice but to stop. “Janey,” she said, turning to her friend. “I appreciate all you did for me. I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important.”

“Don’t think twice about it.” Janine took Beth’s hands and squeezed. “How are you holding up? I know things weren’t great between the two of you, but this has to be hard.”

Her throat tightened. Janine was Lance’s friend first, but in her soft voice and expressive brown eyes, Beth found a concern that almost undid her. “I didn’t do it,”
she whispered.

“Of course you didn’t,” came a rough masculine voice.

Beth barely had time to turn before the man was beside her, pulling her into his arms. “I just heard, Beth. I’m so sorry.”

The hug caught her off guard. As district attorney, Kent English had been both Lance’s mentor and friend. And though she and Kent had been cordial, the man whose place the media
had
speculated Lance would soon take had never touched her beyond a handshake. Now the embattled D.A. skimmed a hand along her back in a gesture that should have been comforting.

But wasn’t.

Instantly, she looked across the hall and found Dylan watching her through the most scorched-earth eyes she’d ever seen. Her chest tightened, and her heart started to thrum. The breath stalled in her throat. The truth disturbed.

This hug. This embrace. It was what she’d wanted from Dylan the second she’d seen him standing on the patio, to feel his arms around her, his body against hers. To just lean against him and be held.

She’d be safer dancing naked in a bonfire.

“Thank you,” she said against Kent’s chest, struggling to free herself. His arms suddenly felt like a net, sending panic twisting through her. She needed to get away. Not from the cops or Kent, but from Dylan and those hard, penetrating eyes.

Kent, a shrewd politician with a well-earned reputation for cutting throats and breaking hearts, didn’t try to stop her, just stepped back and frowned. For a man rumored to be on his way out, he still held himself with commanding presence.

“I’ll have Livingston’s badge for putting you through this. Anyone who knows you knows you couldn’t hurt a flea.”

Involuntarily, Beth looked toward the end of the hall, only to find Dylan gone.

“Thanks for coming down,” she said, turning back to Lance’s colleagues. “It means a lot to me.”

Kent pulled her in for another quick hug and Janine did
her best to smile. Beth bade them good-night, then crossed
the lobby to the front door. A few uniformed cops lingered
by
a counter, talking in loud tones. A woman rushed in
side, demanding to know where her Donny was. Across
the room, a young girl with ratty hair and torn clothes yelled to anyone who would listen.

Pushing open the glass door, Beth welcomed the blast of cool night air.

“Mrs. St. Croix!” came a shouted voice, as a crowd of reporters rushed up the steps. “Mrs. St. Croix, can you tell us what happened?”

Flashbulbs exploded around her. Microphones were jammed toward her. “Do they have any suspects?”

“Was the murder weapon really a fire poker?”

Beth tried to turn away, but the swarm had circled her.

“Did you really find his body?”

Revulsion surged through her. She saw the collective gleam in the eyes of the reporters, the thirst for a story with no regard for the fact that the roadkill they picked apart was someone’s world. She’d worked hard to keep her personal life private, but when Lance went to work for the district attorney’s office, anonymity became a luxury of the past. He’d thrived on the adulation, fed off it. And the press had fallen in love. He was the grandson of a wealthy state judge, he was handsome, and everyone believed it only a matter of time before he capitalized on his popularity and ran for public office, starting with D.A. The press had been having a field day with rumors about English stepping down, Lance taking over.

No one was quite sure why.

But now the golden boy was dead; murdered, she thought with a sharp stab, and the media he’d used so shamelessly wanted to know why.

“I have no comment,” Beth said. No intention of telling
them anything. Even words of innocence could be twisted into stones of condemnation.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, trying to push through the tight circle of reporters.

“Did you kill him?”

The question stopped Beth cold. Yvonne Kelly, an investigative reporter whose love of going for the jugular Lance had always admired, pushed her way to the front. The wind blew pale hair into her face. Her eyes glittered.

“Was it a crime of passion?” she asked icily. “Is that how you ended up with blood on your hands?”

Control shattered. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you—” she started, but the crowd erupted into a frenzy of shouts and curses and shoving before she could finish. Someone screamed. Rashes of light ricocheted through the darkness. She heard a low roar, then the sound of something smashing violently to the concrete.

“You can’t do that!” a reporter shouted.

“Watch me.” Dylan broke from the throng and pushed to her side, hooked an arm around her waist without breaking his stride. “Sorry, folks, but this feeding frenzy is over. Ms. St. Croix has no comment.”

Disappointment tittered through the reporters, but the swarm instantly loosened, obeying Dylan’s command like he was some fallen deity and the price of going against him was eternal damnation. He led her down the steps, his stride long and purposeful. Determined. She almost had to run to keep up with him. He never looked back, just kept his arm around her waist and guided her to the dark SUV at the curb.

He opened the passenger door and grabbed a bulging file from the bucket seat. “Get in.”

Beth hesitated. The interior of the black Bronco looked
as dark and isolating as a cave, and once inside, they’d be completely alone. Just the two of them. No
outside inter
ference. Just like that cold night at the
cabin, the terrible
mistake that still had her
jerking awake in the middle of the night, heart hammering, chest tight, body burning from his touch.

She didn’t want that. Lance was dead. She was a suspect. There was no room for the chaos that was Dylan in her world. Hadn’t been for a long time. She’d worked hard to carve him from her life, her dreams. But God help her, because of one mindless slip, he’d stepped out of those
shadowy, forbidden images and into the worst nightmare of her life.

And Yvonne Kelly was closing in fast.

“We don’t have all
night,”
Dylan prompted.

Beth cut him a sharp look then slipped into the Bronco. In a heartbeat he had the door closed and was sliding into the driver’s seat, effectively shutting them off from the world. Through the tinted windows, Beth saw Yvonne Kelly hit the sidewalk at a run, but the engine purred to life and they tore from the curb with a shriek of tires.

Her heart raced as fast as the blur of buildings and cars they passed. He took a right curve too fast, then another, then swerved onto the side of the deserted road and threw the gear into park. A few cars lined the street, but no activity, and very little light. They were behind the police station, she realized. Not far away, but completely out of sight.

“You sure do know how to attract a crowd, sweetheart.”

The insolent words brought her back to familiar territory. Or at
least, remembered territory. For a few dizzying
minutes, Dylan had seemed more stranger than one-man
wrecking crew.
In his touch, she’d felt a protectiveness she
didn’t remember. In his rough-hewn voice, she’d heard a strain she hadn’t understood. This bold, in-your-face proclamation was much more suited to the man she’d foolishly given her heart so long ago.

Little light made its way from
the street lamp through
the tinted windows, leaving only the blue glow from the dashboard to cast his face in shadow. He watched her in
tently, his six-foot-two frame dominating the front seat. She could hardly move without touching him.

She didn’t want to touch him.

She hadn’t wanted to spend the night at the cabin with
him, either. She’d driven to the mountains after an emotional appointment with her doctor, in search of peace and quiet, to clear her mind. Instead, she’d found Dylan. She
hadn’t realized he spent weekends there, at the St. Croix
retreat. She hadn’t known the snow would make the roads impassable. She hadn’t anticipated all the memories closing in on her, the nightmare that had pinned her to the bed, waking up to find Dylan by her side, so big and strong, so … gentle. That had been new. Or maybe just an illusion. A dream. A wish. Regardless, it had shredded every re
maining particle of her defenses.

Until she’d awoken just before sunrise, sprawled over his big hot body, their legs tangled, his arm draped possessively over her waist.

She’d wanted to cry.

Even now, weeks later, she could hardly believe the gravity of her mistake. She should have been able to tell him no. Tell herself no. She should have been able to resist
that keening deep inside, the acute longing to feel his arms
around her. It was tempting to make up some excuse like she’d been confused, hadn’t realized what she was doing. But that was a lie, and she knew it. She’d known. And she’d wanted. Badly. That was the problem. Being with Dylan went against everything she believed in, violated the life she’d built. And still, she’d given herself to him.