No In Between (16 page)

“Good. Just call me as soon as you get to her apartment.”

“Of course.” He runs his hand down my hair. “I don’t think you’ll see Mark today. My understanding is they called him in for last minute questioning this morning, but text me if he shows up.” His voice lowers, roughens, and he tugs me to my feet. “Just remember. You’re mine, baby, and I protect what’s mine. I won’t let anyone hurt you in any way.” He kisses my forehead and leaves.

• • •

Thirty minutes later I’m on pins and needles waiting to hear from Chris, but I’ve managed to be productive, sorting files and righting papers that are an absolute mess. How can the police justify leaving the gallery’s records like this? I’m about to head to Ralph’s office again when I hear the exterior door open.

Hoping for news, I reach my doorway just as Mark stops in front of me. We are toe-to-toe, a lean away from touching, and I am captured by those icy gray eyes. For several moments I can’t breathe, and he knows it. I see it in the narrowing of his eyes, the hint of satisfaction that tells me he misreads my reaction as something it is not—and never will be.

Jolted back to sanity, I step backward.

“My office, Ms. McMillan,” he snaps, and leaves me staring after him.

My shoulders slump. So much for not seeing him today. My fist balls at my chest, where my stupid heart is racing. I hate that he can still do this to me; that any man can do this to me.

Mark hits the same hot spots that Michael and my father do, both of whom are very much on my mind today. I respond to him more out of conditioning than by free will, like I do with Chris.

I walk down the hallway toward Mark’s office with trepidation, replaying his words from yesterday.
You remind me of her.
It’s rather ironic, how I remind him of his past, and he of mine.

Entering his office, I find him leaning against the front of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the powerful, unapproachable “King.”

“Shut the door,” he orders.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“
The door,
Ms. McMillan.”

I hesitate, but my worry for Ralph’s uncanny ability to overhear things wins. I shut the door, and hope it’s not a mistake.

Sixteen

Mark’s spacious office shrinks the instant I’m sealed inside with him. His energy and power radiate through the room, a sharp, familiar sensation that I now realize always stirs a bit of my past, and my defenses with it.

“Why are you and Ralph still here?” he demands.

I force myself to stand my ground. “Ralph can’t do the reports you want from home. I’m helping him since Amanda was a no-show today.”

“Jacob told me about that.”

I wait for him to express concern or offer a game plan or explanation, but he just gives me silence. “It’s not like her to not show up. Chris went to check on her.”

“I made sure she won’t be given entry into the club, should Ryan choose to take her there.”

“Did you talk to Ryan?” I ask hopefully.

“I told you, Ms. McMillan; it’s not in my or Ryan’s best interest for me to communicate with him at present.”

I bite back a snarky remark that would only lead me into a battle I won’t win, opting for an information dig instead. “You think he’s involved in Rebecca’s disappearance, don’t you?”

“You asked that yesterday.”

“That’s right,” I agree, “and I’m asking again.”

“You really don’t know your limits, do you, Ms. McMillan?”

“I most certainly do,” I say, my sureness returning, my hands finding my hips. “It’s yours I’m pushing. You said Ryan knew that Rebecca returned to San Francisco.”

“Correct.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Correct again.”

My mood softens again with the certainty that this is a betrayal of friendship to Mark. “Could he have thought it was a difficult subject for you?”

“I don’t allow Ryan to know what difficult means for me.”

“You call him a friend.”

“A socially acceptable term, better described as a business acquaintance.”

“But one you trust,” I counter.

“
Trusted
. Past tense.” He changes the subject. “I understand Ricco paid you a visit last night.”

“He showed up at the restaurant and cornered me by the restroom door.”

“And he did this why?”

“To warn me away from you.”

His lips twist wryly. “At least he and I agree on something.”

I ignore the reference to our conversation yesterday and push forward with what’s important. “He hates you, and he thinks you killed Rebecca. That spells dangerous to me, especially when you consider he threw away more than most people have in a lifetime to try to ruin you.”

He arches a brow. “Worried about me, Ms. McMillan?”

“Yes, Mark, I’m worried about you,” I say, refusing to be baited. “And I know you and Chris have had issues, but he’s worried, too.”

“Issues,” he repeats flatly. “Are you referencing his warning to Rebecca to stay away from me? Or mine to you, to stay away from him? Or perhaps the ‘issues’ lie in the way he left you alone and miserable, and I tried to fuck you to your senses.”

If he intends to shock me, which I’m certain he does, he fails. I cross my arms and level him with a frosty look. “What is it with you being crass all of a sudden?”

“I wasn’t aware you had such delicate sensibilities. I’d have thought Chris would have remedied that by now. I certainly would have.”

My hands go back to my hips. “Stop it, Mark.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what Rebecca said to Chris. We see how well that worked out for her.”

“That’s enough,” I snap, and it’s all I can do not to say more, to remember he’s hurting and motivated by who knows what emotion. “Ricco accused you of setting him up. If that’s what he’s saying to me, that has to be what he’s using as a defense to the police.”

“Not a very subtle change of subject, Ms. McMillan. But then, subtlety isn’t exactly your strong point. Tiger told me about the accusations and they aren’t surprising. Ricco’s entire objective is to ruin me and he has deep-enough pockets to make a valiant effort. Do I care? No. Ricco Alvarez is the last thing on my mind right now.”

Though his expression and tone are as unreadable as ever, there’s an unspoken message in his words. Nothing Ricco can do to him comes close to what losing Rebecca has, or what fearing for his mother is doing to him now. “When do you go back to New York?”

“I’m flying back this evening to attempt to head off any bad press that might land on Riptide’s doorstep today.”

“I warned Crystal about today’s events and the potential media frenzy to follow. I didn’t want to risk her being surprised and walking out on you.”

The ice is back in his impenetrable gray eyes. “Go help Ralph finish the reports and then leave, Ms. McMillan.”

I’m stunned by the sharply spoken dismissal. “But—”

“Don’t argue, Ms. McMillan.”

I want to, but he’s stone now, and I might as well have already left the room. I turn on my heel and go to the door, before I do something insane like try to shake some sense into the man.

“Ms. McMillan.”

My hand freezes on the knob in a déjà vu moment. This is reminiscent of the many times in the past when Mark sent me fleeing his office in a mess of mixed emotions, only to stop me to land one final blow. I pause, holding my breath with the expectation this one will rock my world, as he always intends.

“Chris and I are far more alike than you think,” he says, repeating what Chris himself has said to me on more than one occasion. “Rebecca held on too long. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Anger begins to burn through me, fiery and hot. Afraid of what I might say, I yank open the door and exit into the hallway. I am not Rebecca, and Chris isn’t Mark. I refuse to let him mess with my head.

My pace and my erratic heartbeat don’t slow until I’m in my office, behind the desk. I stare at the painting of the roses that’s so much a part of who Rebecca and Mark were together, and I can’t help but think of the roses on my wedding band.

My cell phone beeps with a text, and I grab it to read the message from Chris.
She’s not home. I’m on my way to Ryan’s.

It’s not the news I’d hoped for, but expected. Knowing what I have to do, and dreading his reaction, I type,
Mark’s here.

It takes about three seconds for my phone to ring. “I knew I chose that dress for a reason,” Chris says, and while it’s spoken playfully, there’s an undercurrent of tension.

“He’s more overbearingly impossible than usual,” I tell him, “and as eager to get me and Ralph out of here as we are. I dared to ask him about Ryan and he shut me down, of course.”

“Well, I’m no fan of his silence, or Ryan’s timing with Amanda. If we can get her out of the center of this, I think that’s smart. I’ll be at Ryan’s office in about fifteen minutes.”

“What about his apartment?”

“I bribed the doorman into telling me Ryan left hours ago, and he was alone.”

“That’s not good. Where’s Amanda?”

“I’m hoping he can tell us. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. In the meantime, stay away from Mark.” While I don’t regret returning to the gallery, since it still feels like the window to finding Rebecca, I’m ready to leave.

I make a coffee run to the break room and catch a glimpse of Ralph disappearing into the gallery with Jacob on his heels. Frowning, I set my coffee on my desk, grab my cell phone, and head to the showroom to find it empty. The sound of voices draws me toward the front door and I see Ralph and Jacob standing outside, their backs to me. Crossing the display floor, I push open the door to find two of Blake’s men flanking the entry. I start toward Ralph and Jacob’s direction, only to stop dead in my tracks when I realize who’s with them.

Seventeen

“There she is,” Detective Grant says, looking far from courtroom ready with a two-day beard and a navy blazer he’s paired with jeans and a loosened tie. “Just the woman I was hoping to talk to. Your bodyguard here said you weren’t available.”

“She’s not,” Jacob snaps tightly, his spine ramrod straight, his jaw set hard. “Go back inside, Ms. McMillan.”

“Yes,” the detective agrees. “Go back inside, Ms. McMillan. I’ll chat with Ralph.”

The look of utter terror on Ralph’s face tells me how direly he needs saving, and I squeeze his arm. “Go finish your reports.”

“He’s already agreed to talk to me,” Detective Grant insists.

Irritated at the way this man throws around his power, my gaze snaps to his. “Schedule a meeting so he can have an attorney present.”

“I need an attorney?” Ralph exclaims. “Since when do I need an attorney? I barely knew Rebecca. I liked her, though. I really liked her.”

Oh, crap. “Relax, Ralph,” I say quickly, stepping in front of him, my hands coming down on his upper arms. “Don’t overreact. It’s just a precaution. You’re fine.”

“You’re not a suspect,” Detective Grant assures him from behind me. “I just want to talk to you about this.”

Certain that I don’t want to know what “this” is, I turn to find him holding a book. My stomach plummets as I recognize it as my journal.

“What is it?” Ralph asks.

“Sara’s journal,” Detective Grant answers, his hard stare boring into mine. “Interesting that you started one at the same time you were reading Rebecca’s. It’s really quite interesting reading. Deep thoughts, Ms. McMillan. For instance,” he pauses, and flips it open to a flagged page, “right here where you say that Mark—”

“I’ll talk to you,” I interrupt, all too aware that I’ve referenced intimate details about his relationship with Rebecca. “But I need to call my attorney first.”

“No time for that,” the detective counters. “He’s at the courthouse where I need to be in,” he glances at his watch, “an hour. In fact, let’s save time and the three of us can talk right here.” He glances at Ralph. “Sara wrote a note I’d like to get your opinion on.” He glances down at the page. “It says, and I quote,
‘If there is a fine line between love and hate, where did Mark walk
then and now?’
” His gaze lifts from the journal. “My question to you, Ralph, is in your observations—”

“Enough,” I snap, in disbelief he’s gone as far as he has with my private property, and wishing I knew my rights. “I’ll talk to you.”

“Ms. McMillan—” Jacob begins.

“I’m fine,” I assure him, knowing he will call either David or Chris, or maybe both. I just need to get the detective and that journal away from Ralph and then buy time until the cavalry arrive. I cut Ralph a look, and instruct, “Go back inside, please.”

“We’re through, Ralph,” the detective adds.

“I don’t have to be told twice,” Ralph mutters, already backing up and moving away.

“So here we are,” Detective Grant says, rocking on his heels, and giving Jacob a judicious once-over that thins his lips. “Let’s walk next door to the coffee shop, Ms. McMillan. We need privacy.”

“The coffee shop?” I say in disbelief. “You
want to go
to the coffee shop?”

“Yes, I do. What better place to jog your memories of the past?” He motions me forward and I take a step, only to have Jacob grab my arm and warn, “Don’t do this.”

“I’m okay.”

“I’m sure Mr. Merit won’t agree,” he argues.

“No,” I concede. “I’m sure he won’t, but I’m still doing it.”

His jaw clenches and unclenches and he releases me, stepping to my side. “I’m going with you.”

“I talk to you alone, Ms. McMillan,” Detective Grant replies, as if I’m the one who made the declaration that Jacob is along for the trip, “or we bring Ralph back out to talk.”

My blood boils with the threat, but there’s no room to argue. I turn my attention to Jacob. “I won’t let Ralph be harassed over me. Stay here, please.”

“I’ll wait outside the coffee shop.”

“Fine with me,” Detective Grant says, and we start walking into a gust of bitterly cold November wind.

Hugging myself, I feel exposed to far more than the cold air. When Jacob steps away from me to open the shop door, I’m unnaturally chilled to the bone. “I’ll be right here,” he assures me.

“Thank you.” I intend to rush into the shelter of warm walls, but somehow my feet are planted and I’m sinking in the quicksand of memories. Ava’s smiling face, her laughter, her funny comments about Chris and Mark. Her raging anger when she’d held that gun on me and fully intended to kill me. I know she had. I’d seen it in her eyes.

“Problem, Ms. McMillan?” Detective Grant asks and something in his tone hits a raw, angry nerve.

My attention snaps to him and I shove Ava back into that hellhole I reserve for all the crap in my life. “You know very well there’s a problem, and what it is. And you, Detective Grant, are a familiar breed of manipulator. Very familiar.” I lift my chin and walk inside.

Passing the many displays of coffee and mugs, my nostrils flare with the rich, nutty scent of coffee brewing. I’d once eagerly inhaled and savored this scent in the past; today it burns my nose and throat, and turns my stomach.

Pausing to scan the dozen rather packed tables for a vacancy, my gaze settles on the counter, where an unfamiliar man with longish dark hair and heavily tattooed arms rings up a customer.

“Ava’s husband, Raphael,” Detective Grant supplies, stepping to my side. “The rock band he plays in calls him Raf, I believe.”

“Ava’s husband?” I ask, surprised. While good-looking in the rocker bad boy kind of way, he’s far from what I’d imagine for the refined beauty. He’s Mark’s polar opposite.

“Estranged husband, I guess you’d call him.”

“I thought he owned a bar?”

“He does but he plays in a band, too. And now it seems he owns a coffee shop.” He motions to a table. “Let’s sit. I don’t have time for coffee.”

Glad to get this over with, I follow the detective to the table and claim the seat by the wall. Feeling like I’m being watched, I look around and am locked in the beam of Raf’s stare, and choking with the unpleasant sensation of being naked.

Detective Grant slaps the journal down on the table and I nearly jump out of my seat. “Let’s talk,” he says, and now I’m stuck in
his
probing, always judgmental, stare.

“Should we do a read-along of your opinions of Mark Compton?” he asks. “Or do you care to simply share them with me?”

Angry with him all over again, I set my cell phone in my lap, and lace my fingers together on top of the table. “Why share them if you read them?” I challenge. “And is it even legal for you to show my personal items to Ralph?”

“Feel free to use all that money your boyfriend has and sue me, and I guess we’ll find out.”

“My rich boyfriend? Are you
trying
to alienate me, or is being a jerk so natural for you that you simply can’t help yourself?”

He chuckles. “Oh, Ms. McMillan. I think I see why all these men find you so appealing.”

“All these men?” I demand. “I’m with Chris, and only Chris. And for the record, Detective, you’re living up to my manipulation expectations. Even that comment was meant to lure me into saying something I’m not going to say.”

Unfazed, he taps my journal. “Let’s talk about Mark.”

“He’s not guilty of anything but loving Rebecca,” I say before I can stop myself.

“There’s a fine line between love and hate. You wrote that yourself.”

“Because Ricco Alvarez said that to me. He’s the one to be worried about. He loved her, too, and he was insanely jealous over Mark.” I lean back. “That’s all I’m saying. I’m done.”

“This isn’t about you or Chris Merit. I’ve cleared you both.”

“You have?”

“Yes. You both have rock-solid alibis.” He leans forward. “I need to find Rebecca, Ms. McMillan. Help me.”

“I want to, but I can’t help you without my attorney present.”

“I told you I’ve cleared you.”

“I know, but you think Mark is guilty. And I’m not helping you convict an innocent man.”

“How can you be sure he’s innocent?”

My phone vibrates and I know who it is before I even glance at the caller ID and see Chris’s number. Knowing he’ll be worried, I hold up a finger and say, “Give me one minute, please.”

He leans back in his seat. “By all means. Take your time. The only place I have to be is in court to testify against your attacker.”

The snide remark makes me ignore my phone call. “My attacker is exactly right—yet you insist on meeting here, at her coffee shop? No one looking out for my well-being would do that.”

“Just because you don’t understand my reasoning, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense.”

“Just because you think you’re a hero, doesn’t mean you’re not a jerk.” My phone starts ringing again and I hit Ignore, but I don’t put the phone down. I punch the auto-dial Chris programmed for David.

“Ms. McMillan,” Detective Grant begins, just as David answers the call with, “What the fuck is going on, Sara? Chris just called and told me you’re with Detective Grant.”

“That’s why I’m calling. He’s right. I’m with Detective Grant right now.”

“You
only
talk to him when you’re with me. No other time. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“He threatened to show my personal journal to Ralph if I didn’t go with him—”

“What journal, and go where?”

“Notes I took on people Rebecca knew. He acquired my journal at the gallery during yesterday’s search. And he took me to the coffee shop.”

“The coffee shop that’s owned by the woman who tried to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“Put that lousy piece of shit on the phone.”

I hold out my cell phone to Detective Grant, who looks amused rather than irritated. “Smart lady. I’m impressed, Ms. McMillan.” He puts the cell to his ear and says, “Hello, David.” There are several moments of silence before he chides, “Calm down. I’m aware of all of that.”

They begin going back and forth, and I can’t make heads or tails out of who is winning what battle. Afraid the detective is getting a little too loud, my gaze lifts and lands on the counter again. Frowning, I watch Corey, the college-aged kid who’s worked here as long as I’ve been around, and Raf in a deep, animated conversation. Corey seems to be getting more agitated, swiping his hands around to make his point. Raf holds up his palms stop-sign fashion, as if trying to calm the kid down.

The detective nudges me and hands me the phone back. “Your turn.”

Reluctantly, I drag my attention from the counter and accept the phone. Detective Grant glances over his shoulder, immediately moving his chair to the side of the table where he can observe the action.

The moment I speak, David launches into a rant. “I’m not sure what kind of Jack and Jill trip he thought he was taking you on, but get up and leave. He snuck over there and pulled that shit knowing I was here. He won’t be showing your journal to anyone.” It’s hard for me to believe that, after my conversation with the detective, but I’m not going to argue. David doesn’t give me time to anyway. “Text me when he’s gone or if there’s a problem. I won’t be able to take the call unless it’s critical.”

“Yes. I will.”

“Good. Now get up and leave. Oh, and you did good calling me, babe. Kudos, sister.”

Babe and kudos, sister.
I almost laugh. Really, what else can I do at this point? It’s like I’m living in a soap opera with really bad writers. I stand up and the detective follows me. “I’m sure you know I can’t talk,” I tell him.

“We’ll talk,” he assures me. “Maybe not now, but we’ll talk.”

A loud crash thunders from the counter, and suddenly Raf is on top of it with Corey straddling him. Raf manages to kick him away, and the next thing I know, they’re both tumbling behind the displays.

“Well, well,” Detective Grant murmurs, “isn’t that interesting. I was hoping our little meeting would stir up some sort of reaction, but this is even better than I hoped for. I might be a jerk, Ms. McMillan, but I’m a calculating jerk. Sometimes you have to put flames under a pot to make it boil.

“And just so you know, Ava will likely get out on bail, but I’ll get you your restraining order and I’ll get you a conviction. I’ll be in touch.”

He dashes toward the counter and I stand there stunned, watching as he climbs over the counter and throws himself into the scuffle. He grabs Raf and Corey hits him, and I dart for the door for help, bursting through the exit for Jacob.

“Fight,” I pant. “There’s a fight inside and the detective needs help.”

Jacob curses and opens the door. He takes one glance inside and grabs the walkie-talkie on his belt. “Kelvin, I need backup. Come get Sara now.” Then to me: “He’s two blocks away. Don’t move.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

He enters the coffee shop and I turn to watch for Kelvin, whom I’ve met before and trust, only to discover instead that I’m staring into the eyes of the worst mistake of my life. “Michael.”