No One Left to Tell (11 page)

Gripping her gun in one hand, Raven splayed the fingers of her other along the wall and groped for the light switch. Eyes straining through the darkness, she hunted for any sign of movement. Her heart punished her rib cage, apprehension surging in her throat. She finally found the lights to the left of the front door, then paused. Once she flipped the switch, her eyes would take time to adjust, but she'd see more clearly. Unfortunately, so would the intruder. Her only advantage had been the element of surprise. With the room deathly quiet, she'd lost her edge.

She hesitated. Instinct signaled her to stop, to hold off on the lights. The emptiness of the room possessed its own sound. She sensed the trespasser's presence in the air, heavy like an oppressive fog. But something else lingered.

What was that smell? A scent washed over her, one she'd missed before. Her anxiety level morphed as the familiar tang touched her awareness. And the thrashing of her heart slowed—replacing fear with anger.

"You'd better have a real good reason for being here. You could've been shot." Her voice echoed in the darkness. She loosened the tension in her muscles but kept the gun ready in case she was wrong.

Silence. Her fingers tightened on her weapon. Had she been mistaken? Eventually, the faint rustle of material sounded from the study, followed by quiet footsteps on a wooden floor.

"How did you know I was here?" In the dark, the intimacy of the deep voice sent shivers across her skin.

Feeling along the bank of electrical switches, she turned the dimmer knob to slowly illuminate the room. The man walked carefully from the study to her right, hands raised shoulder-high. Dressed in jeans and a black sweater, Christian Delacorte still wore a brown leather bomber jacket and black gloves—a sign he hadn't been here long.

"Was I that loud?" he asked, his tone unfettered by contrition.

Raven had no intention of telling him her secret. Otherwise, he might stop wearing the cologne that teased her senses with a hint of his sensuality.

"Maybe you're not the only one that can see in the dark, Delacorte. A woman's got to have some element of mystery." Setting her jaw, she demanded, "How did you get in here?"

"That's my little mystery."

"Not good enough, Austin Powers." She didn't care whether he got the cheesy movie reference. Her tongue was on automatic pilot.

His eyes remained steadfast on hers until they dropped to the weapon she still aimed at his chest. To make a point, she continued the threatening gesture. By the expression on his face, Delacorte looked far too confident for a man in his position. Raven decided it was time for him to learn the error of his ways.

"Turn around. Hands on the wall, assume the position." Her voice stern, she jutted her chin and held firm to her .38, showing she meant business.

His jaw dropped. "You've got to be kidding." Delacorte stood his ground, hands still chest-high.

"I rarely kid with a gun in my hand. Now turn around. Up against the wall and spread 'em." She scowled. "Just be thankful I'm in a good mood."

Gloved hands placed head-high against the wall, he leaned and spread his legs. As she expected, the move had been well worth her time. Glancing down to admire the cut of his jeans, she wrestled with a smile.

He sighed and dropped his head. "Yeah. Counting my lucky stars. Now what are you—" He gasped when she answered his question with an abrupt move.

Stepping closer, she raised his sweater, sliding cold fingers across his bare chest, dawdling along the soft curls of hair spread along his pectorals and down his stomach. The warm skin of his taut belly sent a rush of heat to her face.

"Ah. Watch it." He jolted at her touch; his voice cracked faintly. "Your hands are cold."

"Just don't move. I'm not done." Raven fought to keep the mischief from her voice. She retrieved the Glock from his leather holster inside his jacket. Slipping his gun into a pocket of her sweats, she leaned nearer his ear. "Nice piece."

Rolling his head back, without turning around, he exercised his right to sarcasm. "You talking about the weapon?"

"Oh, yeah. That, too."

Sliding a hand down one thigh, then up his hamstring, she took her time with both legs, dawdling at the small of his back. He never voiced an objection, but fidgeted and huffed as she took liberties with the search.

At first, Raven had launched into the arrest procedure without thinking, hoping to impress her authority on him. It should've been an automatic motion. She'd done it countless times. Reaching under his sweater hadn't exactly been an approved search method. She'd improvised that twist to get his attention, keep him off-balance.

But with Delacorte, the act felt intimate and sensual, as if she'd exploited him and taken unfair advantage. Her intention to drag out his lesson in humility backfired, hitting her squarely between the eyes. Now blood scurried to her face.

To his credit, he stood his ground, subjugating himself to her abuse of authority until—

"I'm not well-versed in the arrest process, never having gone through it myself, but aren't you taking a little too much time for the pat down?" he asked.

"You complaining?" The flirtatious retort caught her by surprise.

With the men she worked with, a snappy comeback was a requirement of the job. But with Christian, the remark sounded brash. No doubt, dealing with the scum of Chicago had hardened her. Uncertain how to tap into her femininity, she desperately wished for a softer, feminine side to surface.

Reality check!
Frisking a man at gunpoint would tend to inhibit her womanliness. Granted, the move got the guy's attention, breaking the ice of etiquette, but it lacked subtlety. She closed her eyes for an instant, wondering about her sanity. Maybe she could blame Delacorte. Ever since she'd met him, her world had taken a tumble.

Now her cheeks burned. She waited for his reaction to her reckless comeback.
You complaining?
Her taunt replayed fresh in her mind, making her cringe to think what he'd say-It took him a moment to answer. Then he shook his head and stifled a grin. Looking over his shoulder, he found her eyes.

"No. No, I'm not."

His smile knocked the wind out of her. A sucker punch to the gut, followed by an uppercut inflicted by his dark green eyes. His usually serious expression warmed, softened with humor.
Hell, why did he have to smell so damned good?
Raven needed to regain control, shift it back to business as usual. Since she'd initiated the detour, it was up to her to get it done.

Stepping back, she wiped the grin from her face. "Now turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."

Tilting his head, he kept his hands raised. "Don't you think this is a little over the top? Even for you?"

Her gun leveled to his chest, she held her position, then slowly dropped her arms, gun at her side. "Is this what you call the spirit of cooperation? I could arrest you, except you'd probably get a perverse enjoyment from the handcuffs."

He lowered his hands. His expression held no remorse for the break-in. Quite the contrary. A hint of amusement spread across his face for an instant, then faded.

"You've caught me red-handed. Nothing to say in my defense. I'm throwing myself on your mercy." With audacity in his eyes, he added, "If you have any."

"Nice apology. You sound like a politician caught with his pants down," she quipped, glaring at him.

"I figure if it works for the Oval Office, no sense completely reinventing the spiel," he replied without hesitation. Leaning against the door jamb of the study, he folded his arms over his chest in defiance. "What? Do I lack sincerity?"

"No, I'd say you're full of it." She stepped closer and raised an eyebrow. "You trying to charm me into forgetting about your little break-in?"

"No, just keeping up my end of the conversation." His interest in the debate waned, his somber expression reappearing. "We could banter all night. Even as entertaining as that might be, I have another idea."

"Oh, this I gotta hear. You know, this isn't the world of high finance with the Dunhill Corporation. You can't just negotiate your way out of—"

He interrupted her. "I'd like to propose a truce. Just for an hour or so. We can cover more ground if we work together. Since neither of us is big on sharing, let's ditch the spirit-of-cooperation bullshit. You're the one who wanted the cards on the table, so here's my compromise."

"You're in no position to negotiate anything, studly."

His eyes never wavered. He stepped toward her and closed the gap of her comfort zone.

"Come on. You came here for a reason. You don't want to hassle with my arrest. That'd just make for a very long evening for both of us." He stared at her, waiting for an acknowledgment she wasn't about to give so easily. So he forged ahead, "If we work together, and you drop the arrest talk, whatever we find tonight, we share. Deal?" Removing a glove, he extended his hand to seal the agreement.

Now he'd turned into Mr. Handshake!
He'd turned the tables of getting caught in the act to one of mutual collaboration.
Well, no way, buster!
Yet after considering the words he'd chosen about "dropping the arrest talk," she wasn't exactly assuring him she wouldn't arrest him at all. It only meant she'd stop talking about it. If it came to snapping on the cuffs, she hoped he'd appreciate the subtle distinction.

"So where's the compromise, Delacorte? Sounds pretty one-sided to me."

"I had the displeasure of knowing Mickey. Can you say the same?" he challenged. When she found herself mute on the subject, he continued, "And I know computers. While you search the other rooms, I can—"

"Oh, no. I've got a specialized forensics team coming in here tomorrow to seize Blair's computer. You're not messing with my chain of custody report for any evidence found on his PC. If we come up with something of interest, I'll consider making a call to you." She glared at him, enjoying her advantage. "You haven't exactly given me a warm and fuzzy in the trust department."

Mr. Subtle let his guard down enough for her to see his resentment. His main purpose for the late-night home invasion had undoubtedly been centered on Blair's computer. Given his background, it was one of his specialties. With that not an option, she figured his "spirit of cooperation" would be in the dumper.

Raven was ready to slam the door shut on him, kicking him out on his delectable ear. But she saw this confrontation as an opportunity, one she couldn't pass up.

"Tell me why you came here. And not something I already know."

With his head down, Christian took a deep breath, deliberating her demand. Walking by her, he finally raised his chin and faced the living area with hands on his hips. She waited for his answer.

With barely a glance over his shoulder, he spoke. "I think your instincts on Mickey's lifestyle were dead-on. He subsidized his income. His closet is filled with designer duds—Armani, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana. And I can't explain it. As head of security, I know his salary. And by tomorrow, you will, too."

Turning to face her, he reluctantly continued, "We should be looking for a sniper rifle. Knowing Mickey and his field of expertise, that'd be my guess. It would be his style. But who hired him and for what purpose, I have no idea."

He hesitated for an instant, then added, "Neither does Fiona. She's in the dark about Mickey's time outside of work. I just spoke to her at home before I came here."

At first, his revelation pleased her. Christian admitted much more than she expected. Maybe this little chat had been worth the effort. She believed Mickey Blair to be a strong arm for the Dunhills, but a freelance assassin? Delacorte claimed to be unaware of Mickey's extracurricular activities—but was he? Doubt crept into her speculation. If Raven remained objective, she must consider that Christian had just tossed a red herring into the murder investigation. Even if she wanted to believe him, Fiona Dunhill herself may have kept secrets from Delacorte.
But why?

His voice pulled her back. "Now you. Tell me something about this investigation I don't already know." His eyes were demanding yet skeptical.

Turnabout was fair play. But had he been honest with her? She'd expected full disclosure from him; now it was her turn for a sign of good faith. What would she offer? Once again, she trusted her gut instincts regarding the man standing before her. She looked him directly in the eye, to emphasize the risk she took.

"After your little stunt here tonight, I don't owe you anything." After she'd captured his full attention, she began. "But I will offer this. You already know Mickey's throat was cut. But there were bruises on his body. We suspect paintball pellets caused the marks." She let the theory register with him. His eyes fogged in reflection.

"Paintball? Why wasn't there any paint on his clothes? In the photos?" he questioned.

His surprise appeared genuine. But the man had been insufferably observant. A good quality, if Christian were a solid member of her team. Yet given his past, the man would not change sides so easily. She had to consider him the enemy, or at the very least, a hostile participant.

A part of her remained guarded, so she lied. "We don't know what the substance was inside the pellets. All we know is that it wasn't paint."

"Guess now I understand why I'm top of your hit parade," he grimaced, with a slight shake to his head.

"Let's not use the word 'hit' in this place. Shall we? Gives me the willies." She smiled, then gestured toward the door. "Come on. I've had enough entertainment for one night. Give a girl some privacy while she pilfers, willya?"

Opening the front door, she made a sweeping gesture with her arm to show him the way out. Once he stepped across the threshold, he turned to ask, "My gun?"

With a sly look, she hesitated, making him wonder what she'd do. Then she reached into the pocket of her sweats and handed him the Glock.

"I shouldn't have to say this, but maybe you need things spelled out. Yellow tape across the door means stay out, police business. Am I making myself clear?" Before he shared his sarcastic wit, Raven beat him to the punch, "Wait for an invitation before you invite yourself to my party."