Ricochet (26 page)

“Cato would have told him. He would have told Trotter to wait in the study until I came downstairs, which was inevitable.”

“Cato kept you in bed so the alarm wouldn’t be set and Trotter could get in.”

“Doesn’t that sound plausible?”

It did, yes. He saw the hopefulness in her expression, and it tempted him to believe her. “Tell me why your husband wants you dead.”

“I can’t,” she said in an anguished whisper. “Not until I know, without doubt, that you believe me. Completely.”

“Then you’re shit out of luck.”

Before he could turn away, she placed her hands on his shoulders and moved in close. “You want to believe me.”

He reached up to remove her hands. “Don’t,” he said, but her hands stayed on his shoulders and his hands stayed on hers.

“I know you do.” She came up on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his, breathing against them. “Believe me, Duncan. Please.”

Groaning with anger and frustrated desire, he dropped his jacket and pistol to the floor and grabbed a handful of her hair. He yanked her head back. He might have released her and walked out if only she had returned his glare, if her eyes had held even a trace of triumph or defiance. Instead, they closed.

“Damn you,” he whispered. “Damn me.”

His mouth came down hard on hers. He pushed his tongue inside as his arm curved around her waist and drew her up flush against him. The feel of her body along his, her scent, the taste of her mouth all combined to snuff out the last flicker of conscience. Desire such as he’d never experienced pulsed through him.

She folded her arms around his neck and drove her fingers up through his hair. Her mouth was responsive, closing seductively around his tongue and making him crazy with wanting more of it, more of her, all of her.

He walked her backward until she was against the wall, then raised the hem of her tank top. There was nothing beneath it but Elise. He continued pulling up the tank until her arms were raised above her head, the shirt gathered on her forearms. He took both her wrists in one hand and held them pressed against the wall high above her head.

Later, he would regret that he hadn’t paused then to study her stretched torso, taken time to gaze at what he’d fantasized about since the first time he’d seen her at the awards dinner. He would regret that he didn’t treat his fingertips to the feel of her skin, that he didn’t touch her breasts or caress them with his mouth.

But at that moment, he was driven by a primal hunger to have her. He reached under her skirt and palmed her ass, encountering nothing but skin. Growling profanities, or maybe desperate prayers, he lifted her against him and carried her to the sofa.

As she stretched out along it, she pulled off her tank top and tossed it aside. Impatiently he shrugged off his shoulder holster and dropped it on the floor. He planted one knee on the sofa and raised her skirt as far as her waist. He dragged the thong panties down her legs and focused on the patch of soft hair between her thighs. His breathing was a harsh thrashing sound in the otherwise silent room as he grappled with belt buckle and zipper, then he pushed apart her thighs and thrust himself into her.

Sheathed by her, he sank his fingers into her hair and buried his face in the hollow of her neck. He took a precious few seconds to celebrate how damn good that alone felt, just to be inside her, surrounded by her, possessing her.

Then he started moving. His hard, deep strokes were born of frustration almost as much as passion. They drew from her small choppy sounds. Even if she was faking them, he didn’t care. He liked them. They urged him on.

Sliding his hands beneath her hips, he angled her up and held her in place as he thrust into her with escalating force, the tempo increasing, the friction growing hotter, until he shattered with pleasure. His climax was long and intense and left him replete.

He settled on her heavily, his breath sighing loudly, humid against her throat. He could have lain there forever, with her beneath him, in that state of blissful lethargy. But even before he had regained his breath, he levered himself up and tried to pull away.

“No.” She clutched at him. “No.”

Her body was taut. A shallow frown had formed between her brows. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was rapid. She wet her lips then rolled them inward.

Sliding her hands under his wet shirt, she dug her fingers into the sweat-slick flesh of his back. She mashed her pelvis against his in a gentle grind. The increased pressure caused her breath to catch. He forgot about leaving her, and instead bracketed her hips between his hands and nudged his body against hers. She murmured a low, wanting sound.

He rubbed himself against her while holding her hips even tighter against him. He felt the bite of her nails into his flesh. He made the slightest of rocking motions, but it was sufficient. More than enough. With a soft cry, her back arched off the sofa and her thighs squeezed his hips tightly. He felt her orgasm from the tip of his cock, buried deep inside her, to the back of his throat.

When it receded, she lay panting beneath him. A streetlight shone through the window, casting a shadow upon her breasts in the lace pattern of the tattered curtain. A tear rolled from the corner of her eye into the damp hair at her temple, where a vein pulsed. Her hair was a riot of pale silk behind her head. Her lips looked swollen and bruised.

He wanted very badly to lie with her. He wanted to kiss her, wetly but softly and gently. But that would send him to hell for sure. He’d lost his head and responded to a carnal impulse he could later blame on biology. But he would have no excuse for lingering tenderness. He was in full command of his faculties now, and the enormity of his folly crashed down on him.

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. Murmuring his name, she lifted her hand toward his cheek. Before she could touch him, he pulled away from her and stood up. Keeping his back to her, he readjusted his trousers and haphazardly buckled his belt. He left his shirttail out. He picked up his holster, but didn’t put it on.

He’d gone up against some of the most brutish criminals in Savannah’s history, but the most courageous thing he’d ever had to do was turn around and look at this woman.

To his relief, she had sat up. Her skirt was back in place. She hadn’t put on her tank top yet, but she was modestly holding it against her chest. That classically feminine, protective pose was seared into his brain for later recall, when remembering how vulnerable she had looked at that moment would cause his heart to ache.

But that was later.

Now, he walked as far as the hallway, where he bent to retrieve his sport jacket and service weapon from the floor. Over his shoulder he said, “Ten o’clock. Have your lawyer with you, and don’t be late.”

E
LISE AWOKE, SITTING BOLT UPRIGHT, GASPING FOR BREATH,
heart racing.

One second, she’d been in a deep sleep, the next it was as though an alarm had sounded loudly in her head, awakening her with a jolt. Frantically she looked around, and although she was surrounded by darkness, she remembered instantly where she was, and why, and what had happened.

When Duncan had walked out, she’d been so distraught, she’d wept until she cried herself to sleep. She’d
slept
? She, the chronic insomniac, had fallen into a dreamless sleep? For how long? Half an hour? Longer? Even as she pulled on her tank top, she tried to read her wristwatch, but it was too dark to see the hands. Cato! What would she tell him?

Sweat had dried on her skin, making it feel tight and dry. She wiped her cheeks and felt the salty tracks of tears. She groped along the floor for her underwear. As she stepped into the panties, she realized that she needed to bathe before she saw Cato.

She grabbed her handbag and within seconds of waking up was feeling her way through the dark house, moving as quickly as possible. She must get home ahead of Cato. Otherwise how would she explain her absence? How would she explain her appearance?

There was only one explanation for that. If he looked at her, he would know instantly what she’d done.

God, please let him still be playing cards.

Whatever his mood, she must deal with it. Since Duncan had made plain his intention to follow through with his investigation, she had no choice now except to continue the pretense with Cato that their relationship was one of matrimonial bliss.

She let herself out the back door through which she had come in. The yard was a hardscrabble landscape of wild grass and weeds that chafed her bare legs as she crossed it in a run.

A gate in the cyclone fence at the back of the yard opened into the alley. It was a rutted, unpaved path lined with garbage cans and the detritus of an uncaring community — rusted-out appliances, old tires, discarded furniture, toys, tools, and trash.

The route back to where she’d left her car led her between the two houses that backed up to the one that Duncan had described as Boo Radley’s house. He didn’t know it, but
To Kill a Mockingbird
was one of her favorite movies. When she was a kid, she had watched it every time it came on TV. She’d probably seen every movie ever aired on television. Comedies, dramas, mysteries, she loved them all. They had been her escape from the grim reality of her life.

This neighborhood boasted several Boo Radley houses. The ones on either side of her were dark, nothing to indicate that she was being watched from behind shuttered windows. But just when she thought she would get past undetected, a cat jumped out from a scrawny hedge, causing her heart to leap. The cat hissed and bowed his back, then darted back into the shrubbery.

Her car was parked halfway down the block. She was relieved to see that none of the windows had been smashed and that the hubcaps were still there. Having her car vandalized would have been tough to explain to Cato.

Passing under a streetlight, she checked her wristwatch again, and when she saw the time, she almost stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. She’d been asleep for hours!

Frantic with anxiety, she dug into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. If it had rung, it hadn’t awakened her. She looked at the readout. Good! No missed calls had been logged.

When Cato had announced his plan to go to the country club, she had told him she was going to take a sleep medication and hopefully get some rest in preparation for the interrogation in the morning. At the risk of disturbing her much-needed sleep, he had said he wouldn’t call.

Well, at least he hadn’t called her cell phone. But he might have called the house.

She considered calling his cell phone to see where he was. If she caught him still at the club, she could say she was just checking on him. But if he was at home, he would demand to know why she wasn’t there, tucked in safe and sound. He would want to know what she was doing out at this hour when she was supposed to be enjoying a medicated sleep. Then what? What would she tell him?

No, better not to call than to risk being put on the spot like that. Her best chance of not being found out was to get home ahead of him. Toward that end, she jogged the remaining distance to her car.

She unlocked it with the remote. It chirped and her headlights flashed once, momentarily relieving the darkness along the deserted street, and reminding her of the strobe lights that had been pulsing during her most recent meeting with Savich.

She opened the car door, tossed her handbag into the passenger seat, and slid in behind the wheel. She hit the automatic lock button as soon as she had closed the door, then quickly started the car and drove away.

Best-case scenario: Cato was still at the club and had done as he said he would and left her to sleep undisturbed. He had played cards into the wee hours last Saturday. Perhaps he had again tonight.
Hopefully
he had.

A slightly more bothersome scenario: He was still at the club, but had been calling the house to check on her. If that was the case, she could explain that she’d taken two tablets of over-the-counter medication. Stronger than she thought, the sleep aid had knocked her out and she’d slept through his calls.

Worst-case scenario: Cato was at home angrily awaiting her return.

To explain her absence, she could say that despite the sleep aid, her insomnia had been so bad she’d gone out for a drive. That was lame, but at least credible.

But how would she explain the unmistakable signs of lovemaking? Duncan hadn’t been gentle. Neither had she.

“I don’t believe we get to choose who we fall in love with. Do you?”

He hadn’t said anything in response to her question. He hadn’t needed to. His expression had told her what she’d needed to know. What she already knew.

Once triggered, his passion had been explosive and mindless. It had left marks. Unless she was able to make repairs before she saw Cato, he would surely notice her tangled hair and wrinkled skirt, the whisker burns around her lips.

Checking to see if the abrasion was as visible as it felt, she glanced into the rearview mirror.

A face grinned at her from the backseat.

She cried out in shock and fear, and reflexively stamped hard on the brake pedal.

“Mrs. Laird. We’ve never actually met. Allow me to introduce myself.” With a flourish, the man proffered a business card, holding it between his index and middle fingers. “Meyer Napoli.”

After leaving Elise, Duncan had driven around aimlessly for a while. In search of what, he couldn’t say. Redemption, perhaps.

But it wasn’t going to be found driving the streets of the city, or in a bar, or the gym, or a movie theater, all of which he considered. He ended up at the Barracks.

Only one other detective was in the VCU. When Duncan came in, the officer made a joke of the late hours they were keeping. Duncan said something suitable in reply, then went into his office and closed the door, signaling that he didn’t want conversation.

In the back of his mind, he supposed he was thinking that if he was working on the case — actually seated at his desk reviewing the contents of the case file — then he could rationalize his private meeting with Elise.