Cupid (6 page)

Diana didn’t have a hold on too much of what was going on.

All she knew was that Asher Bishop would be her undoing.

“
M
rs. Carson has been picked
up. We’ve arrived at The Cove rooftop’s landing platform,” Asher’s pilot said into his phone. “I escorted her onto the elevator. She is now heading your way and will arrive within one minute.”

“Thank you.” Asher placed his cell into his back pocket, stood on the restaurant’s balcony, and stared at the breathtaking view in front of him.

The Cove was a restaurant that sat inside a small bay, sheltered from regular people. Only the affluent dined there, and one could only get to it by yacht or helicopter due to the narrow, restricted water entrance that lay miles outside of Miami.

Time to have fun.

From the balcony, he gazed at Ovid Island far off in the distance.

The poet Ovid, himself, would have been inspired by the view and written even more poems about abandoned heroines and absent lovers.

Moonlight painted the ocean’s rippling surface in sharp, white lines that seemed to cut into its watery flesh. Stars buttoned to the sky and sparkled. A romantic perfume filled the air, something haunting like Diana’s scent—roses and ocean.

He inhaled and considered the smell.

I’m being crazy. Her scent can’t already be here. She hasn’t appeared yet.

After meeting her, face-to-face, those lips and that scent had passed in his mind a few times. It did odd things to his body, made him want to shut his eyes for a few seconds and relish in the daydream.

But it was just for fun, something wicked to do in-between business meetings and his mother’s angry rants that afternoon. Nothing more would come with Mrs. Carson. And he believed the little daydreaming about her was completely normal.

Everything is under control. Diana will be nothing more than my avatar in the months to come.

It didn’t matter that she’d intrigued him--her skin smoothed like warm chocolate, her beautiful eyes had welcomed Asher into her office and made him want to stand in front of her longer than he’d planned, and that voice. . .it had rocked his core. Those words left her full lips and had rapidly beat inside of him like a damaged heart, pleading for someone to heal it.

I won’t be the man to heal you, sweet one. I’m not your hero.

There were things in the brain that separated normal people from the insane. The amygdalae was one of them—two almond-shaped groups of nuclei that were located deep within the temporal lobes of a human’s brain.

Researches had discovered that those two almonds processed memory, decision-making, and emotional reactions. In one study, monkey mothers with damaged amygdala displayed less maternal behaviors, at times beating and neglecting their kids. In another, men and women with borderline personality disorder had greater left amygdala activity than the sane patients. Even in alternative medicine, Buddhist monks that engaged in continuous meditation were able to strengthen that section of the brain.

That was why Asher mediated daily. He tried to fix himself.

Something had destroyed his amygdala. He had no proof nor confirmation from a head doctor, he just knew that something inside of his head had been damaged long ago.

Or do we really all love to kill? Am I one of the few humans on this earth that isn’t denying their primal craving for death? Maybe, I’m really part of the normal group.

Death littered his past, blood too, as well as the corpses and the cutting of flesh right in front of him.

His mother patted the dirt with her shovel, slumped to the ground in an exhausted sitting position, and wiped her forehead. “Next time, we’ll have to kill in a less gruesome way.”

Shocked, a young Asher looked up from his tear-stained hands. “Next time? Mommy, we’re going to kill again?”

“The best thing about. . .” His mother could not finish the sentence. She just gestured to the location of where her dead husband lay. “The best thing about your father’s. . .accident is that I had put an insurance policy on him several years ago.”

She shook her head and realized that her eight-year old son probably hadn’t gotten the point. “It means that because your father is dead, we have the money to pay for the mortgage.”

She gave him a weak smile. “We won’t be kicked out of our apartment. We won’t have to worry about where the bill money is going, whether to your father’s gambling, liquor, or. . . even his filthy women.” The last words she spat out with disgust.

Asher rubbed his eyes with both hands, as if it would transport him back to a normal day. “And Daddy won’t hurt you anymore?”

“Exactly,” she said. “So like I said, the next time we do this, it will be less messy.”

She returned to burying his father’s corpse, while Asher decided to not ask his mother again about what “next time” meant. Besides, four years later, he learned what she’d been trying to say that night.

Sometimes taking a person’s life, solved the lives of many.

Asher shook the memory out of his head and returned to the balcony, turning around right as Diana stepped outside.

Interesting.

He found her eyes first. They snared him. He had no idea what she wore or how her hair was done. The eyes kept his attention. He wouldn’t be able to look away until he solved their mystery.

What is it about them that make me want to stare?

“What color are your eyes?” he asked.

She strolled over to him. “Most men would say ‘hello,’ ‘how are you doing,’ or even ‘you look lovely tonight.’”

He smiled, captured her hand, kissed that soft skin, and gazed into those beautiful eyes. “Hello. How are you doing? You look lovely tonight.”

“You’re just dripping with suave this evening.”

“Yes, I am.” He drank in the rest of her.

Diana wore a red dress that brought out the rich color of her brown skin. He’d been around his mother long enough to know the gown’s fabric, an expensive chiffon lace that fell to the floor, yet provided two delicious splits that showed off both of her legs to mid-thigh. The top was an empire halter with sheer beaded material swooping up, over her breasts, and around her neck.

His body did the expected things—heart beats picked up, his mouth salivated at the thought of yanking down the top of the halter and feasting on what lay underneath, his hands flexed in and out with hunger, and inside of his pants, heat warmed the area.

Maybe, she’ll be more than an avatar. A play thing on lonely nights. Nothing more. Regardless, it’s show time.

“That is an amazing dress.” He walked around her curvy frame and tried his best to study every detail of the material as it hugged her body. “This reminds me of the designer Hellen. That’s Hellen with two l’s.”

She raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

“Yes.” He studied the beading around her neck. “This reminds me of Hellen’s Metamorphoses collection for this spring. Lots of daring gowns with artistic bead work. Hand-sewn genius.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, not grinning or frowning.

Why hasn’t she said anything yet? Is she not impressed? Why?

Asher had read that each person had automatic triggered responses for most things. If the person could incite a reaction by saying a particular thing, then one could figure out the ways to make that particular individual a puppet on his or her string.

In that situation, Asher had done the appropriate action to trigger the automatic response. He’d not only complimented her, he’d broken down the exact design of her dress and even the collection it came from. Most women would gasp or giggle as they stood in front of him stunned and impressed.

Not Diana. Why? Perhaps he’d come on too strong. Maybe she preferred subtly.

Too bad subtly wasn’t his forte.

They both stared at each other for a minute. Although he did catch her gazing at his body a few times in those silent seconds.

“I’m used to women looking at me for a long amount of time without saying anything.” He shrugged his shoulders and came closer to her. “I’m gorgeous. This is the norm for me. However, it’s also odd.”

Again, she kept all expression off her face as she followed him with her gaze, analyzing and studying him with each step. “How is my staring at you odd?”

“You’re not saying anything.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“I’ve just complimented you on your magnificent taste.”

She held out her arms and did a slow turn. “I’m gorgeous. This is the norm for me.”

“Awww. You’re mimicking me.”

“Or I’m stating the obvious.”

“That you’re gorgeous?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And what about my compliment of your dress?”

She formed her lips into a straight line. “Thank you.”

He frowned. “Do you not like the dress? It’s amazing.”

“Of course it is. I bought it.” She walked over to the balcony.

“And it is by Hellen.”

“Yes.” She glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a smile that made that area near his groin heat some more. “But you would know everything about women’s fashions, being that your mother was a seamstress and dressmaker almost all of her life. Even designing her own gowns after husband number five.”

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to maintain a neutral expression. His mother’s past was something he exhausted loads of money and time to bury. The world knew of him barely ten years ago, once his last step father died, and he was announced as the heir. Before then, his mother and he had gone in and out of various social worlds with ease.

They never changed their identities. There was never any need.

The rich didn’t ask many questions, assuming that their private clubs and exclusive residencies, kept all of the riff raff and killers away. The only problem was. . .that was exactly where murders loved to hide, among the wealthy.

That being said, no one knew about his mother’s prior marriages. Every time she remarried, she hid the fact that she’d had any husband before. Any official that needed to be paid was given more than enough to keep their mouths closed.

“Fifth husband?” Asher asked through clenched teeth. “That’s odd. My mother married my father. Yes. He left us when we were young, and then she married my step-dad, Mr. Gene Bishop.”

“Hmmm.” She watched a few yachts travel along the Cove’s narrow entrance. "I think there's something you're not telling me. I'm particularly savvy when it comes to my research."

“Well, it seems your first line of investigating me has resulted in a few mistakes.”

“I don't think so. I have good sources.”

Who would have been able to tell her?

“Have you ever tried to find your father?” she asked.

That question stirred the coldness in him.

Why would she ask me that? How much does she know? What did she find? Control the conversation. Get it back to where it needs to be.

“Are you not big on fashion?” I asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you weren’t impressed by the fact that I knew who designed your dress.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry. Let’s start over to where you originally broke down my dress to me with the aim of knocking me off of my feet.”

She curtsied and then bowed. “Why thank you, Asher Bishop. You’re such an amazing man! How do you even know Hellen? It’s like you’re this fashion-savvy women that lives inside of a gorgeous god. Never has a man taken the time to really look at what I picked out for him. Now I feel validated. Now I am woman. Now I can roar. By the way, can I have your children? Can we get married?”

Asher swallowed.

“Or would you like to look at my shoes first?”

He extended his hand. “Maybe, we should go back to ‘Hello, how are you? You look lovely tonight.’”

She opened her mouth to speak, paused, and then shook her head. “You know what? I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m being rude for no reason.”

She turned away from him and directed her attention back to the view. A breeze blew through her hair. A few wavy strands on the side of her face rose and fell back to her high cheeks.

“That wasn’t rude.” He got on her side and stared at the view with her. Moonlight and dimly lit yachts rode the ocean’s surface. Giggling sounded below them.

“I’m sorry. My husband was brutally killed last night with his mistress. Tonight, I’m on a date. . .I mean. . .meeting.” She closed her eyes. “Look. I’m an emotional mess. There are. . .”

She really is beautiful. And not in a right-in-your face sort of way. It’s more her presence first, then her voice, and then those eyes. By the time, any sane man gets to the swell of her breasts and curve of that lush bottom behind her, he’s probably already spiraled into madness.

She looked up at Asher. “Do you understand?”

It was in that moment, he realized he’d zoned out and had completely ignored everything she’d uttered.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I understand.”

What had she said?

“I’m more invested in this deal than I figured I would be,” she said.

“Deal?”

“Your having me look into the serial killer, Cupid.”

Shocked again for the night, he cleared his throat. “Cupid? You named the killer that?”

“Yes. The man or woman we’re looking for is deadlier than we’ve thought. This person has killed eight people on Ovid Island at least.”

Eight. How did she get that number? Only three others were connected by the police.

A knot built in his throat. This didn’t happen to Asher much. The rich never paid attention. Sure, they played tennis, dined in high-end restaurants, chatted at charities, engaged in affairs, and gossiped all over designer hair salons and on the greens of golf course, but no one ever took notice of his activities before.

“Why did you say eight?” he asked.

“Five other rich white men were discovered in the past year. Although at the time, police never saw them as related. I have a person in the department who’s working with me on this. He combed over ever Ovid Island death this past year, and found a few men that had been deemed death by accident or natural causes. Meanwhile, these same men had holes in their chest, thus confirming that the police on this island really are incompetent.”