Girl Missing (19 page)

She shivered. “Just cold. And scared. Mostly scared …” She looked at him. “Why did they kill Esterhaus? What is going on, Adam?”

He stared ahead, his gaze locked on the road,
his profile hard and white in the darkness. “I wish to God I knew.”

They arrived home to find Thomas waiting for them.

“Mr. Q., the reporters have been calling—”

“Tell them to go to hell,” said Adam, guiding Kat toward the stairs.

“But—”

“You heard what I said.”

“Is that a … literal request?”

“Word for word.”

“Goodness,” said Thomas, sounding uncomfortable. “I don’t know …” He watched them climb up to the second-floor landing. “Is there anything you’ll require, Mr. Q.?” he called.

“A bottle of brandy. And answer the phone, will you?”

Thomas glanced at the telephone, which had begun to ring again. Reluctantly he picked up the receiver. “Quantrell residence.” He listened for a few seconds. Then, drawing himself to his full and dignified height, he said: “Mr. Quantrell wishes to convey the following message: Go to hell.” He hung up, looking strangely satisfied.

“The brandy, Thomas!” called Adam.

“Right away,” said Thomas, heading toward the library.

Adam turned Kat gently toward the bedroom. “Come on,” he whispered. “You look ready to collapse.”

He brought her into his room and sat her down on the bed. He took her hands in his. Her touch was like ice.

Thomas came into the room, bearing a tray with the brandy and two glasses.

“Leave it,” said Adam.

Thomas, ever discreet, nodded and withdrew.

Adam poured a glass and handed it to Kat. She looked blankly at it.

“Just brandy,” he said. “A Quantrell family tradition.”

She took a sip. Closing her eyes tightly, she whispered, “You Quantrells keep fine traditions.”

He reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair off her face. Her skin felt as cool as marble, but the woman beneath was alive and trembling and in need.

“If only I knew,” she said. “If I just knew what I was fighting against. Then I wouldn’t be so afraid.” She looked at him. “That’s what
scares me. Not knowing. It makes the whole world seem evil.”

“Not the whole world. There’s me. And I’ll take care of you—”

“Don’t make promises, Adam.”

“I’m not promising. I’m telling you. As long as you need me—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t. Please. You’ll back yourself into a corner. And then you’ll feel guilty when you can’t keep your word.”

He grasped her hand, firmly, fiercely. “Kat—”

“No promises.”

“All right. If that’s what you want, no promises.”

“From either of us. It’s more honest that way.”

“You’ll stay here, though? As long as you need to. Unless … there’s some other place you’d rather go?”

She shook her head.

He felt an intoxicating rush of happiness, of relief, that here was where she wanted to be.
With me
.

“There’s no other place,” she said softly.

He had not planned to kiss her, but at that moment she looked so badly in need of a kiss
that he drew her closer and cupped her face in his hands.

It was only a brushing of lips, a taste of her brandied warmth. No passion, no lust, merely kindness.

And then, like a spark striking dry tinder, something else flared to instant brightness. He saw it in her eyes, and she in his. They stared at each other for a moment in shared wonder. And uncertainty. He wanted badly to kiss her again, but she was so vulnerable, and he knew that if he pressed her, she would yield. She might hate him in the morning, and she would have good reason. That, most of all, was what he didn’t want.

He took a much-needed lungful of fortifying air and pulled away from her. “You can stay here, in my room. It will feel safer.” He rose to leave. “I’ll sleep in yours.”

“Adam?”

“In the morning, we’ll have to talk about what happens next. But tonight—”

“I want you to stay here,” she said. “In this room. With me.”

The last two words came out in barely a whisper. Slowly he settled back down beside
her and tried to look beyond the glaze of fear in her eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked softly.

Her answer left no doubt. She reached out to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him against her. Their lips met. Hers were desperate, seeking, and he responded instantly to that unexpected assault with a hunger just as fierce.

He reached out to bury his fingers in her hair. It felt like the mane of a wild animal, crackling and alive. Suddenly
she
came alive, and all of her fear and exhaustion broke before a swelling tide of desire. Her hair brushed his face, and he inhaled the warm and feral scent of a woman. Such delicious sounds she was making, little whimpers and sighs, as her mouth eagerly met his, again and again.

They tumbled back onto the bed and rolled across the covers. First she was on top, her hair spilling like sheets of silk over his face. Then he was on top, covering her body with his. No passive participant was she; already, he felt her pressing up against him, her back arching, her body starved for more intimate contact. Fear had made her desperate; he could sense it in her kisses.

He forced himself to pull back. “Kat,” he said. “Look at me.”

She opened her eyes. They had the brief, bright glow of tears.

He took her face in his hands, cradled her cheeks so she could not turn away from him. “What’s wrong?”

“I want you,” was all she said.

“But you’re crying.”

“No, I just want you …”

“And you’re afraid.”

There it was—the briefest of nods, as though she didn’t want to say it. “I’m afraid of everything,” she said. “Everyone. The whole world.”

“Even me?”

She swallowed back another flash of tears. “Especially you,” she whispered.

Long after he’d fallen asleep, Kat lay awake in his arms. They might both be exhausted, but only he was able to sleep untroubled and unafraid.

He
wasn’t the one falling in love.

She burrowed closer, wondering about the man who lay beside her. The man who had everything.

Now he has me, as well
.

She felt helpless, trapped not only by her own heart, but by circumstances. Rule number one for the independent woman: Never let a man become indispensable. It was the rule she tried to live by, and already she’d violated it.

She looked at Adam and felt yet again that stirring of hunger. And something else, having nothing to do with desire. Tenderness. Joy. She felt pushed and pulled between wanting to believe in love and knowing better.

When she finally did sleep, it was like falling into some small, dreamless space. A prison without windows.

She was the first to awaken. Sunlight was shining through the curtains. Adam slept on, his golden hair tousled beyond help of any mere combing. She left him and went into the bathroom to shower. It was only when she came out again, bundled in his robe, that he stirred awake and gazed at her with amusement.

“Good morning,” he murmured. “Are you an early riser or am I just lazy?”

She smiled. “Since it’s already eight thirty, I guess that makes you lazy.”

“Come here.” He patted the bed. “Sit down with me.”

Reluctantly she complied and was reminded yet again of how susceptible she was to his attractions. Already, those hormones were doing their work; she could feel them flooding her face with heat.

“I dreamed about you last night,” he said, his fingers lightly tracing the length of her spine.

“Adam,” she said. “What happened last night—” She felt a shudder of pleasure as his hand moved upward, crept under the flap of the robe to graze her breast. At once she stood up and moved away from the bed. She shook her head. “It’s not going to work.”

He didn’t say a thing. He just watched her, his gaze too searching for comfort.

She began to move around the room, anything to avoid that look of his. “I walk into your bathroom,” she said. “And everything’s marble and—and gold. The soap’s French. And the towels all match.” She stopped and laughed. “Adam, in all my life, I’ve
never
had towels that matched.”

“You’re saying it won’t work because of my towels?”

“No, I’m saying I can’t see myself … fitting in here. I can’t see your friends accepting me. Or
you
accepting me. Right now, maybe, I’m exciting for you—”

“Without a doubt.”

“But it doesn’t last, the novelty of a girlfriend from South Lexington. Look, you’re a nice guy. I know you don’t mean to hurt me. Maybe you’ll even feel guilty about it when it falls apart. But I’m not the kind of woman who gets hurt, okay? I
refuse
to be hurt. And that’s why I’d much rather stay your friend.”

“Because you think our relationship is doomed?”

“Well, yes. I guess.”

For a moment he considered that statement without apparent emotion. Then he said, quite calmly, “I suppose it
is
better for you. We both know how it is with these rich bastards. Love ’em and leave ’em—that’s what you say, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Adam.” She sighed. “Please.”

He rose from the bed, snatching up his clothes. “I’m insulted. I’m really insulted. We make love—what I
thought
was love—and then you hand me the script to the rest of the affair!”

“Because I’ve played this part before. With Ed. With other men—”

“Also rich bastards?”

The knock on the door startled them both.

“What is it?” snapped Adam.

Thomas entered, looking quite taken aback at his employer’s tone of voice. “I … thought perhaps you should know. The police are downstairs.”

“What?”

“Sergeant Sykes and that chubby detective. Shall I set breakfast?”

Adam sighed. “Go ahead. Lay on the bagels for Ratchet.”

“And some extra cream cheese,” Thomas added and withdrew.

Adam and Kat looked at each other. The tension was still there, crackling between them. So was the desire.

Push and pull. Attraction and fear. That was what she felt when she looked at him.

She picked up her clothes. “I’ll see you downstairs,” she said. Then she left to get dressed in the other room.

The two cops were sitting at the dining table, Sykes nursing a cup of black coffee, Ratchet wolfing down scrambled eggs and sausages. Both men seemed quiet, maybe a little cautious, this morning. As though they had to be careful about what they said.

Something has changed
, thought Kat, studying them.

She and Adam sat across the table from them. Though Adam was right beside her, he didn’t touch her, didn’t glance at her. She felt the distance between them widen with every minute that passed.

Sykes said, “It’s about the Esterhaus murder. Rockbrook Precinct’s handed the case to us.”

“Why?” asked Adam.

“Because of what’s come to light.” Sykes put a large envelope on the table and slid it across to Adam. “I’m sorry to be the one to show these to you. But I need you to confirm the identity.”

Puzzled, Adam pulled out a dozen photographs. At his first glimpse of the woman in the pictures, he paled. They were nude shots, in grainy black and white, amateurish and obviously home-processed. In one, the woman was sprawled suggestively across a bed, her
hair fanned out, her hands cupping her breasts. In another, she pouted seductively from a bar stool, a whiskey glass raised to the camera. More photos, some taken with an apparent effort at artistic shading, others blatantly prurient. Adam stared at the thin and girlish face gazing back at him from an array of poses. Then he looked away and dropped his head in his hands.

Sykes asked: “Is it her?”

“Yes,” murmured Adam. “It’s Maeve.”

Sykes nodded. “I thought so. I recognized her face from the photos you gave me earlier.”

Adam looked up. “Where did you find these?”

“In Herbert Esterhaus’s bedroom.”

“What?”

“They were in a bureau drawer. Along with a lot of other … interesting things.”

Adam stared at him, shocked. “Esterhaus and Maeve …”

“We’re trying to find her, bring her in for questioning. But we can’t seem to get near her. That’s a tight group she hangs out with in South Lexington. It’s only routine questions, of course. Ex-girlfriends are always on the list—”

“You don’t think
Maeve
had anything to do with it?”

“As I said, it’s routine. Just a drill we go through—”

Adam pointed to the photos. “I’d say Maeve is the victim here, Sergeant!” he shot back.

“I know exactly how you feel, Mr. Q.,” said Sykes. “I’ve got a little girl of my own, and I’d want to wring the neck of any bastard who used her like this. But a man’s been killed. And now we have to go through the paces.”

“I know Maeve! She wouldn’t—”

“Did you know about her and Esterhaus?”

Adam paused. “No,” he admitted at last. “I didn’t.”

Sykes shook his head. “There’s a lot you never know about people. Even your own family. I’m not saying you should get panicked or anything. You’re probably right, she had nothing to do with it. With the evidence we found, I’m ninety-nine percent sure she didn’t. Still—”