Killing Bliss (6 page)

"Water. I don't drink when I'm working." She gave him her full attention then, her smile turning to a frown. "Have we met before?"

"Am I familiar to you?"

"I'm not sure. There's something..." Her frown deepened, and she scanned his face this time with intense concentration.

He leaned into the candlelight, raised a brow.

"Jesus Christ. Frank Bliss." Even in the dimly lit bar, he saw her face drain of color.

Lifting his glass in salute, he said, "I'm disappointed. I'd hoped you'd be a bit slower on the uptake."

When she started to get up, he shot out a hand and pulled her back to her seat. "Don't be in such a hurry, baby. We've got some catching up to do, and a public scene won't do either of us any good."

She tried to wrestle her arm free. "You... slimy bastard."

He held her without effort, until the waiter arrived. He ordered another JD for himself and a water for her.

He squeezed her arm until she winced. "Will you be a good girl if I let you go...
Fallon?
Pretty name, by the way, but I think the cops will like Dianna Lintz better. Me, I'll stick to Beauty."

The look she shot him was lethal, but she seemed calm enough, so he let her go. She didn't move, but she didn't speak, either. Her face was as white as the clothes she wore.

"I take it you're not happy to see me."

She turned her head, refused to look at him.

"I'm happy to see you." He put his hand on her knee, ran it under her short skirt, up her thigh. Squeezed. God, how did a woman manage it, to be lean, firm, and soft all at the same time? She didn't move, not a tic of a muscle. "You like this, baby." He touched her crotch, stroked the silk of her panties, his own breath quickening.

She went absolutely still, turned to stare at him across the table, her lip curled. "You're a pig, Bliss." She said. "You were a pig then. You're a pig now. There isn't anything about you I like. Now take your fucking hand off me."

He laughed and pulled his hand back, ran his finger under his nose. "Exotic."

"And too good for you. Always was. Always will be." She took a drink of her water—and her damned hand didn't even shake.

His gut started to simmer. This wasn't going how he planned it. After the shock, there was supposed to be fear. He'd counted on it, looked forward to it. Back then, there'd been plenty of fear. God, how she'd bucked and screamed.

The simmer rose to a boil, the heat of it ringing his throat.

Who the hell did she think she was, talking to him like that? Sitting there like she was the goddamn queen of the world. She was nothing but a two-bit hooker; he could have a dozen like her for a hundred bucks.

"Why are you here? And what do you want?" She looked at her watch, then at him, nothing but impatience registering on her perfect face.

The rage in his gut bubbled like deep-core lava. "Got a john waiting?"

"Thousands of them. I repeat. What do you want?"

He put his face inches from her. "I want you, whore—whenever and however I decide to take you." He ran a finger along her tight jaw. "And I want Vanelleto and Wartenski."

Now the color in her face heightened, and her back went straight as a steel beam. He smelled fear... finally.

"And did I forget to say," he added. "I also want money. Lots and lots of money."

* * *

Wayne Grover tidied his desk and glanced at the clock. Well after six. He cursed. The sudden rain would slow traffic, and Sandra detested his being late. At the thought of her, his head started aching again, and he chugged down a couple more pills. God, he was tired. Too tired for Sandra's harangues, the usual games.

"How about a beer, Grover? A few of us are going to Holly's Tavern. Are you in?"

At the sound of the voice, he tensed uncomfortably. Lifting his head, he met the eyes of Linda Curl, a coworker and the closest person he had to a friend in the whole department. Everyone else had given up asking him out years ago, and he had no doubt Linda would soon do the same, leaving him with no one. The bleakness in his soul intensified.

Linda would understand. I could talk to her.... No.

He pulled back, did busy work tidying his desk. Those kinds of thoughts were dangerous. He was just overly anxious today. It had been hard talking about Josh Moore, reliving the tragedy that changed his life forever.

"Not tonight, Linda. Thanks," he said, the words automatic, his expression carefully impassive. He stuffed some files in his case. Tonight, with luck, Sandra would allow him to work. He needed to work, needed to keep his mind off what Harding was digging into, because he wasn't sure he could go through it again.

Through the years, he'd pushed thoughts of what happened to Belle Bliss, those teenagers, as far back in his mind as they'd go, and they'd stayed there—most of the time.

He never forgot Josh.

His job was to protect the little ones, keep them safe, not put them in a place of blood and danger. He'd never forgive himself for Josh. Never. But he'd had no choice but to move on, continue with his work, because without it, without the kids, he'd have nothing. Now, thanks to Susan Moore and Cade Harding, that brutal night would be dredged up again. He liked Susan, respected her dedication, but he wished she weren't so stubborn, wished she'd accept that the odds of finding Josh alive were less than zero. Her tenacity could cost Wayne everything. Another shaft of pain severed his head, strong enough to make him grimace.

Rubbing hard at his temple, he looked up from his desk, surprised to see Linda still there. Damn. The mist surrounding his headaches were getting heavier, confusing him, making him forgetful, too easily distracted. He blinked.

"You okay?" Linda asked.

"Fine."

"Then come for a drink."

He shook his head. "Not tonight," he repeated.

She slanted him a bold, curious gaze. "Not tonight. Not last night. Not last week. What gives, Grover? You think I'm after that hard body of yours?" she teased.

Linda was no looker, or fashion plate. She wore a series of colorless, rumpled suits and badly tied scarves, but she had a quirky, often blue, sense of humor, and she was a damn good social worker, really cared about the kids. Wayne liked that. Wayne liked
her
, which was a huge waste of emotional investment—and frightening. If Sandra got suspicious...

He thought of Sandra at home, waiting for him, china dinner plates just so on the white linen-draped table, knives and forks in perfect alignment, the layout and structure as rigid as the routine that supported their useless lives. He sucked back a sigh. Pointless. Everything was pointless.

His eyes met Linda's and his stomach clenched. God help him, he wanted to reach out to her; the urge was so strong it frightened him. But he wouldn't do it. He patted his ample and too-soft gut, formed a lame joke. "If this is hard, you need glasses."

"I'll bet with a little tug and pull, there's a part of you that would get hard enough to make up for it." She twisted her lips and raised a brow.

His dick twitched.
My God.
"You'll never know." He raised his left hand—leaden with regret—and touched the finger circled with the gold band.

"That's a ring, Grover, not a noose. I asked you for a beer, not a orgy." She stopped, tapped her chin. "Although an orgy's not out of the question."

Wayne forced himself to smile, then stood and shrugged into his suit jacket. He picked up his briefcase. "I'm hardly the orgy type."

"So what type are you? Give me something to go on." Her expression turned speculative.

"I'm the married-man type." He tried to sound forceful, lace the words with an integrity he was far from feeling.

She shook her head. "At least you didn't say happily married man, which gives you points for honesty."

He didn't have a response for that, so he said nothing.

After another long look at him, Curl picked up her own briefcase, which she'd propped up on one of his guest chairs, walked up to him, and looped her arm in his. "Come on, Saint Wayne, I'll ride the elevator with you." She smiled up at him. She was a tiny thing, all flyaway hair and sharp eyes. "And I promise I won't attack you." She wiggled a brow.

He managed another smile and patted her soft hand, fought the urge to bring it to his mouth.

Too bad Sandra wouldn't promise the same.

* * *

Beauty stared into her makeup mirror and slowly creamed the makeup from her face. Stopping abruptly, she tossed the cotton pad she'd been using onto her dressing table.
Damn stupid face
. It's what caused all this trouble in the first place, it and what men insisted on calling her "made-for-sex" body.

She stood and started to pace, tugging the front of her filmy thigh-skimming wrap closed as if it were thrift shop flannel instead of a satin and lace ensemble worth hundreds of dollars.

Frank Bliss
. The thought of him chilled her blood, froze her brain. Paralyzed her. How could she have been so stupid.

Her mind again went to that day three years ago.

She'd remembered spotting the TV crew, and it had crossed her mind to walk away when they approached Burke. But she hadn't. Oh no, scatterbrained and vain as ever, she'd hung on Burke's arm and smiled at the press like the idiot she was.

And Bliss had sat on his prison cot watching her.

She cursed and swung around in the empty room, feeling caged and... terrorized.

She knew Burke Holland had a high profile, but she'd thought the operative word was
had.
For God's sake, he was virtually a recluse. By anyone's standards, old news. What she'd forgotten was that he was also old money—warehouses of old money—and the Holland family had a history in San Francisco that rivaled the Hearsts. Still, who'd have thought a quiet dinner in an out-of-the-way restaurant would have attracted a damn news team?

Now, because of it, Bliss was on her doorstep and everything was at risk.

She could sure as hell kiss any plans to marry out of The Life goodbye. Burke might walk down the aisle with a discreet high-class call girl—who he introduced as a model—but she doubted he was in the market for a murderer... or accomplice to murder, to be more exact.

Damn Bliss to hell. If anyone deserved to be murdered, it was that creepy no-good shit. Christ, knowing he was out there gave her the shakes. Not that he'd ever see them.

Thank God, she was in a secure building. It would take an armed unit to get past the electronics, let alone Geordie G on the lobby security desk. The man was sharp, and she'd been smart enough to slip him a few bucks to keep him that way.

A sound from the kitchen brought her to an abrupt halt. Lisa was out, there was no one but her in the three-thousand-square-foot condo. Her lungs tightened, the air in them suddenly iced and heavy. She stood still as stone.

"Meow..."

Her breath fled her lungs. "Spike. You mad thing. Come here." She squatted and reached out her hands. Her trembling hands...

The fiercely arrogant tomcat ambled over, and she scooped him up, both to cuddle him and steady her nerves. Holding him close, she wished he were the tiger he thought he was.

Wished he'd tear Bliss to bloody shreds.

When he leaped from her arms to escape her too-tight embrace, she sat on the delicate chintz settee near the window, poured herself a glass of wine, and tried desperately to think.

Bliss was a disaster waiting to happen, a dirty, massive mud slide that would ruin everything in its path.

In the two hours since she'd left him, her mind hadn't stopped racing. Trying to pull a plan out of the blur was impossible, not that planning had ever been her strong suit. On the road she'd traveled, looks and sex were the only currency needed. She shuddered.

With Bliss, sex was not an option. She'd cut her wrists first. She would.

If it were only money, she'd handle it. She hadn't been lying on her back for the best and brightest in San Francisco for years without hoarding some serious cash.

But Bliss wanted more than money; he wanted Gus and Addy, and she knew why. Revenge.

He wanted her so he could, as he'd said, "fuck her brains out"—anytime he wanted.

Never.

Whatever it took, she had to get rid of him.

If only she could talk to Gus, he'd know what to do, but she hadn't seen him since the... murder. Gus. The thought of him filled her, warmed her.

Oh, Gus, why didn't you take me with you?

Her heart stammered and stilled.

The lurking fear that she knew the answer to her own question froze her very bones. Abruptly, she downed the last of the wine in her glass and poured herself another.

Denial fit perfectly in a wineglass.

She forced herself back to the problem at hand. Bliss. Reminded herself this wasn't just about her.

Addy. She'd call Addy.

Maybe Beauty wasn't much as a problem solver, but the Wart was so smart it was scary. She'd come up with something.

And maybe, just maybe, she knew where Gus was.