Night Whispers (39 page)

"She's either a monster or a saint, and I don't believe in saints. That leaves the monster."

Sloan shook her head, completely bemused and immensely saddened. "I thought you cared about her. I really did." Sloan couldn't stop staring at him, searching his face for some sort of clue as to the man he really was. "I know this assignment is 'business' for you, but sometimes, I'd catch you watching Paris with a funny smile… almost a tender smile."

"She's easy to watch," he said bitterly. "Look at her—" He tipped his head toward Paris, who was chatting with one of the men. "She's beautiful, she's graceful, she's well-bred. She's a little shy until you get to know her, and then she blooms in front of your eyes, and you think you're the reason."

Sloan was becoming more stunned by the moment She hadn't misjudged Paul's attraction to Paris. He was very attracted—and completely against his will. Sloan found that situation encouraging and amusing.

"Tell me something," she said. "If Paris was all the good things you think she is and none of the bad, sick things you think she is, then how would you describe her?" '

Paul's eyes lifted briefly and unwillingly to the subject of their discussion as she reentered the house. "I'd describe her as a miracle."

Sloan stood up, suppressing a smile. "That works for me."

He shrugged. "Unfortunately, I don't believe in miracles."

Shoving her hands into the back pockets of her slacks, Sloan gazed down at the man sitting in the chair. "Paris is just like my mother—they're like little willow trees. They seem fragile and they bend in the breeze, but you can't break them. They won't let you. Somehow they always find a reason, a way, to go on thriving. You start out thinking they're weak and they need sheltering, and they do. But while you're shielding them, they're sheltering you. My mother baffled me forever, and until now I'd never met anyone like her. But my sister Paris is just like her."

Paul looked at her steadily, debating whether he ought to point out the truth, and then he decided to do it. "You're wrong, Sloan," he said quietly. "That's not Paris. That's you."

He got up and walked away, leaving her staring after him in amazement.

"Mr. Richardson?" Paul turned at the sound of the butler's voice. "You have an urgent telephone call from your office."

Paul hurried up to his room and picked up the phone. It was the call he'd been waiting for, and the news was not only good, it had come a day sooner than he'd expected.

"Paul," the other agent said, using terms that would be meaningful only to Paul while he relayed the news that a federal judge had just signed a search warrant authorizing the FBI to search Maitland's boats. "Sorry to bother you on vacation, but we have great news. The client signed the contract. I have it in my hand. Do you want to wait until tomorrow to countersign it? Or shall I bring it down there today?"

"Today. Definitely today. The Reynolds family won't miss me or mind if I'm gone because there's been a death in the family."

"I heard. So sad." The man paused an appropriate moment to sound as if he cared; then he asked Paul whether he wanted only the FBI involved when they boarded the boats today, or whether Paul wanted participation from the Coast Guard and/or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms as well. "There are a couple details about the group policy I wasn't clear on. Do you want an exclusion clause for smokers?"

"No, don't exclude them."

"What about accidental death coverage?"

"Include that, too. That makes it a solid package. No loose ends, no matter what happens. How soon can you get the package put together?"

"We went ahead with plans in the hopes the client would sign the contract. I can have everything ready in an hour or two if I move fast."

"Get moving. I'll meet you out at the job site and show you around personally. The more daylight we have the better."

Paul hung up and breathed a sigh of relief.

«
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»

R
ather than returning Noah's telephone call, Sloan went to see him. She had something to tell him, and she didn't want to do it on the phone.

Courtney had been enrolled in a Palm Beach private school, and it was Douglas who let her in, gave her a reassuring hug, and told her how sorry he was about Edith. "Noah is upstairs in his office, and he'll be very glad to see you." Confidingly, he added, "You may interpret that to mean he's like a caged bear because he hasn't been able to talk to you and find out how you are."

Upstairs Sloan waved at Mrs. Snowden, who occupied a small office next to Noah's.

Noah was on the telephone, carrying on what sounded like an important phone call, when he looked up and saw Sloan in his doorway. "I'll talk to you later," he said, and unceremoniously hung up on whomever he was talking to. He came around his desk and wrapped Sloan in a fierce embrace. "I've been worried sick about you. How are you holding up, darling?"

"Okay," Sloan whispered, her cheek pressed to the reassuring strength of his chest. He'd called her darling, and the sweetness of the word combined with the tenderness in his voice was so touching that Sloan had to fight a sudden impulse to cry.

"Have the cops found anything significant over there?"

"It's what they
haven't
found that's significant," Sloan said, reluctantly lifting her face off his chest and tipping her head back.

Noah took in her pale complexion and the haunted expression in her violet eyes. "Tell me about it on the way downstairs. I'll have Claudine fix us something to eat. You look like a ghost. I wish you had stayed here last night and let us look after you."

The concept of being looked after by someone who was actually more capable than she was a new one to Sloan, and in her emotional state, it was as poignant as being called darling.

He put his arm around her waist as they walked downstairs. "I have something to tell you, and I'd like to do it privately, without Douglas," Sloan said. He nodded and took her to the living room, a dramatic area with a soaring ceiling, white marble floor, and full-length windows that looked out over the front lawn, where a fountain was splashing water over a life-size bronze sailfish. Noah's house was airy and light and so much more beautiful to Sloan than Carter's.

"Very little was stolen last night," she began as he sat down next to her on the sofa, but Noah's first priority was evidently looking after her. Before she could tell him anything more, he reached for the telephone and pressed the intercom button. He asked Claudine to serve them lunch in the living room; then he gave Sloan his full attention.

"No one broke into the house," she began again. "Someone wanted it to look like a break-in, but most of the broken glass was outside, which means the window was broken from the inside. The only thing missing so far is a ring Edith was wearing, but her other ring and her brooch hadn't been taken from her. The motive wasn't robbery, Noah; it was murder."

His brow furrowed slightly as he tried to imagine why anyone would want to murder Edith. "Are you certain?"

"As certain as anyone can be without an admission from the person who did it."

"That's almost unbelievable. She rarely went out; she couldn't have made an enemy of anyone. Who could possibly want to murder her?"

Sloan drew a long breath and looked straight into his eyes. "I think the police will put me on top of the suspect list."

"You?" he said with a laugh. "You?" he repeated. "Why in God's name would anyone think you would want to murder her or that you're capable of violence?"

Sloan was entirely capable of dealing in violence, but she couldn't go into that. Instead, she told him why the police would suspect her. Noah listened in silence, his amusement slowly vanishing as she spoke. He was not, Sloan realized with relief, naïve about the workings of the law, nor did he try to convince her that she had nothing to worry about because she was innocent. In fact, he did something that amazed her.

As soon as she finished speaking, he reached for the intercom and spoke to Mrs. Snowden. "Find Robbins wherever he is, and then get Kirsh on the phone. He's staying here in town at the Windsor."

He hung up, and in answer to Sloan's questioning look, he said, "Robbins is my security chief, and Kirsh is one of the best criminal lawyers in Florida. He's at my hotel."

Sloan's eyes widened. "Kenneth Kirsh?"

"The very same," he said with a reassuring smile.

Mrs. Snowden had Kirsh on the line in less than a minute, and Noah picked up the phone. "Ken, I need you over here right now." He'd scarcely hung up when Mrs. Snowden buzzed him on the intercom again to say that Robbins was on the line.

Noah picked up the phone. "Where are you?"

"Good. You can be here in two hours." He listened for a minute. "This is more important."

Kenneth Kirsh was a little shorter than he'd seemed when Sloan had seen him on national news programs talking about the last guilty criminal he helped escape punishment. To law enforcement officials everywhere, he was a scourge. To Sloan at that moment, he looked awfully good. He listened attentively while she told him what she knew and what she feared would happen. He did not dismiss the possibility that Sloan would be treated like a major suspect, but like Paul he found some reassurance in the fact that Sloan had nothing financial to gain by Edith Reynolds's death. "I take it you haven't been convicted of any violent crime in the past?" he said half jokingly, and when Sloan told him she hadn't, he smiled and handed her his card. "Call me if they bring you in for questioning." He reached out and shook Noah's hand. "Thank you for thinking of me. I'm flattered," he said.

Sloan was still digesting the fact that the arrogant Kenneth Kirsh was flattered by an opportunity to stop his vacation and report to Noah's house when she looked at her watch. "I need to go back to the house," she told Noah. "I don't want to leave Paris alone too long. Carter is handling funeral arrangements, but Paris has her hands full and she looks ready to drop."

"I want to make a couple more phone calls to make sure we're prepared for any eventuality, so I'll let you walk back alone this time," Noah said, pulling her into his arms for a kiss.

"I think I can manage that," Sloan said, trying to tease.

"Yes, but I don't like it," he said with a somber smile at her upturned face. "I like walking you home. I'd like carrying your books, too, and passing you notes after class."

Sloan looked at him in confusion, and he kissed her again before he tenderly explained, "You make me feel like a high school boy in love for the very first time."

In love? Sloan searched his tanned face, noticing the tenderness in his eyes, the smile touching his firm lips, and she knew he meant it. His smile deepened as she gazed at him, and she realized that he was
telling
her he meant it.

«
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"T
his must be one hell of an emergency for you to pull me off the Atlanta job," Jack Robbins said as he closed the door to Noah's office two hours later. "What's up?"

Noah looked up at the stocky, energetic man who was in charge of security for all of Noah's ventures around the world. Like many of the men who headed security for high-profile clients, Robbins was a former FBI agent. At fifty, he was the image of a pleasant, physically fit, easygoing businessman. Beneath that image, he was tough, tenacious, and tireless. Noah regarded him as one of his greatest business assets. He was also the only employee whom Noah allowed to be a friend as well.

"I'm not sure what's up," Noah replied, leaning back in his chair. "It's probably nothing, but I want to make sure it keeps being 'nothing.' Did you know Edith Reynolds was murdered last night?"

"It's been all over the newscasts, but the way I heard it, it was a burglary that went bad."

"I don't think it was." Noah told him who Sloan was and then relayed the information that she had given him. When he was finished, he said, "They're going to be looking for someone to pin this on who had access to the house or was around at the time of the murder."

Robbins frowned in confusion. "You can't think they'll seriously consider you a suspect?"

"I wouldn't give a damn if they did."

"Then why am I here?"

"I don't want them to consider Sloan as one."

Robbins studied his employer in silence for a long moment and began to grin. "So that's the way it is?"

He expected Noah to either deny it or ignore the comment. Instead, Noah nodded. "That's the way it is."

Robbins's smile widened, and he said softly, "I'll be damned."

"Probably. But before you are, I want to make sure they find the real killer, rather than contenting themselves with Sloan because she's the newcomer on the scene. Palm Beach doesn't exactly have a high homicide rate, and the cops aren't used to investigating them."

"If Sloan Reynolds is an heir, she's going to be their logical choice, no matter how inexperienced they are."