OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (5 page)

Christiana Fordham tossed the letter on top of her new pile of fan mail. She’d already read it a half dozen times. She’d hoped that when Mary Weaver died, she could forget her last phone call, pretend it never happened. But no. Now this Keeley person had arrived and taken charge of Mayday House. God only knew what she’d find out or what Mary had told her.

“Christiana, they’re waiting for you.”

“I’m coming, darling. Five minutes. Just freshening my makeup.” She picked up a puff from the dresser and dabbed at her made-for-TV face. She had on so much makeup she could barely hold her head up.

Duke Thomas came up behind her and their eyes met in the mirror. He rested his hands on her shoulders, kissed the top of her blond head.”Your makeup is perfect. You’re just nervous.” He massaged her neck, and it felt so good, she leaned back into his masterful hands. “Everything will be fine,” he added, close to her ear. “You’ll be wonderful. Don’t worry.”

“I’m going to be the best thing that’s happened to daytime TV since Oprah, right?” She forced herself to smile up at him. “Isn’t that what the Times said?”

“That’s what they said—and the Times is never wrong.” He chuckled.

She couldn’t hold the smile. “Then why do I feel like the biggest fraud ever to set foot in New York?” She tossed the puff. It dusted the dresser and scudded to the floor. She ignored it.

“You’re not a fraud, baby.” His lean, handsome face took on a look of concern. When he looked at her like that, she could barely take her eyes off him—even when she distrusted him. “Not only have you spent years in the trenches,” he went on. “I’ve worked like a dog getting you to this point. You deserve this.”

“I spent years listening to sob stories for a backwater station in Oregon, for God’s sake. This is New York. This is NBC!”

This is what I’ve wanted all my life.

“Chris, for God’s sake!” A look of consternation laced with irritation crossed his face.

Now she’d made him angry. She hated when she did that, hated the way it made her stomach contract, old insecurities well up like sludge from the bottom of a well.

Her eyes went to the letter, and it was all she could do not to pick it up and tear it to shreds. “The truth is I’m a small-town psychologist, with a second-rate degree from a mediocre college, who photographs well. You know it and I know it.”

“What I know”—Duke’s strong hands gripped her shoulders, tightened, and his voice went down an octave—“is that you need to get it together. This is prime time—and most importantly, it’s
our
time. Keep talking like that, and you’ll blow the interview. And remember, the contract isn’t finalized, and until it is, we’ve got to be on top of our game.” He kneaded her shoulders. “I shouldn’t have to tell you the danger of negative thinking. And that small town psychologist thing you mentioned? Forget it. They want you because you’re more than that. To quote the Times again, ‘Christiana Fordham provides common sense, wisdom, and more important, a workable morality in immoral times.’”

She took a breath and sealed her eyes closed, careful not to smudge her eyeliner. He was right. Duke was always right. Standing to face him, she tried to find her smile again but couldn’t. She did manage to lighten her tone when she looked up at him and asked, “That ‘workable morality’ line … Do you have any idea what it means?” She ran her hand over his silk-clad chest and felt the rough hair beneath his shirt.

“Not a clue, but it sure makes a good sound bite.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “But when I look at you, baby, morality is the last thing on my mind.”

When he drew her into his arms, she went willingly, hungrily took his mouth, and was instantly on fire. It was always like this with Duke, a terrible blistering heat, crazy and frightening, his slightest touch a lit match on kerosene.

He set her back from him and his dark green eyes narrowed. Holding her chin, he turned her face, warmed from his deep kiss, left, then right, studying it carefully. “Perfect. You look perfect.” He nudged her chin higher and rubbed his thumb over her lips. “If a kiss does this, maybe we should try something even more stimulating the next time around.” He stepped back and smiled. “Now get that sweet ass of yours downstairs, Dr. Fordham. The world is waiting.”

Feeling surer of herself now, she nodded and turned for one last check in the mirror, but she couldn’t stop her gaze from skittering across the letter. She wanted to burn it, tear it into a million pieces—or at least put it out of sight in the drawer. But doing anything at all right now would attract attention, make Duke curious.

Oh, God, I wish you’d never called me, Mary Weaver. And I wish Mayday House with all its dangerous secrets didn’t exist—had never existed.

But wishes weren’t worth the breeze they drifted in on, and having Duke, or anyone else, discover the truth about Dr. Christiana Fordham would ruin everything. The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. The Farrell woman at Mayday House was a problem, a problem Christiana had to handle herself.

Just as soon as she figured out how.

Gus Hammond took one last look around his condo. Not exactly Miami, but all his own—including an empty bed. If he knew how to be happy, he was pretty sure being back in Seattle brought him damn close to it. Maybe his new neighborhood had its share of sleaze and grit when you turned the corner, but it worked for him. A transitional area, the real estate agent had said when he’d shown him the place and pointed to the new construction across the street.

Good word, transition, for the neighborhood and him.

He’d spent the first few years of his life within a few blocks of here. Back then the operative word for the neighborhood would’ve been regression: dirty alleys, dangerous even at high noon; crack havens tucked into the ancient apartments; rows of crappy shops with even crappier rooms above them, many with a single light bulb hanging from a bare wire. And sirens. Endless screaming sirens.

The sirens always made April cry. She’d put her hands over her ears, and he’d put his hands over hers …

His little sister…

He cut off that line of thought. It was too soon to think about April, to go where he’d been so many times before and always come up empty. He wasn’t ready for the simmering rage to boil again, wasn’t ready for the obsession to take hold, start eating its way through his raw gut.

He headed for the kitchen and got himself a beer from the fridge. Other than a six-pack—now dwindled to a four-pack—of beer, some cheese, milk, and a half-dozen fresh eggs, the fridge was an empty white cavern.

He’d stuff it to overflow mode before Josh got here for his Christmas break; that kid ate enough for an army unit. As for Gus, this close to the Pike Market, the restaurant pickings were good.

And tomorrow, if his luck held, he’d have his first contract. He didn’t need the money, but he sure as hell needed the work. There was only so much sitting on his ass a man could tolerate. He already had some lines out for April, but God knew when there’d be a clue worth reeling in.

Beer in hand, he sat on the sofa and pulled today’s Seattle Times toward him on the coffee table. When the phone rang, he glanced at the call display. Nil. Or blocked.

So far Dinah hadn’t tried disguising her calls, and he’d been out so much he’d avoided most of them anyway. He knew she’d be impatient to hear how things were going—his so-called mission
,
but he’d already told her about his visit to Mayday House; he figured that was enough. Small talk wasn’t an option. They needed some time and distance between them, a little perspective. He’d go for the let’s-be-friends arrangement, but he doubted Dinah would be up for that.

On the third ring, he picked up the phone and gave a standard hello.

“Am I speaking to Gus Hammond?” a female voice said.

“Depends on whether or not you’re selling something.” He turned his attention back to the paper.

“No, I’m not.” A pause. “Actually I’m, uh, wanting to buy. Dinah gave me your name. She said you might be … available.” Now she sounded nervous.

Shit!
He leaned back on the sofa and tossed another silent curse toward the ceiling.

When he said nothing, the voice rushed on, “I need an escort for next week. The opera? She said a thousand—Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t say the money up front, but—” She stopped. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I guess you can tell I’ve never done this before, but Dinah told me—”

“Whatever Dinah told you,” Gus said, sitting up and shoving the newspaper aside, “it was wrong. I’m not available for stud at the moment.”

“Stud? Oh, no. I don’t want sex from you.”

“Of course you don’t.”
That's what they all said
.
“All you want is a monkey in a tux, right? Until the monkey takes you home.”

“No, really … Oh, my God! I feel so stupid.”
Definitely her first time.
“Not stupid, baby. Duped. You’re Dinah’s way of reminding me of my not-so-illustrious past.” And probably testing my future.

He hung up. When his being-pissed-off-at-Dinah mood passed, he damn near laughed. He’d turned down an easy grand, which made him something like a drunk turning down a cold beer in the Sahara.

Things were definitely looking up. Now if that peculiar ex-nun would answer his calls, tell him she was going to take the money and run, Dinah would be history. Gus could get on with his life, which meant going back to work and getting this security contract he was working on and—he rubbed his brow—finding April.

But before that happened, there was this business with Mayday House and the nun … the ex-nun.

Keeley Farrell had to be the oddest woman he’d ever met. And he’d met more than his share. He couldn’t figure out what it was about her that got to him and wouldn’t let go. Maybe because she looked at him as if he weren’t there. It was as if she’d given him one piercing look, decided he was empty, and didn’t bother looking again. A new experience for a guy used to being paraded around like a stallion up for bids.

God, how he’d hated that—particularly early in the game, when Dinah’s friends would look up at him, smile and stroke his bicep, then squeeze it to feel his muscle. Or worse, run a finger along the scar that disfigured his jaw, and say, “Poor baby, whatever happened?”

He couldn’t remember how many of them had offered to pay for surgery to “get it fixed.”

It was a relief when Dinah quit passing him around to her friends, amusing to see her become possessive and insist on an exclusive arrangement. He’d been twenty-two then, smart enough and desperate enough to see a brass ring when one dropped around his neck. A tarnished brass ring, but good enough to form a circle of safety around Josh and get him settled in a decent school. Back then it was all about food, clothes, and a roof over the head—and steering clear of an outstanding murder charge.

“My friends have had their fair share of you, Gus,” she’d said after an afternoon of sex. “From now on you’re mine. All mine. I’ll take care of you and I’ll take care of Josh—”

“No one takes care of Josh, except me.”

“And my money, darling. Don’t forget that.”

“As if you’d ever let me.” He’d leaned down to kiss her, which he hadn’t minded doing in those days, because he was either a little bit in love with the woman or had convinced himself he was. Or maybe it was just a young man’s volcanic sex drive coupled with readily available sex with a woman who was white-hot in bed.

His phone rang again.

“Gus Hammond?”

“Uh-huh.”

A man’s voice said without preamble, “I’ve been called to a meeting which means flying out of town in the morning. I’d like to reschedule tomorrow’s meeting, move it forward.”

The potential security client. Gus reached for a pen. “Where and what time?”

“Right now, if you’re free. An early dinner at Malta’s suit you?”

“I’ll be there.”

“You have Malta’s address?”

“Yes. What I don’t have is your name.”

“Let’s hold off on that until the face and name come together. I’ll leave your name at the desk. Rick will bring you to me.”

“Works for me.”

Gus grabbed his jacket and car keys and headed for the door, unconcerned with not knowing who he was about to meet. That bit about the rich being different from “you and me” was dead-on. Most put a high premium on their personal privacy, and Gus had no problem with that.

Hell, he hadn’t used his own name since he’d hit the streets at twelve. Sure as hell didn’t use it when the cops were on his ass for the murder of his and Josh’s foster mother.

He wasn’t using it now.

Disgusted, Keeley tossed the papers on the desk. She was exhausted, as usual, and totally flummoxed. She’d always loved that word, but until now had never had reason to apply it to herself.

But flummoxed she was.

Neither Dinah Marsden nor the always-elusive Christiana Fordham would take her calls. So her idea of a last-ditch personal plea for help—and maybe getting a few questions answered about their changed attitudes toward Mayday House—was a non-starter. Thank God she didn’t plan on a career as a telemarketer.

She leaned back in Mary’s rickety desk chair and reviewed her failed attempt at sleuthing and fundraising. She had no trouble begging. Her time in Africa ended that bias, but you couldn’t beg if no one would listen. No one’s fault, really. There were so many worthwhile causes in the world, so many hands out for help, it was overwhelming. Most people were good-hearted, but hearts—and wallets—stretched only so far. If the ladies, Marsden and Fordham, didn’t want to support Mayday House, she had to accept it and find another way.

Which did nothing for her current predicament.

She needed money for the mortgage, and she needed it yesterday. And food? That would be good. If she were on her own, no problem, but she wasn’t. She had Bridget to consider.

She twirled a straggly bit of hair at her neck. Bridget was eating more these days, and Keeley was glad to see it. Glad, too, that the girl’s spirits had picked up a notch. Not much of a notch, but right now Keeley would settle for it, because if things kept up the way they were going, she’d try talking to her again. Maybe this time they’d get past the tears and silence and into what, if any, plans the girl had. As far as Keeley was concerned, she could stay for as long as she liked, certainly until she felt strong again. Still, the mystery of Bridget—her dark silences about her family, the father of her lost baby, where she came from—unsettled her.