Red Silk Scarf (17 page)

Face blue from rage Mark
retaliated, “What about you, friend?
 
Where did you go the night Stella was murdered?
 
Answer me.
 
I may have screwed her, but I didn’t kill her.
 
She was still alive when I left her. You had
every opportunity.”

Cassidy’s head felt like an
old-fashioned dog bobbing back and forth in the rear window of a car.
 
In front of her were two friends that didn’t
trust the other, who were suspicious of the other, and she, hell, she didn’t
know what to believe.
 
What reasons did
each have to be so apprehensive, especially when the scarf was sufficient
evidence to incriminate Ben?
 
Abruptly,
her thoughts ended right there.

Hurting shot the length of her
arm when Sullivan yanked her to her feet.
 
Poking his nose in her face, among other things, he barked, “You little
whore.
 
I told you to stay away from
Mark, from me.
 
Can’t listen, huh?
 
I ought to beat the crap out of you as
well.
 
Horney little rabbit, aren’t you?
 
Just can’t get enough.
 
I swear if I see you near Mark again, I’ll .
. .” At the same instant, mirrored expressions found Cassidy and Mark’s
faces.
 
Probably the only reason Sullivan
didn’t add, kill you.
 
“Mark’s married, a
father of three beautiful kids.
 
He
doesn’t have the brains of a flea or he wouldn’t be messing with the likes of
you, taking a chance of killing himself and his family with aides.
 
Destroying any brain cells he once had with
drugs and booze.”

Mark’s fists were clenched and
ready when he charged Sullivan.
 
Shoving
Cassidy aside, Sullivan answered the challenge with a fist beneath Mark’s
jaw.
 
“Come on, hit me.
 
Give me one more reason to beat some sense
into you.
 
What, in hell, Margie sees in
you I’ll never know.
 
It ends here.
 
Got it, pal.
 
No more whoring, no more drugs or so help me God, I’ll tell Margie.
 
And believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better
than to move into her bed.”
 

Sullivan left no doubt that he
was serious.
 
Magic words that deflated
Mark’s puffed up chest.
 
Without force,
he’d hit his friend where it apparently mattered most.
 
Defeat rearranging Mark’s features backed him
away.
  
Head hung in shame, he begged,
“Let Cassidy go.
 
It was my idea.
 
I forced her.
 
She kept telling me no.”

Obviously, Cassidy wasn’t the
only one accustomed to lying.
 
What was
Mark doing?
 
Why?
 
Was he afraid Sullivan might make her pay?
 
Well, he did.
 
Managing to rip the bodice of her halter in the process, Sullivan
stuffed the remains of the shredded scarf between her breasts.
 
“You try my patience, little one, are you
satisfied now, or, maybe the need to be is the problem?
 
If that’s the case, I’ll be doing the
tending.
 
Stay the hell away from Mark or
the next time there is a scarf around your neck, I’ll be putting it there and
tying the knot but mind you, sweat cakes, not before I take everything I want.
 
Count on it.”
 

Cassidy was about to protest,
the black hearted word or two festering in her throat sucked up and claimed by
his mouth before given life, a hard, demanding, degrading kiss.
 
When he finished, she slapped him full-force.

 
“Go ahead, try the other cheek,” he
goaded.
 
Cassidy did, the sound no sooner
splitting the air before he kissed her again this time using his entire
body.
 
At once, the will to fight left
her stone cold.
 
When Sullivan finally
came up for air, it was only to lacerate her again.
 
“I like a woman who toys with me, slaps me
around, it turns me on.
 
Want to see what
slapping me again will do?”

Sullivan got the look he was
after he’d managed to humiliate Cassidy and was wallowing in the
satisfaction.
 
However, he noticed
something more terrifying in her eyes, more like hatred.
 
Good.
 
Maybe it was enough hatred to keep her alive, for his sake, for Mark’s
and Margie’s.
 
Grabbing her arm, he began
escorting her out of the alley, her attempts to jerk away making him laugh.

Michael was on the other side
of the door throughout the scuffle listening intently, ready, if need be, to
make his move yet, thankful he didn’t have to blow his cover.
 
Sullivan wouldn’t be an easy stud to tie and
quarter, but he was prepared to do anything to protect Cassidy, anything.

Patrick’s out of control temper
was baffling Mark, he’d never witnessed him treat a woman so cruelly and
wondered why Cassidy, considering how attracted he was to her?
 
He didn’t want to think it, or believe it,
but flashing across his mind, he wondered if Patrick was capable of
murder.
 
Having seen a lot in his line of
business, Mark knew even good people did bad things.
  
Drug withdrawal complicated matters, brought
on mood swings, and he questioned how he’d clean up his act without peaking
Margie’s suspicions?
 

Patrick meant what he said;
there was magnetism between him and Margie, a special bond between Patrick and
the kids.
 
Possibly, there was more to
their relationship than Mark thought.
 
Maybe he was wrong in believing they wouldn’t deceive him.
 
Maybe he couldn’t trust them. One way or
another, he had to quit whoring, and drugs before losing everyone he loved,
including Patrick.
 

Now more than ever, Mark was
concerned. Cassidy always wound up in the middle.
 
Packaged all too nicely, she was everything
about a woman that attracted him and Patrick and simply by being associated
with them, she had unknowingly placed her name on the killers list.
  

Without a fuss, Cassidy got
into the patrol car.
 
Sullivan didn’t
allow an inch for her to do otherwise.
 
By the time they reached the precinct, their shift was over.
 
After signing out, all three entered
Sullivan’s car, Cassidy by force.
  
When
Mark insisted they take her home first; Patrick’s stern looks deemed the plea
useless.

 
On the way, each man examined the other with expressions
that said a billion words, except for the times when Sullivan’s eyes were
spearing Cassidy through the rear view mirror.

Cassidy was struggling to
endure jealousy’s sharp teeth nipping all too close at her heart.
 
With her mind swirling like a tornado she
wondered what Margie looked like, if Sullivan would actually move into her
bed.
 
Maybe they were having an affair,
and, Sullivan was in love with her, and the murders were to eliminate Mark so
Sullivan could take what he wanted?
 
Then
again, what if Mark found out, of course, he’d, be jealous, want, revenge.
 
Betrayal was the blame for most murders.
 

It didn’t help that Sullivan
was examining her so intensely with his magnifying eyes.
 
God, Cassidy hoped he didn’t know what she
was thinking or sense she was slowly coming unglued.

Reluctantly, Mark said
goodnight.
 
On the way, he jotted his
telephone number on a piece of paper and slipped it into Cassidy’s hand.
 
“Call me the instant you enter your apartment,
or, anytime if you need me.”
 
Mark’s eyes
flicking to Sullivan then back to her, the worry wrinkles etched deeply in his
forehead, affirming his concern for her safety.

Cassidy wasn’t given time to
reply.
 
Sullivan’s anger forced the car
away from the curb with a squeal and smoke.

CHAPTER
13

           
Praying for divine intervention
didn't make Sullivan drop Cassidy off in front of her apartment building.
 
Considering the episode in the alley, his
tendency to undress her with his eyes, and his seducing capabilities, enduring
his presence in the close quarters of the elevator, and all the way to the
apartment door, frazzled her nerves.
 
Sputtering inwardly reinforced her quick determined steps. “That was as
far as he was going, period,” she confirmed inwardly.

           
As planned Cassidy's keys were in
hand before facing him.
 
Straightening
her stance, drawing in a deep breath, “Goodnight,” she snapped, her voice
strong and chocked full of willfulness.

Scrutinizing her
every move, Sullivan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes glittering
with amusement.
  
Frustratingly, his
mouth tilted into a cocky grin, everything about his demeanor like sandpaper
against raw skin.
 
“What, you're not
going to invite me in for a night cap,” his voice feigning disappointment.
  

In view of his
treatment of her earlier, what guts he had, Cassidy simmered. Targeting his
eyes, she gave a look sufficient to make any living thing shrivel.
 
In return he gave that little boy, “What have
I done,” expression that threatened pending disaster.
 
Turning abruptly made her feet unsteady and
her voice wobble. “I . . . don't . . . drink alcohol,” a curt statement while
somehow correctly positioning the key.
 

           
“No coffee, tea, or . . .”

Lightening eyes
struck Sullivan’s before the word, “me” crossed his curled lips.
  
“I don't drink coffee or tea,” shaky words
that adequately vibrated the key, among other things.
 
God, he wasn't going to give up, Cassidy
snarled, finishing beneath her breath, and you can definitely forget the,
“Me.”
 
“Goodnight,” she hissed like a
rattlesnake about to strike.

Sullivan was
still smiling Cassidy just knew it; the warmth permeating and straightening
each strand of her hair drenched her scalp. Unmistakably her behavior was
amusing him.
 
Dammit, he didn't curtail
prodding.

“Pray tell,
someone in your line of work doesn't drink orange juice,” his insight and
sudden movement closer, startling.
 
He
had her cornered with his arms spread eagle, hands braced on the door jams.
  
It didn't help that Sullivan was a good bit
taller, his shoulders meeting the crown of her head.
 
Despite wanting to faint from the lack of air
Cassidy couldn’t; certainly, it wasn't his body brushing hers.

Calling up a
level of voice sharp and clipped, “I've had an exhausting evening.
 
I'm tired,” Cassidy’s muddled brain persisted
while the hand holding the key continued to shake regardless of her repetitious
warnings.

“I just bet you
have,” a stirring reply mixed with equal parts of humor and sarcasm puffed
against her hair.
 
“Here, allow me.” The
breath the words rode separating strands nudged an ear with an irritating
thrill.
 
Believing herself sufficiently
hot to fuse the key to her fingers, incredibly one slight tug claimed it.
 

Indeed an elusive
man, Sullivan could be a raving maniac one-minute, smooth as a baby's skin the
next.
 
Problem was Cassidy didn't know
which duel personality pissed her off most.
     

Leaning into her
making unnecessary disgusting, exaggerated movements Sullivan took his time
unlocking the door.
 
With his hand
clinging to the knob, nose burrowed into her hair, he whispered a stupid,
irrelevant statement, “Let’s dance.
 
All
you have to do is turn around.”
 

In the hall, in
front of God and everybody, he wouldn't molest her, would he, her depleted mind
screamed.
 
Patrick Sullivan, of course,
he would.
 

However stagnant,
the whiff of air gulped the moment the door opened, it was reviving enough to
provide much needed strength.
 
Cassidy
had the barricade practically closed before it smashed against his foot.
 
“I'll scream,” she threatened.

“Be my guest,” he
replied. “I’m a cop and you, well, now, let’s see, black leather shorts, knee
high boots, fish net stockings, and clinging tube top, face overly made up, I
believe that spells out hooker don’t you?
 
I’d say, Sweet cakes, the odds are against you.” A belly laugh rifled
the air as his arm shoved her aside on his way to the kitchen.
 

The refrigerator
door was open, two glasses removed from the cupboard before her wobbly legs
arrived safely.
 
At once, she wondered
how Sullivan knew where everything was.