You Belong to Me (25 page)

‘You took only a few belongings from your apartment today. One was a violin.’

She frowned. ‘The CSU cop told you what I took from my apartment?’

‘Procedure,’ he said. ‘Don’t be upset. She also said that one of the neighbors commented on your “concerts”. What did she mean?’

‘I play for Mr Pugh when he becomes agitated. It calms him. I made a recording for Barb to play for him when I can’t be there.’

He studied her a moment more, then got out of the car. ‘I’ll walk you to your office.’

He opened her door and once again pulled her to her feet. But this time he simply stood, studying her face. Her cheeks heated under his scrutiny and she dropped her gaze to the knot of his tie, her heart starting to pound in her ears.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I needed to be there for the Bennetts, even if it didn’t end as I planned. Thank you for taking my mind off unpleasant things for a little while.’

‘Lucy.’ He hooked his finger under her chin and lifted until she met his eyes. He didn’t smile and she could see he was as nervous as she was. ‘All the way back I kept thinking about earlier. When I kissed you. And you kissed me back.’

Blood rushed low and her deepest muscles clenched. ‘I did do that, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, you did.’ He leaned closer until all she could see was dark, dark blue. ‘I’m hoping you’ll do it again.’

‘I . . .’ She was unsure of what she might have said, but it didn’t matter. His mouth was on hers, warm and demanding and so very sexy. His hands in her hair, he moved her head one way then another, layering on sensation after delightful sensation.

But there was something missing. She needed more. She heard herself whimper and he exploded, his mouth going from skillfully seducing to ravaging. His hands ran down her sides, pausing to cup her breasts, his thumbs flicking her nipples through too many layers of fabric before skimming her body to close over her butt, kneading almost desperately.

He hauled her up on her toes, trapping her between a hard car and a very hard man. His hips surged and she sucked in a harsh breath as she felt him. All of him. He’d said he found her desirable. He had not been lying. Not one little bit.

She tried to wriggle closer, cursing her straight skirt for the second time that day. A growl of frustration vibrated in his throat and he ripped his mouth away, his breath hard against her temple. For a moment they hung there, panting.

His hands flexed, his fingers drawing her skirt higher. ‘I hate this skirt,’ he said.

‘So do I.’

He pulled back far enough to pin her gaze with his. His dark eyes were intense. Hot. Lucy stared, mesmerized.
Narcotic
.

‘I want to see you out of it,’ he whispered.

She swallowed hard. Her heart was pounding, her body needing. She wanted him. A lot. Way more than was wise. ‘So do I.’

His eyes flashed. Dangerously. ‘It’s been a long time for me. There’s been no one, nothing but work. And then this morning I saw you and . . .’

‘And?’

‘It was like a freight train. All of a sudden . . . It’s like . . . Hell, I don’t know.’

‘All of a sudden it’s like you’re alive again?’ she asked quietly.

Relief flickered amid the heat in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid I’ll rush you. That I’ll blow it.’

‘I know. I don’t date much. I’m not sure how to handle this.’

He rested his brow on hers. ‘But you want me?’ he murmured smoothly.

Everything inside her clenched, then went liquid. ‘Yes. God help me. But it’s late. We’ve both had a very long day. Why don’t you go home, get some sleep?’

‘I was going to say the same thing to you.’

‘I can’t go home. I’ve got to get a key from Gwyn for her apartment.’

He hesitated. ‘I’ve got a big place. Lots of room.’

Lucy closed her eyes, fighting the urge to do as she pleased. It had been a very, very long time for her, too. ‘Do you know how tempting that is?’

‘Hell, yeah,’ he said wryly and she opened her eyes to his crooked smile. ‘Too much, too soon?’ he asked and she nodded. ‘Then let me at least take you to my house so you can pick up the loaner car and I’ll follow you to your friend’s apartment.’

She winced a little. ‘You mean the car that belonged to your wife?’

He blinked. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I didn’t, not until just now,’ she said dryly. ‘Honestly, I guessed.’

He frowned. ‘I thought we were even. You know, brains plopping into bowls.’

She laughed. ‘I said “pretty much” before. Now we’re even.’

‘Okay,’ he grumbled, but his eyes smiled. ‘But you need a car. CSU could have yours for days, especially if they find something.’

‘Which we know they won’t,’ she said. ‘But I still couldn’t borrow yours. Driving your dead wife’s car is too creepy. Thorne has an extra one.’ She reached in her jacket pocket for her phone. ‘He sent me a text while we were driving back. His car is parked in slot 62 and he left the key with Alan in the morgue.’

‘Will you call me when you’re ready to leave, so that I can at least make sure you get to Gwyn’s safely? I won’t stay. I won’t even ask. I promise.’

She thought of the number I burned into Russ’s back and nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll go back to my office and run LUDs till you’re ready to call it a night.’

She waited until he’d moved the larger bag from his back seat to the concrete before she reached in for the smaller bag, the one that held her violin case. ‘I’ll get that one,’ she said. She moved aside some of his clothing that had toppled from its pile in the backseat to cover her bag. ‘It’s not—’

Lucy stopped abruptly. The pile of clothing wasn’t all clothing. Beneath brightly colored pants and jackets was a helmet. She stared at it as if it was a snake, coiled to strike. Her body had gone ice cold, her heart pounding in her ears.

She knew exactly what it was. She’d seen hundreds of helmets just like it. She’d worn helmets just like it. He raced. Motorcycles. He raced motorcycles.

She grabbed her duffle and took a step back, trying to remember what she’d been saying. ‘Um, heavy,’ she said. ‘My bag’s not heavy. Whose helmet is that?’

He looked over her shoulder, puzzled. ‘Mine. Why?’

I knew it
. She’d sensed the thrill-seeker in him from the moment they’d met.
Why didn’t I listen to my gut?
Because she’d been listening to other parts of her anatomy.

‘Just curious,’ she managed.
Walk away fast
. She started toward the morgue, clutching her duffle bag to her chest which was so tight she could barely breathe.

‘Lucy? Lucy, wait.’ Behind her he slammed the car door and ran to catch up, his steps echoing in the quiet. ‘Lucy.’ He appeared beside her, his stride easily matching hers, a frown on his face. ‘You left your purse.’

She faltered a step, then shouldered the duffle, took her purse from his hands and kept walking. ‘Thank you. I really need to go.’

‘And I really need to walk you up,’ he said, his tone gone harsh. ‘What is wrong with you? What just happened?’

‘Nothing,’ she lied. ‘I just remembered some tests I started this morning that are past due for being read. If I don’t read them soon, I’ll have to do them again.’

Just get away. And for God’s sake do not kiss him again
.

JD grabbed her arm, tugged gently. ‘Lucy, stop.’

They were almost at the morgue. ‘Can’t. Gotta save those tests or you’ll be an unhappy detective come morning.’ With a forced smile she pulled away. For a moment he stood his ground, then he jogged to catch up with her at the door. She swiped her badge through the reader and yanked open the door.

‘Lucy. Goddammit.’ JD held the door open when she would have pulled it closed. ‘Stop. What the hell is wrong? And don’t tell me nothing. You took one look at that helmet and started running. What just happened?’

She drew a breath. And counted to ten. ‘Do you race motocross?’

His brows crunched. ‘Yes, in the past. Why?’

She straightened her spine. ‘Will you race again?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.
Why?
’

She gathered her calm and searched for an answer he’d accept. ‘Do you know how many autopsies I do on idiots who race motorcycles?’

He frowned, offended. ‘I wore a helmet.
That
helmet.’

‘So?’ she said, forcing her tone to be ruefully brisk. ‘That just means you’ll courteously contain your scrambled brain in the helmet for someone like me to examine, versus creating a colorful smear on the highway for my morgue tech to scrape into a baggie. Either way, you’re just as dead. I need to go.’ She took her suitcase from his hand and rolled it into the building. ‘Thanks for the evening. I won’t keep you.’

‘Whoa, wait.’ He grasped her shoulder and held firm. ‘Call me when you’re ready to go, okay? I’ll come and walk you to your car and see you to Gwyn’s.’

She nodded brightly, having no intention of calling him back. She’d find someone else to walk her out. ‘Thanks.’ She quickly went to the elevator, dragging her suitcase behind her. In a minute she was going up, her last sight that of JD Fitzpatrick staring bewilderedly as the elevator doors closed.

Lucy sagged against the cold steel wall. A narrow escape. Except she hadn’t escaped intact. He’d kissed her and she’d kissed him back. He was a good man who had a good heart. But he was dangerous. A lot more so to her than to himself.

Newport News, Virginia, Monday, May 3, 9.15 P.M.

Clay drummed his fingers impatiently on the metal interrogation table. He’d been waiting for an hour now. The older, wiser cop had taken his gun, given him a receipt, searched his briefcase then returned it to him with barely a word. Clay was grateful he’d had the presence of mind to lock Nicki’s case file in his hotel room safe. The only thing he carried in the briefcase was a notepad and a photo of ‘Margo Winchester’.

I don’t have time for this
. The club where ‘Margo’ danced would be open by now. If she was there, he needed to talk to her. He needed to find Evan Reardon so that he could get to Ocean City and start looking for Nicki.

The door finally opened and in walked a tall, dark man in a navy suit. He was in his late thirties. His tie was loosened and his top button undone. He held a Styrofoam cup in one hand and a manila envelope in the other. He put the cup in front of Clay.

‘It sucks, but I assume you’re used to bad coffee since you used to be a cop,’ the man said and sat down across from him. He slid a card across the table. ‘I’m Sherman.’

Detective Richard Sherman, Homicide
, the card read.

Interesting
. ‘Whose body is that in the morgue?’ Clay asked.

Sherman’s mouth curved, but not nicely. ‘Not your brother-in-law’s. Unless you’ve got a different ex-wife than I just talked to. She’s got no brothers and you got no sisters.’

Clay stared. ‘You called my ex-wife?’ They hadn’t spoken in years. ‘Hell.’

Sherman shrugged. ‘You lied to my morgue clerk. I know you used to be a DC cop. I know that now you’re a PI and licensed to carry that weapon. What I want to know is who you’re looking for.’

‘I’m working on behalf of a client.’ Clay hoped like hell Sherman didn’t know he’d visited Sandy Reardon. There was little chance of that, unless Mr Parker reported him. Clay thought Parker trusted the police less than he did, so he was probably okay.

‘Uh-huh.’ Sherman opened the manila envelope and shook a photo onto the table, then pushed it to Clay. ‘Who is she?’

Clay took one look at the close-up of a face, then abruptly pushed it away, bile rising to burn his throat.
Margo
. Or what was left of her. ‘God.’

‘A few days in the Bay’ll do that to a body.’ Sherman turned it over. ‘You have a photo in your briefcase that resembles this woman.’

Clay said nothing for a moment, thinking. It wouldn’t make sense to deny it. It might even help him. ‘The cop that brought me here has a good eye.’

‘That he does. Helped that we’d posted an artist’s sketch of what the girl might have looked like, based on what’s left of her. He also has a good ear, and heard you tell Mrs Klein that you were looking for a woman. Who is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Mr Maynard, please don’t try my patience.’

Clay smiled thinly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I know who she claimed to be, but I found out tonight that she’d lied.’

‘She’s connected to your “brother-in-law”?’ Sherman asked, punctuating the air.

‘Maybe. I don’t know anymore.’

‘Ironic. You go to the morgue looking for one body and find another.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Clay said bitterly. ‘But I really don’t know who she was.’

‘Then who did she claim to be?’

Clay hesitated, then shrugged. ‘A woman named Margo Winchester.’

‘How did you know she wasn’t Margo?’

‘Her father’s neighbor told me Margo was in rehab and had been for some time.’

‘I see. I need to know who your “brother-in-law” is. You must believe he could be dead, since you went searching at the morgue.’

‘I can’t tell you. PI-client confidentiality and all that. I’m sure you understand.’

‘I don’t give a shit about your PI-client confidentiality,’ Sherman said coldly. ‘I’ve got a dead woman in my morgue and she’s somehow connected to a guy you’re looking for. If I don’t get an answer, I could hold you.’

‘But you won’t,’ Clay said, keeping his voice calm. ‘I had nothing to do with this girl’s death.’ At least he hoped so. ‘I’ve been in Maryland until today. You can’t hold me. You’ll let me go, then follow me.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s what I would do.’

Sherman didn’t look impressed. ‘You’re an ex-cop. I’d think you’d want the person who did this’ – he tapped the dead girl’s photo – ‘brought to justice.’

‘I do. I just can’t help you.’

‘Your client could have done this.’

‘How do you know she didn’t just drown?’ Clay countered.

Sherman pushed a different morgue photo across the table, a close-up of the victim’s neck in profile. ‘The gaping wound across her throat was my first clue.’

Clay made himself look at it. There wasn’t much left, but he could see that the knife had sliced side to side, coming up to curve around the woman’s right ear.