Monroe, Melody S. - Verdict (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 8
“Anything’s possible, but I know Peter. He wasn’t involved.” Why did he bother explaining? She wouldn’t believe him.
“Are you completely convinced it was a homicide?”
He pulled his thoughts back to comment. “If it wasn’t, Marcardis was one careless and unlucky bastard. I can’t image anyone not shutting off the power when handling electricity.”
“Like Anne-Marie. She was unlucky enough to volunteer to pick up the big bosses and borrow a car rigged to blow up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
Having her on the same page helped him refocus on what they needed to do. He moved out of sight of the crime scene and pulled over. Susan scooted into the front seat, and her lemony scent jerked him from his goals. “I, uh, need to call T-Squared before we get back on the road.” Real cool, Stone. You act like a lovesick teenager.
A moment later he made the call. “Joe’s Bar and Grill.”
“Phillip Marcadis is dead.” No use beating around the bush.
“Lord help us. How did he die?”
He told Tom about the supposed electrocution.
“It was murder. Had to be. How the fuck did someone find out where Marcadis was staying? It took all my skill to get the addresses. And I work here.”
“You find the answer to that question, and we’ll be one step closer to finding the killer.”
Tom must have placed a hand over the phone for a second as a different voice came out muffled. “Sorry about that.”
“What about Caravello? Could he have had anything to do with Marcadis’ death?” He held his voice flat. With Susan next to him, he didn’t want give away his concern.
“Lawyers posted bail right away. He walked last night.”
Shit.
Someone could claim that if Peter had driven straight through, he could have made the twelve-hour drive to Lake City by morning. Stone stole a glance at Susan, but she was staring out the side window. Good. She didn’t need any more ammunition against Peter, which she might turn against him. Losing her fragile trust could jeopardize her life, something he refused to let happen.
* * * *
Peter Caravello dragged his lips along Maria Francisco’s neck, enjoying her smooth skin and delicious scent. He ignored the vibrating phone at his hip.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” She ran a hand down his belly, grabbed his cock and squeezed.
“With what you’re doing? Not on your life.”
She sat back up. “I can’t concentrate when someone wants to talk to you. It could be the lawyers saying they caught whoever is killing those jurors.”
“All right.” He tugged the phone from his pocket. “It’s Stone.” He punched the talk button. “Yeah, buddy.” He ran a hand down Maria’s arm.
“Where are you?”
Peter’s defenses shot up at Stone’s harsh accusation. “I’m home. Why?” Had Stone learned he’d been in jail?
“Another juror was killed about an hour ago.”
“Where?” He lifted Maria off his lap and motioned her away. He didn’t need the distraction.
“Florida.”
Peter let out a laugh. “I’ve been here all morning.” He looked over at Maria and pasted on a smile. She didn’t return his apparent happiness.
“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?” His friend’s tone had softened, but he acted as though maybe Stone still believed he might be guilty of something.
“Always the cop.”
“Answer my question. Please.”
The polite request got to him. “I’ve been at home with Maria since my release.” He motioned he wanted her by his side again now the alert had sounded. She’d have to go back to the hospital soon, and he didn’t want to squander their time together.
“Maria, as in Maria Francisco?”
“The one and only but don’t say a word. No one knows we’ve hooked up.” He’d wanted to tell Stone he’d finally found the woman of his dreams, but he wasn’t willing to listen to him rant and rave about the stupid move. Rival mob families didn’t mix. Especially those with bad blood between them.
“Christ, her old man would have a shit fit if he found out.”
Stone sounded like his old self. All drama and self-righteousness. “Which is why I didn’t tell you before. I don’t need the lecture.”
“Sorry. I of all people understand the need to keep some secrets, well, secret.”
“Thanks.”
“Were you with Maria the night Janet Starkey died?”
Smart man. “Sure was.” He detected a lot of traffic noise. “Where are you? I thought your job was to protect people in their home.”
“I am protecting someone. She’s with me.” Stone relayed the story of the fire and how it had nearly killed both him and the witness. He didn’t mention Susan’s name.
“That must have been scary.” Maria returned to her rightful place on his lap and nuzzled his neck.
“More than you can imagine.”
From the pain in his friend’s tone, he wanted to ask him more details, but now wasn’t time. “I’m glad you’re both okay.”
“Thanks. We got cut off the last time we talked. What did the Bureau have on you that they would come after you and not your good-for-nothing brother?”
“They found Janet Starkey’s wallet at my house, though I don’t know how they knew to look there.” He held his breath, waiting for the recrimination.
“Who could have planted it there?”
Relief washed over him. Stone believed him. “You tell me.”
“James?”
He understood that to the outside world his older brother was the most likely candidate. He had his fingers deep in Dad’s counterfeiting practice, but there was no way James would turn on the only family he had left.
“He has no reason to see me go down. We haven’t spoken much since Dad’s death, but if I’ve made anything clear, it’s I won’t interfere with how he runs his life.”
Maria tapped her watch indicating she had to go soon. He held up a finger.
“You might be right,” Stone said.
“Look I gotta go. Keep in touch.”
The moment he hung up, he wrapped her arms around her waist and leaned his lips close to her ear, her scent arousing him.
“Does he believe you?” she asked.
“Hard to tell when Stone is in cop mode. He could make Mr. Spock look emotional.”
She leaned back and smiled. “Who?”
God, she was sheltered. “No one important. Now where were we?”
She kissed him hard, and he gathered her slim body closer.
Her cell rang and she stiffened. She slipped the phone from her pocket. “It’s Dad. I have to answer it.”
He knew the routine. “Go ahead. We might as well get all the phone calls out of the way.”
She softened her lips and lingered on his mouth before leaning back. “Hi, Dad.” She brushed the bangs way from her face. “I can’t come now. I’m at the hospital doing rounds.” Maria rolled her eyes as she got up again.
He missed her already. Peter mouthed the words, I love you.
Maria blushed. Cute.
“Stacia got sick, and I have to take her shift.” She paced in front of him. “Uh-oh. Code blue. I have to go. Bye.” She disconnected and blew out a breath. “I hate lying to him.”
“You know the consequences if you don’t.”
Chapter Eight
Susan didn’t want to leave the motel bathroom. The shower had removed the day’s grime and had helped lessen the impact of the newest juror’s death despite the horrible incident raising more questions. Where was Marcadis’ bodyguard? Or better yet, had the FBI even sent someone to protect the juror? And why was Marcadis changing a fan on day two of his confinement?
Okay, she could answer that. He needed to be in control of some part of his life. Like me.
Enough. Get out of the shower and stop fixating on what you can’t change. Being cocoon
ed in the tight tiled shower, with the door locked, had given her the sense of security she craved, and she wanted to stay there all night.
A rap sounded on the bathroom door. “Susan, you have to come out sometime.”
Right. Stone needed to shower, and it was probably way past 10:00 p.m. “I’m coming.”
She dried off, changed into her pajamas and gathered the clothes she’d neatly folded. The makeup bag sat on the counter next to his toothbrush and razor. That’s right. His stuff near her stuff.
Don’t do this. After her divorce, she’d sworn off men, but despite her distrust of Stone, he’d uprooted a deep yearning inside her. From the way the jurors’ deaths seemed to tear him apart, he wasn’t involved in what happened to them.
She hoped.
Her hand twisted the knob. She could handle adversity and conflict a hell of a lot better than the fluttering in her belly. She inhaled deeply, hoping to draw on her attorney self-control.
It didn’t work. While she didn’t understand his relationship to the mob family, he hadn’t given her any further proof he was other than what he claimed.
Hell, she was a grown woman on the run, in need of protection. She could swallow her emotional baggage for a night.
She opened the door and stilled. Ohmigod. He didn’t have a shirt on. Her throat turned dry. His bulging shoulder muscles and amazing abs screamed, “touch me.” Not what she needed right now. In a sick way, she wished Peter Caravello was in the room with a gun pointed at her. Then, she’d know for sure which side of the fence Stone was on.
Stay clinical. She pretended she was standing in front of the two-way mirror studying men in a line up. Her gaze travelled the length of his body. A band of what looked like barbed wire ran the circumference of his bicep, along with an unclear design above the barbs. The tattoo appeared old and distorted. She wondered why he chose that disturbing image to mar his perfectly sculpted body. Good. Her description came out objective.
She ripped her gaze from the enticing view and strode past him, hoping he hadn’t caught the stare and the slight mouth drop. The steam followed her out.
“You leave any hot water for me?” His voice held too much teasing and her confidence began to crumble.
She turned and glanced up, failing to block the warmth spreading to her pussy. His eyes were wide, but in an animated way. “What? You’re not into cold showers?” The light tone in her voice held too much sexual innuendo. Damn it.
Flirting drew two people closer, which was not what she needed right now.
His gaze ran the length of her. “I might just need one now.”
If he hadn’t stepped into the bathroom at that moment, he would have caught the intense heat racing up her face. Maybe she’d asked for that response, or maybe it was exactly what she wanted. The banter and humor helped diffuse the bad situation.
Sometimes Stone pissed her off with his too cocky attitude, but his tender side had softened her cold heart. She willed her body to move once he turned on the shower. She wouldn’t think of him naked and soapy. Nope. She wouldn’t let his muscular, hard body cross her mind. Wasn’t going to happen. Then why was she so wet between her legs? Dammit.
Her leg bumped the end of the king-sized bed. It might be large enough for both of them, but there was no way she wanted to be that close to him for hours on end. Besides, she’d get no sleep listening to him breathe, feeling the indent of his body on the bed as he rolled over, or wondering if he’d accidentally wrap an arm around her and pull her tight. How amazing would it be to run her fingers over his rippled abs or have his body pressed tight against hers?
Dear Lord. How long had it been since she’d lusted after a man? A lot more than the six months since her divorce to Carlton. Stop it. Even if he was on the up-and-up, Stone was her bodyguard, paid for by the United States government. FBI employees didn’t have sex with witnesses, or touch them, or pull them against their hard chests.
She scanned the room once more. There wasn’t even enough room for a cot, so they’d have to share. Poor Stone. Every time she rolled over, she might wake him, and God knows they both needed their sleep.
She shoved aside the thrill that snuck into her belly and willed her logical side to take over.
While he did his thing in the bathroom, she slipped under the covers. Her pajamas were flannel. Unattractive and anything but alluring. Good. He’d want to keep his hands to himself.
She ran her fingers along the cool sheets. The clean, crisp cotton made her temporarily forget her dilemma. Fresh linens and a soft bed were better medicine than any pain drugs.
With the television on for background noise, she begged her body to relax. Too bad her mind wouldn’t stop the fantasy of the naked man in the shower. Think Caravello. Her inappropriate lust immediately disappeared. At least one good thing had come from that trial.
Stone must have stayed inside the bathroom a long time, for when she awoke, the lights were off, the television on mute and he was in the chair by the desk. The picture’s glow cast a soft shadow on him. Fully dressed, he was stretched out on the padded chair, much like the first time she’d seen him. He shifted to his other hip, a position that didn’t look comfortable.
“Stone?”
He jumped up and looked right, then left, until his gaze landed on her. “You okay?”
His concern warmed her heart. “Yes. I just wanted to know if you’d rather sleep in the bed.”
He took a step forward, then stopped. “You sure? That chair was rather uncomfortable.”
“Positive.”
He smiled. “My back thanks you.”
Was that all? Or was he afraid what he might do if they snuggled in the same bed? Did the FBI have rules against sleeping with those they protected?
Why couldn’t she ignore what her body wanted? And why now did she suddenly trust him? Was it the way he couldn’t seem to contain the anger about Marcadis’ death? Maybe. What she wouldn’t give to be able to stop analyzing every one of his sentences, every look, every movement.
He took off his shoes before planting himself on top of the spread. He was such a gentleman. With his arms crossed, his face relaxed. She’d been about to say he could slip under the covers to get more comfortable but didn’t want to push the boundaries, or test her resolve.
She clicked off the television. “Good night.”
“Good night, Susan.” His voice came out as soft as melted chocolate, but she refused to read anything into his tone. He’d just woken up, or so she wanted to believe.
She rolled on her side, her back to him and listened to his deep breaths. He didn’t squirm, didn’t roll, didn’t do much of anything, but she’d bet her twenty bucks he was thinking about her.
Her speeding mind refused to slow. “I saw you had a tattoo.”
“Hard not to notice.”
“Smartass.” She rolled over. They were face to face, less than a foot apart, almost close enough to kiss. “What was above the barbed wire?”
“A daisy.”
She nearly choked. “A daisy?”
“Too feminine for you?” He was teasing her again.
She gave in and let the enjoyment roll over her like water to a drought-ridden plant. “Not on you.” And that was the truth. She dared to lean closer but resisted the urge to touch his arm. “The flower looked lopsided.”
“That’s because the flower only has four petals. One at eleven o’clock, one at ten, nine, and eight.”
She let out a chuckle. She loved playing “he loves me, he loves me not.”
“Why only four petals? Would more have cost too much?” She guessed from the way he admired their first town house that he didn’t live in luxury.
“That’s not the reason. I was in four foster homes before I turned eighteen. Hence the four petals.”
Every muscle stilled as sympathy swamped her. “You were in four foster homes? How?” She swallowed her maternal instinct.
He glanced away. “It’s not important enough to discuss.”
Blood thrummed in her head as she awaited his answer. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Oh, crap. Had the daisy been a girlfriend’s favorite flower? Had she been the one woman who’d gotten away?
His tense jaw implied he wasn’t sure how much to tell. He rolled back to face her. “The first foster home I went to was run by nuns. Sister Mary Louise was kind to me, the first person in my life who treated me with respect. She loved daisies.”
Relief ran through her. She tried to imagine what life in an orphanage was like but failed. “What happened?” To the nun, to the love between them, to the little boy?
“Nothing. When a family offered to take me a few months later, she let me go.” Bitterness tainted his words.
He rolled his back to her.
Had he expected a nun to adopt him? How young had he been when he lost his family? He probably wouldn’t tell. From the way his voice wavered, his past had caused him intense pain.
For a brief moment, she was tempted to ask if she could give him a hug to help fight his demons, but who was she to give comfort? She was tempted to touch his skin and smell his scent, but if she did, would she want more?
Dear Lord. She’d never asked if he had a girlfriend or a wife at home. Given his job took him out of town for unknown periods of time, she doubted any woman who loved him would put up with that schedule.
Armed with the new knowledge he’d grown up in foster care, she decided he probably never developed attachments. Receiving or even giving comfort would be foreign to him. He was a protector, the one to decide when to care, what to give of himself.
Then again, most serial killers came from dysfunctional homes, but Stone wasn’t like them. In her heart, she knew he wasn’t out to kill her. As he told her many times, if he’d wanted her dead, he’d have killed her already.
This new aspect of his life lowered her defenses. He had a good heart, but one that had not known much stability or love. How then had he decided to live a life of service?