Dead By Midnight (26 page)

Face it, Mike, some things just weren’t meant to be.

She lay in his arms, her back to his chest, her naked butt pressed against his arousal. He nuzzled her neck and breathed in the sweet, floral scent of her hair, still damp from the shower they had taken together. He kissed her neck and her jaw and then moved up to circle her ear with his tongue. She moaned softly and cuddled closer as she grasped his hand and brought it to her mouth. She licked up and down each finger and laughed when he groaned deep in his throat.

“You’re wicked,” he told her as he turned her in his arms, bringing them face-to-face.

“And you love it.” Smiling seductively, she winked at him.

“I love you,” Mike said. “I love you so damn much.”

“Not any more than I love you.” Lorie reached up and twined her hands behind his neck. “Sometimes I love you so much it hurts.”

He slipped his hand between her thighs and touched her intimately. “Tell me where it hurts, baby, and I’ll make it stop hurting.”

“Now who’s being wicked?” She laughed as he lifted himself up and over her, bracing himself with a hand on either side of her head. “You know where and you know just what to do.” She spread her legs in a blatant invitation.

Mike lifted her hips as he delved deeply and completely, taking her with a fierce hunger that equaled their mating in the shower less than an hour earlier. He could never get enough of Lorie. The more he made love to her, the more he wanted her.

She came first, crying out his name as her nails bit into his buttocks. That action sent him over the edge, headlong into an explosive orgasm.

He melted down on top of her and lay there until his heartbeat slowed and the aftershocks stopped rippling through his body. When he slid off her and onto his back, she eased away from him and got out of bed.

“Where are you going?” He held out his hand to grasp her and prevent her from leaving.

“I have to go,” she said. “He’s waiting for me.”

“Who’s waiting for you?” Mike sat up in bed.

“The Midnight Killer.”

“No! You can’t go. I won’t let him have you.”

She paused halfway to the door, and then turned and offered him a farewell smile. “I have to go. I have to pay for my sins. Once I’m gone, you can forget me. I can never hurt you or disappoint you ever again.”

Mike jumped out of bed and tried to catch Lorie before she left the bedroom, but his feet were so heavy that he couldn’t move.

“Lorie! I’ll never forget you. Never. Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me again.”

She disappeared down the hallway.

Mike’s chest ached. His breathing became labored. He tried to move, to run after her, but it was as if his feet were glued to the floor.

If he couldn’t stop her, couldn’t save her, then she would die.

If she died, he would die.

Then he heard the gunshots. One. Two. Three. Four. And in between each shot, Lorie screamed, each an agonized plea for help.

He cried out her name repeatedly, his voice intermingling with her screams and the gunshots.

Suddenly silence.

He managed to lift his heavy feet and move toward the door. It seemed to take forever to reach the hallway. Halfway down the hall, he felt something wet beneath his feet. He looked down and saw a narrow red stream trickling along the hardwood.

And at the end of the hall—
God, please, no!

Lorie’s bloody nude body lay there, her beautiful brown eyes staring sightlessly through the slits in the decorative mask covering her face.

Mike woke instantly, but his head felt groggy and he ached deep inside, feeling the loss as if the dream had been real.

He sat up in bed and wiped the sweat from his face with his open palm. God in heaven, he had never had such a realistic nightmare. Yeah, sure, he’d had his share of wet dreams, a lot of them starring Lorie. But despite the orgasm that would require him to change into another pair of clean briefs, what he had experienced was far more than a sexual fantasy. It had been a horror show, a hellish vision that he couldn’t seem to shake.

After pulling himself together, he got out of bed, searched his bag in the semidark and found another pair of briefs. He made his way to the bathroom, disrobed, washed off, and put on the clean briefs.

Before returning to his bed, he once again paused outside Lorie’s room. Her bed was empty.
Where is she?

Just as he barged into her room, halfway convinced that somehow the Midnight Killer had gotten to her, Lorie came walking out of the bathroom connected to her bedroom. When she saw him standing there wearing nothing but his briefs, she stopped cold and surveyed him from head to toe.

“Want something?” she asked.

“Just checking on you. When I saw that your bed was empty, I thought…” He huffed. “Hell, I don’t know what I thought.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I can see you are.”

“It’s three-thirty.” She pointed to the lighted bedside clock. “I’m going back to bed. I suggest you do the same.”

“Yeah, sure. I…uh…I…”

“What?” she asked.

He took a few tentative backward steps. “You know that you don’t deserve what’s happening to you, don’t you?”

She eyed him quizzically. “Yes, I know.”

He nodded.

“Is there anything else?”

He shook his head.

“Good night, Mike.”

“Yeah, good night, Lorie.”

He turned, walked away, and couldn’t get back to the guest bedroom fast enough.

When Nicole Powell woke, she found herself alone in bed. She stretched her arm out over Griff’s side and caressed the wrinkled sheet. The room lay in darkness, only the glow of dawn glimmering through the windows and balcony doors hinting of the time. Since Griff occasionally couldn’t sleep and would get up at odd hours, she wasn’t overly concerned. But she knew that Shelley Gilbert’s murder weighed heavily on his mind, as it did hers. The death of a second Powell Agency employee so soon after Kristi Arians’s brutal murder had the entire agency in an uproar. They had sent Mitch Trahern to Dunmore to represent the agency. As a former federal agent, his investigative skills were unequaled, so Griff trusted him to find out every detail, even confidential information.

She lifted her head enough to look at the bedside clock. 5:38
A.M
. Groaning softly, she turned over and lay flat on her back. When Griff got in one of his pensive moods, she usually left him alone. He often sought her out in his own good time. And if he sometimes kept his thoughts to himself, she knew that he found comfort merely in her presence. She knew because he had told her so. Even now, after three years of marriage, she didn’t always understand her husband.

Flipping over onto Griff’s side of the bed, she grabbed his down pillow and hugged it to her body. She might not always understand him, but she always loved him, even when she was angry with him. He wasn’t an easy man to live with and he would be the first to admit it. Demons from the past haunted him. Dark secrets lay buried in the depths of his soul, secrets that he had been unable to share with her. Secrets that bound him to Sanders and Yvette.

Nicole shoved the pillow aside and got out of bed. After putting on her robe and slipping into her satin house shoes, she went in search of her elusive husband. As she descended the stairs to the main level of their home, the early morning quiet surrounded her. The first place she looked was Griff’s study, his private sanctuary from the world. But the door stood wide open and the room was empty. Had he left the house? Gone for a solitary walk around the lake? If so, he would return soon enough.

Knowing she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, Nic headed for the kitchen. She could make coffee. She might even make scones or muffins and scramble some eggs and have breakfast waiting for Griff when he came in from his walk.

As she neared the kitchen, she noted light coming from beneath the closed door and heard the mumble of voices. Griff was in the kitchen. And he wasn’t alone. Or perhaps he was on the phone talking to Mitch Trahern or one of the other agents.

She tiptoed up to the door and stopped. Listening quietly, she recognized the other male voice. Sanders.

“We must not assume anything,” Sanders said. “Reading more into these deaths than there actually is would be foolish.”

“And ignoring the possibility that Kristi Arians and Shelley Gilbert were killed solely because they were both Powell Agency employees would be just as foolish,” Griff replied. “If someone is targeting our employees—”

“If someone is—and that is a big if—then we have no way of knowing what his motive might be. It could have nothing to do with Malcolm York.”

Nic gasped silently. What would make Griff think someone connected to Malcolm York had targeted Powell agents? York, the man who had kidnapped Griff when he was twenty-two and held him captive for several years, was dead.

“Sanders is right,” a female voice said. “I thought we had agreed that the rumors being propagated in Europe about York being alive were entirely false. We know York is dead. We killed him. He has not come back from the dead.”

An odd mixture of emotions swirled through Nic’s mind. Griff was having a private meeting with Sanders and Yvette, and once again, he had not included her. He had shut her out and was continuing to keep secrets from her.

Her next thought was a totally unselfish one. How terrifying it must be for Yvette to even consider the possibility that her sadistic husband might still be alive.

“York is dead,” Griff said. “On that, we all agree.”

“And the deaths of the two Powell agents could be a coincidence,” Yvette suggested.

“The murders were no mere coincidence,” Griff told them.

“What do you know that we don’t?” Sanders asked.

Nic swung open the door and entered the kitchen. “Yes, Griff, exactly what do you know that the rest of us don’t know?”

Yvette and Sanders turned instantly and stared at Nic, each of them looking as if they wanted to explain their presence and yet waiting for Griff to respond.

Griff’s body stiffened as if preparing for battle, bracing himself for the onslaught of enemy fire. He turned slowly to face her. “Good morning.”

“Apparently not so good,” Nic said.

“Sanders woke me half an hour ago with a report from Mitch Trahern,” Griff said.

Nic slid her gaze over her husband, from his tousled blond hair, across his broad shoulders, and down to his size fourteen leather house slippers. He wore a silk robe over his silk pajama bottoms. When they had gone to bed last night, he had been naked.

“I must have been sleeping soundly,” Nic said. “I didn’t hear Sanders knock.”

“I was already downstairs in my study.”

“Then you were having trouble sleeping?” Not giving Griff a chance to respond, she glanced at Yvette. “How long have you been here?”

“Only a few minutes,” Yvette told her. “Sanders phoned and asked me to come to the house immediately.”

“I see.” She looked directly at Griff. “Another top secret meeting of the Amara Triad, huh?”

“Not top secret,” Griff said. “I saw no reason to wake you since neither of us got much sleep last night. I thought you needed your rest. I intended to fill you in later.”

“Fill me in now.”

Griff nodded. “You know that the Knoxville PD did not reveal the details about Kristi Arians’s murder, telling the press only that her throat had been slit and that was the cause of death. But we know that whoever killed her, mutilated her by cutting numerous triangular-shaped pieces out of her arms and legs.”

“Go on.” But Nic knew before he spoke exactly what he was going to tell them.

“Whoever killed Shelley Gilbert slit her throat and cut triangular pieces of flesh from her arms and legs,” Griff said.

“Oh, my God.” Nic felt sick to her stomach.

Smelling freshly brewed coffee, Lorie followed the scent straight to her kitchen. Bracing herself for whatever lay beyond the closed door—be that Mike still here or Jack having returned or another deputy on guard duty—she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Before leaving the bathroom, she had washed her face and brushed her hair, but she hadn’t bothered with a robe since her lightweight sweats and T-shirt were presentable.

Mike stood at the stove busily scrambling eggs in a bright green nonstick skillet that she had bought at a discount store even though it didn’t match anything in her red, white, and black kitchen. She had fallen in love with that stupid skillet the moment she saw it.

He glanced at her. “Morning.”

“You’re still here.”

“Yep.” He nodded to the table. “I heard you stirring about so I went ahead and set the table. I hope I used the right dishes.”

She glanced at the white Corning Ware plates she had bought at Wal-Mart for everyday use. “They’re fine.”

“There’s coffee.” He hitched his thumb in the direction of the coffeemaker.

After preparing herself a large mug of coffee, she pulled out a chair and sat down. Cupping the mug in both hands, she brought it to her lips and sampled the dark brew. Although it was a little stronger than she liked, she welcomed the caffeine fix.

Mike spooned half the scrambled eggs into her plate and the other half into his. Then he put the platter filled with buttered toast between the jars of strawberry and peach jelly.

“I couldn’t find any bacon or sausage,” he said as he picked up his mug and sat in the seat opposite her.

“I usually don’t eat a big breakfast, just cereal and juice. I seldom buy bacon or sausage.”

Mike nodded, then picked up his fork and dove into the fluffy scrambled eggs. After eating half the eggs and two half slices of toast, he washed it all down with the remainder of his coffee. He wiped his mouth, shoved back his chair, and got up.

“Want a refill while I’m getting mine?” he asked, holding up his mug.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

He glanced at her plate. “You aren’t eating.”

“I’m not used to someone making breakfast for me.”

“Really?” He stared at her, a skeptical expression on his face. “I find it hard to believe that not one of the men you’ve dated cooked breakfast for you.”

“Maybe that’s because none of the men I’ve dated have spent the night and stayed over for breakfast.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that you’ve been celibate for the past nine years.” Mike refilled his mug.

“I don’t care what you believe. Maybe I have been celibate all these years. Maybe I haven’t. It’s possible that I’ve always spent the night at my date’s house. Or maybe he came here and once we finished screwing each other senseless, I sent him away.”

Mike sat back down at the table and looked right at her. “Do you get some perverse pleasure out of taunting me?”

Lorie laughed in his face. “Last night you told me that your personal life was none of my business. That works both ways, you know. Who I’ve had sex with during the past nine years or if I’ve had sex is none of your business.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he told her.

She stared at him, surprised by his instant agreement. “That was too easy. What’s going on?”

“I’m tired of every conversation we have turning into an argument. And since most of the time that’s been my fault, I’m the one putting a stop to it.”

“I’m amazed.”

“You’re amazed that I can be reasonable?” He grinned. “We’re going to be together a lot from here on out. I don’t want to spend most of that time fighting with you.”

“You shouldn’t be here, you know. You should let Jack look after me until I can hire a new bodyguard. I’m sure the Powell Agency can—”

“Damn it, Lorie, I don’t want to argue about this. I’m here and I’m not going away. You’re stuck with me.”

“Until?”

“Until you’re no longer in danger.”

All right. If he could do this, then she could. If he could live in her house, see her day in and day out, sleep just down the hall from her and resist the undeniable attraction between them, so could she. But by God, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

Lorie, Lorie, Lorie, what are you thinking? Mike is doing what he believes is the right thing to do
. His reasoning might be a little skewed, but his heart was in the right place. Mike Birkett was a good man. Instead of making things difficult for him, she needed to help him. No matter what happened between them while they were together, when it was all over, she would have to let him go back to his normal life, a life that could never include her.

“I don’t like that look in your eyes,” Mike said. “You’re plotting something.”

“No, you’re wrong,” she told him and surprised both of them when she reached across the table and clasped his hand. “Thank you, Mike.”

“For what?” He did not jerk his hand away as she halfway expected.

“For being you. For being the kind of man who would risk his life for an old friend.”

He maneuvered their hands until hers was nestled inside his. They stared at each other for an endless moment, and then she pulled her hand away and got up to dump her cold coffee and pour herself a fresh cupful.

Oh dear God, this was going to be hard, damn hard. But she had to keep things on a platonic basis with Mike, for his sake as well as for hers.

Lila Newton had just come on duty at Green Willows Rehabilitation and Convalescence Center when Ransom Owens arrived at 8:05
A.M
. His name was not on the list of acceptable visitors, a list that had been provided by his son, Tyler. As a general rule, Lila was a stickler for rules and regulations, but she also had a soft spot in her heart for Ransom. Actually, she’d had a secret crush on him when they were kids. Her father had been the Owens family’s gardener and Ransom had always treated her kindly, always like the young gentleman he’d been. So, what did it hurt to allow him a few minutes alone with his former wife a couple of mornings each week? After all, it was obvious that the poor man still loved her. And he timed his arrival so that he could feed her breakfast, a chore that would have otherwise fallen to one of the aides. Of course, if his visits upset Ms. Owens, she’d have put a stop to them, but when Lila checked on her after each visit, her patient seemed quite serene.

“Morning, Lila,” Ransom said as he approached the nurses’ station.

“Morning, Mr. Ransom.”

“How is she today?” he asked.

“I was just going to check on her,” Lila said. “Would you care to walk with me? If they haven’t brought Ms. Owens’s breakfast, I’ll see to it right away.”

“Thank you, Lila. You’ve been a good friend to me and to Terri.” He fell into step beside her as they made their way down the corridor.

One of the aides walked out of room 107, smiled at Lila, glanced at Ransom, and hurried to the delivery cart parked in the hallway. Lila entered the room first and checked on her patient, who sat semi-upright in the bed, two pillows beneath her head. Theresa Lenore Tyler Owens, known to one and all as Terri, had once been a beautiful woman. Remnants of that youthful beauty remained, in the blue eyes, the golden hair, the slender curves of her shapely body. But her once peaches-and-cream complexion was mottled and splotchy, her arms and legs an unhealthy white. And her former full, pouting lips were now thin and drawn, the right side of her mouth drooping. She held her stiff right arm close to her stomach.

Terri had been a resident here at Green Willows for several months, her rehabilitation slow and emotionally frustrating. She suffered from aphasia, which affects the ability to talk, listen, read and write. The stroke had occurred on the left side of the brain, the side containing the speech and language center, and had created a severe weakness in the right side of her body. Unfortunately, Terri also suffered from a mild form of dysarthria, where the muscles used for talking were affected by the stroke, causing slowed, slurred and distorted speech.