Girl Three (26 page)

Jessie shook her head. “He didn’t seem the type to commit suicide. Any idea what the letter said?”

Michael dragged his hand across the stubble on his cheek. He met her gaze and held it with a long, brace-yourself look. “He wrote that he had been in love with Sam, that he’d given her Rohypnol and had sex with her the night she died. He said he couldn’t live with the guilt of killing her.”

Jessie’s stomach pitched. Heat spread through her body but her hands stayed clammy cold. “That doesn’t make sense.”

In a split second, she pieced together all the information she’d learned about Ian’s relationship with Sam. She could argue that he’d taken advantage of Sam by hijacking her eggs and allowing Elizabeth to use them to conceive Liam. She could argue that he saw himself as a pseudo–father figure to Sam, as warped as that sounded. But the idea that he’d been in love with her seemed unbelievable, especially after what Jessie had seen last night between him and Elizabeth. And from the sound of Elizabeth’s claims, she and Ian had been involved before Sam had donated her eggs to Geneticell.

“No, it doesn’t make sense,” Michael said. “And that’s why there’s going to be trouble.”

Jessie closed her eyes, as if that could shield her from what was coming.

“There will be an investigation, if only a cursory one,” he said. “Unless a lot of people have their stories straight, this is going to get ugly.”

The weight of exhaustion bore down on Jessie. She slumped against the pillows on the couch, her shoulder feeling tender. “The truth about Sam’s murder is going to come out.”

He bunched his lips. “Something’s going to come out, but don’t bet on it being the truth. This mess could make it harder to find Sam’s real murderer.”

“Could it have been Ian?” She sat up and looked at Michael, feeling hopeful.

He blew out a breath. “It could have been. We don’t have any conclusive evidence that it wasn’t. But I don’t think so.”

“Me neither.” She frowned. “I wonder how Helena’s taking it, or if Elizabeth knows.”

Michael said nothing. His silence prompted Jessie to think deeper, and guess what he didn’t say.

“You think he was murdered.”

He nodded. “You were getting close to the truth about Sam’s death. You think your father may have orchestrated the cover-up, and I can’t disagree. But let’s leave him out and start from the beginning when Philippe told you about the extortion version of the Hope Campaign. Then you grilled Helena about Sam’s tactics and her involvement.”

Jessie listened, the pressure of regret building in her chest.

“That led to Talmont and the revelation of Sam’s relationship with him,” Michael said, all business. “Then you found out about Sam’s egg donation and Elizabeth’s affair with Ian. All of those people knew or could’ve guessed that you were on to them, whatever their role in Sam’s death.”

“So you think someone murdered him because of me?”

Michael clasped her hand in his. “No,” he said. “By suicide or murder, Ian died because of lies and deceit and disregard for right and wrong. Not because of you.”

She leaned against him. He felt strong and solid and trustworthy. She nestled her head against his chest. “If I’d just gone home and left Sam’s case alone…”

“You couldn’t have done that, knowing what you did.” He smoothed her hair and massaged the back of her neck. Light pressure from his fingers eased her tension. “And someone was nudging you along, sending pictures and raising questions that they knew you’d want answered.”

“And maybe the person who sent the pictures knew that curiosity would get me killed.” She checked his eyes to see if he’d thought of this, too.

“Maybe.” With a feather-light touch, he lifted her chin, his lips inches from hers. “But thankfully, you’re still alive.”

“For now,” she said. “Sam is dead. Ian is dead. And I could be next
.
”

He gathered her to him and gave her a tender, gentle kiss. An undercurrent of lust and longing drew Jessie to him. Pulling him with her, she lay back on the couch.

Michael tempted her with his kisses. She melted into the moment, and flowed with the silky sensations. He propped himself up and gazed at her as if asking permission, his eyes a silvery shade of gray.

She kissed him softly and nodded, unable to resist him.

His fingertips skimmed her breast and she drew in a sharp breath as he reached for the top button of her blouse. She arched her back, ready for his touch. Ready to feel wanted and safe.

One button undone, he traced his finger, hot on her skin, down to the next—a slow trail of seduction that had her mesmerized.

Another button.

The doorbell rang.

Jessie bolted upright, clutching her blouse.

Michael went on alert, his body tense. “You expecting someone?”

“No.” She buttoned her blouse, hands trembling. “No one comes here.”

“Don’t forget Talmont.”

“He didn’t ring the bell.”

“But you took his keys.” Michael’s look turned wary. “Maybe he decided he’d have better luck if he was polite this time.”

“Let me see who it is.” She went to the intercom on the wall next to the door. “Croft residence.”

“Dr. Jessica Croft?” It was a man’s voice, unfamiliar to her. She glanced expectantly at Michael, who’d followed her into the entryway. He shook his head and shrugged.

“Yes,” Jessie answered.

“Detective Davenport, Metropolitan Police. May I come in?”

Jessie’s stomach plummeted. She’d been caught.

Her only hope was that the detective had come to ask about Ian and Sam, not about her.

She took her finger off the intercom button. “Is Detective Davenport your friend?” she asked Michael, whispering for no good reason. “The one who called you about Ian?”

“No.”

Jessie’s pulse surged. She pressed the intercom button. “I’ll be there in just a moment.” She released the button and faced Michael. “Will you stay and listen to what he has to say?”

He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. “Sure. Whatever you want me to do.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Michael assessed Detective Davenport—short and built like a weightlifter. He was serious, but he seemed like a decent guy.

Michael and Jessie sat awkwardly at opposite ends of the couch, miles away from how close they’d been just minutes ago. But the mood had been busted the moment the doorbell rang. Within a second, Michael had convinced himself that Croft stood scowling at the front door. Given the choice, he’d rather it be this cop.

He wished his detective buddy had gotten the nod to interview Jessie. It turned out that Davenport was his partner, but Michael knew him by the name of Dan and only as an acquaintance. Davenport probably had no idea that his partner had leaked privileged information to Michael, and it was better to keep it that way.

All the formalities aside, Davenport got down to his questions. “Dr. Croft, I’m sorry about the recent death of your sister. This is her place, right?”

Michael could tell the guy wasn’t used to questioning beautiful, confident women like Jessie.

“Yes,” she said. “How did you know I was here?”

Michael had seen this side of her before. Ramrod-straight spine, a look in her eyes like she expected the worst and was determined to overcome it. That was the first of many reasons he’d stuck around. He didn’t want her talking to the cops alone.

“Are you acquainted with Dr. Ian Alden?” Davenport asked, whipping out the answer-a-question-with-a-question tactic.

“I’ve met him.” Jessie was too smart to fall for his strategy, so she must have chosen to.

Michael wondered if she was playing her own question and answer game. His nerves tightened as he thought of all the bad ways this could turn out.

“His wife, Helena, suggested we might find you here,” Davenport said.

Jessie shot Michael an isn’t-that-interesting look.

“Dr. Alden is dead,” Davenport said.

Jessie reacted as most people would when they heard the news of the death of an acquaintance. Raised eyebrows, parted lips, eyes wide but not stunned. “How did he die?” she asked.

“That information is confidential at this time,” Davenport said in a by-the-book tone. “We’re investigating his death as a suicide. I’m hoping you can help me confirm some information he left in a note that was found near his body.”

Jessie gave him a tight-lipped half smile, the corners of her mouth rising just enough to be polite, yet not enough to be welcoming. “How is Helena holding up?”

“She found him, so not very well. I think they took her home and gave her a sedative.”

Score one for Jessie. She’d gotten an answer out of Davenport.

“Where was he when she found him?” Michael jumped in. It was a wasted question, since he and Jessie already knew the answer. But someone who hadn’t known would ask.

“At his practice, in the lab.” Davenport turned his attention back to Jessie. “In his note, Dr. Alden claimed to have known your sister, Samantha. Could you describe the nature of their relationship?”

Jessie cleared her throat. “They were having an affair. My sister was in love with him.”

Michael fought the impulse to shout,
What the hell?
Why had she flat-out lied to a detective? And why had she twisted the information he’d confided in her?

“Most people who knew Ian probably had no idea that he was involved with Sam.” Jessie kept talking to Davenport, unprompted, while Michael channeled all of his Secret Service training to maintain his composure.

“I never understood what she saw in him, or why she gambled on a man who was married to her boss.” Jessie’s expression turned rueful. “She pretended to have relationships with other men to cover for Ian’s indiscretion.” Jessie bowed her head.

“Did your sister use party drugs?” Davenport asked.

“Sadly,” Jessie said, “I believe she did occasionally. Ian got the drugs for them. Mostly ecstasy. But sometimes they’d do low doses of Rohypnol.” She shook her head. “I begged her to stop.”

Michael sat dumbfounded. He willed her to look at him but she didn’t. How could he diffuse the situation without alerting Davenport that she was lying? Or without revealing his assignment to Sam and his contracts with Croft? He knew better than anyone that Sam hadn’t been involved with Ian.

Davenport nodded and flipped through a couple of pages in his pocket-sized notebook.

“I was afraid for Sam,” Jessie said. “Worried about the drugs and her job and her judgment.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “All of it came between us. I never imagined things would end like this.”

Michael didn’t either. Reeling, he swallowed hard.

“Did you know Dr. Alden and Miss Croft?” Davenport asked Michael.

He glanced at Jessie before he answered. She met his gaze, but he couldn’t read her eyes. “Only as business acquaintances.” He decided to stick to the short answer strategy and hurry this nightmare along.

“One last thing, Dr. Croft.” Davenport slipped his notebook into his pocket. “Did you meet with Dr. Alden yesterday at his practice?”

Jessie nodded. “I did.”

Davenport’s already-narrow eyes tightened to almost closed. “And what did you discuss?”

“Sam,” she said. “We talked about Sam.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“What the hell was that?” Michael asked Jessie. “You straight-up lied to that detective.”

In Sam’s kitchen, Jessie went through the motions of putting water on the stove for tea she didn’t want—because she couldn’t face Michael. She wished he hadn’t been there when Davenport questioned her. But then again, if he hadn’t given her the critical information about Ian and his suicide note, she wouldn’t have known what to say. She hated to risk alienating Michael, but her commitment to Sam came first.

“And you exploited the information I gave you in confidence,” Michael said.

She leaned against the cool granite countertop and crossed her arms. Yes, she had betrayed his confidence, but for reasons she thought he’d understand. “I was trying to protect Sam.”

He stood in front of her, looking taller than she remembered. “By telling Davenport she was having an affair that she never had? By making up bullshit about her and Ian taking party drugs?” Color rose in his face. “I hope you never decide to protect
me
like that.”

Jessie tensed, his sharp remark striking a nerve. “Don’t worry—I won’t.”

He pulled both chairs away from the table in the dining nook. “Come sit down.”

She hesitated, then walked over to one of the chairs and sat.

He did the same, leaning toward her, his elbows propped on his knees. “Tell me what you were thinking.” He closed his eyes for a second and exhaled. “I’m sure you had a good reason for saying those things.” He turned up his palms. “Help me understand.”

Jessie had rarely encountered a man who could manage his ego and his anger and sit still for an explanation he was likely to disagree with. “I don’t know whether Ian committed suicide or if someone killed him. Davenport probably doesn’t know yet, either. I wanted to tip the scales toward a believable suicide.”

“Why?”

“This could go one of two ways. The cops rule suicide and that likely keeps Ian’s note and all its claims under wraps. It may raise questions about Sam’s death, but the answers are right there in the note.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe that Ian and Sam were having an affair, and I don’t think he was with her the night she died. But I know I didn’t want the things I’ve found out about her to become public. If Ian’s death is ruled a homicide, they will.”

Michael stared out the French doors and nodded. “So that’s the other way it could go?”

“The worst way, yes. A homicide ruling will start an investigation, and Sam’s business will be spread out like a buffet before a grand jury.”

“And?” Michael asked.

“What do you mean,
and
?”

“And Ian’s affair with Elizabeth is exposed. And his use of Sam’s eggs as donor eggs. And his role storing the sperm for her Hope Campaign.”

“All of those things.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “Don’t you think a lot of that will come out when we find Sam’s murderer?”