Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (31 page)

“It’s important you tell me everything you know. That you consider all the possible reasons someone wanted him dead. A man doesn’t just walk up to a stranger and shoot him in the head. The killer had a reason.”

“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was crazy. Or high on drugs. Robert could have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You don’t really believe that. Do you?”

She paused. Then, softly, she said, “No, I guess I don’t.”

He watched her for a moment, thinking how very vulnerable she looked. Had he been any other man, he would be taking her in his arms, offering her comfort and warmth.

Suddenly he felt disgusted with himself. This was the wrong time to be pressing for answers, the wrong time to be doing the cop act. Yet that act was the only thing that kept him comfortably at a distance. It protected him, insulated him. From her.

He rose from the chair. “I think we both need to get some sleep.”

Her response was a silent nod.

“If you need anything, my room’s at the end of the hall. Sure you wouldn’t rather take my bed? Give me the couch?”

“I’ll be fine here. Good night.”

That was his cue to retreat. He did.

In his bedroom, he paced between the closet and the dresser, unbuttoning his shirt. He felt more restless than tired, his brain moving a mile a minute. In the last two days, a church had been bombed, a man shot to death, and a woman run off the road in an apparent murder attempt. He felt certain it was all linked, perhaps even linked to that warehouse bombing a week ago, but he couldn’t see the connection. Maybe he was too dense. Maybe his brain was too drunk on hormones to think straight.

It was all her fault. He didn’t need or want this complication. But he couldn’t seem to think about this case without lingering on thoughts of her.

And now she was in his house.

He hadn’t had a woman sleeping under his roof since…well, it was longer than he cared to admit. His last fling had amounted to little more than a few weeks of lust with a woman he’d met at some party. Then, by mutual agreement, it was over. No complications, no broken hearts.

Not much satisfaction, either.

These days, what satisfaction he got came from the challenge of his work. That was one thing he could count on: the world would never run out of perps.

He turned off the lights and stretched out on the bed, but still he wasn’t ready to sleep. He thought of Nina, just down the hall. Thought of what a mismatch they’d be together. And how horrified her mother would be if a cop started squiring around her daughter. If a cop even had a chance.

What a mistake, bringing her here. Lately it seemed he was making a lot of mistakes. He wasn’t going to compound this one by falling in love or lust or whatever it was he felt himself teetering toward.

Tomorrow,
he thought,
she’s out of here.

And I’m back in control.

Seven

N
ina knew she ought to be crying, but she couldn’t. In darkness she lay on the couch and thought about those months she’d lived with Robert. The months she’d thought of as stepping stones to their marriage. When had it fallen apart? When had he stopped telling her the truth? She should have noticed the signs. The avoided looks, the silences.

She remembered that two weeks ago, he’d suggested the wedding be postponed. She’d assumed it was merely bridegroom jitters. By then, the arrangements were all made, the date set in stone.

How trapped he must have felt.

Oh Robert. If only you’d come out and told me.

She could have dealt with the truth. The pain, the rejection. She was strong enough and adult enough. What she couldn’t deal with was the fact that, all these months, she’d been living with a man she scarcely knew.

Now she’d never know what he really felt about her. His death had cut off any chance she had to make peace with him.

At last she did fall asleep, but the couch was lumpy and the dreams kept waking her up.

Dreams not of Robert, but of Sam Navarro.

He was standing before her, silent and unsmiling. She saw no emotion in his eyes, just that flat, unreadable gaze of a stranger. He reached out to her, as though to take her hand. But when she looked down, there were handcuffs circling her wrists.

“You’re guilty,” he said. And he kept repeating the word.
Guilty. Guilty.

She awakened with tears in her eyes. Never had she felt so alone. And she
was
alone, reduced to the pitiful state of seeking refuge in the home of a cop who cared nothing at all about her. Who considered her little more than an added responsibility. An added bother.

It was a flicker of shadow across the window that drew her attention. She would not have noticed it at all, save for the fact it had passed just to the right of her, a patch of darkness moving across her line of vision. Suddenly her heart was thudding. She stared at the curtainless squares of moonlight, watching for signs of movement.

There it was again. A shadow, flitting past.

In an instant she was off the couch and running blindly up the hallway to Sam’s room. She didn’t stop to knock, but pushed right inside.

“Sam?” she whispered. He didn’t answer. Frantic to wake him, she reached down to give him a shake, and her hands met warm, bare flesh. “Sam?”

At her touch, he awoke with such a violent start she jerked away in fright. “What?” he said. “What is it?”

“I think there’s someone outside!”

At once he seemed to snap fully awake. He rolled off the bed and grabbed his trousers from a chair. “Stay here,” he whispered. “Don’t leave the room.”

“What are you going to do?”

She was answered by a metallic click. A gun. Of course he had a gun. He was a cop.

“Just stay here,” he ordered, and slipped out of the room.

She wasn’t crazy; she wasn’t going to go wandering around a dark house when there was a cop with a loaded gun nearby. Chilled and shivering, she stood by the door and listened. She heard Sam’s footsteps creak down the hall toward the living room. Then there was silence, a silence so deep it made every breath she took seem like a roar. Surely he hadn’t left the house? He wouldn’t go outside, would he?

The creak of returning footsteps made her back away from the door. She scurried to the far side of the bed. At the first glimpse of a figure entering the room, she ducked behind the mattress. Only when she heard Sam say, “Nina?” did she dare raise her head.

“Here,” she whispered, suddenly feeling ridiculous as she emerged from her hiding place.

“There’s no one out there.”

“But I saw someone. Something.”

“It could have been a deer. An owl flying past.” He set his gun down on the nightstand. The solid clunk of metal on wood made her flinch. She hated guns. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be anywhere near a man who owned one. Tonight, though, she didn’t have a choice.

“Nina, I know you’re scared. You have a right to be. But I’ve checked, and there’s no one out there.” He reached toward her. At the first touch of his hand on her arm, he gave a murmur of alarm. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m scared. Oh God, Sam. I’m so scared…”

He took her by the shoulders. By now she was shaking so hard she could barely form any words. Awkwardly, he drew her against him, and she settled, trembling, against his chest. If only he’d hold her. If only he’d put his arms around her. When at last he did, it was like being welcomed home. Enclosed in warmth and safety. This was not the man she’d dreamed about, not the cold, unsmiling cop. This was a man who held her and murmured comforting sounds. A man whose face nuzzled her hair, whose lips, even now, were lowering toward hers.

The kiss was gentle. Sweet. Not the sort of kiss she ever imagined Sam Navarro capable of. Certainly she never imagined being hugged by him, comforted by him. But here she was, in his arms, and she had never felt so protected.

He coaxed her, still shivering, to the bed. He pulled the covers over them both. Again, he kissed her. Again the kiss was gently undemanding. The heat of the bed, of their bodies, banished her chill. And she became aware of so many other things: the scent of his bare skin, the bristly plane of his chest. And most of all, the touch of his lips, lingering against hers.

They had their arms wrapped around each other now, and their legs were slowly twining together. The kiss had gone beyond sweetness, beyond comfort. This was transforming to lust, pure and simple, and she was responding with such a rush of eagerness it astonished her. Her lips parted, welcoming the thrust of his tongue. Through the tangle of sheets, the barrier of her clothes, she felt the undeniable evidence of his arousal burgeoning against her.

She had not meant for this to happen, had not expected this to happen. But as their kiss deepened, as his hand slid hungrily down the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, she knew that this had been inevitable. That for all his cool, unreadable looks, Sam Navarro harbored more passion than any man she’d ever known.

He regained control first. Without warning, he broke off the kiss. She heard his breathing, harsh and rapid, in the darkness.

“Sam?” she whispered.

He pulled away from her and sat up on the side of the bed. She watched his silhouette in the darkness, running his hands through his hair. “God,” he murmured. “What am I doing?”

She reached out toward the dark expanse of his back. As her fingers brushed his skin, she felt his shudder of pleasure. He wanted her—that much she was certain of. But he was right, this was a mistake, and they both knew it. She’d been afraid and in need of a protector. He was a man alone, in need of no one, but still a man with needs. It was natural they’d seek each other’s arms for comfort, however temporary it might be.

Staring at him now, at the shadow huddled at the side of the bed, she knew she still wanted him. The longing was so intense it was a physical ache.

She said, “It’s not so awful, is it? What just happened between us?”

“I’m not getting sucked into this again. I can’t.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Sam. Not if you don’t want it to.”

“Is that how you see it? Quick and meaningless?”

“No. No, that’s not at all what I said.”

“But that’s how it’d end up.” He gave a snort of self-disgust. “This is the classic trap, you know. I want to keep you safe. You want a white knight. It’s good only as long as that lasts. And then it falls apart.” He rose from the bed and moved to the door. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He left the room.

She lay alone in his bed, trying to sort out the confusing whirl of emotions. Nothing made sense to her. Nothing was under her control. She tried to remember a time when her life was in perfect order. It was before Robert. Before she’d let herself get caught up in those fantasies of the perfect marriage. That was where she’d gone wrong. Believing in fantasies.

Her reality was growing up in a broken home, living with a succession of faceless stepparents, having a mother and father who despised each other. Until she’d met Robert, she hadn’t expected to marry at all. She’d been content enough with her life, her job. That’s what had always sustained her: her work.

She could go back to that. She
would
go back to that.

That dream of a happy marriage, that fantasy, was dead.

S
AM WAS UP AT DAWN
. The couch had been even more uncomfortable than he’d expected. His sleep had been fitful, his shoulder ached, and at 7:00 a.m., he was unfit for human companionship. So when the phone rang, he was hard-pressed to answer with a civil “Hello.”

“Navarro, you’ve got some explaining to do,” said Abe Coopersmith.

Sam sighed. “Good morning, Chief.”

“I just got an earful from Yeats in Homicide. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, Sam. Back off the Cormier woman.”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have to tell me. But you did.”

“Anything going on between you two?”

“I felt she was in danger. So I stepped in.”

“Where is she right now?”

Sam paused. He couldn’t avoid this question; he had to answer it. “She’s here,” he admitted. “My house.”

“Damn.”

“Someone was following us last night. I didn’t think it was prudent to leave her alone. Or unprotected.”

“So you brought her to
your
house? Where, exactly, did you happen to park your common sense?”

I don’t know,
thought Sam.
I lost track of it when I looked into Nina Cormier’s big brown eyes.

“Don’t tell me you two are involved. Please don’t tell me that,” said Coopersmith.

“We’re not involved.”

“I hope to God you’re not. Because Yeats wants her in here for questioning.”

“For Robert Bledsoe’s murder? Yeats is fishing. She doesn’t know anything about it.”

“He wants to question her. Bring her in. One hour.”

“She has an airtight alibi—”

“
Bring her in,
Navarro.” Coopersmith hung up.

There was no way around this. Much as he hated to do it, he’d have to hand Nina over to the boys in Homicide. Their questioning might be brutal, but they had their job to do. As a cop, he could hardly stand in their way.

He went up the hall to the bedroom door and knocked. When she didn’t answer, he cautiously cracked open the door and peeked inside.

She was sound asleep, her hair spread across the pillow in a luxurious fan of black. Just the sight of her, lying so peacefully in his bed, in his house, sent a rush of yearning through him. It was so intense he had to grip the doorknob just to steady himself. Only when it had passed, when he had ruthlessly suppressed it, did he dare enter the room.

She awakened with one gentle shake of the shoulder. Dazed by sleep, she looked at him with an expression of utter vulnerability, and he cleared his throat just to keep his voice steady.

“You’ll have to get up,” he told her. “The detectives in Homicide want to see you downtown.”

“When?”

“One hour. You have time to take a shower. I’ve already got coffee made.”

She didn’t say anything. She just looked at him with an expression of bewilderment. And no wonder. Last night they had held each other like lovers.

This morning, he was behaving like a stranger.

This was a mistake, coming into her room. Approaching the bed. At once he put distance between them and went to the door. “I’m sure it’ll just be routine questions,” he said. “But if you feel you need a lawyer—”

“Why should I need a lawyer?”

“It’s not a bad idea.”

“I don’t need one. I didn’t do anything.” Her gaze was direct and defiant. He’d only been trying to protect her rights, but she had taken his suggestion the wrong way, had interpreted it as an accusation.

He didn’t have the patience right now to set her straight. “They’ll be waiting for us,” was all he said, and he left the room.

While she showered, he tried to scrounge together a breakfast, but could come up with only frozen French bread and a months-old box of cornflakes. Both the pantry and the refrigerator looked pretty pathetic; bachelorhood was showing, and he wasn’t at all proud of it.

In disgust, he went outside to fetch the newspaper, which had been delivered to its usual spot at the end of the driveway. He was walking back toward the house when he abruptly halted and stared at the ground.

There was a footprint.

Or, rather, a series of footprints. They tracked through the soft dirt, past the living room window, and headed off among the trees. A man’s shoes, thick soled. Size eleven at least.

He glanced toward the house and thought about what the man who’d made those prints could have seen last night, through the windows. Only darkness? Or had he seen Nina, a moving target as she walked around the living room?

He went to his car, parked near the front porch. Slowly, methodically, he examined it from bumper to bumper. He found no signs of tampering.

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe those footprints mean nothing.

He went back inside, into the kitchen, and found Nina finishing up her cup of coffee. Her face was flushed, her hair still damp from the shower. At her first look at him, she frowned. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No, everything’s fine.” He carried his cup to the sink. There he looked out the window and thought about how isolated this house was. How open those windows were to the sight of a gunman.

He turned to her and said, “I think it’s time to leave.”

I
SHOULD HAVE TAKEN
Sam’s advice. I should have hired a lawyer.

That was the thought that now crossed Nina’s mind as she sat in an office at the police station and faced the three Homicide detectives seated across the table from her. They were polite enough, but she sensed their barely restrained eagerness. Detective Yeats in particular made her think of an attack dog—leashed, but only for the moment.

She glanced at Sam, hoping for moral support. He gave her none. Throughout the questioning, he hadn’t even looked at her. He stood at the window, his shoulders rigid, his gaze focused outside. He’d brought her here, and now he was abandoning her. The cop, of course, had his duty to perform. And at this moment, he was playing the cop role to the hilt.