The Cold Room (14 page)

G
avin was beside himself with excitement. He'd arrived home to find the best possible news.

It was time.

He was trembling, though the fire was lit in the potbellied stove that he kept in the basement for heating emergencies and seductions. The room was bathed in an orangey glow, the flickering flames dancing in the shadows. A small table was set with white linen and fine bone china. Candles in polished silver holders glistened, their light casting pools of yellow on the table. He'd opened a bottle of Silvio Nardi Brunello, poured it into a flat-bottomed crystal decanter to breathe. There was a box of chocolates on the table, divinely rich truffles he had imported especially for this evening. He had one of his favorite operas playing,
Turandot.

Gavin unsnapped the locks on the Plexiglas box. His love lay still. He was overcome for a moment, then gathered himself and lifted her body, setting her gently in the chair closest to the fire. The chair was high-backed; a quick loop of thirty-test line and she was upright. He set her hand on the chocolate, arranged her face in a
smile. There, that was better. In the flickering light, the hollows of her cheekbones were like gorges, her mouth appropriately slack. Her eyes, deepest chocolate, like the truffles, watched him wherever he went in the room.

He settled across from her and poured the wine. Raised his glass in a respectful toast, took a sip. He cleared his throat, and began singing an aria from
Turandot
, softly, under his breath. “Nessun Dorma,” Puccini's fateful words about a lonely princess, silent in her cold room, waiting for the love of a worthy man. He was that worthy man. He had no ear for the tune, knew he couldn't do it justice, but he whispered the phrases, and they flowed around her body, soft as a lover's caress. He hoped she could hear him, wherever she was, hear him making love to her with sweet words.

“…Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio che ti fa mia! Il nome suo nessun saprà e noi dovrem, ahime, morir.”

He dropped to one knee and followed the words in English, whispering still, knowing she'd never fully comprehend in Italian. “On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine.”

He untied her. She leaned on his shoulder in a deathly embrace, her hands dangling down his back, touching him, holding him, and he wept with joy. Scooping her up with both arms, he crossed to the fire. A soft feather mattress with silken sheets was warmed by the flames. He laid her carefully on the bed, arranged her hair to spill over the fluffy pillow. She gazed into his eyes. When he kissed her, and her mouth parted, he nearly lost his mind. So sweet.

He took his time, making love to her gently, not wanting to hurt her. She accepted his embrace, never fighting, always willing. He took her again, and again, and again.

The night passed much too quickly. At the dawn, light
creeping in through the cracks under the doors, Gavin extricated himself from between her legs, leaned up to give her a kiss. She wasn't as stunning in the light.

“It's time to bathe, my love. Oh, why did you have to leave me so soon?”

T
aylor woke with the sun. She'd actually slept, at least six hours straight. Usually in the middle of a case she was up all hours, playing pool to try to calm her nerves. But when she'd gotten home last night, after twenty minutes on the computer confirming that no one in town had the Picasso books available, she climbed into the bed. Baldwin had joined her an hour later, mumbling something about the Met detective that she wasn't awake enough to hear. She'd fallen back to sleep tangled around him like a piece of yarn.

She gave an indolent stretch, then slipped out, trying not to jostle him. No sense in waking him just yet; he'd been out terribly late.

She slipped down the stairs, turned off the alarm, went out the front door for the paper, then headed into the kitchen to start some coffee for Baldwin, tea for her. She flipped the paper over as she went, looked at the glaring headline.

No Clues in the Hunt for the Conductor

Great. Just what she needed; the media getting in the middle of her case, starting a panic among the citizens of Nashville. At least nothing about the posing or the link
to Italy had gotten to the media yet. It would, but with any luck she could contain and control the information.

“Good morning,” a deep voice called out.

She screamed in surprise, the newspaper scattering all over the kitchen floor. There was a man sitting at her kitchen table, a strange man. She fumbled for her weapon but quickly realized she'd been caught at a disadvantage—she was wearing a tank top and a pair of Baldwin's boxer shorts, the waistband folded down three times to fit. The man stood and took a step toward her. She calculated the distance to the block of knives sitting out on the granite countertop. He grinned and held out his hands.

“Whoa, there. Name's Highsmythe. Your chap didn't warn you that he'd brought me along last night?”

Taylor stopped short just as Baldwin came clattering down the stairs.

“Is everything okay? I thought I heard a scream.”

She turned to him, hoping her voice didn't break when she spoke. Jesus. “It's fine. I wasn't aware that we had a guest.”

“Sorry about that. You were conked out when I came in. Loews messed up his reservation, offered to walk him, but it was late, so I just brought him here. Taylor Jackson, meet James Highsmythe.”

The man raised an eyebrow and looked her up and down before meeting her eyes.

Taylor was acutely aware of several sensations at once, mortification crowding out the faint zing she felt when their eyes met. The white tank top she'd slept in was thin and she wasn't wearing a bra. She suddenly felt ice-cold, and knew her body was betraying that. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, “I'll just go get something on,” then scooted out of the kitchen.

She heard Baldwin murmur something, and the Brit had the audacity to laugh.

Damn men. They could wander around barely clothed among strangers and never feel a moment's shame.

By the time she'd managed to get herself together and back downstairs, dressed in yoga pants and a black T-shirt, Baldwin had taken care of brewing her tea and was making breakfast. She accepted a cup gratefully and sat at the table, across from the British cop.

“Memphis was just telling me about life in the Met. Sounds a lot like Metro to me.” He set a plate of eggs in front of her, another in front of Highsmythe.

“Oh?” she said. She saw that Highsmythe had gone pale, wondered if he wasn't feeling well. Probably just tired. Time to fix her earlier inelegance. She handed him the salt and pepper, then shook his hand.

“It's good to meet you. I'm Taylor Jackson. You must be Baldwin's contact from Scotland Yard.”

“Please, do call me Memphis,” he said, a warm smile playing on his lips. He looked down at his cup of tea, and Taylor could have sworn she saw the briefest moment of pain cross his features.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He started, then glanced at her briefly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Jet lag, you know.”

“It's a killer,” Baldwin said. “Sorry for the confusion last night. We'll get you squared away after breakfast.”

“Much appreciated.” Highsmythe picked up his fork with his left hand and delicately placed a bit of egg in his mouth. Exemplary manners, Taylor noticed. The color had returned to his face. She decided he was fine.

A good-looking man, if you liked blonds. She didn't. But she could see how another woman might find him attractive. He looked…beautifully menacing. His fingers
on the teacup seemed ridiculous—perfectly manicured yet thick enough to snap the handle from the china with a flick. He was wearing a gray button-down with a black cashmere sweater over it, tight enough to show both the shirt's excellent tailoring and his muscled chest. His whole countenance was like granite, a block of tension and strength. Intractable, physically and emotionally. Though why she touched on his emotions escaped her.

He was different from Baldwin, whose tall, lean body made her want to reach out and stroke the length of him, to nestle in and not let go. No, Highsmythe was a bundle of violence hiding behind a sculpted facade. She made a mental note to make sure she wasn't alone with him. He unsettled her, and there was no sense in anyone getting the wrong impression.

She finished her eggs, then excused herself. She had things to do before she left for the day. The Brit stood when she did and nodded at her. Well, at least he'd fit in just fine with the rest of the Southern men, who knew just how to treat a lady.

She took her tea and went upstairs, sat down at her desk, pushing all thoughts of strange men in her kitchen away. The first order of business was tracking down the art books.

She hit pay dirt with her first try. The publisher, Taschen Books, had a New York branch. A knowledgeable staffer took down the information, then put her on hold. She came back and told Taylor they didn't have actual copies of the books—the print runs had been small and they were well and truly out of print—but they did have access to the corporate entities who held the electronic files the books were printed from. She'd put in a request first thing, would get back to Taylor with the information. Hopefully this morning. Taylor gave her cell number and a fax number at the office, so they could print
off the two pages in question and get them to her as quickly as possible.

She'd arranged to meet McKenzie at a truck stop at I–65 and Old Hickory at 8:30 a.m. She took a quick shower and was putting her wet hair in a bun when Baldwin appeared in the bathroom doorway.

“You look good wet, you know that?”

She laughed. “You're nuts.”

“I'm not,” he said, reaching for her. “I wish we were alone.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Me, too. What are you going to do today?”

“Depends on what this guy from the Met has to say. I'm going to plug in everything we have down here, too. Something about these cases…well, you know. It feels so similar, but something is wrong. Will you call me when you finish in Manchester, tell me what you have from there? If these cases
are
linked, then the killer has been at this awhile and we might have something to go on. I'll use the new information to flesh out the profile, present it, and hopefully, we'll catch this son of a bitch.”

“Oh, speaking of which, remind me to fax you the ViCAP reports. I found another real possibility down in Chattanooga. I'm going to follow up on that today, too.”

He looked worried. “You didn't tell me you had a third.”

“I don't know if it's linked for sure. Just a gut feeling, you know? I'll get you all the details.”

“Okay. Nice work, by the way. You'd make one hell of an agent.” He kissed her, so deeply it made her dizzy, then gave her a wicked grin. “Don't forget to fax me the ViCAP report.”

“Smart-ass,” she said, but smiled back. “I've got to go. Will you be going to Quantico tonight?”

“Tomorrow. Need to get Highsmythe in front of the rest of the team.” He released her, and she felt that sense of disappointment she always had when they stopped touching. He made her feel alive, and when they were disconnected, she missed the electricity.

She gave him another little kiss, then finished dressing. Baldwin slipped into the shower. She stood in the doorway and watched him this time, his lithe body, the water rushing over his broad shoulders, the way he turned his face into the water like it could wash away the bad things he was forced to see. She felt a tug, deep in her stomach, and sighed. He was just so beautiful. So intelligent, so giving. She was lucky to have him.

She glanced at her watch. If she lingered any longer, she would be late for McKenzie. She opened the door to the shower and motioned for him to come closer. She kissed him this time, and saw the effect it had. Grinning, she tweaked him, then turned to leave.

“You tease,” he called out, and she laughed.

“Sorry, babe. I'm gonna be late. Have a good day.”

She could hear him growling as she walked down the stairs. It tickled her, how she could get him going so easily.

Highsmythe was still in the kitchen, staring sadly into his cup of tea.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“It's empty,” he said, then grinned at her. She smiled back at him. Crazy Brits.

“Enjoy your day,” she said. “See some of Nashville while you're here.”

“I'll do that. Thank you.”

She looked at him a moment longer, wondering if he was being sincere, then grabbed her keys. He was charming, she'd give him that.

“Goodbye, Mr. Highsmythe.”

 

“Goodbye, Miss Jackson,” he said, but the door was already closed. He sat back in his chair, realized he didn't have any breath. He felt like he'd been holding it from the moment she'd sauntered into the kitchen in that tight white top, those incredibly long legs bringing her closer and closer. She was possibly the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen.

He felt a twinge deep in his heart. There were photographs of her and the FBI agent in the living room, taken on a vacation, all smiles and gooey eyes. In the photograph the woman looked a lot like his Evan; he'd been expecting someone who had a similar bone structure, but in person, the dynamic of her was…overwhelming. Tall, lissome, curved in all the proper places, hair the exact same shade of natural honey-blond that Evan had worked so hard to replicate. They didn't smell the same—Evan's shampoo made her hair smell faintly of citrus.

Memphis poured a fresh cup of tea and took a deep swallow. He was mightily impressed. Baldwin had made him the tea—china pot, loose-leaf Earl Grey. The real thing, not those tepid bags with a string hanging over the edge of a plastic cup. He didn't think Americans had any idea how to brew a real cup.

He replayed the morning, moment by glorious moment.

“I'm Taylor Jackson,” she'd said. “You must be Baldwin's contact from Scotland Yard.”

He resisted the urge to correct her—New Scotland Yard, actually, we haven't been Scotland Yard since the 1890s—but bit back the retort.

“Please, do call me Memphis,” he'd managed, then gave her a most winning smile. She'd responded, he felt the grip of her hand tighten just for an instant, and her previously polite smile reached all the way into those loch gray depths. His heart, quite literally, skipped a beat.

“Are you all right?” she'd asked.

God, no. He would never be all right again.

The remembered scent of lemongrass and gun oil forced its way back into his senses, and he looked up, face to face with the woman again. Jesus, at least she didn't smell like Evan. That would have been too much to bear.

“Forgot my phone. Sorry for the interruption.”

He stumbled to his feet, his chair scootching back with a screech, but she'd already turned and was walking back to the garage door. There was something odd about Taylor Jackson's eyes, a clear gray, with the right slightly darker than the left, like a storm was moving in and hadn't reached all the way across her face. She was a true beauty, far from perfect, which gave her even more allure. Good Lord, and she was armed. He was bewitched. He felt himself harden, turned back to the table, busying himself with the plate in front of him. Good grief. He was sporting a stalk like a spotty youth.

What the hell was wrong with him? He took stock of the situation, broke it into pieces, just like the police shrink would want him to. The woman was beautiful, yes. She looked like his dead wife, yes. She was alive, and near, and smiled so very nicely at him, oh, yes. She belonged to the agent he was working with on one of the biggest cases he'd touched on in years, yes again.

He struggled to push the woman from his mind, to get his head back to his job. There were three girls whose deaths needed solving, that's why he was here.

It worked for a few minutes. He poured himself the last of the tea, sat back at the table. He couldn't help himself; his mind drifted back to Taylor Jackson.

There were two huge differences between Taylor's voice and Evan's—while Evan's was almost high-pitched, and her British upper-class diction perfect, Taylor's voice
was deep and smoky, like she'd been up all night, tinged with the slightest of drawls. It did terrible things to his insides.

Evan's eyes were different, too, the color of the warm summer sky. Like his.

For a moment, he and Taylor had been exactly eye to eye. He could have sworn he saw some sort of recognition there, an understanding. But he was tired, and she was too familiar.

He heard the garage door close, she was officially gone. He laughed mirthlessly. Get it together, man. The mental admonishment sounded exactly like his tutor at Oxford, who was also the coach of his house's rowing crew. “Get it together, man. Get your head in the race.” He was relentless on the river—they'd called him the Terror of Balliol College behind his back.

There was a voice by his shoulder. “Hey, Earth calling Memphis! Where did you go?”