“Sara, baby. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I am,” I manage to whisper. “I just suddenly felt sick. It came out of nowhere, but it’s passing.”
“Do you need a drink?”
“No.” I manage to straighten. “I’m okay.”
His gaze catches on the desk and he grabs the newspaper, reading what I had minutes before. “You got sick suddenly, huh?” He tosses it back on the desk. “After reading that article?”
“I was supposed to be filling in for her.” My voice trembles. “She was supposed to come back.”
He takes my hand and draws my knuckles to his lips. “I know. Believe me, baby. I know.”
“I know you said the DA is keeping most of this under wraps, but I worry that means there’s a problem we don’t know about. Did you find anything in Mark’s office?”
“He cleaned out his files, so either he’s not planning on coming back anytime soon or he’s protecting his records in case anyone digs around.” He glances at his watch. “We need to go if you’re able?”
“Yes, I’m okay now. I don’t know why reading that affected me like it did.”
Pushing to his feet, he helps me to mine. “Jet lag and stress can be a wicked combination.”
“I talked to Crystal. Mark’s on his way here tonight. She says he’s been by his mother’s side constantly. She asked me to come back to the gallery for a few weeks, and I need to do it. It feels like the right thing to do.”
Chris studies me for a long moment, before he reaches up, gently sliding hair behind my ear. “Then we’ll come back.”
“We?”
“I’m not leaving you here alone with Mark.”
“If this is about what I told you in Paris—”
“It absolutely has everything to do with it. I want to help him, and we will. But I won’t forget that when I was at my weakest, he tried to convince you that he could fuck me out of your system. I don’t trust him.”
I give a choppy nod. “I know. He’s broken.”
“I am, too, but at least I admit it. And I know how powerful pain is. It can drive you insane and it can make you do things you never thought you were capable of doing. Never, ever, underestimate it. Never, Sara.” He molds me close. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
He’s not talking about Mark anymore. He’s talking about him, and us, and where he’s been and fears he will take me. “Yes. I understand.”
Four
Our attorney looks like Vin Diesel in a suit. As he sits down at our table at the coffee shop by the police station he says into his phone, “Hell no, we aren’t coming at two fifteen.” He glances at his Rolex. “It’s one forty-five now and our meeting is set for three. This is a power play meant to make my clients feel unsettled, and I’m not in the mood for this shit. And don’t ask them the bullshit questions we talked about.” He pauses a second and then snorts. “Yeah right. Whatever, Detective.”
“Assholes. All of them,” he grumbles, tucking his phone into his pocket and glancing at Chris. “I’d shake your hand, but I wouldn’t want to break your magic maker.”
“You mean your moneymaker,” Chris jokes back.
“Exactly,” he agrees with a grin before turning to me and shoving his very large hand in my direction. “I’m David, but I guess you figured that out. Hope my crankiness didn’t scare you.”
“No,” I say, shaking his hand. “You didn’t scare me, but this whole process does.”
“Leave it to me, sweetheart, and you’ll be fine. I’ll go Rocky on them if I have to.” He waves down a waitress and orders some triple-venti concoction. Then he says, “Let’s get right to it. Ava has a bail adjustment hearing Friday morning. She hasn’t made her bond, and she wants it reduced so she can be free until the trial. Of course, no one wants that to happen.”
“But it could?” I ask.
“The police have a quandary,” he explains. “They never want to let a murderer out of jail, but they can’t charge a case they aren’t sure will stick in court. And without a body, the odds of that are pretty low. So I predict they’ll drop those charges and focus on the attack on you, Sara.”
“She admitted she killed her,” I argue. “How can that not be enough?”
“Crazy as it sounds,” David replies, “a lot of people confess to crimes they didn’t do. My insider at the station tells me that the police believe Ava is guilty, and they fully intend to hold her. They’ll just need to prove she tried to kill you, and is therefore a danger to you and to society in general.”
He pauses to chug a big gulp of the beverage the waitress set in front of him. “Bail hearings aren’t overly complex, but at a hearing like this one, more details are allowed than usual. If the murder charges are dropped, Ava’s people will say the attempted murder case has no more merit than the murder case did.” He opens his briefcase and removes some sheets of paper, handing one to each of us. “This is my hot topic list that I think you might be asked about today, or in future interviews. Expect to be recorded.”
I scan the list and feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
1. What is your BDSM involvement?
2. How intimate was Sara with Mark?
3. What about with Mark and Ava?
4. Was Chris intimate with Ava or Rebecca at any point?
This is going to feel like a public flogging.
• • •
At ten minutes to three, I’m sitting between Chris and David at a rectangular metal table inside a police interrogation room. Remembering David’s warning that we’ll be recorded, I say nothing as he and Chris talk sports. All the while, David sips from his third triple-caffeinated concoction from the coffee shop, and his foot and knee never stop moving up and down. He’s making me a little nervous. Or maybe it’s the unseen eyes I can feel staring at us from behind the one-way glass in front of us.
My cell phone beeps and I grab it, noting the text is from Amanda. She’s tried to call me three times in the five minutes since we sat down, but the reception in here is horrible and the call keeps dropping.
“Amanda again?” Chris asks.
I nod. “A text this time.” I hold my phone so that we can both read the message. A strange man is outside and he won’t leave. He’s sitting by the door. Ralph and I are afraid to go to our cars.
Chris reaches for his phone. “Tell her I’ll send Jacob over, but she should also call the police.”
“I could tell them here,” I suggest, watching as Chris types a message to Jacob.
David axes that idea. “These guys won’t be a help. It’s faster if she calls.”
I punch in Amanda’s number and get yet another broken signal message while Chris’s phone beeps with a text.
“It’s the room,” David says. “I find I can text but not talk. Step outside but be quick about it. They’re making us squirm for a few minutes, but they’ll be here anytime now.”
I push to my feet and Chris shackles my arm. “Don’t let anyone draw you into conversation. Tell them you can’t talk without David present.”
I nod and he releases me. Stepping outside the door, I enter a bullpen-like room that hums with voices and electronics, where about a dozen desks, some occupied and others not, fill the space. Random people mill around, some noticing me, most ignoring me.
Claiming one of the metal chairs lining the wall, I dial Amanda, who answers on the first ring, sounding breathless and urgent. “Sara.”
“Yes. Are you okay?”
“Yes. For now. I’m sorry to bug you, but Crystal is in some meeting and this guy is creeping us out. I was afraid to call the police and bring more media attention.”
“Chris is sending the head of security from our apartment building to you. His name is Jacob. Let him in when he gets there, but if you feel you’re in danger, call 9-1-1.”
“I’m not sure. He might just be a reporter. I don’t want to make a big deal out of nothing, but Ralph and I are both creeped out.”
“How l
ong has he been there?”
“Not long after you left. ”
I don’t like how that sounds. “Don’t take any chances. Jacob is only five minutes away. Text me when he gets there so I know you’re okay.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I end the call and dial Jacob. “Please tell me you’re almost at the gallery,” I say when he answers.
“About a block away.”
“Good. They say this guy has been hanging by the door since we left.”
“I’ll handle it,” he assures me and when we end the call, I stand up, intending to return to the room. My skin prickles and a familiar surge of power I know can be from only one person washes over me. My gaze lifts and collides with the steely gray stare of Mark Compton. I am frozen, unable to move, unprepared to see him, though Crystal told me he was headed back here. But I am, and my blood is racing in reaction, my heart skipping random beats.
Another man in an expensive fitted suit, much like Mark’s gray one, steps to Mark’s side, his features ruggedly male, whereas Mark’s are of a classical male beauty. And where Mark’s classically clean-shaven and handsome, his short blond hair always neatly groomed, this man’s thick, black hair is long enough to be tied at his nape, and the stubble on his jawline is much heavier than a shadow.
The man says something to Mark, and I get the feeling the stranger is his attorney. Mark barely acknowledges what’s said to him, closing the distance between us with predatory grace: beautiful, powerful, impossible to ignore, and I am his prey.
I’m not immune to Mark’s certain flavor of power and masculinity, but being affected by his larger-than-life presence and wanting him are two different things. It’s a way Rebecca and I differed, and I can’t help remembering her words. He was magnificent. Really, truly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known. Instant lust exploded inside me. I wanted to feel him close to me, to feel him touch me. To touch him.
She’d started out infatuated and then fell in love, and suddenly I’m angry with Mark for not seeing what he had with her, before he lost her. Even more for trying to push her away by involving Ava and Ryan, and possibly others, in their intimate moments.
I step forward, stopping when we are toe-to-toe, but he speaks before I do. “Ms. McMillan,” he says in that low baritone that’s both sultry suggestion and hard steel.
I lift my chin and meet his stare, and I see the barely masked heartache in the depths of those shrewd gray eyes. I see love lost, and my anger is ripped right out of my chest. “Mark,” I whisper, bleeding for him, with him. “It’s good to see you.” Without any conscious decision, I wrap my arms around him and press my cheek to his chest. He doesn’t hug me back but I don’t care. It kills me to realize that Rebecca finally taught Mark what it is to love, and she’ll never even know.
“Ms. McMillan,” he warns tersely. “Now is not the time for affection.”
I step back and put my hands to my hips. “Why don’t you return our phone calls?”
His expression is unreadable, the pain I’d seen minutes before carefully banked. “I’m certain you’re aware that I’ve had my hands full.”
The stranger joins us, his piercing blue eyes finding mine. “This is Tiger,” Mark says. “My attorney.”
“What is it with you men? Do you have a problem using a person’s actual name?”
“You must be Sara,” Tiger comments. “It’s a name I earned, so it’s the one I favor.”
Taking the bait, I ask, “And how exactly did you earn it?”
“I’ll rip your throat out if you cross my clients,” he replies, and I don’t like the subtle threat, real or imagined.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You said ‘you must be Sara.’ How did you know that?”
Mark answers, “I told him of your propensity for too much conversation.”
“Does he know of your propensity for arrogance?” I challenge.
“He does,” Mark confirms, his jaw flexing tightly.
I realize that I’ve hit a nerve of self-blame, a nerve that has to be raw. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “It slipped out. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
He gives me one of those heavy-lidded looks. “Not a problem, Ms. McMillan. I also warned Tiger that you tend to be painfully honest.”
“There’s nothing wrong with honesty,” Tiger comments.
I cut him an irritated look. “There is if it hurts someone.” I turn toward Mark. “Can we talk alone for a minute?”
“No private conversation,” Tiger replies.
I gape at Tiger. “You’re protecting Mark from me?”
“I’m protecting you both from prying eyes,” he says, his tone all business. “Save the hugs and personal conversation for elsewhere.” He glances at his watch. “It’s three. We need to get to our meeting room.”
Three. It hits me now why the police wanted to move us to two fifteen. They were trying to prevent us from running into Mark, and I wonder why. Was it by Mark’s request? I open my mouth to ask, but Mark’s gaze has gone beyond my shoulder, staring intently.
I turn to find Chris standing in the doorway of the interview room, locked in an intense staredown with Mark.
When his attention shifts to me, his eyes are unreadable and his expression stone. He says nothing, but I know what he wants. I walk forward and stop in front of him. “Chris—”
He gives a short shake of his head and then backs into the room. Inhaling, I steel myself for what is to come, and follow him inside to discover two detectives sitting at the table.
Five
Chris and I reclaim our seats, and the relief I feel when he reaches for my hand under the table is immense. This interview is daunting enough without worrying that whatever just happened between him and Mark out there will affect us.
“Nice of you both to finally join us,” the detective directly across from me says. I don’t need to see the badge clipped onto his shirt that reads “Grant” to recognize the sarcastic, cigarette-roughened voice of the man I’d spoken to on the phone while in Paris. His wrinkled white shirt, loose black tie¸ and rumpled salt-and-pepper hair have that hard-edged, hard-living look that completes the package.
“I told you not to go there,” David warns. “She was attacked. She deserved a fucking one-week escape from where the shit went down.”
The second detective, a woman with Barbie doll good looks who sits across from Chris, glares at David. “Do you have to talk like that?”
David snorts. “Afraid someone might find out you like it, Detective Miller?”
I suck in a breath at the smart-ass remark. Chris is stone-faced, but the slight quirk to his mouth says he’s amused, and I try to be comforted by his lack of concern.
Detective Miller makes a disgusted sound, crossing her arms over her navy-blue blazer and white silk blouse. “You’re a real asshole, David.”
I blink in disbelief.
“Language, Detective,” David chides her.
The look they give each other seems more like a simmering connection than scathing distaste.
Detective Grant levels me with a stare that brims with accusation. “Running off to another country is not something a victim does when they want to put a potential murderer behind bars, Ms. McMillan.”
Chris’s fingers flex tightly on my leg. “You know,” he begins with that lethal nonchalant sarcasm, “it really is outrageous, the way victims think you actually give a damn about their emotional trauma. We certainly wouldn’t want you to be inconvenienced by such things.” He sits up, lacing his fingers on the table. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you get retailers and restaurants to post public service notices? It could read: Attention: victims of violent crimes. You are not really a victim until we say you’re a victim. Do not leave town or you risk punishment.”
David barks out approving laughter and downs his coffee. Grant and Miller stare at Chris like he’s grown an extra head, and Chris’s lips curve with undisguised amusement.
The room falls into a silence that seem
s to stretch eternally. Just when I think the empty space is intolerable, and I’ll have to fill it with words, David does the most bizarre thing. He starts singing a Christmas song: “You better watch out. You better not cry.”
Detective Grant snaps, “Enough, David. And stop with all the venti coffees, damn it. Every time you come in here with one of those things, you drive me to the bottle.”
“That’s the idea,” David assures him, and I realize that he has a well-established relationship with both of them. I also start to see him as a calculated loose cannon. He intentionally keeps everyone off balance and out of control, thus he’s the one in control.
Not surprisingly, Detective Grant turns his reprimand from David to Chris with a scathing “As for you, Mr. Merit, I was aware you were an artist—”
“An incredibly rich, brilliant artist,” David inserts, and I almost laugh.
Grant continues, “But no one warned me you were a comedian.”
Chris leans back easily. “I was going for smart-ass.”
“So you intended to be a smart-ass to a police officer,” Detective Miller says tartly.
“Exactly,” Chris agrees. “Just like Detective Grant intended to be a smart-ass to the victim he’s supposed to be protecting. Not exactly the image of public service the campaign stickers I’ve seen all over the city are preaching, now, is it?” There’s a subtle threat beneath the words, a promise that he’ll be outspoken about our treatment if it continues, which is made more powerful by David’s reminder of just how deep Chris’s pockets reach.
“You know,” David chimes in. “I guess we do have to sympathize with law enforcement in election years. The public wants to feel they are being well served and all. The pressure to get a conviction any way you can has to be intense.”
Detective Grant leans closer to David and all but growls, “Don’t throw that election crap at me. We aren’t elected officials in this room. We do our job no matter what year it is.”
“Then do it,” David says. “Get to the questions and save the head games for someone else.”
A muscle ticks in Grant’s jaw but he grabs a folder and opens it. “Ms. McMillan, referencing the police report on the night of the incident, you stated you went to Mr. Compton’s home because you and Mr. Merit had a fight. You felt Mr. Compton could give you advice. You were talking to him in his living room when the trouble broke out. Ryan Kilmer, whom you knew from a work project with Mr. Compton, and the defendant, Ava Perez, whom you knew from the coffee shop she owns, exited the back room, both in half-dressed disarray. Ava saw you and went nuts, attacking you. Mark grabbed her to protect you and told you to leave. You exited the house and Ava followed you, first trying to run you down with a car, and then holding a gun on you.”