The gentleness of the kiss devastated her. Physically. Emotionally. She hadn’t expected him to be gentle—he wasn’t a gentle man—but his mouth…oh, mercy, his mouth. The man knew how to kiss, how to make a woman forget. Even a smart woman, Michelle thought. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew he was the enemy, but at the moment his mouth was making her forget that, too.
Two thunderous knocks sounded. The door swung open.
Betancourt stiffened, cursing exorbitantly. Michelle gasped as he shoved her quickly back. She looked up in time to see Detective Sanderson standing in the doorway, staring at them as if he’d just seen the one-armed man.
Chapter 6
Cory glared at Philip across the span of the gray metal desk. “Are you crazy?”
Philip wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. He didn’t have an explanation; he certainly couldn’t defend what he’d done, so he focused on the file in front of him and brooded. Hell, maybe he was crazy. What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her like that?
“I don’t even want to know what was going on in there,” Cory said.
“Nothing was going on.”
“Sure looked like something to me, Romeo. You had your mouth all over that woman.”
“Keep your voice down.” Philip looked uneasily over his shoulder, irked that he felt the need to do so. It was late; most of the cold case division had already left for the day. Still, he didn’t want it to get around that he’d acted inappropriately with a suspect.
He’d left Michelle with nothing more than a lame apology about the aftereffects of intensity and adrenaline. She’d ada mantly agreed. He suspected they both knew it was a line of bull.
“What the hell were you thinking, Betancourt?”
Had the situation not been so dire, Philip might have laughed at its absurdity. “She was upset. I was trying to…” What the hell had he been trying to do? Make her stop crying? That sounded ridiculous.
“Looked to me like you were trying to give her a tonsillectomy with your tongue.”
“Look, Cory, I’m not going to deny what happened was…inappropriate. It happened. It was a mistake. I’ll deal with it.”
“The only way you can deal with this fiasco is to hand this case over to another homicide team.”
“No.” Another homicide team coming in blind wouldn’t know what Philip knew in his gut about Michelle. God, what did he feel in his gut? Lust? What the hell did lust have to do with guilt or innocence?
“Look, my man, it’s not like we have a shortage of murders in this city.”
“I want this case, Cory.”
“Just the case?”
Philip glared at him.
“You’re too involved, Betancourt, and you know it. First your relationship with Landsteiner’s son, now this…suspect. If Landsteiner gets wind of what happened today, he’ll bury you.”
“I can handle Landsteiner.”
“It’s not Landsteiner I’m worried about.”
Philip rubbed his hand over his face and tried not to remember the heat that had blasted through him when he’d kissed Michelle. “She’s not going to tell Landsteiner a damn thing.”
“How do you know? What would you do if you were facing a murder charge? Be polite? Play by the rules? Even if she was enjoying the hell out of whatever you were doing, a lawyer can twist it around, get her off on a technicality, even sue the city.” A laugh of disbelief escaped Cory. “Betancourt, you’re the last cop I expected to do something so damn stupid.”
A tinge of anger went through Philip. “You want to bail out of this investigation, Cory? If you do, just say the word. I’ll put in for another partner.”
Cory shook his head, but he didn’t look happy. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t operate that way. I’ll go down with the ship. But we both know your butt’s in a major sling.”
Philip sent him a dark look. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Silence reigned for several minutes while Cory pretended to read witness statements. Philip gave the lab reports his halfhearted attention, while his mind churned with the implications of what he’d done. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about Michelle. The kiss had been a mistake. A bad one that could affect not only the case, but his career. He should pass the case to another team. But Philip knew another team, coming in cold, might take the evidence at face value. They might not look beyond the obvious. He couldn’t do that to Michelle. Any cop would see immediately that she had motive, means and opportunity to murder Armon Landsteiner.
The bottom line was that Philip no longer believed she’d done it. The realization made the situation even worse. He trusted his gut, and it rarely steered him wrong. He knew she was hiding something, but he didn’t think that something was a murder confession.
“So what do we do now?” Cory asked.
Philip looked up to see his partner frowning at him. “We work the case, Cory, and we work it hard. I want you to canvas the neighborhood. See if anyone else saw the man in black. Talk to the neighbor again, see if you can get a description. While you’re there, I want you to go back to the murder scene and have Michelle take you through it again.”
“Yeah, better you stay away from her for a while.” Cory’s tone was bone dry.
Philip ignored the jab. “I’m going back to Landsteiner’s mansion to go through his things again and check for anything that might be pertinent. Safety deposit box receipts. Other life insurance policies. Letters. Anything that might point us in the right direction.”
He also planned to do a more thorough background check on Michelle, but he didn’t say as much. Breaking the rules was nothing new to Philip—he was a natural when it came to bucking authority—but he refused to involve Cory any more than he already had. Philip had crossed the line this time, venturing beyond the point of no return. He’d broken not only the department’s code of conduct, but his own set of staunch rules. The hell of it was, he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Michelle Pelletier, with her haunting eyes and mysterious past, had gotten under his skin. She’d invaded his sleep, destroyed his peace of mind. Until he unraveled her mystery, Philip knew he couldn’t stay away from her. He only hoped it didn’t cost him more than he bargained for.
Michelle didn’t want to think about Philip Betancourt. Not today, when her heart was raw and the grief spiked through her like barbed wire. She had to get through Armon’s funeral first; she had to function, deal with the hostility sure to greet her. Then she’d handle Betancourt.
The slate sky broke open, and cold winter rain fell in sheets. Fog rolled in from the gulf, enveloping the city in a gray, swirling mist. Fitting, Michelle thought grimly as she exited the bus at Esplanade. Hoisting her umbrella against the downpour, she started toward St. Louis Cemetery at a brisk clip. She was so preoccupied she barely noticed the mist curling like spindly fingers around the ancient oaks along the boulevard. As she crossed through the wrought-iron gates and the above-ground tombs loomed into view, she understood fully why people referred to this cemetery as the City of the Dead.
Even the angels were weeping today, she thought.
Stopping twenty yards from the crowd, she stood alone among the trees and surveyed the scene. It was late afternoon and pretty soon darkness would descend upon the cemetery. Mercedes, Jaguars and two sleek black limousines crowded the narrow roadway. Beyond, an ocean of black clad mourners gathered beneath the maroon-and-white-striped awning. A strip of plush red carpet dissected a dozen rows of neatly arranged folding chairs. Bloodred roses blanketed a closed casket where Armon Landsteiner had been laid to rest.
Michelle had known this would be difficult. She’d almost convinced herself not to come, but she desperately needed this final goodbye. It didn’t matter that the Landsteiners didn’t want her here. She couldn’t stay away. Armon had been her friend. She had every right to attend his funeral.
As the mourners converged, her thoughts drifted to the steely eyed Detective Betancourt. He’d invaded her mind on more than one occasion
since the incident in the ladies’ rest room—and she still didn’t know what to do about it. She wasn’t impulsive. She certainly wasn’t the kind of woman to succumb to hormonal urges, no matter how powerful. Michelle had no room in her life for hormones or urges. She’d learned the cost of such weaknesses a lifetime ago and vowed never to fall victim again.
Betancourt had attributed the kiss to the intensity of the moment, blaming it on adrenaline, rather than animal attraction. Michelle had agreed wholeheartedly in the awkward minutes that followed. In the two days since, she’d tried hard to believe that adrenaline theory. It was better than believing she might be susceptible to something as banal as lust. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t deny that something powerful had clicked between them.
Michelle couldn’t put aside the way her heart had stum bled around in her chest when his mouth had been pressed against hers. She’d been as close to melting as she’d ever been in her life. She tried to blame her reaction on nerves, even temper, but she was honest enough to recognize simple lust when she felt it. A response she’d just as soon not deal with at the moment, but she no longer had that option. When he looked at her with those turbulent gray eyes, her common sense scattered into a thousand pieces. How on earth could she be thinking of him in terms of physical attraction when he wanted to destroy her?
“I owe you an apology.”
Michelle spun, nearly dropping her umbrella at the sound of Betancourt’s voice. He was standing ten feet away, watching her, holding a wood-handled umbrella. The bottom of his trench coat was wet. She wondered how long he’d been there.
“You’ve already apologized, Detective. I think it would be best for both of us if we just forgot…it ever happened.” Squaring her shoulders, she tightened her grip on the umbrella, determined to keep her hands steady.
He didn’t look satisfied. “I’m going to continue investigating this case. If that bothers you, tell me now, and I’ll pass it on to another homicide team.”
“I’m your number one suspect. What do you expect me to say?”
“I was out of line the other day. It’s your prerogative to tell me if you’ve got a problem with my…conduct.”
The kiss was a problem, she thought, but not in the way he meant. She didn’t want him to know her knees had gone weak, that her blood had pumped heat to every nerve ending in her body the instant he’d touched his lips to hers.
“Would your passing this case to another team slow down the progression of the investigation?” she asked.
Broad shoulders rose and fell. “I think I have a good feel for this case. I think we’ve made some headway.”
She considered the words, realized with some dismay she’d rather have Betancourt on the case than another cop who might be looking for an easy arrest. “I want this case solved, Detective. I want to know who murdered Armon, and why. The truth will exonerate me.”
His gaze traveled to the crowd amassed beneath the awning. “I also wanted to tell you that you were wrong about what you said.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He turned his gaze on her. “You said I wasn’t capable of believing that a young woman from a poor background could be friends with an older, affluent man. You’re wrong. I wanted to tell you that.”
The statement touched her more deeply than it should have. She wanted to shrug it off, just as she wanted to shrug off the emotions that followed. Gratitude, relief—there wasn’t room in her life for those kinds of feelings.
A weary sigh escaped her. “I’m tired of defending my relationship with Armon.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
His gaze burned into hers. “I know.”
The words hit her like a burst of air to oxygen-starved lungs. She heard a sound, her own gasp, and pressed a hand to her mouth. Her vision blurred, and she realized she was going to cry. Unable to speak, blinking back those wretched tears, she tore her gaze from Betancourt and focused on the priest at the podium. Around them, the tempo of the rain increased.
“We’re getting wet, Michelle. You’re shivering. Let’s get under the canopy.”
She hadn’t realized she was shivering. She felt oddly numb to the elements. There were too many emotions banging around inside her to be concerned with the weather. “No.”
“You have a right to be here.”
His perceptivity surprised her. “I don’t want a scene. Not here. Not today.”
“I’m a cop, remember? No one’s going to start a scene with me around.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”
With the temperature hovering near the forty-degree mark, Michelle knew he was right. It was too cold to be standing in the rain and getting soaked. “Just keep your billy club handy, will you?”
Philip grinned, then patted his coat. “Got it right here.”
Michelle felt the stares burning into her as she approached. Scanning the sea of people, she saw disdain in their gazes, heard disgust in their not-so-subtle whispers. They think I murdered Armon. The realization sent choppy waves of outrage slicing through her.
The cloying scent of roses thickened the damp air as she stepped under the canopy. Michelle had sent a spray of flowers anonymously, but the arrangement was modest, and had probably been shoved aside in lieu of a larger, more dramatic one. She spotted the Landsteiners in the front row. Danielle wore a sleek black suit with a fur collar. A netted veil shrouded her face. Derek, as pale and rigid as a mannequin, looked directly at Michelle when she approached. Other than a quick word to his sister, he barely acknowledged Michelle’s presence.
The chairs had been filled, so Michelle and Betancourt stood in the rear next to a table holding a vase of long-stemmed roses. At the podium, a berobed priest recited the Twenty-third Psalm. Michelle listened, trying to take comfort in the words. Grief washed over her. She held off the tears, but the pain in her chest was so sharp she could barely breathe. Through it all, she was aware of Betancourt’s presence. Solid. Powerful. Oddly comforting in light of the circumstances. He was unquestionably there for her in a way no one else could be. And she felt sure he had no idea how much she needed that.
Baldwin delivered his father’s eulogy with the flare of a dramatic actor. Afterward, Michelle was so caught up in her own grief that she didn’t see Danielle and Derek approach until it was too late.
Dread congealed in her stomach. “This is what I wanted to avoid,” she whispered to Betancourt.
“Easy.” Betancourt watched them approach through narrowed eyes, his voice quietly dangerous. “If she lifts a finger in your direction, I’ll haul her downtown so fast she’ll get whiplash.”
“Michelle, darling, I’m so very glad you came.”
Danielle’s syrupy tone put Michelle on full alert. Raising her chin, she gazed coolly at the other woman, her pulse spiking. “Hello, Danielle.”
Lifting her netted veil with a pale hand, Danielle swept her cat-green eyes from Michelle to Betancourt. “Detective. You must be here scoping out suspects. Do you have any leads on who killed my father?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, my partner and I have some leads we’re following up on.”
“Anyone I know?” Her eyes flicked to Michelle, then back to Betancourt.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the case with you, Miss Landsteiner.”
Her eyes cooled several degrees, then she cocked her head and looked at Michelle through her lashes. One side of her elegant, painted mouth twisted into a half smile. “Michelle, I wanted to apologize for what happened the other day at the office. I was distraught. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Michelle’s stomach turned. “All of us were upset, Danielle.”
“You know, I might even be able to get Baldwin to hire you back. I always thought you were such a good little worker. I know you need the money—”
“Actually, I’m looking into other opportunities.
”
“Oh, well, I’m sure Terrebonne’s will hire you back. I hope you’re not angry. I behaved badly. I know you cared for my father. And I’ve done some thinking, Michelle. I’ve decided it doesn’t matter what kind of relationship you had with him. My father was a grown man. He knew what he was doing.”
“Armon and I were friends, Danielle. Nothing more.”
“If he wanted to have a relationship with…someone like you…well, more power to him. I mean, he was a man. Men have needs.” Her eyes flicked down the front of Michelle, pausing on her breasts. “He always had a weakness for…women like you.”
Michelle felt the words all the way to the pit of her stomach, where they churned like shards of glass. She choked back the pain, telling herself it didn’t matter. “I don’t think you knew your father at all.”
“Certainly not like you did.” Danielle’s green gaze spat fire for an instant, then she smiled slyly at Betancourt. “You see, Detective, after Mother died, my father was a very lonely man. Michelle was a waitress at Terrebonne’s when he met her. You know, the restaurant over on Royal where the waitresses wear those short little red skirts? Michelle looked so cute. I remember the first time I saw her. No makeup. Looked like she’d cut her hair with a hedge trimmer. All she ever wore were hand-me-down jeans and cheap T-shirts. Oh, and that little red skirt. I’ll just bet those legs of yours got you a lot of tips, didn’t they, Michelle?”
Michelle felt Betancourt’s hand on her arm, trying to ease her back, but she jerked away. “You’re pathetic, Danielle. If I didn’t dislike you so intensely, I might feel sorry for you.”
Danielle put a red-tipped finger to her mouth. “You know, Michelle, that dress you’re wearing doesn’t look half-bad on you. Of course, it looked better on me, but I didn’t care for the cut. Have you tried on the Ellen Tracy I gave you last year? No, on second thought, I really think that one’s too sophisticated for a little…backwater girl like you.”
The words went through Michelle with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. She’d forgotten the dress she was wearing had once been Danielle’s. “This isn’t the place for a scene.”