Thrill Me to Death

  They all turned to stare at the car.

  Turning off the ignition, she knew exactly what to expect. Unless she was wearing a sign that said WILLIAM PEYTON’S WIFE: DON’T CATCALL, it was never pleasant to visit a construction site alone. She might be wearing jeans and a plain white cotton blouse, but looking at that crew, dirty, hungry, and ready to impress one another, she might as well have been dressed in a bikini.

  Maybe the bodyguard would have been a good idea.

  She slid out of the car, lifted her chin, and braced herself for the first whistle.

  Nothing.

  Two of the men looked away, a few studied their water bottles with intense interest, and the others merely nodded. Either she looked really bad, or California bred exceptionally polite construction workers.

  As she approached the steps, the two men seated there stood to make room for her. One nodded, the other opened the steel door and held it for her with a quiet, “Mrs. Peyton.”

  What?

  Inside, she came face-to-face with an attractive young woman with frosted blond hair seated at a cheap, pressed-board desk. On it were neat stacks of paper, carefully separated into pink, blue, white, and goldenrod. The place smelled like room-deodorized lavender that barely covered the bitter tobacco odor seeped into the indoor-outdoor carpeting.

  The woman flushed and stood up, with a swipe of her palm over her T-shirt before holding it out to greet Cori. “Hello, Mrs. Peyton.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sandy.”

  Cori shook her hand, certain she must look as stunned as she felt. “Hi, Sandy. Did you know I was coming?”

  She beamed. “No, but I recognize you.”

  Was that possible? “Oh.” Glancing around at the unnaturally immaculate trailer, she tamped down the urge to argue. Surely they’d been expecting someone here.

  There was no shock, no disbelief. No astonishment that the head of the corporation, based three thousand miles away, just waltzed into the construction office that had, conveniently enough, been cleaned within an inch of its life?

  The young woman swept a hand over her desk and file cabinets, indicating the two metal chairs with frayed cushions as though she were showing a Park Avenue apartment. “Just a second, Mrs. Peyton. I’ll get Mr. Nash for you.” She came out from around her desk. “Here, let me take your jacket.”

  Sandy hung the hooded jacket up on the back of the door with as much care as if Cori had handed her a mink coat. Then she disappeared behind a warped paneled wall and reemerged, followed by a stocky man in his late forties, his few hairs plastered to his forehead and a broad smile stretched across his face.

  “I’m Doug Nash, owner of Nash Builders. What a pleasant surprise, Mrs. Peyton.”

  Pleasant, maybe. But so not a surprise.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Before she answered, Doug put a hand on Sandy’s shoulder. “Is fresh coffee brewed, babe?”

  The young blonde nodded enthusiastically and a minute later, Cori was seated in a back office—just as neat—drinking remarkably good coffee from a ceramic mug as Doug Nash proudly showed her pictures of his three children, featured in a family photo on his perfectly organized desk.

  A family, Cori noted, with a mother that didn’t even resemble the woman Nash had just called “babe.” But she gave him the benefit of the doubt; she was overly sensitive on the subject of fidelity.

  When he finished, Doug turned to Cori. “Now, what brings you to the site, Mrs. Peyton?”

  “You have made surprising progress on this property. I was under the impression we’d barely broken ground.”

  His eyes widened. “No ma’am. We’ve really kicked into high gear over the past few months.”

  Since William died. “Who is the architectural and engineering firm?” she asked.

  “A&E’s being done by a company down in San Francisco, ma’am. They got a suit up here every coupla days or so. Got another design-and-construct slave driver breathin’ down my neck, too.” He grinned. “We’re just following orders and doing the job they tell us from Miami.”

  “Who’s your contact at Peyton Enterprises, Doug?”

  A hint of color rose in his ruddy cheeks. “Well, I…I talk to several folks there. Couldn’t say if it was just one. You know, we’re pretty far removed from the head company. I just run the subs, ma’am.”

  Far removed? He’d just said they were following orders from Miami.

  “What’s the status of the sub fulfillment?” she asked.

  “Everyone is on board. ’Course, a lot of the hiring was done before Nash Building took over as the main site contractor three months ago.”

  “Three months ago?”

  He nodded. “The former contractor had to be let go. But you probably know that.”

  No, she didn’t. “Can I take a look at the project management files, Mr. Nash?”

  “Absolutely. You can look at everything. Why don’t I take you on a site tour while Sandy pulls the papers? Then you can take your time and read them all, with a better understanding of the place.”

  She’d seen plenty of partially constructed malls in the last four years. “No, thank you. I’m more interested in the documentation. Specifically, I’d like to look at the original planning-and-feasibility statement.”

  He frowned. “The original? That might be down in San Francisco.”

  “It should be on site.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that. Let me have Sandy dig out what we have.” He stood and left, while Cori bit back a growing sense of frustration. Maybe she should take that tour—to take pictures and demand an explanation from the board.

  When he returned, he was shaking his head. “This’ll take a while, but I’ll get what you want. Sandy will help you, but I gotta pay some of the workers who are anxious to call it a day. Could you come back tomorrow?”

  “You hired day laborers?” She frowned at him. “That’s not Peyton policy.”

  He shrugged. “We’re in a rush to meet the schedule.”

  A rush? “I’d rather not wait for tomorrow, Mr. Nash.” By then, documentation could be changed or destroyed. “Just bring me all the files you have. I’ll pull what I need and take it with me.”

  He didn’t look happy but nodded, and over the next half hour, Sandy loaded up a corner conference table with dog-eared files. Not nearly as neat as what covered the front desk.

  When she’d dropped the last of them, Sandy said, “Would you like me to work with you, Mrs. Peyton? To help you find something in particular? I’m pretty familiar with those files.”

  Cori considered the offer, studying the girl’s pretty face. She reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t quite nail it. “You know, I’m not even sure what I’m looking for, so I just want to peruse.”

  “I’ll be right out here until you’re done, Mrs. Peyton. I can make copies if you like.”

  “Thanks.” Cori settled into the chair at the table and chose a file. “I would love another cup of coffee.”

  “Sure. And, if you don’t mind, I think you might want to move that car. It’s gettin’ an awful lot of attention from the guys and I’m worried one of them is going to scratch it or something.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  Sandy gave her a playful smile. “I’ll move it around back, if you like. I’d love to drive it, even twenty yards.”

  “Sure.” Cori reached down and pulled the Porsche keys from her bag. “Here you go.”

  As she began to read and sift, Cori missed William with a sharp pang. He’d know what all this meant. Materials management, resource requirements estimates, statistical quality control, and pages and pages and pages of something called critical path management—terms she had barely a working knowledge of.

  Running her hand through her hair, she opened the next file and read about concrete pavement strength. She forced herself to think like the lawyer she had once studied to be. What was wrong with the picture? Where were the loopholes, the clues, the evidence…that someone… r />
  That someone what? Built a mall?

  Looking up, she realized the trailer had grown quiet and that dusk had fallen. With a start, she thought of Chase Ryker, who’d probably held her pinot noir–making neighbors at gunpoint by now. She lifted her purse to grab her phone, but the slot that normally held it was empty. Right—she’d taken it out on the way to Petaluma to check in with Marta, but there hadn’t been any answer. Then she’d tossed the phone on the passenger seat to shift gears.

  “Sandy?” she called. “Are you there?”

  At the silence, Cori got up and walked to the front of the trailer. It was empty. Sandy’s desk was closed up for the night, her computer off, her chair pushed in.

  So much for “I’ll stay as long as you need me, Mrs. Peyton.”

  She didn’t remember the phone number to Overlook Glen, but it was on her cell speed dial.

  Holding her purse, she opened the front door of the trailer and took two steps down. The door slammed behind her just as she remembered she’d given Sandy her keys. Swearing under her breath, she turned and grabbed the knob, but it was locked.

  Damn. Maybe Sandy had left the car unlocked. She glanced around the deserted site, then remembered Sandy had said she’d leave it around back. An evening breeze penetrated her cotton shirt, reminding Cori that she’d also locked her jacket in the trailer. She jogged around the other side of the trailer, but the dirt lot was completely empty. Where the hell was her car?

  It was dark, deserted, and she was in a construction site with no phone and no car. She returned to the front of the trailer, climbing the stairs to jimmy the door-knob a few times. On her tiptoes she tried to reach the window, but it was impossible.

  She turned to look at the abandoned construction site behind her. Set far off the main road against a thickly wooded area, none of her options seemed palatable. She could walk directly through the construction site to the main road, which would be the fastest, but construction sites were inherently dangerous. She could follow the chain-link fence that surrounded the property and it would get her to the main road. Where she would…

  Figure it out when she got there. She’d find a gas station or something and call Marta, get the number to her house. Or maybe just get the phone number of her neighbor’s ranch…. Thankful she’d worn jeans and loafers, she started toward the far edge of the site.

  After five minutes of walking along the fence, she realized it was more than a mile to the road. A glance around revealed nothing but high walls of concrete, treacherous-looking rebar beams, trenches, and shadows everywhere. Cori picked up her pace, cursing her stupidity for letting that trailer door lock. At the sound of a car she stopped, peering uneasily into the darkness for lights.

  There were none.

  She quickened her pace, the sound of her feet on the pavement matching the pulse pounding in her ears. Then lights caught her from the left. She turned instinctively toward them, blinded by the halogen beams. The car—a truck by her quick guess—rumbled over a gravel access road. Cori blinked into the lights, her throat tightening.

  Should she wave them down for help? The truck picked up speed, heading straight in her direction. Fear paralyzed her for a second as the headlights bore down on her. God almighty, it wasn’t going to stop.

  She could go left or right, but the truck could follow her. She could hear the rumble of the engine as it got louder, closer.

  She turned and dug her fingers into the fence and started to climb, her loafer slipping.

  She looked over her shoulder. The truck had picked up speed. Turned on its brights. A scream caught in Cori’s throat as she pulled herself up a foot. The horn honked, loud, long, endless, shocking her and making her lose her footing. She slipped back down to the ground just as the truck bore down, closer, closer, then screaming to a stop.

  Trapped, terrified, she turned to face her assailant. If she was going to die, she wanted to know who the hell it was.

  The headlights went off, but white spots still blinded her as the driver’s door opened and someone climbed out. Slow, menacing and deadly.

  Cori sucked in a breath of disbelief. She’d never dreamed it would be him.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  G ifford Jones stumbled into the bathroom and turned the light switch on. But it was still dark.

  He kicked the door closed and rubbed his eyes, nearly doubled over from the pain that pounded his temples.

  “Are you okay, baby?” Breezy called in a sleepy voice.

  Lord Jesus, he was not okay. “I’m fine,” he managed to respond, clearing his throat. “Just getting an aspirin.”

  He waited for a minute. He made lots of trips to the bathroom at night; that wasn’t unusual for him and she generally slept through them all. But tonight Breezy was particularly attentive, and when the headache slammed him, his body, as always, malfunctioned.

  How long would she stay with a man who needed Viagra and still couldn’t satisfy her?

  He rubbed his eyes again. Straight ahead, he could see the vanity and sinks, the marble floor, the edge of the bathtub. But the sides were dark. His peripheral vision was gone.

  How long would she stay with a blind man?

  He knew why he had the headaches tonight. Because he had managed to finagle a meeting that afternoon with Thomas Matuzak. The head of Beckworth Insurance had said just enough to panic Giff.

  They weren’t investigating Corinne—or, if they were, he wasn’t saying. But he could tell they were digging around. Just how deep would they look? And with Corinne in Sonoma…

  Thank God he’d given Nash plenty of warning. Maybe Corinne wouldn’t even go to the site, but if she did, Nash knew what to do. In the meantime, even if she was just taking a break from Miami like Breezy said, he had a chance to really make it look like Corinne killed her husband. But how?

  With no body and a clean autopsy, they would need hard evidence. Something he planted and the insurance company found. But how could he do that?

  The bathroom door flew open. “What is going on, Giff?”

  Tunnel vision forced him to turn his whole head to look at his wife. He could see the concern in her eyes, which suddenly meant much more than the skimpy bra she spilled out of and the tiny lace panties she’d worn to entice him.

  He pressed his fingers to his temple. “Headache.”

  Her features softened as she reached for him. “Oh, baby,” she cooed and put her fingers on top of his and started massaging. “You’re getting these headaches too often.”

  He shut his eyes and closed his hands over her bare waist. “Breezy,” he said, pulling her to him. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  She drew back, her eyes wide. “Giff! What brought that on?”

  “I can’t tell my wife that I love her? It’s true.” They both knew that he married her because she made an incredible accessory to his life: He didn’t try to hide that when they met and she didn’t try to deny it. But over time, she’d become much more than arm candy. Despite her edgy humor, Breezy had a soft heart.

  But was it soft enough to love him…blind?

  “Giff.” She flattened her hands on his cheeks and forced his face to hers. “You have to get help.”

  He tried to shake his head, but she held him firm.

  “Don’t be like that,” she insisted. “Doctors are not all hacks and quacks. I don’t care what happened to your son. You have to go to a neurologist or a specialist. Don’t look at me that way, Giff.”

  He knew the horror that was in his expression. He’d never step foot in a neurologist’s office again. They whipped out their knives and opened heads and killed people. Teenage people. He knew that firsthand.

  “It’s stress,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with me that a long vacation wouldn’t cure.”

  “Then take one.”

  Right. As if he’d leave before he found and hid every sheet in the paper trail. But what if he did go blind? How could he hide anything if he couldn’t s
ee it?

  He could…if the media and company attention was focused on the trophy wife who’d killed her rich husband. But how could he do that? How?

  “How what, baby?”

  He didn’t even realize he’d spoken aloud. “How can I find time to take a vacation? Someone has to run that company.”

  “You can’t run it if you’re dead, Giff.” Her voice was flat, and he could see her eyes were bright with anger. Or tears.

  Tears? From Breezy Jones?

  “You love me,” he said, as though it just dawned on him. And in a way, it had.

  “Of course I do.” She slapped his shoulder playfully and grinned. “You think I married you for money?”

  If his head hadn’t hurt so bad, he’d have laughed. She’d practically audited him before she accepted an engagement ring. But now…now things were different.

  A wisp of hope wrapped around his chest. Did she love him enough to help save him? Enough to set her best friend up for murder?

  He slid his hands up to her breasts, cupping them over her bra.

  “You ready now, Giff?” She leaned her hips into him, and he cursed his limp dick. If only he could make love to her, then afterward, in the dark, he could quietly ask her a hypothetical question. To test her.

  She’d never been one for postcoital chitchat, but right now she seemed so soft. So compliant. He squeezed her tits again and she closed her eyes, shimmying against his useless cock.

  “I thought you had a headache,” she whispered, as though he were raging hard. That was Breezy’s gift. She never complained about his problems, she just helped him solve them.

  And maybe that’s what she could do now.

  He inched her away, returning his hands to her waist and looking into her eyes. What would she do? Turn him in?

  Of course not. This was a girl from Chicago’s South Side. She’d worked too hard to get where she was to let his mistake bring them both down.

  “I have to ask you a question,” he said steadily.

  “Anything, hon.”