Killer Curves Read online

  Ciaran could only imagine the price in pride Tristan must’ve paid to call in those favors. Just three months ago, his friend had been a detective on the Boston police force at this very station. But he’d quit after Fallon and Shane had almost been killed, and his fiancée had been implicated in aiding the murderer after them. Returning here, facing the men he’d served with, had to be difficult, even though Tristan had been blameless. Didn’t matter, the other man wore his guilt like a shroud.

  About ten minutes passed before Tristan, Ciaran, and Sloane stood in a small room with recording equipment and monitors. With the three of them and two more detectives packed into the room, it was crowded and quickly grew hot. But the comfort was negligible. Every bit of his attention belonged to the monitor and his first glimpse of Drake Morriston.

  The kid lounged in the uncomfortable-looking folding chair as if he were at a party instead of hemmed up in an interrogation room. Handsome, well-dressed, and even through the monitor he contained an entitled air that rubbed Ciaran raw.

  “The smug little bastard hasn’t copped to anything,” Detective Carson, an older black man with salt-and-pepper hair and a build like a bull, muttered. “Your people caught him red-handed with a damn lock-picking kit, and still he denies it. Excuse me, ma’am,” he apologized with a glance toward Sloane. “It’s like he’s playing with us. He keeps hinting he should ask for an attorney, but won’t do it. Like he’s enjoying this.”

  “He probably is,” Sloane murmured, staring at the screen. “He’s arrogant.”

  Detective Carson snorted. “Don’t we know it. Our guy just went back in there with the IP address info and the video footage from the Internet café. We may not be able to use that in court, but Morriston doesn’t know that. We’ll see what he does once he’s confronted with it.”

  Ciaran nodded. Tristan had already informed him that Maddox had provided the police with the footage from the café video feed. Because of the cameras being installed without the café’s permission, chain of custody, and other regulations and procedures, the evidence could never be used in court against Drake. One of the perks about the private sector. They didn’t have all the red tape public servants did. From experience, Ciaran knew how strangling they could be, even if they were necessary.

  “I don’t know how many times I have to explain it, Officer. Oops, I mean, Detective.” Drake grinned, insolence dripping from the gesture. “I was just going by my former teacher’s home to see if she was okay since I’d heard about the troubles she’d been having. I always have the kit on me in case I lock myself out of my house.”

  What ridiculous bullshit.

  “And how did you hear about her ‘troubles’ again?” the detective in the interrogation room asked, leaning back in his chair. Tristan had mentioned his name was Lawson.

  “Here and there. Gossip. Nothing stays secret in our circle very long.” The kid’s tone implied the detective couldn’t understand considering he obviously wasn’t included in Drake’s “circle.”

  “And so you were just dropping by? Even though you’ve left threatening voicemails on her phone, and your parents have tried to have her fired? You just stopped by her house unannounced because you care.”

  “Exactly, Officer.” Drake spread his hands wide, palms up. “And granted, I might have been upset when I left the voicemail, but that’s all. There’s a big step between a message and vandalism and breaking and entering.”

  “Jesus Christ, can you believe this kid?” Detective Paul, the other detective in the room with Ciaran and Sloane, snarled.

  Yeah, he could, Ciaran almost said. Money, privilege, and no morals were a toxic mix.

  “You might be right about that,” Lawson continued, cocking his head to the side as if really considering Drake’s point. “But what about harassing emails and phone calls. That’s not a far leap at all, is it?”

  Drake smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer.”

  The detective didn’t fall for the bait. “You don’t?”

  “Nope.”

  The detective reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and set a small device on the table. One of the newer models of the handheld cameras and recorders GDG employed.

  “Funny,” Lawson mused, pressing a button on the camera and tilting it toward the kid. “This sure does look like you at this computer in the internet café. And since you seem to know about coincidences, you’ll certainly appreciate this one. The emails that were sent to Ms. Barrett originated from the IP address of the computer you’re on. At that specific time. And the café’s records show you signing in for this particular computer. What are the odds, Drake?”

  Shock flickered in the kid’s face before his smirk made an appearance. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “But this is the thing about coincidences, Drake,” Lawson drawled. “One, like you showing up to your teacher’s house with a burglary kit in hand is serendipity. Two, like you sitting at the same computer at the same time those emails were sent is dicey. Three, like the convenience store footage of you buying a burner phone from the same store where the cell that those late-night calls originated from is guilty as hell.” Drake opened his mouth to interrupt, but the detective shot up a hand, forestalling him. “Now, we can play this as an asshole kid who’s mad at his teacher and decided to play a prank and took it too far. Or we can look at this as an eighteen-year-old adult stalking, assaulting, and terrorizing a woman. Which one is it gonna be, Drake?” Lawson leaned forward, a mean, hard as flint note entering his voice.

  Drake froze, and maybe the full implication of the detective’s accusations penetrated that smug exterior and thick head, because he thrust his fingers through his hair, his demeanor cracking for the first time. Huffing out a breath, he crossed his arms, a scowl darkening his brow.

  “Okay, dammit. I sent the emails and called her. But I was just playing, letting her know she can’t treat me like shit. But I didn’t break into her house. Yeah, I was going to go in tonight and throw some things around, but I didn’t do it the first time. And I don’t know shit about an assault. That’s all I’m saying. Get me my attorney.”

  And that was that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Do you believe him?” Sloane’s soft question halted Ciaran, his arm in the air. The four words were the first she’d spoken in the half hour since they’d left the police station and arrived at Ciaran’s condominium. Arms crossed, her hands clutching her elbows, she appeared younger, so vulnerable. The simple ponytail, sleeveless shirt, and jeans solidified the impression of bruised innocence.

  After a second, he switched on the lamp, bathing the living room of his Charlestown condo in a soft, golden glow. The open floor plan with rooms that flowed into one another, couches, tables, and flat screen that shouted Man Cave didn’t near the luxury of her parents’ home, but it suited him. “You didn’t get a chance to eat. Are you hungry?”

  He didn’t answer her question…yet. She seemed two seconds away from crashing, and discussing the topic of Drake Morriston, his crimes, and the threat still unresolved would probably speed up that timeline.

  “No,” she murmured, moving farther into the room. “But I need you to answer my question and stop treating me like I’m about to break. I’m not fragile, Ciaran.”

  Hell, he knew that…intimately. But damn if he didn’t want her to endure any more ugliness tonight. Tomorrow they would head back to the Hamptons. That would be soon enough. Should be. Obviously, Sloane felt differently.

  “All right.” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his pants. “I do believe him. Unfortunately.” Because he’d hoped all this would end tonight. Drake Morriston was immature, spoiled, and a criminal-in-the-making, but he wasn’t sophisticated enough to coordinate the assaults. “His whole demeanor changed when confronted with that video. And why admit to that and not the rest of it? He seemed justified in terrorizing you. If he’d committed the attempted kidnappings and assaults, he would’ve blamed you for
it. Add in, an idiot isn’t behind the rest of these crimes. An amateur, maybe. But not an idiot. And that kid is a flaming idiot.”

  Her shoulders sagged like a deflated balloon, and for several seconds she seemed to curl in on herself. But only for seconds. Before he could make a move in her direction, she straightened, tilted her chin up, and dropped her arms to her sides.

  “Okay,” she said, the same strength in her body coloring her voice. “What now? Where do we go from here?”

  “The two who tried to kidnap you at the school are still in custody. The police are tracking their calls and visiting logs. Tristan has a friend who promised to let him know who they call and shows up to see them. We’re looking into the records and history of your co-workers. We’ve even added your brother-in-law to the list.”

  Her eyebrow hiked up. “Greg? Why?”

  He shrugged. “You said your sister is divorcing him. This could be retaliation. I’ve seen more far-fetched reasons. It doesn’t matter if the person’s motives don’t make sense to us. All that matters is that they make sense to the perp.”

  A beat of silence passed where she rubbed her arms, her attention focused on the bank of windows. “I wanted it to be him,” she admitted. “When we left the house, I hoped all this would end tonight.”

  “I did, too.” His fingers curled into fists inside his pockets, battling the urge to circle her arms and pull her close. “At least if we went back to your parents tomorrow with the truth of what’s been going on, your mother might not rain down the holy hell I saw in her eyes,” he teased.

  A ghost of a smile touched her lips, then disappeared. “True.” Sighing, she smoothed a hand over her hair. “I need a shower. Is it okay if…”

  Her voice trailed off as the memories of why they both would need a shower plummeted in the room, as tactile and real as the furniture between them. Neither had had time since Maddox’s call had come before the sweat had dried on their skin. Tension throbbed like a heartbeat, a subject they couldn’t ignore, but neither wanted to address.

  What the fuck could he say without sounding like a grade-A douche? Sloane, you are the sexiest, hottest women I’ve ever met, and the sex damn near rendered me blind and deaf, but it was a mistake. One we can’t repeat. Sorry. Yeah, douche walking.

  It was the why of the mistake. He’d told himself from the moment she’d walked into GDG’s offices that he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t have her. The last time he’d allowed his feelings, his needs interfere with his training, the woman he’d loved had lost her life.

  Sam didn’t have seconds or minutes. She didn’t have a life any longer. While he, who’d caused her life to be so viciously and violently snatched, drew breath, existed. If every moment of his life was devoted to paying for his terrible mistake, then he would pay that price.

  And he couldn’t allow the temporary oblivion he found in Sloane’s body make him forget that. Because it was temporary. Hell, he couldn’t even sleep next to a woman.

  Not as long as he continued to think of that intimate place beside him as belonging to Sam.

  And how screwed up was that? Holding the spot for a dead woman who would never return like a fucking shrine.

  Yeah, he could try to explain all this to Sloane. Then watch as she tried to get as far from him as possible, placing herself in even more danger.

  Not going to happen.

  “Of course it’s okay,” he said, leading the way down the hall. The condo boasted three bedrooms, one of which he’d turned into a home office. He pushed the door open to the guest room. “You can sleep in here. The bathroom is across the hall. I’ll leave a T-shirt and sweatpants out on the bed for you to sleep in. They’ll be big, but…”

  “Thank you.” She entered the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind her. He stood and stared at the door for several moments, guilt pressing down on his chest like a dumbbell without a spotter to relieve it. The interrogation wasn’t the only thing culpable for the tired wariness on her face. “Jesus,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face and stalking farther down the corridor to his bedroom.

  After depositing the clothes he’d promised on her temporary bed, he jumped in the shower in the bathroom off his room and changed into a clean T-shirt and jeans. When he heard the guest room door open, he already had a cup of coffee waiting for Sloane on the kitchen bar that separated and connected the dining room.

  She appeared on the opposite side of the bar, and he paused, his mug halfway to his mouth. Scrubbed free of makeup with his clothes baggy on her tall, curvaceous build, the impression he had of her earlier returned full force. Young. Vulnerable. Not fragile, but strength that had taken a beaten and needed time to recharge, to become indomitable again. Because that’s how he saw her, even though she couldn’t perceive it in herself…yet.

  Sloane didn’t see a lot of things in herself. Such as her innate sensuality that was as natural as her dark hair and brilliant eyes. Though his shirt hung off her shoulders, the firm thrust of her breasts were unmistakable, the feminine flare of her hips drew his gaze as did the alluring sway when she walked. A man had to be dickless, gay, or dead to not notice her, be tempted by her. And he questioned the first two.

  “Thank you.” She picked up her coffee, sipped, and hummed in appreciation, the pleasure in the sound reminiscent of the moan she made when he thrust a finger inside her.

  Shit. His fingers clenched around his cup, and he completed the coffee’s journey to his mouth. The dark brew scalded his tongue, and he welcomed the burn. It distracted his mind from the other burn in his body.

  “I was thinking about not returning to Southampton tomorrow, and staying here in town,” Sloane said, setting her drink on the bar top.

  “That’s not going to stop the attacks.” As this person had proven, they would follow her.

  “I know,” she agreed. “But with me gone, the threats are removed from my family.”

  “And you’ll also miss out on their anniversary party,” he added, frowning. “Sloane, don’t allow this person to start dictating your life. Caution and awareness are smart, but once you begin to live like a prisoner with fear as your warden, he wins.”

  “I am being cautious,” she insisted. “And practical. If I stay in Boston, the responsibility of guarding me isn’t all on you. There would be a team, and you could have your life back, too.”

  Ciaran stared at her, hearing everything she hadn’t said. “Say it, Sloane,” he ordered, voice quiet.

  She gave him one of her patented duchess smiles, cool, aloof. It lit his temper like a match to dry kindling. “When you took on this assignment, you didn’t expect complications.”

  “Complications being sex,” he stated.

  “Complications being sex with the person you’re charged with protecting. You can’t exactly walk away from me, can you? Keep your distance? Leave afterward?” She studied him, the smile fading and leaving a sadness that scraped at his skin. “Who was she?” she murmured.

  He flinched before he could control the reaction. “What?”

  “You didn’t think I’d put it together?” She shook her head, wearing that same sad expression. “I don’t believe you are a man who can’t love or who doesn’t want it. Just the opposite. I think you’re one of those who love hard…and once. So much that even after four years you can’t sleep next to a woman. Who was she?”

  Fuck. He couldn’t have this conversation with her. The need to escape crawled over him like a hundred marching ants.

  “Sloane.” He pushed away from the bar and circled it. “We’re not going to do this. Not tonight.”

  “Did she leave you?” she pressed as if she hadn’t heard his warning.

  “She’s dead,” he snapped.

  Shock widened her eyes, parted her lips for the soft gasp that echoed in the room. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say anything, hadn’t meant to stay in the goddamn room. Sam, their relationship, her death, getting shot…the images rolled through his mind, tumbling over each other as if they wer
e in a race to flash before his eyes first. To remind him of the woman he’d loved, the grief of loss, the agony of failing.

  Before Sloane, he could compartmentalize the emotions, not let them interfere with his job, his daily life. But she had entered his life, and the memories, the fear, guilt, and pain refused to remain contained. She poked and aggravated the wounds, made him fucking feel.

  He flexed and straightened his fingers, flexed and straightened. As if reaching for something, then pulling back at the last moment. As if craving something, then repudiating himself for the need.

  He dragged both hands over his head. Get away. Leave. Before he did something they would both regret…again. Too much roiled and spun inside him like a tornado sweeping up everything in its path and spewing them out in utter disarray and chaos. That’s what he was right now, an emotional natural disaster.

  Pivoting on his heel, he stalked toward the dining room entrance. If he stayed in this room with her, she would be his next casualty.

  “I’m sorry, Ciaran.”

  Her whisper halted him mid-step. Keep going, keep walking, the tattered remnants of his control shouted. But he slowly turned, faced the woman who he’d seen as his chance at absolution and had become his ultimate test, his temptation. His redemption.

  “For?” he asked, the restraints on his discipline resembling a quickly unraveling rope.

  “For hurting you. I should’ve left it alone,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, you should’ve,” he growled, reclaiming the distance he’d placed between them with deliberate, long strides. He didn’t stop until he caged her against the bar, slapping his palms down on either side of her hips. Lowering his head, he studied her plump, bare mouth, the faint smattering of golden freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, and last, her densely lashed emerald eyes. “You want to make it better, duchess?”