There is a hint of concern in his voice I both welcome and reject. “Why is that your business?”
“You are always my business.”
“I was never—”
“Are you at the beach house?” he presses.
“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s my—” I stop myself before I say home and amend to, “I’m here.”
“It’s your home,” he supplies. “Are you still having nightmares?”
“Stop trying to get into my head, Kane.”
“That’s a yes. Lilah—”
“Stop saying my name.”
“I don’t like you being there alone.”
“I was here and alone for months before I left.”
“You were rarely alone and we both know it. And I wanted you here. Come here now.”
I laugh. “Just like that? ‘Come here now,’ and you expect me to come. You are a piece of arrogant work, Kane Mendez.”
“With me is where you belong. Come here.”
“No.”
“I’ll come there.”
“You would make a pretty lawn ornament, but it’s dark, and you would be a wasted decoration. Whatever you think is going to happen, isn’t going to happen.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“If we meet again, and I do mean if, I will look into your eyes and ask questions about your dead employee.”
“Are you saying that you think I killed that woman?”
I do not miss the way he calls her “that woman” without a bleep of silence. It tells me he feels no sense of familiarity to her. Then again, he’s a damn good manipulator. “I didn’t say you killed her, but you are a person of interest.”
“A person of interest,” he repeats. “All right then. Let me be clear, Agent Love. I did not kill that woman, nor did I order anyone to kill her. Nor do I know anything about how or why she died. You’re simply avoiding me.”
“What part of ‘you’re a person of interest in a case I’m investigating’ do you not understand?”
“Let’s remove the barrier. How exactly do I get off the person-of-interest list?”
I’m reluctant to remove this barrier, and yet, I find myself answering him a bit too quickly. “I’ll need a firm alibi. Who were you with? Where were you?”
“An alibi. Of course. That’s logical.”
“Do you have one?”
“Yes. I do.” There are two seconds of hesitation that follow, indicating calculation before he announces, “I was with Samantha. She’ll corroborate my story.”
The woman he was fucking before he was fucking me. I swear if he were here, I’d punch him, and that pisses me off. This shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “I’ll talk to her.”
“I’m a man, Lilah. You weren’t fucking me and she—”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“She’s a fuck. Nothing more.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I repeat tightly.
“I’m coming over. We need to talk about this in person.”
“Yes, well, since I’d like to get fired from this case and go home, please come over. Then I can get on a flight tomorrow morning.”
“Lilah,” he says, his voice back to that mix of sandpaper and silk.
“Fuck you, Kane.”
He laughs, low and sexy, but there is this hint of darkness, this edge, that slides in between the softness and down my spine, a moment before he says, “That sounds like an invitation.” I open my mouth to dispute this idea, but he’s already moved on. “If the nightmares get to be too much,” he says, “you know how to reach me.” The line goes dead.
I suck in air and press the phone to my forehead. Yes. I know how to reach him all too well. Just like I know how his bed feels and how he smells and that he tastes like no one ever has tasted before or after him. Like spiced, dark chocolate that is addictive to the point of being sinister. He is the devil, but then, I am no angel. He made sure of that. He touched my life forever, and I can never undo the way he changed me. And in some of those nightmares he talks about, I imagine what I would become if I ever tasted his version of temptation again. They were—are—the bloodiest of them all.
I set my phone down and grab a note card and pen. I write SAMANTHA YOUNG in huge letters across the card, climb up the steps, and pin the card in the center of the board. I back down the steps, hands on my hips as I stare at the name. She hates me. She’s also rich, devious, insecure, and arrogant. She’s Harvard-educated. She fits the profile I’ve started. And it’s not beyond belief she would have been trying to spy on me with Kane that night. It’s her. She wants me gone. And yet . . . that feels too obvious.
I sit down, my fingers tapping on the desk, when the doorbell rings. Instinctively, I pick up Cujo.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I don’t give myself time to think about who is at the door. I’m armed and I’m ready to deal with a ghost, a man, his ex-girlfriend, or an assassin. The latter being of the most concern, but I doubt he’d ring a doorbell. However, there were no signs of struggle with the prior victims. That won’t prove true if I’m next on the hit list. Cujo says so, I think, marching across the room and down the stairs, the bell ringing another three impatient times. When it begins repeatedly ringing, the grip on my weapon eases. I know who this is, and I’m pretty sure he is here to kill me but will settle for a whole lot of yelling.
As if proving my point, by the time I turn into the shiny dark-gray-tiled foyer, and round the table filled with a massive vase of fake white-and-red flowers, he’s shouting my name. “Lilah, damn it. Open up. I know you’re here.” I reach the door, and he’s already started another round of demands. “Lilah—”
“Hold your horses, already!” I shout, setting Cujo in the corner by the coat closet.
“Lilah, damn it.”
“You said that already!” I call out, reaching for another security panel and keying in the disarming code. It gives me a computerized “system disarmed” in a female voice before I unlock the door.
“I’ll say it ten more damn times if I have to until you open the damn door,” he replies.
I open said “damn door” and I’m immediately facing my brother, and just like old times, he’s sporting a casual look of faded jeans, boots, and a tan, short-sleeved button-down with a badge on the pocket. And while this might be too casual for some in the middle of the elites of his territory, his confident good looks, blond hair, and tall, leanly muscled body now consuming the doorway charm the best of the best.
“Lilah, damn it,” he growls again, his pale-blue eyes fixed on me.
“Andrew, damn it,” I growl right back, and in a blink, he’s pulling me into one of his famous bear hugs, one that makes you feel suffocated and loved at the same time. “I missed the hell out of you, little sis.”
My arms wrap around him, and those emotions I’ve just sworn to be nonexistent expand in my chest, acid ready to destroy me. And yet there is no escaping one reality—his familiar, woodsy scent somehow stirring memories of Christmas trees and family holidays, of all things. Times when Santa Claus and fairy tales felt possible. “I missed you, too,” I confess.
Andrew pulls back, his hands on my arms. “I’m glad you’re here, but I’m pissed. Why the hell are you in my town, my state, and I had to find out from the FBI?”
“I wanted to surprise you. I had no idea another murder would happen when I got here.”
“And you didn’t find me when you got here?” He walks me backward, shuts the door, and then glares down at me, his hands on his hips. “Don’t bullshit me. And what the hell does ‘another murder’ mean? What other murders were there?”
“Maybe we should see if the coffee pot still works.”
“Why do I think I’d prefer a bottle of whiskey?”
I’m the one who needs whiskey to get through this trip, I think as we head toward the kitchen. His phone rings and I hear him answer, but I keep moving, cutting left into the kitchen, and this time it seems my surroundings demand attent
ion. I walk toward the island, actually noticing the granite countertop when it had been just white space the last time I was here. And when I move to the counter between the fridge and the sink where my old Keurig remains, the checkered backsplash in shades of gray catches my eye. I’d sat in the kitchen and helped Mom pick that tile years ago, but it feels like yesterday.
I check the stock of coffee and then inspect the dates on the box to discover it and the creamer are both expired. Sighing, I rotate to find Andrew joining me, fingers diving through his wavy blond hair. “What’s wrong?”
“Aside from a dead body in my territory?” he asks, leaning on the island, hands on the counter behind him. “Some sort of disturbance at the Spielberg property.”
“Do you need to leave?” I ask, trying not to sound hopeful.
“Don’t sound so hopeful,” he scolds, telling me my endeavor of neutrality has failed. “I’m informed about these high-profile situations in my territory,” he adds. “But I don’t answer the calls myself unless absolutely necessary.”
“Of course. I knew that.” I move on to more important matters. Caffeine. “The coffee and creamer are both expired, which is pretty much my definition of hell, just so you know.” Right after nightmares of Kane and me and oceans of blood, I add silently.
“Why the hell are you here, Lilah? And don’t tell me it’s to see me. You don’t even return my calls.”
I lean on the counter, my arms folding in front of me. “There’s a murder in Manhattan that I’m trying to connect to two in Los Angeles.”
“And yet you’re here.”
“It’s close enough to merit a visit home,” I say, the word home uncomfortable on my tongue.
“That’s bullshit. You’re here on the night that a murder is discovered. I assume it’s connected.”