Chapter 25
Derek drove his tongue into her mouth,
deepening the kiss, taking her breath away. Capturing her neck and
threading his fingers through her hair, he pulled her into his room
and kicked the door shut. Without conscious thought, going strictly
by instinct, she wrapped herself around him and lost herself
completely in the kiss. His lips were firm and warm, his tongue
moist and hot.
He walked backward, taking her with him
step-by-step, his hands roaming over her shoulders and back, and
then delving lower to cup her butt. Her femininity clenched and
unclenched in an age-old preparation for mating, as her mouth
worked feverishly against his.
When he toppled them over and onto the
bed, she went with him willingly, as hungry for him as he was for
her. Changing the dynamics of the kiss, he eased his tongue from
her mouth and nibbled on her lower lip. She moaned deep in her
throat as he slid his hands between them and lifted the edge of her
T-shirt, exposing her naked belly and the lace bra covering her
breasts. The moment he lowered his head, his breath scorching her
skin, she forked her fingers through his hair and brought his mouth
to her breast. He suckled her through the thin material and then
flicked his tongue across first one hard nipple and then the
other.
Squirming, her body throbbing, she
rubbed herself against him and felt how much he wanted
her.
“Oh, baby . . . so sweet . . .” He
shoved his hand between her thighs and palmed her mound. “We’re
going to be so good together, honey, so good.”
Baby?
Honey?
Generic terms, endearments he had
probably used countless times with numerous women.
He had not called her Maleah. He hadn’t
even called her Blondie.
Her vow to Nic echoed inside her head,
softly at first, but growing louder with each passing second.
I refuse to become another notch on his
bedpost.
Gradually coming to her senses, she
shoved against his chest. His deliciously warm, hairy, muscular
chest.
Stop this right now.
You are not going to have sex with Derek
Lawrence.
“Get off me,” she told him, her voice a
ragged whisper.
“What’s wrong?” He lifted his head and
stared at her. “Did I hurt you?”
Yes, you mortally
wounded me. With words. Baby. Honey.
“No, you didn’t hurt me.” She shoved
him up and off her.
He rolled over onto the bed while she
sat up, took several deep, steadying breaths and started to stand.
He reached out, grasped her wrist and held her in place on the edge
of the bed.
“Look at me, Maleah.”
Now he remembers my
name.
“What just happened?” he
asked.
She looked everywhere but at him. “We
almost made a terrible mistake.”
He sat up so that they were side by
side. He cupped her chin and turned her to face him. “Why did you
stop what was happening between us? You were into it as much as I
was, wanted me as much as I wanted you—as much as I still want you.
You can’t deny the truth.”
“I’m not denying anything.” When she
looked at him, it was all she could do not to give in to her baser
instincts. God, how she wanted him!
“Then please tell me what just
happened? What did I do wrong?”
How did she answer that question? With
a lie? The truth? A half-truth? “You didn’t do anything wrong. I
just came to my senses before it was too late.” Unable to continue
direct eye contact for fear he would know she was lying, she
averted her gaze.
He squeezed her chin. She glared at
him, and then jerked out of his grasp and got up. “Put a shirt on,
will you? You shouldn’t have come to the door half
naked.”
“Are you afraid if I remain partially
unclothed, you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?” he asked
jokingly as he rose to his feet.
“I’m not the one who grabbed you and
kissed you,” she reminded him.
He came up behind her, lowered his head
and kissed the side of her neck. Shivering at his touch, she closed
her eyes and stood perfectly still as he whispered in her ear, “The
moment I opened the door, I knew what you wanted. You were begging
me to kiss you.”
Snapping around with the intention of
blasting him for his accusation, she didn’t realize until it was
too late just how close his body was to hers. Her breasts collided
with his chest as her belly encountered his erection. She sucked in
her breath and shoved against him. Smiling at her, he stepped
backward.
“I wasn’t. I didn’t . . .” That’s it, Maleah, lie to him again. “Despite what you
think, I knocked on your door to tell you that Nic called me with
information.”
He looked at her questioningly.
“Business first, huh?”
“Yes. No. Damn it, you know what I
mean. Business only.”
“Ah, Blondie, do I have to keep telling
you that you’re no fun?”
When she glared at him, he laughed as
he walked over to the dresser, opened a drawer and removed a white
T-shirt. While he slipped into the garment, Maleah pulled out the
desk chair and sat. He turned around, his gorgeous chest now
covered, and grinned when he saw that she had avoided sitting on
the sofa.
“You sure do blow hot and cold, don’t
you?” He flopped down on the sofa, propped his feet up on the
coffee table and crossed his arms over his chest. “You went from
not being able to keep your hands off me to not even wanting to sit
by me.”
“Will you please drop it? If you want
me to take full responsibility for what happened, then I will.
You’re irresistible. I fought my attraction to you for as long as I
could. I took one look at your magnificent bare chest and went
wild. Pick your fantasy, Mr. Lawrence. But that’s it. I am not
going to discuss what happened.”
He ran his gaze over her slowly,
appraisal in his eyes, as if she were an object on the auction
block and he was considering a purchase. “Okay. I’ll go along with
however you want to play this. Let’s chalk it up to just one of
those things.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She couldn’t tell if he was sincere or
if he was making fun of her.
Silence hung between them for several
minutes, then she cleared her throat and said, “Griff received
information from Luke Sentell that, if proven true, could
substantiate your theory that the Copycat Carver is a professional
assassin.”
Uncrossing his arms, his eyes widening
with interest, Derek leaned forward and said, “As much as I like
being proven correct in my assessments, I know I’m not going to
like this new information, am I?”
“Probably not.” Now that they were
discussing their current case, Maleah relaxed. As long as she kept
her relationship with Derek strictly business, she’d be fine. “I
have no idea how Luke made contact with this man, but I assume it
all boils down to who you know. Griff has contacts all over the
world. And we have a former Interpol agent working for the agency
now, as well as Luke, who is rumored to have been a Black Ops
agent.”
“Is there a reason why you’re taking
the scenic route with this information instead of—?”
“Sorry. I was thinking out loud.”
Maleah forced herself to look at Derek. “Luke paid this person,
some man in Austria, for the info, and as of right now, he has no
way to verify the validity of what he was told. But supposedly
there is or was a man named Anthony Linden, a former MI6 agent who
went rogue and became a hired killer. When the authorities caught
up with him about ten years ago, he reportedly killed himself
rather than be captured.”
“Let me guess—Linden didn’t kill
himself. He’s alive and well and still working as a professional
assassin. And for some reason Luke believes Linden may be our
copycat killer.”
She marveled at how easily Derek
connected the dots. She snapped her fingers. “Just like that, you
put it all together. So, how about making an educated guess as to
why Luke and Griff think Linden is our guy.”
“Hmm . . .” Derek stroked his chin.
“The mystery man who calls himself Malcolm York and Anthony Linden
are somehow connected, right?”
“Right. Supposedly Linden is working
for the mysterious Mr. York, who sent him to America six months
ago.”
“Six months ago, shortly before Albert
Durham visited Jerome Browning for the first time, and less than
two months before the Copycat Carver began his murder spree by
killing Kristi Arians.”
“Is Griff right? Is all of this
happening because of him, because the fake Malcolm York is exacting
revenge for the real York?”
“Your voice is trembling,” Derek told
her. “That happens when you’re upset and worried. Tell me what’s
really going on with you.”
Maleah hated that he knew her so well.
Damn his extraordinary powers of observation. “I’m concerned about
Nic . . . and about Griff, too, because she’s worried sick about
him.”
“If I promise I won’t bite, will you
come over here and sit by me?” He patted the sofa cushion. “We’re
friends now, aren’t we? Talk to me. About your concerns for Nic and
Griff and about anything else that’s troubling you.”
She eyed him suspiciously.
He lifted his arms in the air on either
side of him. “I promise I won’t touch you.”
She rose from the chair in a slow,
languid move and walked toward the sofa. “I have to go back to see
Browning tomorrow.”
“No, you don’t. You do not have to see
him ever again.”
“I do. If he knows—”
“He doesn’t know squat,” Derek said.
“The copycat, whoever he is, Anthony Linden or John Doe, didn’t
share any big secrets with Browning. Why would he?”
“But you said that maybe Browning knows
something he doesn’t even know he knows. Maybe he
can—”
“Damn it, Maleah, he can’t help us.”
Derek reached for her, then stopped dead still and clenched his
hands into fists.
She released a relieved breath. If he
had touched her, she didn’t think she could have resisted the urge
to throw herself into his arms.
“Nic said that Griff isn’t sleeping or
eating and he’s pulled away from her. He blames himself for what’s
happened. He thinks it’s somehow his fault that five people
associated with the agency have been murdered.”
“I don’t claim to know any more about
Griffin Powell than you do, but I understand him as one man
understands another. Any man, especially one as powerful as Griff,
hates to admit that something in his past has come back not only to
haunt him, but could be the reason for five murders. And although
he would never admit it, Griff’s scared out of his mind that
something might happen to Nic. He’s the type who wouldn’t want the
woman he loved to see any weaknesses in him, not even if
she was his major weakness.”
“He would rather withdraw from her,
even risk alienating her, than to share his fears with her and let
her help him? That is so wrong.”
“Yeah, I know, but we men are strange
creatures.”
“Would you do that?” she asked. “I mean
assuming you loved someone the way Griff loves Nic, would you put
up barriers to prevent her from—?”
“I’m not Griff. I haven’t lived his
life. I don’t have his secrets. I didn’t say he and I were alike. I
said I understood him as one man understands another.” He gazed
into her eyes. “You and Nic are best friends. You’ve shared
confidences and probably know each other better than anyone else
does. You understand her, right?”
Maleah nodded.
“But even though you and Nic are both
strong, independent women, you’re also different. There are things
she has lived through that you haven’t and vice versa. I can’t see
you letting the man you loved keep secrets from you. If he did,
you’d walk away, wouldn’t you?”
She stared at Derek, wondering if he,
too, had more deep, dark secrets, ones he had never shared with
anyone. “She’s tried leaving him, but she always comes back. Love
makes us weak and it certainly can make fools of us
all.”
“Have you ever loved anyone like that?”
he asked.
“No. Have you?”
“No.”
They sat there staring at each other
for several minutes and finally Derek said, “Okay, Blondie, if
you’re damned and determined to visit Browning again in the
morning, then we need to talk about it. I’ll take on the role of
Browning and play devil’s advocate, no holds barred, and we’ll see
how you react.”
“You want to see just how thick my skin
is, don’t you?”
Derek grinned. “When it comes to
sparring with Browning, I suspect your skin is thick enough. But I
happen to have firsthand knowledge as to just how really soft and
smooth your skin is.”
When she reached over and socked him on
the arm, he held up his hands in a surrender gesture. “For the
record, I want it to be noted that you touched me
first.”
She socked him again, harder the second
time.
“Ouch. That hurt.”
“Good. I wanted it to
hurt.”
“You’re a hard-hearted woman, Maleah
Perdue.”
“Yes, I am, and you’d do well not to
forget it.”
Derek burst into laughter.
“Why are you laughing? Why aren’t
you—?”
He leaned over and without laying a
finger on her, he kissed her. She mumbled and spluttered and then
placed her hands on his chest to push him away. But suddenly, he
lifted his head and smiled.
“Any plans for seduction that you might
have for tonight will have to be postponed to another time,” he
told her. “We’ve got work to do, woman. And work always comes
first.”
She stared at him, completely confused
for a few seconds. Then she realized his intention had been to
lighten the mood. “You’re the most aggravating, infuriating man
I’ve ever known.”
“And that’s what you like about me,
that and the fact that I’m such a good kisser.”
Maleah groaned. Derek was right. He was
a good kisser.
The modified Georgian-style Chappelle
house in Ardsley Park had been built in the center of the lot and
set back off the street. Two towering palms graced either side of
the brick walkway and two overgrown holly bushes the size of small
trees flanked the white brick structure. No doubt, in its day, the
house had been impressive, and it was still a lovely old home. A
wide variety of eclectic styles created a diversity of houses in
the area, which stretched from Bull Street on the west to Waters
Avenue on the east, and from Victory Drive north to Derenne Avenue
south. He could leave the Chappelle home after he finished his job
and be on I-16 in about ten minutes. By daylight that morning, he
would be more than halfway to Atlanta.
While Poppy had attended church with
her grandmother and the housekeeper on Sunday, he had broken the
lock on the outside entrance to the basement at the side of the
house and had slipped inside without any trouble. As luck would
have it, the old woman hadn’t put in a security system, so he had
been able to go upstairs and take his time familiarizing himself
with all the rooms. Twelve in all, not counting bathrooms and two
sun porches.
Mrs. Carolyn Chappelle’s room had been
easy to spot. It was the largest bedroom which also included a
sitting area in front of heavily draped bay windows overlooking the
front lawn. The antique furniture, polished to shining perfection,
overfilled the space, making the room feel cluttered. In
comparison, the housekeeper’s eight-by-ten room, that probably had
originally been the nursery, was sparsely furnished and excessively
neat. Wooden shutters covered the single window. He had checked
each of the other bedrooms, searching for Poppy’s room, and when he
found it, he wondered if it had once belonged to her aunt Mary Lee.
Two large windows overlooked the pool and enclosed patio. Feminine
to the point of being frilly, the white French Provincial
furniture, lace adorned drapes and bedding, and floral wallpaper
seemed, as did the other rooms in the house, to be trapped in a
time long past.
Moonlight illuminated the predawn sky
and cast shadows over the lawn. Tree branches swayed in the warm
summer breeze, their tips scratching at the upstairs windows on the
east end of the house. Security lights at the back of the house
kept the pool area well lit, but the basement door, the lock now
broken, lay hidden in darkness behind a row of red
azaleas.
He had parked his rental car in the
driveway. If by any chance some neighbor happened to be awake at
this hour and looked out a window, he or she would see a
nondescript sedan and possibly assume the Chappelles had an
overnight visitor. He had no intention of returning the rental and
there was no way it could be traced back to him, only to the real
Albert Durham. He would leave the car at the Atlanta airport
tomorrow. With the time difference between the U.S. East Coast and
London, his employer would be enjoying a late breakfast when he
reported in, once he was on the road. After he spoke to his
employer, he would make flight arrangements. This morning’s kill
would be number six, the exact number he had been paid for by wire
transfer to his Swiss account, which had been opened under one of
his many aliases.
He was known by many names and yet he
remained nameless. He was a man of a hundred disguises and yet he
remained faceless, unidentifiable. In his world, he was known only
as the Phantom, except by a precious few who had once known him as
Anthony Linden. But he was not Anthony Linden and hadn’t been in
more than ten years. For all intents and purposes, Anthony Linden
was dead.
Poppy woke with a start, her mouth dry
and her cotton sleep shirt damp with perspiration. She kicked back
the light covers and lay there, her eyes open, her heartbeat
racing. She stared up at the shadows dancing on her ceiling. She’d
had the most god-awful dream.
You shouldn’t have
watched that old Twilight show marathon on TV last night with
Heloise.
Her nightmare had been a convoluted
jumble of scenes, none of which had made the least bit of sense.
Headless zombies creeping toward her. Pig-faced people hovering
over her. Outraged men and women chasing her down the street,
screaming at her, accusing her of being an alien from outer
space.
Poppy shuddered.
I’m not afraid. I’m not
afraid. Bad dreams can’t hurt you. No, but they can sure scare the
bejeezus out of you.
She wished her bedroom—Aunt Mary Lee’s
old room—wasn’t at the opposite end of the hall from Grandmother’s
and Heloise’s rooms. She certainly had no intention of walking up
that long, dark corridor. The old house moaned and groaned enough
as it was without her padding down the hall and making the wooden
floors creak.
She could turn on the light, get up,
and read a few chapters in the paperback romance novel on her
nightstand. Or she could go downstairs to the den and watch TV or
grab a snack in the kitchen.
Just close your eyes
and try to go back to sleep.
The odds were if she went back to
sleep, she wouldn’t dream again. Not if she thought about pleasant
things. Think about going sailing with Court and
Anne Lee on Wednesday afternoon. Think about Court’s friend Wes
Larimer. Anne Lee had promised that Court would invite him
to join them.
“I think Wes likes you,” Anne Lee had
told her. “If Mother wasn’t best buds with his mother, I’d go after
him myself. But God forbid that Wes and I hook up and make our moms
happy.”
“He’s cute, isn’t he?”
“Do Chihuahuas shiver? Girl, Wes
Larimer is cream of the crop.”
Think about Wes. And
who knows, maybe you’ll dream about him instead of weird characters
out of an old TV show.
Poppy closed her eyes and imagined Wes
putting his arm around her and kissing her. It would be explosive,
like fireworks lighting up the sky. They were alone on Court’s
sailboat, just the two of them. The ocean was smooth, the sun was
warm, the breeze balmy.
“Oh Court, kiss me again,” she mumbled
to herself and then yawned before dozing off to sleep.
He moved through the Chappelle house as
quietly as smoke rising from a chimney. He turned off the slender
flashlight he held, pocketed it and took the back stairs two at a
time, being careful to tread lightly. Even when the old staircase
creaked occasionally as his weight pressed on the carpeted runner,
he didn’t pause. Those living here were accustomed to the odd
sounds that the nearly eighty-year-old house made in the night.
When he reached the landing, he glanced down the corridor toward
Mrs. Chappell’s suite and across the hall to Heloise McGruger’s
bedroom. Both doors were closed.
He turned and went in the opposite
direction, straight toward the young girl’s room decorated in fancy
ruffles and lace. Unlike the older ladies in the house, Poppy slept
with her door partially open. A thin line of moonlight seeped
through the narrow opening and painted a pale yellow-white line
across the threshold and onto the floor beneath his feet. He
reached out, grasped the crystal knob and slowly eased open the
door all the way. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness so he could
see quite well with only the moonlight brightening the bedroom just
enough to reveal the furniture’s silhouettes.
Poppy Chappelle lay beneath a ruffled
canopy, one arm and one leg tangled in the top sheet and
lightweight blanket. The upstairs central air unit kicked on,
sending a rush of cool air from the ceiling vent. He stood over her
bed and watched her while she slept. So very young. So
pretty.
Such a pity he had to kill
her.
He didn’t choose the victims. His
employer did.
He was simply an employee following
orders, a professional doing his job.
Easing up to the edge of the bed, he
rubbed his glove-encased hands together, collected his thoughts and
prepared for the kill. He slipped his hand into an inside pocket,
removed the disposable scalpel from the small carrying case and
returned the case to his pocket.
I’m sorry, little
girl.
A momentary calmness came over him,
steadying his hand and clearing his mind. The rush of excitement
would come later, with the act itself. The moment the knife entered
her body, he would experience an unparalleled exhilaration. He
always did.
He watched her for another minute,
noted the rise and fall of her tender young breasts as she inhaled
and exhaled.
And then he plunged the scalpel into
her jugular. Blood gushed.
A mental and emotional orgasm began to
build inside him. He sliced the sharp blade across her neck, from
one carotid artery to the other, effectively cutting her windpipe
in the process.
She died almost instantly, without a
sound, never having opened her eyes.
His hands were steady, his outward
demeanor calm. But a soul-deep enjoyment burst wide open inside him
and sent climactic pleasure through his entire body.
Mimicking the Carver’s MO, he worked
quickly, cutting triangles from her upper arms and thighs and
stuffing the tiny pieces of flesh into the small insulated bag he
had brought with him.
He took no pleasure in the mutilation
of a body, but he was under orders. This was business, a necessary
part of the job assignment.
At the foot of the staircase, the
grandfather clock struck four times. He would be gone well before
daybreak. And it would be morning before anyone discovered Poppy’s
body.
Leaving his victim lying in her bloody
bed, he walked across the room, opened the widow, and lifted the
screen. Then he returned to the bed, picked the dead girl up into
his arms and carried her to the window.
From the height of the second floor, he
glanced down at the moonlight shimmering across the pool. Keeping a
firm grip, he held her body out the window as far as he could reach
and then released her. She sailed down, down, down, and hit the
side of the pool. While her legs crashed onto the patio, her head
and the upper two-thirds of her body sank into the water. Then the
weight of her head and upper body submerged in the pool gradually
dragged her legs into the pool and she slowly disappeared beneath
the water’s surface.