Chapter 12
Thursday, October 6, 12:30 P.M.
Donovan moved beside Angie, so close she could feel the heat of his shoulder as it nearly brushed hers. “Mr. Donovan? Angie, after all we shared … call me Connor.”
When she’d discovered he’d used her so badly, she’d tried to brush the rejection off and tell herself it didn’t matter. But the wound he’d inflicted had been slow to heal. And there were still days when she feared she’d never really open up to a man again.
“I could call you asshole. Dickhead? How do they sound?” She met his gaze as if leveling the barrel of a shotgun.
His stare didn’t waver. “You have a right to be pissed. I get that. I was a dick.”
“So we can agree on something.”
His grin waned. “Look, Angie, I saw you here today, and I wanted to come over and apologize. I’ve had a chance to rethink a lot of things in the last year, and what I did to you, well, was wrong.”
She’d done things she regretted, and those regrets were part of the reason she was here today. But she suspected Donovan didn’t care about right and wrong. “Beat it.”
“Ah, come on, Angie. Can’t we get a drink?”
The elevator dinged, but a quick glance told her it was stuck on the floor above, forcing her to stand and wait with him. She considered the steps but refused to run from this jerk. “Go away, Donovan. Find another rock to crawl under.”
His easy veneer melted, and something harder and colder appeared. “You can’t cry foul. You are a user just like me. You do what you need to do to win. I’m no different.”
She cleared her throat. “This is not the time or the place.”
“It’s as good as any.”
“Drop dead.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’ve been perched on your self-made pedestal for so long you’ve forgotten you are a muckraker just like me. Let’s face it, sweetie—your talent for nasty is as honed as mine.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “Do you have a point to make, Mr. Donovan? I’ve got work to do.”
“Don’t we all.”
The elevator doors dinged open. To her dismay it was packed. The doors closed.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Don’t you have something more entertaining to do like pulling the wings off of flies?”
“I’m here about your client.”
“I don’t talk about my clients.”
He leaned toward her. His aftershave reached out to her … it was the same brand. Armani. When he’d first touched her, she’d savored the scent like an aphrodisiac. Now it made her sick. “Not even the dead ones?”
A bitter taste settled in her mouth. “Ah, you are here to use me again.”
“I came to ask questions.”
“Wrapped in sweet apologies.”
“So?”
“No comment.”
“You have no idea who would want to kill such a lovely young woman?”
She glanced at the elevator buttons above the door. It held on the floor above for what seemed like forever. Forget it. She pushed past Donovan with as much force as she could muster and headed down the hallway through the crowds toward the stairs. She’d just reached the door to the stairwell when long fingers wrapped around her arm.
“Don’t walk away from me.” The anger in Donovan’s voice had her readying for a fight as she turned.
“Get your hands off me.” She tried to jerk free, but he held firm.
“Not until you tell me about Sierra Day. What do you know about her?”
Again, she tried to wrench free. “Let me go or I will scream so loud that every deputy in this building will come running. And then you can explain why you were roughing up an officer of the court.” She drew in a breath, fully intending to scream.
He dropped his hand but didn’t move away. He whitewashed his anger with a grin. “Ah, come on for old time’s sake. Tell me what you got on Sierra?”
“Prick.”
The brutally delivered words hit their mark, and the normally iron-skinned Donovan flinched. “Bitch.”
The lame comeback made her laugh. “If that is the best you’ve got then I am not impressed.”
He leaned toward her and said in a voice only she could hear, “The only reason I fucked you was because you were so goddammed pathetic. Like throwing a bone to a starving dog.”
The words pierced the shell she so carefully nurtured and sliced into her heart. Emotion welled up so fast and furious in her throat that it left her breathless.
“There a problem here?” The deep male voice cut through the tension.
Angie glanced over to see Detective Kier. She had never been happier to see the man.
Kier wore a blue sport coat, red tie, and white shirt that could have used an iron. Clean-shaven with his hair neatly combed, he could have passed for civilized if not for the menacing expression on his face.
As much as she didn’t want help from Kier, getting rid of Donovan ranked higher on the priority list. “Donovan doesn’t understand that no means no.”
Donovan muttered something under his breath and stepped back. Though he stood a little taller than the detective, Kier, with his muscular build, looked as if he could make quick work of any challenge that Donovan offered.
“I was just asking her a few questions about Sierra Day.”
Kier rested his hand on his hip, letting his gun peek out from the folds of his jacket. “From what I heard she declined to answer.”
Donovan masked any outward annoyance with a shrug. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t push her for an answer.”
Kier grinned. “And I wouldn’t be doing mine if I didn’t tell you to back off.” His gaze never wavered from Donovan. “Frankly, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
The moment’s diversion gave Angie the time she needed to recover her breath and footing. “Harassment. Battery. Unlawful detention. I’m sure if you gave me a few more minutes I could come up with more charges.”
Donovan glared at her. “That would never stick.”
“Maybe. Maybe, not. But I could create a hell of a legal mess.”
Donovan’s lips flattened. “We’ll catch up later, Angie.”
“I don’t think so.”
He winked at her. “Count on it.”
She tightened her hand on her briefcase handle. “Then count on charges being filed against you.”
“We’ll see.” The reporter darted down the staircase.
For several heartbeats she stood rigid, unmoving, waiting for Donovan to return. Then, certain he’d truly left, she faced Kier. Now he was looking at her with a gaze not so consumed with fury but worry.
Her cheeks flushed. “If you say one comforting word to me, Detective, I’ll sock you.”
His throaty chuckle caught her off guard. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, what would be the point? I’ve heard vampires can’t be hurt. No heart.”
Without missing a beat she said, “With no blood to pump through our veins, a heart is just extra baggage.”
Whatever concern had been in Kier’s gaze thankfully vanished. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He could have just turned and vanished into the crowd, but he lingered a beat.
It was enough time for her to drop her guard for just an instant and say, “Thanks. Donovan was more persistent than I’d imagined.”
“Give me a reason, Carlson, and I’ll haul him to jail.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Why, Detective, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I mean it.” There was no hint of humor now. He would arrest Donovan if she gave the word. “He’s a real creep, and I’d love nothing better than to bring him down a peg.”
The banter felt right and good. Her world came back into balance. “I can take care of myself. But thanks.”
“An extra hand never killed anyone.”
“Like my dad used to say, if it doesn’t kill you it makes you stronger. I’m still standing, so I guess I can thank Donovan for making me stronger.”
“Stronger or more cautious?”
“Both.” She didn’t want to talk about herself. “Any news on the Sierra Day case?”
He shoved hands into his pockets and rattled the change. “No. A lot of people would have liked to have killed her, but they all have alibis.”
Her mind clicked into defense-attorney mode. “Alibis are easy.”
“Finding this mystery boyfriend is not.”
“He’s out there. Somewhere.”
He hesitated as if struggling for words. “By the way, thanks for the tip.”
“Sure.”
Angie turned, and as she moved away she noted she and Kier had been quite civil to each other. She suspected she’d just witnessed a minor miracle.
Malcolm watched Angie Carlson walk away. She moved slowly, shoulders back as if she were queen of the world. He’d never seen her guard down until he’d seen her with Donovan. For just a second, when Donovan had been venting nastiness, Malcolm had glimpsed pain behind the ice. Whatever Donovan had fired her way had struck a nerve.
To her credit, Angie had rebounded and rallied. He believed if he’d not arrived when he did, she’d have landed a punch or two of her own. Frankly, nothing would have given Malcolm greater satisfaction than to see the counselor hit Donovan.
During last year’s investigation into the Sorority House Murders and Donovan’s near-death experience, Angie’s relationship with the reporter had come to light. Instead of hedging or trying to hide a very embarrassing episode in her life, she’d been honest and straightforward when questioned by Garrison. She’d plainly admitted that Donovan, who’d only been after information on Eva Rayburn, had made a fool out of her when he’d coaxed her into his bed and tried to elicit information.
Carlson could have lied about the whole episode. But she hadn’t. She’d put protecting her sister above her own feelings.
In fact, as he thought back, he couldn’t point to one time when she’d lied to him. She’d grilled him in court, mocked him to his face, and directly denied him information, but she’d never lied.
Cops called her The Barracuda for a reason. Not only could she take care of herself, but also when she latched on to a witness she didn’t let go until she tasted blood.
But she’d never pretended to be otherwise. She was who she was.
So, why should this matter? And why had he had the urge to protect her when Donovan had had her cornered?
Malcolm blew out a breath as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I’m a goddammed idiot.”
Donovan had never considered it wise to give in to hate. It was a pointless, vain emotion that often blinded the unwise to opportunity. But as he watched Angie leave the courthouse his hate for her would not be denied.
He released the reins and let the emotion free. He let his imagination go to its darkest places and pictured himself destroying her, word by word.
After all he’d been through last year—the trauma, the surgery, and the rehab—he had every right to every bit of success he could grab. She had no right to deny him.
She’d stood in front of him like a righteous Puritan today, but the heart of a hot little whore beat under that silk suit. She’d liked all the nasty things he’d done to her. Hell, she’d loved it all. She simply didn’t want the world to know that she was a freak.
A client of hers had been murdered, and he intended to play that detail to the hilt. He’d drag her sweet ass through every bit of mud he could find.