Kiss Me Awake (13 page)

Jaida nodded and swallowed, then dabbed her mouth with the small paper napkin she had spread on her lap. “Today it is.” 

He laughed, but tucked those words away for further dissection. “Why today? Special chef on duty? I’m thinking it would taste pretty much the same every day.”

She lifted her shoulder slightly and then let it fall, her face almost pained with a wistful expression. “I don’t know. I guess I was just looking for something different.” 

Not different, just something to fill the void. She didn’t say it with words, but he could see the hollow pit that was consuming her. He watched her closely, watched the fan of dark lashes close over those scandalous blue eyes in a long drawn-out blink. So, the money she rolled in didn’t feed the need. In that respect, they were nothing alike.

Lance took her fingers in his, thinking again how their lives could have merged, been bound together by something real if their relationship had developed under different circumstances.

Her carefully lined lids flicked up, and her eyes met his, telling him quite bluntly that he was part of her confusion.
I won’t be for long, baby.
She tugged her hand away and reached for another fry.

He’d considered the best way to approach her. Good cop? Bad cop? Both described his role in this, but after he considered her temperament and how she might react, good cop won out. Bad cop would be waiting in the wings to swoop in and take over should the need arise.

She swept the hair from her eyes with her fingers, etched silver bracelets clanking at her wrist. Her gaze roamed over the well-dressed grounds from one object to another until she saw him staring at her. Startled, her focus became solid and clear, and he was the center of it.

His lip tipped up at the corner. “Forget I was here?”

“I told you I wouldn’t be good company.” She tilted her head to the side, her hair tumbling over her shoulder in soft waves. He reached out and ran his fingers through it. 

She drew back, her face failing to conceal her discomfort and…what? Guilt? She raised her half-eaten cheeseburger to her mouth and bit into it.

Jaida Martin couldn’t be a thief, he mused. It just didn’t fit her profile. But then that was hard to pin down. Forensic science hadn’t met up with this woman yet.  

She was an anomaly, or perhaps a chameleon, her colors changing to suit the need. The well-oiled transition from one mode into another was perfected so that it was almost indiscernible. Even her preference for inferior food had him working his brain to comprehend the digression from her high-end taste in clothing, furnishings, and vehicles. But wasn’t that the modus operandi of a good con?

Lance poked his straw into his cup, breaking up the clumped ice and searching out another draw of Pepsi. Plastic on plastic, the straw squeaked against the lid. 

“I have a confession to make,” he said.

The overture won her attention and she looked at him. “Do I want to hear it?”

He ran his tongue over his top lip then smiled at her. “That all depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re guilty or innocent.” He heard the soft intake of breath. She was scared; the elevated pulse was visible, pounding against her throat.

“Guilty of what?” she asked.

“Making off with Gale’s money.” He locked gazes with her. “I’m with internal affairs. The department Baseel collaborates with instructed me to investigate the unauthorized wire transfer of William Gale’s offshore accounts.”

Her body stiffened at the revelation, and she drew back. He’d betrayed her, and she wasn’t handling it well. He had no choice but to show his hand. Doing this without her cooperation wasn’t yielding results. The money was still missing.

Her tone was sharp. “Read the report for yourself. I had nothing to do with emptying his accounts.”

He set a reassuring hand on her arm and she pulled away. “I’m not accusing you. I was hired to get to the bottom of this. Personally, I believe you, but I need to do my job and prove that what you say is true. Your word is good enough for me, but it isn’t enough for my superiors.”

Her eyes turned hard. “William Gale has ruined my life. He deserves nothing.”

Her emotional state, the disdain in her voice, was telling. He was beginning to believe his own theory that she’d been intimately involved with Gale. Gale liked his women young and beautiful. And she was both.

“How do you explain your assets? Baseel doesn’t pay that well.”

“I shouldn’t have to explain anything. I’m not on trial. You’ll just have to take my word that my assets weren’t purchased with Gale’s money.”

Spencer Gordon? His earnings made Gale’s eight and a half million look like pocket change. Is that where it came from? He could ask, but he didn’t want to bring Gordon up just yet. He couldn’t risk her closing up on him and ending the dialogue.

The wind blew a wrapper on the ground. Lance picked it up, crumpled it, and stuffed it in the empty sack.

“Let me ask this another way. If you don’t have the money, do you know where it is?”

She dropped her head and shook it. “I have no idea.”

She looked battle worn. Why was she so weary if she was innocent? Answering a few questions wasn’t that hard. Other than her brief suspension, she had endured only a little suffering over the accusation.

“Who else had access to the email address that Dennison sent the information to?”

She gave him a sidelong glance, straightened, and with a defiant lift of her chin, she said, “Every single one of my superiors. And if they printed, forwarded, or shared the account numbers with anyone, you can include those names.”

For a split second he thought she would tell him to go to Hades. But she remained calm, the picture of professionalism. She smoothed her gray skirt with the palms of her hands and stood. Was she leaving? He had driven, but that wouldn’t stop her.

He threw out some bait, just enough to keep her here a little longer. “Did you know that William Gale is filing a civil suit against Baseel and against you?”

Her mouth gaped. “For what?”

“For stealing his money.” He shrugged with his face. “Like it or not, the money belongs to him.”

“Maybe it does belong to him legally, but ethically…”

“Ethically nothing. And you can bet your last dollar he’ll win this.”  

“And,” he continued, “with the agency named in the lawsuit you’re the designated scapegoat since Gale accused you personally.”

The news left her visibly shaken, but she rallied, her spine stiffening. “I’ll bring Gale down if it’s the last thing I do.”

“An eye for an eye, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m with you on that, believe it or not. I’m here only as a messenger. If you can help me, I can help you.” He spoke softly, hoping to smooth the feathers he’d ruffled and ease his way back into her trust.

“Sure.” The hint of sarcasm he heard in her tone told him he had a ways to go. Another couple appeared by the water fountain and Lance stood. 

“How is the case against him looking?”

“It’s coming along.” Her smile was a thin veneer, unable to mask what was written all over her face. She folded her arms and glanced away. “I have an informant that says he has information.”

“Is it enough for a conviction?”

She met his eyes then. “I think so.” But she didn’t. Not really. Gale was a free man. His confiscation of the tape had seen to that.

He cracked a smile. “Good for you.”

She nodded and looked toward the exit, signaling her desire to leave. He collected their trash. “If I had my hands on that kind of cash, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t take it and run myself.”

She just stood there. Waiting. What did he need to do to get a confession out of her? Don a collar and robe?

“I’m ready to go,” she said, as if he didn’t already know that.

He drove her to where her car was parked and climbed out with her. Testing the waters, he reached for her hand and pulled her into a hug. He was prepared for a slap or an angry rant, but neither came.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you like that, but I had no choice. You of all people should understand. I’m sure you’ve had to portray yourself as someone you’re not many times over.”

He heard her sigh and she drew back. He took the keys from her hand and unlocked her car door. She slid inside, and he placed them in her palm with a soft peck on her cheek. “Drive safe.”

Lance shut the door. He would let her stew over the news of a lawsuit. Maybe that would be enough of a threat to get her talking.

He watched her drive away and moved for his car when a hand gripped his arm. Lance spun at the contact ready to strike.  

“Do you have anything for me?” His cheek twitched when he saw that it was Gale’s man. What was he doing following him?

He flung the hand off. “I told you I would contact you when I had something.” Lance spread his hands. “Have I contacted you? No. That means I don’t have anything yet.”

His eyes thinned. “Mr. Gale and I feel that you’re taking too much time in securing his cash. He isn’t paying you to romance your target.”   

Lance laughed at the squatty man’s attempt to place himself in the same rank as Gale, stretching what some would call a neck just so he could look him in the eye. He was a grunt, a bottom feeder; his knowledge limited to bad toupees and cheap suits.

“Don’t tell me how to operate. I got you the tape. No prison, no death sentence, and Gale’s political reputation is still intact. I think he should be grateful.”

“Don’t take too long, or I may have to move in on your little sweetheart and get answers from her myself.”

“Stay away from her. I work alone.”

Cr
adled in the crook of his arm, Spencer carried the damask roses to the car. It was the sole reason he was here. They were cut fresh this morning at his request and draped in green tissue. The day deserved some recognition.

He reached for the car door then paused to watch the familiar figure emerging from one of the paths. She remembered. And the gardens where they’d recited their vows meant so much to her that she brought another man along to pay tribute to the occasion.

What was Palermo’s game? He walked beside Jaida, his arm curled about her waist as though he had a right. Spencer’s teeth clenched. His brief appearance at the club was no coincidence. But what was he after? His blessing?

Her stride was stiff, her chin held high at a sharp angle. She was miffed about something. Palermo stopped her and turned her toward him, cupping her face in his hands. A jealous heat singed the back of Spencer’s neck. What did he think he was
doing? He took a step forward intending to break it up, but then stopped. What good would it do? 

He watched them leave then slid behind the wheel, the inside of his Lexus already pulsing with heat. Black interiors were a big mistake…in cars…and women. He turned the key in the ignition and rolled the windows down until the air conditioning could overtake the high temperature.

Since she’d left him, Jaida’s collection of men had been plentiful to say the least. But for God, he would have ended it a long time ago. That’s what he told himself anyway. Maybe involving God just made it easier to stay the course. Vows meant something to him, and he held himself to every one he’d ever made her.

Sweet misery, that’s what she was, and he was the pushover that kept coming back for more. If he had any sense of self-preservation, he would turn around, go home, and do whatever it took to forget she ever existed. But how did you quit loving someone?

Spencer gunned the engine. He wasn’t turning back. Running away was her way not his. She had an easy time of it, putting him behind her and moving on. He hadn’t been as fortunate, and it was about time she faced the damage she’d left in her wake.

He headed west toward Newport and turned down the narrow street that ran along the north side of Jaida’s house. He parked at the curb and dialed her house number, disconnecting when he got the machine. Spencer rolled the windows down and turned the car off. Wind chimes tinkled in the breeze. A few minutes later, a bald Latino and a slender brunette entered Jaida’s front gate. He leaned forward for a better view. A blur of blue steel whizzed by in his periphery. She was back. 

Spencer picked up the bouquet from the passenger seat and climbed out.
Lord, have your way, even if it isn’t what I want.

The front patio was swept clean. Aqua and gray flowerpots lined the perimeter of the porch, two on the right and two on the left. Inside, the soil was dry and pulling away from the sides of the pots, the stems and leaves dried, and the fading buds wilted.

Spencer rang the bell. He shifted his neck and worked one of the buttons free on his stonewashed oxford shirt. The day was too warm for it.

When no one answered, he rang the bell a second time and the door swung open. It was the Latino.

“I’d like to speak with Jaida,” Spencer said.

The man standing in the doorway eyed the roses. “Is this a delivery?”