"So what did you do?"
"I used the one connection I had—my father. Although he didn't know I was using him. I stopped by his house when he wasn't home and swiped his membership card. I made a reservation for the two of us for dinner on a night when my father would be out of town. I figured by the time he got back, I would have what I needed."
"So what happened after you got into the club?"
"To make a long story short, I found Erica. She was one of the hostesses. At first she didn't want to talk to me. I could tell she was scared that I was trying to connect her to Ravino. In the end I convinced her that if she knew something, and if her pal Ravino had killed his wife, then she could be in danger, too. After all, a man like Ravino would not want any of his dirty little secrets—and Erica was certainly one of them—to come out. Eventually she broke down and confessed that she and Ravino had been having an affair and that she was afraid she'd slept with a murderer. I convinced her to help me prove it."
"Surely she knew it would put her in danger to reveal something damaging about a state senator."
"I can be very persuasive when I want to be," he said with a shrug.
"I'll bet. I'm surprised you waited until you'd finished the story to go to bed with her."
"I didn't have to use sex to get the information out of her."
"But you would have, right?"
"What are you asking me, Catherine? Wondering just how low I'll go?" he challenged.
"Maybe I am. I don't know you, Dylan. You've asked me to be your partner, your ally. I need to know where your boundaries are."
"I don't have any boundaries." He didn't particularly like the impression she seemed to be forming of him, but he couldn't deny that he could be ruthless in his pursuit of the story. "I do what it takes to get the truth."
"Are there lines you won't cross?"
"I haven't seen any yet."
She tilted her head to one side as she gave him a thoughtful look. "I don't believe you, Dylan. I think you have a conscience, even if you won't admit it. I also believe that you're worried about Erica, not just because of what she did to you last night, but for her own sake."
"I don't know where you'd get that idea. Right now I'd like to wring her neck."
"Fine. You're a tough, ruthless guy—I get it. Let's go back to the Ravino case."
"Erica told me that Deborah had known about the affair because she came and confronted Erica at her apartment. Erica, who thinks very well on her feet, decided to tape the conversation, unbeknownst to Deborah. She thought she might need the tape for some reason. In their conversation Deborah reveals that she told the senator she knew about the affair, that she had photos of him and Erica together, and that she would give them to the press if he didn't stop seeing Erica immediately. She would also divorce him, and under their prenuptial agreement a proven affair would cost him millions. Apparently her reason for going to Erica was to try to gain her cooperation. She offered Erica a sizable chunk of money to cut off contact with the senator."
"Did Erica take it?"
"She was still thinking about it when Mrs. Ravino was killed. The taped conversation, however, gave the senator a motive for murder. But it wasn't enough. There was no proof that the senator injected his wife with too much Botox until I came up with some."
Dylan had a difficult time keeping the boastful note out of his voice. He was damn proud of his accomplishment. "I discovered that when the senator made a trip to Mexico with several other members from the state congress to discuss trade and immigration problems, he also made a side trip to a Mexican doctor who offered up his own version of discounted Botox. With my new information, the coroner's office reran the tissue tests and toxicology screening and discovered that the substance offered by that physician matched what was in Deborah's bloodstream."
"Very impressive," Catherine said. "Since Deborah wasn't in Mexico, then her husband was the one who brought the poison home."
"But that still wasn't enough, because the senator claimed his wife simply asked him to pick up the discounted medication. Unfortunately for him, I discovered a money trail that revealed that the senator had paid the Mexican physician five times the going rate. I also located a female friend of Deborah's who was willing to testify that there was no way Deborah would have used any medication from Mexico, because a friend of theirs had almost died from a diet pill obtained from the same doctor."
"And is that where the senator got his idea?" Catherine asked.
Dylan nodded. "That's my guess."
"It's a pretty good way to kill your wife, because even with all your evidence, it wouldn't be easy to prove beyond a reasonable doubt."
"I agree. It's not a slam dunk, but when you lay everything out the picture is pretty clear as to what happened. Whether or not the DA can get a conviction is still to be determined."
"It certainly sounds like the senator has a good reason to hate you, since he was getting away with murder before you got involved. If he killed his wife, then he probably wouldn't hesitate to kill again. But wouldn't he hate Erica just as much as you—if not more? She betrayed him as well. Why would he use her to set you up? Why wouldn't he set you both up?"
Catherine made a good point. It was something he'd been thinking about as well.
"Maybe that's what he did," Catherine mused, continuing. "Perhaps Erica thought she was setting you up, but in actuality . . ."
"Ravino was setting her up, too," Dylan finished. "If that's the case, then Erica could be . . . in danger." He couldn't bring himself to use the word
dead.
He hoped to God she was still alive, but he couldn't deny that the facts were leading in the other direction. And if that was the case, it was his fault. He was the one who'd found her, who'd made her talk, who'd told her she'd be safer going to the police with her tape than keeping her mouth shut.
"Dylan, don't go there," Catherine said. "You're not to blame."
"Shit," he swore in annoyance. "Are you reading my mind now?"
"I'm reading your expression. It's obvious you're starting to feel guilty. But you should at least wait until you have your precious facts and see what they add up to."
"Unfortunately, I don't have very many facts," he grumbled.
She paused, tipping her head toward his computer. "What are you looking for now?"
"I'm not sure. First I'd just like to see if anyone has been on my computer or opened any of my files. That might lead me in a specific direction. I also want to refresh my memory on what I know about Erica. If she's still alive and on the run, I need to figure out where she might hide."
"If she was meant to disappear and make it look like murder, she'd have to go far," Catherine said. "She'd have to vanish in a very complete way, no contact with her friends, no use of her credit cards, no trips to her apartment. She would have had to plan her next stop after this before she ever came here."
Catherine's reasoning was right on the money. She wasn't just a quirky psychic painter with a smoking-hot body; she also had a very good brain. And she seemed to understand how people thought. Smart, pretty, and mysterious—a dangerous combination.
"You're going to have to think like Erica," Catherine continued. "Where would you go if you were in her shoes?"
"Probably some remote island in the South Pacific."
Catherine smiled. "That sounds good to me, too."
He grinned back at her. "A few rum drinks with umbrellas in 'em and I could hide out for a while. I'm sure whoever convinced Erica to participate in this plot persuaded her that she could lead a very luxurious life with enough money to make her happy, and all she had to do was put something in my drink and take me into the woods. Easy as pie."
"Then the double cross," Catherine said. "I would have expected that."
"You're smarter than Erica, but to be fair, we don't know that she didn't anticipate the double cross."
"What I felt at her cabin was surprise. Something unexpected happened last night. Someone showed up at her door who wasn't part of the plan."
Catherine's analysis made sense, but he still didn't have any hard facts to back up her theory.
Catherine shook her head, her gaze meeting his. "You're such a skeptic, Dylan. Haven't you ever had an intuition about something, an instinct that you couldn't explain, but it came true?"
"I suppose," he conceded. "Don't take it personally. It's just the way I am." He turned toward his computer, then paused. "Before I do anything else, I want to call Erica."
"Why? She's not going to answer, and won't that raise even more suspicion when the cops get her telephone records, which they might do if she stays missing?"
"Exactly why I should call. I can argue that why would I try to contact her if I knew she was dead?" As he'd expected, Erica's voice mail picked up. He waited for the beep and then said, "Erica, it's Dylan. Hope you're all right. Call me back, would you? I'm very worried about you, and I want to know why you drugged me and left me in the woods."
"You're pretty clever," Catherine commented.
"I've spent a fair amount of time on criminal cases the past year. I've picked up a few things. You seem to know a lot about the police as well, for a woman who lives a quiet life in a seaside town," he said pointedly, knowing there was far more to her past than she'd revealed.
"It's no secret that I grew up in foster care and on the streets. I'm not naive when it comes to law enforcement. Like you, I've picked up a few tricks over the years. What about Erica's work? Her colleagues might know where she would stay if she wasn't at home."
"I'll call them tomorrow. Her modeling agency won't be open on a Sunday, and she hasn't worked at the Metro Club since the Ravino case broke."
"What about Erica's friends?" Catherine asked as she got to her feet. "Do you know any of them?"
"No."
"Family?"
"We talked mostly about Ravino."
"When you talked," she said dryly.
"I'm not going to try to pretty up my one-night stand, Catherine," he said bluntly. "It was what it was."
"At least you're honest about it," she said with a sigh. "Most men pretend they have deeper intentions when they don't."
"Are you speaking from experience?"
"Perhaps."
"You don't seem the type to have had many casual affairs."
"What type is that?" she asked.
"The easy-come, easy-go kind of woman. Nothing is easy about you, as far as I can tell."
"You don't know me very well."
She was right. He didn't know her, but he wanted to. She was different from anyone he'd ever met, and he was a sucker for secrets. Finding the truth was the driving mantra of his life. He couldn't walk past a mystery without trying to solve it, and Catherine was definitely a puzzle to him.
"Actually," she added, interrupting his thoughts, "I think sex can be easy. It's intimacy that's much more difficult. You can give away your body, disconnect— but your heart, your mind, that's a whole different thing."
"I wouldn't have thought you'd want one without the other—sex without love, love without intimacy. You have so much . . . You're so . . ." He couldn't find the right words to describe her.
"I have so much what?" she asked, curious.
"Passion. Intensity. Depth. You're emotional. You're sensitive."
"That's why intimacy is more difficult. It takes a lot out of me. It opens me up and makes me vulnerable," she confessed. "And the intensity I have . . . it scares people. No one really wants to see the future, not even when they think they do. You'll be scared one day, too, and you'll leave, and you'll hope to God you never see me again."
"You've already scared me, and I'm still here," he reminded her.
"For the moment. It will get worse, especially when you start to believe in me, which you haven't done yet."
She was right. He still didn't trust her sixth sense, so to speak, but he doubted that would ever happen. "Why are you trying to warn me away?"
"Because you and I . . . we shouldn't get involved." She paused, biting down on her bottom lip, her deep blue gaze fixed on his. "Even if we . . ."
"Even if we what?" he asked, unsettled by the way she was looking at him now—not like a psychic but like a woman, a woman who wanted him. His body hardened as his mind immediately stripped off her clothes. She would not appreciate that he was now imagining her naked, her beautiful breasts filling his hands. Or maybe she already knew what he was thinking. There was knowledge in her eyes, as well as desire.
"Even if we have an attraction. I feel the pull between us," she said simply. "Don't you?"
"Uh, yeah, sure." He cleared his throat. "Are you saying you want to have sex with me?" His body began to sing with anticipation.
She hesitated and then said, "Maybe I do. But not now." She turned quickly and headed toward the door.
"Hey, where are you going? We're in the middle of something, in case you hadn't noticed."
"I'm going for a walk before I do something I regret."
"You wouldn't regret it," he told her.
She smiled. "You're not short on confidence, are you?"
"We'd be good together. Just remember you're the one who ran away, not me. I'm not scared of you."
"Not yet," she murmured before slipping out the door.
Dylan let out a breath as she left the room, feeling frustrated and yet a little relieved that she was gone. He was attracted to her. What man wouldn't be? But, dammit, no matter what he'd told her, the truth was that she did scare him. He liked casual relationships, fun in the sack, nobody saying,
Good bye,
or
love you,
or
Don't leave me.
He couldn't give a woman anything more than a good time. And he'd never pretended otherwise.
Intimacy was almost impossible for him. The only person he'd ever cared about was Jake. He'd tried to love his father, but he'd had the love beaten out of him. And his mother . . . well, she hadn't stuck around long enough for anyone to love her. He was just like her, he thought. At least, that was what his father had told him over the years, so much so that he'd come to believe it.