A Just Deception (10 page)

No shit. Peter propped his elbow on the table and stuck his chin in his hand. “Izzy. You were worried about
me
hurting
her
? You blew that call. She’s going to eat me alive and—idiot that I am—I’m going to let her.”

Isabelle stood behind the small gathering of people sitting by Kendrick’s gravesite. She closed her eyes. The lack of sound, no birds chirping or leaves rustling, just the occasional squeak of a chair when someone moved, forced her pulse to hammer. Even the humid, overcast day seemed appropriate. Gray. Just like her mood.

She hated this.

The priest finished his final prayer and invited mourners to the casket, but Isabelle remained motionless. She couldn’t step near that casket. She showed up. That was enough.

In the three days since Kendrick’s death, she’d agonized over whether she’d be a hypocrite if she attended. But would the police think it odd if she didn’t go? No good answer.

Digging deep, she decided to make an appearance. After all, she had loved Kendrick once and, in an odd way, seemed to be mourning the person she had cared for. Not that the funeral gave her any closure, but at least she made the effort.

The twenty or so mourners, mostly friends of her uncle and a few family members, tossed their roses onto the casket and filed toward their cars. Isabelle twisted and spotted Peter parked down the road in the vintage Mustang—another car from his collection—that she’d instantly wanted to drive. The man liked his cars.

More than that though, he was a darn good man because he’d offered to drive her to the funeral so she didn’t have to go alone.

She turned back to the casket and waited. Her mother sat next to Uncle Bart and Aunt Carol and would probably wait to toss her flower with theirs. Once again, her mother had sided with Uncle Bart. It seemed so petty at this point, and Isabelle found herself wishing her sister were here. Jenny would support her. But her sister was spending the summer with her boyfriend in San Diego. Lucky girl. Lucky
smart
girl because she knew to stay away from the family lunacy. At least one of the DeRosa girls was emotionally healthy. For whatever reason, Kendrick had never put his filthy hands on Jenny, and Isabelle remained thankful for it.

“Hello, Isabelle.” Her mother leaned forward to kiss her and the collar of her crisp white shirt brushed Isabelle’s chin. Her mother’s scent—something floral—seemed in contrast with the stark navy suit she wore.

“Hi, Mom.”
I wish you would have stood with me.

Her mother narrowed her eyes slightly and ran a hand over Isabelle’s cheek. She sucked in a breath, felt it shatter inside.

“Are you all right?”

No. I’m not all right. I want us to be better than we are. I love you and want to trust you.

Isabelle shook off the thought. She and her mother had a stable relationship. They weren’t close, but they occasionally went shopping or to dinner and it worked. She didn’t want to disrupt that.

“I’m okay,” Isabelle said because that’s what she always said. And what her mother wanted to hear.

Her uncle stepped up, regal in his three thousand dollar suit and graying hair. “Isabelle,” he said, while his wife ignored her.

Hating these people would be easy. They were so smug. “Hello, Uncle Bart. Aunt Carol. I’m sorry about Kendrick.”

With that, Carol turned away and Uncle Bart followed without another word.

Lovely exchange.

“I have to go,” her mother said. “I came with Bart.”

Of course you did
.

“Are you all right?” her mother asked again.

“I’m okay.”

She watched her mother walk away and then turned back to the casket. It seemed odd that she and Kendrick were the only ones left.

“Ms. DeRosa?” someone said, and Isabelle shifted as two men approached.

Two men she’d never seen before. In suits. But wait…The tall one. He seemed familiar.

Cops.

Had to be.

A long breath escaped and her heart thumped faster.

The police had not contacted her since the day after the murder. Could be good, could be bad. Maybe they had cleared her. Or, maybe they were building a case.

Prickly pins badgered her arms. She couldn’t think about it now. She threw her shoulders back, called up her neutral lawyer face. She could do this. Peter sat just down the road. He’d help her if need be.

“I’m Isabelle DeRosa.”

The taller man flipped open his ID and three big letters jumped out at her.

FBI.

What could this be about?

“Special Agent Wade Sampson,” the taller man said. “May we speak with you a moment?”

Sampson wore a black suit with a white shirt and patterned red tie. His dark hair was combed straight back from his face and, with his angular cheekbones and square jaw, she imagined he used those assets to his advantage. She’d have to keep that in mind.

The shorter man held out his hand and Isabelle shook it. “Kirk Watson.”

Watson looked older. Maybe around fifty. His salt-and-pepper hair and long face didn’t have the impact Sampson’s did. And then it hit her. Special Agent Wade Sampson had been the man sitting in the car parked at the beach entrance last week.

The FBI was watching her.

“What’s this about?” A bird chirped from overhead and Isabelle glanced up.

Sampson took the go ahead. “You’re the cousin of Kendrick Edmonds, correct?”

“Yes.”

The lawyer in her would offer nothing other than what they asked for.

“We understand, prior to his death, you were invited to stay at his home in Ohio?”

She nodded. “Yes. I refused.”

“We are aware of that also,” Watson said.

What the hell was this about? She swallowed once to pop her ears and clear the sudden echo of every microscopic sound.

“Ms. DeRosa, we have an opportunity we’d like to speak with you about,” Sampson said.

This should be good. Kendrick and the FBI?

“What opportunity?”

“We’d like your assistance with a case involving Kendrick Edmonds.”

Assistance. That could mean a lot of things. She swung another glance at Watson, but Sampson seemed to be in charge. “Are you involved with the murder investigation?”

“No, ma’am,” Sampson said. “The local P.D. is handling that.”

A noise came from beside them and Isabelle turned to see several caretakers coming their way. She so did not want to witness Kendrick’s body being lowered into the ground. Time to get to the point. “If you’re not investigating Kendrick’s murder, what do you want from me?”

Sampson’s cocoa brown eyes sparked with amusement. Some men appreciated an aggressive woman.

“We believe there is illegal activity in Mr. Edmonds’s compound.”

When Isabelle realized her jaw had dropped open, she snapped it shut. Kendrick doing something illegal didn’t shock her, but Kendrick doing something illegal on a federal level, surprised the hell out of her. He just never seemed that motivated. She shot another look at the casket. The caretakers stood beyond the row of headstones trying to be discreet, but she knew they were waiting for them to leave before getting on with their work.

She turned back to the FBI agents. “Let’s move to the road.”

When she reached the street, maybe twenty feet from where Peter was parked, she stopped, saw him staring and held up her index finger. He waved in response and, content he’d stay where he was, Isabelle turned back to the agents. “Gentlemen, before last week, I hadn’t spoken to Kendrick in years. Even then it was only to say hello at family functions.”

“We are aware of your history with him,” Sampson said.

The words slapped at her. A history with him. That’s what they wanted to call it? “You know he sexually abused me?”

Sampson kept his face neutral. No smile, no frown. Nothing.

“Yes. We also know he came here last week and you had an altercation.”

Isabelle scoffed. “I kicked his ass. And I’d do it again. Kendrick may have been my cousin, but he was a sick child that grew into a sick man. He belonged in a jail cell.”

“Which is why we are here,” Watson piped up.

She tilted her head toward the overcast sky and blew out a breath before returning her gaze to the men in front of her. “What do you need from me?”

“As I stated,” Sampson said. “We believe there is illegal activity inside that compound. You were invited there, we suspect, to help them with any legal issues that might arise from their activities. We would like you to see if you can manipulate that into an extended stay in the compound.”

“You want me to be an informant?”

“We like to call them sources,” Sampson said.

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that kind of work. Find someone else.”

“Ms. DeRosa,” Watson said. “We will provide you with as much security as we can from the outside.”

“What good will that do if they catch me poking around?”

Sampson held up a hand. “We believe the children within the compound might be in some danger.”

Children. A hammering began behind her eyes. “There are children involved?”

“Yes. Mostly girls.”

Dammit.
“Wow. You guys are good. You come here, to this man’s
funeral
, knowing he sexually abused me, and you throw that out there. What a tactic.”

“We also believe someone from inside the organization may have murdered Mr. Edmonds.”

The pounding behind her eyes crept away. Now she saw where they were going with this. “I’ve been questioned by the P.D. in this case. They won’t have a problem with me leaving the state?”

“We’ll take care of that.”

“Because this is a federal case and your case trumps theirs?”

No answer.

“Okay then. Am I correct in assuming that if I go in there and dig up something that leads you to the murderer, it clears me?”

“Possibly,” Sampson said.

Isabelle tilted her head. “The police have probably already cleared me.”

“True,” Watson said, “but if they have cleared you, they won’t make it public. The news media will probably continue to mention your name in connection with the case.”

The sharp end of a hot knife seemed to puncture her spine. She’d spent most of her life hiding her secrets and didn’t want her name to be forever associated with Kendrick’s murder. It might happen anyway, but not if she could help it.

Peter was getting impatient. He pulled the car closer to where Izzy stood talking to the feds. They had to be feds. He saw them pull up in a Crown Vic that should have had a sign on it reading law enforcement.

Part of him didn’t want to know what was going on, but he also didn’t like the idea of her being alone with these guys.

After parking the car and shutting the engine, he contemplated getting out when an unsmiling Izzy, her face drawn and blank, turned her head toward him.

The taller dude angled to see what had captured her attention. Peter waved.

Dude said something to Izzy and she did a bobblehead impression.

What the hell’s going on here?

Izzy finally stepped away and walked toward the car, teetering when her heels dug into the grass. The two feds nodded at Peter as they drew closer, but the taller one glanced back at Izzy. A dormant sting of jealousy blasted Peter, but there was no denying she had an effect on men. Any red-blooded man would be a fool not to take a second look.

He got out, swung around to the passenger’s side and opened the door for her. “Are you all right?”

“Yep,” she said, but the crispness in the word confirmed she lied.

He slid back into the driver’s side. “Feds?”

She slapped her hands over her eyes. “How’d you know?”

“Pretty obvious, Iz.”

She hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t discuss it with anyone.”

Yeah
, right. “Oh, you’ll tell me about it.”

He gave her the hard stare until she folded. “They think Kendrick’s charity is into something illegal.”

“Well, hot damn.” He pulled out of the cemetery. “Where to?”

“My office. I need to make some calls.”

“What do they think Kendrick was up to?”

Izzy shook her head. “They don’t know. They want me to leverage Kendrick’s invitation to visit so I can get into the compound.” She slouched down in the seat. “Peter, they want me to be an informant. A
source
.”

A sudden burst of shock made his cheeks hot. “
O
-kay.”

“Exactly.”

No way she could handle that. Not with her emotional issues. She’d have to go into the home of her abuser, be among his things. Batshit central. “What did you tell them?”

She rubbed her fingers across her forehead. “I said I’d get back to them.”

“
What
? It would be emotional suicide.”

She turned to him, those gorgeous eyes snappy and mean. “You don’t think I know that?”

He held up a hand before turning right onto Broad Street for the last half mile to her office. “Sorry.”

“Drop me off in front.” When he pulled into the circular drive, she said, “There are kids there. At Kendrick’s. Girls.”

“Ah, shit.” Peter shook his head. Friggin’ feds went right for the jugular.

“How do I turn away from that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, when you figure it out, let me know.”

The early evening sun eased over Isabelle’s cheek as they cruised down Ocean Avenue in Peter’s Mustang, and she decided being chauffeured around wasn’t a bad thing. He’d picked her up from work, brought her home to change and informed her he would be making her dinner at his place.

The man could cook. Who’d have thunk it? Peter Jessup continued to be chock full of surprises and, for once, she didn’t mind.

When they pulled onto the Jessup estate she once again marveled at the palatial surroundings. These people were loaded. Filthy rich.

They passed the main house, drove around the tennis court and pool to a small cottage five hundred yards below. A simple two-story structure painted a vibrant white with pale blue trim, it had four windows lining the front with a porch that spanned the length of the home. Two white rocking chairs gently moved with the wind.

“So, this is it?” Isabelle asked as Peter pulled around the side of the house to the small driveway.

“Yep.”

“It so homey.”

“It is. It’s a two bedroom. My mother wanted to make sure there’d be enough room for people with children.” He laughed. “It’s not like she has any extra room with the ten bedrooms in her house.”

He held open the car door and she followed him along the path to the front door. “Why don’t you stay in the main house?”

After flipping through his keys and finding the right one, he jammed it into the lock. “Because my family doesn’t understand the meaning of privacy. If I stay here, I’m not underfoot all the time.”

Isabelle stepped into the cool air and chill bumps peppered her bare arms. The large, open living room and the casual sectional, upholstered in a beige cotton, immediately drew her attention. Two vivid blue chairs in the same fabric sat opposite the sofa. The walls were a lighter beige, and she breathed in the coziness around her. The decorators earned their money on this job.

She dropped her purse on the floor and followed Peter to the small kitchen, but he promptly settled her on one of the iron stools by the breakfast bar.

“Anyway,” he said, “back to the feds. What are you thinking about this informant thing?”

He pulled a plate of partially cooked chicken from the fridge.

“I don’t think I can do it. What do I know about that sort of work?”

After pouring olive oil into the skillet sitting on the stove, he said, “Good. Tell them no.”

He retrieved two small bowls from the fridge, dumped the contents into the pan and the sizzle brought the aroma of onions and garlic.

“I can’t believe you know how to cook.”

He shrugged. “Marguerite taught me. All those years of being punished resulted in me sitting in the kitchen most evenings. Eventually, I started to help. No big deal.”

Maybe not to him.

“Anyway, I’m going to tell the feds no. I think that’s what I should do.”

“Good,” he said again and a fuse inside her blew.

“Are you going to say anything other than ‘good’?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. After a minute he stopped sautéing and turned to face her. “Do you
want
me to say something other than good?”

“Well, I’d like your opinion. We’ve had all afternoon to think about it. Besides, you know more about this type of thing than I do.”

He scrubbed his right hand over his face, took a deep breath and went back to cooking. The smell of the sautéing onions and garlic wafted her way and she let the comforts of a home-cooked meal settle her.

“I’m not sure,” Peter said. “Part of me is relieved that you’ll say no. I think they’re withholding information until they get a commitment from you. They’d be stupid to give you any details about an ongoing investigation until you’ve agreed to work with them. Plus, they think there’s a murderer in there, and I can’t wrap my mind around you being on your own.

“The other part of me, the part that drives most of what I do, is telling me this op could clear you of murder. And let’s not forget the kids.”

The children.
Mostly girls.
That’s what the agents had said. Probably girls just like she had been at eight years old when she discovered the male anatomy long before she should have. Her stomach clenched.

“You think I should do it.”

He twisted around to the fridge again, grabbed a bottle of white wine from the bottom shelf and, without measuring, poured some into the pan. Amazing. Next came some sort of broth. She guessed chicken.

“I didn’t say that,” Peter said. “I think you need to decide for yourself, but whatever you decide, I’ll help you.”

She glanced up at him. “Help me how?”

“Not sure yet. I’m still processing it, but there’s no way you are going into that circus alone while a murderer is running around.”

Lemon juice went into the pan next and then some chopped greenery. Parsley? “Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you making?”

He forked the chicken into the skillet, turned each piece to coat it and covered the pan. “Chicken Limone.”

Her stomach growled. Roared actually. “Yummy.”

“We’ll eat in a little while.” He came around the breakfast bar and reached for her hand. “Let’s have a rumba lesson while I think about this FBI deal. I want to work on your hips. You won’t let yourself go and it’s holding you back.”

A rumba lesson?
Now
? “Are you insane?”

He laughed and dragged her with him to the stereo. “Vic seems to think so. He took all my guns.”

He tried to make it a joke, but something in his tone said otherwise. Could this be him wanting to open up about what happened on his last assignment?

“Do you want to talk about that?”

He punched a button and Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes’ version of “The Fever” wailed from surround sound speakers.

“That’s a little loud,” Peter said, turning it down a decibel. “This song will work though. Let me move this coffee table.”

Moving to the center of the room, he shoved the coffee table toward the breakfast bar to give them room.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Isabelle said.

“Nope.”

“Nope, you didn’t answer or nope you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Yep.”

He held out his arms for her, but she fisted both hands and shook them at him. “Why won’t you talk to me about this?”

Something in his stance changed. He still stood with his arms outstretched, but his shoulders sagged. “I’d really just like to dance with you.”

Shutting down. She understood it and now realized how frustrating it could be for those who cared enough to want to help. She had forced away many people with her own version of shutting down and it suddenly seemed like an awful form of rejection to bestow on someone.

“Fine.”

The million-dollar smile split his face and he reached for her, hauled her forward and kissed her in a way that had nothing to do with gentility. Rough. Needy. The scorching heat drilled to her core.

No. No. No.

Flip the switch. He needs something you can’t give.

Maybe, but her hands found the way into the waistband of his shorts and landed on his butt, while Southside Johnny whined about having the fever for a girl. Southside had no idea the fever brewing in this room.

Peter pulled away from the kiss, streaked kisses down her neck as his hot hands roamed under her tank top to her breasts.

No. No. No.
Don’t let him touch you like this.

Too late. His fingers were inside her bra, playing with her nipples and it felt sooooooo good. Something pooled deep within her, and she grabbed his face for more kisses. She needed them. Needed to be close to him.

Flip.

The.

Switch.

He moved his calloused fingers down her body until they reached the bottom of her shirt. “Get this off,” he said, still devouring her mouth.

The shirt went flying and he unclipped her bra, tossed it, before grinding his hips into hers. His erection poked at her and his eyes turned the color of the ocean during a raging storm.

Oh, baby. This would be good.

Flip. The.
Switch!

But she moved her hands under his shirt, pulled it up and over his head, taking the do-rag off with it, before exploring the hard planes of his chest and the nasty scar on his upper abs. Remembering his weak spot, she went for his neck. His palms pressed against her nipples, shooting more heat into her.

What was happening? This crazy need for…something. Not just the sex. Something else. Something she couldn’t define.

No. Don’t think.
She closed her eyes, concentrated on smothering his neck with kisses.

“Izzy, you’re killing me.”

The edginess of his voice seeped into her and she moaned. The swirling tension looped tight, forcing the breath from her.

Peter finally shoved her backward, onto the couch, and his swarming hands moved into her pants while he trailed kisses over her breasts.

Can’t breathe.

Flip the switch.

What will be left if you give yourself over?

Closer. If she could just get closer, maybe her mind would go silent.

The room contracted. No air.

She locked her arms around him and pulled him close. “Kiss me. Please, Peter.”

Anything to make the panic disappear. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make this feeling of losing herself go away.

She closed her eyes one last time, let herself enjoy the tumbling, downhill fall these moments of pure lust brought. Lust that only Peter seemed to be capable of giving her.

A sob caught in her throat as she opened the door for Creepy Izzy.

Finally, finally, finally. Fun Izzy was in the house and looking for some serious nookie. Peter would have liked to hop around the house like Daffy Duck screaming
Woohoo! Woohoo! Woohoo!
but he couldn’t risk giving Izzy even a second to think about flipping that goddamned switch.

Nope. In the next minute and a half, he’d have her pants off and Fun Izzy would get a shagging that neither one of them would forget. Happy day.

Dinner would be trash by the time he got done with her, but this qualified as a good reason to ruin a Chicken Limone. Holding himself up with one arm, he reached for the button on her denim shorts, felt the heat of her stomach under his fingers and nearly ripped the damned shorts in two. His head—make that
heads
—wanted to erupt. Literally.

All because Monk Junior was about to meet Izzy up close and personal. Very personal.

Something clicked. Not in his brain either. By the door. The lock tumbling?

Shit.

But Izzy. Right here under him. He shot a look at the door—nothing moving yet. He lowered his other arm, pushed himself up on both hands and spotted Izzy’s closed eyes.

Dammit.

“Open your eyes.” He needed to make sure Creepy Izzy hadn’t gotten nosy. Before she could comply, the front door opened.

“Peter?” his mother called.

The sound of his mother’s voice at this exact moment should have sent every stinking bit of his hard-on bye-bye. He launched himself off the couch, gawked at a half naked Izzy—those glorious breasts just waiting for his hands to be on them again—and nearly cried. He finally made it to her face and almost laughed at the horror displayed in her eyes. In total contrast, her lips were pressed tight to conceal a smile.