Beauty (45 page)

He’d killed Philippe, and Johnny Kane – or helped them on their way, at least. Both the assholes had got drunk themselves, taken pills themselves. So Philippe didn’t know what he was doing, but Johnny did – fool; weak little fool.

Both of them, far too trusting. He knew that Dina Kane wouldn’t be making that mistake. He’d have to be careful with her.

There was a key – that was the thing. Olivia had provided him with a copy – no questions asked. He could let himself into her new apartment, wait for her, jump her. One hand over the mouth, force the pills down her throat, pour the alcohol in after it. Maybe he’d leave her in the bath, knife in her own hand – her prints on it. She would slit her own wrists. He giggled; that was a neat trick to do when unconscious, but Edward would be happy to lend a little assistance before she was fully passed out. Olivia told him the apartment building had a security guard and cameras in the lobby, but they were turned off at night; they were just for show.

Why hadn’t he done it before? It seemed crazy now. Stupid fears about getting caught. He wouldn’t
be
caught. When Edward Johnson took care of them, they stayed down. No questions after Johnny, none after Philippe. Why would some bitch from Westchester be any different?

He snorted more coke, got a cap and muffler and a large coat, and walked out in to the night. It was only twelve blocks to Dina’s apartment. He entered the front door purposefully, grunting at the guard and walking straight ahead. The man was reading a magazine, not paying attention. There were corridors and an elevator bank. She was on floor sixteen and, with the drug pumping through his veins, Edward Johnson rode up to the right floor.

Adrenaline mixed with the coke. What if she was there? In? And by the door? She was a hermit, that bitch, a fucking hermit; she hated men; never saw anybody. She was probably there, working, waiting . . . He’d have to move fast, jump on her. That was OK. That was fine. Edward didn’t want to think it through. He took out his key, opened the door, entered the apartment and shut it behind him.

He listened. He didn’t call out – didn’t want the neighbours to hear anything.

It was silent. Silent as the grave; silent as her grave. He giggled. Funny. There was nobody here.

Just to make sure, he walked through the place, checked it out. Empty.

There was a large wardrobe in the bedroom. That’s where he would go. He had more coke, of course; it was with him in a silver vial. And he could afford to swallow a little of the whiskey.

He had a celebratory swig and a snort. Then he opened the wardrobe door, climbed inside, and sat down comfortably on its base. Using his phone for a light, he put on the gloves, opened the pillbox and laid the knife next to it.

Everything was ready.

Dina felt like her hands didn’t work. She couldn’t find her keys; she was opening the bag, fumbling, kissing. Joel’s hands were on her, possessively, running up her legs, her thighs, under her skirt, cupping her ass. She was wet, helplessly aroused.

‘God – help me. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’

He took one hand away from stroking her through the thin, damp cotton of her panties, found her key, unlocked the door and shoved her through it.

It closed, heavy, behind them.

‘My bedroom’s this way,’ Dina said.

He was already lifting her shirt over her head, popping the bra undone with practised ease, feeling her full breasts that tumbled out into his hands, her nipples painfully erect. She was so hot for him, he could feel the blood rushing into her belly, her womb literally heating under his hands.

‘Fuck the bedroom.’ Gaines thrust her on to the floor, ripping the clothes from her, tearing the skirt down, the panties off. ‘You aren’t getting that far.’

Dina moaned. He tore off his clothes, too, impatiently, buttons ripping, his tie yanked from his neck. He kicked his shoes off, kissing at her neck, her face, raking his teeth and lips across her throat. She split her legs, wide, willing, desperate to feel him inside her. There was nothing but desire now, pure lust – not love, not friendship – just his power, his might, the strength of his body moving over her.

‘Joel!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, God! Please. Please.’

Inside the wardrobe, Edward Johnson thought fast.

There were two people in this apartment. And one of them was a man. They were fucking, so they were naked.

He had a knife.

But the man seemed sober. And, underneath the glittering bravado of the coke and booze, Edward was a coward.

His body was skinny, even lanky. Any halfway decent guy could take him. That was the problem. And the voice outside sounded familiar.

Joel Gaines
.

Fucking shit scared, Edward started to shudder. Gaines, the goddamned
billionaire
. Gaines, who was built like an army tank, who pumped weights like a Marine drill sergeant on a good day.

He ran through scenarios in his mind. Lurching out, drunk, high, with his little knife. It had seemed big when he was planning on slashing Dina’s wrists while she was passed out in the bath. Now it was a fucking penknife. He would stab at Gaines, maybe hurt him. Then the big man would grab his wrist, break his arm. That was the thing with women: they were so soft, so weak. All those TV shows with karate-kicking female detectives – Edward laughed at them. Even a puny man could grab a woman, subdue her, wrestle her to the ground. It was muscle mass; it was power.

But against Gaines? No. Gaines would fight, and Dina would scream, and get to a phone.

He was trapped. He had to do something. If he left the wardrobe, they would hear him, probably. They were distracted, but they would notice someone trying to get out the door. There was a fire escape, if he could open the windows . . .

Terrified, Edward peeled off the thin plastic gloves and stuffed them in his underpants. The ludicrous smallness of this hit him. He wept with self-pity in the closet. The clonazepam was in its bottle. Maybe he could get to a window, drop that outside . . . For now, he hid it in an inner jacket pocket. The whiskey . . . It wasn’t a crime to have whiskey. The knife . . . Jesus, the knife. He grabbed a cardigan and used it to scrub the knife clean, then, holding it in the fabric, he opened the door as slowly as he could and tossed it under the wardrobe, all the way to the back of the wall.

It was no good. If he stayed here, she’d find him in the morning. He had to get out. He needed to get out . . .

She felt him against her – hard, urgent, forcing her legs apart still wider. Dina groaned with pleasure; she felt dizzy, almost unable to hold herself back. She was gasping every time he touched her, no matter how light, how soft . . .

Gaines pulled back. Dina felt the air on her skin, the rush of it where his body had been.

‘What?’ she whimpered, and not with desire. ‘What is it?’

He sprang back from her, naked, crouching. His body was incredible – strong, knotted with muscles. Even in her dismay, Dina was stunned by it.

‘Cover yourself. Get a phone. There’s someone here. In the apartment.’

At that moment, there came a cry from the bedroom – a weak, mewling cry, sobbing, pathetic.

Dina gasped in horror and grabbed her dress, tugging it over her head.

‘Who’s in there?’ Gaines barked. He lifted his trousers with one hand and slipped them on. ‘Answer me or we call the police. And I’m coming to get you. I have a gun.’

Dina looked wildly at him but he shook his head.

‘Don’t shoot!’ It was a shriek. ‘Don’t shoot, please! It’s me – Edward Johnson. I’m unarmed. Don’t kill me!’

‘Don’t you fucking move,’ Gaines said.

He gestured, and Dina, hot, flushed, scrambled to pull on underwear, cover herself properly. Then she moved towards the bedroom door, but Gaines was ahead of her, his body covering hers, protecting her.

He lifted one leg and kicked the door open. A perfect, strong extension. The wood splintered and shattered in the middle.

Edward Johnson was sitting there on the bed, hunched, sobbing, tears and mucus streaming down his face. He was swaying, and there was a stench of alcohol, and powder was scattered around him.

‘How the fuck did you get in here?’ Gaines demanded. ‘Get down on the fucking floor. Spread your legs and arms.
Now.
’

Meekly, Johnson obeyed. He looked so weak, flopping to his knees, then his belly, prostrating himself before Gaines and Dina.

Joel ran his hands quickly and efficiently across his body, pulling out the vial of meds. ‘Clonazepam. You stink of booze. Where is it?’

Johnson said nothing. Joel kicked him, hard, between the legs. There was a whooshing sound as he sucked in his breath and then a high-pitched gasp of agony.

‘Jesus! Jesus …’

‘He wants nothing to do with you. Where is it?’

‘In the closet . . . I have nothing . . .’

Gaines placed one foot on Johnson’s neck. Dina was staring, stunned, but he ignored her. He took inventory of the wardrobe; there was a bottle of whiskey, opened, a little drunk. Johnson had been on it for hours before this bottle, clearly. There was powder on his lip.

‘What else did you bring?’

‘What? What do you mean? Don’t hurt me! I came here to confront Dina!’

‘You came here to kill Dina,’ Gaines said. His foot moved down on Johnson’s neck. ‘Like you killed her brother. What else, fucker?’

‘Nothing else . . . I swear!’

‘If I ask the question again, you’re dead. You think anybody is going to give a shit that I defended a woman from a home invasion?’ Gaines pressed harder, half-choking Johnson. ‘Confession time, Edward. Right now.’

‘Ugh – knife . . .’

Dina was shaking with fear and shock.

‘Where’s the goddamned knife, Edward?’

‘Under the closet.’

Gaines looked at Dina. ‘Check it, sweetheart. I don’t want to move off him.’

Dina dropped to the floor. Gaines pressed harder. ‘Close your eyes. Don’t even look at her.’

‘There it is. Oh my God, Joel.’ She reached underneath and pulled it out, showing it to him.

He lifted Johnson up by the back of his neck and threw him on the bed.

‘You are a pathetic, worthless junkie.’ He reached out and grabbed Edward’s hair, tilting his head backwards. ‘Look at that: coke on your lip. You killed Johnny Kane with it, and now you’ve started killing yourself. Tell me how you got in here.’

‘I had a key,’ Edward said, weeping with fear. ‘Somebody made it – someone in the underworld. I don’t have their contact anymore. If I look too hard for them, they’ll pop me.’

Dina moaned. He had a key. If she hadn’t been with Joel, she’d have been dead.

‘It’s you,’ he said, suddenly, wiping his eyes and hissing at her. ‘You bitch – it’s all you! The way I am. You split my family. You made my mother sick. My father – you might as well have killed him.’

‘Bullshit, Edward!’ Gaines said. ‘You don’t give a fuck about anybody except yourself. When did you last call your father?’

‘I . . . We don’t speak.’

‘And your mother? You’re not the only one that can do research. You packed her off to Florida and all of a sudden she signs the family trust over to you, am I right? You own the townhouse now?’

‘How do you—?’

‘I know. I watched you. I watched Dina.’

‘She blackmailed my father; she’s a whore. You know that? She’s a goddamned whore. Fucked me for my money—’

Gaines punched him in the face. Dina squealed, and Edward spat out teeth, blood, and crumpled on the bed.

‘She’s more than you’ll ever be.’

‘Joel . . . Joel, he’s nothing. He’s over.’ Dina clutched on to him. ‘I’m sorry for what I did to your parents, Edward. I was so angry.’

‘Say it to them, if you want. He doesn’t care about either of them. He’s a fucking psychopath.’

Dina moaned. ‘I don’t care. Let him go; let him go.’

Joel held her hands. ‘If you do that, what woman does he kill next? This one is dangerous, Dina. Your brother? You? God knows who else! He broke into this apartment. We need to call the police.’

She gripped him. ‘I can’t think. My – my company launches tomorrow.’

‘Let’s hope they serve good coffee,’ Gaines said. ‘We’re going to be up late tonight.’

Edward sat there, rocking on the bed, twisting his fingers. ‘You can’t do that – call the police – I’ll tell them you hit me. I’ll tell everybody what you did to my father. You’re a whore, Dina Kane; I still have the pictures. Try running your precious business when that comes out.’

Dina held on to Joel and looked at Edward, the malicious, seething wreck of him, and then looked at the knife, shining, sharp, free of blood.

‘Joel’s right. Do your worst. We don’t care. We need you off the streets – before you hurt anyone else.’

She held up her phone. ‘Nine-one-one? Yes, I need the police. I’m in my apartment with a man who just tried to kill me. And I’m pretty sure he killed my brother, too.’

It was past midnight when they finally got back home – his place – Dina couldn’t face her own. She walked past the pictures, and Gaines apologised, but she held up one hand.

‘Stop. I don’t care. That was the past.’

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, again and again, and she felt the warmth returning, like he was blowing on embers, fanning them back into flame. The heat that she thought was gone came back to her; she pressed herself against him.

‘No.’ Joel bent down and kissed her on the mouth. ‘He’s been arrested. He tried to kill you. It’s not the time, baby.’

She moaned. ‘Joel – I’ve waited so long.’

‘We both have. But tomorrow you launch your business. You need to sleep, wake up and do that. I’ll still be here. The first time we make love has to be when you’re calm, rested, when you’ve thought it through. Not right after somebody tries to murder you.’

Dina laughed. ‘Sweet talker.’

‘If you want me when you wake up, I won’t put up a fight.’

She kissed him back. The exhaustion, the nervousness was coming back to her. ‘OK, OK. But I want to sleep next to you.’

‘Deal.’ Gaines bent down and scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom; she nestled against him, and he felt her slump. After he’d laid her down on the bed, within minutes, she was asleep, like a child after a long journey.