Dangerous (The Complete Erotic Romance Novel) (57 page)

For once, Kendra Jones hadn’t surprised him in the least.

And Reid was very glad.

* * *

Kendra left Reid’s house, filled with new purpose.

All she had to do was solve the mystery of Alana’s murder, ideally before the police decided that Reid was guilty, and without any of their tools at her disposal. She backed out of his driveway and drove quickly home, wondering what was on the USB drive.

As she drove, she reviewed his story. It was full of what seemed to be obvious conclusions, at least to her. Of course, she wasn’t inclined to think well of Alana. Kendra would bet that Alana had targeted Reid for his money. Maybe Alana wasn’t even her real name. She probably wasn’t a fan of the ballet or an aspiring ballerina and Kendra doubted she’d recently lost her mother. She probably didn’t even belong to that gym before she set her sights on Reid.

Kendra was sure that whatever Alana had worn when she happened to encounter Reid, it hadn’t been a mousey little outfit that anyone could overlook. She’d guess that Alana had worn sky-high heels and backless dresses, clingy little numbers in fire-engine red that any man with an increment of testosterone would notice from miles away. She wouldn’t have left any chance that Reid could overlook her, anywhere anytime.

But if Reid hadn’t killed her, who had?

Kendra was too impatient to wait for the elevator. She took the stairs two at a time, and burst into her apartment. She booted up her laptop, checked that Jade’s room was empty and filled the kettle. She was back at her laptop in record time, pushing the USB drive into the port.

It had three files on it.

A private investigator’s report on Alana, dated before Reid’s marriage.

A private investigator’s report on Alana’s disappearance, from two years before.

And a private investigator’s report on Kendra Jones, that was just over a week old.

It looked like Reid knew a lot more about Kendra than she’d realized. She stared at the file, unable to decide whether she was glad that he was cautious or feel betrayed that she hadn’t realized he’d investigated her. It was only after she opened the file that she was really worried.

The opening letter was from Reid to the investigator, and noted that he was hiring the investigator as a result of Kendra sending him some pictures of herself.

But she’d never sent Reid anything.

She opened the scanned images and sat back in surprise. She’d certainly never sent him these images, of her naked in her own bedroom. He’d seen that in real life.

She clicked to the second picture and was mortified to see herself having sex with that friend of Jade’s new boyfriend. Whatever the hell his name was. It was the guy she’d done the night after Reid punished her with the riding crop, when she’d been feeling used and defiant—and aroused.

But who had sent these pictures to him?

Who could have such pictures?

What the hell was going on?

* * *

Moynihan was impressed by Stirling’s house. It wasn’t flashy, even given the neighborhood, and it could have easily been overlooked. Tucked back from the road behind mature trees, the house appeared to be smaller than it actually was. The truth was more evident by the time he parked the cruiser beside the front door.

He had a feeling it would be even bigger inside.

He was right. He could tell that the house was enormous, even from what he could see from the foyer. Maybe it spilled down a ravine on the back side, cascading into multiple floors even though it just looked like a bungalow from the street.

An older man had answered the door, presumably a staff member, his manners impeccable. He’d left Moynihan and his junior officer waiting in the foyer. The foyer was generously proportioned with a large mirror opposite the front door. There were doors to the left, presumably to a closet, then the entry to the house to the right. A person could turn left or right: the older man had turned left.

The wall that blocked any view of the house was stainless steel and a good ten feet long. Moynihan supposed it was a sculpture because the surface of the steel was worked into gleaming hills and valleys. Water ran down the face of steel into a long skinny pool at the bottom. The pool was only a foot wide and extended the entire length of the wall. The water made a quiet splashing sound as it fell, and he could see orange shapes in the water. Fish. Maybe the pool extended around the other side, giving them more room to swim.

The wall barricaded the main room of the house from view and the sound of the water gave even more privacy. The colors were pale—the silver of the steel, white, pearl—and every surface was richly appointed. He could see leather, marble, silk. Everything was elegant and precise.

Except for the table beneath the large mirror. It was a finely made piece of furniture executed in pale wood with a marble top. The marble was deep grey and veined with gold, no doubt a deliberate echo of the waterfall’s colors. But there was a set of keys dropped on the table. They looked out of place, and too informal for the setting.

There was a tag on the key ring.

Moynihan felt his companion tense to speak and held up a silencing finger without even looking at him. He turned to find the younger officer wide-eyed, but gave him a quelling look. He stepped forward and pulled a pencil from his pocket. He turned the tag on the keys so it could be read. As he’d anticipated, it listed an address.

Moynihan memorized the address, then returned the tag to its original position. His companion nodded that he’d read it, as well. Moynihan stood as he had been standing, wondering why the address sounded familiar.

It was the street name. Where had had he heard that recently?

The older gentleman returned, his tread almost silent. He nodded and gestured to the left. “Mr. Stirling will see you in his office, Detective.”

“Thank you.”

Moynihan felt his companion steal peeks at the house as they walked down the wide corridor, but refrained from doing so himself. He wanted to focus on Stirling. The office Stirling kept at his home was minimally furnished, with just a desk and a single chair. There were boxes stacked at the far side, and blinds upon the window. The hardwood floor seemed enormous, and Moynihan realized this room was bigger than his own living room. Stirling was standing behind his desk and turned as they entered.

He looked as if he hadn’t slept, but then he was as composed as ever. Maybe he was used to going without sleep. He was dressed casually, in a T-shirt and jeans, which surprised Moynihan. He was sure he’d never seen Stirling in anything other than a suit. “I assume you have some news to share about my wife’s murder, Detective,” he said by way of introduction, cool and businesslike.

“I do, Mr. Stirling. I apologize for troubling you on a Sunday morning, but I do need some assistance from you.”

Stirling’s eyes narrowed just a bit. “Anything I can do to help,” he said politely.

“I’d like to request a DNA sample from you, sir.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?”

“The coroner tells us that your wife was pregnant, sir. We’d like to verify that the child was yours.”

Stirling’s only reaction was a slight tightening of his lips. “How far along was she?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Just over three months.”

“Not mine, then,” Stirling said calmly.

“Are you sure?”

“My wife and I had not been intimate for at least six months.”

“A disagreement?”

“Not exactly.” Stirling’s gaze flicked to the floor, then back to Moynihan so quickly that the detective knew the other man was trying to hide his gesture. He held Moynihan’s gaze. “You could say that we’d found we liked different things.”

That could mean a thousand things, which probably had been Stirling’s intent.

Moynihan produced a test kit from his pocket. “And the test?”

“I have no objections to supplying a sample,” Stirling said.

“Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” He handed the test kit to his junior officer, then looked down where Stirling’s gaze had fallen.

An assortment of bondage items and fetish gear had been dropped on the floor and kicked behind the boxes. In one glance, he saw rope, cable ties, ankle and wrist restraints and a heavy leather gag.

Different things, indeed.

Moynihan thought of the woman from Esperanza Enterprises being here the night before, Kendra Jones, and remembered where he’d heard that street address before.

Did Stirling have keys to her apartment?

What exactly was going on between the two of them? It would take a less observant man than Moynihan to miss the resemblance between Kendra Jones and Alana Stirling.

More importantly, what else did the two women have in common?

* * *

“As much as I would have preferred it to be otherwise, Louise, you were right.” Henry sat down at the kitchen table and took a sip from his cold cup of coffee. He grimaced, then nodded at his wife. “Sometimes I think you’re too perceptive.”

Louise smiled at him and whisked away his cup. She dumped the cold coffee down the drain and poured him a fresh cup. He’d left the kitchen to answer the door, although Louise had thought that anyone who rang the bell at such an early hour on a Sunday should expect to be left waiting.

Mr. Stirling was up, of course. The man was up at five every day.

Forster was reading the newspaper and consuming coffee at his usual morning volume. Louise would have to make another pot when Mr. Stirling wanted some.

“What am I right about this time?” she asked, trying not to sound smug.

Henry’s eyes twinkled. “Because there are so many possibilities?”

Louise almost laughed. “Something like that.”

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” Forster demanded, looking up from the newspaper to glance between them.

“Louise said that Mrs. Stirling was pregnant before she died,” Henry explained. Forster’s eyes went round. “I didn’t believe it, but that was the police. The coroner confirmed that she was pregnant.”

“They came to tell him that?” Louise asked.

“They came for a DNA sample,” Henry replied, watching her closely. “They want to confirm that it’s his child.”

“Ha! Who says the police miss everything important?” Louise treated herself to another muffin. “Are we going to make a wager on what they find?”

Henry shook a finger at her. “Louise, you know I don’t approve of that sort of thing. Mr. Stirling is our employer...”

“And she was no better than a whore,” Louise retorted. She held up a hand when Henry would have argued with her. “It was all about the money for her. It was all a transaction, and she had more than her pound of flesh from him. I am certain that it wasn’t his child, because that’s just the kind of deceitful person she was.”

“Louise!”

“Excuse me, I have to go,” Forster mumbled. He got to his feet so quickly that he nearly knocked over his chair. His face was ashen and he couldn’t look either of them in the eye as he hastily retreated from the room. “I’ll see you later. I’ve got something, um, something to do.”

“What if Mr. Stirling needs you?” Henry called after him.

“Tell him to call me!” Forster shouted back.

Louise sat down and sipped her coffee. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she murmured to herself. “But come to think of it, that makes perfect sense.”

“Do I want to know what you’re talking about?” Henry asked quietly.

“No,” Louise said firmly. “But I expect the police do.”

“They’ve left already.”

“Do you know the name of that detective, Henry?”

“Moynihan.” Henry reached into his pocket and produced a card. “I have his card.”

Louise smiled at her husband as she plucked the card from his fingers. She kissed his cheek then marched past him to the telephone. She picked it up and began to punch in the number.

Henry came up behind her and broke the connection. “Louise! What about your loyalty to Mr. Stirling?”

She pushed his hand aside. “That’s why I’m making the call, Henry. You’d better put another pot of coffee on for Mr. Stirling. I expect this will take a few minutes.”

* * *