Get a Clue (14 page)

“Which one?”

“The cop.”

Again, Cooper lowered his hand.

“I don't know,” Shelly answered. “But he seemed . . . intense.” Her voice hitched. “Didn't he?”

“Cops get that way over dead bodies.”

A long silence followed, and Cooper's unease grew. What did they know that they weren't saying?

And would they tell him now if they thought he'd been eavesdropping?

Swearing to himself, he left them to their closet and went to find Lariana or Patrick. He just hoped they weren't in another closet somewhere knocking it out, because all this lusting in the house was getting to him.

As was one tough, soft, sweet-yet-hot Breanne Mooreland. She was
really
getting to him, but that in itself had just gotten complicated, very complicated.

The house was quiet, almost eerily so as Cooper moved through it, looking for Lariana and/or Patrick. In the main hallway, he stopped.

A huge, round saw blade, about three feet in diameter, hung on the wall outside the great room. On it was a beautiful, incredibly pleasing-to-the-eye landscape of the house and the woods around it, so clearly, amazingly painted, right down to the ripples on the lake, that Cooper would have sworn that it was somehow lit from within.

Curious about who would hang something now, today of all days, he headed down the hall toward the sound of running water, and found Lariana scrubbing the already spotless floor of the bathroom off the foyer. She had a brush in one hand, a bottle of cleaner in the other, and was virtually attacking the tile just below the sink with a vengeance that spoke volumes about pent-up emotions.

As Cooper had already noticed about her, Lariana didn't look much like a maid. Even while scrubbing as if her life depended on it, she maintained some inexplicable sophistication and elegance. Oddly enough, she wore a different outfit than she had earlier, black jeans so tight they looked like barely dried, spray-on paint and a silver, long-sleeved top with slits in the sleeves, revealing her toned arms. Bent over as she was, with her jeans sliding south, he got a good look at a tattoo low on her spine.

TROUBLE
, it read in cursive.

Trouble? He could believe it. “Spill something?” he asked.

With a startled scream, the brush went flying. Whirling around, she put a hand to her chest and stared at him, chest rising and falling with hummingbird-rapid breathing.

He nodded to what she'd been doing. “Scrubbing pretty hard there.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe
you
have nerves of steel, Superman, but the rest of us don't.”

Leaning back against the doorway, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that after this morning's little surprise, I needed to keep my hands busy.” Indeed, they shook as she retrieved the brush. “That's not a crime.”

“Are you frightened, Lariana?”

“Only an idiot wouldn't be. If someone killed Edward—”

“If.”

She nodded once. “If. Then it's one of us. Or one of you. Either way, we're all stuck here together. Not exactly comforting.” She said this while continuing to scrub with a vengeance. “It's not like we often find dead bodies.”

He noticed the more upset she was, the heavier her accent. “Why are you cleaning this particular bathroom?”

Her eyes narrowed and she sat back on her heels, swiping her arm over her forehead. “Just because you're a cop somewhere else, in another life, you don't get to ask questions as if I'm guilty of something.” She went back to her frenetic cleaning, but when he just stood there, she once again sat back and glared at him. “
Dios mio
. Just do it. Ask. Ask me whatever you want.”

“What do you think I want?”

“To know if I have an alibi.”

“Okay,” he said. “What were you doing between last night and this morning?”

“Sleeping.”

Not exactly the truth, he knew. She hadn't been sleeping, she'd been doing Patrick. “When was the last time you saw Edward?”

“When he was screaming his lungs out at Shelly yesterday before either you or Breanne arrived.”

“Why was he doing that?”

Lariana already looked as if she was sorry she'd said it. “I do not know.”

“What was Shelly doing?”

She shrugged.

Cooper sighed. “Fine.”

“Really? Because you don't seem like it's fine.”

“Lariana, we have a dead man in the cellar. I just want to know everything there is to know.”

“I suppose you cannot help yourself.”

“I suppose not,” he said with a ghost of a smile. It was true, he couldn't. Questioning, investigating, was just a part of him. Always had been. As a kid he'd sought to find the hidden mysteries in things. As an adult he'd gone into criminal science with a head for ferreting out the scum of the earth. He'd ended up in vice and had stayed there, even as it had slowly sucked the soul right out of him. The last case, a drug traffic ring, had taken him six months to crack, and at the end, in a fateful shootout he'd never forget, he'd had to decide which of two perps to shoot. The one he hadn't gone for had spun around and killed another cop.

That had been when he'd walked away before going under.

And yet, even now, he had no idea how to stay out of things. “Where's Patrick?”

Lariana's expression didn't noticeably change, though she got up and turned her back to Cooper, rinsing her brush out in the sink. Watching her, he hoped to hell she wasn't washing away evidence.

“There's too many people in this house for Patrick,” Lariana said. “He's off somewhere alone.”

“But it's only you and the other staff, and two guests.”

“Which for Patrick, the king of the unsociables, is five too many.”

“Six.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It's six. You, Dante, Shelly, Breanne, myself. And Edward.”

Lariana said nothing, and he eyed the way her knuckles had gone white on the brush. “You said he yelled at Shelly,” he pressed. “Did he yell at you, too?”

She went back to rinsing.

“I'm trying to help,” he said quietly. “Tell me about him.”

She shrugged. “He hired us. He was the direct contact to the owner.”

“Go on.”

“He dealt with the guests and the Web site, and handled all the public relations and advertising.”

“And?”

She turned off the water and shook her hands dry. “And . . . what?”

“What aren't you telling me?”

She put her hands on her hips. “That he was a horrible, crotchety old man universally hated by all of us. There. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“No. I want to know who killed him.”

 

 

Cooper found Breanne right where he'd left her, in front of the fire. Curled up on the couch, she was entering something into her Palm Pilot while nibbling on her lower lip, a lip he happened to know was most excellent to nibble on.

It was insane how just seeing her made something within him leap. Definitely a physical reaction, but unsettlingly, it was more than that, a phenomenon that hadn't happened to him in a long time.

His job hadn't made it easy to meet women, much less keep one. There'd been Annie, and she'd been soft and sweet and giving—and had hated his job with a passion that had made it personal. From her, from countless others before her, he'd learned to hold a big part of himself back. He didn't want to do that anymore.

But he couldn't deny that just standing there, looking at Breanne, made him want to try again.

Hearing him enter, she lifted her head, eyes wide until she focused on him, not relaxing but no longer showing fear.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey back.” She hugged her Palm Pilot to her chest. “Did you just hear that? A moment ago?”

“Hear what?”

Her shoulders sagged. “Nothing. I'm hearing things again. I wish I could say I'm also just seeing things, but I'm pretty sure there is really a dead body downstairs.”

“Yeah,” he said regretfully.

Behind him, the fire crackled loudly, and Breanne jumped as if she'd been shot, dropping her digital unit.

Scooping it up for her, he glanced at the screen.
Last will and testament.

“You planning on needing a will?” he asked.

Snatching it out of his hand, she shoved it in her bag, her movements jerky.

“You're not going to die, Breanne.”

“Yeah? Tell that to Edward.”

She was breathing shallowly again, her pupils dilated to large black marbles. He locked his eyes on hers. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

Looking away, she nodded.

He pulled her back to face him. “Trust me on this one.”

A slow shake of her head was his answer. “I don't do trust.”

“This isn't a matter of the heart, this is a matter of life and death.”

“Why aren't you a cop anymore?”

Now it was his turn to look away. “That's a long story.”

“Right,” she said. “And I'm so busy here that I can't possibly spare the time to hear it. Come on, Cooper. Tell me.”

He sighed and sank to the couch next to her. “I was in vice. Saw a lot.”

Her eyes softened as she turned to face him, sitting on a bent leg, her long, wavy hair around her shoulders. “You burned out?”

“Pretty much. But I still remember how to protect someone.” He twirled a long strand of her hair around his finger. “I would tell you if I couldn't.”

“So you really always tell the truth?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes searched his for a long time. Then she stood up and put her hands out at her sides. “All right, then, tell me this truth. Does this skirt make my butt look big?”

He laughed.

She didn't.

Ah,
he thought. A test. He stood, too, pondering her seriously. Then he lifted a finger, twirled it, gesturing her to turn around.

After a pause, she did.

He took a good, long look at her mouthwatering ass, so tightly encased in that black skirt he had no idea how she'd even gotten it on. “Hmmm.”

She twisted around and tried to see her own behind. “
Does it?”

“Can't tell. I'll have to feel out the situation.” Sliding a hand down her back, he cupped her bottom.

A sound escaped her, one that he was sure did not relate to distress. Her breathing quickened, and so did his, and from behind her, he rubbed his jaw along hers as he let his second hand join the fray.

“Cooper,” she gasped.

He pressed against her through the skirt, feeling the heat of her as he set his forehead to her temple. “Christ, Breanne.” Sliding his other hand to her belly, he held her in place while he dipped his fingers in as far as the skirt's material gave him.

A little whimper escaped her, and she arched her back, giving him better access.

“Nope. Not fat,” he managed. “Not even close.”

Her eyes were closed. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips. “Okay.”

He turned her to face him. “Okay—you trust me?”

Her breathing wasn't quite even, but she seemed to blink the sexual haze away faster than he could. “Maybe partially.”

“Maybe?”

“Well . . . we
are
virtual strangers.”

He slowly shook his head.

“We're not supposed to mean anything to each other. We're passing through each other's lives for one brief moment in time, that's all,” she said, trying to convince herself.

“Which is why we practically implode on the spot whenever we touch,” he answered, sounding ticked, and . . .
hurt?
“Christ, if we ever get to the big bang, it'll kill us.”

“I gave up men,” she whispered.

“You ever think that you chose the wrong men on purpose?”

She laughed over the vague unease his words brought forth. “Why would I do that? You think I
want
to be dumped all the time?”

“Probably easier than to be the one doing the dumping.”

She stared up at him. “Let me get this straight. You think I choose men that dump me, on purpose? Because it's the easy way out?”

“Maybe.”

“You know what? I don't care what you think.” He wasn't right, he couldn't be right. “And I'm sticking to my plan.”

“The no-more-men plan.”

“That's right.”

“Being careful is good, Breanne. But holding back entirely because you're scared?” He shook his head. “That'd be a damn waste.”

“I told you, we're strangers.”

“See, that's the thing.” Again he stepped close, his broad shoulders blocking out everything but him, the azure color of his shirt emphasizing the clarity of his eyes, intent and frustrated as they were. “We're not strangers. Not anymore.” His eyes captured and held hers, forcing her to face that truth, at least. “You have a passion for life. It's an attractive trait, and a sexy one. Don't waste it just because you're running scared.”

“I make bad choices,” she whispered, knowing it sounded like an old refrain. “You're not going to be the next one.”

“But what if this is right?”

“How do I know that?”

“I think you'd just know,” he said, and ran a finger over her jaw. “You'd feel it.”

She gave a desperate shake of her head.

Disappointment flickered across his face, but he didn't press her. He wouldn't, she realized, and that was . . . oddly freeing and exhilarating all in itself. In her life she'd been pushed in one direction or another by a sibling, a parent, a boyfriend. Making her own decisions had been the best gift she'd ever given to herself.

Now she just had to stay on track and make the right ones. A powerful thing, really. “If I could just get out of here.”

They both looked out the window, to the heavily falling snow.

“I guess wanting and getting are two different things,” she said.