Guarding the Socialite (14 page)

“You lost a teammate?” Emma asked, sympathy softening her voice. “That's awful.”

His tone roughened as he said, “Yes, well, terrible things happen in the field. It's a risk we all take. Tana was as good as they came. The Bureau lost a good agent that day.”

“And you lost a friend,” she surmised.

It was a long moment before he answered again, and when he did she thought she almost heard a catch in his voice. “Yeah…the entire team lost a friend. After that case, we all went our separate ways. Kara retired, D'Marcus transferred and Zane, well, he was never quite right after it all went down. He left the Bureau and I don't know where he went.”

Emma stilled. There was pain there. Lots of it. This was the darkness she'd seen lurking under the surface of the irreverent jokes and biting sarcasm. Considering his mother was still in London, it was likely his team had become his family, which had become fractured after their teammate had been killed and the case solved. What a cost to bear. She reached out to him in the only way she knew how—in sympathy.

“I know it doesn't make it better and it's in no way supposed to be a trade, but I'm sure Tana would've wanted to do anything to keep that psychotic woman from killing another child…even if it meant sacrificing herself.”

“How do you know that?” he asked sharply, though his eyes were sad. “She was young. Never married. She wasn't even dating anyone seriously at the time because she wanted her career to come first. Why her? Why not me?”

Ah, she realized with a small bubble pop of intuition. Survivor guilt. She knew there was little she could say that would be what he needed to hear, but she wanted to try anyway, if only to show him that he wasn't alone. She stood and came around the table to where he was sitting. He watched her approach, his gaze never leaving her. It was almost as if he were challenging her without saying a word, begging without moving a muscle.

“I don't know why it was her instead of you,” she answered honestly. “Terrible things happen all the time and we don't always know the why of it. Please don't cringe when I say that everything happens for a reason.” When his mouth tightened, evidence that he hadn't liked what she'd said, she continued undaunted. She knew that even as painful as it was to lose her sister, her death had been the catalyst to create something good in the world. “When Elyse died I didn't know how I'd get through it. I felt alone and adrift. My parents aren't the touchy-feely type. They don't give hugs or sympathy. They just march on. At least that's how it felt. It wasn't until recently that I learned maybe my perception of their reaction wasn't entirely accurate.” She drew a deep breath, remembering her father's overbearing demands and her mother's fearful expression. Momentarily distracted, she refocused. “The point is, losing Elyse drove me to create Iris House in her memory. I help women like Elyse get back on their feet. But the truth is—and I'm not comparing Elyse to Tana—Elyse's dying…was probably a blessing. She was tearing our family apart with her drug addiction. I couldn't have seen that at the time but I do now.”

“I don't believe in fate and all that rubbish,” he said, his
expression flat. “There was no good reason Tana died and I didn't. End of story. If believing that your sister died so you could start Iris House is the way you cope with losing her, fabulous. I just don't buy into that woo-woo New Age belief. No offense.”

“Have you ever noticed that when people say
no offense
or
don't take this the wrong way
they are usually saying something that is either quite rude or offensive and likely to make the other person angry, hurt or defensive?” she asked, coolly. She was just trying to help and he was being downright nasty. Fine. She got the message loud and clear. “I'm sorry to have bothered you with my attempt at sympathy, Agent McIntyre,” she said, moving to the door, intent on leaving him behind so she could clear her head. But he was there, having bolted from his chair as if he had rocket blasters cleverly installed in the heels of his shoes, and now he was hovering over her in the most disconcerting way. She attempted to back away but he was in her space. “Agent—”

“Dillon,” he reminded her with a husky growl, his mouth moving ever so closer to hers, causing a shiver of anticipation to tickle her skin.

“What are you doing?”

“I don't know,” he answered truthfully. “But I don't want to stop.”

She inhaled sharply, intent on reminding him that this wasn't appropriate, and damn it, she was angry with him for being so closed off and uncommunicative—basically, for acting like every man she'd ever dated—but before she could get the words out, his lips were sliding over hers. Her knees trembled, threatening to send her dropping to the floor if he didn't catch her, and she forgot what she'd been planning to say.

That is until she heard a hissed “My God!” from the hallway and she realized they had an audience.

Robert Gavin, plump face turning red while his lips seemed to all but disappear as his mouth tightened with rage, speared Dillon with a look full of hatred and something else equally ugly as he said, spittle flying from his mouth in his delivery, “Your career is mine,
Agent
McIntyre,” he snarled, looking briefly to Emma. “You can count on it.”

Emma wasn't sure she could've said anything useful, her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth from shock and mortification, but she'd also been a bit scared by the look of murder in Robert's eyes. If he'd had a gun, she didn't doubt the both of them would be sporting bullet-sized holes in their heads. “This is bad,” she whispered, looking to Dillon to either put her fears at ease or confirm them.

She was hoping for the former but got the latter as Dillon's mouth turned down with grim acknowledgment. “Oh, yes. This is bad. I have to do some damage control,” he said, grabbing his coat and slipping it on as he rummaged in a pocket for his phone. Once it was in his hand, he gestured to her as he dialed. “Stay put. I'll figure this out.”

And then with the phone to his ear, he was gone as quickly as Robert, leaving Emma to wonder how the hell her world had gotten so screwed up.

D
illon skidded into the director's office, knowing by the tic going off in the creases of the man's eyes that things didn't bode well for him.

“I can explain,” he started, but he was cut off.

“I told you to walk the line,” Director Pratt growled, slapping a folder on the desk. “What part of
walk the line
escaped you, McIntyre? English is your native language, isn't it?” He didn't wait for an answer to his sarcastic question and wisely Dillon didn't try to offer one. “There are rules for a reason. You can't go around doing whatever the hell you want just because you want to do it. You're supposed to be protecting Ms. Vale, not washing her tonsils. This is a serious breach of protocol. You leave me no choice but to pull you from the case.”

Dillon tensed but fought to keep his cool. It wouldn't do any good to take a backhoe to the hole he was already knee-deep in. “Director, if I may…I'll admit kissing Ms. Vale was
an error in judgment on my part but I think pulling me at this stage would be a detriment to the case. The Winter Ball is this weekend. I've been studying the donors and I need to see them face-to-face. It's my hunch that the killer is one of the people on the guest list.”

“What proof do you have?”

“None yet, but I will. I have a gut feeling,” he protested but Pratt waved him away.

“Sorry. We deal in hard evidence around here. You've lost your objectivity and we need a cool head. I'm putting Sanford on the case, effective immediately. That'll be all, McIntyre.”

Dillon's skin pricked from the heat percolating from his temper and his growing fear that he'd royally screwed up and in doing so he just put Emma in real danger. Sanford was a decent agent but he didn't have the background, the intuition or the drive to ensure that Emma remained safe.

“This is a mistake,” he said, his tone laced with steel. “Don't make—”

“No, don't you make another mistake,” Pratt interrupted, his gaze hardening on Dillon. “I've got that Gavin man calling for your head, demanding that I can your ass over this situation. And even though kissing isn't grounds for termination, it sure doesn't look good. I have enough pressure on me with this case, so if you don't want to find yourself in even hotter water, you'll pipe down, realize I'm doing you a favor and just say thank you. You're no good to me, McIntyre. I had reservations about putting you on this case…. I can see now that I should've listened to my gut. Take the rest of the day off. And get your head on straight.”

Yeah, sure. If it were that easy… As tempting as it was to continue to argue his case, he knew a losing battle when he saw it. Even though it went against everything in him, he forced himself to walk out the door and head to Sanford's
desk. He stopped by his own desk and scooped his files, notes and miscellaneous items, and dropped them unceremoniously on Sanford's. “Seems you've been reassigned to the prostitute killer,” he said tightly.

Earl Sanford—a man who thought he was slicker than he actually was, had a smarmy grin and drove a big, flashy car that was an obvious overcompensation for something—accepted the folder and leaned back in his chair to peruse the contents. “Tough break, McIntyre,” he said. “Can't say I'm surprised. Word around the water cooler is that you should've gone out on a medical a long time ago. But I wouldn't worry about it. This case doesn't seem to be going anywhere. It's been weeks since the last dead prostitute popped up with the same MO as the last. Whoever it was has probably moved on.”

That's exactly the kind of thickheaded thinking the killer was banking on, Dillon thought darkly. He hit Sanford with a mocking look. “I have a tendency to trash office gossip. Otherwise I might've been inclined to believe that you enjoy wearing women's panties and that you have a penchant for dressing in drag when you're in strange cities.” Dillon paused a brief moment to enjoy the sickly blanching of Sanford's normally florid face and shrugged. “But like I said, I tend to ignore the stuff heard around the water cooler. And don't go soft, Sanford,” he warned, all hint of mockery gone from his voice. This was serious and he needed Sanford to remember that. “We aren't dealing with your average dim-witted killer who slashes and runs. He's methodical and he's doing this for a reason.”

“I don't need you to tell me how to be an investigator,” Sanford retorted stiffly, casting a furtive glance around the room to see if anyone else had by chance caught what Dillon had said about the undergarments. “Anything else,
McIntyre?” which was code for
get the hell out
and Dillon knew it.

Dillon shook his head. He felt sick inside. If Sanford didn't end up with his throat cut, it'd be a miracle. He wasn't skilled enough to avoid a trap if the killer thought to set one.

For that matter, he hadn't been, either, and he was a better investigator than Sanford.

Bloody hell.

Dillon muttered something along the lines of “happy hunting,” but he was already walking out the door before Sanford could respond.

He'd known he was slipping into a bad place when he couldn't get Emma out of his thoughts, but instead of pulling back he'd completely driven off the cliff and willfully allowed himself into her bed. After that, he'd known there was no going back.

His feelings were all twisted and tangled up in Emma Vale and he couldn't begin to know how to fix that. But the worst of it…he didn't know if he wanted to.

 

Emma pressed both hands to her cheeks and squeezed her eyes shut in some grasping hope of regaining her sanity. Robert Gavin had caught them kissing. She could almost hear the gathering storm awaiting her when this news hit the social circles. Some might titter at the gossip—which was harmless—but others might find it extremely distasteful and express those feelings by way of their financial donations.

“Chick,” she hollered, needing to confess her fears to someone and knowing her best friend would gladly listen and perhaps even chastise her for her actions, which she certainly deserved. But as she rounded the corner she ran into Cari, who was leading with her rounded belly. She gasped and steadied the unwieldy young woman so they both didn't
tumble to the floor. “Are you all right? What's wrong? Is it the baby?”

Cari shook her head as she supported the weight of her stomach with her hand. “No, it's Ursula,” she answered, distress in her tone. “She won't open the door and I think she needs to go to the hospital.”

Alarm spiked through Emma, followed by guilt. She'd forgotten to check on the girl, assuming Chick had it under control. Grabbing her key ring with all the masters she rushed to the second level with Cari panting behind her in an effort to keep up. “When was the last time you spoke with her?” Emma asked, hurrying to Ursula's door.

“Two nights ago. And then this morning I tried to bring her some breakfast but the door was locked and she wouldn't answer. I didn't think much of it until when I returned this afternoon and still hadn't heard from her. I just have a bad feeling that she's really hurt and nobody knows about it.”

Emma knocked once before saying at the door, “Ursula, I'm coming in. I need to know that you're all right.”

Silence followed her declaration, prompting her to open the door.

She swung the door wide and saw the form of Ursula's body lying in the bed, covers pulled over her head. The way her body was so still, made Emma stop Cari from running to her friend. “Wait,” she said, her voice strangled. “You stay here. No, on second thought, go get Chick.”

“But—”

“Cari…please, go get Chick,” Emma said, her voice thin but firm. Cari plainly didn't want to listen, but in the end bolted from the room as fast as her belly would allow.

As Emma walked to the bed, she caught the faint scent of copper, and her stomach tightened against the fear. “Ursula?” she said softly, pulling the comforter gently from the young girl's face. “Urs…”

The smell of blood became stronger but Emma couldn't see where it was coming from. Ursula's face, still bearing the purple-and-yellow marks from the beating she'd received from a john, was in repose, almost peaceful. Yet, Emma knew…

She pulled the comforter down farther and nearly screamed.

She'd found the blood.

And there was so much of it.

 

Dillon sprinted into Emma's office, where he found her, shaking, drawn, with her face puffed from crying. He'd barely beat the investigators there and even as he crossed the threshold, he could hear the opening and closing of car doors as they approached.

Emma looked up from the paper in her hand—he doubted she actually saw any of the words printed there—and he saw the tremble in her fingertips before she let the paper flutter to the desk.

“What happened?” he asked without preamble, knowing as soon as the agents got here he'd get punted to the side. Hell, he shouldn't even be here, but he couldn't let Emma go through this alone.

“She didn't answer her door,” Emma whispered, shaking her head. “I went to check on her and…found her dead.” Emma looked up, her eyes watering. “I should've checked on her sooner…I…”

He wasted little time in crossing to her and gathering her limp body into his arms. She felt boneless, though she clung to him. He murmured nonsensical words of comfort but inside his guts were churning. This was his fault. A voice at the door broke them apart.

“Ms. Vale, where's the body?”

Emma pulled away as if she'd been scalded and quickly
wiped away her tears. “I'll show you,” she said, trying desperately to find that inner fortitude that she wore as her body armor. He knew he'd catch flack for it but he didn't care—he wasn't going to allow her to face this by herself.

He moved to her side in a silent show of support. Sanford's expression soured, but he seemed to catch from Dillon that getting him to leave would start a fight so he let it go. “After you, ma'am,” he said.

Emma led the way, while Dillon and the rest followed. They went to the second floor and into Ursula's room, where the girl's body remained as part of an active crime scene.

Emma stopped short of the door, refusing to go any farther. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked, her voice strangled.

“No, ma'am. We'll take it from here. One thing, could you keep the boarders off this floor? We'll be here awhile processing the scene. But we'll do what we can to remove the body as soon as possible,” Sanford said, showing sensitivity for the situation. Emma jerked a short nod and then fled the floor.

Dillon hesitated only a moment to speak with Sanford. “Listen, you and I both know even if I'm not officially on the case, I'm sticking around for Emma's sake. Someone has to look out for her during this investigation.”

“Don't kid yourself, McIntyre. You're here for yourself. Now stay out of my way. I've got a case to solve,” Sanford said in a quiet tone and moved past him to the room where Ursula lay tucked in her bed, slaughtered, while the rest of the house slept.