A Killing Kind of Love: A Dark, Standalone Romantic Suspense (25 page)

“Humph!”

Paul took a breath for patience. “What can I do for you?”

“You can send a car for me, tonight, eight o’clock. And make sure it’s something big enough to handle this wheeled metal contraption I’m trussed to.”

“Excuse me?”

“We need to talk. And I can’t do it from here.”

No way.
No way was Paul letting this hellish spider of a woman in his home. “I’m sure whatever you want can be handled over the phone, Delores.”

“Not this.”

“If it’s more money—”

“Screw your money, Paul. I said we need to talk—face to face.”

Paul’s temper flared. “I don’t have time—”

“You have the time all right. Because, as it turns out, I have a houseguest you have a particular fondness for.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Adam Dunn. You remember him, don’t you?”

He took a breath and held the receiver away from his ear.
What the hell?

He heard a low laugh filter through the line and put the phone back to his ear. “Got your interest, have I?” she said.

“What’s going on, Delores?” He steadied himself.

“You mean other than Adam’s plan to screw his way to getting your granddaughter, and my too-stupid-to-live daughter’s determination to help him? Nothing much.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have my granddaughter. Camryn has.”

She laughed again, enjoying herself. “Yes, I know. I think that’s where the screwing part comes in.”

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “By the way, I take back that ‘screw your money’ comment. After what I tell you, you’ll be taking my calls for the rest of your rich, pampered life. Eight o’clock. Send the car. I’ll be waiting.” She hung up, but must have fumbled with the phone, because he heard a second click.

Paul frowned at the dead phone, hung up, and tried to make sense of whatever it was Delores had just told him.

The doorbell rang. So did the phone—again. When it kept ringing, he figured Anya was getting the door, so he picked up. “Paul Grantman.”

“Steve Bork, Mr. Grantman. I said I’d get back to you—”

He steadied himself. “What do you have?”

“How about I bring it over?”

“Give me the digest version.” The call from Delores had him rattled. What the hell did she have on Dunn? On Camryn? He forced himself into the moment, the words coming through the line.

“The woman looks sterling,” Bork said, sounding irritated. “No criminal record. No bad company. No drugs. No booze. Nothing. Married. Divorced—one of those no fault, uncontested deals. Easy all round. No kids. Can’t have ‘em, judging from how much time she’s spent with gynies. Runs a business from her home. Successful with it. No major personal debt. A few credit cards. Nothing over the top. About forty grand in savings. Involved in a couple of orgs, both legit, a women’s shelter, a place called Mayday House a few miles south of Seattle, and a kid’s—”

“Has she been seeing anyone lately?” The sound of paper rustling came down the line and fed into Paul’s growing frustration.

“If you mean of the opposite-sex variety, nope. Not since her husband left.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Send that report over, then start running a check on a man named Adam Dunn. Maury will tell you where to start. Call him in an hour—and I’d like everything you can get before eight o’clock tonight.”

Bork was sputtering as Paul hung up. And he’d barely done that before there was a soft rap on the door. Rattled, he cursed, ran a hand along his nape, and snapped, “Yes. What is it?” He stayed at his desk.

“Mr. Grantman, there are some people here to see you.” It was Anya, the housekeeper.

“Who?”

“They said to tell you, Dan and Camryn. They’ve brought your granddaughter.”

Paul got to his feet. Of all of the morning’s surprises, this one topped them all. First off, Lambert and Bruce together—with Kylie. Not a good thing. And second, the three of them arriving on his doorstep. He thought about that a minute and figured it could only mean one thing: they wanted something. But, then, who the hell didn’t?

“Bring them in, Anya. And go wake Mrs. Grantman. She’ll want to see Kylie.”

Anya nodded, stepped back, and closed the door. Seconds later she opened it again, and Dan and Camryn stepped into the room.

Gina watched Adam get out of bed, watched his flaccid penis sway between his strong runner’s legs as he headed toward the bathroom.

Idly, dreamily, she wondered why he didn’t ask her to run with him, like he had Camryn, then Holly. He’d started them both on the running kick. Even after he’d left, they’d kept at it. All those ugly lonely miles . . . It was the one thing he’d given them that she didn’t envy.

Sexually sated, she stretched, long and luxuriously. What flowed through her muscles and threaded along her senses was the rightness of things. Bliss and certainty that finally . . .
finally
she had who and what she wanted. She ran her hand down her belly, cupped herself, and closed her eyes, imagining Adam’s hand there. Adam’s mouth.

Staring at the ceiling, softly stroking herself, she neared ecstasy.

She found her clitoris, closed her eyes.

“What the hell are you doing, Gina?”

Her eyes opened, her hand stopped. “I’d think that was obvious.”

He frowned, shook his head. “Jesus, don’t you ever get enough?”

Gina denied the pulsing of her body, pulled her hand back, and studied Adam’s annoyance. A few days ago, it would have bothered her, panicked her. She’d have been terrorized at the thought she’d displeased him, that he would leave. Not anymore. And never again. It was satisfying, empowering, to at last have a plan. “I thought you liked watching me get myself off. That it turned you on.” She slid naked to the edge of the bed, made no move to cover herself, and played with her nipples.

Adam studied her, his laser-blue eyes simmering, but not sexually.
Anger,
she thought, but was undisturbed. “Not twenty-four seven, Gina. That’s goddamn eerie. Hell,
you’re
goddamn eerie.”

She spread her legs, and her breathing hitched when cool air touched her heat and moisture. “I’m anything you want me to be. You know that.”

“Yeah, don’t I just.” He looked away. “Why don’t you throw a robe on. I’d like to talk a little business. Deal with this Camryn thing.” He took a step toward her, stopping far enough away that she couldn’t touch him. “You said you had an idea. Let’s hear it.”

Gina would rather get him back to his warm bed, delay cold, hard decisions. She wanted him. God, she always wanted him. She swallowed, wet her lips, and closed her legs against the throbbing between them, told herself to hold on.

Adam scanned her nakedness, her tightly closed legs, and shot her a pitying look, as if he understood she couldn’t tolerate too long of a wait before he was inside her again. That’s what it had become between them: sex. More sex. Hard, fast, and so hot their sweat mingled, a searing adhesive that locked them together.

He cocked his head, his expression turning to curious. “You’ve got a real problem, don’t you, baby? Too hot there”—he nodded toward the apex of her thighs—“too damned often, right?” He looked bemused. “You know some people get help for that, go to those sex-addiction meetings.”

“I thought that’s what we just had.” She stroked the sheets of his bed, still rumpled from their lovemaking. “Besides, you’re all the help I need.” She looked at him. “I need you, for this”—she touched herself—“and you need me to get to Grantman’s money. So, the only meeting I’m interested in we can take in this bed. If that doesn’t work for you …” She managed a shrug and to tamp down the quick shaft of terror that her implied threat would make him leave. But she had no choice; she had to take control.

The trace of humor left his face, and for a time he didn’t speak.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, studying his too handsome, unusually thoughtful face.

He took his time. “I’m thinking about that old saying about being careful what you wish for, you might get it.”

“Which means?”

“You. Christ, you’re ready for me all the time. Wanting all the time. Like a goddamned wet dream on constant replay. Hot ass, twenty-four seven.” He glanced away, and she saw his brows knit. He rubbed his jaw, looked back at her. “You’re right, I do need you, but I think you need my cock even more.” He reached to stroke her cheek, gently, then trailed a finger down her throat, over her breast, to her nipple. When he pinched her lightly, she jerked, and a smug grin briefly tilted his lips. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to waste that greedy body of yours. I’ll get to it, but business first. Okay? You said you had an idea. Let’s hear it.”

“Okay, business it is.” Disappointment shivered through her, a hint of shame, but she resisted it. Adam was not in charge; she was—something he’d find out soon enough. But for now, he was right; it was time to talk business. Past time. She reached for the short satin robe she’d worn to come to him earlier and slipped it on, not bothering with the tie at the waist. When she stood, Adam’s heatless gaze skimmed the strip of her skin, bared to him by the gaping robe.

Telling herself to be careful, very, very careful, she met his gaze. “My idea, Adam, is to kill Camryn.”

She spoke the words clearly, exactly as she’d practiced them, strongly, and with utter conviction. She’d always excelled in court, and she’d use that skill to bring Adam to heel.

Let the game begin.

His mouth slackened, then he shook his head. “I’ve been screwing your brains out for days—and you make a damn joke,” he said. “You’re not getting it, baby. This is serious shit for me. Dangerous shit. If I don’t come up with some cash, I’m a dead man. Don’t you get that?”

“What I ‘get’ is that the most expeditious way out of your ‘shit’ is a dead Camryn Bruce.”

It was the first time she’d seen Adam stunned to silence. He was letting the reality of his situation take hold. Good. “You’re running out of time.” Gina tied her robe, picked up the glass of water from his bedside table, and donned her legal persona. “Which is why my idea is so brilliant.” She drank the water, straightened her shoulders—like she used to do in court before summation. “There are two ways to deal with Camryn. By the rules, which means fairly, legally—and slowly—with no guarantee of success. Or”— she shrugged—“get rid of her, which will get you what you want, painlessly and quickly.” She met his gaze.

“You’re serious.” He still looked stunned, but there was something else in his eyes. Calculation. Respect.

“Deadly serious—if you’ll excuse the pun.” She took a step away. “With Camryn gone, you become the resident thorn in Paul Grantman’s side, and the custody issue will be blown wide open.” She quirked her lips. “Paul doesn’t like thorns; he tends to pay them off.” His tidy little loans to her mother proved that point. “With Camryn out of the way, as Kylie’s biological father you have a shot at getting her back. Paul will know that, and if he doesn’t, his lawyer will quickly correct his ignorance. It will be father first, grandfather second. Of course, you’ll have to do the responsible-dad routine. I can help you with that.”

She looked him up and down. “Yes, I’d say, as thorns go, you’ll measure up nicely. There isn’t a judge in the universe who won’t hear you out—they’re bound to.” She paused. “You’ll have Paul scrambling from day one. My guess is he’ll pay a lot of money to avoid that scramble. And, of course, it helps that he hates you, which means he’ll pay even more to ensure you don’t get custody of Kylie. Play it right, my love, and you’ll avoid that judge altogether.”

He arched a brow and frowned at her. “How’s that?” “Call it ‘settling out of court’ for want of a better description.”

“Like extortion.”

“Pretty much what you had in mind all along, isn’t it?”

He said nothing.

She went on. “When Camryn’s out of the way, you simply have a quiet conversation with Paul. You tell him how he can avoid the hassle of a legal challenge—that all it takes is money.” She rolled the water glass in her hands. “My bet is he’ll pay whatever you ask, and you’ll never see the inside of a courtroom.”

“But kill Camryn . . . Jesus!” Adam repeated, his high forehead creasing to a frown. When he looked at her, his gaze was densely speculative. “She was my first—” He stopped, seemed to reconsider his words “She’s your friend . . . and you can suggest this?”

“You’re my only
friend
, Adam, she said, “You’re my everything.” She didn’t need to be reminded that Camryn was Adam’s first . . . attraction, that back then he’d been true to her, despite all Gina’s efforts to get his attention, until Holly came back from Europe and took him under the sheets in that motel room where they’d spent endless hours. After that it was all Holly, all the time. Except for one brief time out—his interlude with her. And Delores.

The look he gave her was indecipherable. Then he shook his head as if to clear it before turning his back on her and walking to the window. He stood, staring out, with his hands on his hips.

Looking at him caused her heart to jump, her sight to dim. Her thoughts turned to Camryn—the woman who’d let him go. . . .

Righteous, smart-thinking Camryn. Forgiving Camryn. Naive Camryn. Trusting Camryn.

When Gina had told her about Adam and Holly, those long years ago, about what they were doing in that motel, Camryn dropped Adam cold, never looked back. She’d even forgiven Holly when she and Adam split from each other a few months later—a split that turned out to be number one in what was to be a series of breakups and make-ups in their messy, obsessive relationship. It was a relationship Gina assiduously kept track of and Camryn knew nothing about until Kylie was born and Holly came clean.

Even then Camryn had stood by Holly, attended her delivery, believed her when she said she was through with Adam. Oh, yes, Camryn had stood by. “That’s what friends are for,” she’d said, “to be there, when you needed them.” Everybody loved Camryn.

You shouldn’t have kissed her, Adam, and you shouldn’t have joked about proposing to her—or gone to see her. You shouldn’t have screwed my mother—or Holly. You shouldn’t do anything except be with me. Only with me. Always with me.