Authors: Adrienne Giordano
Peter got out of the Challenger and focused on the empty space in Izzy’s driveway where Kendrick’s car had been. Gone. Good. The warm ocean air slipped over him and he drew in the salty smell. Gentle breaking waves sounded from behind the house and he made a mental note to check the charts for high tide.
He opened the car door and watched Izzy’s dress ride up her thighs when she slid out.
Yow.
Instant hard-on.
It didn’t help when she dragged her hand across his stomach and scooted by him. Throw in the eyes and pouty lips and he was done. Cooked.
He suddenly found himself praying Creepy Izzy had gone on sabbatical for the night.
The gravel driveway crunched under their feet and he marveled at her ability to balance on the fuck-me heels. His hand grew a mind of its own and skimmed her bare back while a jolt of heat blasted him.
They stopped on the dimly lit porch while she shoved the key in the lock with one hand and reached back to touch him with the other. Truth be told, she was probably aiming for his hip, but nailed an eager Monk Junior instead.
Helloooo, baby.
“Oh, my.” She turned, hooked her hand around the back of his head and pulled him in for a mind-melting kiss.
And, oh yes, a good shagging was definitely the order of the day. Particularly because he’d been thinking about it nonstop from the moment he saw her. How much waiting could a guy take? He flattened his hands against the door and leaned into her, the heat of her body nearly scorching his.
“Ow,” she said.
He jumped back, but she pulled him close again. “The key stuck me.”
Peter heard the lock tumble. She must have turned it with her free hand, because the door opened and the inside light she’d left on washed over them.
Izzy threw her arms around his neck, pressed against him and slammed her tongue into his mouth. Demanding and hot. His breath caught and he couldn’t release it.
Thank you, Jesus.
He’d never known anything better than this kiss.
He backed her through the doorway, kicked the door closed behind them and shoved her against the wall. Her slinky hair flew around her face and her chest heaved with each breath. When she slid her leg around his and gave him a wicked-ass grin, every bit of self-control crumbled.
That’s it.
She was going to get it.
Right here. Right now.
Fuck off, Creepy Izzy.
A beep echoed in his head.
What was that?
“The alarm,” he said.
“Who cares?” Izzy was clearly riding the same euphoric wave because she started clawing at his shirt buttons.
He reached behind him to the keypad by the door. Couldn’t reach.
Dammit.
“Iz, the alarm will go off in about five seconds. Just let me…”
WHAAAAAAAA!
Too late. The shrieking wail of the alarm permeated the house, but Izzy didn’t seem to hear it. She now had his shirt unbuttoned and his T-shirt pushed up.
Those lush lips trailed kisses across his chest and his body went ballistic. Seriously fucking insane.
He had to get that alarm off, but moving would be a freaking tragedy.
With one arm around her, he dragged her with him to the keypad and punched in the code. Silence shrouded the house.
“Good. Back to business,” Izzy said, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms until it hit the floor. The undershirt came off next and she raked her hands and mouth over his chest again.
“They’ll…call,” he said, trying to concentrate on anything but what she was doing to him.
“Who?”
“Dispatch.”
The phone rang and he glanced in the direction of the cordless on the entry table.
Figures.
He’d been dreaming of this every night for five days and had his fantasy list completely up to date, tucked safely in his wallet where no one would find it. The phone rang a third time.
“Izzy,” he said, shoving the phone at her while she headed south. “You have to answer and give them the code or they’ll send the cops. And right now, the cops are the dead last thing I want.”
No, what he wanted was to rip that dress off, shove her against the wall and pound his aching body into her.
Just as she reached to unfasten his pants, she stopped.
No. No. No.
If his body could talk, it would be screaming for her to keep going.
Screaming
.
Too bad his brain was in charge at the moment. He punched the speaker button on the handset and she straightened up before shoving her rumpled hair out of her face. Major league hot and totally shaggable.
“Hello?” she said and kissed him again.
Tongue and all.
No longer able to keep his hands still, Peter slid her dress up and his fingers skimmed her bare ass.
A thong.
Good thing he hadn’t known about that all night or he’d really have to be committed.
“Ms. DeRosa?” a voice asked, filling the room from the speaker.
“Mmm-hmm.”
Peter mentally checked his willpower and pulled back. “Just talk to her.”
“Ms. DeRosa, this is Connie from Taylor Security. Are you all right?”
Great.
Connie from central station in Chicago. Ballbuster of the year.
“We are
fine
,” Izzy said giving him the nymphet smile again.
“Can you give me the code?” Connie asked.
But Izzy had no interest in Connie or the code. She had her arms wrapped around him and was busy kissing his neck.
“Iz, give her the code.”
Please, give her the code. Now!
“The code?”
Oh, come
on.
“Connie?” He rolled his eyes because Izzy had her hands all over him and was moving down his body.
Good God
. He had to get rid of Connie. “This is Peter…uh…Monk Jessup. The code is I-P-9-5-3. Everything is fine. I was—” Oh, hell, Izzy hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants. “Uh…showing Ms. DeRosa how to work the alarm and we didn’t turn it off in time.”
Connie let out a sarcastic snort. “Sure you were, Monk.”
He’d never live this down. As soon as they hung up she’d be on the phone to the rest of his team and they’d call his cell constantly for the remainder of the night.
“You two have a lovely evening,” she said.
Peter stabbed at the button, tossed the phone over his shoulder, and it hit the wood with a crack.
“I think you broke my phone,” Izzy said.
“I’ll buy you a new one.”
He reached down, hooked his hands under her arms and hauled her up against the wall. Their eyes met for a second and the heat nearly scalded him. Now it was his turn to make her crazy. And he’d enjoy every damn minute of it.
“Born to Run” blasted from his pocket into the quiet of the house. Connie worked quick.
Let the games begin.
He retrieved his phone, shut it off and turned his attention back to Izzy.
Her eyes were closed.
Nuh-uh.
She’d closed her eyes.
Crap.
“Look at me, Izzy.” Hope nestled in the back of his mind. Not to mention other parts of his anatomy.
She didn’t open her eyes, but dragged him against her and kissed him, nearly swallowing him. She worked at it, doing everything she’d been doing just a few minutes earlier. But this kiss lacked the spontaneous heat of the others.
The mother of all hard-ons, and Creepy Izzy comes home. Rotten luck.
His whole body deflated. Well, maybe not his
whole
body, but it came damned close. Her words from earlier in the week nearly drowned him.
It’s a coping thing
.
Could anything destroy a great lay like a woman needing a coping mechanism to endure it? He doubted it. Particularly when all he wanted was to get said woman in a bed and send her into the atmosphere.
He backed up a step, his breath heaving. She slowly opened her eyes and the only thing there was a big neon vacancy sign. She’d flipped the switch.
“What?” she asked, grabbing him, but he backed away again.
“Creepy Izzy.”
She stepped closer. “It’s okay, Peter. It’s what you want. It won’t make a difference. It’ll still be good.” She hit him with the man-killer eyes and ran her fingers across his chest. “I promise.”
And, holy hell, the profound weight of what he was dealing with hit him. Staring into those barren eyes nearly gutted him, because she had no capacity for sex beyond the physical act. Nothing. She was probably a silver bullet in the sack, but had to emotionally shut down to do it.
Did she even enjoy sex?
More than that, when did he become such an honorable guy that he’d turn down a hot woman because of her emotional detachment? Seriously, seriously fucked-up. That’s what he was. Totally off his rocker.
He grabbed her hands. “It makes a difference to me. I want you involved, not mentally out to lunch. I’ll wait for Fun Izzy.”
She dropped her hands, sighing. At least he wasn’t the only one suffering.
“We talked about this the other night,” she said. “Fun Izzy doesn’t have sex.”
“Then I guess we’re not having sex.”
Her mouth flopped open. “You’re turning me down?”
Apparently she had never been turned down. That didn’t to stop her, because she slid her hands over the jagged scar on his stomach.
Uh-oh.
He
wanted
this. Bad.
“We’d be good together,” she said.
He stepped back. “Please, don’t do this to me.”
The bright white of his shirt against the stained hardwood floor caught Peter’s attention. Izzy looked down, hesitated, then picked it up and handed it over. The undershirt was somewhere, but he’d find it later.
“I wish I could give you what you want, Peter.”
He attempted a smile, but he didn’t have the energy to fake it. “Me too. It’ll happen though.”
“I’m not so confident.”
“Why?”
“Outside of sex, I’ve never been able to give a man what he needed. They always want more than I can provide. Emotionally speaking.”
He slid the shirt on and she reached to button it for him. The simple act of fastening his shirt offered an intimacy of its own, and his body turned to stone.
“We don’t have to rush this,” he said. “Let’s take it slow. Like we talked about.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know if I know how. I’m not sure I can let go of myself enough to make you happy.
I’d love to change that.
He rested his forehead against hers. “Stop thinking. That’s when Creepy Izzy takes over.”
“But that’s the problem. When things get hot between us I have to force myself to stop thinking. I need to flip the switch because I’m not comfortable with what I’m feeling. You have no idea how much that vulnerability scares me.”
Yeah, actually, he did because he wasn’t feeling too confident right now himself. Not after ten years of living with no emotional connections.
“You’re going to push me away aren’t you?” he asked.
A rush of tears filled her eyes.
Please, no tears
.
“Did I ever mention how much I love a challenge?” he cracked.
Before backing away, she swiped at her watery eyes. “I’m more than a challenge, Peter.”
“Even better.” He kissed her quick and brought her a little closer. “I think you’ve conditioned yourself to push everyone away. As crazy as you make me, I like you. I can’t help it. You’re so much more than you think.”
“Peter—”
He shook his head to silence her. “I dare you to make me not stick.”
Izzy leaned in, rested her head on his shoulder and her warm breath slipped across his neck. “I know you can stick. I’m just not sure if you’re going to want to.”
And here we go again.
This woman would take some work. Lucky for him he had time.
He backed her up and extended his arms into a dance hold. “Time for your first rumba lesson.”
“
Now?
”
“Might as well do something with our hips.”
Isabelle poured the last of the coffee into her mug. The Sunday paper lay sprawled across her kitchen table, and she settled down to scan the circulars.
Morning sunlight drenched the kitchen and she glanced out the windows along the back of the house. A great beach day loomed ahead. After reading the newspaper, she’d grab a book and let the warm sand soothe away the fatigue from her evening out with Peter.
Would he call her today? The little voice inside whispered no, but that was simply a defense. The truth of it was she’d be damned disappointed if he didn’t.
Trouble.
Big trouble.
A knock sounded at the front door just as she brought the coffee to her lips.
Who is that at eight forty-five on a Sunday?
After her surprise visitor yesterday, she didn’t want to hazard a guess.
She walked to the front windows and peeked out. Two men. One in a sport coat. The other, younger, in jeans and a golf shirt. Her stomach wrenched.
With the security chain still on, she opened the door an inch. “Can I help you?”
The older man, maybe mid-fifties with dark hair graying at the temples, flipped out a badge. “Villa Point P.D.”
She noted the detective’s shield then moved to his ID. Detective Ron Cherald. Villa Point police. Her uncle lived in Villa Point.
“Isabelle DeRosa?” the younger detective asked.
“Yes,” she said, taking in the features of his face. Long nose, narrow jawline, small mole on his right cheek and dark eyes to go along with his midnight-black hair.
“We need to speak to you regarding Kendrick Edmonds.”
Oh, no. What the hell was he up to? Could these two guys be impersonating police just so Kendrick could get in here? She wouldn’t doubt it.
“I need to verify who you are. Hold on while I call the police station.”
Cherald nodded and provided the phone number.
Yeah, well, she’d just double-check to make sure he wasn’t giving her a bogus number. After closing the door and resetting the lock, she ran to the kitchen, grabbed the cordless and dialed information.
Her stomach hitched again when the operator gave her the same number the detective had. She dialed it, asked for the detective’s squad and received her verification.
Crap.
Kendrick must have decided to press charges.
She took a good, solid breath and prepared herself for the burden of telling the police about her history with Kendrick. She suddenly wished Peter were here.
She slid the chain off the door and opened it. “Come in, gentlemen. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem,” the younger man said, giving her legs the once-over.
She couldn’t even wear shorts in her own house. Men. So easy to figure out. Most of them anyway.
He held out his hand and she shook it. “Detective Mark Pratt.”
“Why don’t we sit in here?”
Isabelle motioned them to the two striped chairs in the living room while she took the couch. Tension bubbled inside her and she squeezed her fingers closed.
“Ms. DeRosa,” Cherald said. “We have some bad news for you. Kendrick Edmonds was found dead in Abram’s Park this morning.”
The words pummeled her and she most definitely processed them, but the jolt forced her to slouch back. The drumming at her temples left her no choice but to close her eyes and try to quiet the madness in her mind.
The intricate stitching of her grandmother’s afghan pressed into her and she remained still for a moment, absorbing the comfort.
Kendrick. Dead.
She’d wished it a thousand times, yet felt nothing. Not happiness. Certainly not sadness. Maybe he didn’t warrant her feeling anything at all. “What happened?”
“He was beaten to death.”
Beaten.
To. Death.
“Ms. DeRosa, where were you last night between twelve-thirty and one-thirty?”
And there it is.
She was a suspect. A throbbing began in the back of her skull. She wished she had her lawyer clothes on. Sitting here in shorts and a tank top did not offer her the same armor.
She stared into Cherald’s eyes. No looking away or they’d think her a liar.
“I was here. I went to a wedding last night and arrived home around twelve-forty.”
“Can anyone verify that?” Pratt asked.
Peter could.
Damn.
Now she’d have to drag him into a murder investigation. Her morning coffee swirled in her stomach.
“Yes. My date brought me home. We had to drop his grandmother off in Nosrum at Beach Haven Assisted Living.” Cherald pulled his notepad and started jotting. “We walked her to her room. The lobby attendant saw us. We came straight here after that. In fact, we set the alarm off when we came into the house and the security company called to make sure everything was okay.”
Cherald and Pratt shot each other a look.
“We’ll need that phone number,” Pratt said. “And the number for your date.”
“Of course.”
She went to the kitchen, her heart slamming so hard she thought she’d come apart from the pressure. She was a murder suspect. She’d need a lawyer. They hadn’t Mirandized her yet. They were still in fact-finding mode.
She wrote down Peter’s number and Taylor Security’s dispatch number under it.
When she went back to the living room, Cherald took the paper from her, stuck it in his jacket pocket. “We spoke to your uncle this morning when we notified him of his son’s death. He indicated you had an altercation with Kendrick.”
She shot Pratt a glance then went back to Cherald. “He came, uninvited, into my house in the middle of the night and tried to rape me.”
“Did you threaten to kill him?” Pratt asked.
Her uncle didn’t waste any time throwing her under
that
big bus. “It had been an emotional night. He attacked me and I said I’d kill him if he didn’t stay away from me. I didn’t kill him though.”
Pratt cleared his throat. Clearly, he was new to this whole detective thing. And if he didn’t quit checking out her boobs, she’d beat the crap out of him too.
“Uh, your uncle did mention the disagreement after you brought Kendrick home.” Pratt’s eyes finally made it to her face.
A disagreement. She almost laughed. She should know by now her uncle would never take her side, but she’d have to play this cool. Coming off sounding like a bitter bitch would do her no good.
Think like a lawyer.
“Your uncle said you and someone you called Peter took Kendrick home that night,” Cherald said.
She nodded. “Yes. Peter Jessup. I just gave you his number.”
“He was with you last night?”
Yow.
This wasn’t good.
“Yes. He left here around one-fifteen.”
Cherald jotted a note on his notepad. “Do you know where he was going?”
“Home. He’s visiting his parents in Nosrum.”
More jotting.
“Had you seen Kendrick since the incident last week?” Pratt asked.
She had to tell them about yesterday afternoon. They’d probably find out anyway. They might even know it and were testing her to see if she’d lie.
“Kendrick came here yesterday afternoon. He tried to push his way in, yelling that he needed to talk to me. But I held the door shut.”
Enough. She needed to stop talking now. Telling them Peter knocked Kendrick out would be bad.
Cherald held his arms wide. “And what? He just went away? Not buying it, Ms. DeRosa. Not after you just told me he tried to rape you.”
She shook her head. Slid a glance at Pratt.
Don’t look away
.
“Peter arrived and helped.”
“Helped how?”
“He gave him a tap on the temple and knocked him out.”
So not good.
“He started to come out of it a few minutes later and we put him in his car to sleep it off.”
Cherald’s eyebrows went up. “You left him there?”
She nodded and Pratt gave his head a hard shake. She couldn’t blame him. If she were them, she’d be locking the cuffs on.
“We knew he would okay,” Isabelle said. “When we came home Kendrick and the car were gone. He must have driven home.”
“Did you hear from him again last night?” Cherald asked.
“No.”
Cherald flipped his pad shut and stood. “Okay. I think we’ve got everything we need right now. We’re going to verify this information. Stay around today, Ms. DeRosa. We may need to speak to you again.”
If her alibi didn’t check out with the time of death, they’d have an arrest warrant. “I’ll be here all day, gentlemen.”
Peter dialed Izzy’s number the second the cops left the cottage. Some fucking irony. That son of a bitch Kendrick got himself whacked the same night Peter had walloped him.
“Hey,” he said when Izzy answered the phone.
“I can’t believe it.”
Her voice sounded rough, like she’d been thinking too much. Coming undone wouldn’t help either one of them, but he knew she’d step up. Izzy was a warrior at heart.
“The cops just left.” He grabbed the cards they’d given him and set them on the white dining table. “Pratt and Cherald.”
“They were the ones who questioned me also. Please tell me someone saw you arrive home last night. I’ve been piecing this together. They must have the time of death narrowed to between twelve-thirty and one-thirty because that’s the time frame they asked me about.”
“That’s what they told me too.”
“I think you left here around one-fifteen,” she said. “There’s no way either one of us could have made it to Villa Point by one-thirty. Please, Peter. Tell me you went straight home.”
Whoa.
Peter sat back, shrugging off the nagging feeling tickling his neck. Was she making sure
he
didn’t kill Kendrick?
“I came straight home. The security camera at the gate records everyone that enters. The time stamp will be on there. Plus, Vic and Gina are staying at the cottage with me and Vic was still up when I got home.”
“That’s a relief. I am so sorry to have dragged you into this. I’m just stunned.”
She wasn’t the only one. He was supposed to be on R&R and his ass landed in the middle of a murder investigation. “Have you found out anything more about what happened?”
“I called my mother. A jogger found him in the park at six-thirty this morning. Someone beat him with a club or something.”
“Did you talk to your uncle?”
“No. And I won’t call either. He sent the police straight to my front door. I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
Peter let out a breath. “Izzy, this is screwed. Who could have killed him?”
“I have no idea. I don’t think he talks to anyone around here anymore.”
He made a mental note to ask Vic how much of a hothead Izzy’s dad was. Jeez, that’d be a mess.
Bad enough the cops thought
he
might have done it. As if he’d leave the body lying there. He’d have hit Kendrick with a double pop and made sure the body wouldn’t be found. Forget this beating him to death shit. He wouldn’t waste that kind of rage on that asshole. Nope, he’d get a gun and make it quick and clean.
“Well,” he said. “The cops will do their thing and they’ll clear us.”
“I hope so. I feel bad enough that I involved you. What your mother must think of me…”
Peter puckered his lips.
She’s a suspect in a murder investigation and she’s worried about what my mother thinks?
He couldn’t blame her. Stress did screwy things to people.
“My mother thinks you’re great. She wasn’t happy when two detectives knocked on her door wanting a download of the security tapes, but she knows we didn’t have anything to do with this.”
A long silence hung on the line.
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
Peter glanced out the door leading to the tiny patio. Yellow daylilies, his mother’s favorite, lit up the otherwise green landscape. A sick, familiar feeling settled on him. If he didn’t say something worthwhile, Izzy would drive herself insane. He understood questioning one’s moral code. Particularly when it came to taking lives.
“And you somehow think that makes you a horrible person?”
“Doesn’t it?”
Too late. She’d already worked herself into the moral code dilemma.
“My take is Kendrick was sick. Clearly he hadn’t redeemed himself in eleven years because someone hated him enough to club him to death and, based on his history, he probably deserved it. He terrorized you, and I don’t think it’s abnormal for you not to be sorry. Actually, I’d be shocked if you didn’t have a sense of relief. But hey, that’s just me.”
More silence. He waited. Tapped his free hand on the table hoping he’d helped a little because he had no idea what else to say.
“Peter?”
“I’m here.”
“Thank you for not thinking I’m crazy.”
“Babe, you’re about the sanest person I know.”
She scoffed. “Which is kind of scary.”
“Anything I can do for you?” Peter asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m going to stay close to the house today in case the police need to talk to me again. I’ll probably just sit on the beach for a while.”
“The waves any good?”
He heard her open a door. Probably checking.
“No,” she said. “But I wouldn’t mind you sitting next to me on the beach.”
“Yo,” Vic said and Peter turned to see him coming down the stairs wearing jeans and a white pullover, suitcase in hand.
He went back to Izzy. “Vic and Gina are getting ready to go. I’ll be over after that.”
He clicked the off button and sat for a second. What the fuck was he doing? He should run screaming from this situation.
A murder for Christ’s sake.
This woman would tear him to shreds. He already couldn’t keep his mind off her and, with her hang-ups, there would be no way they could both get what they needed.
Ten years he’d waited for a woman to have more than a physical effect on him. His ex-wife had ripped a piece of his soul away and there hadn’t been another woman since that made him want any more than a good lay. Now, with Izzy, he was thinking she’d look damn good sleeping in his shirts.
Vic sat in one of the three other chairs. “What’s up?”
“I’m fucked.”
“What else is new?”