Authors: Magda Alexander
CHAPTER 14
Madrigal
Fifteen minutes later, I turn off the lights in my office and follow his instructions to a T. I really should not allow him to take me home. But his offer was hard to turn down. And the unvarnished truth is I want to spend more time with him. I shouldn’t. But I do.
When I arrive at the bottom of the stairwell, I find two doors. For a moment I hesitate, not knowing which one to take. From behind me, a hand reaches out and captures my wrist, and I’m pulled against the hard body of Trenton Steele.
“Did you really think I would let you leave without fucking you?”
A shot of heat races through me. “Here? Now?” We might be hidden deep in the shadows behind the flight of stairs, but anybody could walk in on us.
He nods as a smile of pure devilry crosses his face.
“What if somebody comes down the stairs or enters through one of those doors?”
“After eight, the garage is locked from the outside. We can exit, but no one can come in. And if somebody trips down the stairs, we’ll hear them long before they get to us.”
“We can’t.”
“We can and most assuredly will.” His left hand snags the hem of my skirt and pulls up.
I yank it down. “Someone will see.”
“Trust me. No one will.”
The realization hits me. “You’ve done this before.”
In the ambient light I catch that wicked grin. “Yes, my darling Madrigal. I have.” Turning me, he thrusts me against the hard wall and rips off my panties. He fumbles with something. Please, God, let it be a condom. He strokes my drenched pussy, and I go totally liquid.
“Yes.” His hard breathing tells me he’s just as affected by this.
“Brace your hands against the wall.” When I do, he pops out my hips to get a better angle, and then he sinks into my oh-so-eager pussy. Flushing with heat, I moan. He’s so very good at this.
He thrusts hard again and again and again. I’ll have bruised nipples in the morning the way they’re scraping against the concrete blocks. But I don’t care. All I want is what he’s giving me. The only sounds to be heard are him fucking me, our wet coupling. When he jams in harder than before, I scream.
He twists my head around so he can kiss me. His mouth descends on mine, stifling my moans, my groans while his hips hinge and push against me, driving in and out of my hungry sheath. My nipples won’t be the only sore things in the morning. My pussy will be aching as well. His hand tweaks a nipple, and just like that I come. He’s piston rodding me, pumping harder, tighter, and then he comes in a stream. He drops his head onto my shoulder, nips the skin of my throat. Damn him. Fair as I am, I’ll have a bruise there.
He pulls out, fumbles about a bit. By the time I turn around, he looks right as rain. Maybe his tie’s a bit crooked, but that’s about it.
My hair’s down around my shoulders, my skirt’s rucked up, my panties are gone.
I pull down my skirt, straighten my jacket, finger-brush my hair. “How do I look?”
That not-so-nice smile makes an appearance. “Like you’ve just been fucked.” He grabs my briefcase, passes it to me, and clutches my hand. “Come.”
He pushes open the door of the parking lot. “Security camera,” he offers by way of an explanation when he drops my hand. The camera will only spot him, not the woman walking next to him. He knows where the cameras are. Of course he does. He’s fucked other women before. Right there in the stairwell of his building. So I’m nothing special to him.
My breath catches as we walk toward a silver Jag. He beeps open the door, and I slide in. The windows are tinted, so the camera won’t catch an image of me. God. How could I have let him fuck me in a public stairwell? I graduated at the top of my class from Yale Law School. My grandfather founded the law firm. My family history dates back to colonial times. And yet I allowed him to treat me like a common whore. This is not happening. Not ever again.
He slides into the driver’s seat, but rather than start the car, he cups the back of my head and devours my mouth. Caught in the maelstrom of emotion, regret, desire, all I can do is moan.
He eases off the kiss and sits back to stare at me. “Damn it. What is it about you? I want to fuck you all over again.”
Not happening. With a shaking hand, I wipe my mouth. “I want to go home. Please.”
“Still a lady. Even after I’ve fucked you to hell and back.” His lips curl. “Very well.” He turns on the ignition and tightly takes the turns out of the parking lot, wheels squealing all the while.
I lean on my elbow and stare out the window. Not that there’s much to see. His car’s automatic windshield wipers swish to and fro, swiping the drizzle from the glass. The road glistens black. I can only imagine the outside heat. Washington, DC, on a June day is not pleasant even at ten o’clock at night. But inside, the AC’s set to a controlled climate, with no hint of the misery on the other side of the glass. He smoothly shifts gears and speeds through the yellow light as we head west on Pennsylvania Avenue. There are fewer cars on the road than usual. Blocked by the White House security checkpoint, he turns left on Fifteenth Street. We drive past the Washington Monument and the Jefferson Memorial and merge onto the 14th Street Bridge.
On the other side of the bridge, he veers onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway and coasts down the highway. From the Virginia side of the Potomac, Georgetown and the Kennedy Center gleam in the distance. Inside the car all is silent, which unfortunately forces me to focus on other things, like his scent. I can still smell him on me, his cologne, the taste of his mouth, him. I can’t do this again. Not ever. Which means I have to put some distance between us.
I fade in and out of sleep during the long drive down the Beltway and Route 66. But I perk up when he merges onto Route 50 where Gramps’s estate is located. “Drop me off in Middleburg. I can catch a cab from there.”
“There won’t be taxis. Not at this time of night.”
“There might be some—”
“It’s after eleven, Madrigal.”
My hands clench. “You can’t just pull up. We have a security gate and cameras. They’ll see you.”
“What do you suggest? That I drop you off in the middle of the road like unwanted refuse? I’m not doing that.”
“Grandfather will notice. He’ll be waiting up for me.” I hold my elbows tight against my sides.
“Will he?” His scrutiny, cold and analytical, is devoid of the slightest concern. “I suggest you use the time to fix your hair and clothes, then.”
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll do something to you if he discovers what we’ve been doing?”
“He can’t fire me, Madrigal. It’s a partnership. I bring fame and prestige to the firm, not to mention money. Plus, he couldn’t bring up his real reason for dissolving my ties with the firm without admitting I fucked you. And he’d never do that.”
“What about me? What about the consequences to me?” I wish I didn’t care about Steele’s opinion, but after what we’ve done, a little warmth, a bit of concern would not go amiss. Something that would make him seem human.
The area where Grandfather’s mansion is located is home to some of the most affluent families in Loudoun County. The land has been handed down for generations dating back to the eighteenth century. None of which seems to mean anything to Steele. He pulls to the side of the road, turns off the ignition, and faces me. The slight narrowing of his gaze tells me he’s curious in an analytical sort of way. “What consequences?”
“He may get angry. Be disappointed in me.” I’m not about to reveal how Gramps always locked me in my room for two days whenever I snuck out of the house as a teenager, only allowing Olivia to provide me with bread and water when she threatened to call the police. If he tries to do that again, I’ll find a way to get out, but he’ll still have guardianship over Madison. And God knows how he’d retaliate.
His lips twist in derision. “Disappointed in you. That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Yes.”
He clamps his hand on the back of my head and pulls me to him. The punishing kiss he imprints on my mouth sizzles with heat, and I can’t help but burn. My hands clench his upper arms as I return the kiss with just as much passion.
“You can’t stay a little girl forever, Madrigal. Maybe it’s time you grew up.”
Yanking his hand from the back of my head, I put distance between us. “You’re a bastard. You know that.”
His mouth, the one I just kissed as if he was my last hope of salvation, curls into a smirk. “Yes, I do. And it’s about time you figured it out as well.” Without missing a beat, he restarts the car and pulls back onto the road.
CHAPTER 15
Trenton
“Steele, thanks for coming.” A week later, Charlie calls and asks to meet in our usual haunt for lunch where few questions get asked as long as the money is right. He requests I not tell Madrigal that he wants to meet with me alone.
“What’s up?” I ask after I slide across from him into a booth at the tavern.
“Wanted to report on what I’ve found so far. Didn’t want to do it in the office. It’s best if Ms. Berkeley doesn’t know what I’m about to tell you. At least not yet.”
“What did you find out?”
“Not as much as I wished. That in itself isn’t strange, but the fact that some people are nowhere to be found is.”
“What are you talking about?”
He retrieves his trusty notebook from his jacket and flips to a page. “First, some background about the couple, Thomas and Marlena Berkeley. They met in college, William & Mary. Got married right after graduation in 1990. Seems they had to get married, if you catch my drift. Ms. Berkeley was born that September.”
“So her mother was pregnant with her?”
“It appears that way. From all accounts it was a happy marriage. Holden Gardiner certainly was satisfied with his son-in-law. Put in a good word for him with a firm client, a pharmaceutical lobbying firm. Apparently at one time Thomas Berkeley had aspirations of becoming a doctor and even enrolled in premed. But either his grades weren’t good enough or life got in the way. I suspect it’s a little of both. So he settled for a job as a lobbyist, something he was eminently suited for. Between his knowledge of medicine and his ability to charm birds off trees, he managed to tuck a couple of congressmen in his pocket and a senator as well. By all accounts he enjoyed his work.” Charlie turns to another page in his notebook.
“They were quite the social couple, invited to lots of parties, held quite a few of their own. Their second child came along eight years later.”
“Madison.”
“Yes. Like I said, they appeared to be the perfect couple, quite in love with each other, at least from all the reports I read. Which brings us to the night of April 8, 2002. Everything happened the way Ms. Berkeley described. There was no sign of breaking and entering. No windows were smashed, no locks were broken.”
“That doesn’t mean much,” I say. “The suspects charged with the crime worked inside. They could have figured out a way to get into the house without a forced entry.”
“True enough. The Berkeleys’ bedroom contained many sets of fingerprints, including everyone connected with the house, and one unknown, but none of the fingerprints matched Bill Johnson or Mike Haynes.”
“They could have worn gloves. They never found out who the unknown belonged to?”
“No. Once they took in the two handymen for questioning, they stopped trying to figure that out.”
“What happened with the handymen?”
“Like Ms. Berkeley said, they came under suspicion right away. They were apprehended the next day, allegedly as soon as the police discovered they both had records.”
“Allegedly? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Wait for it. I’ll get there.” He flips another page. “Here’s where things got hinky. The police found them drunk out of their skulls in Michael Haynes’s house and in possession of some items that belonged to the Berkeleys. Thing is the police didn’t wait for a warrant to come through before they searched the place. One of the cops claimed he saw a framed picture of the Berkeleys through the open door, so they stepped into the house. That’s when Bill Johnson put up a fight. The police claimed the altercation gave them probable cause to search the premises.”
“Did the found items belong to the Berkeleys?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“Bill Johnson was taken to the hospital. Michael Haynes was arrested and brought in for questioning. By that point his house had been searched, and the police found a silver platter and that framed picture of the Berkeleys. The district attorney thought he had a slam dunk. Two men with a criminal record caught with items stolen from the house. Michael folded like an accordion during questioning and admitted to breaking in, but not to killing the Berkeleys. Of course they didn’t believe him, so they charged both with murder.”
“Makes sense.”
“But when the case came to trial, the defense attorney proved there was no way the policeman could have seen the picture frame, not from where he’d been standing. So the items found during the search could not be admitted as evidence. Not only that, the detective assigned to the case didn’t know about their record until after they were apprehended. Apparently, the computers crashed the morning they were arrested and there was no way to check them out. The prosecutors could have still made a go of it, but one of the witnesses recanted her statement. A servant named Helga Carlsson claimed she’d heard the two handymen talk about breaking into the Berkeleys’ house. But when she was put on the stand, she denied saying such a thing and hinted that the detective misunderstood because her English was not that good.”
“All of which means they had no cause to arrest them and the search was illegal.”
“The case dissolved like cotton candy at a state fair. And because the district attorney thought he’d caught the two responsible, he never looked any further.”
“Are the cops still around?”
“No. One died. The other transferred somewhere down south.”
“Who investigated the case?”
“A Detective Collins. Quit the force right after the trial. Took off for parts unknown. Nobody seems to know where.”
“And the files to the case?”
“Locked up tighter than a virgin’s muff. Had to spread some serious cash to get the information I did.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t reveal my sources, you know that.” He scratches his ear.
“Do you know where the two handymen are now? We’ll need to talk to them.”
“Bill Johnson’s dead. A robbery gone bad. But Michael Haynes lives in southeast DC.”
“You have his address?”
“Yeah, I do.”
I mull over what he said while the waitress brings another round of Coronas and chicken wings.
“Damn. Best wings in town,” Charlie says, smacking his lips.
“Yeah. It’s the seasonings,” I say almost absentmindedly.
“What do they use?”
“Old Bay and Tony’s special sauce.”
I allow Charlie time to enjoy his food, but when he’s had his fill and pushes back his plate, I say, “Something about this doesn’t smell right.”
“Personally,” he says, mopping sauce off his hands with a wipe supplied by the house, “I think it stinks to high heaven.”
“Yeah, I think so too. But one of the things that bothers me, among many, is that Holden told Madrigal the cops failed to read the handymen their rights. But it sounds like that issue didn’t come up at trial.”
“No.” He scratches his chin. “My source didn’t mention it. That’s why I didn’t want Ms. Berkeley in on this meeting. The facts of the case don’t match what she’s been told.”
“No. They certainly don’t.”
“I thought the truth would be better coming from you.”
“You’re right. It would. We need to get our hands on the trial transcript.”
Charlie leans back against the booth. “It’s gonna cost you. There aren’t any electronic versions. I checked. Which means my source will need to copy it manually.”
“How much?”
“Five G’s.”
“Have her do it.”
He scratches his ear. “How do you now it’s a she?”
I reach across the booth and squeeze his shoulder. “You have a tell, my friend.”
“So what do you want to do about Ms. Berkeley? She’s expecting my report.”
Standing, I throw more than enough money on the table to cover our tab plus an overly generous tip. “Leave her to me.”
“Uh-huh. She’s something special, isn’t she?”
He doesn’t know the half of it. “Yes, she is.”
His eyes squint as he studies me. “She might be trouble, Chief. Better be careful.”
Charlie’s known me from the time I first got my license to practice law. He’s had a first-row seat not only to my career but also to my personal life. Women have been nothing more than entertainment for however long they lasted—a night, a weekend, a season. Madrigal is not like the others. I could chalk it up to her age and lack of sexual experience. But it’s more than that. A hell of a lot more. I’m beginning to care about her. And as perceptive as Charlie is, he probably suspects as much. “I always am, Charlie.” Too bad in this case, that statement could not be further from the truth.