Читать книгу Breaking Free - Лорет Энн Уайт, Loreth White Anne - Страница 8

“Mrs. Lipton, get someone to bring a car round for me!” Megan yelled as she raced up the sweeping marble staircase.

She flung open the cupboard in her guest room, grabbing a sleeveless shift dress, the creation of a young up-and-coming Sydney designer, urban casual.

All Megan’s clothes were the work of emerging artists—fledgling designers she predicted would become household names. She liked to support them at the start of their journeys. It had become her trademark philosophy, and her sartorial style on the Sydney art gallery circuit had begun earning her a familiar spot on the social pages of the city newspapers and glossies. That in turn had garnered attention for her clients.

Attention for her clients was good. It fed her business.

She shimmied into the dress, not wasting time to take her bikini off. Quickly sliding her feet into sandals, she grabbed her purse, and stalled in front of the mirror as she caught sight of her wet hair still plastered to her head. She cursed, grabbed a silk scarf off the dresser, flinging it over her hair as she snagged her large sunglasses, and clattered down the broad staircase, and out the front door.

“Biltong” Laroux, Louisa’s rugged broodmare manager, had brought her aunt’s champagne-colored Aston Martin DB9 convertible round to the front door.

Megan stalled, eyes whipping to his. “You want me to take this?”

“Patrick’s got the sports ute. The other cars are either out or in the shop.”

“It’s…not an automatic,” she said.

Biltong pushed his felt hat farther back on his head, a glint of amusement in his warm brown eyes. “Do you need someone to drive you, Ms. Stafford?”

“Of course not,” she said reaching for the door handle. “Just…hold fort here, please.”

Megan started the ignition and promptly stalled the high-end sports car. She cursed, hotly aware of Biltong watching her from under the brim of his bush hat. She knew how to drive a stick shift. She just hadn’t done it in a while.

She depressed the clutch and turned the key, setting the engine purring again. She shifted into First gear, and jerked sharply forward, almost giving herself whiplash before taking off down the driveway in a blast of dust, Louisa’s blue heelers yipping at the wheels.

Damn.

Louisa rarely went anywhere without her two cattle dogs, and they were going to get hurt if they kept this up all the way down to the estate gates.

Megan hit the brakes, kept the engine running as she reached over to open the passenger door. “C’mon. Get in Scout, Blue!”

The blue heelers scrambled excitedly onto the butter leather, settling next to her in the two-seater.

Megan engaged gears, releasing the clutch as she simultaneously depressed the gas pedal, having to consciously think in order simply to drive. Finding her rhythm, she gathered speed down the mile-long driveway under the jacaranda trees, billowing fine red Australian dust in her wake.

As she neared the gates, a group of horses kept pace at a canter in the adjacent field.

She wheeled the sports car onto the farm road, picking up more speed as she headed for the small town of Pepper Flats. Dusk was settling over the dry valley, and her heart hammered in her chest as she mentally prepared to face the physically disarming cop again. She wondered just how the hell she’d gotten to this point in the space of a week.

Dylan had been born in Pepper Flats. For the past ten years he’d worked the area as a local cop, and not once during that time had he ever heard mention of a Fairchild niece.

And a woman like Megan Stafford wouldn’t go unnoticed in this valley, he thought as he led a stone-faced Louisa into the station charge room, ordering her to sit while he entered her into the system.

A long-lost niece conveniently popping out of the woodwork with her great-aunt tipping the wrong side of eighty seemed a little too contrived for his liking. She was probably after the old dame’s fortune, and the thought turned Dylan’s blood cold.

He knew Megan’s type—all warm surface gloss and seductive appeal on the exterior, but calculating and devoid of compassion on the inside.

He’d learned the hard way just how deceptive a gorgeous-looking woman like her could be. He’d married one. And he had spent the past ten years of his life raising his kid alone as a single dad, when all he’d dreamed of was a real family.

It was a mistake he was not likely to make again.

He handed Louisa two forms outlining her rights and began setting up the recording equipment in the interview room while keeping an eye on his octogenarian charge sitting thunderously silent.

She’d gone ash-pale under her tan and refused his offer of water. A small wedge of worry edged into Dylan’s chest.

It was a custody manager’s priority to watch for signs of ill health that might arise from police detention, and with Peebles executing the search warrant, Dylan was doing double duty as both custody manager and investigating officer in a station that wasn’t even a designated holding facility.

D’Angelo would have his balls over this “transgression” alone. But given the state of emergency and the police shortage, Dylan had no choice but to wing this as best he could, and hope that Crown prosecutors would argue extenuating circumstances on his behalf should D’Angelo try to nail him for it.

“This way please, Miss Fairchild?” he said, taking her arm. “I need to get your fingerprints.”

“You have one hell of a hide doing this, Hastings,” she snapped. “I know your sort. You—”

“You know nothing about me,” he said, leading her smartly to the fingerprinting station along the brick wall.

You destroyed my family and you don’t even remember who I am.

Not that she’d care if she did.

“Hold still, please,” he said, taking her wrist and pressing her thumb into the ink pad, rolling it from one side to the other.

No, he thought as he held her inked thumb apart from her other fingers and moved her hand over to the blank sheet, Louisa knew nothing about him at all.

He rolled her thumb over the white surface until the print was complete. She muttered a colorful oath under her breath and pulled back as he began to thoroughly smear her index finger with ink.

“Would you hold still, please?” He tried to tamp down the irritation spiking sharply through him. But as Dylan began to roll Louisa’s next finger through the ink, a movement outside the window caught his eye.

He glanced up to see an Aston Martin DB9 Volante coming to a bone-jerking halt in front of the station, the high-performance engine stalling. Dylan felt an odd reflexive rush as he recognized Megan Stafford, looking like some Hollywood star in a casually elegant short dress, silk scarf, bare sunbronzed arms and giant shades, Louisa’s two blue heelers on the seat beside her like Lord and Lady Muck.

He saw her mutter what could only be an expletive as she swung open the convertible’s door, extending long athletic legs. And Dylan felt a smile tempt the corners of his mouth.

He tried not to watch those lean legs walking towards the entrance of his station, tried to focus on Louisa’s prints, but at the same time he was compelled to sneak another peek, grudgingly acknowledging that Fairchild’s grand-niece really was hot, even with clothes on.

Heat coursed softly through Dylan as the image of Stafford in that barely there bikini reformed in his consciousness—and his body hardened in instant response. He banked down the unbidden and annoying rush of physical anticipation, reminding himself Stafford had probably come to the station to wheedle herself into Louisa Fairchild’s good graces—if there were such a thing—and right into the octogenarian’s will.

This helped steel his focus.

But as she entered the reception area he felt the chemistry of the smoke-tinged air in the small brick station shift, and his pulse quickened anyway.

“Louisa?” Megan called, leaning her body over the counter. “Are you all right?” Her mouth opened in shock as she saw her aunt being fingerprinted down the hall, and her green eyes flared at Dylan. “I need to talk to her,” she demanded. “In private.”

The cop speared her with those intense blue eyes of his. “It’s her right, Detective Sergeant Hastings. I…I’m a lawyer.”

His brow crooked sharply up, and Megan felt her cheeks grow hot. She swore to herself. She had no idea what had possessed her to say that. The man flat-out unnerved her.

“Would you take the dogs outside, please, Ms. Stafford? And I’ll let you in the back as soon as we’re done with the prints here.”

Megan muttered another curse as she returned Scout and Blue to the car. He was playing power games with her by ordering her out with the dogs like that. It was probably also a ploy to rattle Louisa.

Megan reentered the station, removing her scarf and using it to tie her damp hair back into a ponytail as she did. She wished she’d managed to get out of her wet bikini before coming. It was now uncomfortable.

Detective Sergeant Hastings unlocked a door to the side of the reception counter, admitting her into the working part of the police station.

It was deserted at this hour, and his presence seemed to suck up all the air in the place. Megan suddenly felt nervous. But when she peered beyond his broad shoulders and saw the normally statuesque Louisa looking so frail and vulnerable as she tried to scrub the ink from her hands at a grimy, gray, industrial-sized enamel sink, a fist of anger curled deep in Megan’s belly, squeezing away the nerves.

“I need a moment with her,” she said quietly. “Alone.”

He held out his hand. “Room down on the left.”

“Come, Louisa,” she said, taking her aunt’s arm, feeling the cop’s eyes burning into her back as they went down the corridor to the interview room. He had a way of stripping her naked just by looking. It made her legs feel like jelly and she had trouble concentrating on the simple act of walking.

“Leave the door open so I can see you both,” he called out as they were about to enter the windowless neon-lit room.

She glowered at him.

Dylan checked his watch. The longer he left them, the more chance D’Angelo had of showing up before he could squeeze Louisa. Yet he was legally obligated to give them time alone. He unhooked his phone from his belt, was about to punch in his home number and let Heidi know he wasn’t going to make it for dinner, when his mobile beeped.

He flipped it open. “Hastings.”

“Sergeant, it’s the lab. We’ve managed to lift the serial number of the murder weapon. The Smith & Wesson .38 that killed Sam Whittleson is registered to Louisa Fairchild.”

Bingo!

This was going to make things a hell of a lot easier. He’d now be remiss not to have brought her in.

He flipped open his phone, relief rushing through him as he called his daughter.

Megan placed her hand gently over Louisa’s slender veined one. It felt as fragile as a bird under her own, and beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting her aunt looked much older, drained. It wasn’t surprising. No innocent person deserved to be fingerprinted like that, to be forced into an airless and sterile room with one-way mirrored glass, seated at a table that had been bolted to the floor. Especially not an eightyyear-old woman of Louisa’s stature in the community. “How are you holding up, Louisa?” she asked softly, studying her aunt’s blue eyes.

“Where the blazes is Robert?” she snapped. “I’ll be fine as soon as he gets me out of this hell hole.”

Megan hesitated, not wanting to upset her aunt further by telling her Robert might not make it through the APEC barricades tonight. “He’s…on his way. He instructed you not to say a word, Louisa. Silence cannot be held against you, but anything you do say can be used in court—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Megan, this is not going to get to court!” But a flicker of fear in her eyes belied her bluster.

Megan glanced at Detective Sergeant Hastings talking on his phone down the hall. “He must have some reason to hold you here, Louisa,” she said in a whisper.

“Impossible!”

“Then why do you think he brought you in?” she said calmly. “I mean, they already questioned you after the Lochlain fire, and cleared you, didn’t they?”

Louisa went silent, her eyes suddenly uncertain, and without the habitual steel they were startlingly reminiscent of grandmother Betty’s eyes. And of Megan’s mother’s eyes. An acute sense of love and loss rustled so sharply through Megan that it put a catch of emotion in her throat.

This irascible grande dame really was her family.

And a sense of family was something Megan yearned for.

“I didn’t kill him, Megan.”

“I know that, Louisa.” “Do you?”

Conflict twisted through Megan. She wanted to say yes. But in all honesty she knew very little about Louisa.

For a moment she couldn’t answer.

“I did not shoot Sam, Megan,” Louisa insisted, eyes narrowing. “I did not set fire to that place. I had nothing to do with the old bugger’s death.” She smoothed back a stray wisp of hair that had escaped her chignon as she spoke, and Megan noticed that her hands were shaking. Louisa’s face also had a strange sheen to it, her skin unusually pale save for two little hot spots forming high along her cheekbones. In spite of her stiff spine and the defiant tilt of her chin, her aunt was unraveling.

Megan needed to get her out of here soon.

“Would you like me to get you some water?”

“Just get me Robert, for mercy’s sake. What are we waiting for?” Her breaths were coming too fast, too shallow. She was perspiring.

“I’m getting you some water,” Megan insisted, standing up.

She marched along the passage to where Detective Sergeant Hastings stood talking on his phone, and her whole body instinctively braced, adrenaline beginning to hum in her chest as she approached him.

But he angled away from her slightly as she neared, lowering his voice as he spoke into his mobile so she wouldn’t hear. “Listen, chook,” he said softly. “I’ll explain when I get home. I’m really busy right now—”

“My aunt needs water,” Megan demanded, standing square in front of him.

He glanced up, a flash of irritation in his eyes that shifted quickly into something quite different as he took in the faint damp patches her wet bikini had formed on her dress. He pointed to the water cooler next to a desk on his right, his eyes dark.

Megan swallowed, cursing the effect his look had on her as she went to get water.

“We’ll talk when we get home, okay, kiddo?” he said almost inaudibly, the gentleness in his voice catching Megan by surprise. She stilled as she bent over to fill a cup at the cooler, unable to stop herself from listening in on his phone conversation.

“There’ll be other parties—no, listen—” He hesitated. “Sweetheart, wait—”

He swore suddenly, and flipped his phone shut, eyes narrowing as he saw Megan watching him.

“Your daughter?” she asked, standing up, cup of water in hand.

He shoved his mobile back into his gun belt, his eyes flat, inscrutable. “Shall we proceed with the interview now?”

But Megan held her ground. “You’re a dad, aren’t you? A family man. Can you not find it within yourself to show my aunt some compassion? She’s eighty, for goodness’ sakes.”

“She’s also rich. Is that why you’re here out of the blue, Ms. Stafford? Because she’s pushing the wrong side of eighty and has amassed a small fortune?”

Her eyes narrowed sharply. “Damn you,” she whispered. “I’m worried about my aunt’s welfare, not her money, and if you don’t charge her immediately, I insist you let her go.”

He held out his hand, showing her the way. “Let’s get this over then.”

But as they entered the room, Louisa stood up shakily, pressing her hand against her sternum as she tried to brace herself against the table. Her face was ashen, her skin damp.

“This…this is ridiculous,” she said, her voice coming out in a rasp. “This cannot be happening. I need…to leave—” She tried to walk, wobbled, and gripped the back of her chair to steady herself.

Megan rushed forward, taking her by the arm. “Louisa, please sit—”

“Where’s Robert?” she said hoarsely, panic straining her features. “I…I won’t go through this. I will not be subjected to this. I…refuse to do this without Robert. He wouldn’t let this happen. He would not let it get this far.”

Hot tension whipped through Megan. She shot a look at Hastings as she helped Louisa back down into the chair. “I’m not sure counsel of her choice is going to make it here in time. Could…could you do this tomorrow? Louisa needs air. This room is too hot.”

“You said you were her lawyer.”

“A lawyer. Not her lawyer. Besides, I’m not a criminal one.”

That sandy brow of his crooked up again.

It fuelled her anger. “I’m a corporate lawyer for an art gallery cooperative in Sydney,” Megan snapped. She was furious she was even explaining herself to this stubborn hunk of a policeman. “And I find your attitude disrespectful. My aunt is an esteemed member of this community. She deserves better treatment than this—”

“She deserves equal treatment, Ms. Stafford.”

Megan wavered slightly at the veiled menace in his tone. “She does have a right to counsel of her choice before you question her. And she’s not well—”

“She has no such right, Ms. Stafford.”

“But you do allow it—”

“We’re running out of time.” He depressed a button to start recording the interview. “Now if you’ll please calm down and take a seat, I’d like to advise Miss Fairchild that she is entitled to refrain from answering my questions, and that anything she does say can be used in a court of law. Miss Fairchild.” His eyes focused on Louisa, a muscle pulsing along his jaw. “Can you explain how your Smith & Wesson .38 came to be found in a melted fertilizer drum near the body of Sam Whittleson?”

“What?” Megan slowly took a seat, staring at the cop. “That’s not possible,” she whispered.

His laser-blue eyes turned on her. “It’s a fact.”

Megan shot an inquiring look at her great-aunt. “Louisa?”

“Someone…must have stolen it,” Louisa said, pressing her hand harder against her upper abdomen, her breathing shallow.

Desperation surged through Megan. Her eyes whipped back to Detective Sergeant Hastings, tension crackling through her body as she jerked to her feet. “This is enough, Sergeant! This is pure harassment. You’re on a fishing expedition, otherwise you’d have charged her already. I insist that you either do so now, or let us go, because my aunt has nothing more to say. And she’s clearly not well.”

Before he could respond, Louisa swayed, clutched hard at her chest, rasped for air, and slumped off her chair.

“Louisa!” Megan dropped to her knees, fumbling to loosen her aunt’s high collar. Louisa’s skin was cold and clammy. She’d stopped breathing. “Oh, God, she’s having a heart attack!” Megan yelled as she tried to ease Louisa onto her back. “Dial triple zero—get an ambulance!”

She felt Detective Sergeant Hastings taking her shoulders, forcing her back from her aunt as he keyed his radio.

“We need an ambulance, Pepper Flats police station,” he barked. “Cardiac arrest. Maybe MI. Eighty-year-old female—” He gave a rapid-fire series of details as he knelt beside Louisa and began ripping back her restrictive blouse, feeling for a pulse at her neck.

“No pulse,” he told dispatch. “She’s non-responsive. Commencing CPR.”

He tilted Louisa’s head back, checking her air passages. Tears filled Megan’s eyes as she looked on in horror. “Get out front!” he yelled at her between CPR breaths and compressions. “Flag the ambos outside—tell them we’re in here. Move it, now!”