Читать книгу What She Wants - Lucinda Betts - Страница 7

Chiron crossed the lobby in three long strides, his fists ready. He had to stop Sutherland from getting into the elevator with the woman in the red dress.

The woman stopped Sutherland first, though. She quickly slid a key card through the reader and pressed a button. The elevator closed before Sutherland could get in.

Chiron caught a glimpse of the woman’s face as the doors closed. Beneath her austere ballerina bun, she looked scared, her eyes locked on Sutherland’s. Her hand clutched the skirt of her formal dress.

Chiron breathed a little easier—her fear was good. If she wasn’t ignorant of the danger, she might live a little longer. Sutherland and his girlfriend had killed, at least once, and Chiron would stop them from killing again—or die trying.

He stood in the lobby’s throng, not wanting to draw Sutherland’s attention to himself. How badly did Sutherland want the austere blonde? Would he take the next elevator to follow her? The stairs? No. Sutherland glanced at his girlfriend, a tiny woman with auburn hair, and pointed toward the bar. She nodded and followed him.

Chiron considered tailing them—as he had in every off-duty moment of the last two years—but he’d gotten nothing for his trouble, except a warning from the squad sergeant. He would have killed Sutherland months ago, but then he would never find Akantha’s remains. Would he ever discover what really happened to her? He had been protecting Akantha for so long. Even in her death, he didn’t want to let her go.

“Take the next elevator,” Chiron told a small crowd of conference-goers. If following Sutherland were a fruitless task, maybe following Sutherland’s red-dressed quarry wouldn’t be. Maybe she knew what Sutherland was up to, could somehow lead him to Akantha’s remains. He pressed the button, and the door slid open.

Stepping inside, he slid in the key card for the concierge level and glowered—the elevator doors were too damned slow. Maybe he could save her. Maybe he could save the blonde where he’d failed Akantha. If the elevator ever moved.

“Damn.” Chiron slid the card again, hoping to convince the doors to shut. Akantha’s red hair had been a wild mass, hair more fitting for a Plains pony than a woman. She’d been leaning on Sutherland’s arm that night, her lips curled as she’d delivered a flirtatious jab. She’d always been good at those. She’d always been good at staying just out of Chiron’s reach, too, but that memory wouldn’t help him now.

As the elevator whirred up the flights, Akantha’s final smile flashed though his mind, stabbing his gut and twisting. What had Sutherland done to her, with her? If she’d been tortured…If she’d suffered…Almost two years later, the guilt nearly choked him. If he’d been man enough to hold her affection just a little longer…If he could have protected her…

Stop it. Laments could last centuries, and they never cured a thing.

His brain refused to listen, though. Akantha’s face—flushed with desire—flashed through his mind. “Chiron,” she’d said, her long fingers possessively hanging on Sutherland’s arm. “This night is mine. Leave me be.”

Thankfully the elevator doors opened before the memory played itself out. Touching his gun, Chiron relegated the sorrow to a dark pocket of his mind and stepped into the silent hallway. He stayed focused now, turning the corner as quietly as he could.

“Jesus!” She nearly jumped out of her skin. Behind her heavy-rimmed glasses, her eyes were wide with fear. The air felt strange in the hallway—it crackled with ozone. “You scared the crap out of me,” she said.

“Relax. I’m a cop.” He reached for his badge. Something had seriously freaked her out. Erik Sutherland.

“A cop.” She took a deep breath, and he watched her relax. He could tell she was glad to have him here.

He showed her his badge. “Kai Atlanta. San Diego PD.”

“PD as in Police Department,” she said. It wasn’t a question. He had the feeling she was trying to calm herself.

“Yeah.” He drew out the word. “What else would it mean?”

The muscles in her shoulders loosened, and although she didn’t smile, he could see her thinking about it.

“You have an MD?” she asked. Even pulled back in a severe ballerina bun, her hair was beautiful, like spun gold. Straight fringe crossed her forehead in a clean line, and each strand was impossibly thick and neat.

“I’m not a doctor,” he said.

“If you’re not a doc, PD doesn’t stand for Parkinson’s disease, then. Rules out progressive disease, too.”

She was teasing him, he realized. “I guess it does.” What the hell was progressive disease?

“If you’re a chemist, PD might stand for palladium.” She inspected his thighs and chest, boldly. “But you don’t look like any chemist I’ve ever met.”

“Not a chemist,” he agreed. The light down the hall made her bared shoulders gleam. What would the thin red straps of her dress feel like under his fingertip? “But I understand chemistry perfectly well.”

She ignored the innuendo. “If you looked more like an electrical engineer, I might suggest partial discharge.”

“I don’t know anything about partial discharge.” He met her eyes, trying to unnerve her, but she unnerved him instead. Blue specked the green of her irises, reminding him of the Aegean in the summer. He could pull off those glasses and—he stopped the thought. “For me, discharge is complete—or nonexistent. I don’t do anything halfway.”

This got her, and she started to laugh. The line in the middle of her forehead disappeared. He realized the ozone charge he’d first noticed was gone, too. Had he imagined it?

“You done trying to impress me?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” A smile played in her eyes, and the color was back in her face. “Did it work?”

“I’m impressed.” He shook his head. “But not by your encyclopedic knowledge of PD abbreviations.”

“What then? My fashion sense?”

He laughed again, although the way her red dress slid over her full breasts made a fashion statement of its own. “I’m impressed you didn’t spray me with mace or try some fancy kung fu on me.”

“Why?”

“You thought I was someone else coming out of that elevator, didn’t you?”

“I—”

He didn’t give her a chance to lie. “You’re right to be afraid of Erik Sutherland.”

She paused a minute as if considering something. Did she know something about him? “Who?” she said, finally. She looked as innocent as a newborn lamb, but he didn’t trust it. He’d learned enough about trust to sum it up in one word: don’t.

“Erik Sutherland. Dark-haired guy stands about a foot taller than everyone else—”

“Except you.”

He ignored the observation, but she was right. “He’s with a small auburn-haired woman.”

She nodded. “I saw him—them.”

“What’d you two talk about?”

“Talk?” Her eyebrows arched in surprise over the top of the dark rim of her glasses. “We didn’t…talk.”

Did they fuck? That didn’t seem likely. For one thing, this woman seemed too afraid. For another, Sutherland’s girlfriend rarely left his side. “You didn’t talk over the phone before the conference?”

“No.”

“Not behind the waterfall where no one was watching?” He nodded, trying to encourage her into confessing something, anything. He’d seen Sutherland looking at her, stalking her. He’d seen recognition between the two of them, hadn’t he? “You’d be surprised what the hotel staff pretends not to see. All I have to do is ask.”

She stepped back, her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like what you’re suggesting. Why would I lie to anyone, much less a cop?”

“People have all sorts of reasons to lie.” He should know. He’d been living a lie for nearly four millennia.

“Look.” Her voice tightened. “If you’re bringing me in for questioning or something, I’ll call my lawyer. Otherwise, leave me alone.”

“Did Sutherland tell you what his affiliation is? Where he works?”

“Good night, Mr. Atlanta.”

“Hold on.” He’d pushed her too far, and she’d leave now. His regret surprised him. “I’m just asking you what you talked about.” He held up his hands, wishing he could prove his good intentions.

“And I’m just telling you we didn’t talk.” She shifted the chain of her tiny purse higher on her shoulder. Her body language told him this conversation was over. “And if you wanted to know where he works, you should’ve looked at his name tag.” She shot him a crooked smile, turned, and walked down the hall. “Detective.”

“Very cute.” He hoped his words would stop her, but she kept right on walking. And he couldn’t help it then—he admired her fashion sense a second time. At least, he admired the way her dress moved over her delicious ass as she walked.

“Wait.” He let authority drip into his tone and took a business card from his wallet. He walked toward her as she retreated. “Take this.”

She stopped and turned, looking at his hand. “Why? You short on dates tonight?”

“If I were, would you call?”

She made an exasperated sound, but he could tell she was amused—which was a good sign.

“Take it?”

She did.

“Seriously? Erik Sutherland’s trouble.” He wished people still used the word “evil” without sounding dramatic. He wished he could tell her Sutherland was evil without sounding like a psycho himself.

“What kind of trouble?” She met his eyes. “Does he kidnap women from genetics conferences? Rape, murder, and pillage?” Her light tone quavered, belying something…Fear? An improbable belief that her sarcastic words were true?

“Nothing we can prove.” He couldn’t prove Akantha was dead, for example, not in a court of law.

“So, why’s he trouble?”

“He’s into drugs.”

“Drugs?” Her eyebrows dropped, and she shook her head. She didn’t believe him. What did she know?

“He might want to buy something from you. Equipment. Technology.”

“From me?” She shook her head. “That makes no sense. I don’t know much about drugs or equipment…unless he wants a GPS and a video recorder to cook up some crack.”

“That wouldn’t work so well.” He stared into her eyes a moment, and she didn’t flinch. What was her tie with Sutherland?

She shook her head and stepped back. “You’re worrying about the wrong woman,” she said. “I don’t have anything he wants.”

With her lush curves, he doubted that. “What are you doing at a genetics conference, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I study wild horses in Nevada. They’ve got a surprising breeding system—thus the genetics aspect—and I’m presenting the results tomorrow morning.”

“Interesting.”

She gave him that crooked smile again and held out her hand. “I’m Dr. Ann Fallon.”

Fallon. The name suited her somehow. So did the doctorate. “So you use the technology?” he asked, shaking her warm hand.

“Technology?”

“Genetics technology. Amplifying? Splicing?”

“You know a lot about it for a cop.”

“I listen to NPR,” he said. “You use that stuff?”

“Not really.” She shook her head, her sober bun catching the hallway lighting. What would her hair look like if he took it down? Would it flow down to her ass or stop at her shoulders? “I send out samples to labs—hair, occasionally blood samples. I don’t know much about the technology used in a lab.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

She laughed. “To be more specific, I know more about the labs than any average Joe, but ninety percent of the people at this conference know more than I do. I’d be the last person here someone would stalk for technology.”

He exhaled. “Just keep the number.” He nodded at the business card in her hand. “If Erik Sutherland harasses you, call me.”

“Thank you.” She slid the card into her purse, and he turned back toward the elevator.

“Wait,” she said.

“What?” When he looked at her, that line was back on her forehead.

“You wondered about his affiliation. His name tag said he’s from the Brode Institute.”