Читать книгу Vows of Vengeance - Rita Herron - Страница 10

Thirteen months later—Savannah, Georgia

The sheets were soaked in blood.

Stella stared at them in shock, then glanced down at her trembling hands. More blood. On her hands. Her fingers. Her nightgown.

It was still wet.

Then she saw the man.

Moonlight streaked his face, a golden outline of his still form stark against the bloodstained sheets. Nausea rose to her throat, the room swirling.

He was lying beside her. Half naked. Brown hair. Average features.

Except blood oozed from his mouth. And his chest had turned crimson, a red stain spreading across his torso.

The stench of body odors assaulted her, and a scream bubbled in her throat. She scrambled backward off the bed, panic clawing at her. Her foot hit a gun and sent it skittering to the floor. She jerked it up, turning it over in horror as she realized the man had been shot with it.

Her heart pounded as she glanced back at him again. Whoever he was, maybe he was still alive.

But he wasn’t breathing. His eyes were wide open, glued to the ceiling in the cold shock of death.

Suddenly the door burst open, and a policeman raced in, his weapon drawn. Stella froze.

The officer took one look at the dead man, then her, and his ruddy face went white. “Don’t move, ma’am.”

Her hand shook violently, the gun bobbing up and down as she realized how the scenario appeared. “I—”

“Put the gun down,” he barked.

“But I…I don’t understand.”

His tone hardened. “Now. Slowly lower the weapon to the floor.”

Shock and fear washed over her as she did as he instructed.

“Raise your hands in the air.”

She swallowed hard, then lifted her hands in surrender as he trained his gun on her. It was obvious that he thought she’d killed the man in the bed.

Only she had no idea what had happened.

LUKE DEVLIN’S phone trilled, the sound cutting into the silence of the night as if announcing trouble. He reached for it, one foot already sliding off the side of the bed, his mind playing the guessing game as to the nature of the call. A new case. An old one. Somebody else found dead. Something mysterious happening at Nighthawk Island. More bioengineering related to terrorism and chemical warfare. Their newest undercover plot—or maybe the feds with information on who had killed his partner J.T. Osborne last year and made it look like a suicide.

Or something about his wife’s disappearance.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing he’d had at least an hour or two’s worth of sleep. But sleep eluded him these days. So he welcomed work to relieve the pain and restlessness. “Special Agent Devlin.”

“Devlin, this is Lieutenant Rawlins of the Savannah Police Department.”

“Yes?”

“I just got a call from one of my officers, Detective Black. They found your wife.”

His heart thundered in his chest. Stella had been found. Alive?

Time vaulted to a standstill. For the past year, he’d searched endlessly. Even as a suspect himself, he’d pushed the cops and feds for the truth. They thought he’d crossed the line on this one.

But Luke Devlin never crossed the line. Not for anyone. Just as he didn’t believe that J.T. had been corrupt, either.

Eventually clues had turned up that made them believe Stella had left of her own accord. That she was alive and well, moving from one place to another. That she didn’t want to be reunited with him or to be found. But her disappearance had stamped a black mark on his career. Too many questions left unanswered. Too much doubt and suspicion for anyone to completely trust him.

Especially after all the trouble with J.T.

Although the police had officially deemed his partner’s death a suicide, and had called off the search for Stella, Luke hadn’t given up.

He had to solve the mystery around J.T.’s death. He’d been undercover at CIRP, getting close to finding out their latest experiments when he’d died. Luke needed to know what had happened to his wife on their honeymoon.

“Devlin?”

Luke cleared his throat, collecting himself. “Where is she?”

“Sunset Motel.”

“What?” His hand tightened around the phone. Was this some kind of joke? “What’s going on?”

“You can meet Detective Adam Black when you get there,” Lieutenant Rawlins said.

The officer started to hang up, but Luke needed more information. “Wait. Just tell me—is she … alive?”

A long hesitation stretched over the line, riddled with tension. Heat from the open window brushed his neck, and he broke out in a cold sweat.

“Yes, but, Devlin, there’s something else you need to know.” Rawlins paused, the scent of death and fear filled Luke again.

“What?”

“She’s going to be charged with murder.”

The breath whooshed from Luke’s chest. Moving on instincts so natural, he didn’t contemplate his actions, he closed the phone, yanked on his jeans, grabbed a shirt and jogged to his car. His mind raced while he cut through the streets of Savannah. Though it was midnight, tourists crowded the streets, Saturday night partiers in full swing. Booze and music floated through the humid summer air from River Street, a cruise ship had docked in town creating more chaos in the summer atmosphere. The roar of a siren in the distance reminded him that crimes had been at an all-time-high for the area, the closing of the bizarre suicide cases a while back having added more hype to the mysterious happenings at Nighthawk Island.

Questions rattled through his head, the same ones that had haunted him the past year. Where had Stella been all this time? Why had she left him on their wedding night? Had their marriage been some kind of scam? Had she been ill and decided not to burden him? Had she decided that she couldn’t stay married to him, that he was some kind of cold, FBI agent who didn’t know how to treat a wife? Or had she been in some kind of trouble, something she was afraid to confess to him?

But if she’d left of her own free will, why had there been blood on her wedding dress? That one element had bothered him, kept him searching for her, kept him awake each night with disturbing dreams and images.

And if she had been in trouble, why hadn’t she attempted to contact him sometime during the last year?

He maneuvered around traffic and a handful of pedestrians leaving a blues bar, then sped onto the road leading to the motel, leaving the historic side of Savannah with its town squares, haunted cemeteries and classy bed-and-breakfasts behind. He continued on, threading his way to the outskirts, to a rinky-dink motel that catered to low-rent patrons and truckers, ones who didn’t mind bug-infested rooms and two-bit hookers.

What was Stella doing at a place of this caliber? And why had Rawlins said they were going to arrest her for murder? Had she been held captive? Had she become involved with another man and gotten in over her head?

He approached the motel room with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Finally he’d glean some answers. Learn the truth. Get closure.

Look into her eyes and know why she’d put him through hell the last year. Why she hadn’t loved him enough to stay around.

The blue lights of the Savannah police car swirled through the darkness, the neon lights of the Sunset Motel blinking as he parked. One letter was missing in the word Sunset so it read the Sunet, and the building was so dilapidated it should have been condemned. A smattering of rattletrap cars filled the lot, a group of spectators already hovered in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes and mumbling, obviously aware their peaceful night had been interrupted by crime.

He barreled his sedan into a parking spot, killed the engine, then grabbed his badge and flashed it at the locals working to secure the scene.

“Special Agent Devlin.”

The squatty officer at the bottom of the steps spoke first. “Detective Black said you’d be here.”

Luke nodded, grimacing. The man obviously knew about his past. As Luke climbed the steps to the second floor, he dodged a reporter and cameraman. The motel rooms were lined up, each with its own outdoor access to the balcony. The doors were painted an avocado-green that had faded to a pea-green color from the blistering sun and relentless summer heat.

Seconds later, he stopped at the doorway, his gaze skimming past the security guard talking to one of the local cops. Through the open doorway, he cataloged details of the scene.

Blood was splattered everywhere, soaking the sheets and dotting the stained gray carpet. The foul odors of death hit him. The mumblings of policemen at work. A crime scene crew that had just arrived.

He saw Detective Black inside, then his gaze landed on Stella, and his heart literally seemed to stop beating.

She sat stone-stiff in one of the motel chairs, her hands knotted, her normally olive complexion a pasty-white, while Black questioned her. Luke hadn’t imagined the gut-wrenching reality of seeing her alive, in the flesh.

The hair that had been buttery-blond was now jet-black, not short and layered as when he’d known her, but a long tangle of ebony waves that sent a bolt of surprise through him. Surprise and sexual desire. He had wanted Stella the first moment he’d met her. The moment he’d looked into her pale green eyes.

She’d been leaning against a bar wearing a red dress that hugged her curves and a pair of rhinestone earrings that had dangled down to her shoulders. Although surrounded by gaping men, she’d appeared disinterested. Instead she’d looked lost and lonely.

After the death of his partner and the questions surrounding J.T.’s final days, Luke had been vulnerable himself. He’d always admired the way Osborne had juggled his career and a wife, and for the first time in his life, Luke had wanted the same.

In an uncharacteristic move, he’d bought Stella a drink. Three vodka martinis later, and they’d crawled into bed for some of the steamiest sex in his life. Stella had completely poleaxed him with her odd mixture of shy vulnerability and her bold lack of inhibitions about her body.

A month later, they’d eloped and that blissful month of premarriage heaven had turned into the year from hell.

He cleared this throat, struggled for calm and entered the room. An eerie quiet descended as if the black cloud that had been following him had swallowed the light. Two officers parted, their stares burning his back as he walked toward her. They knew who he was. Knew this was his wife.

When he stopped, only a breath away from her, he expected recognition. He waited, bracing himself, tamping down his anger.

She looked up, and he stared into her light green eyes, was caught anew by the sensuality and sweetness he’d once seen there. A bruise darkened her cheek, though, and a cold look of horror filled those crystalline eyes, as well as a dead emptiness that shook him to the core.

Yes, it was Stella.

But not the Stella he remembered.

She didn’t speak, jump up and greet him, or offer an explanation. Didn’t acknowledge that she was his wife. Didn’t move to touch him, to hold him or beg him for forgiveness.

He had to clear his throat twice to make it work. “Stella?”

He waited, his lungs tight.

“Yes.” An odd, almost distant look glazed her expression, then her voice came out in a low whisper. “Who are you?”

STELLA’S HEAD was swimming. First from waking up to find the dead man beside her, her hands coated in blood. Then the security guard and police with their questions and accusing eyes.

And now this stranger…was staring at her, calling her name, looking at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

As if she should know him.

“Come on, Stella,” he said in a harsh voice. “It may have been over a year since we were together, but don’t pretend you don’t recognize me.”

“I…” She gripped her hands in her lap, shuddering at the blood on her fingers. The sticky dark substance had seeped beneath her fingernails, soaked into her skin, settled in the fine lines on her palms. The smell suffocated her, the feel of the dried blood caking her hands nauseating her.

She desperately wanted to shower and rid her body of the stench of the dead man, but the detective beside her had already informed her bathing was impossible. They had to collect evidence. Fingerprints, DNA. Protect the crime scene.

So they could nail her for the murder.

Even though confusion muddled her mind, she knew what they were thinking. Realized she looked guilty. For God’s sake, she’d been holding the gun when the cop had arrived.

And what had this man said—that it had been a year since she’d seen him? Denial swept through her. If she’d ever met him, she wouldn’t have forgotten him. He was too powerful. Virile. Sexy. Intimidating.

Then again, she couldn’t remember anything except her name.

“Stella?”

She studied his features, searching for familiarity, for any dot of a memory to return. His tight jeans accentuated the massive power of his body. He was tall, over six feet, broad-shouldered and muscular. His eyes were dark, too, like two hot coals on fire, probing, unnerving as if he never smiled. A broad jaw brushed with dark stubble gave him a sexy appearance, but the tight set to that jaw indicated he was angry.

Why would this man be angry with her?

“I…don’t know who you are or why you think you know me.” She met his gaze, determined to prove her point, but somewhere deep inside, in the far recesses of her mind, something intangible registered.

A wild and primitive awareness flickered in his eyes, something predatory, an almost hungry look, as if she’d not only met him, but he’d known her intimately.

As quickly as the moment came, it fled, and she was thrust back into the depths of lost time.

“This isn’t funny, Stella.” The man stalked toward her, stopped and gritted his teeth. “I’ve been searching for you ever since you ran out on our wedding night.”

Stella gasped, perspiration beading her lip. Wedding night? What was he talking about? She’d never been married….

Had she?

LUKE STUDIED his wife’s reaction, his temper battling with other emotions he didn’t want to admit. He was glad to see her. Relieved she was alive. Furious that she’d left him.

And he ached to hold her. To grab her, drag her into his arms and tell her how terrified he’d been that she was hurt, in trouble, needing him. How he’d nearly been out of his mind the last twelve months. That he’d imagined horrid scenarios, seen her face in death a thousand times in his mind, her neck twisted or broken, her body covered in blood with glazed eyes.

That he’d made love to her a thousand times in his mind.

Stella stretched her left hand in front of her. “You must have me confused with someone else, mister. I’ve never been married.”

His dark eyebrow shot up. “Stop lying,” he said in an icy tone. “I’m not in the mood to play games and neither are these other officers.” His cold gaze slid across her, sideways to the bed where the dead man lay in a pool of blood, then back to her hands. “Who was he? Your lover?”

Detective Black cleared his throat. “Devlin, maybe you’d better let me handle this.”

Luke glared at him. “What has she told you so far?”

Stella knotted her hands and glanced at the detective as if he were her friend. As if she thought she needed protection from him.

“I don’t know who this man is,” Stella said to Black. “Or what he’s talking about. Do I have family to call?”

“You told me you had no family.” Luke swallowed, grappling for control. After all Stella had put him through, how could she pretend she didn’t recognize him?

Detective Black gestured for Luke to step aside. Reluctantly he did so, well aware Stella tracked his movements.

“I think she may have amnesia or be suffering from shock,” Detective Black said. “I want the paramedics to evaluate her.”

Luke nodded. “All right, but just to cover our asses. She’s lying through her pretty, white teeth.”

Black shrugged. “Then see what you can get out of her. So far, I’ve hit a dead end. She insists she doesn’t remember anything except her name, that she doesn’t know the victim.”

Luke grunted. Hell, maybe she hadn’t known him, maybe she’d picked up a stranger for a one-night stand. “She was in bed with the damn man.”

Not how he’d expected to find her. He’d be a laughingstock all over the bureau. Disgust rode through him in waves. He’d made a fool of himself the last year. Begging the feds to keep looking for her and trying to clear himself at the same time.

Dammit, he’d chased down lead after lead. Tortured himself over what might have happened to her. Blamed himself for not protecting her. Nearly lost his damn career.

And now here she sat, denying their marriage ever existed, pretending not to know his name…

Fury raged through him as he turned back to her. She was trembling and had shrunken back into the chair as if the cheap flimsy plastic might save her. Hating the sympathy that struck him, he stifled the urge to grab a blanket and wrap it around her arms, to calm her.

Instead he steeled his voice. “All right, Stella. Tell me what’s going on.”

Her eyes smoldered with unease. “Like I told the police, I don’t remember what happened. I woke up around midnight and found this man in my bed. B-blood was everywhere.” Her face paled as she picked at the dark stain between her fingers.

“Go on.”

She bit down on her lower lip. “I…had blood on me, then I scrambled off the bed and saw the gun.”

“You were holding it when the security guard arrived.”

“I…I picked it up off the floor. I…” She gestured toward the bed. “I …don’t know this dead man, though…or what’s going on. I…swear it. I don’t even remember checking into the motel.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Stella glanced away, rubbed at her temple as if a headache brewed. “Nothing.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw, his agent instincts battling with the memory of her in his arms. He almost believed her. Almost.

Too much circumstantial evidence pointed to the opposite.

He knelt and touched her hands, ignoring the stab of desire the movement cost him. She was shaking, her eyes glued to the crimson stains on her fingers and nails.

He slowly turned her hands over, and saw the powder burns.

Powder burns didn’t lie. Only people did.

“STELLA’S OUT of control.” He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bar in Sutton’s office, swirled it in circles, then downed it in one swooping gulp. While he waited on Sutton’s response, he savored the taste for a moment, the slow burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat and warming his belly.

“I have the situation in hand,” Sutton barked. “She told the police nothing.”

“You lost her a long time ago, Sutton. You should have disposed of her when she first betrayed you and attempted to escape.”

“My plan will work. Just be patient.”

“Patient? Devlin won’t let go. And we’ve put too much into this project for you to go soft.”

“Soft?” Sutton’s voice rose. “If I’d gone soft, how the hell did I pull off what I just did? My plan is a stroke of genius.”

He tapped his nails on the smooth marble bar. “What if it doesn’t work? You’re taking a chance just letting her near the cops. And that bastard Devlin—he’s no fool.” He paused and poured himself another drink. “He didn’t let the hype about his partner being corrupt deter him.”

“It did for a while. He got sidetracked with Stella.”

“You think we can use her to do the same now?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

He harrumphed. Sutton might think he had things under control, but that was near impossible now. Stella was like a pipe bomb—unpredictable. “Know that I’m monitoring your ever movement, Sutton. If Devlin gets too close, if Stella starts remembering and talking, then I’ll kill them both.”

“I understand.”

Did he really? Sutton might be riding the line, but he wasn’t. He was the same ruthless man he’d been trained to be. He took without mercy. Trained the others to do the same. And he hadn’t gone soft.

Soft meant forgetting what he had learned from the Master. The Master who had led him down the path years ago, just as he continued to lead the others.

Stella had been one of them. One of the hardest to break. One of the ones who’d tried to get away.

But there was no escape. Only a price to pay for trying to do so.

And Stella would learn just how high that price could be.

Death for her lover. For herself.

But first…first, she would know the pain of betrayal.

And if Sutton couldn’t handle it, he’d meet death himself.