Authors: Beth Andrews
Now it was time to move this investigation into the opening
stages.
“Well, hello there, Detective.”
Cursing himself for letting her sneak up on him, Walker looked
up and met Tori’s eyes. Her lips were curved in a flirtatious smile, a coffeepot
in her hand. His stomach did one slow roll even as his instincts kicked in—the
ones telling him he was ass-deep in trouble.
“Mrs. Mott,” he said, keeping his tone polite and formal.
“Don’t tell me, you were passing by, minding your business,
when you heard one of our famous doughnuts calling your name?”
He liked her voice. The sound of it, all husky and inviting and
sexy. The thought, unbidden and unwanted, floated into his brain. He pushed it
back out.
“Actually I was hoping to run into you.”
She leaned forward to pour coffee into his cup. Her shirt gaped
slightly, giving him an enticing view of creamy skin and the soft swell of her
breast. She straightened and he jerked his gaze down to the table. But not
before catching sight of the humor lighting her eyes.
She was laughing at him. No doubt she thought he was just
another man to be crushed under one of her skyscraper heels.
“Were you, now?” she asked. “And why is that?”
He sipped the coffee to ease the dryness of his throat,
realized it was better than expected and took another, longer drink. Just
because she was sexy enough to make a man’s hands sweat didn’t mean he had to
fall all over himself like some goddamn horny teenager.
It was clear she was used to calling the shots. So was he.
Whether personal or professional, he preferred relationships
where he was in charge. Where he was the one to walk away.
He had a feeling no man walked away from her.
“I was hoping to ask you a few questions,” he said.
She shifted her weight to her left leg, causing the material of
her skirt to stretch across her hips. “And here I thought that was why we set up
my interview. Friday afternoon at three forty-five if I’m not mistaken.”
He could be patient, he reminded himself. But that didn’t mean
he had to like it. Didn’t mean he couldn’t do whatever it took to hurry up the
process. “I’m free now,” he said mildly.
“Well, isn’t that convenient, you coming into this restaurant
and sitting in my booth five minutes before my shift ends?”
Walker met her eyes, kept his hands still, didn’t want anything
to give him away. “Yes. Very convenient.”
She made a sound, sort of a hum, then she smiled slowly. “Can I
get you something to go with your coffee?”
The scents of grilled meat and French fries reminded him he
hadn’t eaten since breakfast, made his mouth water. But he wouldn’t order food
from her, wouldn’t eat in front of her. He couldn’t. If they’d been at the
police station, he’d never pull out a sandwich and bite into it during an
interview.
And that’s what this was. Just another interview, a way for him
to get information out of her. Not some chummy lunch date. No matter how hungry
he was.
“I’m good,” he said, lifting his cup for another sip.
“Thanks.”
“Let me just put this down and we’ll have ourselves a nice
little chat, hmm?”
He watched her walk away. What living, breathing, heterosexual
man wouldn’t? Returning a few minutes later, she slid into the seat across from
him and set down a bottle of water and a plate with a thick slice of apple
pie.
“I hope you don’t mind if I eat while you interrogate me,” she
said, unwrapping a napkin from around a set of silverware. “I skipped
lunch.”
“This isn’t an interrogation.”
Tori raised her eyebrows, used her fork to break off the point
of the pie, releasing the scents of cooked apples and cinnamon. “Isn’t it?”
“Just a few questions.”
“I’m going to be in big trouble, you know,” she told him in
that throaty voice of hers right before she slid the bite of pie into her mouth,
her glossy red lips wrapping around the fork.
He narrowed his eyes. In trouble? She was trouble. The kind
most men had a hard time resisting.
Luckily he wasn’t most men.
“Why would you be in trouble?” he asked.
“Talking to you without a lawyer present?” She shook her head,
forked up another bite. “My sisters aren’t going to be too happy with me.”
“That happen often? Your sisters being unhappy with you?”
She sipped her water, eyed him over the top of the bottle.
“More often than not.”
That, at least, had the ring of truth to it. But if it bothered
her, he couldn’t tell. Which only pissed him off. He read people for a living
but with her, he was at a loss. And that made her dangerous. Intriguing.
He drank more coffee to hide his frown. No, not intriguing. She
was a means to an end, that was all. The weak link in this case, the one person
he figured he had a good shot of using to catch a break in his
investigation.
He wouldn’t get far with either Chief Taylor or Layne
Sullivan—they were both cops, from all accounts good ones. Or at least they had
been before they’d started sleeping together, raising suspicions they had let
their personal feelings get in the way of their professional ethics. Nora
Sullivan had graduated at the top of her class in law school, was smart and
savvier than her angelic looks indicated. Her boyfriend, Griffin York, had been
through the system himself as a teenager.
Walker chose Tori because she didn’t know the legal system, not
like her sisters. Because he’d guessed she was stubborn enough, arrogant enough,
not to listen to her sisters’ warnings about keeping her mouth shut.
She was all flash, no substance, and he wouldn’t have to dig
far to get to what was inside of her. She was obvious. Fake. He had no use for
her, or her… What had her sister called it?
Her sex kitten act.
No, he had no use and little respect for women like her, who
used their looks and their bodies to get what they wanted. But he couldn’t help
but wonder if he’d somehow underestimated her.
Shaking his head, he cleared that crazy thought right out of
his mind.
“I have four sisters,” he said, trying to draw her out, ease
her into trusting him.
“Four? You have my sympathy.”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
“I find that hard to believe. We don’t have a brother but we
did torment our younger cousin. When he was little, we used to dress him up in
our old clothes, shoes, the works. I think there were even a few times when Nora
and his sister put makeup on him and did his nails. Bright pink polish.”
Walker worked to hide a wince. “No painted nails.” At least not
that he can remember—thank God. Though there was no way he was telling her about
the time Leslie and Kelly, his older sisters, dressed him as Goldilocks for
Halloween. Complete with curled hair. “Your cousin, that’s Anthony Sullivan,
correct?”
Her hesitation was slight, her gaze thoughtful. “It is. Luckily
he turned out okay. So far, anyway.” Her gaze drifted over Walker. “Seems like
you turned out all right yourself.”
“So far,” he repeated solemnly.
Her lips twitched and he wondered what it would be like to see
her smile. A real smile, not one of the practiced ones she shared so
readily.
He cleared his throat. Rotated his coffee cup. “I’m grateful to
have had my sisters, actually. They taught me a lot about how females
think.”
Tori laughed, the husky, sexy sound washing over him, scraping
against his nerve endings.
“I don’t doubt you learned quite a bit about the female psyche
during your formative years, but don’t go deluding yourself, Detective.” Leaning
forward, she lowered her voice. “No man knows what women think unless a woman
wants him to know.”
Then she winked at him, eased back and took another bite of
pie.
And he felt as if he’d been hit by a two-by-four.
Damn, but she was good. “Maybe not,” he agreed, “but I learned
that sisters are always arguing. Someone was always mad at someone else, usually
two or three against one but every once in a while they’d all just be pissed at
each other.”
Finished with her pie, Tori slid the plate away and took a sip
of water. “Yes, sisters fight. They argue, yell and hold grudges. But the best
part about sisters is no matter what’s been said, the names been called or
threats made, if they truly love each other, sisters always have each other’s
backs. And that’s despite all the crap, the envy and sibling rivalry, despite
knowing each other their entire lives and seeing each other at their best and
worst. So if your grand plan here is to create some sort of rift between me and
my sisters, don’t bother. We’ve managed that rift all on our own.”
Her eyes glittered, her mouth a thin line. Walker couldn’t help
but think this was the first honest reaction he’d seen from her. Unlike her
flirting and coy smiles, this—her anger and frustration—was real.
And more appealing than he would’ve liked.
“But it doesn’t matter,” she continued. “Because when it comes
to the Sullivan sisters, it’s always been us against them.” Her eyes met his and
he noted the truth in them, the challenge. “And that’s how it’ll stay.”
* * *
T
ORI
FORCED
HERSELF
to sit back, to
lower her hands to her lap so Bertrand couldn’t see how her fingers curled. At
least she wasn’t the only one whose control had slipped. He looked ready to chew
up his coffee cup, his eyebrows drawn, his shoulders rigid. Yet he still gave
off a superior air, as if he was better than her, more capable of winning this
game they were playing. As if he was so much smarter than her.
He judged her. And found her lacking. She wanted to climb onto
the table, loosen his neatly knotted tie, run her fingers through his hair and
muss him up, just to prove he wasn’t as unaffected by her as he’d like her to
believe.
To prove to them both he was like every other man she’d ever
known—easily swayed by a pretty face. Men who only looked skin-deep so that’s
all she gave them.
All they deserved.
“Mrs. Mott, I can assure you it was not my intention to try to
create problems between you and your sisters,” the good detective said in that
way that made him sound as if he was sitting on something rather
uncomfortable.
Tori exhaled softly, worked up a small grin, felt her heart
rate slow, her anger cool. “Wasn’t it?” And if she believed that, she was an
even bigger fool than he thought. “Well, then, let’s just say my advice still
stands. In case you change your mind and start thinking you can get me to turn
against my sisters.” She twisted the cap back onto her empty water bottle, waved
at Sandy, one of the waitresses working the afternoon shift, then started
sliding out of the booth. “If that’s all—”
“It’s not.” He indicated the seat.
One foot out of the booth, she stilled. Her fingers tightened
on the bottle. She didn’t take well to being told what to do, not even silently.
But she’d agreed to speak with him here, on her own instead of having every word
she uttered vetted by some lawyer Layne and Nora had chosen, because she had
nothing to hide. At least, nothing that had to do with his investigation.
She sat back, stretched her arm across the back of the booth,
inhaled deeply and arched her back ever-so-subtly.
His gaze dipped—just for a second—to her breasts.
Looked like he was human after all.
She ignored the way her heart pounded, how her skin warmed from
his quick glance. “I’m all yours, Detective Bertrand.”
His eyes stayed flat and so cool she shivered.
“Somehow,” he murmured, “I doubt that.”
CHAPTER FOUR
W
ORKING
TO
KEEP
her
expression unchanged, Tori slid her arm down, pretending she was reaching over
to straighten the metal napkin holder. She wished she could cross her arms over
her chest, hunch her shoulders and duck her head, but that would be
surrendering.
She could handle him; she could handle any man. It was what she
did.
Bertrand pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Were you aware
that Dale York had arrived in Mystic Point in July of this year?”
“Of course.”
“When did you become aware of Mr. York’s presence in town?” he
asked when it became clear she wasn’t about to offer more information.
“I’m not sure of the exact date.”
He wrote something. “You must’ve been surprised he was
back.”
“Yes.” Just thinking about it, about Dale walking around her
town, made her throat constrict. “Yes, I certainly was surprised.”
Surprised. Furious. More scared than she’d ever been in her
life.
When Layne had come into the café that hot July day and told
Tori that Dale was in town, Tori’s first instinct had been to grab her son and
run. To somehow escape what she’d known would only be more heartache and pain.
To try to escape the past.
Her family had only just begun to come to terms with the fact
that after all these years, Dale would probably never be found, would never be
brought to justice for murdering their mother. The cops had tried to track him
down but it was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth the night he
left town.
Until he waltzed into the Mystic Point police station,
hard-eyed and cocky, and claimed he wanted to cooperate with the
investigation.
“Did you and Mr. York cross paths during the two weeks he was
in Mystic Point?”
“Once,” she said with a casual wave of her hand, as if their
encounter had been of no importance. “But then, I’m guessing you already know
that, don’t you?”
Again he waited, giving her a look that said he had one nerve
left and she was getting on it.
She blinked innocently at him. Well, as innocently as
possible.
He flipped through his notebook. “You were listed as a witness
to an assault the night of July 17 at a bar called the Yacht Pub.” He lifted his
head, his pen poised over paper. “Is that correct?”
“If it’s in your handy dandy notebook, I’d say it must be.”
He set the notebook aside, laid his hands flat on the table.
“Mrs. Mott, police reports indicate you were a witness to an altercation that
night between Dale York and his son, Griffin. Your sister Nora also witnessed
the event and your other sister, Captain Sullivan, was the arresting
officer.”
Tori’s stomach grew queasy. She was starting to see how bad
this all looked to someone on the outside. How it could be construed that her
family had conspired against the man who killed their mother. “That’s
right.”
“You and your sister Nora went to the bar together?”
“No. I was with a group of friends. Nora was there when I
arrived.”
“She was alone?”
“She was with Griffin.” Tori tipped her bottle, watched a drop
of water slide to the top, then flipped it again. She’d been so upset seeing her
sister sitting next to Griffin York at the Yacht Pub, the bar where their mother
had tended bar. Where Val and Dale had started their affair.
“You went to school together, you and Griffin York.”
“We did. Although we hardly ran around with the same crowd. I
was half of Mystic Point High’s hottest couple and he was the ultimate bad boy,
hauling around that chip on his shoulder, a perpetual smirk on his face.”
“You don’t like him,” Bertrand said.
Truth or lie? She had no problem with lies but sensed it
wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth in this instance. “Those are some seriously
well-honed investigating skills, Detective.”
“The police report also indicated that Griffin started the
fight.”
She may not like Griffin, wasn’t sure she trusted him, but Nora
did. Nora loved him. “Dale instigated it.”
“How?”
“He got grabby with Nora.” An exaggeration, one Tori didn’t
regret. As far as she was concerned, Griffin had every reason and every right to
have laid into Dale that night. “Griffin punched him. They fought. Layne broke
it up—”
“By using her Taser on Dale.”
“He charged at her,” Tori said, straightening. Bertrand was
trying to turn things around, make it seem as if Layne had used unnecessary
force because they all hated Dale. “She was defending herself and trying to get
the situation under control. Besides, it wasn’t like she shot him.”
“This morning at Chief Taylor’s office, you said you were glad
Dale York was dead.”
She narrowed her eyes. Wasn’t he clever, trying to trip her up
with his lightning-fast questions? “Actually you asked if I was happy Dale was
dead. I didn’t answer. But I will now. Yes. I’m glad he’s dead.”
“Mrs. Mott, where were you the night Dale York died?”
“You think I killed Dale?” she asked, wondering if she’d made a
mistake, a big one, in agreeing to speak with Bertrand here, now, on her
own.
“I think you hated him,” Bertrand said, watching her carefully.
“That you were angry there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him with your
mother’s murder.”
“Right on both counts. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Your whereabouts that night?” he asked again.
“I was at the country club with the rest of my family. It was
my cousin’s engagement party.”
He jotted that in his damn notebook. She wanted to snatch it
up, take it into the kitchen and burn it on the stove.
“What time did you leave the party?”
“Midnight? Maybe a little later.” She tossed the empty bottle
aside. It rolled across the table, stopping at the salt and pepper shaker
holder. “Look, it was late and—”
“Were you drinking that night?”
“I had a few glasses of wine.” Had needed them considering her
ex, Greg, had been there with his new girlfriend. Colleen Gibbs taught at the
same school as Tori’s cousin Erin so Tori had spent a tense evening watching
them cozy up to each other. Even though Tori knew she’d made the right decision
asking Greg for a divorce, seeing him with her, seeing how happy he was with
another woman—when she’d failed so miserably at being his wife—hurt.
“Were your sisters there?”
“My sisters, my father and Celeste—”
“Celeste Vitello, your father’s girlfriend and owner of this
establishment?”
Nerves tumbled in Tori’s stomach. She hadn’t been far off the
mark with her smartass comment about his investigation skills. He was good,
better than she’d expected.
Lesson learned.
“Yes,” she ground out, hating that he’d pushed her into being
unable to muster up any pretense of indifference. “Ross was there, too, as was
Griffin—for an hour or so—not to mention my uncle and his family and around two
hundred of my cousin and her fiancé’s closest friends.”
“Where did you go when you left the party?”
“Home.”
“Alone?”
Now she smiled, slow and easy. “I had several men offer me
their…company…but yes, I was alone.”
Bertrand looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “Your son
didn’t go home with you?”
Her son. He knew about Brandon. She snorted silently. Of course
he did. He probably knew what color panties she had on, what she liked to eat
for breakfast and how much money she made in tips last year.
“Brandon went home with his father.” He preferred being at his
father’s house. Preferred being with Greg and Colleen over Tori.
She was surprised Bertrand didn’t know that as well.
“So no one can verify your whereabouts during the hours of
midnight until Dale York’s body was found at approximately 6:00 a.m.?”
“Nope.”
He leaned forward. “Mrs. Mott, did you kill Dale York?”
She mimicked his stance and tone. “No, Detective Bertrand, I
did not. Although as far as I’m concerned, whoever did kill him did the world a
favor.”
“There’s no proof Dale York killed your mother,” he said, all
emotionally closed off and professional. “What if he was innocent?”
“Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. I
would’ve thought they’d have taught you that at the police academy.” She slid to
her feet, reached back for the water bottle.
“What are you doing?” he asked, looking completely confused and
irritated.
“This is called leaving. It’s what happens when I get tired of
a conversation or am bored. I’m both. And since you’ve asked me all your very
important questions, I see no reason for us to have our official meeting Friday
afternoon. But before we both go our separate ways, there is one thing I want to
say.”
“I can hardly wait,” he muttered.
“This thing with Layne, it’s a load of crap. She doesn’t break
the rules…she makes sure the rules are maintained. And Ross? He’s as by-the-book
as they come.”
“He’s sleeping with a subordinate officer. Wait,” he said,
holding up a hand, “don’t tell me. They’re in love and love trumps everything
else, even rules, regulations and law and order?”
“I have no idea if they’re in love or in lust or just
scratching an itch until something or someone else comes along. All I know is
that they’re two unattached adults and neither one would let their personal
relationship interfere with their jobs. And they sure as hell wouldn’t create
some sort of grand conspiracy.”
“I guess that’ll be determined. I’ll determine it.”
“You’re an arrogant one, aren’t you?” she asked softly.
“Confident. As if your badge gives you the right to look down on the rest of us
mere mortals. I thought a good cop waited until he had all the facts before
deciding whether someone was guilty, but you…you’ve already judged us. And found
us guilty.”
He held her gaze, not the least bit cowed by her sharp words,
her acerbic tone. “I’m trying to get to the truth.”
“I hope you find it because it’s going to prove that neither my
sister nor Ross have done anything illegal or unethical. It’s also going to show
that no one in my family killed Dale York.”
She walked away. And prayed that she was right. Because if
Bertrand discovered something, anything, that could be used against her sister
or any member of her family, they were screwed.
* * *
L
ATE
F
RIDAY
AFTERNOON
,
Anthony Sullivan
pulled a coffee cup from the dispenser. Ever since his freshman year at Boston
University, he stopped at this same store whenever he got back into town. Some
habits were hard to break.
The bell on the door rang and he glanced over—and wished he’d
attended a twelve-step program for lovers of bad convenience store coffee.
It was her. Jessica Taylor. He knew he should look away, but
his eyes locked on her. She held the door, said something to the short redhead
who waitressed with her at the café. Then she laughed, the sound seeming to
float across the store to wrap around him. Torture him.
Goddamn her.
Ducking his head, he watched the chemically enhanced
vanilla-flavored coffee squirt into the takeout cup. His shoulders ached with
tension. His chest was tight, as if he’d explode if he took a full breath.
They’d met here, right here at this very spot, well over three
months ago. When he’d run in for a coffee, he hadn’t known his entire life was
about to change. But then he’d turned and saw her and it was as if he’d been
struck by lightning. As if everything out of order in his life had neatly fallen
into place.
He’d been such an idiot.
Anthony sensed her approaching, caught sight of her from the
corner of his eye. She was close enough he could smell her light perfume. Could
reach out and trace his finger down the softness of her cheek like he used to.
Longing mixed with the anger in his gut, made it impossible to ignore the
memories that rushed into his mind. Ones he’d been fighting ever since he walked
away from her.
“Anthony,” she said, her voice breathless. Scared. She cleared
her throat. “Hi.”
He should walk away now. He didn’t owe her anything, not even
politeness. But he made the mistake of turning, and noticed how nervous she
looked, the way she twisted her hands together at her waist.
And his feet froze to the floor.
“Hey,” he said gruffly, all he could give her. All he wanted to
give to the girl who’d lied to him, who’d made him look like such a fool.
She’d cut her hair, he realized with a jolt, his fingers
twitching with the need to touch it, to see if it was still as soft as he
remembered. Instead of falling to her shoulders, the pale, almost white strands
barely reached her chin now and her thick, straight bangs skimmed her
eyebrows.
She was unique, so different from all the other girls with her
light hair and blue eyes, her lush curves and go-to-hell attitude. She was
beautiful. Smart. Funny and sarcastic and jaded. It was the combination of her
looks and her world-weary attitude—as if she’d seen and done it all and found
each experience boring as hell—that made her seem older. More mature.
Except she was neither. She was sixteen.
He’d kissed her, touched her and she was just a kid, five years
younger than he was, two years too young for him.
When he looked at her, when his stomach tightened with
attraction, he felt like a creep. Like a loser who couldn’t get a girl his own
age or worse, some pedophile preying on young girls. He hadn’t known the truth
about her age until after they were involved. But he knew now. It should be
enough, he thought desperately, her age and the fact that she lied, should be
more than enough reason for him to hate her.
He didn’t. Couldn’t.
Anthony turned away. His movements unsteady, he grabbed his
full cup with too much force and coffee sloshed over the side and burned his
fingers. Swearing under his breath, he jerked his hand back.