Kill and Tell (18 page)

"Was that all you wanted, Senator?" he asked politely. "I assure you Medina wasn't running anything for us. If you want more detail, I'll be happy to check into his death and get back with you on anything I find."

"Oh, no, that won't be necessary. I was just worried about—well, you know the situation in the country these days, with militia groups looking for any detail, no matter how far-fetched, that they can find to prove our government has run amok. It's best to head these things off at the pass." It was a fairly legitimate concern, but something about the way it was stated struck Vinay as a little too pat, as if the answer had been rehearsed. "Yes, sir," he said. Something wasn't right here; he couldn't put his finger on it, but he trusted his instinct. Why would Senator Lake feel he had to come up with a plausible excuse for asking about Rick Medina?

Maybe Rick wasn't the focus of his questions. Maybe he had really been trying to get information on John. Suspicion struck Vinay hard in the gut. He couldn't think of any good reason why the senator would want or need to know anything about John Medina, but several bad reasons occurred to him, and they all needed to be investigated. He hadn't reached his present position by being gullible. After Vinay had gone, Senator Lake sat down at his wide, hideously expensive desk, absently rubbing his fingers along the glassy finish while he stared thoughtfully at the door through which Vinay had passed. Something very disturbing had happened in that meeting. There were two possibilities, and he didn't like either of them. Either Hayes was mistaken in his information, or the deputy director of operations had just lied to him.

Slowly, Senator Lake reached for the phone, then with swift decision punched in the number for a private line in his house. It was answered on the second ring, and a comfortingly familiar, nimbly voice soothed his sudden anxiety. "Raymond, could you catch the next flight to D.C.? I may need you."

«^»

Dragging her suitcase, Karen let herself into her apartment. Grimly, without letting herself look at the
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answering machine because she knew the little red light would be blinking like a caution light, she went into the bedroom and completely unpacked. She took her time about it, hanging what she hadn't worn back in the closet and separating everything else into two piles, one for the laundry and one for the dry cleaner.

She watered her plants, put the laundry in the washing machine, then called her floor supervisor. "Judy, hi, it's Karen. I'm home, and I can go back to work tonight if you need me."

"If I need you?" Judy Camliffe echoed in heartfelt relief. "Marietta's been out with strep throat for two days, and Ashley called in sick today, too."

"What's wrong with Ashley?"

"The brown flu. So hell, yes, I need you. The question is, do you need to come back so soon? I'll manage tonight, somehow, if you need another day."

"Thanks," Karen said, meaning it. Judy was under a lot of pressure to keep her floor running smoothly with fewer nurses than ever, since the hospital wasn't immune to cutbacks. Five years ago, there were twelve registered nurses on the surgical floor, four per shift. Now there were eight whom Judy had to juggle among three shifts and two off days per nurse each week. Some nights there was only one RN on duty. The rumor was they would be going on twelve-hour shifts before the end of the year. "But I'm okay; the funeral was yesterday, and I flew home this morning."

"Really? I looked for the obituary, but I didn't see it."

"He's buried in Louisiana. I didn't have a plot for him here, and one of the detectives suggested I bury him there for the time being. Mom would have wanted them to be buried together, and there's no room beside her, so I'll have to find another place and have them both moved…" Her voice trailed off. She was vaguely surprised at herself. She liked Judy, considered her a friend, but she wasn't in the habit of rambling on about her private problems even to Piper, who was her closest friend. But mentioning Marc even indirectly rattled her so much she could barely think coherently; her heartbeat jumped into overdrive, her stomach clenched, her breasts tightened, her mouth watered. The symptoms of panic and sexual desire jumbled together, just as they had that morning when she had awakened in bed with him.

"Gee, that's tough," Judy said. "Uh, I hate to ask, but did you get a copy of the death certificate or maybe an obituary in the New Orleans paper? You have to have one of them to get paid for the days you were off."

"I have a copy of his death certificate." Marc had gotten it for her. She didn't know how long it would normally have taken, but he had sweet-talked someone in the medical examiner's office into processing the paperwork. Her heartbeat did another sprint. He wouldn't have had to do any sweet-talking; all he had to do was ask, in that midnight voice, and if the clerk was a woman, he would have his paperwork.

"Good. That'll minimize any hassle with payroll. Are you sure you feel like working?"

"I'm sure."

"Then I can definitely use you tonight. Come in at your regular time." That settled, Karen looked around for something else to do. When she went into the living room, the message light flashed insistently at her. She ignored it, went into the kitchen, and made a sandwich, then
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did something she rarely had time for: she sat down in front of the television and put up her feet. There was an interior decorating show on Discovery. Since her apartment was badly in need of decorating—unpacking would help—she watched the show while she ate her sandwich. She had run. Literally. Like the biggest coward on earth, she had sneaked out of the house while Marc was in the shower. Her feet still ached from running in high heels the nine or so blocks to the hotel. She had thrown her clothes in the suitcase, called the desk, and checked out, then prayed he wouldn't be waiting in the lobby for her. She couldn't face him; she had never been more embarrassed. Of course, there was a strong possibility he might not bother to come after her, that he would be relieved to get her off his hands, but she didn't want to take that chance.

She got off the elevator on the mezzanine, then carried her bag down the final flight of stairs so she wouldn't run into him at the bank of elevators. She went out the side door of the hotel, into the big parking bay, and got into a taxi.

She was lucky; he didn't know what airline she was flying. He also had to work. Still, when the loudspeaker at the airport requested that Karen Whitlaw please pick up one of the courtesy phones, she didn't, just in case he was actually in the airport instead of at work. She didn't breathe a sigh of relief until the plane backed away from the gate. Not that Marc would use his badge to get on board the plane for a face-to-face; after all, she wasn't a criminal, just a woman he had slept with the night before.

It wasn't the sleeping part that embarrassed her. It was what they had done when they weren't asleep. She wasn't a prude, or frigid, or innocent—two of those were an impossibility in her profession, as far as she was concerned—but nothing like last night had ever before happened to her. She thought of herself as careful and responsible, two qualities that precluded sleeping around. Piper said she was picky and paranoid, which wasn't as flattering but had the same result. She had never,
never
, been as reckless, as thoughtless, as she had been last night. Whatever Marc had wanted to do to her, she had let him, and he had wanted to do a lot. Let him? She had actively participated, and climaxed more times than she could remember. She had been like a bitch in heat.

She stared sightlessly at a demonstration of a painting technique that involved dabbing a ball of plastic wrap in paint, then blotting it on the wall. God, how stupid could she be? Maybe if she'd had more hands-on experience, so to speak, she would have seen him coming.

She winced at the pun, her cheeks burning. The truth was, she had been humiliatingly easy for him. She had been seduced, and by a master. He hadn't made a single wrong move. The cheerful woman on television was single-handedly turning a blank wall into a masterpiece of designer painting. Karen scowled at her and clicked the television off. She was fairly certain she was never going to paint her walls with a wad of plastic wrap. How could she concentrate on decorating, anyway, when she had some serious brooding to do?

There was no single point she could use to salvage any pride. She had been very willing, and she couldn't salve her conscience by pretending otherwise. On the other hand, there was no denying his skill. The degree of her willingness was testimony to that.

She leaned her head back on the sofa, staring at the plain white ceiling. Marc's ceilings were high, with fancy crown molding, and yummy ceiling fans everywhere.

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She punched the cushion. Damn it, she did
not
want to think about him!

How could she stop, though, when her insides still throbbed? If any of her friends at the hospital had bragged about having sex that many times in one night—with one man—Karen wouldn't have believed her. Well, now she knew there really were men who could get it up that often. She felt raw and swollen between her legs, proof of the excesses of the night in case she doubted her own memory. Looking back, she saw how he had led her, inevitably and without a pause, straight to his bed. Hindsight wasn't worth a damn, though. She hadn't felt even a tingle of warning at the time. Using means both swift and subtle, he had fostered a sense of intimacy between them and then capitalized on it. The man knew his stuff.

The day before had been one long seduction. Her entire acquaintance with him had been a seduction. She had studied human sexuality, knew the signals, and still she had missed them; only in retrospect were they crystal clear.

First had come the concern, the solicitousness for her well-being, the touches disguised as courtesy. She remembered his hand on her arm, sliding down her back, resting on her waist. He had won her trust, lulled her into accepting his constant touch without suspecting the sexuality behind it, and then aroused her to the point where she hadn't even thought about calling a halt to their lovemaking. And yesterday… oh, yesterday. She remembered the way he had put his hand on the back of her neck while she wept, a gesture so sexually possessive she didn't know how it had slipped under her radar, but at the time she had been aware only of being comforted. By then, she was so used to having his hands on her that it had felt… right.

He had even managed, with perfect logic, to talk her into taking off part of her own clothing, and she had felt relaxed enough with him to do it. He couldn't have arranged for her to snag her panty hose, but he had been quick to take advantage of it. Just her panty hose, just her shoes… it had all felt so casual, so relaxed, and had set the stage for her to lose all her clothes.

He had further softened her with wine, though she couldn't use even that to excuse herself. She hadn't been tipsy. He had seen to that, carefully feeding her, not giving her any grounds on which she could later excuse herself, or accuse him. She had been sober but wanned by the wine and his care, his touch. She remembered the brush of his bare feet against hers while they danced, and her toes curled, her nipples tightened.

What could be more romantic than a hot sax and a slow dance on a balcony in New Orleans on a rainy summer night? She had been completely in his arms then, under his spell, so subtly aroused she had been almost at fever pitch and hadn't even realized it. She remembered the fleeting contact with his erection while they danced, and knew now it hadn't been accidental. He had teased her with it, letting her surreptitiously seek out another brief touch, making her feel everything was still casual while subtly intensifying her arousal.

He had orchestrated every touch, gentling her, bringing her to the point where she not only would accept him sexually but was eager for the act. He hadn't put one step wrong; he hadn't grabbed her breasts or shoved his hand between her legs, moves that would have startled her into pulling away. She didn't know why having his hands on her bottom hadn't warned her, but all her alarms had been silent. Maybe she had already been past the point of no return. He had bypassed all the usual foreplay, except for those wonderful kisses; when he was ready, he had simply tossed her skirt up and taken her, except that the
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entire day had been foreplay and she had been more than ready for him, climaxing with embarrassing speed.

The memory of it had her face hot, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. Damn it! One night with him had turned her into a sex kitten, evidently. She wanted him. Still. Now. The man knew more about sex, and women, than should be legal. He had been so sure of himself, and of her, that he had put on a condom even before asking her to dance. She should be grateful for that, at least, because she had been so far gone that the thought of protection had never crossed her mind, and she was a nurse, for God's sake. She hadn't thought of pregnancy or disease, only of completing the act for which her body was clamoring.

He had certainly destroyed another of her assumptions, because she had always thought people who claimed to be swept away by passion were exaggerating to cover their own stupidity and carelessness. Now she was the newest member of the Stupid and Careless Club.

So much for her vaunted caution and self-control; Marc Chastain just hadn't gotten his hands on her, yet. Well, now he had, and now she knew that she had no caution or self-control where he was concerned. There were so many levels of foolishness to her behavior that she could scarcely believe what she had done. She had gone straight from her father's grave to a stranger's bed. She didn't think she could have made it through the ordeal of the past few days without Marc's aid, but he was still, essentially, a stranger. She didn't know anything about him except that he was a cop, he could seduce a statue, and he had screwed her brains out.