She's Got the Look (19 page)

Melody followed the look. “He was using the phone in my apartment because he didn't want to tie up my business line.”

“Right. What
did
the pervert want to tie up?”

Her gasp was audible. “Look, I know what you're thinking.”

He doubted it. Because all he'd been thinking since the minute Jonathan Rhodes had appeared in the doorway was that Nick should have taken Melody to bed Saturday night and not let her up again. Then she wouldn't have had time to even consider hooking up with any other man on her list. Nor would she want to.

“But it was just business,” she was saying. “He wants me to do some portraits for him and his associates in his law firm.”

“Associates?” he asked, not even trying to keep the skepticism from his voice. “The slimeball operates all alone doing his dirty work getting scumbags off on technicalities. And he apparently spends every dime he has on women. I hear he's got money troubles.”

That seemed to really surprise her, because Mel's forehead furrowed in confusion. “You're sure?”

“I'm sure. I interact with enough local attorneys to know. Now, why was he really here? And why didn't you admit it?” Shaking his head, he added, “Tell me you're not even
thinking
about acting on that insane list and jumping into bed with him.”

She didn't answer. Instead, she simply stared. And kept right on staring. Which made him feel about two inches tall for even suggesting it.

“I apologize,” he said roughly, not accustomed to saying the words to anyone. “I already know you better than that.”

She nodded once to accept the apology. “He said he wanted portraits, so we met for lunch. When we got back here he asked to use my phone but didn't want to tie up this one. He went right up those stairs, probably stepped two feet into my kitchen and stood there talking on the phone until he came back down again.”

Nick glanced at the slightly open doorway, which concealed a back set of stairs. Confused, he murmured, “The room in the front of the house, directly above us—isn't that your bedroom?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because I saw someone in that window when I pulled up.”

Melody tilted her head, staring at him as if to see whether he was serious. “I'm sure you were mistaken.”

He didn't think so. But he'd made enough accusations today. He didn't want her thinking he was making any more. “Maybe,” he admitted. “So, back to these dead guys…”

“Rosemary was playing on my susceptibility to conspiracy theories,” Melody explained. “She knows I loved
The X-Files.
”

He wouldn't have guessed that about her. Rubbing his jaw, he replied, “Hmm…pretty scary stuff for a chicken.”

She chuckled, as he'd intended her to. He just couldn't resist that laugh, the sparkle in her eyes and the way one side of her mouth went up a little higher than the other when she smiled. He had to taste that smile, be part of that laughter.

Not giving her a chance to duck away from him, he stepped close and dropped one hand onto her shoulder. With the other, he cupped her cheek, tipping her face up to his. Her eyes flared as she realized he was about to kiss her. Only the memory of the confusion in her voice Saturday night at the party made him pause, to give her a chance to back away.

No backing away. Instead, she moved closer.

So with a helpless moan, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her until he forgot his own name.

 

M
ELODY WALKED
like a zombie through the rest of her day after Nick left. She wasn't sure how she'd remained standing during the hot, deep, carnal kiss he'd laid on her in the studio. She
hadn't
been able to remain upright when he'd ended that kiss, given her one intense look, then walked out.

The man made her weak in the knees. It sounded clichéd, but it was still true. She'd collapsed into a chair after he'd gone.

He'd said a lot in the kiss…that he wanted her and he was getting impatient. That he knew she wanted him, too.

He hadn't truly believed she'd been interested in Jonathan Rhodes, or anyone else. How could she be when she wanted to make love with Nick more than she'd wanted anything else in her life? Including everything she'd left behind when she'd divorced Bill.

God, maybe she was being a fool and she should just go for it. Maybe once she had him, the frenzy would diminish, not increase. Hell, maybe the man sucked in bed.

“Ooh, sucked,” she murmured that evening as she went into her bedroom to change her clothes.

Yeah, she could definitely think of some places on her body that she'd like him to suck. Starting with her tongue, which he'd so delicately tasted during their kiss today.

It was no use…he would be amazing in bed, she knew it. Any man who kissed like he did, who touched like he did, who said incredibly erotic things like he'd said to her on the street the morning after they'd met, would have to be incredible.

Any man who'd sit outside her building watching over her all night would be just as thoughtful, just as tender. Just as amazing when making love.

So do it, have it, take it.

Do him. Have him. Take him.

And then forget about him?

She'd have better luck trying to forget to breathe.

Rosemary would do it.
For that matter, probably even Tanya would. They'd say to hell with what happens the morning after, get tonight while the getting's good.

Pulling her shirt over her head, she tossed it onto her bed, then kicked off her shoes and shimmied out of her slacks. While doing so, her gaze fell on her bedside table, where she'd dumped a lot of junk when she'd moved in last month.

The drawer was open a little. That was funny because, as far as she knew, she hadn't opened the thing since she'd emptied a whole shoe box full of stuff into it several weeks ago.

Opening the drawer, she poked around inside, finding nothing but the same six-months-old magazines, some lip balm, a bottle of hand lotion and a dusty condom packet that had probably expired before the turn of the century. Nothing terribly exciting. Certainly nothing a hotshot attorney would be interested in. So probably she was imagining things.

But the thought that Nick really had seen Jonathan Rhodes here in her bedroom earlier today wouldn't leave her mind. So out of simple curiosity, she looked around, searching for anything out of the ordinary. It didn't take long to find something: the closet door was open, and she didn't remember leaving it that way earlier. She always kept it tightly closed so the devilish duo didn't go in there and brush up against all her clothes, leaving streaks of kitty fur in their wake.

Walking inside, she looked at the racks of clothes but saw nothing amiss. At least, not until she noticed the pile of scrapbooks on the shelf, which contained remnants and memories from her modeling days. The books had been neatly stacked, all facing the same way, but now the one on top was turned around. Someone had obviously been looking through it. There was only one person it could have been.

Eww. Jonathan Rhodes
had
been nosing through her stuff. It absolutely gave her the creeps. What could he have been up to?

The suspicious part of her mind instantly went to the worst-case scenario. She suddenly wished she hadn't been marching around in her bedroom in just her underwear, in case the man had planted some kind of spy device. A little weirded out at the idea, she reached into her hamper and yanked out the ratty, torn T-shirt she'd worn when cleaning her bathroom the day before, and some dingy, torn jeans to go along with it.

Once clothed—knowing she was protected from any potential perv cams—she reached for the scrapbook. Almost afraid to look, she pulled it down, opened it and stared at the first page.

It was totally empty.

“You bastard,” she muttered, hardly able to believe it. Racking her brain to remember what had been on the page, she glanced at the date on the inside front cover. Somehow, she could hardly muster any surprise when she realized which book this was, and what
should
have been on the front page.

“I'm beginning to hate peacock feathers,” she muttered.

Because
that
original photo had been on this page. She'd held on to it for a number of reasons, beyond keeping track of her career. Someday, when she was old and broke, she might need to accept one of the offers she'd gotten for the stupid lingerie from fanatic perverts all over the world. The offers had ranged from $20,000 to the chance to “ride the stick” from a porn star who was reputed to be
very
well endowed.

Having the original photo as proof of the authenticity of the lingerie would be important should she ever decide to sell it. Frowning in disgust and still staring at the empty page, she was suddenly struck by an awful thought. Nick had said something about Jonathan Rhodes being broke and slimy. Certainly the man had been less than honest with her today, and if he'd been creepy enough to go through her things and steal a photo from her scrapbook, might he not also…“Oh, God.”

Dropping the book to the floor, she jerked her attention to the back of the closet, where several plastic bags covered her better clothes. Some of them were air-sealed, like the ones used to protect wedding gowns. Only, one of those air-sealed bags wasn't flush with the others. It was sticking out just a little.

And it was empty.

She couldn't even breathe. If Nick hadn't said something about Jonathan Rhodes being in her bedroom—if she hadn't noticed the open drawer, the open closet, the turned-around scrapbook—well, she might not have noticed the missing lingerie for weeks. Which was probably what the slimeball had counted on.

Mel didn't think, didn't plan, didn't hesitate. Instead, when she stared into the empty bag and realized the son of a bitch really had stolen her valuable lingerie, she marched into her bedroom. Sticking her feet back into her shoes, she grabbed the phone book. “You'd better be listed, you prick,” she snarled under her breath.

He wasn't. But she didn't give up. A trip downstairs to her office and one Internet search later and she had the man's address. Which was exactly where she headed.

Ten minutes later, when she found the address—a high-rise on the edge of the historic district—she was still fuming. Still enraged. Still ready to rip that slimy man's head off. To
think
she'd ever even considered having sex with him!

Paying no attention to the cars whizzing by or to the people milling around outside, she illegally parked and marched into the building. As she got on the elevator, she did glance side to side and noticed a couple of dour-looking men frowning at her. They were probably wondering about the looney woman dressed in rags that smelled distinctly of bleach, muttering threats under her breath. She ignored them.

Unfortunately, the men got off on the same floor and turned in the same direction down the corridor. They passed the first three doors, too, which made her a bit nervous. She half wondered if they were following her, though it seemed ridiculous.

The nervous feeling increased exponentially when they stopped exactly where she did, at unit number 4E. Jonathan Rhodes's apartment…where the door stood wide-open.

“Ma'am, do you have business here?” one of the men asked, still looking at her with suspicion in his eyes.

Oh, great. One of Jonathan's Mafia clients?
Maybe this wasn't such a great idea, Mel.
“Um…”

“I'll take it from here guys.”

She knew that voice. Oh, she definitely knew that voice! She just wasn't sure how she felt about it. Should she be grateful he'd saved her from being fitted for cement shoes? Or humiliated as hell to run into Nick Walker when she was wearing a ratty, torn shirt and dirty jeans and muttering about wanting to kill a man. “Nick, I, uh…”

“What are you doing here, Melody?” he asked, his tone firm and his expression serious as he stepped to the side to allow the other two men into the apartment.

Too disconcerted to turn the question around and ask him the same thing, she blurted, “I need to see Jonathan. He…I think that man
stole
something from me today.”

Nick said nothing. Instead, he stepped out into the hallway, closing the apartment door behind him. “I'm sorry, you can't see him.” He crossed his arms and watched her intently, remaining several inches away from her, despite the electric current snapping between them—as it always did.

Finally, clearing his throat, he admitted, “Jonathan Rhodes is dead, Mel. Someone murdered him.”

She sucked in a shocked breath, not believing what she was hearing. “I…I can't believe this….”

“It gets worse.”

“How could it possibly get any worse?”

“Well,” Nick admitted after releasing a long, slow breath, “I think he was wearing your underwear.”

F
INDING OUT
a man you'd just had lunch with was dead was bad. Learning he'd been murdered was worse. But hearing that he'd been wearing your practically brand-new pink Victoria's Secret bra-and-panty set with the pretty little rosettes and white lace trim that had cost almost sixty bucks took things right into nightmare territory. As Melody absorbed the shock of Jonathan Rhodes's murder, she couldn't help wondering why the bastard couldn't have been wearing the yellow undies that had looked so cute in the catalog but had made her skin look sallow once she'd tried them on.

Well, there was one thing to be thankful for. He hadn't been wearing her valuable peacock set. Which left her with a question: what had he done with it?

“So, you're absolutely
certain
the lingerie wasn't blue?” she asked Nick as the two of them sat in the front lobby of the apartment building. They'd come downstairs shortly after she'd shown up, both to get out of the way of the other investigators and because Melody had almost had a panic attack over having stumbled onto a murder scene. Nick had been all business at first. But when he'd seen her start to shiver, he'd slid an arm around her waist, giving her all his strength, just as he had the day they'd met, when he'd moved her furniture. And at Rosemary's party, when Paige had made her awful announcement. And again early Tuesday morning when he'd parked outside her building.

Whether he'd admit it or not, the man was a born caretaker. She'd never in her life felt as safe as she did during those few minutes when he'd held her against his side, gently leading her to the elevator, then into the lobby. When they'd sat down, he'd stayed close, with one hand on her shoulder for reassurance.

“I'm not color-blind, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You did say you had pink underwear like the ones I described. And somebody had written the initials MT on the label.”

She nodded absently. “Yes, it probably is mine, though I didn't notice it missing. I'm not in the habit of putting my name in my panties.”

“There were initials on the tags of all the lingerie we found in Mr. Rhodes's ‘special' closet. I think he liked to keep track of where he collected each of his trophies.” Nick sounded furious and she could see the tension in his jaw. His anger could have had something to do with the murder of a prominent citizen in his district. But she knew it didn't.

He was outraged on her behalf. The thought warmed her, even as she grimaced, not wanting to think about Jonathan's “closet.” Good Lord, the handsome, suave former congressman had had a thing for stealing women's underwear…and
wearing
them.

“That is so gross. Please burn them when you're done with them. Lord, that man is lucky I didn't come over here and catch him in them…I would've killed him.” She realized how bad that sounded the second the words left her mouth. Talk about self-incrimination.

Nick sighed heavily and shook his head. “Do me a favor, okay? Don't say anything like that around any of the other investigators. They don't know how bloodthirsty you are.”

“Oh, boy, I'm sorry,” she mumbled, feeling her face grow hot. “I didn't have
anything
to do with this, Nick, I swear to you.”

“I'm sure you didn't.” Then, in a low voice, added, “But I do need to know where you've been for the past several hours.”

An alibi? She needed an alibi? This was turning into a nightmare. A bad movie at the very least. “I was at the studio all afternoon. I made a couple of marketing calls after you left.”

When he pulled a small pad of paper out of his pocket and started writing notes, she realized just how serious this situation was. It hadn't quite sunk in before—the first thirty minutes after she'd arrived, she'd been too grossed out about what Jonathan Rhodes had been wearing to actually contemplate that the man was dead. That someone had
killed
him.

She didn't know how he'd been killed. She didn't
want
to know. Particularly since she really didn't want to picture her pretty pink-and-white Victoria's Secret bra-and-panty set covered with brains or guts or anything.

Taking a deep breath and visualizing her entire afternoon, she continued, “At around three, I called Rosemary…Dex was there when she answered, and he left a few minutes later. I was on the phone with her for over forty-five minutes.” Not trying to hide her sarcasm, she added, “I was telling her how
very
much I appreciated her letting Dex know about the dead guys being on my list, so he could tell you, so you could come talk to me about it.”

He chuckled, but Melody didn't feel like laughing. Because she suddenly thought about the list. The dead guys. God, Jonathan Rhodes made
three.
How utterly, totally creepy. Men she'd once wanted to have sex with really
were
dropping like flies all over Georgia.

A fleeting curiosity about whether Bill had been taking his cholesterol medication crossed her mind, but she quickly squelched it. She wanted her ex humiliated and broke. Not dead.

“What happened after the phone call?” Nick asked.

“Believe it or not, I had a walk-in at around four. A couple who wanted an engagement photo and information for their wedding. I was with them until about five-thirty. After they left, I locked up, went upstairs to change, saw that something was missing and came right over here.” She glanced at her watch. It was now seven o'clock. “Wouldn't leave much time for any, uh, murderous side trips.”

Some of the concern eased from his expression and, beside her, she felt his body relax a little bit. “You should be fine. I don't know the time of death, but by the looks of it, I'd say it was sometime during your session with the engaged couple.” He snapped the book closed. “You will give me their names and phone numbers once you go back to your studio, right?”

“Absolutely. The bride was named Jade Maguire…I knew her years ago in high school. I have her number and Ryan's—the groom's—contact information written down on my desk.”

After he tucked the notebook back into his pocket, he almost visibly left his cop role behind and again became Nick, the man. She nearly sighed in relief.

“One more thing I have to ask,” he said, his voice deceptively quiet. “You said you hadn't noticed the pink set was gone, so that's not what you came over here looking for.” He leaned back on the sofa, crossing one ankle over his knee. “What was it that you were missing?”

Melody wondered briefly how to explain the peacock lingerie. It would probably sound ridiculous that she'd come marching over here chasing after a bra and panties that she truly hated. But they
were
worth a small fortune. “He took a picture from a scrapbook,” she admitted slowly.

His brow shot up. “That's all?”

“Well, no…he also took the blue bra-and-panty set I was wearing in that picture.”

A tiny smile appeared on those sexy lips. “Uh…was it peacock blue?”

“Oh, crap.”

He knew. Nick knew she was the Peacock Feather Girl. He'd probably seen the picture that had made it look like she was hardly wearing anything at all. How utterly embarrassing.

“It's okay, I doubt anyone upstairs recognized you,” he murmured. “I certainly didn't. Dex mentioned it.”

“Good old Rosemary,” she mumbled, shaking her head.

Then Nick straightened and leaned forward, dropping his elbows on his knees. “Melody, I think it is possible Jonathan Rhodes took your very famous lingerie, as well as the pink set he was wearing. He had a—hell, I don't know how to describe it—I guess you'd call it a shrine or something, in his secret closet where we found the body. There was a padded hanger, with candles all around it, and a poster-size blowup of
that
picture on the wall behind it.”

“Oh, my God,” she groaned. No wonder he'd mentioned the cops not recognizing her: he'd been trying to make her feel better about the fact that every officer in Rhodes's apartment had probably seen that poster. Hopefully he was right and they
hadn't
recognized her from the photo that had made her leave the modeling world behind out of sheer embarrassment. Not to mention the need to have a normal life.

A normal life with the prick with the drill. That hadn't worked out so well. As for the embarrassment thing? Yeesh. Not so well, either.

“I guess, if you think about it, the peacock set really would be the Holy Grail of women's undies to a true collector,” he said. Then, looking curious, he asked, “How did you end up with it, anyway? Do models usually get to keep the stuff they've modeled?”

“Not usually. But Luscious Lingerie was a pretty small company and they were having serious financial problems at the time. They offered me the lingerie I'd modeled since they couldn't come up with my full salary.”

Just as well. If she'd had the money, Bill would simply have ended up with that, too.

“Gotcha,” Nick said. Then he continued, “Anyway, the peacock lingerie is not in his ‘shrine.' The hanger was empty and I would have recognized it if it were among his…collection.” His tone revealed his distaste for whatever else had been in Jonathan Rhodes's closet. Aside from Jonathan Rhodes.

“Okay,” she mumbled, staring at him in confusion and disbelief. “So you think
two
different people stole my underwear today? Jonathan and whoever killed him?”

He stared at her. “That seems far-fetched, doesn't it?”

“Well, yeah!”

“Which is why,” he said, his tone even and his expression grave again, “it's fortunate that couple walked into your studio this afternoon.”

 

I
F
N
ICK HAD THOUGHT
the murder of a tourist in an antique shop had been bad, it was nothing next to someone offing a former congressman dressed in a bra and panties. The whole city was talking, speculating, whispering. If somebody wrote a book about this case, he just prayed they had the good sense not to put a graveyard statue on the cover.

So far, he'd kept Melody out of the spotlight. He wanted to keep it that way. The woman was lucky that engaged couple had come into her studio completely by chance on Friday afternoon. Because even after they'd confirmed her story—and the timing—his lieutenant had kept a suspicious eye on the owner of the stolen underwear.

According to the medical examiner, the victim had been shot approximately two to three hours before his body was discovered by a friend of Rhodes's, who had a key to the apartment. Between Nick's own visit to the studio, Melody's phone call with Rosemary, and her walk-in clients, Melody Tanner was in the clear. He didn't even have to evaluate why he was so relieved by that…his interest in Melody was already much too intense to be convoluted with any suspicions of murder.

He'd never really believed her capable of it, anyway. Other than the fact that she threatened murder every ten minutes, Nick didn't think Melody had a violent bone in her body. And frankly, with her friends, he didn't blame her for the threats.

“How's Melody holding up?” Dex asked, interrupting Nick's train of thought. The two of them were back at the precinct, going over the crime-scene report. It had been four days since the murder and everything else had slid to the back burner for those in the precinct.

“I don't know. I haven't seen her since Friday night.”

His partner's brow shot up. Hell, Nick couldn't figure it out himself, so he sure couldn't explain it to Dex. But for some reason, Mel was avoiding him, back to not taking his calls unless she absolutely had to. There had been two necessary phone conversations: one to give him the information on the engaged couple, and the other to confirm that her pink lingerie had been taken. She'd cut both calls short.

“You sure that's wise?”

“She's not a suspect,” Nick said, immediately stiffening. “Her alibi's good.”

“I know that,” Dex's said in the calm, reasonable voice that had been known to make criminals blab anything, thinking he was their best friend. Unlike Nick's piercing, silent stare that intimidated them into doing the same thing. “I'm saying, we still haven't found her rather infamous underwear. What if it wasn't a random robbery by whoever killed Rhodes? What if the person who shot him had that motive all along…to steal the things Rhodes had already stolen from Miss Tanner?”

Nick raised a scoffing brow. “Murdered for a pair of panties and a bra? That's pretty out there, even for Savannah.”

“I'm just saying…there wasn't much else missing from the apartment. It's possible the perp grabbed a few things on the spur of the moment to cover up his real objective. And since there was no sign of forced entry, we have to assume it was someone Jonathan let into the apartment. Maybe someone who had an interest in the same types of things.”

“Like wearing famous women's underwear?” Nick's tone revealed his skepticism.

“Yeah.”

Ridiculous. Outrageous.

Possible?

“Shit,” Nick muttered. “I'd hoped she was out of this altogether.”

“I don't think she is,” Dex said. “Aside from her lingerie, there's still the list connection.”

“You don't
really
believe somebody's knocking off men she once talked about having sex with, do you?”

Holding his stare evenly, Dex murmured, “I wasn't the one who had the Atlanta PD fax over the report on the death of that golfer, Kenny Traynor.”

Nick shifted his gaze, wondering how his partner had found that out. He didn't wonder for long—Dex was a quiet observer. He eventually found out
everything.
“Just covering bases.”

Dex didn't let up. “Which means
you've
considered it, too.”