Silk Confessions (11 page)

“You’d get sick of me if I stuck around any longer than that.” His gaze scanned the flight of stairs and the rows of mailboxes just inside the front door. Except for an old Beatles tune drifting from one of the apartments downstairs, all was quiet tonight.

“Is that what your girlfriends say when they leave you? They’re sick of you?” She started for the stairs but he drew her back, pointing to the elevator which seemed a safer route. Staircases were notorious locations for crime because they were usually more isolated. Did she usually take the stairs by herself?

“No. Usually they say something to the effect of, ‘Hey, Wes, meet Jack, the new man in my life.’” He steered her into the ancient elevator car and pressed the button for the third floor. “But I tend to interpret that as being sick of me.”

“Hmm.” She fiddled with the lapel of her coat, making him recall exactly what she had on underneath.

Nothing.

“What do you mean,
hmm?
Don’t go playing psychologist on me today.” He pointed a finger in her smiling face. “My partner already took a turn and I think one amateur shrink a day is all I can handle.”

“I just wondered if you chased away these women on purpose.” Her dark eyes flicked over him with curious intent. “I can’t picture anyone being dumb enough to play you for a fool.”

The elevator chimed, saving him from having to tackle that one.

“You’d be surprised.” He held the elevator door while she stepped out, already thinking how many ways he could distract her as soon as they made it to her door. His gaze zeroed in on the belt of the trench coat and he wondered how fast he could have her naked.

“Oh, my God.” She stopped short in the hallway, the tremor in her voice snagging his attention faster than a felony in progress.

Reaching her side in two strides, he caught sight of what had her so upset. The door to her apartment had been spray painted with graffiti, spelling out in fire engine–red letters—
Home of Whores ’R’ Us
.

Rage spilled over him, an emotion he’d seldom encountered in ten years of crime scenes far more gruesome than the vandalism on Tempest’s door. But this was different. This had happened to
her.

The Chelsea apartment was her home, the place she’d
bought to give herself the sense of belonging her family never had. And some worthless jackass had mounted a campaign to steal that from her along with the work that was so important to her.

“I’ll find whoever did this.” Wes slid an arm around Tempest, yanking himself out of his own fierce thoughts long enough to reassure her. He lowered his voice, tucking her close as he scanned the third floor for any hint of movement. “The paint is still wet, so the perp might be close. Do you know anyone well enough in the building to stay with for a few minutes while I look around?”

“No.” She shook her head with fast, jerky movements. “No one. And I need to check on Eloise.”

Her skin had paled, her whispered words breathless with a hint of panic.

Damn. Investigative work would have to be put on hold.

“Wait here while I make sure the security system is still armed and then we’ll check on her together.” He tested the lock and found it still engaged before obtaining the day’s code from Tempest. She could reprogram later. Right now, he needed to make sure her apartment was safe.

Safe?

He knew damn well she wouldn’t rest easy until he caught whoever threatened her. For that matter, he wouldn’t rest easy, either.

Like it or not, Tempest was about to get the best alarm system on the market. Since her stalker could very well be a killer, Wes would make sure she received around-the-clock watch from New York’s finest.

Him.

T
EMPEST WATCHED
Wes shake hands with a couple of his cop friends two hours later and knew for a fact she’d
never be able to get a good night’s sleep in her apartment again. She didn’t care that Wes had just sworn up and down her home hadn’t been broken into this time, she still felt violated. Watched. Vulnerable.

He’d put in a call to his precinct and wrangled some help lifting prints from her door and an empty can of spray paint found in her hallway, but he wasn’t optimistic they’d get anything. Mostly, he’d said it was important to keep a paper trail of the criminal activity so that when he caught the perpetrator, they’d have the right ammunition to prosecute under the harsher stalker laws.

Which was all fine and good, but it didn’t give her any assurance she’d be able to sleep here tonight. Or any night for that matter. No matter how many kickboxing classes she attended, she’d never feel strong enough to fight off someone filled with so much hate. Shivering, she tucked her feet between the couch cushions and snuggled closer to Eloise, who she allowed on the furniture only for special occasions.

Like when she was scared spitless.

She’d traded in Wes’s trench coat for a pair of sweats and a long sleeved T-shirt that said “Sculptors Do It With Their Hands,” a giveaway from an art workshop she’d attended during college. Somehow the “Whores ’R’ Us” on her doorway had made her want to cover up, sending her running for comfort clothes even though Wes and his cop friends had covered the offending message with black plastic until she could paint over it.

“Are you okay?” Wes’s gray eyes were dark with concern as he headed toward her place on the couch after locking her front door behind his friends.

“I’ll be better once you find out who hates me so damn much.” She gave Eloise a final squeeze before nudging her off the couch. Time to be a grown-up and figure out
what to do next. “I definitely don’t want to cross paths with this person face-to-face.”

“You need better protection.” He dropped down onto the couch beside her.

“I’m not going back to the Park Avenue house.” She didn’t realize how adamantly she opposed the idea until the protest spilled from her lips. But the home reminded her of all the reasons she’d never fit into her family, and all the ways she wanted to find her own path in the world. As soon as she hired a new CEO for Boucher, she was leaving her parents’ superficial lifestyle far behind her so she could challenge herself. She’d been so wrapped up in wealth and privilege her whole life, she’d never had a chance to test her mettle. To see what she was made of.

“That’s not what I had in mind.” He’d dispensed with his jacket long ago and now sprawled on her sofa in his white shirt, the skinny purple tie loosened around his neck.

“I know the security is good there,” she continued, still locked in her own thoughts. “But I’ll never feel independent until I— What did you say?”

He picked at the elastic band around her ankle where her gray sweats met her bare skin. “I’m suggesting you bump up security here.”

“But I just dumped half my month’s salary into a system that—” She was missing something. His intent gray gaze told her as much.

“I’m going to be your new protection.” He smoothed his hand up her calf where she’d folded her legs under her, then palmed her knee. “Say hello to your new bodyguard.”

She hadn’t realized she was already shaking her head until Wes frowned.

“What do you mean,
no?
I’m not giving you an option
on this one.” He tugged her leg closer, pressing her shin to his chest. “You need me here.”

“I’ll figure out something.” Letting Wes help her out now would be like opening the door to her heart with both hands and saying,
“Come on in! Do your worst.”

She couldn’t allow herself to think about him as her protector or she’d never extricate herself from that safe, comfortable place until Wes left her high and dry and even more of a pampered, over-protected society princess than she’d always been.

“There’s nothing to figure out.” He sounded damn sure of himself for a man who wasn’t in charge of her life. “I need to guarantee your safety, and I can’t do that unless I’m with you 24/7.”

“My safety is my own responsibility.” Maybe she could hide out at a hotel for a few days. Although, if someone was watching her, it wouldn’t matter where she went.

“Catching a killer is
mine.
And if that means I have to camp out here until this offender surfaces again, then I’m damn well going to do it.”

“I’m never here when your suspect arrives. If you’re watching me all the time, you won’t even be here when the guilty party shows up because you’ll be too busy following me to snooze-fest board meetings and running from camera-happy journalists.”

Shrugging, he didn’t seem too concerned. “I’ll have Vanessa watch the apartment while we’re out.”

She should be grateful the New York Police Department would go out of its way to offer her around-the-clock watch, but instead, she found herself wondering how many other at-risk women in NYC received this kind of five-star treatment.

Tempest the Over-Privileged Strikes Again.

She could already see the headlines.

Knowing she couldn’t argue her way around him, however, she simply nodded, committing herself to his plan until she could come up with a better answer. Yet even as she gave him permission to insinuate himself deeper into her life and her heart, Tempest found her self wondering how she’d ever forge the independence she sought.

W
ES COULDN’T REMEMBER
the last time he’d caught a lucky break, so his minor victory with Tempest—even if her agreement was grudging at best—definitely tasted sweet.

He skimmed a hand up her sweats-clad thigh, knowing it would probably take more finesse than he possessed to get her naked again tonight. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

“In a studio apartment?” She lifted a delicately arched brow, her honey eyes glowing with a fire he guessed had more to do with frustration than desire.

Still, a guy could always hope.

“I won’t even bring Kong over to join the sleepover.” He figured she deserved a few concessions after she’d given in without a marathon protest. “But we’ll have to stop by my apartment now and then to make sure she has everything she needs.”

“Kong, I could handle. No offense, Wes, and I’m grateful for the extra protection, but I’ve been trying to snag a little more independence this year and with you here…” She pulled the cuff of her shirtsleeve over one hand and twisted the end like a bread tie as if to cover as much of herself as possible.

As if she could retreat inside her clothes.

Wes wondered if that trick had worked for her in the
past and why she liked to hide from a life most people would have considered a dream come true.

He fished inside her sleeve and tugged her hand free before raising it to his lips. “This doesn’t have to be a prison sentence for you. I can go with you to work, or wherever you need to be.”

Although, now that he thought about it, the arrangement would make it tough to track suspects when he was committed to be at Tempest’s side all day. Then he had a whole host of dates lined up for tomorrow, too. Damned if he knew how to handle winnowing through the next round of possible suspects with Tempest by his side. He’d hardly look like a bachelor with her there.

“I can take off a few days.” She brushed a dark curl out of her eyes, a silver bangle glinting at her wrist and making an incongruous touch with her sweats. “I’m sure you’ve got work of your own and I can devote some time to my sculpting. I’ll never have a gallery showing if I don’t start replacing the broken pieces.”

“You’re probably safest in the apartment anyhow now that you’ve got the security system.” Maybe he could have Vanessa stay with Tempest for a few hours tomorrow while he followed through on his dates. “I think that’s why your stalker had to be content with spray painting the door this time. I don’t think our vandal could penetrate the security.”

“I’ll call my office and let them know I won’t be there in the morning.” She picked up the phone from its cradle beside the couch while Wes ran through the new evidence in his head.

When Tempest’s apartment had first been trashed, he’d thought the perpetrator might be a pro based on the clean pick of the lock on the front door, even though the rampant destruction within had seemed like a very per
sonal statement. But the spray-painted message tonight confirmed her intruder wasn’t a professional criminal. The “Whores ’R’ Us” label on her front door had been an emotional act, a crime of anger and passion.

He watched Tempest hang up the phone, wondering where to start with his new line of questioning. She seemed reluctant to venture near her past, but he couldn’t avoid it anymore.

“What’s your take on the note your detractor left on the door?” On a personal level, he didn’t really want to know about past lovers and old boyfriends, but as a cop, he needed to uncover the truth. “Do you have anyone in your life who’s said things like that to you before?”

His first instinct on the murder case told him the killer had been a woman since his victim was still naked when they found him, his autopsy confirming he’d been engaged in sexual relations within an hour of the time of death. A woman’s negligee had been found at the crime scene, but they’d had no luck tracing the garment to any “blonde from MatingGame” as referenced in the victim’s appointment book.

Between that evidence and the fact that the victim had penciled in an appointment with someone from MatingGame on the night of his death, Wes had focused on female suspects, even running a check on the old lady who lived a few doors down from Tempest.

But the message on Tempest’s door tonight made him second-guess his conclusions. Why would a hooker leave a message about Whores ’R’ Us? Wouldn’t a prostitute be more defensive of her profession?

Unless the suspect wanted to draw negative press down on Tempest’s head. In which case, the message emblazoned in red all over the front door had been a cagey move.

Shaking her head, Tempest unfolded her legs from underneath her and settled back on the sofa. “Never. I told you, I don’t date much because it gets too complicated. The last guy I saw a movie with ended up in the news papers, and so did you.”

He waited, hoping his patience would allow her to think through the people in her life and come up with a more solid lead because right now, he didn’t have much.

Shrugging, she splayed open palms skyward as if to suggest she had no idea. “I just assumed the message must relate to MatingGame and your suspicion that it’s connected to prostitution.”

A likely guess. And yet…

“Not many people know about MatingGame’s possible darker side,” he reminded her. “It’s still one of the most popular singles spots on the Internet.”

“So you don’t think the average person would trace a connection between me and an escort service.” She shifted on the couch so she could turn and face him. “Makes sense. So either Whores ’R’ Us is a reference made by someone in the know, or else…”

She stopped short before her gaze narrowed as she looked up at him. “You think the words were intended as a personal slam? On
me?
”

He didn’t need a psych degree to know he’d offended her. She bristled and huffed, straightening in her seat.

“In my business, it pays to check out every angle. And I still think our offender might be a woman, but in light of the message left for you tonight, it can’t hurt to consider male suspects as well. Some guys will dole out some pretty harsh treatment once they get their asses dumped. That’s no reflection on you or any woman who ends up with a psycho bastard on her tail.”

“You’re right.” She slumped back next to him, her
movement stirring the scent of her almond fragrance. “I’m just a little touchy on the dating subject.”

“Touchy? Talk to me, Tempest.” He stroked a hand over her cheek, his mind turning over possible scenarios for what happened here tonight. “I can’t think through this unless you shed a little more light on your past or any men who might have it in for you.”

“Honestly, there’s almost nothing to share because my parents always gave me a hard time no matter who I dated. Guys in their social circle were written off as complacent trust-fund babies who would never go any where on their own. Guys who came from more diverse backgrounds were seen as too uncultured to squire me around to family business commitments. I always found it easier to just avoid romance all together, and I don’t think any guy ever got close enough to me to be mad I didn’t pay more attention to him.”

“Then I’m going to keep looking into female users of the Blind Date service in case a woman has been be hind the break-in and the vandalism tonight, but I’m also going to broaden my search because something’s not sit ting well with me about that theory.” His thoughts shifted, trying to put a male suspect into the killer’s shoes.

When she seemed lost in thought, he set aside his continual mental review of the crime. They’d been so close to jumping into bed together tonight—until they’d come home to find the painted message on her front door. He told himself a gentleman would hold back, but that didn’t stop him from wanting her.

Remembering about Tempest’s lack of dating history, he wondered if her mother had eased up on her since her father had died. He sure as hell hoped so, because Tempest deserved to be loved. “You know, maybe for your mom and dad, it was just a classic case of no one being good
enough for their daughter. I’ll bet there are lots of great parents who think the same thing about their kids.”

He eyed her as she twirled her silver bangle on her wrist, thinking he’d rather be stripping off that and a whole lot more. Too bad his attempts to charm her—or even just put her at ease—were falling flat in a hurry.

“That’s a nice thought, but I don’t think it fits my folks.” Rolling the bracelet between her palms, she peered up at him through long, dark lashes. “Did I tell you I already received the call from my mom about you?”

“She saw an imposter on the social pages, I take it?”

“She’s been living in London for three years now, but she still subscribes to three New York daily papers. My phone was ringing by noon so she could give me an earful.”

“I’ll bet it was nothing compared to the crap I took at work.” Refusing to concern himself with Tempest’s mother’s opinion, he thought maybe he’d be better off redirecting. “Aside from a few not-so-subtle hints that any picture in the paper where I wasn’t kicking ass made me a pretty boy, I also got serenaded by two guys playing Puccini on harmonica since a social page photo must mean I dig opera.”

A giggle snuck free from her somber mood, giving him hope he could still get her to talk. And encouraged him maybe later they could
not
talk for a few hours and communicate on a level where he was a hell of a lot more fluent.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. There’s a guy on the force who’s married to a fashion critic, and he left me a sympathy card since he’s been through it all with his high-profile wife.” The hand-drawn comic of Wes in a hangman’s noose had helped him shake off his frustrations today. Especially since
it came from Josh Winger, who along with his partner Duke Rawlins, posted one of the highest arrest rates in the precinct.

When silence met his words, Wes realized the word “wife” still echoed ominously through the room.

And even though there wasn’t any chance he’d work things out long-term with Tempest, Wes couldn’t help but wonder how a regular guy like Josh had married into glitz and fame while still keeping plenty of streetcred on the force.

It had taken Wes a year and a half just to recommit himself to being a cop after Steve’s death. And now that he had, he wouldn’t allow any uncomfortable conversations to keep him from getting the answers he needed.

Changing the topic abruptly, he called on the blunt approach that always seemed to work when finesse failed.

“So you’re sure that no one you’ve dated could be behind the spray-paint job. What about guys you’ve turned down? Maybe somebody is upset you said no?”

She thought for a minute before shaking her head—her dark, silky hair an enticement his fingers could scarcely resist. “I’ve been pretty secluded ever since my dad died, so there haven’t been that many people who’ve gotten close enough to ask me out. My life has been all about work up until January, when I decided to take the studio apartment and make some changes.”

From Wes’s perspective, it had been about damn time since her parents obviously did a number on her just because she hadn’t wanted to follow in their footsteps.

“Then maybe we ought to focus more on your workplace. Tell me about this Katrina— No, wait. You called her Kelly? Tell me more about her.”

T
EMPEST DIDN’T WANT
to think someone she worked with could be so vindictive. Had Kelly really resented Tempest
bringing MatingGame on board enough to write something as foul as Whores ’R’ Us on her front door?

But still, she appreciated Wes’s need to cover all his bases. Besides, the sooner he solved his case, the sooner he’d be out of her life and she would be free to salvage some of her fractured independence. As much as the idea of being alone again stung, she knew it only made sense to talk to him.

“She’s been with the company for eight years.” Tem pest dug out everything she knew about Kelly, including the fact that she’d been relentlessly vying for the CEO spot and that she’d never brought a date to a single corporate function.

Maybe it didn’t matter—and Tempest certainly preferred to attend professional parties stag, too—but at this point, she figured she might as well spill everything she could think of about Kelly, Boucher Enterprises and her work there.

Two hours later, she had to admit Wes was a great listener. Or was he just a great cop? Tired and confused, she couldn’t be sure if it had been the man or the detective who listened to her, but she knew she wouldn’t last an hour more before sleep overtook her.

“You okay?” Wes tucked a finger under her chin and tipped her face up to gaze into her eyes. “You look beat.”

“Gee, thanks.” She slumped deeper into the couch, heart sore at the way her night had rapidly disintegrated ever since they got back to her place. Thank God Wes had been with her. “I’m just trying to process so much ugliness in the world. I’m depressed after having my apartment ransacked and then vandalized, but you must see so much worse than that every day. Doesn’t it bring you down?”

“Not usually. Most of the time it fires me up to fix
things. I catch the bad guys, and all is right with the world again.” He switched gears faster than her high-tech ten-speed bicycle, obviously not prepared to dwell on his work. “Sorry for asking you to take the stroll down memory lane tonight, but maybe something you told me will help the pieces fall into place.”

“I hope my boring life didn’t put you to sleep.” Relating all the stories about Boucher made her realize how little she’d ventured outside her safety zone despite her New Year’s resolution to be her own person.

She had an apartment and a passion for sculpture and soaps. But how often did she get out in the world to meet new people and see new things? Knowing Wes had made her want to be more adventurous. To take a few chances.

“Nope.” He shifted on the couch, slinging his arm along the back of the sofa to dangle one hand just above her shoulder. “But it did make me wonder how you could stand the isolation with no dates and no…”

When his words trailed off, she caught the heat in his gaze, the subtle arch of a questioning brow.