Kitabı oku: «Slow Burn»

Slow Burn
Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

1

“Wait!”

Danny Huntington paused at the foot of the stairway, looking back.

Spencer was standing on the marble landing, both hands gripping the mahogany banister. She was wearing a cobalt silk nightshirt, and her hair was sleep-tousled and wild and spilling all around her face. She had an exotic look about her, as if she belonged in one of her own promo pieces, beauty against a backdrop of elegance. Behind her in the hallway was the Victorian love seat, above it the handsomely carved mirror. A maroon runner, picking up the shades in the brocade tapestry on the love seat, ran beneath Spencer’s bare feet and manicured toenails. It drew attention to the length of her legs. In the old Mediterranean house Spencer had salvaged and brought back to glory, Spencer herself looked like a million bucks. Sometimes Danny thought that she’d been born perfect. She had crystal blue eyes, corn blond hair and classical, delicate, stunning features. He’d known her most of his life and been in love with her for half of it. It probably hadn’t been much of a surprise to others when she married him, but it had been a shock to Danny. And not only had she married him, but she’d understood him, his need to be something other than what was expected of him, to join the police force instead of the family business. And when the chips were down—or at least scattered all over—she had come to the fore with a smile and a laugh, and done everything in the world to make sure that he didn’t feel the least bit badly about anything. Sometimes, when he thought of all Spencer had been willing to go through for him, he felt a sweat break out on his palms and he shook a little bit inside just to think about how much he loved her, and how good she had made his life.

“Danny, I’m blue!” she said the words with tremendous excitement.

“What?” He arched a brow, looking at her with confusion.

“The test, Danny, the little line on the ovulation predictor test turned blue!” she said, smiling at his confusion.

“Oh. Blue!” he repeated.

Then he stared at her blankly for a moment. He was due at David Delgado’s house. They were going to jog together before combining their information on the Vichy case. But if Spencer was blue…

He was the one who wanted children so badly. He and Spencer had been only children themselves, both born to wealthy parents, what they called old money families, though, frankly, some of the money on his side wasn’t all that old. But enough years had passed for the world to forget that it had originally been made in heavy-duty bootlegging. They’d both grown up in Miami, as well, down in Coconut Grove, where what there was of old-time Southern gentility and Northern snowbird affluence sat side by side with poverty and the ghetto. He’d always had the best of everything, and gone to the best schools. What he’d lacked was people to love, and as he’d watched friends with their sisters and brothers, he’d realized from a very early age that happiness wasn’t something that could be purchased from a store. He’d promised himself then that his own children would never be lonely—he would have a dozen if he could. He’d gotten over the concept of having a dozen, but he still wanted a family, two to four children, whatever Spencer thought best.

They’d started out the marriage trying, but after two years, when they still hadn’t become parents, Spencer had suggested they start testing. She had quietly gone about getting every test possible, and she hadn’t cared that a few were painful and humiliating. He’d sat in a little cubicle himself, chagrined to discover that the setting made his penis as limp as overcooked fettucini, but he’d needed to be tested, so he’d endured whatever procedures the doctor ordered. The only good thing about it all was that, in the end, he had been told they were both normal—the doctor’s suggestion had been that they were just too busy, too tense. Since her grandfather, Sly had semiretired, Spencer was all but running Montgomery Enterprises herself; and his schedule was worse than hers. They just might be missing the right time to try for children, and that could well be all there was to it.

“Can you take the day off?” he asked her.

“You bet,” she told him. “What about you?” She hesitated just a moment. “I thought you had set up a meeting with David Delgado?”

“I had,” Danny told her. “I’ll get out of it.”

“Can you?”

Danny grinned at her good-naturedly. “I’ll just tell him the truth. That you and I are trying to be fruitful and multiply.”

“Danny—”

“Spencer, I’m kidding. I’ll find a way to reschedule. Don’t worry about it.” He wished she hadn’t turned quite so dark a shade of crimson, but, in truth, he was more amused than anything else. Once upon a time his wife and his best friend had been one of the hottest things going—but hell, that had been all the way back in high school, for Christ’s sake! Spencer wouldn’t talk about it on pain of death, and David Delgado was just as much of a clam about the whole thing. Until recently, David and Danny had been partners on the force as well as longtime best friends. But then David had quit being a cop because he had saved up enough money to open his own security business, and so far, with his experience, he had done very well. They still saw each other frequently on a professional basis, though, because David sometimes did work for the city, and then they needed each other’s files—and opinions.

Spencer and David were always polite when they met. He knew they both worried about his feelings regarding the past, so they avoided each other as much as they could. And when they did meet, they were civil and cool, and managed to make him feel like hell over their damned determination to be honorable.

They were honorable; he knew that. And he loved them both all the more for it. But every once in a while, when they had no choice but to meet, the tension in the air was as hot and heavy as the August humidity in this searing place they all called home, and he had to admit that he was afraid—just in a little tiny corner of his heart—that if the two of them weren’t so damned moral, they would be naked, in the heat and crawling all over one another, and it wouldn’t matter one bit that they didn’t have a thing to say to each other anymore, that they’d broken up explosively all those years ago, and that even back then they’d been as different as night and day, Spencer so fair, David so dark, Spencer the height of society, with ancestors who had all but stepped off the Mayflower, and David the child of an immigrant and a refugee. But if twelfth-grade rumor had been true…

He’d been in twelfth grade with them, known them both all his life. And now Spencer was his wife, David was still his best friend, and one day he would manage to turn the two of them back into good friends, too. Maybe if he and Spencer could actually get this parenthood thing going…

He was already in his jogging shorts, T-shirt and sneakers. He’d been eager to get all the help he could from David on the Vichy case, but nothing in the world was more important that sharing this morning with Spencer. “I’m supposed to meet David right out on Main Street. We were going to jog over to his place and then go through the files over breakfast. I’ll meet him on the street like we planned and give him some excuse. It won’t matter what—he won’t press me. I’ll be gone about twenty-five minutes, then I’ll be home. How about it?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Spencer promised solemnly.

He grinned, gave her a thumbs-up sign, then started walking to the door. He was jogging before he reached it.

Twenty-five minutes! Spencer pushed herself away from the staircase and tore into their bedroom. In seconds flat she arranged the covers and pillows invitingly on the bed. Then she spun around and headed into the shower. This was going to be Danny’s day, and she was going to make it the best one he had ever lived.

Work! She raced for the phone.

She told her secretary she had a touch of flu, but would be in the next morning. She felt a blush touch her cheeks as her secretary sympathized and told her that she hoped Spencer would feel better. How strange! She was married—not to mention the president of Montgomery Enterprises—and Audrey was a good friend, but she still couldn’t quite manage the truth. You see, we’re trying to procreate here, but our schedules are so screwed up that Danny’s at work on the nights that count, and I’m usually in another city when it matters most. I’m staying home just to spend the entire day screwing around.

“Do you need anything, Spencer? Can I bring you something?” Audrey asked with concern.

“No, no, Danny will be back after he’s done jogging. I’ll be fine, thanks,” she said firmly, a touch of guilt stirring within her again. She was the boss! she reminded herself. She worked long, hard hours, and she deserved a day off with her husband.

“Stay in bed now,” Audrey warned her.

“I, ah—yes, I will,” Spencer said, stared at the receiver, then set it down.

So what was Danny telling David?

A hot flush crept over her body; she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to think about David. She tried so damned hard not to think about David most of the time.

She turned on the water full blast.

“I love Danny Huntington!” she said fiercely out loud. And it was true. She did. Very much. There just seemed to be so many levels of love. Sly had told her that once. And it was true.

“I love Danny!”

She loved him; their life was good. They laughed together; they talked together. Danny was kind, concerned, wonderful, gentle. She was lucky, so lucky. She stepped into the shower. Danny wanted a baby. This time they were going to do it the right way—and at the right time!—to have one.

The water rushed down on her.

Danny left his house behind and inhaled the clear morning air. The day was going to be a scorcher, but it wasn’t dead hot yet. He loved the early morning and the late night, when the sun hadn’t gotten its grip on the city yet. He loved to run when even the early birds weren’t out, when dew still touched the grass and the leaves of the gnarled trees that lined the road.

He smiled. Just what the hell was he going to tell David? The truth would be best, but he had told Spencer he would think of something else. How the hell was he going to manage when he was grinning from ear to ear, anticipating the day? They hadn’t had a chance to do anything like this since their honeymoon. Since that day in Paris when they had watched the sun rise over the gargoyles, gilding the City of Lights. He quickened his pace, anxious to get back home.

He came out of his private road and rounded the corner. To his amazement, he saw a familiar figure jogging toward him. Curious. Talk about someone he’d never expected to see here…

David Delgado ran in place by the street sign, then looped around a few times on the jogging trail that ran alongside the road. Six foot two, black-haired, and with eyes so dark a blue that they appeared black at times, he was an arresting figure. But then, in Coconut Grove runners came in all kinds, the squat and the lean, the muscled and the nearly anorectic. But even amidst the healthy, muscled, tanned and sometimes very young and almost bare bodies that jogged through this old but still-trendy section of Miami, David was a striking man. The best of a strange mixture of genes had combined to make him as tall and broad shouldered as the Highlanders of his mother’s Scottish kin, while his raven dark hair and clean-lined, classical features had come from his father’s side, Spain by way of Cuba. Thanks to his Hispanic heritage, he was a natural in the sun, bronzing quickly, and since he had spent most of his life in that sun, he didn’t notice the heat too badly while he jogged around in another circle, glanced at his watch and considered heading to the house and giving Danny a call. It wasn’t like him to be late. Especially when he didn’t have far to come to meet David. David’s house didn’t compare to the old Twenties manor Spencer and Danny had bought and fixed up. Though he was doing well at his new business—so well, in fact, that it almost scared him at times—he didn’t have the kind of income to purchase such a place, not to mention keeping it up. He had to hand it to the pair of them, though. There was nothing ostentatious about their home. It was in a quietly affluent neighborhood, and it had lots more character than it did dazzle. It was a warm house to walk into, with a good feeling about it, it just felt a little bit too much like Spencer Anne Montgomery—Spencer Anne Huntington, he reminded himself. But there hadn’t been anything between him and Spencer in well over a decade, and Danny was one of his best friends. It was still amazing to him that someone who had been born with a silver spoon—hell, a silver knife and fork, as well—in his mouth could have grown up to become such a decent human being. But Danny had always been good, ever since they had first met, and Spencer was as cold as ice to him now. Hell, it was ancient history. They were long past whatever feelings they’d shared, and they’d both built their own lives. It was something they could all laugh about. Except that they never did. Maybe, David thought, it was because there had been something vulnerable about all of them way back then. As kids, they had all learned each other’s weaknesses, and maybe some of those weaknesses hadn’t gone away. He and Spencer were still, after all these years, wary of one another, though they both tried, for Danny’s sake, to be civil.

Just as he tried like hell not to let his best friend know how much he remembered about Spencer Anne Montgomery.

Spencer Anne Huntington.

He jogged around the loop again, looking down the street. Things hadn’t changed much here since he’d been a kid. The foliage still grew right up to the edge of the winding road, and the old houses still stood almost on top of it, except where long drives led to mansions unseen by the general public. From the time he’d come here as a kid not quite four years old, he’d loved the Grove, even if life there hadn’t always been easy. Back then, in the early sixties, it had been a laid-back place, not at all ready for the boom that was about to seize Miami and erase its small-southern-town status forever, turning it into a huge metropolis with an international flavor. Back then, they’d had lots of snowbirds, Northerners down just for the winter. They still came, but now they mostly went over to Naples, up to Palm Beach, down to the Keys, or to the dead center of the state, to Disney. But Miami still thrived, and the Grove had grown right along with it. In the late sixties and early seventies, the Grove had gone right along with the hippie movement. The shops had sold Nehru jackets and incense and black lights. Artists had thrived, smoking pot in back rooms, and psychedelic music had filled the air. But then things had moved upscale; the yuppies had moved in, and now the trendy shops sold high-priced jewelry and expensive collectibles, while the restaurants offered the height of nouvelle cuisine. He thought rather affectionately of his home as a very bright whore—Coconut Grove twisted whichever way the money came and the wind blew, doing whatever it needed to do to survive. It was one of the oldest sections of Miami, right on the bay, and there were still a few old-timers around to tell him what it had been like in the early days. Spencer’s grandfather, Sly, could talk about the old days with the ability of a born storyteller, and there were still times when David missed the hours he had spent with the old man almost as much as he missed Spencer.

He swore at himself. He didn’t miss Spencer. How could you miss someone who had been out of your life for most of it? He just missed the feelings he remembered. She was part of all the other nostalgia about growing up, certain music, the sight of bougainvillea, the salt scent of the sea on a balmy day. It was just his bad luck that they’d all been friends forever.

David jogged farther and found himself looking down the street where he’d first lived when he’d come here. God, what an awful year that had been. Spanish had been his first language, and the only thing he could remember being called for years had been “refugee.” Not boy, just refugee. He’d had it better than most, though. His father had been in the Cuban prison where he was destined to die, his mother had passed away soon after Reva’s birth, but his mother’s father, old Michael MacCloud, had managed to swoop down right in the middle of the crisis days to help them. He had taught David and his sister, Reva, English. At least then David had been able to understand the Americanos who looked down their noses at him, though what English he did speak he spoke with the old Scotsman’s accent. His folks gone, thrown into a world that didn’t want the upheaval coming its way, he’d started off fighting. That was when he’d met Danny Huntington. Danny had left his pristine public school to walk over to the yacht club to meet his folks, but he’d been stopped by a group of toughs. David had seen it from the small park where he’d been playing, and there had just been something about Danny that had gotten to him. He’d been a skinny kid, and he’d obviously known he was about to take a beating, but he’d stood his ground. Then David had moved in. He’d taken a black eye himself, but he’d still managed to come out on top. The fight had been one of those “you should see the other fellow” occasions, and when it was over, Danny had just stared at him as if he was some kind of hero.

“Hey, thanks, man!”

David had shrugged, determined that no one was going to see that he was hurting like hell himself. “You’re just a skinny little rich kid. I could see you needed help.”

“Jeez, that’s some shiner!” Danny had told him, taking no offense at his comments. “You’d better come with me and get it taken care of.”

That had been the first time David had entered Danny’s world, and it had been a strange time for him. Bloodied, ragged, he had been drawn into the club with its spotless windows looking out on the bay, its rows and rows of sleek, beautiful boats. Everyone had stared at him. The ladies in their pristine white, the gentlemen in their leisure suits. He hadn’t been able to look at the people, the men and the women talking about how the riffraff and the refugees were bringing down the neighborhood. He’d looked out at the boats, instead, and decided he wanted a boat right then and there—more, even, than he wanted a life where he could eat all the mouth-watering food being served around him, play tennis on the perfect courts or dive into the pool. Just a boat, that would have made him happy.

He hadn’t been too fond of Danny’s parents, but he’d met Sly that day, and though he’d had a few opinions about the rest of the lot at the club, he’d known right off that he liked Sly, just as he’d known that one day he would buy a boat.

Sly knew something about politics. He’d heard of David’s father and even knew his grandfather. He’d bought David a meal, and when he’d seen the boy’s eyes, huge and a little overawed, he’d told him, “America, boy. This is America. Trust me. You reach out and get what you want here. The only difference between you and these folks is that their folks got here and did it for them!” And then he’d winked.

When David left that day, he’d thought he would never see Danny or Sly again. But two weeks later out of the blue, he’d gotten a scholarship to Danny’s prestigious grade school, and Michael MacCloud had insisted he take it. When he’d been on the outs, an object of fun for some of the rich kids, Danny had been there, stuck to him like glue, his best friend. Luckily he’d been a damned good athlete, and it was amazing what that could do for a poor boy. A refugee. Soon after David’s strange scholarship had come through, David’s younger sister, Reva, had received one, as well. And Danny had been just as great to Reva.

Spencer had come…later.

He glanced at his watch again and thought about jogging to Danny’s, then decided to jog home, instead. He would call Danny rather than appear. It would be easier to talk to Spencer on the phone. But maybe Danny would answer himself—still there for some reason—or the housekeeper would be in.

It was a strange situation. Danny, the kid born into a world of wealth, was a cop. A homicide detective. That was where they had met up again, after years of going their separate ways after high school. Danny wanted to be D.A. someday. Actually, he wanted to go much higher, but he wanted to take the long route into politics. He wanted to know how the working stiff on the street managed; then he wanted to buck the system all the way, not just catching the criminals, but managing to put them away. Spencer had been upset at first about Danny going into homicide, but Danny had been quick to tell her that it was all right. “The cases I’m called to are really safe. Spence. What are the victims going to do to me? They’re already dead!”

Spencer had reminded him that they had gotten that way through the ill will of others, but it seemed that Spencer really did love and support her man, because Danny was still working homicide. And sometimes the thought that she was there for someone else, not for him, brought a little twist of bitterness to David’s heart. Maybe he hadn’t been quite fair to Spencer Anne Montgomery all those years ago. Or maybe Spencer had changed; he didn’t know. Anyway, it didn’t matter anymore. She was Danny’s wife, and theirs was a good marriage. She and Danny had come from the same world. They knew how to live in it, and also how to fight it. Everyone had probably expected the two of them to wind up together, just as they had shaken their heads at the thought of Spencer Anne Montgomery winding up with David Delgado.

It was the past. Ancient history. David had his own life. He lived it. But sometimes it seemed that no matter how fast he ran from times gone by, they still caught up with him in the end.

Hell, where was Danny? The sun was beating down mercilessly on his head. He gave a final look around and started jogging to his own house.

A good house. Modern, three bedrooms, on the water, his boat docked in the back. He pushed open the front door and strode to the phone.

“What’s going on? What the hell are you doing here?” Danny demanded.

The answer came quickly in the form of three hastily fired bullets. One burned by his ear. The other two sank into his middle.

The figure raced on as Danny Huntington opened his mouth to protest. No sound came. He fell to the ground.

He didn’t lose consciousness. Not then. He started to crawl. Blood trailed from his wounds, over the dark earth, over tree roots, fallen leaves. Over dirt and pavement.

He kept crawling. David’s house was straight ahead. The door was open. Sweet Jesus, but he was in pain. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, how could one person lose so much blood? His life, oh, no, not yet, he couldn’t die yet….

Spencer…

“Danny!”

David dropped the receiver he’d just lifted and raced to the doorway. Danny was there, crawling toward him, covered in blood. David started to pick up his best friend, registering almost blankly that Danny had been shot. Years of training sprang into his mind, and he ran for his phone again, dialing the police dispatcher.

“Three-fifteen!” It was the code for Emergency! Officer needs assistance. “It’s Danny Huntington, and he’s been shot.” He gave his address, then added, “Hurry, damn it!” He’d already said enough, he knew they would hurry for any officer, but this was Danny. In his heart he kept pleading. Christ-oh-God-please-get-here-it’s-really-bad.

He raced to Danny and cradled his friend in his arms, trying to discern just where the injuries were. Shot, oh, hell, Danny had been shot twice, and he’d lost a lot of blood, but he still had a pulse, his heart was beating, and his lungs were still laboring. If the trauma unit could just get here and get him over to Jackson, they worked miracles there.

Staunch the blood, you asshole, staunch the blood. You’ve got to keep him alive, David told himself.

But the bleeding wouldn’t stop, no matter what he did.

Suddenly Danny’s eyes opened. He reached out a bloody hand, circling it around David’s neck. He tried to form words.

“Easy, Danny, easy. Help is almost here. You know the cops, you know how fast they come for one of their own.”

“Spen…cer,” Danny croaked.

“Yes, yes, I’ll get Spencer. Danny, listen to me, you’ve got to help us. Come on, buddy! Danny, who did this? Who—”

“Spencer!” Danny managed again. Blood oozed past his lips. He tried to form words again. “Spencer!” Danny mouthed. His eyes were glazing.

“Hold on, Danny, hold on. Don’t you die on me. I love you, you skinny little rich kid! Danny!”

He could hear the sirens. He could even hear the chopper blades. He’d said he needed the trauma unit, and they’d believed him. Help would be there in a matter of seconds.

The med techs arrived, already ripping open packages of bandages, starting an IV. There were hands on David’s shoulders.

“David!”

He turned.

Lieutenant Oppenheim, Danny’s superior, once his own, stood behind him. “David, let them do their work. If anyone can save Danny, it’s these guys. What happened? Who did this?”

Oppenheim was an old-timer on the force, white-haired, tall, solid as a barrel.

“I don’t know—he was supposed to meet me on the street. He was late. I came back to call and turned around—”

He looked at Danny. His friend was on a stretcher. Someone was radioing to the helicopter, and they were choosing a place for it to land.

“David, what the hell happened. Do you know? Did Danny say?”

David shook his head, staring at Danny as if he could keep him alive by watching him. “He was supposed to meet me. He was late. I came in to call his house and he was at my door. Just like that.”

“Did he say anything?”

David shook his head. “Just Spencer. His wife’s name.”

Ten minutes to go! Spencer switched off the water and stepped from the shower, toweling herself strenuously, a slight smile curving her lips. She dropped the towel and picked up her brush and hair dryer, fluffing up the heavy blond mass on her head as best she could in the time she had left. It was going to be perfect, she determined. Just perfect. And she knew just what she was going to do.

Seconds later she was slipping into a black garter belt with sheer black stockings and a pair of black heels. She found Danny’s black silk tie in the closet and tied in loosely around her neck. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Basic black. Danny had told her once that he liked her in black, and that he would like her best in a black tie and nothing more. Well, that was what he was getting today, because this was going to be special.

She turned quickly from the mirror and hurried down the stairs, pausing only to make certain that the drapes were drawn.

They were.

She rushed into the kitchen, dragged out and filled the ice bucket and grabbed a special bottle of Dom Perignon, then ran to the living room. She threw a lace cover over the Victorian coffee table, plopped the ice bucket on it with the champagne, and raced to the kitchen to fix two crystal bowls of grapes, one bunch green, the other purple. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes. He should be back within five minutes.

She arranged herself on the coffee table, sitting between the two bowls of grapes, the champagne behind her and just to the left. She jumped up, glanced at her watch again and hurried to the front door. It had to be open. She would ruin the whole effect if she had to open the door for Danny, which she would, since he didn’t carry a key in his jogging shorts.

She raced to the coffee table and sat down again, legs crossed Indian fashion. She waited, her heart ticking furiously. Did she look sexy? Or foolish? She smiled and decided that it didn’t matter; they would laugh one way or the other. And if they managed the desired result, then anything was worth it! Danny wanted kids so damned badly. He’d been a lonely little boy, which so few people understood. And she felt uncomfortably as if she had failed him in so many ways, and yet she wanted what he wanted more than anything in the world.

She stared at the door a bit uneasily. What if the mailman opened the door? No, the mailman never came until past noon. Never. UPS? No, they rang the doorbell, they didn’t just walk in.

A bum? A psychopathic murderer?

Spencer! she chastised herself. It would be just minutes until Danny came back. Maybe he was having coffee with David. Maybe, being Danny, he’d felt guilty about canceling an appointment. Maybe—despite what he’d said to her—he was even telling David the truth. They were best friends. Always best friends. Nothing had come between them. Not even her.

She’d never wanted to ruin anyone’s friendship; it was just that she had been so certain that David Delgado was out of her life. That the hurt was gone, that the tempest was over. She’d been so young when she’d fallen for David. She’d never imagined that anything could be as wild as it had been with David, as passionate, as hateful, as…

“Stop!” she charged herself out loud, closing her eyes tightly. She was sitting all but stark naked on a coffee table waiting for her husband to come home so that they could make a baby together. A baby they both wanted. A husband who was one of the best men in the entire world.

She was waiting for Danny, but if she didn’t get a grip on herself, she would be remembering the first time she’d ever made love. With his best friend.

David Delgado.

“If it’s a girl, I think I like the name Kyra,” she said out loud. “I wonder what Danny thinks of it? He’ll never tell me, I know. He’ll be so happy we’re going to have a baby that he won’t give a damn about a name at all.”

It had been at Sly’s house. She’d been sixteen years old at the time, and he hadn’t been much older. And, like everything that had happened between them, she’d forced the issue. He never wanted to touch her; she was Sly’s granddaughter, and he’d loved Sly ever since he’d met him. But Terry-Sue was after him big time, and Spencer just hadn’t been able to bear it. She had known what she wanted all the time she was forcing the fight and pushing him into a corner. She had known what she wanted….

She just hadn’t been prepared for what she had gotten. Or what would follow…

“If it’s a boy, it will be Daniel, of course,” she said loudly.

Then she heard the tapping at the door. She smiled. Danny was home, and she really did love him. Together they always dispelled all the demons of the past. Almost made them go away for good.

“It’s open, come right in!” she called.

The door swung inward, and she saw a tall silhouette framed there against the rising sun. He took a step into the house, and even before she saw his features, she knew he was all wrong, too tall, too broad shouldered to be Danny, wire muscled, tense—and dark where Danny was blond. This man had ebony dark hair and bronzed, taut features.

“David!” she gasped. Her breathing seemed to cease, her heart to stop beating. She felt like an idiot, cross-legged, naked on the table—her black tie perfectly in place.

She leaped up and all but hurled herself across the room, tearing an afghan from the back of a sofa and wrapping herself in it, then staring at the man who was staring at her in return. She wished that she could crawl beneath the coffee table.

Then she started babbling. “I’m—ah, I was just waiting for Danny to get back. He was going to talk to you. Did you miss him? There’s coffee in the kitchen. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go get dressed—”

“Spencer,” he said. Just that, and nothing more. His tone was level, but it held a wealth of agony. He didn’t tease her, didn’t even make an offhand comment. He just stared at her, and suddenly she felt a gripping chill. And she knew. She knew from the raspy sound of his voice, from the look in his eyes.

“Danny?” she whispered. And then it all fell into place. There were red splashes on the Marlins tank top he wore, on the white trim of his black jogging shorts. And there were tears in David’s eyes. Tears. The only time she’d ever seen David Delgado with tears in his eyes was the day they’d buried Michael MacCloud….

“Danny. Oh, my God. Danny!” she breathed. She’d never been so afraid in her whole life. She was going to be sick; the world was starting to spin; it was going black.

“Spencer, you’ve got to come with me. Quickly.”

She heard the words, but just barely. She wanted to fight the encroaching darkness, to go with him. No good. Consciousness was slipping away from her. Black heels, stockings, tie and afghan, she sank to the floor, and everything went black, just as if someone had turned out a light….

She made it to the hospital in time. David had brought her to with a cool cloth and a few shakes, and she had immediately wished that she could plummet back into the darkness. Danny hadn’t even been at work! He hadn’t been in uniform, or even on plainsclothes duty.

“Spencer, he’s alive. Come on, hurry.”

That had brought her up short. She’d found some strength and some dignity and taken only minutes to dress. A police escort had brought them to Jackson Memorial in less than ten minutes.

Danny had already been taken into surgery. For hours she and David paced the hospital corridors, drinking bad coffee out of paper cups from a machine, waiting.

Danny lived. Amazingly, he survived the surgery. The list of things the bullets had done to his body was endless, ripped and torn pancreas, liver. Damaged lungs and intestines.

But he held on. For days he held on. Day by day, she held his hand as he lay in the trauma unit.

Then, three weeks to the day after the shooting, the doctors told her that he had gone into a coma. David was there with her, standing behind her along with Sly as they explained what had happened, what she hadn’t wanted to understand. None of the injuries to his body had really mattered. Somehow an infection had gotten started and spread to his brain. And the brain was the one thing they absolutely couldn’t bring back. So Danny was alive. But he was dead. They wanted her permission to take him off the machines.

She signed the papers. And she sat by him again in the hospital. She held his hand. His hand looked so good! So strong, so normal! Long, still bronzed fingers. Clipped nails. Those hands had touched her, loved her. She could still draw them to her face, feel his knuckles against her cheeks. It wasn’t fair that he should still be the same….

Four weeks after the shooting, he drew his last breath. David was with her again, not speaking, just watching, waiting. He’d been there all along. There were always cops around, too—waiting, praying, guarding. David wasn’t a cop anymore, but it didn’t seem to matter. He’d let his business go straight to hell to sit with Danny. With her. He was silent most of the time. But he was there. And the past remained buried. A silent truce held between them. They both loved Danny, and for his sake, everything else was set aside. Her family came; her friends came. They offered words of comfort, words that, despite the very best of intentions, could do little. David’s silent presence was the only thing that mattered. She heard him talking sometimes to the cops who came. They were completely baffled as to who had done this to Danny. It hadn’t even really hit her yet that he was going to die, was already dead in the only way that mattered. She still thought that he would twist, turn, move, listen to her, awaken. They had said that he was brain-dead, but his heart was so strong. It kept beating. And David kept his quiet vigil behind her.

And after it was over, he was there to hold her when they came for the body, when she shrieked out, unable, after everything, to believe that Danny was really gone.

David was the one to give the eulogy when hundreds of people appeared at Danny’s funeral. He talked about Danny the boy, and Danny the man, and what Danny had meant to those who loved him. He talked about how he’d been a good cop, too, always there, the most moral man David had ever met, the finest.

When he was done, he stepped away from the microphone while the dispatcher stepped up to it.

“Detective Daniel Huntington is now oh-six,” she said softly.

Officer off duty, out of service. A twenty-one-gun salute exploded in the air.

And then it was over. Danny was, at last, at rest.

2

He’d been reading the file on his desk when she suddenly swept in, just like a relentless breeze. No, just like a damned hurricane, was more like it. She threw the morning paper down on his desk, and those beautiful, crystal blue and accusatory eyes stabbed into him like twin knives.

David looked up, arching a brow. “Spencer. How nice to see you,” he said dryly. It was nice to see her. No matter that she looked like a lioness on the hunt—ready to go right for the jugular. No matter what, Spencer looked good. The last year had take its toll on her, her face was leaner, her cheeks a shade more hollow, but even tragedy looked good on Spencer Anne Montgomery. Huntington, he reminded himself, as he so often seemed forced to do.

He’d been avoiding her, and he knew it. She’d made it easy for him at first. Right after the funeral, she’d gone to one of her mother’s family’s estates in Newport; then she’d come back and worked in her own West Palm offices for a few months. But she’d been in Miami for nearly two months, and now she was standing in his office, staring at him with barely suppressed fury.

“I take the Miami Herald,” he told her.

“Taking it doesn’t mean you read it,” she said. She inched the paper closer to him with a long, slim, beautifully manicured finger, and he was convinced that if he didn’t pick it up soon, she would press his nose right into it. He knew the article; he’d already read it—and ached over it.

All this time, in the year since Danny’s murder, there hadn’t been an arrest. There still wasn’t even a solid suspect. The police had worked on the case continuously, and David had put all his energies into it, called in favors, prowled the streets. They still didn’t even have a firm motive, though a number of them had been conceived and then dismissed. Hell, he’d even been questioned. So had Spencer. Wives were automatically number-one suspects, just as best friends were often number two—unless, of course, there were a number of ex-wives or mistresses running around in the background.

“Want to sit, Spencer?” he asked her, indicating the leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Or do you want to keep standing there, glaring at me.”

“I want you to do something!”

By that time Reva had come to the doorway. “Spencer’s here, David,” she informed him cheerfully. No one else could have gotten past his kid sister. Reva knew how to stop anyone in his or her tracks—except Spencer. He almost smiled. It had been like that even when they’d all been kids.

“Thanks, Reva. Why don’t you suggest to Mrs. Huntington that she sit down?” David said.

“Spencer—”

“Reva, have you read this article?” Spencer demanded, swinging around. She and Reva were both of an age, and both striking women, David thought, watching the two of them, a bit distracted for the moment. He’d been feeling that way lately. Frustration did it, he thought. They looked a little like a pair of modern-day fairy-tale princesses, Rose White and Rose Red, Spencer with her sweeping golden hair and sky-colored eyes, Reva with a curling mass of nearly black hair, tanned to the hilt, and though her eyes were really a very deep blue, just like David’s, they often looked as if they were black. They had always liked one another, but their relationships with him, he knew, had kept them from ever becoming close friends.

“I’ve read it, Spencer,” Reva said. “But you’ve got to know that David has done everything in his power—”

“It’s not enough!”

“But, Spencer—”

Spencer turned to face David again. “He was your best friend. How can you just forget him? Read the article! The reporter is claiming police incompetence, that no one seems to care anymore.”

David stood. “Spencer, I did read the damned article. And in case you didn’t notice, that reporter is also suggesting that you should have been more thoroughly investigated.”

“And all the while the real murderer is walking around at large, laughing at everyone.”

“Spencer,” Reva said, beginning to grow protective, “David almost allowed his entire business to fall apart, he was so desperate to find Danny’s killer. You’ve got—”

“Then I’ll hire David and the entire damned agency, and that way no one will be worrying about anything falling apart.”

David stood. He’d had it with Spencer carrying on, and he would be damned if he’d have his little sister fighting his battles for him, even against Spencer.

“I won’t work for you, Spencer,” he said flatly. “And for the moment, you can either sit down, in which case I’ll go over everything I know, or you can get out.”

“Damn you, David, I will not leave.”

“You will leave, because I’ll set you out bodily, then call the cops and tell them you’re harrassing me and affecting my business,” he told her, then sighed with exasperation as she continued to stare at him as if she were about to explode any second. “Spencer, please, sit!”

She sat. Reva caught his eye. “I’ll get some coffee,” she said.

“If it’s for Spencer, make it decaf. She certainly doesn’t need the caffeine!” David said.

Spencer let that pass. When David sat down behind his desk again, he felt a wave of guilt and sorrow sweep over him. She was so pale, and so damned thin. All her life, she had dressed beautifully but simply, and that hadn’t changed. She was wearing a sleeveless dress that stopped just above the knee. But the cut was perfect, and David assumed it was some kind of designer original, although Spencer also made a point of buying things just because she liked them, not because there was a name attached to them. Spencer had never acted as if she came from money, but it was always there in the background, just the same. He had to admit, though, he wasn’t sure just who had buckled to the family pressure, him or her.

Whatever, the dress, simple, perfect, looked wonderful on her. One minute she seemed like a tempest, and now she seemed all but ethereal. She needed more meat on her bones, more color in her face. Her eyes were haunted. Hell, his probably looked that way, too. It had been rough, learning to live with Danny gone.

And hunting for his killer.

“It’s been a year, David,” she said almost tonelessly.

“Spencer, have you been to the police—”

“Of course. Lots of times. They’re always as nice as they can be—except, of course, when they start questioning me again.”

“They have to do that, Spencer.”

“How could I have killed him?” she asked bleakly.

He hesitated. “The way they see it, anything is possible. You might have run out, shot him, run home, then waited for someone to come and give you the news.”

“But you know—”

“I’m telling you what the D.A.’s office could come up with in terms of motive. You were his wife. You inherited a sizable fortune on his death.”

“But you found me—”

“Stark naked. What a great way to shed bloody clothing.”

She was standing again, staring at him as if he were a cold-blooded killer. “You bastard! What about you? He died in your arms!”

“Spencer, sit down, or I’ll make you sit down in about two seconds!”

She didn’t sit. He swore, rising. She sat, teeth grating, staring at him. “Spencer, damn you, they questioned me, too, over and over. Guys I worked with for years. They had to explore all the possibilities.”

Tears were hovering in her eyes. She was trying very hard not to shed them. “I loved Danny.”

“I know that, Spencer.” He clenched his teeth, feeling as if he’d been punched in the heart. He’d loved Danny, too. Just about everyone who ever met Danny Huntington cared about him. Except, of course, the killer. Or killers?

“Spencer, remember the case just a few years ago? Right on Bayshore Drive. Wife calls in, her husband’s been shot. Says some men broke in and killed him. Turned out she hired the men who shot them, let them in and out, waited long enough for them to disappear, then called emergency. Remember, Spencer?”

“Yes, I remember,” she said impatiently. “She was also much younger than he was and wanted his money. The two cases are nothing at all alike.”

“Spencer, the police can’t help it. Most murders are committed by people close to the victims. Wives rank right on top.”

“Damn you, David, I didn’t come here to listen to you explain why the cops questioned me. Danny has been dead for over a year. A cop, David, a cop murdered—and no suspect in sight! And you sit there justifying why they questioned me! I want to know what else they’ve got! And all anyone will ever tell me is that, oh, we’ve a few leads, we’re following this one or that one! They humor me. They pat me on the back, but nothing happens!”

“Spencer, they’re trying. It takes time—”

“I want to know what you’ve got.”

“Spencer, go home. Reconstruct something,” he told her. Was reconstruct the right word? He wasn’t sure. Montgomery Enterprises wasn’t really a construction company, nor was it a decorating firm. Sly had begun the business in the very early days of the city’s existence. Back then he’d done detail work, cornices, moldings, mantels, working with the best architects and builders. He had liked to remember those old times, when the now bustling, international city had been nothing but a small southern settlement carved out of a swamp. Now they preserved the old, making it as good as new. They restored buildings, down to the small details, the tiles, moldings and cornices. David found it hard to imagine that there was enough here to keep them going, but it was remarkable to see sometimes, through Sly’s eyes, just how much was considered to be of historical value. Especially in the last decade or so, with the Art Deco boom, the refurbishing of the beaches and certain other areas of Greater Miami, the old had become in. Montgomery Enterprises was doing extremely well.

“Go home, or go repair a quaint old bathroom or something,” he told her, rubbing his temple.

Her eyes narrowed. “I went home, David. I went away for a year, and I left everything to the cops and to you, his best friend, the hometown boy who could find out anything! I went away, but damn it, it seems like I’m the only one who really cares! I have to stay on this if we’re ever going to find Danny’s killer. The eulogy was just great, the cops who turned out were wonderful, the twenty-one-gun salute was grand! But that buried him, and he’s stayed buried. And the case has stayed buried with him. I want something done now. I want to know what you’ve got. He was a homicide cop. What was he on to? Why was he meeting you that morning?”

Reva cleared her throat from the doorway. “Coffee!” she said cheerfully.

David was glad for the interruption. It bought him a little time as his sister came into his office and set the tray on his desk. He was deterred from his thoughts by the tray, though. They kept mugs in the office. Good sturdy mugs. But there were china cups sitting on a silver tray, and the coffeepot was silver, as well, along with the creamer and sugar bowl.

He stared at Reva, who glanced at Spencer and shrugged. He smiled, shaking his head.

“Thanks, Reva,” Spencer said, restlessly standing again, approaching the tray.

“Spencer, please, relax!” David said.

“I can’t just sit still!” she exclaimed, reaching for the coffee server. She glanced at Reva. “I don’t mean to be difficult—yes, I do, except not about the coffee—but do you still have those great mugs around here anywhere?”

“I—” Reva said blankly, then stared at David again. “Yes, sure, of course.”

Reva went out. David leaned back in his chair, not knowing whether he wanted to grin or pick Spencer up bodily and remove her from the office altogether.

He leaned forward, fingers folded on his desk. “Spencer, if you believe that I cared about Danny, then you know that I’m doing what I can. Everyone in the world knows that cops will do anything they can to catch the killer of another cop—”

“Why was he meeting with you that morning?” Spencer interrupted determinedly.

“To go over the Vichy case.”

“I want to know about the Vichy case.”

Reva returned with the mugs. Spencer flashed her a smile of gratitude. “Thanks. I don’t know why, but coffee always tastes better in a mug.”

“A quick cup of coffee shouldn’t matter much,” David said.

“But it may not be quick,” Spencer warned.

How the hell was he going to be able to get rid of her?

He stood up. “I’ll pour the coffee.”

“None for me!” Reva said, casting David a quick glance and grinning. “My work is looking good at the moment.” She made another quick departure.

“Spencer, damn it, if you’re staying, sit down!” David said, his tone carrying the rough edge of aggravation. Spencer sat, and he poured coffee into two mugs. “Still black, one sugar?” he asked her.

“Yes, please.”

Still black, one sugar. Exactly the way she’d been drinking coffee since high school.

Some things just didn’t change. Like the way he had always felt about her.

He almost slammed her mug down in front of her before returning to the chair behind his desk. He opened a drawer and threw a mile-high pile of folders on top of his blotter. “This is what I’ve been doing all year, Spencer. There are over two hundred interviews in here, notes on people, places, stakeouts. Five of the files are completely closed—they concern homicides Danny was working on that have been solved and could in no way have anything to do with his death. The Vichy case remains open and may remain open forever.”

“Why?”

“You know Eugene Vichy.”

“I know him?”

“He belongs to your yacht club.”

Spencer frowned. He realized that she probably hadn’t been to the yacht club in a very long time.

“He’s fifty-something, white-haired, good-looking, always looks like he just walked off a movie set. His wife, the late Mrs. Vichy, was sixty-something, and not quite so good-looking but very rich. She expired from a knock on the head. The house had been ripped up, some diamonds were missing. Vichy claimed to have come in and found the place in disarray and to have been brokenhearted at the loss of his beloved Vickie.”

“Vickie? Vickie Vichy?” Spencer said.

“You know her?”

She shrugged. “The name sounds vaguely familiar—and absurd—but then, maybe Danny talked about the case. I don’t remember. But why do you think the case will remain unsolved?”

“Because Vichy passed a lie detector test and he still holds to his story.”

“Maybe he’s innocent.”

David shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not for a minute. And neither did Danny.”

Spencer sat forward, suddenly very intense. “So Danny was pressuring this man. And Vichy knew that Danny wouldn’t quit. And he’d already proven himself adept at murder—”

“Spencer, the cops have to have some kind of evidence to make an arrest.”

“Fine. Go on.”

“Go on?”

“Who else is in the suspect lineup?”

“Spencer, you should go home—”

“I’m not going home until you tell me exactly where you are in this investigation.”

“Spencer, I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m not working for you.”

“Then start working for me.”

“No.”

“David, financially I can compete with any other clients you have. I need—”

“Damn it, Spencer!” He’d been planning to remain calm. Understanding. They weren’t kids anymore; too much of life had already cracked them over the head. But there was something about Spencer. He wanted to either hold her or shake her. Shaking her was a whole lot safer. “I can’t be bought, Spencer. You know that.”

“You shouldn’t have to be bought!” she lashed back, trying to keep her anger in check. “He was your best friend. He—”

“Spencer, get out.”

“I won’t leave until you finish.”

“Spencer, I’ll pick you up and put you out!” he warned her.

Her eyes narrowed sharply. “I’ll leave on my own accord. I just want to know what else you’re doing, who else you’re watching.”

He groaned. “They threw you out of the police station, so you’ve come to torture me.”

“David—”

“Yes, Vichy might have been tired of Danny’s determination to prove him guilty,” he snapped coldly, staring out the huge plate-glass window to the garden beyond. A slatted wood fence surrounded the garden, making it private and quiet. A mass of deep purple bougainvillea grew clinging along the fence. Wood chips filled in the space around deep green ferns and impatiens. It was a pleasant and peaceful view, but he felt anything but pleasant or peaceful now. “There are only two other people Danny was investigating who might have had the motive and method to kill him. The first is Ricky Garcia, who—”

Spencer gasped, interrupting him. “I’ve seen the name. In fact, I definitely remember Danny talking about him. He’s a crime boss, the head of a Cuban Mafia-type ring. He controls drug rings and prostitution, gambling—”

“Exactly. He’s as slippery as an eel, as well. He can snap his fingers and find a dozen hit men.”

“Then it must be him,” Spencer whispered, her eyes steady on his. “And there must be a way to trap him.”

“If there is, Spencer, the police—or I—will find it. And there’s no guarantee that Danny actually had anything on him, or that he had anything against Danny. In fact, he liked Danny.”

“He liked Danny?”

“It’s more common than you think for criminals to like the cops who are after them,” he said with a shrug.

“But—”

“Then there’s Trey Delia. You must know that name, as well.”

She nodded, frowning. “He’s the cult leader.”

“He’s not exactly a cult leader.”

“He was the one accused of raiding graves for body parts!” Spencer exclaimed. “For his rituals.”

“He was accused of grave robbing, but the police weren’t so certain he was after body parts. They think he might have been trying to hide evidence. A number of his church members were dying inexplicably. He managed to get most of them cremated. Danny thought he was behind the vandalism in several cemeteries. He was digging up some of his own people and making sure nothing could be found if the police did decide to exhume a few bodies. Now, that’s it, Spencer. I’ve given you every name I’ve got left on my list of possibilities. I haven’t been sitting back idle, I’m doing everything I can. Now I want you to get up, go home and forget it.”

She was up, hands on his desk, staring at him as he stared at her. “I can’t forget—”

“You have to.” He gritted his teeth, wishing again that he didn’t feel the awful urge to either shake her or wrap his arms around her. The last would be one dreadful mistake. She would welcome him with all the warmth and comfort of a porcupine. Nothing would ever be right between them again; Danny’s death had made that an even greater certainty. He needed to keep her away from him. He’d always needed to keep her away from him. Temptation was too great when she was near. And temptation with Spencer was pure torment. He’d learned the hard way that there was nothing in the world quite like wanting Spencer. And nothing in the world quite like the way a man could find his soul wrenched right from his being by the void she could leave in his life. She looked as if she belonged on a pedestal. A blond goddess with her perfect alabaster skin. An Anglo goddess with a perfect pedigree. Yeah, Danny had matched her just perfectly.

“Get out, Spencer.”

“Damn you, David!”

“When I know something, I’ll tell you. If you can do something, I’ll tell you. Until then, leave me the hell alone so that I can keep working.”

“David…”

She fell silent as he approached her with pure menace. He forced himself to close his hands around her arms with some control—but not a lot of it. He turned her bodily around and ushered her out of his office as quickly as he could, wishing even for those few seconds that he didn’t have to touch her at all. He could smell her. He didn’t know what the scent was, only that she had worn it as long as she had worn a bra, that it wasn’t just cologne or perfume, it was soap and body lotion, as well. It was subtle, mixed with something that was just plain Spencer, and it was also intoxicating and sensual. Feelings of guilt instantly began to creep over him, like a crimson tide. He felt the attraction just as he had felt it when Danny was still alive, just as he had felt it when he and Spencer had both been young and a little bit wild and alive with the sheer power of their youth and growing sexuality. He wanted Spencer, he’d always wanted her, had never stopped wanting her, even when she had been married to his best friend. But he would never have touched her when she was Danny’s wife, and as Danny’s widow, somehow she seemed twice as taboo.

“David, damn you,” she began again, as he escorted her past Reva’s desk and through the reception area.

“Say goodbye to Spencer, Reva. She’s got to go out and get on with her life now.”

Reva looked up miserably from her desk. Furious, Spencer snatched her wrists away from David. “Thank you, Reva,” Spencer told his sister; then her eyes, ice blue now, met his. “And thank you, of course. For your unconditional support and assistance!”

“Spencer, how many times can I say this? I swear, I’m doing everything I can!”

“It’s not enough, David. It’s just not enough.”

But that was Spencer’s final volley. She was out the front door of his office. He watched her heels click smartly on the pavement as she marched to the small parking area just off Main Street.

Maybe he should have put his office out on the beach, he thought. Up in Miami Springs, or over on Key Biscayne. Somewhere other than where Spencer had always lived. No, he had always lived here, too. And Spencer and he would be entangled now even if he’d moved his office to Never Never Land.

He turned around. Reva was staring at him. Something seemed to close around his heart. “What?” he snapped to his sister. “You think she’s right? You think there’s something else I can do that I haven’t?”

Reva shook her head, watching him almost sadly. “I know that you’ve spent more than a year trying to trace Danny’s killer,” she told him flatly. “I just feel so sorry for her.”

“Wonderful. She bursts in here like hell on wheels, and you feel bad for poor, poor Spencer.”

Reva ignored that with a shrug. “None of us could believe what happened to Danny. It seemed that everyone in the world loved him. I mean, can you remember a time in our lives when Danny didn’t come through for anyone? And Spencer was married to him. The rest of us may be able to accept that, as awful as it is, the killer will never be found. But Spencer…Spencer will never be able to rest until the case is closed.”