Deadly Fall Page 8

  “Yeah.”

  Her brow inched up. “Why didn’t you flash your badge?”

  Tone dry, he said, “I was under the impression you didn’t want to be connected to me anymore than necessary.” Before she could comment, he added, “Besides, despite what you see on TV and the big screen, lawyers are much scarier than the NYPD.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip. “Did you tell him I was staying with you tonight?”

  “Had to. He was just about to call his wife to get the guest bedroom ready for you.” He cocked his head. “Was it supposed to be a secret?”

  “Well, our relationship is not exactly typical, is it? I don’t want Peter…getting the wrong idea about us.”

  His eyes became hooded and he leaned a shoulder against a wall. “Us?’”

  The sudden shift in mood almost made her dizzy and she felt heat flood her cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Oh, no.” He reached out and caught her elbows in his large hands, stopping her when she would’ve turned away from him. “I’m not letting you take back your admission.”

  “I didn’t make any admission.”

  “Yes, you did. You admitted that we do have a relationship.”

  Her frown was aimed at his chest. At this close distance, tilting her head back to glare directly into his eyes would be too much. Besides, he might see something in her eyes that would give away the quickening she felt in her body the moment his skin rubbed over hers. “I repeat, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “This domestic little scene doesn’t appeal to you?”

  “Frozen pasta dinners is your idea of domestic?”

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  * * * * *

  Augusta concluded that Nick’s insulation was excellent as she kicked the blankets down to her feet as quietly as she could, not wanting the rustling to disturb the man sleeping in the bedroom not six feet away from her. Her restless sigh disturbed the silence as she turned onto her other side. She tucked her right arm under her pillow, taking pleasure in the soothing coolness there, and tugged down the Islanders hockey jersey Nick had given her to sleep in with her other hand. Feeling the warm cotton between her fingers made her remember and smile. When he had given her the jersey after dinner, she’d held up the jersey and studied it with a critical eye. Then she had turned to him and remarked, “I should be thankful you’re not a New Jersey Devils fan, I suppose. At least the Islanders are the second best NHL team in New York.”

  She smiled as she closed her eyes and saw again how he’d leapt over the low coffee table and pinned her to the sofa, tickling her until she had shrieked with laughter and pleaded for mercy. In sharp contrast to when Augusta had walked through the front door to find Nick waiting for her, the mood of the entire evening had been easy and lighthearted, a rarity for both. Augusta had refrained from pestering him with questions about Drew’s death in the interest of keeping peace. It had been an easy thing to do. When he wasn’t deliberately being intimidating or interrogating her, Nick Markov was more than passable as a companion. A lot more.

  Augusta lifted her head and peered at the wristwatch she had taken off and placed on the coffee table. There was enough illumination shining in through the windows from the sickle-shaped moon for her to make out the hands of the watch. It was almost half past the witching hour. They’d decided to call it a night two hours ago. Nick, apparently, had fallen asleep immediately in his bed, leaving her to toss and turn on the sofa.

  To be honest, at least to herself, Augusta admitted that she was piqued. For all his talk, her presence wreaked very little havoc on his mind—and libido—if the amount of time it took him fall asleep with her in the next room was any indication. By contrast, she’d been trying futilely to clear her mind enough to find the same oblivion for much too long. All she could picture was Nick Markov naked. He had casually mentioned to her that he slept in the nude just before disappearing inside his bedroom, and now images of all that warm, tanned skin dusted with dark hair stretched over heavy muscle and bone tormented her.

  Augusta groaned into her pillow and pressed her thighs tightly together. Damn him. With his last words, he’d guaranteed sleep would elude her.

  She shouldn’t care though. She had nowhere to go in the morning. For all intents and purposes, she’d been fired. For the first time since the age of fifteen, she was unemployed, and Augusta wasn’t sure what she would do with all this time on her hands—other than spend it dodging any and all press, that is. If she did nothing, she knew it would slowly drive her insane for she would think of nothing but Drew and his murder. And, in keeping with the spirit of brutal honesty, Nick Markov. If she could, she would search for Drew’s murderer herself, but where in the world would she start? Unlike the amazingly resourceful women on television and in books these days, she truly believed in letting the professionals handle things. And, his personal dealings with her notwithstanding, Detective Nick Markov was a professional. Of that, she had no doubt.

  Augusta, however, wasn’t naive enough to believe that all killers would be brought to justice. The stats were appalling in that area. But there was a very good chance of things being made right in this particular case…as long as the NYPD stopped focusing their scrutiny on her and, instead, used their resources to find the real killer. There would be a lot of pressure on the men and women working on this case, she knew, because of the victim, and, for once, Augusta was glad Drew’s family name was Langan. Drew’s family members, for all their faults, were extremely loyal to one another—blood is thicker than water, after all—and every member of his family would be pulling all the political strings and calling in all favors to see justice done.

  Augusta drew a knee up to her chest, decided she still wasn’t comfortable and flipped onto her back to stare up at the exposed ceiling. Breathing deeply, she finally closed her eyes and silently chanted the word sleep to herself until she began seeing the word in three-dimension in her mind’s eye. It was a trick she had used back when she had been a student at NYU and the caffeine would keep her awake at night. She hoped it still worked. Since she couldn’t go to Nick Markov, maybe he would come to her in her dreams.

  * * * * *

  It was 1:22 a.m. when Nick turned his head and looked at the glowing digits of the radio alarm clock on his bedside table. He had spent the last three hours listening to the quiet rustle of blankets and the creak of the sofa springs coming from his living room. He could’ve closed his bedroom door, but he didn’t, leaving it as an open invitation should she change her mind any time during the night. However, the sounds had ceased for a long stretch and he figured she was more mule-headed—and more masochistic—than him.

  He could’ve taken the decision out of her hands, but he’d given her his word. That had been one of the conditions of her spending the night.

  With that little reminder of his stupidity, Nick made a sound of disgust and sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. Nude, he went to the doorway of his bedroom and braced one hand on the top of the doorframe. Augusta was curled up in the fetal position on his sofa, the blankets he had given her bunched up at her feet. Likewise, she had disdained the pillow he’d provided, and her head rested on her small hands, her inky hair in wild disarray behind her, with several strands clinging to the backrest of the sofa.

  She looked incredibly young in sleep, enough to be mistaken for one of her students, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate it.

  Arousal, need, protectiveness, possessiveness. They all coursed through his mind and veins at the mere thought of her. But it was the last one that shook him. It had struck him right after the lust when he first saw her, although he’d done an admirable job of denying it for the first few hours.

  But why her? Why the best suspect the NYPD had in the murder of a man wealthy enough to buy the entire force? There was nothing really remarkable about her features, not like the women he had dated in the past. Her features were regular, perhaps on the delicate side with her fine nose and arch
ed brows over large dark eyes. She was pretty, like any number of women. And unlike his ex-girlfriends, she was very slightly built, having nothing that would’ve attracted his attention should he pass by her on the street.

  But then why was simply looking at her sleeping making him hard? And why had visions of her and those dark eyes of hers, stormy and mysterious one moment and glimmering with teasing humor the next, rob him of sleep?

  Nick sighed and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, easing the tension that was tightening it and the rest of his body.

  Markov, you do not take advantage of sleeping women. He turned away, intending to go back to his bed and do his damnedest to catch some shut eye. But the soft, feminine murmur that wafted to his ears stopped him. Heart rate picking up the pace just a little, he spun around, thinking maybe his luck was finally changing.

  No such thing. Augusta’s lashes still rested on her cheeks and her body was still relaxed in sleep. No, nix the latter. Her body was curled up tighter than before and a fine trembling shook it. He was across the room before he could even begin to talk himself out of it.

  She was cold, he rationalized, conveniently not seeing the tangled blanket at her feet and scooping her into his arms. It would be inconsiderate of him if he left her like that. His bed was warmer. And if during the night she found that his blankets weren’t enough, well, the male body was a source of heat, wasn’t it? His was definitely an excellent one at the moment.

  * * * * *

  Augusta shifted on the body beneath her and murmured sleepily. It was a contented sound. Eyes still shut, she lifted her head an inch off her pillow and brushed her long hair haphazardly away from her face and neck. With feline pleasure, she stretched, tensing her muscles as she did so, then relaxed—and resettled herself on the warm body beneath her. The yawn that came next pulled her to the realm of hazy half-wakefulness.

  When was the last time she’d woken up with a man? she thought, fingers lazily trailing through the mat of hair on the arm that was flung out to the side. Nice. Her refreshed senses were alive, seeming to magnify every touch, every scent, every feeling—all feeling. And it was oh, so very nice.

  She breathed a small sigh and rubbed the smooth curve of her cheek against the broad chest beneath it, enjoying the almost electric abrasion of hair-roughened skin against her own. He really did smell good, she thought, inhaling quietly. How would he taste?

  And then her lips were pressed against the same skin her cheek had been caressing seconds earlier. But she didn’t end it there. No, she continued those whisper-soft kisses up along his sternum. Hands curving over his shoulders, she whisked kisses across the smooth skin stretched across his left clavicle before making a path up along the side of his neck. Then she paused, savoring the tingling sensations that had shot through her when the hard tips of her breasts had brushed up his firm abdomen and chest. Even through the jersey she was wearing, the feeling was breathtaking.

  Oh, God. She could feel the moisture already pooling between her thighs. She wanted to clench them tightly together, as if she could contain the sensation. But she couldn’t—her thighs were open and she was straddling the male body beneath her. That, however, only made things easier—and more gratifying—she discovered, as she pressed her lower body more firmly to the one beneath hers. The drugging glow of pleasure temporarily soothed the ache at the apex of her thighs and spread through her, reaching the tips of her fingers. The air left her lungs even as she welcomed the large hands that covered her buttocks and pushed her down even harder, guided her and moved down to the backs of her thighs. She moaned softly and buried her face against the warm skin of his neck. What else could she do while she waited for the callused fingers skimming along the edge of her panties to find her? Touch her? Come inside her? Bring her the explosion she knew awaited her?

  The explosion came, but not in the manner she was expecting. The jarring alarm of the clock on the bedside table went off, making her body jerk and her eyes open wide. The was some scrabbling as a long arm reached over to shut the alarm off, then it wrapped about her waist. She planted her forearms on the male chest, lifted her head and looked down. Her mouth formed a silent oh and froze. This close, she didn’t need glasses to see every detail.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.” The voice was low and husky with sleep, but the warning in his blue eyes was clear.

  “What am I doing here?” she asked hoarsely, arousal still dulling her mind.

  “On top of me? You crawled there sometime in the middle of the night and stayed there.”

  “I did not.”

  Nick wrapped his other arm about her. “Yes, you did. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

  She inhaled slowly. “I don’t sleepwalk. So how did I get in here?”

  “I carried you.”

  “You carried me? You said—”

  “You were shivering, so, gentleman that I am, I carried you in here where it’s warmer.”

  “You are no gentleman,” she said succinctly. She tried to push away from him, but his arms were heavy across her back, imprisoning her. “Let me up.”

  “Why don’t you finish what you were doing first?” he suggested, rubbing one hand along the slope of the small of her back to her buttocks, which instantly clenched in response.

  Augusta swallowed and fought the need to move against him until she could feel his erection between the apex of her legs. “I’m not into meaningless one-night stands.”

  He stilled. Then everything in his face tightened. “You seemed to be quite into it not too long ago.”

  “I wasn’t fully awake.”

  “Let me remind you that you were the one who started it.”

  She swallowed and looked away from his flinty gaze. “And now I want to call a halt to it. Please.”

  Beneath her, he remained unmoving, eyes unreadable, and a thread of trepidation snaked through her.

  Suddenly, he rolled her onto her back and loomed over her, pressing into her, not letting her mistake the proof of his desire digging in between her thighs, just inches from where her body ached for him. His intense eyes bored into hers, searching. Then he leaned down and said softly, “Today, I’ll be a gentleman. Next time, I’ll live down to your expectations of me,” and then he was gone.

  Moments later, there was the sound of the bathroom door closing followed by that of the shower running. But Augusta lay there, still as a marble statue. Eventually, she rolled to her side and pulled the sheets over her shoulders and up to her neck. She flicked her tongue out to lick her dry lips and tasted Nick Markov. Had she been standing, her knees would’ve buckled.

  He tasted salty and male and sinful enough to make her ask herself why she had turned him away a second time. Was her independence really worth that much?

  Chapter Seven

  An hour after lunch, Nick nodded a greeting to the white-haired concierge as he followed his partner through the lobby and to the elevators and waited for one set of stainless steel doors to open.

  “What do you think we’re going to find that the CSU missed and that we missed the first time?” Ethan asked him.

  Nick shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  “This entire case doesn’t feel right.”

  “That, too.”

  The first set of elevator doors quietly slid open and both men stepped inside. Ethan pressed the twenty-seventh floor button. They were silent as the elevator ascended. They had gone over the ballistic and forensics reports that morning. The bullets dug out of the plaster had not been damaged beyond recognition, but they didn’t match up with anything the NYPD had on file. The .45-caliber bullets were useless unless they could come up with the weapon to match them.

  There were over forty useable prints found in the penthouse. Andrew Langan had a lot of visitors in life. Unfortunately, none of the prints that didn’t belong to Langan or Augusta matched up with any in the criminal database. Besides, they were betting the perps had worn g
loves. The palm print on the wall beside the fire door was smooth, without any identifying whorls, lines or creases.

  The blood stains on the floor, walls and furniture all belonged to the victim. A visit with the medical examiner working on the case told them Andrew Langan’s last hour on earth had not been pleasant. He had ligature marks around his wrists and ankles and signs of strangulation around his neck. One, or perhaps both, of his interrogators had been skillful with a knife. Long, shallow cuts were found along his torso and down the length of his thighs. The toxicology report had come back relatively clean. Andrew Langan’s blood alcohol level had been point-zero-three. However, the few glasses of red wine he had consumed wouldn’t have been enough to dull the pain.

  The rest of the preliminary verbal report Nick had received from the ME wasn’t good. Langan had sustained massive internal injuries. Almost every bone in his body had been broken or at least fractured, including his fingers, and his organs had been tenderized. The ME speculated most of that damage had been done by the plunge down twenty-seven stories and onto Nick’s Pathfinder. She couldn’t positively distinguish between what could’ve resulted from a beating and what could’ve resulted from the fall until further examination. Even then, she doubted if she could draw any distinctions. It was a miracle Adam Langan had been able to identify his brother.