Dead by Morning (32 page)
Without realizing what was happening, Maleah had, as the old saying goes, gotten under his skin. Although it wasn’t something he wanted, he actually found the fact that he cared about Maleah rather amusing.
Care about her?
It’s more than just caring.
Admit it, Lawrence, you’re in love with her.
He watched her hovering over Nic and sensed her desperate need to console her friend. Maleah might be a control freak, but God help her, she was a caretaker, the two traits often related. Sister traits. And even if she didn’t know it—which he suspected she didn’t—Maleah had the capacity to love deeply. He had seen that manifested in her feelings for her brother Jackson, his wife Cathy, and their son Seth, as well as in her love for her best friend, Nic.
Would she, considering her deplorable childhood, ever trust any man enough to love him with that same depth of emotion and loyalty?
Any man?
Damn it, Lawrence, that’s enough introspection for one day. You’ve admitted that you’re in love with Maleah. You don’t need to figure out anything else right now. Things like whether or not she loves you and if she does, do the two of you have a future together. Considering you both have an aversion to commitment, marriage is probably out of the question.
So what’s wrong with an affair?
Determined to refocus on business, Derek surveyed the room’s occupants again, quickly scanning everyone before he took the seat beside Maleah, which put him directly across from Yvette Meng.
Yvette lifted her head, a fragile smile on her full, red lips, and looked at him with large, luminous brown eyes.
“How are you this morning?” he asked, simply being polite.
“I am well, Mr. Lawrence. And you?”
“Just fine, ma’am.”
When Maleah pivoted around in her chair and glanced from Derek to Yvette, Yvette lowered her head again, as if sensing Maleah’s disapproval.
No doubt Yvette Meng had endured men’s lust and women’s envy all of her life. Men saw her as a sex object; women saw her as a rival. And yet if you looked closely, you would realize that Yvette was heartbreakingly alone, separate and apart from all others, and by her own choice.
Obviously Griff hadn’t called the meeting to order yet. He seemed preoccupied, his gaze unfocused as if he was deep in thought. Ever the stoic solider, Sanders stood with his arms crossed over his chest. On the defensive. Always guarding Griff as if it was his sole purpose in life.
Knowing what little he did about the years Griffin had spent in captivity on the island of Amara with Sanders and Yvette, Derek understood the bond comrades-in-arms shared. But the depth of their relationship went beyond the norm. Derek could only imagine under what circumstances their three souls had joined.
Griff lifted his head, cleared his throat and looked from one person to another, beginning and ending with Nic.
“We asked a great deal of Maleah,” Griff said. “She interviewed Jerome Browning, the original Carver.” He looked directly at Maleah. “Nic told me about the information you shared with her last night. Thank you for what you did.”
Maleah simply nodded.
Derek reached out and took her hand in his. She gripped his hand tightly, but kept her gaze focused on Griff.
“I realize that we can’t automatically take Browning’s word for anything,” Griff said. “But I believe he was telling the truth when he told Maleah that the Copycat Carver is a professional assassin, just as we suspected. Derek had come to this same conclusion while working up a profile of the killer.”
All eyes on Griff, everyone remained silent, waiting for him to continue. Derek understood now why only the ones present in the room had been included in this private meeting. Griff intended to keep the circle of intimate knowledge as small as possible. Across the Atlantic, Luke Sentell and Meredith Sinclair were searching for the truth—and the whereabouts of two men who were presumed dead. Maleah had confronted the copycat killer’s mentor and paid a high emotional price for information that confirmed the worst case scenario. She had every right to be here. Derek had been included today because of his status as a profiler. Nic was here because she was Griff’s wife.
And then there were three.
The Amara Triad, as Nicole Powell referred to her husband, Sanders, and Yvette.
“Jerome Browning informed Maleah that the copycat killer had bragged about his billionaire employer,” Griff said. “He did not mention the man by name, but he did tell Browning that the billionaire owned a Pacific island and enjoyed the perks of his profession—human trafficking.”
“It is not possible,” Yvette said, a slight tremor in her soft voice. “He lied. Either the copycat lied to Browning or Browning lied to Maleah.”
“I don’t believe Browning lied,” Griff said. “I believe that the man the copycat killer works for is passing himself off as Malcolm York.”
“But who is he and why is he pretending to be York?” Yvette asked. “And why would he want to avenge the real Malcolm York’s murder?”
“That’s what we have to find out,” Griff told her. “The first step is to locate Linden, if he is the copycat, and stop him before he kills again. Once he’s eliminated, we’ll have a brief window of opportunity to find this pseudo-York before he hires another assassin.”
“Do you think he plans to continue killing people associated with the Powell Agency?” Maleah asked.
“I do,” Griff replied. “I am his ultimate target . . .” Griff paused, glanced over his shoulder at Sanders and then at Yvette. “My guess is he wants to draw out the three of us. What his reasons are, I don’t know. What his connection might have been to Malcolm York, I don’t know. And why he’s striking out now, after sixteen years, is a complete mystery.”
“It would seem that we are at his mercy,” Yvette said. “But I refuse to believe that we cannot stop him.”
“We will stop him,” Nic said, her gaze colliding with Yvette’s.
Griff reached out and grabbed Nic’s hand, bringing her attention away from Yvette and to him. “Less than half an hour ago, Luke Sentell contacted me with news, interesting news, if true. Meredith believes Anthony Linden is now in London.”
“If Meredith senses Linden’s presence, then you can be sure that he is there,” Yvette said.
“Why would Linden, if he’s the copycat killer, go to London?” Maleah asked. “Is it possible that he’s chosen Luke or Meredith as his next victim?”
“I think that’s highly unlikely,” Griff replied. “Certainly not Meredith since they were en route to London less than a day apart. And I can’t imagine anyone being able to find Luke Sentell unless he wanted to be found.”
“Then why would the copycat go to London?” Derek asked. “Unless his employer recalled him.”
“That would be my guess,” Griff said. “The only problem is that we have no idea why he would have recalled him. If this fake York intends to continue killing people connected to the agency, why rein in his pit bull?”
When Luke had carried an obviously unconscious Meredith through the hotel lobby and to the elevator, people had stared at him as if he were a murderer.
“I’m afraid my wife can’t hold her liquor,” he had explained, smiling like an idiot.
They had spent half an hour at Heathrow before Meredith passed out from sheer exhaustion. She would probably sleep soundly the rest of the evening.
He laid her across the foot of the bed and removed her shoes. Then he turned down the covers and placed the fully clothed Meredith beneath the sheet and lightweight blanket. She looked about fifteen lying there, her face void of makeup, her hair fiery red against the white pillowcase. He lifted her head enough to maneuver his index finger beneath the tight band holding her ponytail in place, and with one quick snap freed her thick mane of wild curls.
“Sleep tight, Orphan Annie,” he said as he paused in the doorway.
He closed her bedroom door and returned to the living room. After sitting down and pulling his thoughts together, he called Griffin Powell.
“Luke?”
“Yes. Are you free to talk?”
“I’m alone at the moment. Nic and I have been in a meeting with Maleah and Derek. Sanders and Yvette, too, of course, and Barbara Jean. I’ve filled them in about the possibility that Linden is in London.”
“Linden’s not in London.”
“But I thought Meredith was sure he was there.”
“She was and he was,” Luke said. “I took her to Heathrow this afternoon and she picked up his scent almost immediately. She says he was there at the airport sometime recently, perhaps only hours before we arrived, and he wasn’t alone. But she doesn’t know who was with him, only that his companion was female.”
“If Linden is not in London any longer, then where is he?”
“Good question.”
“Didn’t Meredith pick up on anything else, get any sense of which direction—?”
“Of course she did,” Luke said. “North of London, possibly northwest.”
“She couldn’t be more specific?”
“She was trying . . . before she passed out.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yeah, I think she’s fine. You know what happens to her after she has one of her visions. She’s sleeping now and I expect she might sleep through the night.”
“Do you think she can find Linden?” Griff asked.
“Maybe. Of course my brain is telling me no way in hell.”
“Your gut, Sentell, what’s your gut telling you?”
“That there is a fifty/fifty chance she’ll lead me straight to Linden.”
Silence. Long and drawn out, only the sound of Griff’s deep breathing.
“I’ll take those odds,” Griff said. “And Luke, when you find Linden, you know what to do.”
“If he is the professional you believe him to be, I won’t be able to make him talk. He’ll die before he’ll break.”
“No, he won’t talk. He will never reveal any information about his employer.”
“Then what you want is for me to simply eliminate him.”
“Yes, when you find the bastard, kill him.”
Chapter 32
After Griff ended the morning meeting, which had lasted about forty-five minutes, Maleah had taken a walk around the property, something she often did to clear her head. Derek had insisted on going with her, and after Griff told her that no one left the house alone, she reluctantly agreed to let Derek tag along. Much to her surprise, he had not insisted on conversation, which was the last thing she had wanted or needed. What she had needed was time alone, but apparently unless she secluded herself in her room, that wasn’t an option anytime in the near future. And being a girl who loved the outdoors, the thought of spending the rest of the day cooped up inside would have made her agree to having Genghis Khan as her companion.
Her life had suddenly, in the past couple of weeks, become extremely complicated. For most of her adult life, she had been able to enjoy a certain amount of peace and privacy in her personal life, which counter-balanced her exciting and often dangerous job as a Powell agent. But both her personal life and professional life were at risk. Until the Copycat Carver was caught, no Powell agent or family member was completely safe. It wasn’t enough that she had to worry about her own life, but she lived in fear for her family. Then to make the situation worse, teaming up with Derek again had created an unexpected problem, one she wasn’t sure how to handle. Somehow, someway, the impossible had happened.
She had fallen in love with Derek Lawrence.
Derek Lawrence, the rich, spoiled, pampered, womanizing playboy she had disliked from the moment they met.
But that was just it—the real Derek was a different man entirely. Oh, he was rich, a millionaire many times over, and he did have a reputation with the ladies that he couldn’t deny. But he was not spoiled or pampered and his playboy image had been greatly exaggerated, probably by Derek himself.
He had allowed her to see a side of him that she suspected not many even knew existed. Few people would believe that the debonair, sophisticated Southern charmer’s youthful past included a nefarious secret.
By the end of her long walk—with Derek—she had come to the conclusion that she could handle only one major problem at a time. She’d just have to put her feelings for Derek on the back burner. Being in love was a foreign concept to her. She had spent her entire life trying to avoid repeating the mistake she had made with Noah—becoming involved in a committed relationship that could lead to marriage.
After lunch, which she and Derek had shared with Nic, Griff, Sanders, and Barbara Jean, she had returned to the Powell Agency office there at Griffin’s Rest. With the bulk of the agency’s employees working day and night on the Copycat Carver case and with reports pouring in from various legal and illegal contacts the world over, the staff at their Knoxville headquarters was suffering from information overload. Add to that the fact that only a handful of agents were privy to the most sensitive information and that meant piles of reports were waiting to be read, studied, and digested. Everyone except Barbara Jean had worked all afternoon and until well past seven. They had taken a long overdue break only when Barbara Jean had summoned all of them to the dining room for dinner. The group had eaten in relative silence, their conversation limited to their compliments to the chef, Barbara Jean, on the delicious meal. She had smiled, said thank you, and had been gracious enough not to point out that no one had eaten very much. Afterward, Sanders had helped with cleanup and then he and Barbara Jean had bid everyone goodnight shortly after nine o’clock. Nic finally persuaded Griff to call it a night around 10:00
P.M.
, and Maleah had sensed from the way they’d been looking at each other, they wouldn’t be going to sleep anytime soon.
P.M.
, and Maleah had sensed from the way they’d been looking at each other, they wouldn’t be going to sleep anytime soon.
Alone in the living room with Derek, she shifted the file folders in her lap into a neat pile and laid them aside on the sofa cushion beside her. She glanced at Derek, who seemed absorbed in a crossword puzzle he had ripped out of today’s copy of the
Knoxville News Sentinel.
As if he had sensed her staring at him, he glanced up from the newspaper and smiled at her.
Knoxville News Sentinel.
As if he had sensed her staring at him, he glanced up from the newspaper and smiled at her.
“Alone at last,” he said jokingly.
“So it would seem.” She returned his smile.
“I could fix us a drink,” he suggested. “Or we could raid the kitchen for another piece of BJ’s pecan pie.”
“I shouldn’t have eaten the first piece.” Maleah patted her hips. “I think they’re an inch wider already.”
Derek rose to his feet, dropped the folded newspaper in the chair, and came straight toward her. Before she realized his intention, he leaned over her and placed his open palms on either side of her hips.
“They’re wider by a quarter of an inch at most,” he told her, barely managing not to laugh.
All the while faking a frown, she swatted at his hands until he lifted them off the cushions and away from her hips. He dropped down on the sofa beside her and rested his head on the back cushion.
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” she said.
He glanced at her. “Yeah. You are, too. It’s been a long day.”
“We should probably go upstairs and try to get some sleep,” Maleah said. “But I swear I’m so wired I can’t imagine being able to sleep right now.”
“I know what you mean. It’s been a pretty intense day, starting with this morning’s top secret meeting. Griff’s wound so tight, he’s on the verge of snapping. His drinking binge last night didn’t solve anything for him and it sure didn’t take the edge off.”
“I’m worried about Nic. I’ve never seen her so scared. I honestly think she’s afraid she’s going to lose Griff, that somehow their marriage is going to implode.”
“When a husband and wife keep secrets from each other, it puts a major strain on their marriage.”
“I agree,” Maleah said. “And the not knowing causes as much damage, if not more, than sharing the secret would. In theory, of course. With what’s happening now, a killer targeting the Powell Agency, finding and stopping the killer has to take priority over everything else in Nic and Griff’s life.”
Derek pivoted his head so that he faced her. “In your life and mine, too.”
She nodded. “Finding Anthony Linden has to be our top priority.”
“You know, I think I have Anthony Linden figured out, at least as much as I can with the info I have and by gauging his personality by other professional killers I’ve studied. They all have certain characteristics in common. You’d be surprised at how much a hired assassin has in common with a Special Forces soldier, although society sees one as immoral and the other as a hero.”
“Despite any similarities, there is a difference though, isn’t there?”
“For some, yes,” Derek said. “The fine line that separates the two—villain and hero—is the reason he kills. That and the emotion or lack of emotion involved. Some men enjoy killing. Others hate it, even after it becomes easy to kill.”
“The way it did for you?”
“Yeah, the way it did for me.” He reached out and twined a tendril of her hair around his finger. “Did I ever tell you that I like blonds?”
“You like brunettes and redheads, too.”
“You’re right, I do, but I’m partial to one particular blond.”
She allowed him to pull her toward him by gently tugging on her hair. When they were face to face, only a few inches separating them, she asked, “Is she anyone I know, this particular blond?”
“All you have to do is look in a mirror.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
“Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes.” She knew because she wanted that kiss every bit as much as he did. Maybe more. After all, she was in love with him, but she had no reason to believe that he felt the same way. For Derek, this was probably a flirtation that he hoped would lead to sex.
Derek released her hair, leaned forward enough so that their mouths touched, and whispered against her lips, “I swear to God, I won’t ever hurt you. I’d cut off my right arm first.”
Excitement and anticipation ignited inside her and spread through her like a wildfire when he kissed her. Aggressive yet gentle, he took her mouth, but otherwise didn’t touch her. She returned the kiss eagerly, wanting him and needing so much more.
The urge to touch him became overwhelming. She lifted her arms and draped them around his neck as she deepened the kiss. Taking his cue from her, Derek delved his tongue inside her mouth as he eased his hands beneath her and lifted her up and onto his lap. With their mouths fused together and their bodies straining for closer contact, she clung to him. He roamed his hands over her back and hips while she forked her fingers through the long, thick hair at the nape of his neck.
When they finally came up for air, both breathing hard, their gazes connecting, Derek smiled and then glanced at her throat and the expanse of flesh exposed by the V-shaped neckline of her blouse.
“We have on too many clothes for what I have in mind,” he told her.
She nodded. “Your room or mine?”
He chuckled. “Whichever is the closest.”
“Mine,” she said.
He stood, taking her up with him, still holding her in his arms.
“We’ll get there faster if you put me down and let me walk.”
He eased her slowly to her feet, her body sliding along his, arousing them both even more. She grabbed his hand and yanked him along with her as she raced out of the living room, down the hall and up the stairs.
Shiloh Whitman often wondered why Dr. Meng had accepted her as a student and wondered if the others saw her as a wannabe psychic. After all, how valuable would she ever be as anything other than a sideshow amusement? She didn’t possess the gift of clairvoyance or channeling or precognition or psychometry or telepathy. All she had was the ability to sense psychic energy and entities and to see the aura around a person.
When she was a child, her siblings and cousins had laughed at her when she told them they had different colored lights shining around them. And her parents had scolded her, telling her to stop lying or people would think she was crazy. She had always been a misfit, the one thing she did have in common with the others, especially with Meredith. A sympathetic friend in college had told her she should find someone to help her figure out what was wrong with her. And oddly enough less than a year later, Dr. Meng actually found her, quite by accident, in of all places a bookstore in New York City.
Looking back now, she realized that if Dr. Meng hadn’t taken her back to London with her, she wouldn’t have survived. She had been on the verge of suicide, her life meaningless.
Shiloh had never been happy and never expected to be. There was an emptiness inside her that couldn’t be filled. But she lived a productive life by keeping busy, studying, practicing, and assisting Dr. Meng in any way possible.
Lately, she had begun to feel an inexplicable restlessness and deliberately stayed away from the other students, not wanting anyone to probe inside her mind.
Tonight the peculiar restlessness had grown worse, so much so that she felt as if she were on the verge of climbing the walls in her room. Feeling trapped, smothered by the confinement, she knew she had to find a way to go outside, to breathe the night air, to look up at the stars, to escape from that overpowering sense of imprisonment.
But Dr. Meng had warned them not to go anywhere outside the sanctuary alone, to go in pairs and always with one of the guards.
If she slipped out the back way, who would see her?
What if one of the others realizes you’ve gone outside alone?
That wouldn’t happen. One of Dr. Meng’s strictest rules was that none of her students could use their gifts to invade the privacy of another.
Hurriedly changing from her pajamas and house slippers into a jogging suit and running shoes, Shiloh prepared for her escape.
I can’t kill her.
I won’t do it.
But he’s given you no choice.
You must take a life in order to save a life.
Do what you must do. Do it quickly. She doesn’t have to suffer. Make it as painless as possible.
You mustn’t let yourself hesitate at the last minute. Once she sees your face, once she can identity you, you will have no choice.
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