Goodbye Arizona (7 page)

Chapter Nine

Marcus fumbled with his tie, his attention riveted to the dream in gilded satin at the dresser. Deb clipped her hair aside. The curls spiraled over one shoulder, leaving the other free. She admired the effect in the mirror with a little
moue
. “What do you think? Hair up? Or down?”

He finally completed the knot and joined her at the dresser. “I like it this way.”

Marcus dropped a kiss on the naked skin between the curve of her shoulder and the sequined strap of her dress. His nose caught a whiff of the perfume she must have dabbed on her throat, something sultry and mysterious that shot straight below his belt. He took a prudent step back. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

Deb held up her hand so he helped her to her feet. The fabric flowed along her body, catching the light in gold streaks. The way her curves moved freely under it finished drying his mouth.

“Thank you. You look quite dashing yourself.”

She arranged his tie, brushing those curves against his chest with a wicked smile. Of course she’d noticed his retreat and decided to tease him. Marcus pulled one hand from behind his back.

“Here.”

Cautious surprise flashed in her smoky eyes instead of mischievous amusement, as she eyed the palm-sized box, then him. “A bribe?”

“A promise. Open it.”

She did, with a quick catch of breath. The rose gold curved band gleamed between velvet rims. Deb wet her lips. “It looks a little lost in such a big box.”

Her voice wavered a little, telling him he’d chosen correctly.

“Better to rescue it, then. May I?”

The ring slipped easily onto her fourth finger. Marcus brought her hand to his lips to kiss it. Deb laughed and launched herself into his arms. “Thank you!”

“Oh… Does this mean you don’t want the matching piece?”

She detached herself from him, suddenly remembering the too-large box he still held in his left hand. “What matching piece?”

Marcus plunged his free hand into his breast pocket, and extracted a tri-set-linked bangle bracelet, in the same shade of delicate gold and pink. “It doesn’t exactly match the color of your dress, but … happy anniversary.”

Deb cocked up one perfect eyebrow to tamper the guilty pleasure shining on her face. “Definitely a bribe. We got married in February so it’s not our anniversary.”

Marcus chuckled and then kissed her hard on the mouth. “You’re too literal about those things. Just accept the gift your devoted husband spent an hour chasing after, while you tried on every single pair of shoes this afternoon.”

The eyebrow moved higher. “Devoted?”

“Devoted, besotted, and everything in between. Come on, now, let’s go downstairs before they eat all the hors-d’oeuvres. I’m famished.”

Deb moved away from him to pick up a hand purse matching her dress, then hooked her hand around his elbow. “I don’t know how you can be hungry. My stomach is tied into knots. This plan is crazy. You’re playing the bait—”

“To be literal again, I am not. That’s the beauty of Pooley’s little stunt. Ready?”

“If I say no, will you change your mind?”

Marcus kissed her powdered cheek. “We’ll be fine.”

Deep down, he wasn’t so sure about that. But it was too late to back out now.

****

Standing in front of the mirrored wall of the elevator, Eden gave her image a critical look. The black and champagne chiffon dress was a bit shorter than she would have liked. She shrugged, arranging a strand of hair behind her ear. She doubted any of those
paysans
knew the difference between cocktail attire and an evening gown. She liked the asymmetrical hemline over the straight skirt. At least its ruffles gave the illusion of length, and they would not block her movements. The scoop neck assured she would not make a fool of herself if she needed to break into a run.

This copper-skinned sheriff was not to be trusted.
Sang-mêlé
never were. One way or the other, she had no intention of being on the receiving end if/when things became blown out of proportion.

Eden straightened her back before she strode out of the elevator.

****

Josepha Pooley arranged the folds of her palazzo slacks so it would hide the holster at her ankle. The 9-mm Glock was lighter than her service semi-automatic, but the weight still made her walk like a limping badger. She shrugged the thought off. She was here to catch a murderer, not to parade on a runway.

The room filled quickly. The gala dinner, the last event of the conference, would host about a hundred guests. Some looked absolutely ridiculous in too-tight dresses or ill-fitted suits. Others, well, others had class, with a capital C.

Eden Guillot portrayed money and high-class education all the way from the impeccable hairdo to the curve of her disdainful smirk. The pretty blonde was feigning interest in Rachel Hunter’s never-ending chatter.

Suddenly, Eden pinched her lips. Pooley turned her attention to the couple at the reception table at the entrance of the ballroom. Now, those two made a picture. Deb Stone glowed, in every sense of the word. Her dress shone in the dim light, and if the peacock-like beam of her escort was any indication, Marcus Turner was rather pleased with the sight. The brunette’s smile paled a little when she noticed the sheriff, but she nodded politely before Marcus swept her away to their table.

Pooley narrowed her eyes on the vigil she’d put at the door. Her man shook his head. They were still missing some of the attendees. The sheriff bobbed her head once, then resumed her survey of the room. She’d planned to have everybody’s room searched once they were occupied. She would just wait for the circus to begin.

****

“She’s here.” Deb tightened her grasp on Marcus’s elbow. The room seemed to have shrunk the moment she spotted the petite woman in the corner, surveying the colorful crowd like a hawk.

“I know. I saw her.”

“Do we go and say hello?”

She hoped with all her heart he would refuse. If they stayed far from the sheriff, maybe that mad scheme would not come to fruition. The people around them chattered, exchanging compliments or gossip, unsuspecting.

Marcus shook his head. “Actually, it’s Eden I have to talk to.”

From Charybdis to Scylla.

Rachel was frowning at the blonde as if she were ready to kill her. The glare on both women suggested acrid comments and sneaky insults Deb wasn’t in the mood for. “Do we really have to?”

“Hello, I’m Elizabeth Wolski.”

The lonely elf with a tumble of dark red copper curls offered a bashful grin.

Deb felt Marcus’s biceps tauten under her hand, though he nodded politely. “Good evening. I’m Marcus Turner, and this is my wife, Deborah.”

“Oh, I know who you are.”

The chuckle chilled Deb to the bone.

****

“What do you mean, ‘not here’? You assured me… This is unacceptable, totally unprofessional.”

Eden did her best to contain the growl boiling in her throat. Once again, she had to mop up after Marcus while he paraded his idiotic wife around as if she were the eighth wonder of the world. And Rachel Hunter whined, and complained, and threw a tantrum in the middle of the packed ballroom. She wished she could swat the wench but, unfortunately, the ROSA president was among the most influential people in the industry, so Eden swallowed her gall.

“I am as puzzled as you are, Rachel. Our agency knows how important this conference is, and how much people were excited about this evening. I assure you this delay is absolutely out of our control.”

“Whatever. Oliver!”

The insufferable woman spun on her heels without even a word to excuse herself. Eden let out an exasperated huff. Marcus had better outdo himself with his next book, after all she endured for it.

****

The sheriff completed her circuit at the guest table. The dynamic duo that had welcomed the attendees for the past hour was gathering tags and rolls of free-drink tickets. The petite woman approached her deputy. “Anyone missing?”

“Five in total.” He took out a pocket pad. “Sponsor Leonard Orseti and guest. Doctor Terry Fueller. Nominee R.J. Flint. I couldn’t get what the initials mean. And a Mrs. Corina Sanchez. That one touched base, apparently stuck at home with a sick daughter.”

The lights flickered to invite people to take their seats. Pooley nodded. “From here on out, no one is getting in or out of this room without my direct authorization.”

Her deputy grinned. “Does that include me?”

“Smart-mouth. I’ll check on the sponsor and Flint. Get what you can about the good doctor, and proceed with the search.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She expected—and got—a quick click of heels as he turned tail. The kid was cocky, but he was sharp, and carried on orders without the puppy exuberance of rookies. The lights flickered again. Instinct told her she would need a street-smart ally before the night was over.

****

“Oh, I know who you are. I read your books.”

Marcus covered his own jolt and Deb’s with a back step with a light kiss on her lips. “Don’t pout, honey. I promise we won’t talk shop the whole dinner.”

Her frightened eyes lingered on his face, wide open. He squeezed her hip, not daring to do more to reassure her. His brain swirled fast. Wolski’s nominee bio claimed she manipulated half-lies and twisted truth better than Machiavelli. So either they’d walked straight into the villain’s web, or she was fishing. Well, he hadn’t spent the last two years evading questions and bluffing for nothing.

“Now you’re going to tell me you hated them.” He let out an exaggerated sigh, and Marcus piloted Deb so he blocked her from the other woman.
No need to tempt fate
. “All right. Which one did you detest most?”

“Huh, I—”

The lights blinked. Marcus sent a silent prayer to the lords of bluffing. “Saved by the bell.” The microphone screeched from Rachel Hunter’s little cough. “I hope they’ll serve dinner soon. I’m starved.”

Chapter Ten

The lights focused on the stage, dimming its surroundings in a shadowed haze. The set-up served the plan. No one watched anything else but the speaker, or the content of one’s plate. They pretended Flint was not here! Flint was right there, petting his idiot wife and pausing like a king holding court, with his minions around him. That despicable sheriff thought herself clever.
Tsk-tsk.
They hadn’t been able to put two and two together after the fireworks were rescheduled, had they? Or when citrus had accidently been added to the water served during the lecture. Poor Clare Holiday had never seen it coming. They all ignored what was right under their filthy noses. Who had that much power? Who made things happen?

But soon, they would see. They would pay for their lies, the vexations and the disdain. They would all pay.

Turner first. All this time, he’d been laughing at his fans, ROSA, and all the romance family. He had to pay.

The empty chair next to the
scribbler
was a bother. But the filthy liar would have to stand before long. And then…

****

“Mind if I join you?”

Pooley sat without waiting for an answer. Deb welcomed the sheriff with a beam that widened some more when she caught the sullen look on Eden’s face. The agent edged slightly away toward Rachel Hunter’s assistant. The man clutched his plate with one hand while he spooned gazpacho at full speed with the other, no doubt hoping to get some food down before his boss called him on stage. Rachel held forth at the lectern, vomiting platitudes and complacency to an uninterested audience.

Deb glanced at her half-full plate. She was too tense to eat. The cold soup she’d managed to swallow felt like a reeling ice cube in her stomach. The only warmth around her came from Marcus’s thigh pressed to hers. He caught her looking at him and offered a smile, before diving onto his buttered bread.

On the other side of the table, Elizabeth Wolski played with her fork. The woman didn’t look like her photograph at all, but a pair of glasses and hairdos changed a face completely. Was she an assassin? A psycho groupie turned into a killer by disappointment or some absurd revelation? Tension and worry wrecked her nerves. Her ears picked up the high-pitched thuds of spoons against porcelain under Rachel’s drowsy chatter. Shadows moved all around her, too fast for her eye to catch.

Deb nearly shrieked when one of them whispered, “May I?”

She bit it back just in time when she realized the dark form was a waiter aiming for her plate. Marcus brushed her hand.

“You barely touched your soup.”

“I’m all right. I just, I wish this thing were over. I can’t stand the wait.”

At the same moment, Pooley cleared her throat.

“The set-up is impressive. That’s too bad for the ones who’re going to miss it.” Eden scowled. Elizabeth Wolski raised an eyebrow, while her neighbor’s spoon clanged on his plate. Pooley glanced around. “Mr. Turner, my deputy found your laptop.”

Deb straightened up on her seat as a ghost solidified close by. Marcus’s hand closed over hers, his voice unassured. “That’s great. May I ask where?”

She held her breath. For a split second, the only noise she could hear was the loud, hurtful pounding in her chest. Then words formed out of the buzz in her ears.

“That’s a very interesting question, actually. It was in the hotel’s safe.”

“The hotel safe?”

“Yes. Do you have any idea how it got there?” The sheriff let the question hang and then added, “Miss Wolski?”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed on the redheaded woman to his right.

“Me? No. Why would I?”

“The security log of the hotel says you visited the safe this afternoon.”

Deb gasped in surprise. Marcus tightened his grasp on her fingers to the hurting point.

“I needed my passport. My flight is leaving at seven tomorrow morning. But—” The romancer gave the sheriff a sharp look. “You already know that.”

Pooley smirked. “Indeed. But Oliver Lyle’s flight isn’t scheduled until later in the afternoon.”

She barely finished her sentence before the lights aimed at their table like a squadron of ferocious fireflies. Rachel Hunter’s assistant jumped to his feet and started shouting.

“R.J. Flint was supposed to be someone special! You were to be the next Nora Roberts! Better, even! The best romancer of the twenty-first century! A truly talented writer!”

The gun in his hand gleamed angrily. Eden plunged aside. Marcus pulled Deb so hard toward him that both their chairs tumbled over. They landed on the floor, Marcus’s body cushioning her fall. Rachel screeched in the microphone, “Oliver! What on earth are you doing?”

The man ignored the irate president, screaming in the general direction of their table. “I did everything I could so you would receive the reward you deserve! I killed for you!”

Platters shattered on the floor. Someone started screaming. Chairs screeched. The speakers echoed the ear-splitting noises when Rachel sent the microphone crashing to the floor. A man bellowed, “Gun!” loudly enough to be overheard over the tearful cries for help. Marcus forced Deb to crawl under the table. “Pooley!”

With her eyes fixed on the floor to avoid broken glass, Deb could only guess about the sheriff’s movements.

“It’s over, Lyle! Lower your gun!”

“No!”

“Put your gun down! Now!”

The madman bawled. “Flint! Where are you! Flint! Coward! Liar! Show yourself!”

Deb stifled a whimper. If he realized where they were…

“Flint’s not here. Calm down. We’re here to help.”

“You’re lying!”

“Surrender your gun before you make it worse for yourself.”

Marcus began to ease his hold on Deb’s neck. “Stay here.”

“What? No!” She grasped his lapels with both hands. “It’s you he wants. He’s going to kill you!”

“I’m wearing a bulletproof vest.”

“A lot of good it’ll do you if he shoots you in the face,” Eden cut in. “Stay down, imbecile!”

Deb understood too late. She pivoted awkwardly to keep him with her, but her fingers clawed at empty space. “Marcus!”

“Oliver, you have to calm down. Please. Lower your weapon, and let’s talk.”

A violent blast plunged the room into semi-darkness.

“Marcus!”

Hysteria climbed another notch in the shower of screams and sparks from the dead spotlight. Pooley shouted, “Freeze! Drop your gun now or I shoot!”

“I’m the Storm! You can’t arrest me! I’m protecting my family! Flint is a threat against us! I must stop the lies! I have the right!”

Blood stammering in her ears, Deb groped the space in the semi-darkness. Her hand closed on fabric. Her pent-up breath burned her lungs while cold sweat wet her skin.

Half-blind and deaf, she tried to focus on her other senses. Her palm found an immobile limb. Deb pulled away with a gasp and then steeled herself. Her fingertips brushed over the human corpse, trembling. The fabric was smooth and warm to the touch. Silk stockings? She held her breath and squinted hard at a mane of red hair: Elizabeth Wolski’s limp body curled up on the floor. Blood trickled from a gash on her shin. Deb turned dilated eyes on Eden. The agent stared at the body, mumbling. “What’s that
idiot
thinking? He’s a writer, not a hero! That sheriff had better get us out of this
gâchis
in one piece.”

Help would not come from the blonde. Deb balled her hands into fists. She refused to be a victim. She refused to lose her husband to a madman. She couldn’t hear Marcus talking anymore. Why wasn’t he talking? She couldn’t lose him now, not like this. Not before they had a real chance.

High above her head, tortured metal screamed horribly. Groping around past Elizabeth, she found something shaped like a suitcase. Deb grabbed the handle and rammed it as hard as she could between the closest pair of legs. Her victim hollered in pain. A compact firearm fell on the floor with a nauseating thud. The shriek of breaking steel lengthened, ear-splitting, then the high-pitched noise boomed as the spotlight crashed on the stage. When the world stopped wailing, Deb heard the sheriff curse.

****

Marcus felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressed into his side. He froze. The metal bit deeper into his waist. Could the man realize something was wrong with his clothing? What would happen then? No safety vest could stop a bullet at this range. Marcus swallowed hard. With Pooley out of the picture, her deputy too far for a precise shot, he had only one option.

“Lyle. Oliver, listen to me. I promise you I never—”

“Shut up! Shut the hell up!”

Marcus lifted both hands in surrender. “All right. All right, calm down. I’ll do what you want, but don’t hurt anyone, okay? It’s my fault. You don’t have to hurt anyone else.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

Cold sweat pearled on Marcus’s forehead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pooley pushing up to one knee with a grimace. She caught his stare and twirled her index finger discreetly.
Make him talk.

“I’m not telling you what to do, Oliver. I’m trying to understand. Why are you so angry?”

“You know why! You ridiculed us!”

Marcus drew in a sharp breath.
In for a penny…

“You’re wrong, Oliver.” He sat, as if the room around him was on the verge of collective hysteria, people yelling and tramping in the middle of broken glass and ripped fabric. “I never did such a thing.”

He let his hand hang by his side, hoping for Deb to find it. If he was to die, he wanted to feel her touch while he did. In front of him, Lyle looked completely baffled. He pointed the gun forward with both hands to stop it from shaking.

“What are you doing? Stand up! You can’t sit!”

“Why not?”

“Because—because I say so!”

Something hard slipped between his fingers. Marcus tightened his grip on the heavy silver knife. He couldn’t fathom how he was going to use it—
I’m a writer, not a bloody hero
—but the weight felt good in his hand nonetheless.

“Be reasonable, Oliver. You and I both know that you like Flint’s writing. Don’t you want to know what the next one is about?” Marcus fought not to look toward Pooley. Her deputy was nowhere to be seen. “Put that gun down, and I’ll tell you. Guns make me nervous.”

“Shut up! I don’t care! I want you to pay for the betrayal! I believed in you! I—”

Quick as a cat’s paw, the flat of the deputy’s hand crashed onto Lyle’s wrist. His gun went flying. Marcus rushed head-first into his nemesis. Lyle spat and tried to defend himself like a harpy. A mêlée followed, Lyle biting and punching every shadow while Pooley and her deputy tried to immobilize his arms. A solid punch caught Marcus in the jaw, though he wasn’t sure if it came from Lyle or not. He retaliated with a head butt, the crunching noise immensely satisfying. Then the fight ended as suddenly as it had started.

Pooley pressed the man face down on the floor, while her help cuffed Lyle’s twisted arms. “You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you say or do can and will be used—”

“Marcus!” Deb flung herself at him. “Oh, God! Are you hurt? I tried, but—”

“I’m fine.”

His jaw throbbed. All at once, he realized the scorch in the back of his throat was bile, and that he
was
shaking like a leaf. He slumped into a chair before his legs failed him.

Marcus raked a shaky hand through his hair. All around the room, people hustled in groups of two or three, humming or staring into the air. Eden sat with her back straight while a paramedic tried to read her blood pressure. Elizabeth Wolski was nearby, shivering in a wool blanket that she clutched with both hands. Rachel Hunter contemplated the nightmare her grand event had become, her face very pale.

“Mr. Turner…”

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“I’ll need your deposition about tonight’s events later on. In the meantime, do me a favor. The next time your wife decides to
help
, please make sure she aims at the bad guy.”

On her knees next to him, Deb flushed a beet read. “Sorry…”

Marcus tried not to laugh. “I will, Sheriff… Thank you.”