Got Your Number (29 page)

Her jacket fell to the floor, then the shirt of his she wore. He never took his eyes from her, drinking her in and smiling with pleasure. He kissed her neck and collarbone before Wrapping his arms around her waist, nudging down the straps of the filmy white bra and kissing her breasts. His lovemaking had an edge, a restrained power that seemed instinctual to him. Even the guttural whispers and moans he breathed over her skin were animalistic. She had always presumed that big, macho men used their strength to threaten and intimidate—she'd certainly been exposed to enough of them through the Rescue program—but the detective's determined mouth pushed her closer to the edge than she'd imagined was possible while still wearing panties.

He certainly knew what he was doing, she noted as she gasped for air. But did
she?
He was so different from any man she'd been intimate with, she felt almost virginal. Maybe she should have given that making-love-to-a-man book a refresher read.

But once the underwear came off, it was amazing how quickly everything came back to her. In fact, things were going quite well until a knock sounded at the door.

Capistrano stopped what he was doing—much to her chagrin—and walked to the door, grabbing his gun on the way. There was something so...
arresting
about a naked man wielding a gun. She scrambled for something to cover up.

"Who's there?" Capistrano asked, pointing his weapon in the air.

"Officers Jaffey and Warner, Detective. Open up."

Capistrano mouthed a curse, lowered the gun, and retrieved his pajama bottoms from the floor. He waited until she was haphazardly clothed before he unlocked the door.

They charged past Capistrano into the room. "Roxann Beadleman, you're under arrest for the murder of Carl Seger."

Okay, so
arresting
had been an unfortunate word choice.

Chapter 25

It hurt to breathe. Angora pushed the nurses' call button several times in succession, but she knew they wouldn't come. They hated her. "Nurse!" she yelled, although it came out a hoarse whisper. "Nurse!"

The door to her private room opened, and Mike Brown peeked around the corner. She rolled her eyes—the man was undoubtedly the most annoying little boy she'd ever met. And although she was grateful for his legal advice, the hayseed act was wearing a bit thin. She'd heard more about running a "soybean-slash-corn" farm than she ever wanted to know. Tractors. Tillers. Pickers. Plows.
Ugh.

"I brought you magazines," he said, holding up a bulging plastic bag.

She gave him a begrudged smile—she had requested magazines, after all. "Thanks."

He walked in, wearing overalls of all things. And not Tommy Hilfiger.
"Progressive Farmer,"
he said, plopping the bag down on the bed next to her. "I had a year's worth saved up."

"Er, thanks."

"Is there anything else I can get for you? I have to go home for the evening milking, so I can't stay long." His baby fat made him look young and shiny. "But I'll be back tomorrow."

She batted her lashes. "Can you find a nurse to add painkiller to my IV so I can get some sleep tonight?"

He dimpled. "I'll see what I can do." He left the room, landing heavily on his workbooted feet.

Laying her head back, she stared at the ceiling tiles and wondered what Trenton was doing and if he'd heard of her major illness. If she'd known how much attention a hospital stay would get her, she would've landed this gig sooner. A gallbladder was a small price to pay to have rattled even Dee, who had sounded almost
motherly
on the phone when she'd called to break the grim news about the operation she needed. And the secondary infection she'd contracted was a bonus. "Complications," her chart read. It had at least kept the police at bay, and the get-well bouquets coming—from her parents, her former boss at the art museum, Mike Brown, and Roxann.

Roxann.
She sighed, This entire situation surrounding Carl's death was a big fat mess. At least the bruises were fading. She wanted to act as if it hadn't even happened, and Mike was eager to go along. He'd had her tested by a sandal-wearing talk-doctor from the university and seemed satisfied with whatever the woman had told him. She, on the other hand, found it hard to put faith in a woman who didn't shave her legs.

But back to Carl—the perv deserved it, she'd decided. Maybe a few female students would be spared her humiliation and heartache. The universe was in balance, as far as she was concerned.

She heard footsteps, which gave her just enough time to fan her hair out on the pillow. But it was only Mike, smiling and mopping at his forehead, which was perpetually moist. "You're not due another painkiller for two hours, Angora."

"That's unacceptable," she croaked, clutching at her midsection. He disappeared again, then returned in a few minutes. "One hour. I made the nurse promise she'd give you another in one hour."

She smiled prettily. "Thank you."

His eyes shone. "You're welcome."

"Is the guard still at my door?"

"Yes, but he said he hadn't seen anyone who matched the description of the Cape fellow that your cousin is so worried about."

A commotion sounded in the hall, and they exchanged wide-eyed glances. Angora hunkered against her pillow and Mike armed himself at the door with a vase of roses.

"No, get the one with the carnations in it," she hissed.

He switched the vases, then stood poised in the doorway to wallop the bad guy. The handle turned and he pulled back, coming close to whopping Dee in the mouth.

"Mother!" she whispered, truly surprised. She held out her arms weakly, but didn't lift her head because it was more pitiful, and she didn't want to mess up her hair.

Dee glared at Mike and his weapon, then swept into the room. "Darling, your father and I came as soon as our tennis tournament ended."

Angora conjured up a weak smile. "You shouldn't have come all this way just to see me."

"And why not?" her father boomed, then shot a pointed glance toward Dee. "We should have been here sooner."

"Why is there a guard outside your door?" Dee asked.

"Um, it's a long story."

Her mother pursed her heavily coated mouth. "Make it short."

Angora's mind raced furiously. "Well... there
is
a murderer on the loose."

"Of that professor you told me about on the phone."

"Right. I, um, bid for a date with him at a charity b-bachelor auction."

Disapproval darkened Dee's eyes.

"So I was... the last person to see him alive—other than the person who killed him, of course." There.

Her mother's eyes flew wide. "You're in danger?"

She sighed dramatically. "The police seem to think so."

"Honey," her father said, leaning into her. "We had no idea."

"I didn't want to alarm you."

Dee's eyes narrowed. "Your cousin has something to do with this, doesn't she?"

She lifted her chin. "The world doesn't revolve around Roxann, Mother. And I'm feeling fine, thanks for asking." She manufactured a little cough, which really did hurt, and lolled her head to the side. "I'm having complications, you know."

"When can we take you home?" her father asked.

"The doctors haven't told me when they're planning to release me—those complications are really complicating matters."

"Will you have an ugly scar?" Dee asked.

Of course that would be high on her mother's list. "I don't know."

Dee sighed. "Well, with those hips, you're past wearing a bikini anyway." Her mother hefted her Donna Karan purse onto the bed, sending a tremor throughout the mattress.

Her father said he needed to repark the rental car—Dee had made him pull into a handicapped spot so she wouldn't have to walk. When he left, Angora realized that when the going got tough, her father did something automotive. She braced herself for whatever bomb Dee was going to drop.

"Surprise—I brought your wedding pictures with me!"

She squinted. "Mom, I didn't get married, remember?"

"Well, almost, dear. I told the photographer to develop the pictures he took before the ceremony. Here are the proofs of the ones with your eyes open." She handed them over. "You have a peculiar look on your face in most of them, but your bridesmaids look splendid."

Her mother was right—she did, and they did. Instead of glowing with nuptial bliss, she had a pinched look about her face, as if something sharp were in her shoe. But the bridesmaids wore their best fake I'm-so-happy-for-her smiles. In the photos of herself alone, she seemed almost incidental to the shot. A great picture of the fountain with a bride in the foreground. A great picture of the church with a bride entering right.

"Here's the one of you and me," Dee said, then wiped at an imaginary tear. "I look so sad."

In the photo, Dee looked the same as always. Sad, happy, surprised—who knew? She'd had the plastic surgeon sever most of the muscles that affected expression, although the "angry" muscles had somehow managed to regenerate.

"And this one of me and your father is grand. I already ordered a sixteen-by-twenty."

It
was
a good photo—her mother looked slim and pleased at the prospect of being rid of her.

"I ordered you a photo album—one of every shot," Dee said.

"But I don't want a photo album," she whispered.

"And good news—almost everyone I contacted said you should keep their gift, that you deserved it."

"Mother, did you hear me?"

"Except for Lilly Barkin, but she only sent a Pyrex dish, for heaven's sake. As if you could cook anyway."

"Mother, I don't want any photos, and I don't want any gifts." Well, maybe the silver tea service, but the rest of it was going back.

"Don't be difficult, Angora."

"I just want to pretend as if that day never happened."

"Well, it did happen, young lady, and I had to do all the explaining." Dee fanned herself. "Have some sympathy for me—after all, I was humiliated in front of my entire social circle."

"You
were humiliated?"

"That's right. That church wasn't packed to see Angora Ryder be married, missy—it was packed to see Dee Ryder's
daughter
be married." Her mouth flattened. "And you couldn't even do that right. God, Angora, you are a colossal screw-up."

"I think you'd better leave."

Angora and her mother both looked up. She had forgotten that Mike Brown was still in the room. He sort of blended in with the drab walls.

Dee lifted one eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You're upsetting her. I think it's time for you to leave."

Angora blinked—no one ordered her mother around.

"Who
are
you?" Dee asked in the voice she saved for the gardener.

"Ms. Ryder's attorney."

Dee scoffed. "And why would my daughter need an attorney?"

"I told you," Angora broke in hurriedly. "I was the last person to see Dr. Seger alive." She sent Mike a warning glance—if her parents thought she was a suspect in a murder case, they'd stroke out. "Mr. Brown is handling the police for me."

Dee looked him up and down. "Looks to me as if he's handling the livestock." She shook her head. "No, this person will never do. I'll call Bennett and he'll fly up to take care of everything. You may go," she said to him, punctuated with a shooing motion.

"Mrs. Ryder, this is your daughter's decision." He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and boldly stared at Dee.

Dee stared back for a few seconds, then faltered. "Angora?" she chirped.

Angora gawked. Any man who could face down her mother was someone she needed on her side. "I choose Mr. Brown," she murmured in renewed appreciation.

"And you should be going, Mrs. Ryder," he said. "Angora needs her rest. She's had complications, you know."

Angora coughed to bolster his argument. And in truth, she was growing tired.

Then the door burst open and those two plainclothes police officers strode in. The hateful one, Jaffey, leveled his gaze on her. "Angora Ryder, you're under arrest for the murders of Tammy Paulen and Dr. Carl Seger. You have the right to remain silent—"

Her mother swayed, then hit the floor face first. The cop didn't miss a beat, shouting her rights while the three men wrestled Dee into a chair. She roused and began to screech hysterically, something about the Junior League and being blackballed.

"Do you understand your rights?" Jaffey yelled over the fracas.

Angora nodded, then sighed, Only Dee could turn the spotlight on herself while her daughter was being handcuffed to a hospital bed.

Chapter 26