In the Shadow of Evil (13 page)

"Stalking?" Houston stopped beside Maddox's truck.

Maddox frowned. "You're reaching now."

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"She won't even know I'm there. I promise."

"So, why are you going?"

"She's a person of interest in the case. I'm just trying to get a handle on her."

Houston grinned. "Yeah, you're trying to get a handle on her all right."

Maddox pointed at him. "Don't forget Uncle George invited us both over for lunch tomorrow. Fried backstrap. Noon."

"I'm in."

"See you tomorrow." Maddox slipped behind the wheel of his truck. He couldn't explain why he wanted to see Layla Taylor perform her ballroom dancing. He just did.

And he sure couldn't explain why he was taking Megan Goins with him. That could truly be an incident waiting to happen. But he'd needed an excuse to be there, and what better one than to be on a date.

Just in case Layla did see him.

Maddox started the engine and backed out of his parking space. A fleeting thought slashed across his mind. Would Layla get jealous if she saw him out with Megan?

Why did he even wonder?

ELEVEN

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness."

—JOHN KEATS

NERVES GNAWED HER STOMACH.

Layla let out the breath she'd been holding and flexed her fingers. She and Jeffery were up next. An American Viennese waltz—a one, two, three count. Performing to "Waltz for the Moon." Tempo of 177 beats per minute. Natural turn. Reverse turn. Closed changes forward. Closed changes back. Beautiful and elegant. She should be able to do this dance in her sleep.

She checked her dress a final time. The off-the-shoulder black Lycra dress clung to her like a second skin. The two sections of horizontal lace as well as the lace long sleeves itched against her dry skin. Layla kicked out the flaring bottom skirt. Perfectly hemmed, it didn't catch on her four-inch rhinestone-encrusted heels.

"You look amazing and we'll do fine. Stop fidgeting," Jeffery whispered in her ear.

She turned to smile up at him. "Easy for you to say. You don't have to worry about your dress getting caught in your shoes."

He chuckled, deep and reassuring. "Thank goodness." He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. "How do I look?"

"Handsome as always." Handsome, he was. Tall, dark-haired, and as lithe as a cat.

And very much married to the love of his life.

He smiled. "My bride said to tell you she likes your hair that way."

Layla's hands automatically went to smooth her hair. She normally wore it up in a bun, but tonight she'd left it down, taming it into large waves reminiscent of the fifties. "Tell her thanks."

"You tell her after we dance."

His wife refused to dance but loved watching Jeffery glide across the floor. She never missed a performance. Layla thought her the sweetest thing. "I will."

The last bridge of Chester and Buffy's fox-trot began.

Layla exhaled slowly but smiled at Jeffery. She wiped her palms on the towel by the stage entrance. In a minute the announcer would introduce them.

A door slammed behind her. She shifted to see around Jeffery.

And almost threw up.

Looking more dashing and dangerous than ought to be legal, Randy Dean slipped backstage. He wore black slacks and a red silk shirt. He gripped a rose in his hand.

Layla remembered to shut her mouth. "What is he doing here?" she ground out between clenched teeth.

"I don't know, but by his outfit, I'd say he's come to dance the tango."

Oh, she
was
going to be sick.

Natalie Combs flitted to Randy, her long, black hair wound up into a French twist. "I thought you were going to stand me up." She kissed the air beside his face.

Every muscle in Layla's body tensed. The hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. And every word of her last argument with Randy flooded her.

"Well, maybe I'd be interested in something more permanent if you were more feminine," Randy sneered.

Layla's back stiffened. "Excuse me? More feminine?"

"You're a joke, Lay. All the guys laugh at you behind your back. No one takes you seriously as a contractor."

She couldn't have been more hurt if he'd slapped her.

"Why don't you stop trying to live up to Daddy's expectations?"

The urge to vomit nearly gagged her. She fisted her hands at her sides. "And do what, pray tell?"

"Act like a lady. Be more like Natalie."

Red flashed before her eyes. She'd heard all the rumors . . . and ignored them. Never even asked him about them.

Maybe she should have. "Natalie's so great, is she?"

"She knows how to be a lady. Be feminine. Knows how to keep a man interested." His words held the hidden meanings that ripped her heart from her chest.

So the rumors were definitely true. Her body went numb. "If she's such a lady, why are you here with me? Why aren't you chasing after Ms. Feminine herself?"

Randy's face contorted with anger. "Maybe I should be. Beats wasting my time with you—a boy wannabe."

Defiance lifted her chin. "There's nothing stopping you from leaving."

He grabbed his jacket. "Consider me gone."

Layla hadn't heard from him in six months. Six months! She'd been told he'd moved out of town. Natalie had never said anything during rehearsals.

Now he was back. His eyes met hers in the dim backstage lighting.

Her world tilted on its axis.

Chester and Buffy whizzed by. The emcee announced the waltz and introduced Layla and Jeffery.

She couldn't move.

Jeffery grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her to face him, away from Randy's debilitating gaze. "Ignore him. Concentrate. You can do this." He led her two steps toward the stage entrance.

She nearly tripped over her feet.

He steadied her. "Layla, look at me. Layla!"

She swallowed and met his stare.

"You can do this. Just follow my lead. Listen to the music. The beat. The tempo. Count it out in your head. One, two, three."

She nodded numbly.

"Layla!"

She shivered.

"Don't give him the satisfaction of making you mess up. Put him out of your head and concentrate on me. Look into my eyes—nowhere else, just in my eyes."

She focused on the bridge of his nose and nodded.

"Okay." He let out a breath and took her hand, shaking them loosely. "Let's do this. Remember, keep your focus on me."

Oh, Lord, help me.

SHE WAS STUNNING.

Maddox swallowed back his surprise. Layla Taylor was attractive in her own way, but tonight . . . in that dress with her hair looking all silky . . . she stole his breath.

Her body moved as one with her partner's. Her eyes never left his face.

A claw of jealousy raked across Maddox's chest. He shifted in his seat.

"They're good," Megan whispered.

Maddox struggled to remember Layla was a person of interest in the case. He forced his arm draped across the back of Megan's chair not to tense. He lifted his glass from the linen-covered table and took a sip, not even tasting the sweetness of the sparkling cider.

Layla and her partner floated above the dance floor. Her dress swooshed through the air at her ankles. Her posture was picture perfect.

They rounded the dance floor closest to Maddox, and he noticed her expression. Eyes glazed over. Brow wrinkled in concentration. Neck stiff.

Something wasn't right.

Maybe that was her normal dancing posture, but Maddox didn't think so. The set of her jaw. Her unsmiling face.

Yep, something was definitely off.

He glanced over to the other side of the dance floor where he'd spied her sister earlier. Still seated and holding hands with the man Maddox could only assume was her fiancé, Alana Taylor's eyes followed every step of her sister's.

The worry lining her face told Maddox he was right. Alana saw it too.

With a final, elaborate dip, the song ended. Layla and her partner stood in the center of the floor, took a bow to each side, then eased off stage. Across the dance floor Alana stood. She kissed her fiancé, leaned over to whisper in his ear, then turned toward the side exit.

The emcee held the microphone. "And to close out this evening's performance, we welcome back Randy Dean dancing the tango with Natalie Combs."

Alana stopped in her tracks, gaping at the stage.

Maddox followed her stare to the man taking a starting position. The dancer popped a rose between his teeth and straightened his spine. Maddox glanced to Alana. She'd back-stepped to her table and sunk into her chair. Her eyes were wide. Her face pale.

Looking at the couple on stage, taking their first steps as the music started, Maddox blinked several times. What was he missing?

His heart thudded hard against his rib cage.
Randy Dean.
The guy Layla had been involved with.

Maddox studied the man moving across the stage. Tall. Dark hair. Was he handsome? Maddox sneaked a peek at Megan. Her eyes were wide . . . her mouth slightly parted. Yeah, she found Randy Dean attractive.

Another bite of jealousy burned in Maddox's gut.

The emcee had said "we welcome back Randy Dean," indicating he'd been gone. The look on Layla's and Alana's faces said neither knew he'd be making a return appearance tonight.

Could it have something to do with the case?

Maddox took another sip of his sparkling cider. Where had Randy been? Why was he back? Odd coincidence that he'd returned right after a home Layla built had burned down. Where was Randy on Friday night between eleven thirty and midnight?

Was there bad blood between the two of them? Enough that Randy would do something to hurt her business, like that reporter had insinuated? Maybe jealousy wasn't the motive but revenge?

Tomorrow he'd find out everything he could on Randy Dean.

WHY WAS LAYLA GETTING mixed up in the investigation?

He didn't want to hurt her—hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, but Dennis had pushed him. Had given him no choice.

But Layla?

Why couldn't she just leave the sleuthing to the cops? They wouldn't be able to piece anything together. But Layla? Well . . . there was a good chance she'd see the connection. Especially if she started looking at past records.

Records!

He needed to destroy her records, then she wouldn't put the puzzle together. And it would give her something else to concentrate on. The police could do their minor investigating, but they would eventually file the case away. Another crime would take its place.

Tonight. He'd destroy her records tonight.

By tomorrow Layla Taylor would forget completely about playing Nancy Drew.

TWELVE

"And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in a masquerade."

—ALEXANDER POPE

THE NERVE OF HIM! Coming back. Dancing with Natalie. Jeering at her with his stare.

Layla slammed the door to her truck and marched up the stairs to her cabin. Forgetting she hadn't wanted to take the time to change clothes, she stepped too hard and her heel caught in the space between the boards and broke off. She pitched forward and fell hard on her hands and knees. Her anger and frustration gave way to pain.

Hot tears slipped down her cheeks. After she'd left the performance, she had driven for hours, letting her anger and embarrassment go with the miles. But now . . . She curled into the fetal position on her cold front porch. For once she let her emotions overtake her.
Why, God? Why let him come back? Not that I care about him, but . . . God, why?

The phone ringing inside the cabin snagged her attention. Who would be calling at this hour? Had to be an emergency. Or Alana calling to check on her, probably worried sick. With a slow exhale, she pushed to standing, wiped her scraped hands on her now-snagged dress, unlocked the front door, then hobbled inside as fast as possible. Stupid broken heel.

The fourth ring echoed off the walls.

"Hello." She leaned against the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes.

"Layla Taylor?"

"Yes." Her hose were ruined. Her knees bloodied and scraped. And now burning. She snatched a towel from the bar, wet it, and dabbed at her knees.