Vows of Vengeance Page 2
He maneuvered around traffic and a handful of pedestrians leaving a blues bar, then sped onto the road leading to the motel, leaving the historic side of Savannah with its town squares, haunted cemeteries and classy bed-and-breakfasts behind. He continued on, threading his way to the outskirts, to a rinky-dink motel that catered to low-rent patrons and truckers, ones who didn’t mind bug-infested rooms and two-bit hookers.
What was Stella doing at a place of this caliber? And why had Rawlins said they were going to arrest her for murder? Had she been held captive? Had she become involved with another man and gotten in over her head?
He approached the motel room with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Finally he’d glean some answers. Learn the truth. Get closure.
Look into her eyes and know why she’d put him through hell the last year. Why she hadn’t loved him enough to stay around.
The blue lights of the Savannah police car swirled through the darkness, the neon lights of the Sunset Motel blinking as he parked. One letter was missing in the word Sunset so it read the Sunet, and the building was so dilapidated it should have been condemned. A smattering of rattletrap cars filled the lot, a group of spectators already hovered in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes and mumbling, obviously aware their peaceful night had been interrupted by crime.
He barreled his sedan into a parking spot, killed the engine, then grabbed his badge and flashed it at the locals working to secure the scene.
“Special Agent Devlin.”
The squatty officer at the bottom of the steps spoke first. “Detective Black said you’d be here.”
Luke nodded, grimacing. The man obviously knew about his past. As Luke climbed the steps to the second floor, he dodged a reporter and cameraman. The motel rooms were lined up, each with its own outdoor access to the balcony. The doors were painted an avocado-green that had faded to a pea-green color from the blistering sun and relentless summer heat.
Seconds later, he stopped at the doorway, his gaze skimming past the security guard talking to one of the local cops. Through the open doorway, he cataloged details of the scene.
Blood was splattered everywhere, soaking the sheets and dotting the stained gray carpet. The foul odors of death hit him. The mumblings of policemen at work. A crime scene crew that had just arrived.
He saw Detective Black inside, then his gaze landed on Stella, and his heart literally seemed to stop beating.
She sat stone-stiff in one of the motel chairs, her hands knotted, her normally olive complexion a pasty-white, while Black questioned her. Luke hadn’t imagined the gut-wrenching reality of seeing her alive, in the flesh.
The hair that had been buttery-blond was now jet-black, not short and layered as when he’d known her, but a long tangle of ebony waves that sent a bolt of surprise through him. Surprise and sexual desire. He had wanted Stella the first moment he’d met her. The moment he’d looked into her pale green eyes.
She’d been leaning against a bar wearing a red dress that hugged her curves and a pair of rhinestone earrings that had dangled down to her shoulders. Although surrounded by gaping men, she’d appeared disinterested. Instead she’d looked lost and lonely.
After the death of his partner and the questions surrounding J.T.’s final days, Luke had been vulnerable himself. He’d always admired the way Osborne had juggled his career and a wife, and for the first time in his life, Luke had wanted the same.
In an uncharacteristic move, he’d bought Stella a drink. Three vodka martinis later, and they’d crawled into bed for some of the steamiest sex in his life. Stella had completely poleaxed him with her odd mixture of shy vulnerability and her bold lack of inhibitions about her body.
A month later, they’d eloped and that blissful month of premarriage heaven had turned into the year from hell.
He cleared this throat, struggled for calm and entered the room. An eerie quiet descended as if the black cloud that had been following him had swallowed the light. Two officers parted, their stares burning his back as he walked toward her. They knew who he was. Knew this was his wife.
When he stopped, only a breath away from her, he expected recognition. He waited, bracing himself, tamping down his anger.
She looked up, and he stared into her light green eyes, was caught anew by the sensuality and sweetness he’d once seen there. A bruise darkened her cheek, though, and a cold look of horror filled those crystalline eyes, as well as a dead emptiness that shook him to the core.
Yes, it was Stella.
But not the Stella he remembered.
She didn’t speak, jump up and greet him, or offer an explanation. Didn’t acknowledge that she was his wife. Didn’t move to touch him, to hold him or beg him for forgiveness.
He had to clear his throat twice to make it work. “Stella?”
He waited, his lungs tight.
“Yes.” An odd, almost distant look glazed her expression, then her voice came out in a low whisper. “Who are you?”
STELLA’S HEAD was swimming. First from waking up to find the dead man beside her, her hands coated in blood. Then the security guard and police with their questions and accusing eyes.
And now this stranger…was staring at her, calling her name, looking at her as if he’d seen a ghost.
As if she should know him.
“Come on, Stella,” he said in a harsh voice. “It may have been over a year since we were together, but don’t pretend you don’t recognize me.”
“I…” She gripped her hands in her lap, shuddering at the blood on her fingers. The sticky dark substance had seeped beneath her fingernails, soaked into her skin, settled in the fine lines on her palms. The smell suffocated her, the feel of the dried blood caking her hands nauseating her.
She desperately wanted to shower and rid her body of the stench of the dead man, but the detective beside her had already informed her bathing was impossible. They had to collect evidence. Fingerprints, DNA. Protect the crime scene.
So they could nail her for the murder.
Even though confusion muddled her mind, she knew what they were thinking. Realized she looked guilty. For God’s sake, she’d been holding the gun when the cop had arrived.
And what had this man said—that it had been a year since she’d seen him? Denial swept through her. If she’d ever met him, she wouldn’t have forgotten him. He was too powerful. Virile. Sexy. Intimidating.
Then again, she couldn’t remember anything except her name.
“Stella?”
She studied his features, searching for familiarity, for any dot of a memory to return. His tight jeans accentuated the massive power of his body. He was tall, over six feet, broad-shouldered and muscular. His eyes were dark, too, like two hot coals on fire, probing, unnerving as if he never smiled. A broad jaw brushed with dark stubble gave him a sexy appearance, but the tight set to that jaw indicated he was angry.
Why would this man be angry with her?
“I…don’t know who you are or why you think you know me.” She met his gaze, determined to prove her point, but somewhere deep inside, in the far recesses of her mind, something intangible registered.
A wild and primitive awareness flickered in his eyes, something predatory, an almost hungry look, as if she’d not only met him, but he’d known her intimately.
As quickly as the moment came, it fled, and she was thrust back into the depths of lost time.
“This isn’t funny, Stella.” The man stalked toward her, stopped and gritted his teeth. “I’ve been searching for you ever since you ran out on our wedding night.”
Stella gasped, perspiration beading her lip. Wedding night? What was he talking about? She’d never been married….
Had she?
LUKE STUDIED his wife’s reaction, his temper battling with other emotions he didn’t want to admit. He was glad to see her. Relieved she was alive. Furious that she’d left him.
And he ached to hold her. To grab her, drag her into his arms and tell her how terrified he’d been
that she was hurt, in trouble, needing him. How he’d nearly been out of his mind the last twelve months. That he’d imagined horrid scenarios, seen her face in death a thousand times in his mind, her neck twisted or broken, her body covered in blood with glazed eyes.
That he’d made love to her a thousand times in his mind.
Stella stretched her left hand in front of her. “You must have me confused with someone else, mister. I’ve never been married.”
His dark eyebrow shot up. “Stop lying,” he said in an icy tone. “I’m not in the mood to play games and neither are these other officers.” His cold gaze slid across her, sideways to the bed where the dead man lay in a pool of blood, then back to her hands. “Who was he? Your lover?”
Detective Black cleared his throat. “Devlin, maybe you’d better let me handle this.”
Luke glared at him. “What has she told you so far?”
Stella knotted her hands and glanced at the detective as if he were her friend. As if she thought she needed protection from him.
“I don’t know who this man is,” Stella said to Black. “Or what he’s talking about. Do I have family to call?”
“You told me you had no family.” Luke swallowed, grappling for control. After all Stella had put him through, how could she pretend she didn’t recognize him?
Detective Black gestured for Luke to step aside. Reluctantly he did so, well aware Stella tracked his movements.
“I think she may have amnesia or be suffering from shock,” Detective Black said. “I want the paramedics to evaluate her.”
Luke nodded. “All right, but just to cover our asses. She’s lying through her pretty, white teeth.”
Black shrugged. “Then see what you can get out of her. So far, I’ve hit a dead end. She insists she doesn’t remember anything except her name, that she doesn’t know the victim.”
Luke grunted. Hell, maybe she hadn’t known him, maybe she’d picked up a stranger for a one-night stand. “She was in bed with the damn man.”
Not how he’d expected to find her. He’d be a laughingstock all over the bureau. Disgust rode through him in waves. He’d made a fool of himself the last year. Begging the feds to keep looking for her and trying to clear himself at the same time.
Dammit, he’d chased down lead after lead. Tortured himself over what might have happened to her. Blamed himself for not protecting her. Nearly lost his damn career.
And now here she sat, denying their marriage ever existed, pretending not to know his name…
Fury raged through him as he turned back to her. She was trembling and had shrunken back into the chair as if the cheap flimsy plastic might save her. Hating the sympathy that struck him, he stifled the urge to grab a blanket and wrap it around her arms, to calm her.
Instead he steeled his voice. “All right, Stella. Tell me what’s going on.”
Her eyes smoldered with unease. “Like I told the police, I don’t remember what happened. I woke up around midnight and found this man in my bed. B-blood was everywhere.” Her face paled as she picked at the dark stain between her fingers.
“Go on.”
She bit down on her lower lip. “I…had blood on me, then I scrambled off the bed and saw the gun.”
“You were holding it when the security guard arrived.”
“I…I picked it up off the floor. I…” She gestured toward the bed. “I …don’t know this dead man, though…or what’s going on. I…swear it. I don’t even remember checking into the motel.”
“What is the last thing you remember?”
Stella glanced away, rubbed at her temple as if a headache brewed. “Nothing.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw, his agent instincts battling with the memory of her in his arms. He almost believed her. Almost.
Too much circumstantial evidence pointed to the opposite.
He knelt and touched her hands, ignoring the stab of desire the movement cost him. She was shaking, her eyes glued to the crimson stains on her fingers and nails.
He slowly turned her hands over, and saw the powder burns.
Powder burns didn’t lie. Only people did.
“STELLA’S OUT of control.” He poured himself a glass of brandy from the bar in Sutton’s office, swirled it in circles, then downed it in one swooping gulp. While he waited on Sutton’s response, he savored the taste for a moment, the slow burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat and warming his belly.
“I have the situation in hand,” Sutton barked. “She told the police nothing.”
“You lost her a long time ago, Sutton. You should have disposed of her when she first betrayed you and attempted to escape.”
“My plan will work. Just be patient.”
“Patient? Devlin won’t let go. And we’ve put too much into this project for you to go soft.”
“Soft?” Sutton’s voice rose. “If I’d gone soft, how the hell did I pull off what I just did? My plan is a stroke of genius.”
He tapped his nails on the smooth marble bar. “What if it doesn’t work? You’re taking a chance just letting her near the cops. And that bastard Devlin—he’s no fool.” He paused and poured himself another drink. “He didn’t let the hype about his partner being corrupt deter him.”
“It did for a while. He got sidetracked with Stella.”
“You think we can use her to do the same now?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
He harrumphed. Sutton might think he had things under control, but that was near impossible now. Stella was like a pipe bomb—unpredictable. “Know that I’m monitoring your ever movement, Sutton. If Devlin gets too close, if Stella starts remembering and talking, then I’ll kill them both.”
“I understand.”
Did he really? Sutton might be riding the line, but he wasn’t. He was the same ruthless man he’d been trained to be. He took without mercy. Trained the others to do the same. And he hadn’t gone soft.
Soft meant forgetting what he had learned from the Master. The Master who had led him down the path years ago, just as he continued to lead the others.
Stella had been one of them. One of the hardest to break. One of the ones who’d tried to get away.
But there was no escape. Only a price to pay for trying to do so.
And Stella would learn just how high that price could be.
Death for her lover. For herself.
But first…first, she would know the pain of betrayal.
And if Sutton couldn’t handle it, he’d meet death himself.
Chapter Two
Luke’s gaze rose from Stella’s bloodstained, powder-burned fingers to her heart-shaped face. The bruise stood out, stark now, making his gut clench.
As their gazes locked, the undeniable spark of sexual energy that had zapped him the first time he’d met her rippled through him again, as strong and potent as before. The pull of those green eyes, luminous with fear and confusion, tugged at emotions he refused to acknowledge.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and hands, and his heart pounded. The air was sultry, the room cloying with the stench of death, yet she still had the power to touch some unreachable place that he hadn’t even known existed. A weak place that wanted and needed her in spite of the fact that she had deceived him.
Every protective instinct he’d ever possessed reared itself, taunting him with what-ifs.
What if Stella were telling the truth? What if she were innocent? What if this were some bizarre case that was more complicated than a wife having skipped out on her husband? What if the dead man had tried to hurt her, and she’d been acting in self-defense?
What if she hadn’t wanted to leave you?
Hopeful, stupid thoughts that no jaded cop or federal agent was supposed to think, much less allow himself to believe. Not even for a second.
After all, he’d seen the worst of mankind, witnessed deplorable acts and betrayals that had destroyed his trust in the human soul. And years ago, he’d steeled himself against falling for a wounded woman.
Then a part of him had gone soft.
He hated softness of any kind. Had been trained not to tolerate it.
He glanced at her hands again, registered the absence of her wedding ring, and he won the war with his primal instincts. Humiliation and anger raging inside him, he wiped the sweat from his brow and spun away from her, leaving her to face the cops alone while he spoke with the crime scene unit. The medical examiner, Dr. Yates, studied the body, making notes. A sandy-haired man in his twenties and a red-headed female CSI tech were collecting evidence, combing for fingerprints, picking hair fibers from the bed and carpet, lifting prints from the water and wineglasses on the end table. The sheets were soaked, hanging askew, the white pillow-case marred with a crimson stain in the shape of a hand. Stella’s hand.
Luke swept his gaze over the victim. Noticed not for the first time that he was naked. He had brown hair, was average height, no distinguishing marks on his face, except for a scar by his right ear. He was lying on his back, his legs partially dangling over the side as if he’d tried to get up and run. One hand was thrown over his head, the other on his chest where the bullets had pierced his heart. His body was lean, but not muscular. Hairy. And his jewels… They were limp, hanging in plain sight.
Not a man he’d have thought Stella would have been attracted to.
Luke’s hands knotted by his sides. Had Stella slept with the man, then killed him? And if so, why hadn’t she tried to cover up the murder? Why had she screamed as if she was calling for help? She hadn’t even attempted to hide the weapon.
Or maybe her amnesia act was part of her plan…a self-defense ploy to keep her from jail.
He scratched his chin, assessing the rest of the room with a trained eye. There were no suitcases. No bottle of wine to go with the wineglasses. No…clothing.
No woman’s purse.
The pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit. Where were the man’s clothes?
He stalked to the bathroom and found one of the investigators bagging a pair of slacks, so he introduced himself to both the techs. “Any ID in there?”