Identity--A Tale of Murder, Mystery and Romance Page 2

  But she was too exhausted to think about that now, and because Tyler was equally exhausted, they went up to their room on the eighth floor and stayed there for the remainder of the evening. After she finished taking a quick shower, she stepped from the bathroom and into the adjoining room to find Tyler on her bed in a position much like a mummy inside one of the sarcophaguses he found so fascinating. The blue-white tint of the television cast an eerie glow across the room and Tyler’s inscrutable features.

  She frowned. “Is everything okay?”

  “Can I sleep with you, tonight?”

  She glanced at the two queen-sized beds. Merely feet separated the two. Then memories, violent and vivid, flooded Skye’s mind. The gunshots, the anger, and rage from both robbers, the possibility of dying—all traumatic for an adult, never mind a nine-year-old boy.

  “Of course.”

  “And can we keep the TV on?”

  “I don’t have a problem with that.” She put her dirty clothes in a bag inside the hotel’s bureau. “I wanted to tell you how proud I was of you and how you reacted.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I know, but you were—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Skye nodded abruptly, unable to shake off the savage prongs of guilt. Too many times she’d thrust Tyler into situations he had no business being a participant in, no matter how coincidental. “But you do know I’m here if—”

  “I said—”

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll drop the subject.” But one of these days, she wasn’t going to be dismissed.

  Skye slipped under the covers beside Tyler. With tentative fingers, she clasped his hand. Suddenly, he rolled toward her and wrapped his arms around her in a fierce hug. Skye cupped his head against her shoulder and held on. Beneath the television’s blue-white glow, she lay silent, still, too afraid to move for fear he would turn away.

  Skye’s throat thickened and a band of emotion tightened around her chest as she inhaled his distinct scent of soap and vanilla. The baby powder days were long gone. Even the hugs and kisses seemed to be fading.

  After a while, his hold slackened and his breathing slowed. When she feathered his bangs from his brow, his nose twitched and he snuggled deeper against her side. Knowing this closeness would disappear with tomorrow’s dawn, she cherished the touch of his breath on her neck, the weight and warmth of his head against the crook of her shoulder. As her limbs grew languid with exhaustion, Skye realized what life was all about.

  Love.

  But at twenty-nine, she’d also learned love came with a price.

  Chapter 2

  Placing the file folder on the floor of the office, Peter Weaver crouched and opened the cabinet’s bottom drawer and breathed a sigh of relief at finding such an archaic storage system. It made his task much easier. He gripped the penlight between his teeth. It illuminated three rows of cassette recordings in their plastic cases. Names inked in black ran across each spine. He skimmed a gloved finger along the second row and pulled out three cassettes.

  Unexpected light appeared through the frosted glass window to the right of the office door and cast fresh shadows over the desk and chairs.

  For one pulse beat, Peter froze. Quickly, he turned off his penlight and gripped the cassettes in a tight-fisted hand. He rose to his full six-foot height and heard footsteps echo against the tiled hallway. He hadn’t expected any interruptions after ten tonight. This added a different spin on things. He didn’t like complications.

  The orders had been to get in, retrieve all available information on his mark, and get out undetected. Only when everything was evaluated would the decision be made on whether or not to kill the woman. But if a sudden obstacle developed, then Peter had been given the go-ahead to eliminate it.

  He’d memorized the building from every angle. The two-story, simple rectangular structure on the outskirts of Boston consisted of offices of varying medical and dental practices. The elevators were on one side, and the stairwell rested at the other. This office stood on the top floor and in the middle of the building. The person walking this way sounded as if he or she were coming from the elevator.

  The alarm system had been easy to breach, and the offices themselves were pathetic when it came to added security. After entering the building, he’d reactivated the alarm system and locked the office door behind him. That gave the person in the hall the misguided belief of being alone.

  A shadow appeared behind the thick, opaque window. Peter moved around the desk, over to the wall and set the cassettes on the floor by his feet. He stood left of the door and flexed his gloved fingers.

  The scrape of a key against metal and the whisper of the lock being eased back broke the silence. The door opened inward and shielded him from view. Someone flicked on the light switch. Peter didn’t move as the door sighed shut, revealing a woman in beige slacks, a sleeveless brown shirt, and shoulder-length, straight brown hair. She turned toward the desk, which gave him her profile, and confirmed her identity as the woman in the photo he’d been given.

  She hadn’t noticed him against the wall. She turned again, this time exposing her back to him as she bent over her desk.

  Perfect.

  The carpet covered the sound of his step as he eased up behind her. Then he struck, whipping his forearm across her throat and under her chin. She jerked back against him. Her hand caught at a stack of files. Papers swept off the desk and into the air. He drove his other forearm into the back of her neck in a chokehold, while crushing her windpipe and rupturing her larynx with his other arm. He stepped back, throwing her off her feet and giving him added leverage.

  She never had a chance to fight back or cry out. Her hands fluttered midair, then dropped. Peter snapped her neck. He felt her body give, the energy within evaporating, leaving a husk of bone and muscle.

  It took all of three seconds to complete the kill.

  Peter dropped the woman to the carpeted floor in frustration. Now he had to dispose of a body. He’d killed a few people over the years, and they’d stayed buried, but only because he’d taken the time to do it right. As for evidence of foul play, he’d eliminate all signs of a struggle and dispose of the body in his favorite dumping ground. That’s why he liked using his hands. They didn’t leave a mess like a gun or a knife.

  He stepped over the woman’s body, cleaned the room of evidence, and pocketed the cassettes.

  ~~*~~

  Thursday at the Pharaoh, Skye stood by the roulette wheel and watched the ball jump and kick over the numbers, pause, dive, then land on 15.

  “We have a winner!”

  The croupier slid the chips over the baize, and Skye added them to her growing stack. Several more people joined the table to watch. Even though it was inevitable, she didn’t like it. A crowd drew more attention to her and interfered with her concentration. Skye took a deep, calming breath. She needed to slow down, lose once or twice, and focus on the end result.

  Skye needed this money tonight. Her funds were running dangerously low. She didn’t have a job, hadn’t had one in six months. Being on the run kind of did that to a person. So she played craps and roulette, an easy way for her to make money—far more cash than she’d ever seen when she’d been a staff accountant.

  A man moved up to her right. The heat of his body, the breadth of his shoulders and his six-foot-plus frame crowded into her space. Skye didn’t glance over to acknowledge his presence or confirm his identity. She didn’t need to. She already knew the man at her side. She’d studied him off and on all evening.

  David Bishop.

  Weeks before she’d done a thorough search on the internet and learned Bishop was a twenty-nine-year-old, single, white male, with no prior record. As a member of The Society of American Magicians, Bishop’s career as an illusionist included numerous awards and referrals. Considered by many as one of the top illusionists during this decade, he’d performed at several Las Vegas casinos and national theme parks. He’d even performed on a
prime-time television show. Her research showed an impressive career, but it didn’t tell her a thing about the man.

  But she did learn one important fact—every now and then Bishop liked to walk the floor and play a couple of games of poker or roulette after his evening show. She’d decided to try a ‘chance’ meeting with him on the floor, instead of the nearly impossible task of slipping past the casino’s security to face him backstage or in his dressing room. Even if she did manage the confrontational approach, she was liable to look like some deranged or paranoid stalker.

  Thank goodness, tonight seemed to be the night. Less than two hours ago, she’d spotted Bishop on the floor. Ever since, she’d had a devil of a time concentrating on the roulette wheel, knowing he walked, stood, breathed somewhere near. She’d watched his every visible move with a mixture of fascination and fear.

  She wiped a hand against the silk of her dress. Talk about luck. She hadn’t even had to work hard at her ‘chance’ meeting.

  Skye glanced at his profile. Dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt and slacks that matched the color of his severely cropped hair, Bishop radiated energy and raw masculinity.

  The man probably encountered any number of groupies because of his career. Throwing herself at him wouldn’t hold his attention but a day or two, and even if it did, she didn’t think she had the nerve to climb on a strange man for sex. Plus, putting herself out there like that dramatically increased her chance of rejection—something she’d never handled well. She’d had more than most in this life, thank-you-very-much. Being somewhat aloof and hard to get—now that sounded more her style.

  But when it came down to it, she’d do almost anything to uncover the dark secrets behind his public persona.

  Unexpectedly, he turned and looked over at her as he sat in the chair beside her. Skye met his eyes and swallowed. Her heartbeat stumbled, then fluttered violently.

  With only feet separating them now, Skye realized how much she’d underestimated his appeal. Thick brows slashed over deep-set, smiling brown eyes. A straight, high-bridged nose, prominent cheekbones, and angular jaw added to a face filled with raw masculinity. Yet any woman would envy his tanned, unblemished complexion and thick lashes.

  On stage, he possessed an undeniable magnetism, even a dangerous sexuality, but she’d assumed the show’s music, lights and other stage elements enhanced his persona.

  Talk about being dead wrong. On stage he was dangerous, but off it, he was absolutely lethal—especially when he smiled at her with that lop-sided grin of his, which crinkled the corners of his eyes and revealed straight, white teeth.

  This wasn’t good. Not good at all. She’d never expected to be this darn attracted to the man. Two minutes within arm’s reach, and she was thinking things she didn’t have any business thinking.

  When he lifted a brow, Skye realized she’d been staring. At least she didn’t have her mouth hanging open, but her face did grow hot with embarrassment. What a great first impression, Skye thought in disgust. Then she realized she needed to say something and quickly before she looked like a complete idiot.

  “I saw your show earlier tonight. The way you work with candles is very romantic,” she said with honesty. “And your two golden retrievers—the levitation is amazing.”

  His smile deepened, further blasting Skye’s determination to remain detached. “It helps when I’ve got two partners who only bark back. They’re also pretty agreeable to having their paws in the air.”

  “Have you had them long?” she asked, surprised at his sense of humor when he had such smoldering, serious features.

  “Since they were pups.”

  Skye nodded. He had this deep, scratchy baritone voice that made her think of moonless nights and sweaty limbs. Not a good image right now.

  Swallowing, she forced herself to focus, shut up, turn back to the table and place another bet. She didn’t dare start asking questions too soon, because she feared once she started, she’d never stop. And if that happened, she’d scare off Bishop. Not something she wanted when he might be instrumental in keeping her alive.

  ~~*~~

  David Bishop watched the woman circle the rim of her chips with a thumb. Her fingers, long, elegant but without polish or a wedding band, deftly moved a stack across the felt to the line dividing four and five.

  He’d noticed her almost immediately after the show. Not because of her beauty. God knows, he’d associated with many a beautiful woman, but because of the way she moved, sat, held herself. Fluid yet controlled, sleek and sensual, and her legs... Wow. Completely illegal. Toned, slender, like cool marble. Her black, impossibly high-heeled sandals only emphasized their incredible length.

  He’d also noticed she didn’t have a companion of either sex with her. So far, it seemed like she wanted to keep it solo by the way she’d brushed off the last couple of men. Granted, they hadn’t been much to look at. He at least had a full head of hair and didn’t show signs of being in a nursing home anytime soon.

  After the dealer swept this plays chips off the layout, she leaned forward to place a corner bet, which gave him a great view. Her sleek body, encased in a tight, little, black dress, elevated his interest—among other things. She brushed a thick strand of chestnut hair over a bare shoulder. He eyed the strapless bodice that clung to perfectly shaped breasts and wondered if the whisper of freckles dusting her pale peach shoulders and nose covered every part of her body.

  She turned and caught him staring at her breasts. She lifted a brow and eyed him with a cool smile. “Like what you see?”

  David didn’t blush. He hadn’t in over a decade, and he wasn’t going to start now.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah.”

  The room’s lighting caressed her chestnut hair, which flowed past her shoulder in gentle curls, and turned several strands into dark copper. He wondered if her hair felt as silken as it looked and decided he wanted to find out.

  When she met his gaze, the heat flaring in her hazel eyes caught him unaware, hitting him in the gut and momentarily cutting off his breath. David couldn’t remember a time when a look twisted him in knots, and he didn’t know if he liked it.

  But then she blinked, and her expression turned unreadable, which made him doubt if he’d seen the hot emotion in her eyes as she swept her gaze over his body.

  “Do I pass?” he asked.

  “I’m sure some women find you easy on the eye.”

  “I’ve never had any complaints. At least not to my face,” he replied, somewhat taken aback at her unenthusiastic appraisal. He usually didn’t get a hands-off reaction from a woman. The opposite, in fact. There’d been a couple of times where he’d had to forcibly remove a hand or two from his body.

  Oh, well. She might be worth the work, David decided as he leaned closer and smiled. “But I’m not interested in any woman’s opinion. I’m interested in yours.”

  “Then if you must know—I’d say you pass. I don’t find you ugly.”

  “Why...” What an ego deflator. “...thanks.”

  She smiled.

  Finally a positive response.

  “You’re drop-dead gorgeous,” she admitted, a distinct twinkle now brightening her hazel eyes, “and the problem is that you know it.”

  “And here I thought you were going to take pity on me and be nice.”

  “Nice? I have an idea your definition of nice doesn’t compare to mine.” Her smile turned sheepish as the roulette wheel stopped and the ball landed on black eight. “And as for pity, I might be the one who needs it soon.”

  David glanced over to where the croupier raked in her chips. “That didn’t go well.”

  “I expect to lose every now and then. After all, when it comes to roulette, the odds are against me.”

  She shrugged, obviously not upset at dropping a couple hundred. In his opinion, the woman was far too detached and in control of her every movement and expression to be anything but a pro, but she wasn’t a regular. He’d been performing at this casino for the l
ast two months, and he’d have noticed her by now.

  When he watched her lose two more times, David inwardly winced. Over a thousand in less than fifteen minutes and not one bead of sweat on her brow.

  David wondered if she handled sex with the same cool, controlled way she gambled. Did that façade hide a wild side? Did a touch, a word, send her over the edge? Or did it take more?

  She lost yet again. By God, if his dad had been watching, the man would have had a coronary.

  She glanced his way. “Relax.”

  David hadn’t realized he’d protested aloud. “I guess my background’s showing. Can’t seem to get rid of memories of being dirt poor as a kid.”

  She wrinkled her nose, drawing attention to her freckles. He really did like those freckles. Or maybe he just liked them on this particular woman.

  “You don’t have to worry,” she assured. “I’m not throwing my savings away or stealing from my son’s piggy bank.”

  “You have a son?” he asked in surprise.

  “Yes.”

  The expression on her face didn’t change, but David sensed an immediate tension and wariness radiating from her. Despite his curiosity, he decided to respect her privacy and veer off the subject of her son.

  “You might not be throwing away your savings, but you’re tossing enough around that if you keep it up, management’s going to love you.”

  Hey, if she wanted to waste her money, that was her business. He wasn’t interested in her bank account, but her body on the other hand...

  She glanced up at him. This time he hadn’t been ogling her breasts, but his thoughts hadn’t been any better. Twice now she’d caught him. The woman must have a sixth sense when his mind hit the gutter.

  “Possibly. But the evening’s not over. I could go all night. It depends.”

  At the double-entendre, his gaze sharpened, but her angelic expression gave nothing away. Maybe he’d twisted her words into something he wanted to hear. Then again, her mind might have dove into the gutter alongside his. Wishful thinking perhaps...