Colin stiffened. “Myles?”
“The charming demon who attacked me at Paradise.”
His hands fisted.
“You know, sometimes I wonder about that. Sometimes I think…”
“What?”
“That Niol was testing me.” Emily shook her head. “But that doesn’t really make sense, does it?” Yet it was a suspicion she couldn’t shake. Niol had casually introduced Myles to her one night as she’d stood, swaying to the music of the band. Every night she’d gone back to Paradise, Myles had been there, waiting for her. Always kind. Always the gentleman.
Until the night he’d attacked her.
And Niol had been watching from the shadows.
“I don’t think a hell of a lot about that bastard Niol makes sense.”
Yes, he was probably right.
The alarm on her wrist began to vibrate. Emily exhaled heavily. Time for her twelve o’clock with Margie.
Colin frowned and the faint lines around his eyes deepened. “What in the hell is that?”
Good old shifter hearing. Emily held up her arm. “My alarm. It’s time for my next patient.” And she was glad. It was a reprieve, of sorts, for her.
“In other words, you mean it’s time for me to leave.” Some of the tension faded from his expression, and his lips hitched into a half smile. “That’s fine, Doc. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Sure.” His hand lifted, cupped her cheek. “When I come over.”
Her stomach tightened. In anticipation, not fear. “I don’t remember inviting you over.”
Colin’s head lowered toward hers. “We’ve got to finish our lesson.”
Other 101. “Umm, right.”
One black brow rose. “Is that disappointment I hear?”
She flushed. Way to be transparent. “I—”
His lips brushed against hers. Warm. Wet. Open.
God, but she liked the way he kissed. Liked the slow thrust of his tongue into her mouth. And the man tasted good. Like rich chocolate, and she’d always been a serious sucker for chocolate.
He pulled away slowly. “You know, Doc, I’m glad as hell to know that you weren’t Niol’s lover.”
So was she.
“And now that I’ve been in your office, I’m going to have fantasies.”
She was already having a few of her own.
Colin spared a glance for her couch. “Mainly, I’ll picture that couch. With you on it, naked, of course.”
Of course. Damn. It was hot. She shouldn’t have worn the black turtleneck.
Ah, hell, she couldn’t even kid herself. She was just damn turned on. Because she could picture him on her couch too. And in her fantasies, he was most definitely naked.
Down, girl. You’ve got a patient waiting. It’s not the right time for wild sex.
“I’ll see you tonight.” His hand fell away.
“O-Okay.”
Colin strolled toward the door. Emily followed slowly behind him, trying to calm her racing heart.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Drake!” Margie’s cheery voice greeted her the moment she stepped into the lobby.
Emily forced a friendly smile. She liked Margie, truly enjoyed their sessions, but at that moment she could have easily cursed the elderly woman’s penchant for perfect punctuality.
A few minutes to get her body back under control…that’s all she wanted.
“Hello, Margie.”
In her late seventies, with a mane of salt and pepper hair, Margie was the epitome of elegance. She was dressed in immaculate, very high-end clothing, and a cloud of French perfume hung in the air around her.
A large wicker basket sat on the chair beside her. A basket that was currently hissing.
Colin halted, slanted a quick look at Margie and her basket.
Margie smiled innocently back at him.
“Hello, ma’am.”
The basket hissed, a very loud, very disgruntled hiss that cut straight through Colin’s words.
Emily cleared her throat. Time to intervene before Colin gets too friendly with my patient. “Thanks for stopping by, Detective.
I’ll look forward to our next meeting.”
He tore his gaze away from the basket. “Me too, Doc. Me too.”
Then he was gone.
“Hmmmph.” The grumble came from Vanessa, who was currently on the exact opposite end of the room from Margie and her basket. In fact, Vanessa looked like she was trying to disappear into the wallpaper.
Vanessa didn’t enjoy Margie’s visits as much as Emily did. But in all honesty, her distaste had nothing to do with Margie personally.
Emily motioned for her client to follow her inside the main office.
She shut the door with a decisive click and watched as her client carefully sat the basket down onto the couch. Then Margie lifted the round lid.
The hisses were much, much louder now.
Emily crossed to her desk. Picked up her pen. “What seems to be the issue today?”
Margie pulled a large albino Burmese python from the basket, her fingers smoothing over its brightly colored body. The snake stretched beneath her touch, the orange and yellow marks across its long length immediately catching Emily’s eye.
Then the snake hissed again.
“Oh, George, stop it.” Margie frowned at the snake. “He’s been like this for the last two days. Hissing, hissing, hissing. But he won’t say a dang word to me.”
Emily picked up her pad. Silent treatment from George, again.
“It started when I had a gentleman caller on Friday.” Margie flushed a bit. “Well, George took one look at him and tried to constrict around his leg…”
“Heard you had a bit of excitement last night.” Brooks leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Got jumped in an alley with your pretty psychologist, huh?” There was a touch of humor in his voice, but genuine concern shone in his eyes.
“Yeah, some punks”— demons—“caught us as we were leaving Paradise Found.” He shook his head. “The uniforms sent out patrols, but”—Colin shrugged—“in that part of town, it’s easy to disappear if you don’t want to get caught.”
Colin pulled out the Myers file. “Hey, tell me, did you interview the girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Brooks whistled softly as he leaned back in his chair. “One of those pretty, cover-girl types, a little too thin for my taste, but still—”
“Where was Gillian when Preston was killed?” Colin asked, cutting through his words. You had to do that when Brooks started talking about a pretty woman. Otherwise, the guy would just go on and on.
Brooks blinked. “Who the hell is Gillian?” He leaned forward, sitting straighter and motioning to the file. “The guy’s girlfriend was a Hilary Bishop. You know her, she’s the mayor’s niece and—”
“I’ve got it on pretty good authority that the vic was involved with a Gillian Nemont.” He paused a beat, waiting for the name to register. “Does the name ring a bell?”
His partner shook his head. “Never heard of her. And neither has the vic’s family, friends, or neighbors.” He smiled, his innocent-trust-me smile. “And believe me, if they knew about her, I would know by now.”
“We need to find her,” Colin said, tapping the file against the edge of his desk. So Gillian had been the vic’s dirty little secret…
But had she been the secret that had led to his murder?
Only one way to find out.
Less than an hour later, Colin and Brooks stood in front of Gillian’s apartment. When they saw that the lock was broken, that the door swayed drunkenly on its hinges, both men reached for their guns.
“I’ll cover you.” Brooks mouthed the words.
Colin nodded. He crouched near the wall, banged his fist against the wooden door. “Gillian Nemont! This is the police! We need to talk to you!”
No response, but then, based on the condition of the lock, he hadn’t really expected one.
One more try. “Ms. Nemont! We’re coming in!” He lifted his gun, took a deep breath, and shoved open her door.
He sprang inside, still crouching, searching the room in one fast glance.
The place had been trashed. Chairs were overturned, and the sofa was slashed to bits. Papers and books littered the floor.
Colin started inching around the right wall, heading toward what he thought was the bedroom. Brooks took the left wall.
Colin turned the corner. Found more chaos. A broken mirror, smashed dresser.
But no Gillian.
“Looks like someone beat us here,” Brooks murmured as he lowered his gun. “Damn, the woman sure must have pissed someone off.” He exhaled slowly.
Colin pushed his way to the small closet. “Her clothes are gone.” Not tossed onto the floor. Not shredded. Just gone.
He crossed to the bathroom. Brooks was already in the small room, looking around at the broken shards that had once been a vanity mirror.
“I don’t see a toothbrush, or toothpaste.” Brooks looked up at him. “Looks like our girl got out before the trasher arrived.”
“We need to get a crime scene unit in here.” Colin reached for his cell phone. He’d only touched the door when he’d entered.
Maybe they’d get lucky and find some prints in the apartment.
“What are the odds,” Brooks began slowly as they made their way back to the front door, “that this woman’s apartment—a woman you say was Preston’s lover—just happened to be vandalized?”
“I’d say the odds are pretty high…that Gillian knows something.” But if she was on the run, and it sure looked like she was, then they’d have a damn hard time finding her.
“You think he found what he was looking for?” Brooks scanned the living room, his eyes darting over the broken furniture, the smashed computer screen.
Colin shrugged as he punched in the number for the CSU. “Could be he wasn’t looking for anything.”
Brooks lifted a brow. “Think this was a message?”
They’d both seen situations like that before, of course. Homes trashed, cars vandalized, all to make witnesses too scared to talk to the cops.
“Yeah, I think it was.”
His partner’s brown eyes narrowed as he studied the floor. Crouching, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket.
“What’ve you got?”
Brooks shoved aside wood from the coffee table. “Looks like a day planner.” He lifted a small, blue book. “Maybe we can track our girl’s movements before she decided to skip out.”
Decided to skip out. Nice phrasing. “Don’t you mean before she ran as fast as she could from the psycho on her trail?”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant.” He flipped through the planner, skimming past the pages. “Let’s just see what our lady had planned for the day of Preston’s murder.” He whistled. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
The CSU operator had picked up. He was asking for the scene’s address. “Hold on.” Colin’s eyes narrowed. “What is it?”
Brooks lifted the planner. “Take a look at Gillian’s one o’clock appointment.”
His eyes tracked down the page. Saw the small, neat feminine scrawl. 2301 Mistro Tower. Dr. Drake.
A hard tension swept through him. 2301 Mistro Tower. That was Doc’s office. Gillian Nemont had been to see Emily.
“Did the good doctor happen to mention that she knew Ms. Nemont?” Brooks’s voice was cool.
On the ride over, Colin had told him that it was he and Emily who had discovered the identity of Preston’s lover. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned the fact that a demon had tipped them off.
And now it looked like he might not be the only one withholding facts from a partner.
“Did she?” Brooks pressed, and there was suspicion in his eyes.
The CSU operator was muttering in his ear.
“No,” Colin finally said, his voice very soft. “She didn’t.”
And he sure as hell planned to find out why the doc hadn’t mentioned that important little fact.
Chapter 8
Colin arrived at her place just after eight, and the minute he walked into her house, Emily knew something was wrong.
Hell, it didn’t take a psychic gift to figure out the man was angry.
Colin stalked past her without a word and jerked off his rather beaten-up jacket.
“Well, hello to you, too,” she muttered, shutting the door. After the kiss in her office, she’d certainly been expecting a different greeting.
Correction, she’d been expecting a greeting, period. “Guess you had a bad day at the office, huh?” She trailed behind him. After just one visit, the guy sure seemed to be making himself at home.
Colin tossed his jacket onto the couch, then began to pace in front of the fireplace. “Bad day? You could say that.” A muscle ticked along his jaw. “I need to ask you a few questions, Doc.”
He sounded serious. Very serious. A nervous flutter tickled her stomach. “Uh, okay.” She sat on the couch, pushed his jacket to the side, and tried not to dwell on the fact that the evening was not going according to plan.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Gillian Nemont?”
She blinked. “What?”
He stalked toward her. “You heard me.”
Emily shook her head. “I didn’t tell you because I don’t know her.” What, did the guy think she’d been holding out on him?
“She had an appointment to meet with you last Friday. At one.”
“No,” she told him, meeting that piercing blue stare head-on, “she didn’t.”
