Dead By Morning

Chapter 25

Derek drove his tongue into her mouth, deepening the kiss, taking her breath away. Capturing her neck and threading his fingers through her hair, he pulled her into his room and kicked the door shut. Without conscious thought, going strictly by instinct, she wrapped herself around him and lost herself completely in the kiss. His lips were firm and warm, his tongue moist and hot.

He walked backward, taking her with him step-by-step, his hands roaming over her shoulders and back, and then delving lower to cup her butt. Her femininity clenched and unclenched in an age-old preparation for mating, as her mouth worked feverishly against his.

When he toppled them over and onto the bed, she went with him willingly, as hungry for him as he was for her. Changing the dynamics of the kiss, he eased his tongue from her mouth and nibbled on her lower lip. She moaned deep in her throat as he slid his hands between them and lifted the edge of her T-shirt, exposing her naked belly and the lace bra covering her breasts. The moment he lowered his head, his breath scorching her skin, she forked her fingers through his hair and brought his mouth to her breast. He suckled her through the thin material and then flicked his tongue across first one hard nipple and then the other.

Squirming, her body throbbing, she rubbed herself against him and felt how much he wanted her.

“Oh, baby . . . so sweet . . .” He shoved his hand between her thighs and palmed her mound. “We’re going to be so good together, honey, so good.”

Baby? Honey?

Generic terms, endearments he had probably used countless times with numerous women.

He had not called her Maleah. He hadn’t even called her Blondie.

Her vow to Nic echoed inside her head, softly at first, but growing louder with each passing second. I refuse to become another notch on his bedpost.

Gradually coming to her senses, she shoved against his chest. His deliciously warm, hairy, muscular chest.

Stop this right now. You are not going to have sex with Derek Lawrence.

“Get off me,” she told him, her voice a ragged whisper.

“What’s wrong?” He lifted his head and stared at her. “Did I hurt you?”

Yes, you mortally wounded me. With words. Baby. Honey.

“No, you didn’t hurt me.” She shoved him up and off her.

He rolled over onto the bed while she sat up, took several deep, steadying breaths and started to stand. He reached out, grasped her wrist and held her in place on the edge of the bed.

“Look at me, Maleah.”

Now he remembers my name.

“What just happened?” he asked.

She looked everywhere but at him. “We almost made a terrible mistake.”

He sat up so that they were side by side. He cupped her chin and turned her to face him. “Why did you stop what was happening between us? You were into it as much as I was, wanted me as much as I wanted you—as much as I still want you. You can’t deny the truth.”

“I’m not denying anything.” When she looked at him, it was all she could do not to give in to her baser instincts. God, how she wanted him!

“Then please tell me what just happened? What did I do wrong?”

How did she answer that question? With a lie? The truth? A half-truth? “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just came to my senses before it was too late.” Unable to continue direct eye contact for fear he would know she was lying, she averted her gaze.

He squeezed her chin. She glared at him, and then jerked out of his grasp and got up. “Put a shirt on, will you? You shouldn’t have come to the door half naked.”

“Are you afraid if I remain partially unclothed, you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?” he asked jokingly as he rose to his feet.

“I’m not the one who grabbed you and kissed you,” she reminded him.

He came up behind her, lowered his head and kissed the side of her neck. Shivering at his touch, she closed her eyes and stood perfectly still as he whispered in her ear, “The moment I opened the door, I knew what you wanted. You were begging me to kiss you.”

Snapping around with the intention of blasting him for his accusation, she didn’t realize until it was too late just how close his body was to hers. Her breasts collided with his chest as her belly encountered his erection. She sucked in her breath and shoved against him. Smiling at her, he stepped backward.

“I wasn’t. I didn’t . . .” That’s it, Maleah, lie to him again. “Despite what you think, I knocked on your door to tell you that Nic called me with information.”

He looked at her questioningly. “Business first, huh?”

“Yes. No. Damn it, you know what I mean. Business only.”

“Ah, Blondie, do I have to keep telling you that you’re no fun?”

When she glared at him, he laughed as he walked over to the dresser, opened a drawer and removed a white T-shirt. While he slipped into the garment, Maleah pulled out the desk chair and sat. He turned around, his gorgeous chest now covered, and grinned when he saw that she had avoided sitting on the sofa.

“You sure do blow hot and cold, don’t you?” He flopped down on the sofa, propped his feet up on the coffee table and crossed his arms over his chest. “You went from not being able to keep your hands off me to not even wanting to sit by me.”

“Will you please drop it? If you want me to take full responsibility for what happened, then I will. You’re irresistible. I fought my attraction to you for as long as I could. I took one look at your magnificent bare chest and went wild. Pick your fantasy, Mr. Lawrence. But that’s it. I am not going to discuss what happened.”

He ran his gaze over her slowly, appraisal in his eyes, as if she were an object on the auction block and he was considering a purchase. “Okay. I’ll go along with however you want to play this. Let’s chalk it up to just one of those things.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She couldn’t tell if he was sincere or if he was making fun of her.

Silence hung between them for several minutes, then she cleared her throat and said, “Griff received information from Luke Sentell that, if proven true, could substantiate your theory that the Copycat Carver is a professional assassin.”

Uncrossing his arms, his eyes widening with interest, Derek leaned forward and said, “As much as I like being proven correct in my assessments, I know I’m not going to like this new information, am I?”

“Probably not.” Now that they were discussing their current case, Maleah relaxed. As long as she kept her relationship with Derek strictly business, she’d be fine. “I have no idea how Luke made contact with this man, but I assume it all boils down to who you know. Griff has contacts all over the world. And we have a former Interpol agent working for the agency now, as well as Luke, who is rumored to have been a Black Ops agent.”

“Is there a reason why you’re taking the scenic route with this information instead of—?”

“Sorry. I was thinking out loud.” Maleah forced herself to look at Derek. “Luke paid this person, some man in Austria, for the info, and as of right now, he has no way to verify the validity of what he was told. But supposedly there is or was a man named Anthony Linden, a former MI6 agent who went rogue and became a hired killer. When the authorities caught up with him about ten years ago, he reportedly killed himself rather than be captured.”

“Let me guess—Linden didn’t kill himself. He’s alive and well and still working as a professional assassin. And for some reason Luke believes Linden may be our copycat killer.”

She marveled at how easily Derek connected the dots. She snapped her fingers. “Just like that, you put it all together. So, how about making an educated guess as to why Luke and Griff think Linden is our guy.”

“Hmm . . .” Derek stroked his chin. “The mystery man who calls himself Malcolm York and Anthony Linden are somehow connected, right?”

“Right. Supposedly Linden is working for the mysterious Mr. York, who sent him to America six months ago.”

“Six months ago, shortly before Albert Durham visited Jerome Browning for the first time, and less than two months before the Copycat Carver began his murder spree by killing Kristi Arians.”

“Is Griff right? Is all of this happening because of him, because the fake Malcolm York is exacting revenge for the real York?”

“Your voice is trembling,” Derek told her. “That happens when you’re upset and worried. Tell me what’s really going on with you.”

Maleah hated that he knew her so well. Damn his extraordinary powers of observation. “I’m concerned about Nic . . . and about Griff, too, because she’s worried sick about him.”

“If I promise I won’t bite, will you come over here and sit by me?” He patted the sofa cushion. “We’re friends now, aren’t we? Talk to me. About your concerns for Nic and Griff and about anything else that’s troubling you.”

She eyed him suspiciously.

He lifted his arms in the air on either side of him. “I promise I won’t touch you.”

She rose from the chair in a slow, languid move and walked toward the sofa. “I have to go back to see Browning tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t. You do not have to see him ever again.”

“I do. If he knows—”

“He doesn’t know squat,” Derek said. “The copycat, whoever he is, Anthony Linden or John Doe, didn’t share any big secrets with Browning. Why would he?”

“But you said that maybe Browning knows something he doesn’t even know he knows. Maybe he can—”

“Damn it, Maleah, he can’t help us.” Derek reached for her, then stopped dead still and clenched his hands into fists.

She released a relieved breath. If he had touched her, she didn’t think she could have resisted the urge to throw herself into his arms.

“Nic said that Griff isn’t sleeping or eating and he’s pulled away from her. He blames himself for what’s happened. He thinks it’s somehow his fault that five people associated with the agency have been murdered.”

“I don’t claim to know any more about Griffin Powell than you do, but I understand him as one man understands another. Any man, especially one as powerful as Griff, hates to admit that something in his past has come back not only to haunt him, but could be the reason for five murders. And although he would never admit it, Griff’s scared out of his mind that something might happen to Nic. He’s the type who wouldn’t want the woman he loved to see any weaknesses in him, not even if she was his major weakness.”

“He would rather withdraw from her, even risk alienating her, than to share his fears with her and let her help him? That is so wrong.”

“Yeah, I know, but we men are strange creatures.”

“Would you do that?” she asked. “I mean assuming you loved someone the way Griff loves Nic, would you put up barriers to prevent her from—?”

“I’m not Griff. I haven’t lived his life. I don’t have his secrets. I didn’t say he and I were alike. I said I understood him as one man understands another.” He gazed into her eyes. “You and Nic are best friends. You’ve shared confidences and probably know each other better than anyone else does. You understand her, right?”

Maleah nodded.

“But even though you and Nic are both strong, independent women, you’re also different. There are things she has lived through that you haven’t and vice versa. I can’t see you letting the man you loved keep secrets from you. If he did, you’d walk away, wouldn’t you?”

She stared at Derek, wondering if he, too, had more deep, dark secrets, ones he had never shared with anyone. “She’s tried leaving him, but she always comes back. Love makes us weak and it certainly can make fools of us all.”

“Have you ever loved anyone like that?” he asked.

“No. Have you?”

“No.”

They sat there staring at each other for several minutes and finally Derek said, “Okay, Blondie, if you’re damned and determined to visit Browning again in the morning, then we need to talk about it. I’ll take on the role of Browning and play devil’s advocate, no holds barred, and we’ll see how you react.”

“You want to see just how thick my skin is, don’t you?”

Derek grinned. “When it comes to sparring with Browning, I suspect your skin is thick enough. But I happen to have firsthand knowledge as to just how really soft and smooth your skin is.”

When she reached over and socked him on the arm, he held up his hands in a surrender gesture. “For the record, I want it to be noted that you touched me first.”

She socked him again, harder the second time.

“Ouch. That hurt.”

“Good. I wanted it to hurt.”

“You’re a hard-hearted woman, Maleah Perdue.”

“Yes, I am, and you’d do well not to forget it.”

Derek burst into laughter.

“Why are you laughing? Why aren’t you—?”

He leaned over and without laying a finger on her, he kissed her. She mumbled and spluttered and then placed her hands on his chest to push him away. But suddenly, he lifted his head and smiled.

“Any plans for seduction that you might have for tonight will have to be postponed to another time,” he told her. “We’ve got work to do, woman. And work always comes first.”

She stared at him, completely confused for a few seconds. Then she realized his intention had been to lighten the mood. “You’re the most aggravating, infuriating man I’ve ever known.”

“And that’s what you like about me, that and the fact that I’m such a good kisser.”

Maleah groaned. Derek was right. He was a good kisser.

The modified Georgian-style Chappelle house in Ardsley Park had been built in the center of the lot and set back off the street. Two towering palms graced either side of the brick walkway and two overgrown holly bushes the size of small trees flanked the white brick structure. No doubt, in its day, the house had been impressive, and it was still a lovely old home. A wide variety of eclectic styles created a diversity of houses in the area, which stretched from Bull Street on the west to Waters Avenue on the east, and from Victory Drive north to Derenne Avenue south. He could leave the Chappelle home after he finished his job and be on I-16 in about ten minutes. By daylight that morning, he would be more than halfway to Atlanta.

While Poppy had attended church with her grandmother and the housekeeper on Sunday, he had broken the lock on the outside entrance to the basement at the side of the house and had slipped inside without any trouble. As luck would have it, the old woman hadn’t put in a security system, so he had been able to go upstairs and take his time familiarizing himself with all the rooms. Twelve in all, not counting bathrooms and two sun porches.

Mrs. Carolyn Chappelle’s room had been easy to spot. It was the largest bedroom which also included a sitting area in front of heavily draped bay windows overlooking the front lawn. The antique furniture, polished to shining perfection, overfilled the space, making the room feel cluttered. In comparison, the housekeeper’s eight-by-ten room, that probably had originally been the nursery, was sparsely furnished and excessively neat. Wooden shutters covered the single window. He had checked each of the other bedrooms, searching for Poppy’s room, and when he found it, he wondered if it had once belonged to her aunt Mary Lee. Two large windows overlooked the pool and enclosed patio. Feminine to the point of being frilly, the white French Provincial furniture, lace adorned drapes and bedding, and floral wallpaper seemed, as did the other rooms in the house, to be trapped in a time long past.

Moonlight illuminated the predawn sky and cast shadows over the lawn. Tree branches swayed in the warm summer breeze, their tips scratching at the upstairs windows on the east end of the house. Security lights at the back of the house kept the pool area well lit, but the basement door, the lock now broken, lay hidden in darkness behind a row of red azaleas.

He had parked his rental car in the driveway. If by any chance some neighbor happened to be awake at this hour and looked out a window, he or she would see a nondescript sedan and possibly assume the Chappelles had an overnight visitor. He had no intention of returning the rental and there was no way it could be traced back to him, only to the real Albert Durham. He would leave the car at the Atlanta airport tomorrow. With the time difference between the U.S. East Coast and London, his employer would be enjoying a late breakfast when he reported in, once he was on the road. After he spoke to his employer, he would make flight arrangements. This morning’s kill would be number six, the exact number he had been paid for by wire transfer to his Swiss account, which had been opened under one of his many aliases.

He was known by many names and yet he remained nameless. He was a man of a hundred disguises and yet he remained faceless, unidentifiable. In his world, he was known only as the Phantom, except by a precious few who had once known him as Anthony Linden. But he was not Anthony Linden and hadn’t been in more than ten years. For all intents and purposes, Anthony Linden was dead.

Poppy woke with a start, her mouth dry and her cotton sleep shirt damp with perspiration. She kicked back the light covers and lay there, her eyes open, her heartbeat racing. She stared up at the shadows dancing on her ceiling. She’d had the most god-awful dream.

You shouldn’t have watched that old Twilight show marathon on TV last night with Heloise.

Her nightmare had been a convoluted jumble of scenes, none of which had made the least bit of sense. Headless zombies creeping toward her. Pig-faced people hovering over her. Outraged men and women chasing her down the street, screaming at her, accusing her of being an alien from outer space.

Poppy shuddered.

I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. Bad dreams can’t hurt you. No, but they can sure scare the bejeezus out of you.

She wished her bedroom—Aunt Mary Lee’s old room—wasn’t at the opposite end of the hall from Grandmother’s and Heloise’s rooms. She certainly had no intention of walking up that long, dark corridor. The old house moaned and groaned enough as it was without her padding down the hall and making the wooden floors creak.

She could turn on the light, get up, and read a few chapters in the paperback romance novel on her nightstand. Or she could go downstairs to the den and watch TV or grab a snack in the kitchen.

Just close your eyes and try to go back to sleep.

The odds were if she went back to sleep, she wouldn’t dream again. Not if she thought about pleasant things. Think about going sailing with Court and Anne Lee on Wednesday afternoon. Think about Court’s friend Wes Larimer. Anne Lee had promised that Court would invite him to join them.

“I think Wes likes you,” Anne Lee had told her. “If Mother wasn’t best buds with his mother, I’d go after him myself. But God forbid that Wes and I hook up and make our moms happy.”

“He’s cute, isn’t he?”

“Do Chihuahuas shiver? Girl, Wes Larimer is cream of the crop.”

Think about Wes. And who knows, maybe you’ll dream about him instead of weird characters out of an old TV show.

Poppy closed her eyes and imagined Wes putting his arm around her and kissing her. It would be explosive, like fireworks lighting up the sky. They were alone on Court’s sailboat, just the two of them. The ocean was smooth, the sun was warm, the breeze balmy.

“Oh Court, kiss me again,” she mumbled to herself and then yawned before dozing off to sleep.

He moved through the Chappelle house as quietly as smoke rising from a chimney. He turned off the slender flashlight he held, pocketed it and took the back stairs two at a time, being careful to tread lightly. Even when the old staircase creaked occasionally as his weight pressed on the carpeted runner, he didn’t pause. Those living here were accustomed to the odd sounds that the nearly eighty-year-old house made in the night. When he reached the landing, he glanced down the corridor toward Mrs. Chappell’s suite and across the hall to Heloise McGruger’s bedroom. Both doors were closed.

He turned and went in the opposite direction, straight toward the young girl’s room decorated in fancy ruffles and lace. Unlike the older ladies in the house, Poppy slept with her door partially open. A thin line of moonlight seeped through the narrow opening and painted a pale yellow-white line across the threshold and onto the floor beneath his feet. He reached out, grasped the crystal knob and slowly eased open the door all the way. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness so he could see quite well with only the moonlight brightening the bedroom just enough to reveal the furniture’s silhouettes.

Poppy Chappelle lay beneath a ruffled canopy, one arm and one leg tangled in the top sheet and lightweight blanket. The upstairs central air unit kicked on, sending a rush of cool air from the ceiling vent. He stood over her bed and watched her while she slept. So very young. So pretty.

Such a pity he had to kill her.

He didn’t choose the victims. His employer did.

He was simply an employee following orders, a professional doing his job.

Easing up to the edge of the bed, he rubbed his glove-encased hands together, collected his thoughts and prepared for the kill. He slipped his hand into an inside pocket, removed the disposable scalpel from the small carrying case and returned the case to his pocket.

I’m sorry, little girl.

A momentary calmness came over him, steadying his hand and clearing his mind. The rush of excitement would come later, with the act itself. The moment the knife entered her body, he would experience an unparalleled exhilaration. He always did.

He watched her for another minute, noted the rise and fall of her tender young breasts as she inhaled and exhaled.

And then he plunged the scalpel into her jugular. Blood gushed.

A mental and emotional orgasm began to build inside him. He sliced the sharp blade across her neck, from one carotid artery to the other, effectively cutting her windpipe in the process.

She died almost instantly, without a sound, never having opened her eyes.

His hands were steady, his outward demeanor calm. But a soul-deep enjoyment burst wide open inside him and sent climactic pleasure through his entire body.

Mimicking the Carver’s MO, he worked quickly, cutting triangles from her upper arms and thighs and stuffing the tiny pieces of flesh into the small insulated bag he had brought with him.

He took no pleasure in the mutilation of a body, but he was under orders. This was business, a necessary part of the job assignment.

At the foot of the staircase, the grandfather clock struck four times. He would be gone well before daybreak. And it would be morning before anyone discovered Poppy’s body.

Leaving his victim lying in her bloody bed, he walked across the room, opened the widow, and lifted the screen. Then he returned to the bed, picked the dead girl up into his arms and carried her to the window.

From the height of the second floor, he glanced down at the moonlight shimmering across the pool. Keeping a firm grip, he held her body out the window as far as he could reach and then released her. She sailed down, down, down, and hit the side of the pool. While her legs crashed onto the patio, her head and the upper two-thirds of her body sank into the water. Then the weight of her head and upper body submerged in the pool gradually dragged her legs into the pool and she slowly disappeared beneath the water’s surface.