Mysterious Millionaire Page 6

  And she would go back to her maid duties. The disappearance of Charlene put a new wrinkle in her investigation, but her focus needed to stay clear: find Ben's drug stash.

  The warmth of his smile made that search seem utterly repugnant. From all she'd seen of Ben, he was a good man. How could she ruin his chances for joint custody of his child?

  "Thanks," he said, "for talking to grandpa. He doesn't need any more heartache."

  He leaned closer. If she'd wanted to shove him away, she had ample opportunity. In no way was he forcing himself on her or taking advantage.

  She should have objected. Instead, she tilted her chin up, welcoming his kiss. When his lips brushed hers, a brilliant flash of white heat exploded behind her eyes and blinded her to common sense. A burst of passion surged, forceful and challenging. She wanted the kiss to deepen and continue for long, intense moments. She wanted to know his body in every sense of the word. Her ferocious need for him felt unlike anything she'd experienced, as though they were destined to be together.

  She had to be mistaken. Her instincts were dead wrong.

  The maid and the millionaire? No way.

  Reality was even worse. A detective and the subject of her investigation could not, should not, must not ever be involved on a personal level.

  But as he moved away from her, she grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and yanked him close, kissing him with all the wildfire passion that burned inside. His arms encircled her. The flames leapt higher.

  She deepened the kiss, plunging her tongue into his mouth, and he responded with a fierce passion. His body pressed tightly against hers. She felt his hard arousal, and reveled in this evidence that she turned him on.

  He felt the magnetism, too. They were a match. In spite of all their differences, they connected.

  Oh, damn. This was all wrong.

  When Ben finally located Ramon Stephens in the weight room at his posh Denver apartment building, Ramon was quick to point out the bruising on his shoulder and throat. "You did this to me, man."

  He was lucky Ben hadn't torn his head off. "Where's Charlene?"

  "I ought to sue." Ramon pouted. "I can't get any modeling jobs with bruises."

  After canceling his lawyer's appointment and spending far too much time tracking this jerk down, Ben didn't have the patience to play games. He flipped the lock on the door handle of the weight room. No one else occupied the exercise equipment. "Where is she?"

  "Damned if I know." Pumped from his workout, he checked out his reflection in the mirrors.

  "'What time did you and Charlene leave the party last night?"

  "I left at around two in the morning. Alone."

  He shrugged, sending a ripple across his pecs. All those muscles were impressive but served little purpose other than being decorative. This pretty boy looked like he'd never done an honest day's work in his whole life.

  A long time ago in his grandpa's oil fields, Ben had learned what it meant to be a man, how to get what he wanted and how to fight for it. He also knew how to spot a liar. "There's something you're not telling me."

  "Hey, man. I don't have to talk to you."

  "Yeah. You do."

  In a couple of simple moves, Ben had Ramon in a choke hold with his arm twisted up behind his back. "Did you leave with Charlene? Yes or no?"

  "Let go of me."

  When he wriggled, Ben hiked his arm higher. "Don't make me break your arm, Ramon. Answer my question."

  "No. I didn't leave with her."

  "Who did?"

  "I don't know." His face in the mirror was an ugly grimace of pain.

  "What are you hiding?"

  "She dumped me. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? She told me to stay away from her. And I left."

  Ben released his grasp and stepped out of range in case the pretty boy decided to retaliate. But there was no fight in Ramon. Cradling his arm against his chest, he sank to his knees and groaned.

  Remembering the mess in Charlene's room and Liz's theory that there had been a struggle, Ben wondered if Ramon had pushed Charlene around. "Did you go up to her room?"

  "I tried. But no. I don't care about her anymore." He whimpered like a two-year-old. "I've got plenty of other dates."

  No doubt, he was Mister Popularity. But that wasn't Ben's concern. "Who's Charlene's new boy toy?"

  'The lawyer."

  Tony Lansing, the attorney. His father had handled the Crawford family business for decades before passing the mantle. When Tony had taken over five years ago, Ben hadn't been impressed but hadn't expected any major problems. Jerod had sold his oil fields. No lawsuits were pending. Tony should have been able to handle the personal business.

  As he walked out the door, Ben reached down and patted Ramon's shoulder. "Might want to ice that elbow."

  Driving back into the mountains, Ben's frustration level grew. As he crested the last hill on 1-70 before his turnoff, the panoramic view of the Rocky Mountains failed to lighten his mood. He wished himself back in Seattle where Crawford Aero-Equipment ran like clockwork. During his long physical absence in Colorado, his trusted vice presidents and supervisors kept production and sales on target. No need for worry.

  It was his personal life that confounded him. His failed marriage. Jerod's illness. And now...Charlene's disappearance.

  At the front gate to the estate, he punched the security code into the keypad. Why had the cameras been turned off from 11:47 until 2:37? The missing three hours indicated a premeditated plan. But not by Ramon.

  There was no choice other than notifying the sheriff, but Ben needed to control the situation. He had strings he could pull, highly placed people who owed him favors. If possible, he intended to keep Jerod in the dark until they had everything figured out. Therefore, his first order of business was to talk privately to Liz and convince her to keep pretending to be Charlene.

  The thought of Liz sent his mind racing off on a wild and not unpleasant tangent. Her kiss had surprised him. When he'd lightly tasted her sweet lips, he'd wanted more. But she'd turned out to be the aggressor. Of her own passionate accord, she had taken their connection deeper.

  He needed to know more about Liz. In spite of her straightforward manner, he saw something mysterious about her. Just as he'd known that Ramon didn't want to talk about how he'd been dumped, he knew that Liz had a secret.

  She was the first person he saw when he entered the house. Dressed in a maid uniform that fit marginally better than the one she wore yesterday, she flicked a feather duster across the back of a carved antique chair.

  When she turned toward him, he placed a finger across his lips, indicating silence. Immediately, she dropped the duster and followed him outside.

  "Did you find Charlene?" she asked.

  He set off across the asphalt circle drive toward the log barn. They needed privacy for this conversation. "Ramon says he left by himself last night. I'm inclined to believe him."

  "You didn't beat him up, did you?"

  "Of course not." Just a little arm twisting.

  "Where are we going?"

  He pointed toward the one-story log barn. "I need to make plans for how to handle Charlene's absence, and I want you to—"

  "Call the sheriff," she said firmly. "The longer you wait, the more suspicious it looks."

  "Suspicious?"

  She jogged around in front of him, blocking his path and causing him to halt. "If something bad happened to Charlene, you're a suspect. You hated her."

  "Hate is a strong word."

  "Jerod's will was changed yesterday, and you were disinherited."

  He scoffed. "I don't care about Jerod's money."

  'That's not how it's going to look to the police."

  He circumvented her and proceeded to the barn—the one place on this mountain property where he could go to calm his nerves. He plugged his key into the side door of the barn and shoved it open. Sunlight from high windows poured down on his woodworking shop and the partially completed hull of a twelve-foot-
long sailboat he was building himself. Nothing in the world was more relaxing than sanding and smoothing the white oak planking.

  Liz stepped past him into the barn as he hit the light switch. "A boat," she said.

  "I plan to have it finished in a couple of weeks so I can take my daughter out on the lake and show her the basics of sailing."

  When she looked up at him, her green eyes softened. "Every time I start thinking that you're nothing but a millionaire jerk, you pull something like this."

  "Like what?"

  "Something sweet and sensitive," she said as she glided her hand along the satiny white oak surface. "Almost artistic."

  At the stern of the boat, she came to a sudden stop. Her gaze aimed at the floor on the opposite side of the hull— a place he couldn't see.

  "It's Charlene." Liz's voice trembled. "She's dead."

  Chapter Eight

  Liz had seen corpses before, at funerals and wakes, where the dead were displayed with carefully groomed hairdos, rouge and lipstick. Once in the city morgue, she and Harry had had to identify the remains of a client who had committed suicide. None of those prior experiences prepared her for seeing Charlene's body on the concrete floor beside Ben's boat.

  In death, she seemed smaller and somehow flattened as if the air had deflated from her body, leaving a two-dimensional shell. Her eyes were half-closed. Her mouth gaped, and the rosy-pink lipstick contrasted with her waxen cheeks. The shiny blond hair that she loved to toss was matted with blood.

  A piece of metal tackle, bloodied, rested beside her. It had to be the murder weapon.

  Murder? Her knees wobbled. Her nerves clenched in a knot. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. When Ben stepped up close behind her, she leaned against his chest, grateful for his support.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "Fine," she replied automatically, not wanting her weakness to show. "Who would do this? Why?"

  "I don't know."

  She turned in the circle of his arms and clung to him. Inside his rib cage, she heard the steady thump of his heartbeat—an affirmation of life. His self-control and strength should have reassured her. Instead, she felt even more unnerved. "Finding her here. In your little hideout. It doesn't look good for you."

  "I'm aware of that." His chest rose and fell as he drew in a deep breath and exhaled. "Other people have keys to this workshop."

  "Who?" She choked out the word. "Who has a key?"

  "The entire household has access. Rachel has duplicate keys to everything hanging on a labeled rack in the pantry."

  'Then why bother to lock up?"

  "A deterrent. I don't want my workshop turning into a place where the staff can come to grab a smoke and a beer. Or a place where guests can wander freely."

  As he gently stroked her shoulder, she felt a trembling in his hand. From shock? From anger? She really didn't know a thing about him. They were barely acquainted. "This is a crime scene," she said. "We should get out of here."

  Keeping his arm wrapped protectively around her waist, he escorted her to the door into the daylight. The perfect spring weather seemed like a travesty. She sucked down a lungful of the clean mountain air. Thankfully, her head began to clear.

  Looking up at Ben, she studied the angles of his handsome face. His jaw was set firmly. The fine lines on his forehead deepened. Though she'd felt that tremor, the only evidence that he might be disturbed showed in his blue eyes. His gaze flickered. His lids blinked. Wasn't that a sign of lying? Rapidly blinking eyelids? Did he know more about the murder than he was saying?

  "It's time," she said. "Call the sheriff."

  "I don't think so." His brow furrowed as he took the cell phone from his suit coat pocket. "I'm going to start a bit higher up on the food chain."

  "You can't orchestrate a murder investigation."

  "Watch me," he said.

  She stopped his hand before he could punch in a number. "I don't care if you have the governor on speed dial, you need to let the police do their job."

  "I have no intention of standing in the way of an investigation, but I'll start with the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. I don't want a bunch of deputies running around here causing trouble."

  "Heaven forbid they should make a mess," she said coldly.

  "I'll handle this my way." His decision was made, and his voice took on the unmistakable ring of authority. Before her eyes, he transformed into a high-powered CEO—the sort of individual she'd spent most of her life resenting. He said, "I don't want Jerod to know what happened."

  'There's no way you can keep Charlene's murder a secret."

  "Everyone else will know. But not Jerod. God damn it." His voice cracked. "Not Jerod."

  His arrogant facade slipped as the corners of his mouth tightened. "He's dying, Liz. Until this morning when he thought you were Charlene, I had no idea how bad his vision had become. He may have only a few weeks left."

  Though she empathized with his feelings, she couldn't agree with his plan. "Jerod is weak, but his mental abilities are sharp. Even if you organize the most subtle murder investigation of all time, he'll know."

  "You're right." He gazed skyward as if to search for answers in the wisps of clouds.

  "You can't control this," she said. "All we can do right now is tell the truth."

  "Jerod doesn't have to know...." She could almost see his mind working, analyzing the situation and coming to a solution. "He won't know if he's in the hospital."

  "What?"

  "With Charlene out of the way, I can convince Jerod to see my specialists."

  With Charlene out of the way? In one callous phrase, he had dismissed the brutal murder of a young, vibrant woman. As if she were nothing more than an obstacle. "I can't believe you said that."

  "About the specialists?"

  "About Charlene. Her death counts, Ben." He couldn't just sweep her under the rug. Her murder needed to be taken seriously. "Yesterday, she was a living, breathing human being with dreams and schemes and hopes."

  "And there were times when I liked her, when I believed that she loved my grandpa. She brightened his life, and I'm sorry that she's dead."

  "A touching eulogy. I almost believe you."

  "Now isn't the time for mourning. I need to handle the situation, and I need your help." He concentrated on her with a compelling intensity. "Will you help me, Liz?"

  'To do what?"

  "You'll impersonate Charlene one more time. Together, we'll see Jerod. Don't worry. I'll do most of the talking. I'll convince him to listen to reason and go into the hospital."

  "Not a chance." She wanted no part of him or his plan. "I'll talk to the police, and then I'm out of here."

  "What would it take to convince you? Money?"

  Disgusted, she turned away from him. He was a different person. Gone was the wistful dreamer who talked of sailboats and sunsets. She saw no trace of the craftsman who had worked on the beautiful hull inside the workshop—the crime scene.

  He continued. "I'd pay you enough to cover your law school tuition."

  'This isn't about money," she said. "I won't lie to a dying man."

  "Not even if your lie might save his life?"

  Though she hated to admit it, he had a point. Jerod deserved the very best neurological care, and daily visits from Dr. Mancini, a retired general practitioner, didn't fall into that category. "I thought the main reason Jerod was here was because it was his preference, because he wanted to die at home?"

  "It's been six weeks of slow deterioration—enough time that he might now change his mind if Charlene asks him to reconsider. You could give him this chance."

  Ben wasn't someone she could trust; he trafficked with drug dealers. The staff thought he was a brooding loner. His estranged wife wanted to withhold custody of their child. But her instincts told her otherwise. She'd trusted Ben enough to kiss him. In his tone of voice, she heard nothing but sincerity; he truly cared for his grandpa. As did she. Jerod Crawford was a good person, and she wanted to h
elp him.

  She couldn't ignore the possibility that advanced medical care might save his life. "I'll do it."

  Putting her concerns and reservations on hold, Liz allowed herself to be swept into Ben's whirlwind plans. Cell phone in hand, he made rapid-fire calls as he tore through the house, pulling her in his wake. Through the door. Up the staircase.

  Liz changed into the platinum wig. God forgive me. This was so wrong.

  In his grandpa's bedroom, she played her role as Charlene, holding Jerod's hand and gazing into his nearly sightless eyes as Ben directed the conversation toward a new phase in Jerod's treatment.

  When she spoke, her words stuttered. She was blatantly working a deception on a dying man, withholding the tragedy of his wife's murder. He ought to know. He ought to be told.

  The only way she could get through this performance was to think of Harry Schooner and his unwavering refusal to take care of himself in spite of her concerns. If Jerod had been Harry, which really wasn't a far stretch of the imagination, she might be inclined to do the same thing Ben was doing with his grandpa.

  Surprisingly, Jerod acquiesced to Ben's plan with hardly an objection, which made her think that he'd already been considering a similar action.

  After she switched back into her maid uniform and stepped out of Ben's bedroom into the hall, she had only three words for him. "Nine. One. One."

  "Not yet," he said. "The ambulance will be here in half an hour. Then I'll call in the police."

  "Half an hour?" The last time she'd consulted a medical specialist about a knee injury, it had taken three weeks to make an appointment. "How did you make these arrangements so quickly?"

  "'I've had this plan in place for weeks, hoping Jerod would change his mind. The neurosurgeon will be waiting for the ambulance."

  And how much would that cost? A new wing for the hospital? It certainly helped to have money, lots of money. Every procedure moved more smoothly when the road was paved with hundred-dollar bills.

  After Jerod was whisked away in the ambulance, Liz watched as Ben made the calls to the authorities, to several people who owed him favors and to his attorneys. A complicated procedure.