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“Oh, Kenneth. Kenneth, mon cher, I’m so sorry. It must have been hideous.”
“They think I’ve harbored a grudge against Richard all this time.” He laughed a little, drank. “I suppose they’re right.”
“But you didn’t kill him.”
“No, but they’ll continue to dig into the past. You need to be prepared. I had to tell them why I attacked Richard. I had to give them your name.” When the blood drained from her face, he leaned over, clasped both of her hands. “Anja,” he said deliberately, “I told them I’d lost track of you, that we’ve had no contact in all these years. That I didn’t know how to find you. I told them Richard had seduced you, then when he was certain you were in love with him, he cast you off. I told them about the attempt to take your own life. That’s all I told them.”
She made a small sound of despair and lowered her head. “It still shames me.”
“You were young, brokenhearted. You survived. Anja, I’m sorry. I panicked. But the fact is, I had to give them something. I thought it would be enough, but I realize now, she won’t stop. Dallas will keep searching, keep digging until she finds you. Finds the rest.”
She steadied, nodded. “Anja Carvell has disappeared before. I could make it impossible for her to find me. But that won’t do. I’ll go to see her.”
“You can’t. For God’s sake.”
“I can. I must. Would you still protect me?” she said quietly. “Kenneth, I don’t deserve you. I never did. I’ll speak with her, explain how it was, how you are,” she added.
“I don’t want you involved.”
“My dearest, you can’t stop what Richard started a lifetime ago. You’re my friend, and I intend to protect what’s mine. Whatever the risk,” she added, and her eyes hardened. “Whatever the consequences.”
• • •
“There has to be more.”
Roarke ran his hand over Eve’s naked ass. “Well. If you insist.”
She lifted her head. “I wasn’t talking about sex.”
“Oh. Pity.”
He’d managed to peel the red dress off her again, and then it had been a simple matter of one thing leading to another. Now she was sprawled over him, all warm and loose.
But apparently, she didn’t intend to stay that way.
“They all hated him.” She scooted up to straddle him and gave Roarke a very pleasant view of slender torso and firm breasts. “Or at least actively disliked him. Maybe feared him,” she considered. “Nobody in that cast is particularly sorry to see him dead. Several of the actors had worked with each other before. Had histories, links, connections. To Draco, to each other. Maybe it was more than one of them.”
“Murder on the Orient Express.”
“What’s that? An Asian transpo system?”
“No, darling, it’s yet another play by Dame Christie. She seems to be popping up. A man is murdered in his bed, in the sleeping car of a train. Stabbed. Repeatedly. Among the passengers is a very clever detective, not nearly as attractive as my cop,” he added.
“What does a make-believe dead guy on a train have to do with my case?”
“Just enhancing your theory. In this fictional murder, there were a number of varied and seemingly unconnected passengers. However, our dogged detective refused to take such matters at face value, poked around, and discovered links, connections, histories. Disguises and deceptions,” he added. “When he did, he discovered they all had motives for murder.”
“Interesting. Who did it?”
“All of them.” When her eyes narrowed, he sat up, wrapped his arms around her. “Each of them took a turn with the knife, plunging it into his unconscious body in return for the wrong he’d done to them.”
“Pretty gruesome. And pretty cagey. No one could betray anyone else without betraying themselves. They back up each other’s alibis. Play the role,” she murmured.
“Very nearly a perfect murder.”
“There are no
perfect murders. There are always mistakes, with the murder itself the biggest of them.”
