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ing that this loathsome detective would go away and leave her in peace.
“So far, I’ve been able to keep your affair with Burkett out of the press.”
She hadn’t heard him move up behind her. He was standing so close she could smell his aftershave and feel his humid breath on the back of her neck.
“But I don’t know how long I can keep it under wraps, Laura.”
It was inappropriate and unprofessional for him to use her first name. Yet to correct him would only call more attention to it, and she preferred to appear indifferent. He wanted her edgy and uneasy, even fearful of him. So she let it pass and kept her back to him.
“Reporters want to know what business Burkett and your husband…late husband…had with each other. What was Burkett’s motive for killing him? That’s what they’re clamoring to know.
“Now, strictly as a favor to you,” he said, lowering his voice to an intimate pitch, “I haven’t revealed that, haven’t even acted like I know what could have possessed Burkett to do such a terrible thing. But when he’s caught, well, that’ll be another kettle of fish. When he’s indicted, this thing is going to blow wide open, more than it already has. There’s no way I can conceal your adultery.”
That word brought her around. But unable to stand being that close to him face-to-face, she moved away. “I’m prepared for that.”
“Really? Are you sure you’re prepared for the beating you’re going to take? Right now you’re regarded as a tragic figure, the bereaved widow of a murder victim. The media is sensitive to your feelings, treating you with kid gloves. But I don’t have to tell you how nasty reporters can get, especially when they feel like they’ve been deceived. They can turn on you.” He snapped his fingers loudly. “Like that. You’ll need protection from that onslaught.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“Someone at your back, acting as a buffer.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll be glad to have me close. Protecting you like a…” He waited a beat, then said, “brother.”
Inwardly she shuddered. “I’m very tired. If there’s nothing else—”
“The car keys?”
She retrieved them from her handbag and reluctantly handed them over, being careful not to touch him. “Thanks.” He bounced the keys in his palm and looked smug to have them in his possession. “Order anything you like from room service. The DPD is taking care of the charges.”
“How long are you going to extend me this hospitality?”
“Till Burkett is in custody.”
“That could be a while.”
He grinned. “I don’t think so. But you’ll be our guest till then, whenever it is. In the meantime, don’t worry. He can’t get near you.” Having made clear his message, he went to the door and placed his hand on the knob. “If you need anything, call me. Anytime.” He glanced beyond her toward the bed, then his gaze slid back to her, and he smiled. “Nighty-night.”
CHAPTER
29
AS SOON AS RODARTE WAS THROUGH THE DOOR, LAURA turned the dead bolt. She heard him confer with Carter and the policeman outside, then the soft ping of the elevator when it arrived.
But even after she knew he was gone, she stood hugging herself. She would ask housekeeping to bring her a can of air freshener so she could rid the room of his scent. But later. She didn’t have the wherewithal to talk to anyone just now. She was weary of words.
She unzipped her suitcase and began unpacking it. But halfway through the chore, she ran out of energy. Even the will to move deserted her. She lay down on the bed. Tears came easily. They ran unchecked from the corners of her closed eyelids, trickled down her temples and into her hair.
Just as they had that day when Griff Burkett had brushed her tears away, the day it all had changed, the day—face it, Laura—he had reawakened her to feelings and sensations she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. She’d told herself she didn’t miss them, didn’t yearn for them. How foolish she’d been. How wrong.
But she’d been particularly susceptible to tenderness that afternoon. Foster’s indifference to her SunSouth Select proposal had cut her to the quick. It was worse than an outright rejection would have been. He simply had never acknowledged it again. He’d acted as though she’d never made the presentation. He’d killed the project with apathy, smothered it with his silence.
That afternoon, just before leaving to join Griff Burkett, she’d gone into Foster’s office looking for something. What she’d found was the syllabus she had spent hundreds of hours preparing. It was in his wastepaper basket, along with the pieces of the airplane model. He’d disassembled it and tossed each component into the trash.
Even Griff Burkett had asked her about the model. He, a stranger, with no vested interest whatsoever in the airline industry, had been more curious about it than Foster.
Seeing the destroyed model had devastated her. It signified the death of her idea. Even though it was almost a certainty she would ovulate that day, she should have called Griff Burkett and canceled their appointment. She was too emotionally fragile to go, but she went, not wanting to explain to Foster why she had skipped a cycle and wasted an opportunity to make a baby for him.
