Delicious Torment Page 4

  She turned to him and caught his gaze drinking her in. His mind had moved on to those other things that occupy a man like Parker. Bedroom thoughts. “Have you made an appointment with a therapist, yet?” he asked tenderly.

  Wrong guess. She bristled, then was touched by the concern in his eyes. She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”

  Parker sat back, his face thoughtful. He was in no hurry to leave. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “As I’ve suggested before, it might help get you through this time, if you saw someone.”

  She’d been to shrinks before. They’d helped at first. Now she thought most of them were full of crap. She smirked. “Might help if I didn’t keep running into dead bodies.”

  Leaning toward her, he took her chin in his hand, his eyes filled with concern. “I’m sorry you had to go through that today.”

  His tenderness shot straight through her. She didn’t try to escape from his hold. His look made her think of a night not too long ago when, right on the white-columned entrance to her building, he had accosted her with a round of sensuous kisses. And caresses in places that made her mouth water.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  He reached for her hand. She let him cradle it gently. “As your employer, I’m concerned with your health.”

  Sure. All business. He’d tried that ploy before. “I’m fine. I just need to get over this cold numbness.” Except for the mixed irritation and attraction she felt toward Parker, and the sudden interest in this case, she’d waded through the past two weeks, as if her heart was packed in cotton.

  “Is that still lingering?” Parker asked.

  She nodded. Her fight to the death with her ex, Leon Groth, had left her anesthetized. A shrink who’d seen her in the hospital had said that was normal, but she couldn’t shake the mood. “I just wish I could feel something.”

  He leaned closer, the warmth of his tender smile giving her a glow she couldn’t deny. “What does this make you feel?”

  Her breath caught as his lips captured hers. His touch was gentle, as though he were afraid of bruising her.

  She didn’t feel so fragile. Hungrily, she kissed him back. As if on autopilot, her hands reached up and dug into his hair. Oh, that hair of his. She’d missed the feel of it. Thick, clean, without a speck of styling gel. The style of Parker’s hair was inherent, natural. The style of his kisses was a kind of refined wildness.

  She moaned as his mouth moved over hers, arched her back as his hand skillfully slipped to her breast while his tongue played over her lips and sent tingling sensations through her whole body.

  He had a point. She could still feel passion.

  It was their first kiss since her trauma. Two weeks ago, just after she’d been released from the hospital, she’d sat in a bistro with him, intending only to discuss the possibility of going back to work for him. But they’d ended up playing footsie under the table. She’d pulled back, gotten hold of herself. Her old demons were too much for her to handle at the moment.

  She’d thought he’d understood. They’d agreed to dinner together once a week. But that soon turned into twice a week. And then there was the Steeplechase today, which he pretended to be just business. No wonder they called him the Silver Fox.

  His warm breath fanned her cheek. His pressure increased, then lightened again, as if he were suddenly deciding even this was too much for her.

  He pulled away, not wanting to push too hard, she guessed. He let his gaze wander out the window. “You know, I’ve never seen your apartment.”

  She must have misread him. He wasn’t backing down, just warming her up slowly for the kill. She wasn’t ready for that.

  She laughed, attempted to straighten her hair. “I wouldn’t want to shame you, Parker. My digs are so much fancier than yours.”

  “You haven’t been to my penthouse, either.” His tone was suggestive.

  “You know what I mean.”

  His look grew warm, edged on searing. “I do. I remember it well.”

  It was his father’s mansion where they had slept together. Where she’d first known what sex could be like with a man like Parker. It seemed like ages ago. But she still felt the sting of the bitter fight they’d had there where she’d told him it could never work between them. She had no intention of going back to that house.

  She cleared her throat, picked up the hat that had slid down onto the floorboard. “Okay if I keep this over the weekend?”

  “Of course.”

  She reached for the door handle.

  His fingers traced her hand again. His eyes ran over her figure, her face. “How would you like to meet my father?” he said at last.

  His father? She grinned. “The infamous Wade Russell Parker, junior?”

  “Yes. I’m going to visit him in the nursing home tomorrow afternoon. Come with me.”

  Another excuse to be together. She ought to say no. “Nursing home?” She raised a brow. Parker had told her his father had checked himself into a place like that with a heart condition several weeks ago.

  “It’ll only be a short visit. We can have an early dinner afterward.”

  She couldn’t let him go on concocting ways to see her. “A nursing home sounds too much like a hospital. You know how crazy I am about those places.” She’d just spent almost a week in one.

  He gave her a penetrating look. “You don’t have to go if you’re uncomfortable.”

  She was about to say she’d take a rain check. Then she gazed into those Magnum-gray eyes. Cool and hot at the same time. Not many women could say no to Parker. She could, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “Sure,” she shrugged. “It’ll make up for not letting you see my place.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at two.”

  She nodded. “It’ll be interesting to meet the great and powerful real estate mogul who sired you.”

  With Parker’s laughter in her ears, she opened the car door and got out while the getting was good.

  Parker watched her lithe figure and shapely legs under the swirling skirt all the way to her doorstep. His heart swelled with desire, tenderness, and sheer love for the stubborn, feisty woman.

  He reached for the ignition. Only a matter of time, he reminded himself. Only a matter of time.

  Chapter Four

  Those steamy, sultry kisses of Parker’s still burning on her lips, Miranda stepped off the elevator and hurried to her tiny apartment. Struggling to force the man’s charms from her mind, she changed out of her sundress and into a comfortable pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then she got herself a beer from the fridge and settled down before the laptop she kept on a card table that took up about a third of her living room.

  The laptop was new. She’d bought it with the bonus Parker had given her for solving the Taggart case. It had all the latest bells and whistles and was a lot faster than her old piece of junk. Right now, she was glad of that—she needed the upgrade to run the special software.

  Carefully, she peeled off the Velcro rim of her flouncy steeplechase hat, pulled out the wireless receiver and hooked it up to a USB port. She fired up the special software and after a few mouse clicks, the day’s activities began to replay before her eyes.

  Simmons and Lover-Number-One sucking face and sipping drinks under the colorful umbrellas. Simmons marching toward the stables. Simmons going to town with Lover-Number-Two. She fast-forwarded through the images.

  Hold it. There.

  Desirée Langford’s body in the hay.

  Miranda had gotten a good shot of her with the hat camera. That poor, bloody, disfigured face. Once more, her stomach clenched at the gory tissue. An ugly sight, as Parker had said. The camera moved to the crushed straw hat with the corner of the suicide note peeping out from under it. Strange place to put a note like that, she thought.

  Usher’s voice scratched through her speakers. “Desirée…” She paused the film as his features came into view. Tall. Wild hair. Rumpled tangerine suit coat and teal-colored tie. Slowly she
went through the film frame by frame, studying the man.

  Thin, expressive brows. Large, round eyes, the color of seaweed, stunned with shock and horror. They were bloodshot. Pupils dilated. From coke? Weed? Or just pure grief? He sniffed and wiped at his nose. He kept opening and closing his other hand in an agitated way. Not just grief.

  What else did that look of his mean? Bewilderment from the loss, of course. And probably drugs. But even in his dumbfounded stupor, he seemed to know something. Something more than met the eye.

  A small scar, about a half-inch long, ran along his right cheek. Interesting. He didn’t seem to be the fighter type. He seemed the arrogant, pampered type. The type who liked attention and was used to getting what he wanted. And if a woman didn’t give it to him?

  Miranda knew what a cruel man could do to your psyche. Had Usher driven Desirée Langford to suicide? Or had he killed her more…directly? She felt a chill go through her.

  Objectivity.

  Hell, she was reading too much into this.

  She sat back and blew out a breath. All she had was speculation and too many unanswered questions. It didn’t look like she’d be getting any more information. Not with Parker’s “unpleasant history” with Delta Langford, whatever that meant.

  Feeling spent, she reached for the mouse and shut down the program. Maybe Parker was right. It was too soon to get involved in something like this.

  She got up, grabbed her beer and strolled into the small bedroom. She stared down at the plain rented furniture. Unopened boxes sat on the floor. She hadn’t completely unpacked since she’d come back to the place. Indecision had made her unable to put everything away. If she wasn’t going to stick around, what was the point?

  She put the beer on the dresser and bent down to open one of the boxes. Her breath hitched at the sight of gift-wrapped packages that greeted her like old friends. Pink, blue, yellow paper. Ribbons that had yellowed and flattened over the years.

  Gifts for Amy. The baby Leon had taken from her thirteen years ago, just after she was born. Her only child.

  She knew what was in the boxes. A teething ring and a pink seahorse for the bath, when Amy was one and two. A stuffed monkey for when she was four. A baby doll for when she was five. A Barbie for when she was ten.

  Over the years, Miranda had lovingly picked out each treasure, wrapped it, stuffed it into cardboard boxes with the others, dragging them around as she moved from place to place, from one construction job to another. One day, she told herself, she’d be able to give them to her daughter in person.

  A month and a half ago, she’d thought that day had come. She thought she’d find her daughter in Atlanta. She’d thought she’d come closer than she ever had. But it had turned out to be a lie. Now finding Amy seemed more impossible than ever. A hopeless dream.

  She wiped her eyes. Long ago, after Leon had thrown her out and she was in the sanitarium, a shrink told her she was having an identity crisis. Back then, she’d decided to remake herself.

  And she had. She’d studied martial arts, kept herself fit, taken construction jobs so she could stay strong and pick up tips on how to fight from her coworkers at the local bars after work. No man would ever hurt her again. She was strong inside and out.

  Strong enough, she’d been able to face Leon.

  Back then, she’d also promised herself she’d find Amy, but it was better that she hadn’t. Leon wanted both of them dead. At the thought, that cold numbness stole over her.

  Maybe she was having another identity crisis. She put the packages back and closed the box.

  Maybe it was time to settle down and do something with her life. She’d taken the job at the Parker Agency to find her daughter, but it had turned into more than that. Parker had put out some feelers, but he’d come up with zip. Maybe…it was time to give up the search for Amy.

  She blinked, tears stinging her eyes. She brushed at her nose. Hell. She hated crying, even when she was alone.

  She got up, took a swig of beer. So should she settle down or take off again? She’d never been indecisive about moving before. It was Parker’s influence. Why couldn’t she walk away from that man?

  He’d saved her life. Given her an interesting job. Loaned her some money she hadn’t finished paying back. The least she could do was put in a few more months in PI training. Yeah, she owed him that much.

  She rubbed her eyes, too tired to think about it. She needed a nap. Feeling more listless than ever, she shoved the boxes into the corner and lay down on the bed.

  Maybe one day, she’d have the strength to get rid of them.

  Chapter Five

  Miranda had never liked hospitals. A nursing home, its institutional second cousin, wasn’t the coziest place to spend a Sunday afternoon.

  So how had she ever let Parker talk into visiting his father here? she wondered as she followed him down a long corridor to a door labeled “Wade Parker, junior.”

  He opened it for her, and she stepped inside, expecting to find a sickly old man, laid up in bed.

  Instead, she did a double take.

  Gold-framed paintings hung against walls paneled in dark mahogany. Black leather chairs sat in a tasteful arrangement, a Persian rug on the linoleum floor. The four-poster bed was covered with a chinchilla quilt. Baroque music came from overhead somewhere. The smell of expensive cologne masked any hospital odor. The masculine decor was more like a rich man’s library than the room of an invalid on his deathbed.

  At the far end of the room, a wheelchair faced curtained floor-to-ceiling windows that opened to a small veranda. The head of its occupant peeked over the back.

  “Father?” Parker murmured.

  Slowly the wheelchair turned. Miranda resisted the urge to whistle. The man in the chair had a head of thick, pure white hair, impeccably styled, a matching mustache, crystal blue eyes. Dressed in a fine gray suit, a deep red Ascot at his throat, he was almost as good-looking as his son.

  He steepled his hands and raised a carefully groomed brow that was the same pure white as the hair on his head. “Have you finally come to pay your respects to your ailing father?” His Southern accent, deeper than Parker’s, oozed old world charm.

  Irritation flushed over Parker’s face. He glanced around the room. “Not too ailing to completely redecorate. Does the staff allow patients to alter their room this way?”

  Parker’s father gave a confident smirk. “Money always coaxes administrators to bend the rules, son.” He waved a hand in the air as though dismissing the topic. “That’s not the reason I asked you here.” He caught sight of Miranda and charm spread across his face. “And who is your lovely companion?” Before Parker could answer, he raised his hand again. “Wait. I know.” He pressed his palm to his heart. “Can this be the daring young woman who recently saved my son’s life?”

  Miranda shifted her weight. It was bad enough to be recognized from her picture in the paper. God only knew what Parker had told his father about her.

  She stepped forward, extended a hand. “Glad to meet you, sir.”

  The elderly gentleman grasped her hand with both of his. “Ms. Steele, isn’t it? Miranda Steele?”

  She nodded.

  “How can I ever repay you?”

  Man, he was laying it on thick. She pulled her hand away and shrugged. “Your son and I are even. He saved my life, too.”

  He shook his head. “That’s his job. He’s always saving people’s lives. It’s rare when someone has to save his.”

  “It’s my job, too.” Sort of.

  He nodded. “That’s right. You’re his employee. The Parker Agency is fortunate to have someone of your talent and spunk,” he eyed her up and down, “and good looks.”

  The night they spent in his father’s bedroom, Parker had told her what a notorious ladies’ man his father was. The old gentleman’s flirting was kind of charming. “Thanks, Mr. Parker,” she said, trying to brush him off gently, “but I’m just a regular gal.”

  He studied her. “You must be s
pecial or my son wouldn’t be with you today, would you, Russell?”

  “Russell?” Miranda couldn’t hold back a smile. Parker didn’t mention his dad called him by his middle name.

  Parker shot her a scowl and evaded the question. “You’ll find Ms. Steele can be very stubborn when you try to change her mind about anything, Father.”

  Miranda grunted. “Me stubborn? You ought to take a look in the mirror.”

  Mr. Parker chuckled. “I see what you mean, Russell. You both share that characteristic.”

  Parker strolled to the small stainless steel refrigerator in the corner and began inspecting its contents. “How could I be anything else, with you as my father?”

  Might have known it would be a family trait.

  “A good point. Oh, do help yourself, son. I’m well stocked, as always.”

  Loaded with champagne and caviar, Miranda guessed.

  Parker went through a couple of shelves. “Perrier Jouet. Champagne truffles. Exotic cheeses. Pastries. This doesn’t seem to be the diet of a heart patient.”

  Mr. Parker laughed. “My son, the perpetual investigator.”

  Miranda eyed the two men before her. She could sense the quiet tension beneath the male banter. Parker had told her once that his father had disinherited him when he became a cop. That had been a long time ago, but evidently there was still fallout. How else would two closely-related, bullheaded ladies’ men get along with each other?

  Mr. Parker smiled infectiously. “You’re right, Russell. My genes were generous to you.” He turned to her and spoke in a near whisper. “Don’t be too stubborn, Miranda. If you are, life can dole out some bitter lessons to set you straight.”

  Sounded like he regretted the rifts between himself and his son. “I’ll try to remember that,” Miranda said.

  Mr. Parker cleared his throat and moved his wheelchair to the middle of the room. “And speaking of being stubborn, that brings me to the reason you’re here today.”