Under His Protection Read online

  But apparently Fair Briar wasn’t holding up as well as Indigo Run, because the land looked overworked, and what should have been the front yard was rowed with plants. Not for the first time, Nash thought with admiration of how well his brother Logan had handled the family businesses. Keeping a plantation running when plantations were a dying breed was a skill that only one of his brothers—Logan—had.

  Other than noticing that Preston was sporting a bruised cheek that was aging to yellow, Nash didn’t discover anything useful.

  “How’d you get that?” Nash gestured to Preston’s face.

  Preston mopped his face with a bandanna. “Slipping off the ladder in my greenhouse. What’s it to ya?”

  The man’s stance and his sour attitude told Nash that someone in a local bar probably slugged him for shooting his mouth off. Nash showed him a photo of Winfield. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  Preston snatched the photo, gave it a quick look, then handed it back. “Nope. He doesn’t look like the kind who’d come all the way out here to buy greens.”

  Nash smiled. From what he knew about Winfield, Preston was right. “Thank you, Mr. Preston. Have a good day.”

  “I was,” Preston groused, and walked back to the tractor he’d been running when Nash drove up.

  With a twenty-page computer list of who purchased lily of the valley in the past year, Nash left, but he knew it was hopeless. Even his brother’s company was on that list. And Quinn had told him it would only take a few sprigs to kill. That could have been snatched from any plant, anywhere.

  And frame Lisa for murder.

  Chapter Five

  Lisa felt like a player in a game and she didn’t understand the rules.

  If she didn’t figure them out soon, the ax hanging over her head was going to fall. She needed to do some prying and spying into her ex-husband’s life. Nash wouldn’t like it, but his freedom wasn’t at stake.

  She glanced surreptitiously at the guests in the Manhattan church. She and Peter had never attended church, which made her feel like a hypocrite. It was like sending a wedding gift to the girl who’d stolen your boyfriend.

  The funeral service was like Peter. Reserved, attractive and just to the right of showy. Not a tear was shed, and more than a few people slipped out to answer cell phones. During the eulogy the participants spoke of Peter’s talent for business, his drive, but not one person mentioned his personal qualities. And not for the first time, Lisa asked herself, What were you thinking when you married him?

  Okay, he wasn’t a total loser. He was smart, cultured, and he’d been sexy and fun those weeks he’d been vacationing in Indigo. He’d shown her the high-powered New York broker. And she, like a doe-eyed sap, saw only a chance to leave the small town with a handsome man and make the home and family she wanted. After losing Nash’s baby a month after the breakup, she’d been emotionally primed for Peter’s attentiveness, his claims of love and plans for a future. It was no one’s fault but her own.

  Her mama had warned her not to marry Peter, had said he was “deep under weird.” Whatever that meant. Mama had a set of rules all her own, Lisa reminded herself. And in them, the only match for her daughter was one of the Couviyon brothers. She’d bet her newest watering wand that her mother wouldn’t care which brother it was, either.

  She winced at the thought and was glad her parents had moved to Florida and weren’t in Indigo to witness the investigation. Eventually someone would blab, and she wondered how she was going to explain that she was the prime suspect in her ex-husband’s murder.

  Before she could dwell on that, the service ended and she headed for the door. The priest nabbed her, and Lisa groaned inwardly, but dutifully stood beside him to greet the mourners, trying to place them in her mind. Some she recognized from the past she’d shared with Peter; some she’d never met. All of them were fresh suspects to her.

  Was the killer here? Which one of them hated Peter enough to poison him? And to set her up for the fall? She didn’t know anyone who hated her that much. Peter was another story. The man had no close friends, and she knew he’d made a lot of enemies.

  People paused to offer condolences. After speaking briefly with one or two, she realized that none of them knew of their divorce. Which meant Peter had kept it to himself. As he had about the insurance. What had he been thinking? Peter had plenty of money, yet the cost of the premiums for the insurance had to have been through the roof. Where did he get the extra money? She knew he couldn’t afford it unless he’d made some grand investment with a huge payoff in the past couple of years. Her lawyer had said the policy had been in effect since just after their marriage. Why had he hidden it from her? And worse, was there a policy like that on her?

  Mourners filed past, each face more unfamiliar than the last. Then a thin man in an obviously expensive suit and inky-black hair that looked like a toupee stopped before her, grasping her hand and smiling sadly.

  “Peter was a good man, a great broker.”

  Lisa frowned. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  He reared back a bit. “Carl Forsythe. I was his partner in a couple of business ventures.”

  “Successful ones?”

  “Yes.” He smirked as if she should know that. “You’ll be inheriting his possessions, then? His personal files?”

  Now that was a bit crass, she thought. “I don’t know the instructions of his last will.” Not that Peter would have told her, she thought silently. “I’m not his wife anymore, Mr. Forsythe.” She saw no reason to keep that secret; it would come out eventually.

  He frowned, the wrinkles on his forehead growing more pronounced, but not moving the toupee. She had to force herself not to stare.

  “We were divorced officially a week ago and legally separated for close to three years.”

  Forsythe’s expression was nothing less than dull shock. A few others looked on with the same reaction, including a statuesque blond woman.

  “Peter never mentioned it,” Forsythe said. “In fact, he acted as if he’d found wedded bliss and it was going strong. He spoke of you often.”

  Okay, she thought, this was weird. A quick glance around told her the other mourners thought the same thing. “But I haven’t been in New York for nearly three years.”

  Forsythe seemed about to say something, then cleared his throat and offered his condolences, instead. The blond woman approached, giving Lisa’s clothes the once-over before offering a limp handshake. There was something familiar about her.

  Something that put Lisa instantly on guard.

  “Have we met?” Lisa asked, noticing the blonde’s fake and bake tan that harshened the lines at her eyes.

  The woman pursed her lips as if fighting a smile. “I worked with Peter. We were very close.”

  The possessive way she said that added to Lisa’s suspicions. “Really? He never mentioned you.”

  I’ve seen you before, Lisa thought, and struggled to place her.

  “He never mentioned that you were separated.”

  Obviously the woman was as impolite as Carl Forsythe and had eavesdropped on Lisa’s conversation with him. “So,” Lisa said, and folded her arms over her middle and regarded the woman as she would the compost pile in her yard. “Were you two in business together, or just in bed together?”

  The priest glanced sympathetically at her, then took another step away.

  “Business, of course,” the blonde said haughtily.

  Liar, Lisa thought. Not in the mood to argue with a stranger, she moved off, planning to leave. The woman followed, grabbing her arm. Lisa snapped around and glared till she let go.

  “He never loved you, you know.”

  “Is that so?” Lisa countered. “Then why was he in my town a week ago pleading with me to stop the divorce?”

  The woman’s sudden anger slashed over her face. “You were just a pretty little Southern thing for his arm,” she said, her tone degrading. “An ornament he could tame.”

  Lisa wasn’t going to dignify t
hat with an answer. She’d left him, which was proof that he couldn’t tame her. Tired of this, she snapped, “Who are you?”

  The woman’s expression changed, as if she was suddenly aware of something Lisa wasn’t. “Catherine Delan.” She neared, her height making her look like a polished amazon hovering for a potential kill.

  Lisa went pale when she finally recalled where she’d seen the woman. “Your hair is different.” The style was shorter, the shade lighter. Not that Lisa had seen much of her face before the woman went shrieking into the bathroom after Lisa had walked in on Peter and her having sex. Lisa hadn’t seen her again after that, and now her gaze studied the woman, who looked at least eight years older than her. “And you know, darlin’, you look better with clothes on.”

  “At least I had them off with him.”

  “You think that hurts, don’t you.” It didn’t. And never would again. “You deserved each other.” Lisa took a step past her.

  “I deserved more.”

  Lisa jerked a look back over her shoulder at the woman. “Does that ‘more’ have a price? A nice round figure, maybe?”

  Ms. Delan frowned and Lisa’s suspicion magnified. The insurance would remain in probate and be awarded to Lisa, since she was the only beneficiary named. But that didn’t mean Peter’s will couldn’t say differently. Lisa didn’t care. That insurance only provided the police with a solid motive.

  Lisa noticed that Catherine wore a designer suit and shoes, but also a cheap watch and faux diamonds, which any red-blooded Southern woman could spot. Was she all facade, or had Peter paid for sex with more than his marriage?

  “You should hurry home, sugah,” Lisa said. “Your For Sale sign is missing.” Lisa knew she was being snide. Yet the dig felt wonderful as she headed to her rental car, climbing in just as the skies opened up. She sat there, listening to the rain hammer the roof of the car, the teeny victory momentary and bringing back the humiliation of walking in on Peter and that woman in bed. Her first thought that day had been, He wanted me to find them like that. But she’d been visiting her family in Indigo and he didn’t know she’d caught an earlier flight home. She’d planned to call him at work from the apartment. For on her trip she’d decided that they’d needed to separate or seek counseling. Peter had been too demanding, trying to rule every aspect of her life, and he crossed the line when he’d told her she couldn’t go visit her “backwoods” family, as he called them. Less than a week later she’d walked into their bedroom and found him there with another woman.

  The memory made her stomach pitch, and she viciously turned the ignition key. She didn’t want anyone to know she hadn’t been able to keep her husband from straying, but Lisa understood that Peter’s infidelity would come out. Nash would know. And aside from humiliating her again, it would provide another motive for murder. Lisa swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks and checked the traffic.

  When she made to pull away from the curb, she saw Catherine Delan still standing under the eaves of the church, fists clenched. From behind her, a hunched figure in a long, black coat rushed out into the rain and straight to a taxi. A coat? It had to be at least seventy, and sticky with the rain.

  For a second Lisa watched the taxi, trying to see inside, but then she pulled onto the street. Her thoughts drifted to Peter and who’d want to kill him. Catherine Delan was at the top of her suspect list. What a piece of work. Hard, edgy. Not at all like the New York friends Lisa still had in this city. Though the embarrassment was still there, the affair didn’t anger her anymore, only that Peter had lied to his business associates and a woman he wanted enough to betray their vows and share a bed. Their bed.

  An hour later Lisa was sandwiched in New York traffic, chugging along foot by foot. A cab honked and she blinked, glancing at the street sign. She pressed the gas and made a right turn as she dug in the bottom of her purse for keys. She found a parking spot two blocks away and rushed into their old apartment building, then rode one of the elevators to the fifth floor.

  In the hall outside the apartment, Lisa unlocked the door and pried back the police tape, then, realizing how many laws she was breaking, she took a breath and stepped inside.

  Then she saw the destruction.

  The elegant retro apartment was in shambles. Cushions were torn, lamps smashed. Drawers were not only overturned, but the bottoms shattered. The entertainment center was a pile of electronic debris on the floor. Not good, she thought, and turned to leave. She took two steps, reached for the knob, and pain exploded in the back of her head.

  Stunned, her vision blurred as agony clawed over her skull. She staggered, then folded hard to the carpet. Her attacker shot past her. She glimpsed dark clothing before everything went black.

  THE ELEVATOR DOOR opened and Nash stepped out just as the doors of the elevator beside it shushed closed. A warm fragrance lingered in the air as he strode to Winfield’s apartment, slowing when he saw the half-open door. The police tape was still intact, but curling. He withdrew his weapon and nudged the door. His heart dropped like a stone at the sight of Lisa sprawled on the floor. Bleeding. He rushed inside, his gun close as he squatted to check her pulse, his gaze moving around the room. Alive, he thought, and searched the apartment for the intruder before coming back to her. Holstering his weapon and closing the door, he knelt beside her and checked her wound. Hurriedly he pressed a handkerchief to the back of her head and called her name softly.

  She didn’t answer and something vital and hard broke inside him.

  He pulled out his cell and dialed 911, then called Detective Rhinehart of the NYPD. He didn’t want the police to know she was here, but now he had no choice. He kept calling her name and held pressure to the wound for what felt like an eternity. She didn’t stir and several worst-case scenarios tumbled through his mind. Don’t die, he silently pleaded. Don’t die. He checked the bleeding, then her pulse before he went to the kitchen. Grabbing a towel, he filled it with ice cubes, then rushed back, pressing the ice pack to her head. She stirred and blinked.

  “Don’t move.”

  Nash? “Oh, no.” She groaned and reached for her injury, but he pushed her hands aside.

  “Please don’t move, baby. I don’t know how bad it is.”

  “Like a hangover from a three day drunk bad.”

  “Should I be impressed that you know what that feels like?”

  Despite the pain she felt herself smile. “No, it wasn’t my most flattering moment.” She rolled over, shielding her eyes with one hand and holding the ice to her head.

  “Be still. The ambulance is on the way.”

  “Wonderful.” Pain and now trouble.

  “What the hell were you doing here?”

  The bite of his tone rang like a bell. “Lower your voice. I’m hurt.”

  Nash battled sympathy for about two seconds. She could have been killed. “Don’t give me that. You’re at the victim’s residence, injured, and the place looks like a hurricane swept through here.”

  “Noticed that, did you? Well, so did I. When I stepped inside, this is what it looked like. I didn’t go beyond this spot, Nash. He got me right as I was leaving.”

  “He?”

  “He, she, I don’t know. He hit me from behind.”

  Nash looked around and saw the sculpture lying nearby, its base stained with blood. “The New York cops have been through this place already. They wouldn’t miss anything. What did you think you’d find?”

  “I don’t know.” She rolled to her side, then sat up. Her vision swam and Nash reached for her.

  “Careful, baby, I’ve got you.”

  Lisa’s heart nearly broke all over again right there. She gripped his arms. Because her head was spinning, she told herself, then gave up and pressed her head to his chest. He held her so tenderly she felt bruised by it.

  “It was stupid, I know,” she said. “But I needed to do something. I’m being framed for murder, Nash, and I can’t just sit by and do nothing.”

  “I’m doing something,
dammit.”

  “I know you are, but you aren’t the one who’s in trouble.”

  It might as well be him, he thought. For all his training, he felt helpless right now.

  When she didn’t say anything else, he asked. “Lisa, you still with me?”

  “Yeah. I feel the need to sleep right now.”

  He was afraid she had a concussion. He tipped her head back and stared into her eyes. The pupils were the same, a good sign. “Talk to me, then.”

  “You smell good.”

  He smiled with tender humor.

  “I wasn’t going to tamper with evidence or anything, you know,” she said. “Just look around.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know. Something.” She frowned, her gaze locked with his. “You followed me from the funeral service, didn’t you?” He wasn’t the one in the taxi, she thought. Nash, she’d recognize anywhere.

  “Sure I did. I’m hunting for suspects, remember? And what the heck were you doing at the service, anyway?”

  She searched his features, wondering if his tone sounded jealous only to her. Must be the head injury. “I thought it was the least I could do. Peter didn’t have any family left.”

  “You didn’t go to the burial?”

  “Oh, there won’t be a public one. It was Peter’s request that no one attend that. I bet he didn’t like the idea of anyone seeing dirt thrown on him or something.” Lisa moaned with shame, and burrowed against his chest. “That was awful.”

  Nash tried to not smile.

  “He’d have a cow if he saw his apartment now.”

  “What were they looking for?”

  She didn’t know if he’d meant to say that aloud. She leaned out of his arms, hunched as she pressed the ice bag to her head. “Files, maybe. Carl Forsythe asked me if I was inheriting Peter’s files.”

  “The tall guy with the bad toupee?”

  “Yes. Do the New York police have Peter’s computer?”

  “Yes, for all the good it’s done them. They got around the log-in password, but haven’t been able to get into encrypted files.”