“Just because he gave her that doesn’t mean he gave her the key.”
“He did. I know.”
“Psychic ability?”
She raised a brow. “You’ve always accused me of having it.”
“Then maybe we ought to think about who wouldn’t benefit from having her move into Lance’s ready-made love nest?”
“Julia,” she said, as much as it pained her to think.
“Baxter,” Cameron added.
“Hammerhead,” they said simultaneously.
Chapter Twenty
The crowd of convention-goers had become larger and louder at the Embassy Hotel, the mood heating up as the weekend loomed.
Max arrived early after a quick bowl of delicious potato cheese soup at a corner cafe. She’d done that with forethought, arriving before the appointed time, wanting a glass of wine, the noise, and the anonymity to allow her time to ponder the day’s revelations. It also helped bleed off some of the sexual tension Cameron had forced on her. By the time Angela showed up, and Witt, Max would be completely in control of herself again.
She was aware the best tactic would have been to confront Julia ASAP about being in the office the night Lance died, about what Julia had witnessed, and regarding the supposed video that Bud had made. But Max wimped out. Right now, she couldn’t think past the games she’d have to play with Angela tonight. She only hoped she could carry it off.
Choosing a table in the center of the bar, she faced the dance floor, her left side to the entrance. She thought it ill-advised to look at Hammerhead when he took up his sentinel duty, especially when she started the thing with Witt. Hammerhead could probably read every thought on her face, every nuance of nervousness, every little fib.
What if Witt didn’t show? Oh my God. She pushed back the fear. He wouldn’t dare stand her up.
Max went back to her musings. She liked Hammerhead as the prime suspect. That would solve all her problems as well as the case. He was truly the one who stood to lose the most if Angela belonged exclusively to Lance. She would have no guilt over proving him a killer. She had little feeling about him. It was different with Baxter and Julia. It would hurt to turn either of them in. And then there was Angela, another matter altogether.
Ah, there it was, the thing that bothered her the most. Tonight, she’d have to tackle Angela with the hard questions concerning her affair with Baxter and what Julia had seen, said, and done the night of Lance’s murder. Max didn’t want to ask, and the reason was stupid, even pathetic, as pathetic as Baxter Newton lusting after a woman forty years his junior. Perhaps worse.
Max simply wasn’t ready for Angela to send her away yet. It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t that Angela offered power. It was loneliness. A truly pathetic reason.
She swallowed hard past the bitter lump the ludicrous notion had stuck in her throat. A gulp of wine helped.
The sight of Witt made her forget everything else.
He’d donned that favorite shirt of hers, teal, topped with his black suit. What a combo. He blew her socks off. Evidently, he blew everyone’s socks off. Female heads swiveled to follow his progress toward a table two away from Max’s. He sat facing her rather than the dance floor, ordered a beer when the waitress came, and blew out the candle in front of him. He liked to play at being enigmatic, liked to look at her until he made her heart race. He knew her reactions inside and out. He liked to ask her to kiss him, knowing how much she wanted to, knowing she wouldn’t, knowing he left her aching worse than he did when he left her bed.
What if things got out of hand up in the hotel room? What if she begged him? How long could she keep on fighting what her body so obviously wanted? Max was suddenly as wet and hot as she’d been in the bathroom stall. And ready for Witt.
Damn, she was thirsty. Another gulp of wine barely wet her parched throat, but still she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off Witt. He looked unquestionably Wall Street in that nifty suit and striped tie, but his hooded gaze screamed cop, watching, waiting, ready to pounce. She wondered how quickly Angela would pick up on Witt’s real persona.
“I see he’s here again,” Angela whispered in Max’s ear. “Lucky girl.”
Max started, her hand knocking against the wineglass. Thank God she was fast enough to catch it before it fell.
“And I see you still want him.” Angela took the seat next to her, making sure she didn’t block the view.
“I don’t.” Max’s voice cracked, ridiculous and only due to the dryness of her windpipe.
Angela smiled, softly, knowingly. “You couldn’t take your eyes off him.”
The woman was frighteningly correct. Max still argued. “He’s been here two nights in a row. He’s probably a cop or something. Bad choice.” Why the hell was she fighting? That worked against everything.