Wrong Place, Wrong Time Part 25

"You're right. Which means I'll have to come up with an amazing recipe to trump yours."

"I'll give you a week. Not a day more. And this time, I'll bring dessert. We'll have it first again."

"Same kind I brought?"

"Similar. Only this time hotter, so we have to savor it slowly."

A tiny shiver went through Devon. "Savor it, maybe," she murmured. "But hotter? I don't think it gets much hotter than it just did."

"We'll find out, won't we? Next Friday. Your place."

"Next Friday." Devon repeated his words, the provocative aura of the past hour eclipsed by a harsh dose of reality. "I'm not sure I'll have the place to myself yet."

The silence that ensued was a vivid reminder of the events defining the past week - events that had brought them together.

"Is your family staying until your mother's home?" Blake inquired carefully.

"I think so, yes." Devon took a bite of salad. If Blake was going to start pumping her for information, she'd better jump the gun first. "Not just my brother and sister," she added, forcing herself to address the issues she'd come here to address. "But also my mother's dog. You met Scamp."

"Uh-huh." Blake nodded. "At your house and at doggie day care."

"That's right. So it's SRO at my place right now. Fortunately, Scamp and Terror get along well. The only place they have territorial battles is in the car." Devon paused to chew and swallow a forkful of green beans. "Speaking of the car, we never finished our earlier conversation. Are you going to drive your truck down to Manhattan or take my advice and buy an SUV?"

"Probably the SUV."

"Good. Because Chomper's going to grow fast. And a Jag's no place for an eighty-pound dog."

"I agree." Blake popped a piece of fish into his mouth.

"I looked for your Jag in the clinic's parking lot a couple of times this week," Devon continued, her tone conversational. "I was hoping to catch you so I could say hi. I didn't spot the Jag anywhere."

"Didn't you?"

"No. Did you and Chomper cut cla.s.s?"

"We were there."

"Really? Jag and all?"

Blake put down his fork and eyed her with an amused expression. "Nice poker face. Not bad delivery. But overkill. Let me help you. You're trying to get me to mention the Mercedes. Okay, I'll bite. I drove the Benz up to White Plains. Chomper prefers the roomy interior. Does that answer your question?"

Devon tried to hide her surprise. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you do. You want to know if I'm hiding info on the make and model of my company car. I'm not. Anything else you're unclear on? If so, go for it."

She took the bait. "Okay, fine. Let's bypa.s.s the automotive argument. Let's switch to a subject we've both stayed far away from. Philip Rhodes. I heard about his death. I'm sorry."

"Me, too. Philip was a good man."

"From what I hear, so was your uncle."

That hit home.

"I don't believe Philip had anything to do with Frederick's murder," Blake stated flatly. "Or with your mother's disappearance."

Devon's brows arched at the adamant tone of his words. "You sound certain."

"I am. I'm also certain Philip didn't kill himself. So's your father." Blake's lips twisted into a wry grin at her startled expression. "Gotcha."

She wet her lips. "Actually, you've lost me."

"No, I haven't. You understand me perfectly. Someone murdered Philip. Probably the same someone who murdered Frederick. That someone tried to make it look like a suicide, thereby framing Philip and getting rid of him in one fell swoop. What I don't know is who or why. But your father will figure it out. Tell him if he needs my help to just ask for it. Not via his daughter. Face-to-face."

Clearly, Blake was waiting for a reaction.

He got it.

Devon twisted around and stared up at him. "I have no idea where your theories are coming from. Are they based in fact, or are you a frustrated PI?" She waved away his response. "Before you answer that, let me say this. I resent your implication that I'm here as some kind of carrier pigeon. And I more than resent my realization that whatever's happening between us is just a cover for your version of Spy versus Spy." She started to get up.

Blake's hand snaked out, his fingers wrapping around her forearm, keeping her in place. "Wrong," he said with a hard shake of his head. "What's happening between us is the only honest part of all this. So let's stop playing Spy versus Spy. Let's lay our cards on the table. Fair enough?"

"That depends. What cards are we talking about?"

Another glimmer of amus.e.m.e.nt. "You're good. I see a lot of Pete Montgomery in you."

"So I've been told." Stick to the truth, Devon reiterated silently. There's less to remember. "I might have been a cop or an investigator, if I'd had the guts. I don't. So I'm not."

"I'll feed your compet.i.tive spirit. We'll play an adult version of truth or dare. Only sans the dare. There's no way we'll outdo the one you took downstairs. Besides, we're past that point."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning what just happened in this bed."

"I got the dare part. I was questioning what it is we're past."

"I'll spell it out, then. What's between us is real. So whatever mind games we play, our personal involvement doesn't factor into them. It's separate and apart. Agreed?"

"Okay. Agreed."

"Fine. On to our game of truth. I'll ask you a question. You either answer frankly or tell me to go to h.e.l.l. No lies. We'll see who capitulates first."

"It sounds more like chicken," Devon observed.

"Maybe." His brows rose quizzically. "So, are you game?"

"I'm game. Ladies first?"

Blake made a wide sweep with his arm. "Sure. Go for it."

She nodded, a challenging glint in her eyes. "Did you start pursuing me because your grandfather asked you to? Was he hoping I knew where my mother was and I'd tell you?"

"That's two questions," Blake pointed out. "But they're related, so I'll let them slide."

"How very generous of you. Are you going to answer them?"

"Yup." Blake traced the curve of her shoulder with his fingertip. "I went after you because I wanted you. And because my grandfather hoped you'd spill the beans about your mother's whereabouts. He also wanted me to act as a distraction, so you'd lose interest in James. My cousin's easily diverted by a beautiful woman. Grandfather wants his concentration to be focused on the show circuit."

"Oh." Devon hadn't thought of the last part. She'd been too centered on the murders.

"My turn," Blake reminded her. "Are you officially working with your father on this case? Or did he just ask you to keep your eyes and ears open when you're with me or James?"

"That's two questions," Devon parroted drily. "But they're related, so I'll let them slide."

"Thanks."

"Anytime. I can't officially work with my father. I don't have a PI license. But I do have a great head on my shoulders. And I'd do anything for my family. So if I had a way of figuring out who killed Frederick and put my mother's life in danger, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"Meaning, yes, you're in this with your father."

"Meaning I have faith in Monty. He'll get to the bottom of this. I'm just the icing on the cake."

"You're hedging. And, for the record, you're a h.e.l.l of a lot more than just icing."

Devon wasn't about to be sidetracked. "So, are you going to call your grandfather now, or wait till I'm home?"

"Is that your next question?"

"No. It's a follow-up to yours."

Blake looked amused. "That sounds like a rule breaker to me. But I'm in a generous mood. The answer is, I'll wait till you're home. Then I'll report in. What you really want to know is, what am I going to say. Guess that'll have to be your next question."

"Uh-uh." Devon plunked her snack tray on the nightstand, folding her arms across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "That'll come later, when I've given you something worthwhile to report. Right now, all you've got is confirmation of what you already knew."

"True," Blake acknowledged. "The same applies to you." He set aside his own tray. "Okay, here's something you don't know. I've wanted to meet you for months. Ever since last August. It was a Sunday morning, around six. I was up at the farm for the weekend. I'd gone riding. I was walking back to the house when I spotted you exercising the horses with your mother. You were wearing a light blue shirt and tan riding pants that fit you like a glove. I ogled you like a h.o.r.n.y teenager. I planned on asking your mother for your phone number. Then Chomping at the Bit swung into full gear, and my personal life went on the back burner. So last weekend, even though the timing sucked, I was thrilled to see you walk through the door."

Devon couldn't help but smile. "Was I worth the wait?"

"Oh yeah. And then some."

She licked her lips, blurting out a question she didn't even realize she'd formulated. "Blake, do you know who's following me?"

His amus.e.m.e.nt vanished, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since last weekend, I've had the feeling I'm being watched. At home. At work. I thought maybe you knew something about it."

"Not a thing."

She tilted back her head and gazed at him. "Is it something your grandfather would arrange without telling you?"

Blake fell silent.

"I'm not trying to entrap you," Devon clarified. "I'm just... a little unnerved."

"Have you mentioned this to your father?"

By opening up, she was taking a risk and she knew it. But she'd just slept with this man. She had to trust her instincts a little. "No. I didn't want to worry him. Not without evidence. Why? Should I?"

"Yes," Blake surprised her by saying. "I don't like the idea that someone's shadowing you. Sure, my grandfather might be behind it so he can find out if your mother shows up at your door. But whoever killed Frederick could be behind it, too."

"That's what I was afraid of," Devon said tonelessly.

"Hey." Blake caught her chin between his fingers, held her gaze with his. "Yes, I want to get at the truth. And yes, I want to protect my family and my company. But that doesn't mean I'd endanger you. I wouldn't. Trust me on that much."

"I do." She didn't look away. "But I need to trust you on more."

"Such as?"

"Such as, how do you know so much about the inner workings of Monty's investigation? He's not big on sharing. Yet you're aware of his questions about the company cars, about Philip Rhodes's supposed suicide, and probably a whole lot of other things I'm not mentioning. How?"

Blake didn't seem one bit fazed by her probing. "Number one, I'm smart. Number two, I stay on top of everything that goes on at Pierson & Company - including who gets questioned and why. Oh, and number three, I'm your father's point person when my grandfather's not around. But I a.s.sumed you already knew that."

"And that's it?"

"No, actually that's not it. I was pretty annoyed at myself for not realizing that another Mercedes S500 might have made that set of tracks down by the road. Not that it changes much. A dozen of us drive that car, and lots of other people have access to them - not just Pierson employees, but garage attendants, valets, you name it."

Devon couldn't argue that. "What about Louise Chambers? She's one of those who has a company car."

"What about her? She's ambitious as h.e.l.l. I'm sure she has a personal agenda, too - maybe even one that includes me. That doesn't make her a killer. Take my word for it, her feelings for Frederick were genuine."

"Frederick was seeing my mother. That can't have sat too well with Louise. Ambitious women don't take kindly to second place."

"They also don't get rid of the compet.i.tion by killing the prize they're both vying for. Louise is shrewd, not emotional or irrational. What would she gain by killing Frederick? Money? Professional status? No. So it doesn't fit. Louise wouldn't risk a life sentence to satisfy some sort of jealous rage."

Blake's point was well taken. Monty had made a similar one the other day.

"You've given this a lot of thought," Devon murmured.

"I've considered the same suspects you have. I want the killer caught - no matter who he, or she, is."

That was Devon's entree - if she gambled and took it.

Rolling the dice, she stepped further into the realm of Pierson family secrets. "Can we talk about James?"

Blake's jaw hardened. "What about him?"

"He's the common denominator in this equation. Frederick, Philip Rhodes, the incident at Wellington - James has connections to all of them. You two grew up together. You know his character. How much of him is real and how much is a facade?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking."