Killing Her Softly Read online

  Vanderley Inc. kept an executive apartment in Memphis since a great deal of their business was conducted in this city. Heading up the Vanderley family's numerous philan­thropic organizations, Annabelle came to Memphis several

  times a year, the last time less than three months ago. At that time, it had been over a year since she'd seen Lulu and nearly six months since they'd spoken over the phone. Only at her insistence had Lulu agreed to meet her for dinner that evening. As usual, they wound up in an argument. And as usual, it was about the same things—money, Uncle Louis and Wythe.

  Annabelle snapped open her overnight bag that she had placed on the suitcase rack at the foot of her bed. She had no idea how long she'd be in Memphis, how many days or per­haps even weeks it would take the police to find Lulu's killer and formally charge him with her murder. If she needed more clothes, she'd send home for them. Or she'd just buy something off the rack at a department store. Whenever she stayed in any of the apartments Vanderley Inc. maintained in various cities, one of the first things she did was unpack and put everything in its place. Being neat was simply a part of who she was. She despised clutter.

  After taking her toiletries into the bathroom, she arranged them carefully on the vanity and inadvertently caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She stared at her reflection for a moment. When they were children, she and Lulu had been close, despite Lulu being nearly seven years younger. Family and friends had thought it sweet that Annabelle had been like a big sister to her young cousin. More than one person had mentioned how much the girls resembled each other, both blue-eyed blondes with strong Vanderley fea­tures. But that had been before Lulu reached puberty and blossomed into a model-thin, bosomy, leggy version of her mother, who'd been Uncle Louis's third wife and twenty-five years his junior.

  Annabelle glanced away from the mirror and returned to the bedroom. No one would have noticed anything more than a vague resemblance between the cousins in the past fif­teen years. Lulu had been considered the family beauty; Annabelle had been thought of as the brains. It wasn't that she envied her cousin—quite the contrary—but there had been times when she'd wondered what it would be like not to feel the heavy weight of family responsibilities she bore on her shoulders. Lulu had been irresponsible and frivolous, but Annabelle knew only too well that her cousin's life had been far from perfect.

  Just as she zipped her overnight bag closed the telephone rang. Rounding the bed she lifted the receiver from the base on the bedside table. "Hello."

  "Ms. Vanderley."

  "Yes." She didn't recognize the man's voice.

  "This is Sanders, Mr. Powell's assistant. I'm calling on his behalf."

  "Yes, Mr. Sanders—"

  "Just Sanders, ma'am."

  "What's your message from Mr. Powell?"

  "He'll be in Memphis tonight and would like to meet with you at the Peabody at eight. Shall I let him know to ex­pect you?"

  "Yes, of course. And please, tell Mr. Powell thank you." "For what, ma'am?"

  Slightly flustered by the man's comment, Annabelle said "Uh. . . hmm . . . well, I assumed that if he's coming to Mem­phis, he plans to work for me."

  "Possibly, but I couldn't say for certain."

  "Oh, I see."

  "Good day, Ms. Vanderley."

  The dial tone droned in her ear. She replaced the receiver. Odd man, she thought. Such strange comments. But surely if Griffin Powell was coming to Memphis this evening, he in­tended to take her case. Why else would he make the trip?

  She remembered meeting Mr. Powell several years ago at a charity function in Chattanooga. More than likely anyone who ever met the man, never forgot him. Like Quinn Cortez, Griffin Powell possessed enormous animal magnetism, al­beit a more subtle charisma. If she hadn't been engaged and totally devoted to her fiance when she met Mr. Powell, she might have accepted his overtures, but at that time Chris had still been the center of her universe.

  Suddenly, her mind was filled with images of three differ­ent men. Chris, her first love, who would always be a part of her. She liked to remember the way they had been before the accident, the two of them young and in love and looking for­ward to a lifetime together. But more and more lately, thoughts of Chris during the last few years of his life haunted her. Helpless. Melancholy. Begging her to make a new life for herself and yet clinging to her at the same time. And now memories of Chris became overlaid by images of two men she barely knew—men who, each in his own way—had made a strong impression on her. Big, blond Griffin Powell. A re­served secretive man who reminded her of the old saying about still waters running deep. And then there was Quinn Cortez—dark and dangerous.

  Annabelle shivered. Had Quinn Cortez killed Lulu? Had the man who had come to her rescue this morning murdered her cousin last night?

  If the police had any proof whatsoever that he had killed Lulu, they would have arrested him. Right? Of course they would have. He'd been Lulu's lover, the person who discov­ered her body, so naturally he headed their list of possible suspects.

  Stop thinking about Quinn Cortez. If he's an innocent man, then he is of no interest to you. Your only concern must be making sure Lulu's murderer is caught and punished.

  Uncle Louis was counting on her. He trusted her to do what he was physically and emotionally unable to do. Staying the course until the family could achieve closure on this matter could well be the only thing that would keep her uncle alive. After all, he'd said more than once that Lulu was his only reason for living. Not Wythe. Never Wythe. No fa­ther could be proud of a son like Wythe. Spineless, blood­sucking leech. That's what Uncle Louis had once called him.

  The telephone rang again. Annabelle sighed. Now who?

  Please God, don't let it be a phone call from home about Uncle Louis.

  Her hand trembled slightly as she picked up the receiver. "Hello."

  "Annabelle, darling girl, it's Aunt Perdita. I just spoke to Hiram and he told me what happened and where I could get in touch with you."

  "Oh, Aunt Perdita, I'm sorry I didn't try to contact you, but—"

  "No apologies necessary. I understand. What I want to know is if you need me to come to Memphis tonight. If you do, I can skip this damn wedding and try to catch a flight out right away."

  "Wedding?"

  "Joyce and Whit Morris's daughter, Cynthia. You'd for­gotten, hadn't you, dear? No mind. It's a tediously dull affair. But since I was once engaged to Whit's brother, that makes me practically Cynthia's aunt and—"

  "No, please, don't miss the wedding."

  "I'll be there no later than tomorrow night. I'll book reservations right away for the first flight from Louisville to Memphis, hopefully in the morning."

  "There's really no need for you to come. I'm perfectly fine."

  "Really, dear? Are you sure?"

  Her aunt Perdita knew her better than anyone, perhaps be­cause she had shared confidences with her mother's younger sister, had told her things she'd never told another living soul. Aunt Perdita was the only other person who knew that she'd been unfaithful to Chris, that she'd had two brief af­fairs during their eight-and-a-half-year engagement.

  "I'm numb right now, Aunt Perdita," Annabelle admitted.

  "I'm just going through the motions. Hopefully, the police will find Lulu's killer very soon and I can return home, at least until the trial starts."

  "Do they have any idea who killed her or why?"

  "Not really."

  "No suspects."

  "No." Not unless she counted Quinn Cortez and for some unfathomable reason, Annabelle didn't want to think of him as a suspect.

  "If you're sure you're all right—"

  "I am."

  "Then I'll phone you in the morning. And if you need me, I'll come running. I know how alone you are."

  Annabelle said good-bye, then headed for the kitchen, which was kept fully stocked. She hadn't eaten a bite since the cup of coffee and cheese Danish she'd had before leaving home early this morning. As if on cue, her stomach growled w
hen she opened the refrigerator.

  She removed an apple and a bottle of Perrier. For dinner tonight, she'd either order in or make reservations at a nearby restaurant for six o'clock. She had an eight o'clock appoint­ment at the Peabody with Griffin Powell and didn't want to be late. She suspected the man appreciated punctuality. Some­thing they had in common.

  After settling onto the living room sofa, she turned on the television to the history channel, then opened the bottled water and took a sip.

  I know how alone you are. Her aunt's words reverberated in her mind.

  As Annabelle munched on the Granny Smith apple, she told herself that Aunt Perdita was wrong. She wasn't alone or lonely. She had servants who lived in at the home she'd in­herited from her parents. She had a secretary, a personal as­sistant and dozens of friends. Her social calendar was full. And if she wanted to date, she could have her pick of eligible men.

  Her solitary life was by choice. She enjoyed her freedom. And she wasn't interested in getting married just for the sake of marrying. If she couldn't love someone as much as she'd loved Chris, she had no intention of settling for anything less.

  * * *

  The moment Kendall Wells entered her house, she smelled the delicious aroma of food. Smiling to herself, she tossed aside her jacket and briefcase, then undid the top two buttons on her silk blouse. Quinn Cortez was in her kitchen. That meant he was cooking. Remembering their brief affair, she sighed when she recalled that not only was the man ex­tremely talented in the bedroom, but he was also a master in the kitchen. If he hadn't decided there was more money in being a lawyer, Quinn could have been a chef.

  Kendall paused and sucked in a deep breath as she watched Quinn. Wearing a large white apron—one of hers— around his waist, he stood over the stove, stirring some kind of sauce in an stainless-steel pan with one hand and sipping on a glass of red wine that he held in the other hand. What a man! Exotically alluring with his rich bronze skin, his wavy black hair and eyes so dark and fathomless that looking into them was like being sucked into a sensual black hole. Once a woman dived in, she would be forever lost.

  "Welcome home." He offered her one of his cream-your-panties smiles. God, the man was lethal, even in small doses.

  Scratch that thought, she told herself. Considering the fact that Quinn was a suspect in a murder case, she didn't want to associate the word lethal with him, not even in her thoughts.

  Think about something other than how much you'd like to drag the man off into your bedroom and keep him there all weekend. And for goodness sake, don't even consider the possibility that he might be a murderer. You know Quinn bet­ter than that.

  Or at least she thought she did.

  "Something sure smells good," she said.

  "Nothing fancy. I found some things in the freezer and in the pantry. So how does stuffed pork chops, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, twice baked potatoes and a pear salad sound to you?"

  "You found the makings for all that in my kitchen?"

  He nodded. "Take off your shoes, sit down and let me pour you a glass of wine. You look tired. What's kept you so busy on a Saturday?"

  Kendall stepped out of her shoes, then sat on the sofa in the great room and waited for Quinn to bring her the wine before she said anything. "Sit down here with me." She pat­ted the sofa cushions.

  With his own wineglass refilled and in hand he sat beside her. "Your working on a Saturday has something to do with me, doesn't it?"

  "I have a bad feeling about this case," she told him. "Sergeant George is an ambitious young man. If he could pin this murder wrap on you, arrest you and the DA could win a conviction, it could make both his career and the DA's. The media would have a field day if one of the most famous criminal lawyers in the country was arrested for Lulu Vanderley's murder."

  After taking a couple of sips of wine, Quinn set his glass on a coaster atop the coffee table, then reached over and circled the back of Kendall's neck with his big hand. As he caressed tenderly, she sighed. His touch was like magic—erotic magic.

  "If the worst happens and I'm arrested you'll make a name for yourself by getting me acquitted."

  "Do you have that much faith in me?"

  He took her. glass from her hand and put the crystal flute to her lips. She took a sip, all the while keeping her gaze riv­eted to his. His black eyes were mesmerizing. God damn it, she thought she was over him, that she'd dealt with any left­over romantic feelings she had for him. Undoubtedly, she'd been wrong. Right this minute, she wanted Quinn as much as ever. Maybe more.

  "I have all the faith in the world in you, honey." He set her glass down on a second coaster, alongside his. "Besides, I'm innocent. I did not kill Lulu."

  "I believe you," she told him, her heart beating erratically as he inched his ringers up her neck and into her hair. When he cupped the back of her head and pulled her toward him, she gasped knowing full well that when he kissed her, she'd give in completely.

  "Kendall, I don't want you to think I'm trying to take ad­vantage of you . . ." He waited not kissing her, only staring deeply into her eyes. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you, but"—he heaved a deep sigh—"we both know that mixing business with pleasure is a stupid move."

  Kendall shoved him away and jumped to her feet. Standing over him, breathless with sexual frustration, she cursed under her breath. "Damn you, Quinn."

  "Honey, I'm sorry if—"

  "I thought I could handle this—being your lawyer, having you staying here with me. But it appears that I'm not as im­mune to you as I thought I was. It seems that once Quinn Cortez is in your system, it's not so easy to get rid of him."

  Quinn stood but made no attempt to touch her. "I'm get­ting a place of my own, just in case I'm stuck in Memphis for more than a few days. The gang's coming in tomorrow. I'll be out of your hair then. Once this thing is over. . ."

  He grinned and that killer smile was her undoing. Killer smile? Lethal? Stop using that type of terminology when you think about Quinn. What was wrong with her? She'd always known Quinn's sex appeal was lethal, that he possessed a killer smile. Those words had never bothered her before now. But that was before Quinn became a murder suspect. Before the thought had crossed her mind that he might have actually killed Lulu Vanderley.

  "Kendall, honey, are you all right?"

  "Huh?" Had her doubts translated into a facial expression that concerned him? God she hoped not.

  "I didn't mean to—"

  "No!" She shook her head to dislodge such idiotic thoughts. "No, this isn't your fault. I've probably been sending out mixed signals. So let's forget all this nonsense and go back to safe ground. We're friends and nothing more for the dura­tion. We're not saying no to each other, just not now. Not yet."

  "Agreed" Quinn said then nodded toward the kitchen. "Dinner is ready and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. What say we eat, then you can go with me to the Peabody to meet with Griffin Powell. I have an eight o'clock appointment with him tonight."

  "Griffin Powell? You're hiring Griffin Powell?"

  Quinn headed for the kitchen. "Refill the wineglasses, while I put dinner on the table. Eating in here in the break­fast room is okay with me if it is with you."

  "You contacted Griffin Powell and plan to hire him to do what—investigate Lulu Vanderley's murder?" Kendall fol­lowed him into the kitchen area.

  "I don't intend to take any chances, in case the police don't cover all the bases. We both know that they could con­centrate all their efforts on finding evidence against me. I want a private investigator who's on my payroll, somebody who'll be working to find the real killer, to prove me inno­cent."

  "Damn it, Quinn, I'm your lawyer. You shouldn't be doing anything without running it by me first."

  "I'm taking you with me to meet with Powell tonight. That's running it by you, isn't it?"

  "And if I disagree with you?"

  "About Powell?"

  "About anything?"

  "Honey, you're a very good lawy
er. I trust you. But we both know that I'm the best damn criminal lawyer there is. As much as I trust your judgment, I trust my own more."

  "Then maybe you'd better defend yourself if you wind up going to trial."

  Quinn zeroed in on her, his gaze freezing her to the spot. She held her breath as he came toward her, grasped her by the shoulders and held her tightly in place.

  "Don't do this. You're pissed at me because . . . well, be­

  cause you're all hot and bothered because you want me, be­cause we want each other, but we agreed jumping into bed together might not be a good idea." She glared at him.

  "I need you, Kendall. Together, we'll make an unbeatable team."

  Clenching her teeth, she grunted admitting to herself that he was right. "Okay, this situation with Lulu's murder could wind up meaning your life is on the line, so I'm not going to argue with you. Besides, I should have known we'd have to play this game by your rules."

  He smiled. "It's the only way I play."

  Chapter 6

  Griffin Powell opened the door to his suite and met Annabelle with a cordial semismile. His lips curved upward ever so slightly, but not enough to be a true smile. He was just as she remembered him from their one and only meeting and she found him just as overpoweringly mesmeric now as then. A large, broad-shouldered man, with platinum-blond hair and a pair of dark blue eyes that seemed blank and lifeless one moment, then pensive and calculating the next.

  "Please, come in, Ms. Vanderley."

  "Thank you." She walked into the suite as he stepped aside to allow her entrance. When he followed her into the lounge area, she turned and faced him. "I can't thank you enough for agreeing to meet with me. I hope I can persuade you to take this case."

  "Won't you have a seat?" He indicated the sofa with a hand gesture. "Would you care for something to drink?"

  Annabelle sat on the sofa, folded her hands and placed them in her lap as she slid one ankle demurely behind the other. She had learned at an early age, at her grandmother Austin's knee, the proper way for a young lady to sit. "I wouldn't care for anything to drink, but thank you."