A Touch Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 2) Read online

  Gordon was quick to rile. But utterly controlled when it transpired. Could he have strangled Samantha Hayes out of necessity? Yes, I think he could. Which meant he was definitely a possibility for my new theory, but how was he involved with HEAT?

  The arsonist was targeting HEAT property, targeting Damon, I believed. David Gordon was an unknown in that scenario. Unknown to either Damon or HEAT.

  “Have you seen HEAT in action before, Mr Gordon?” I asked pleasantly, swiping up a last mouthful from my barely touched plate before it was swept away.

  “I’m aware of what they do.”

  “Have you had reason to use them?” I pressed. “They’re very good, you know.”

  “I have not used them, no,” he said, voice hardening.

  “Would you?” I queried.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would you call in HEAT if, say, you had a fire related crime at Bainbridge’s to solve?”

  “It’s the law, isn’t it?” a gentleman across the way said as Gordon held my gaze with a determined one of his own. “HEAT are automatically called in when fire is involved.”

  “We’re advised, but we need either permission from the Police to enter,” Damon said as Gordon and I had a mini staring match. His wife just looked into her near empty glass of wine longingly. “Or if the owner of the premises believes fire is involved, but the Police have not yet confirmed it, permission from them.”

  “You can go above the Police?” someone else asked.

  Damon looked toward me and smiled. I knew that smile, it was laced with debauched things. “When required.”

  Mrs Gordon snorted into her wine. She was listening and she had a sense of humour.

  “Or beneath them,” Damon added, causing a stir amongst the well dressed guests, clearly following Mrs Gordon’s lead. “One in particular, anyway,” he muttered, but several of the men heard.

  It shattered the moment. Took the sting out of the frozen air. Gordon relaxed, visibly. His hand even went to his wife’s on the table, lacing his fingers with hers. She looked up at him, clearly besotted. He pulled her fingers to his lips and kissed them, then looked directly at me.

  “How well did you know Malcolm Francis Warren, Mr Gordon?”

  The question was a direct hit, but not for the reason I’d intended. Confusion briefly filled his eyes, then was immediately replaced with recognition. Which was quickly followed by annoyance. I’d caught him off guard with the police-type query, then he’d placed the name, realising that Malcolm Warren worked for Bainbridge’s. And then, if my guess was right, he was put-out that I had trumped whatever game he’d been about to play.

  He was like a book, too easy to read when off-kilter. But the moment he clamped those emotions down he became invisible.

  The man who answered was a mystery to me.

  “Works at my store. But you already know that.”

  He turned to his wife and lifted his free hand up and cupped her face. The kiss was at once tender and also possessive and inappropriate for the setting. David Gordon liked to take control.

  I dropped my line of questioning, if Gordon had anything to do with the assault, I’d not discover it here. And my gut was telling me he’d have behaved differently if he was in any way guilty. That brief moment of clarity he’d allowed me with his initial unchecked emotional response was enough for now.

  The conversation continued, but Gordon barely said a word, his eyes holding mine, as the hand, holding his wife’s, slipped under the table.

  I wasn’t sure about this man. He was definitely controlling, in command. But that could have been how a CEO of a prominent department store behaved. He didn’t like being questioned. He had issues with the Police. His record was clean. No priors. No history to speak of. An exemplary business career with a stellar resume. He was at the pinnacle of his professional life.

  And privately? He’d been married for seven years. First marriage at the age of forty-one. Before then, I had a sneaky suspicion, he’d been sowing his wild oats.

  Mrs Gordon shifted. Just slightly, but enough for me to notice it coincided with Gordon’s creased brow. He didn’t stop looking at me and I started to feel a little uncomfortable, but staring down a suspect had never made me so before.

  I couldn’t place it. Where this feeling of disquiet came from. The man himself was nondescript in appearance, and his mannerisms seemed all too practised to induce raw fear. But there was something about him that made me uneasy. It’s hard to recognise evil. It’s hard to see it in the fine lines of a well made suit, in the brush of expensively cut greying hair. In the pale blue eyes that challenged, and it was then that I began to realise what was setting me on edge.

  His challenge was sexual in nature. Not because he’d been questioned about a dead employee, or the assault of another, and had to sit through a public event with one of the detectives who’d invaded his home. His challenge was personal. A man to a woman. Heedless of my professional position or the man who sat at my side and had just publicly made a claim.

  Maybe that was it. Damon’s slip-up of before. He’d shown his cards. Declared his possession. Albeit in a joke that meant no harm.

  I’m a cop. I’m used to it. Blatant shows of testosterone mixed in with the job’s heightened emotional strain. But David Gordon was an executive, a businessman who always wore suits and spoke in hushed tones behind boardroom doors. He wasn’t used to such displays. It incited something in him.

  Add in my question about Malcolm Francis Warren and his path was set.

  He ruled his empire. He ruled at home.

  And when sitting across from a woman who had invaded both without caution, questioned him in public without heed, and having had what appeared a challenge thrown down at his feet, he reacted. He slipped into a role that I had only glimpsed in Damon, that I had only ever read about before.

  Mrs Gordon’s lips parted, her free hand tightened around her glass. The conversation at the table continued, dessert was delivered and consumed, and all the while David Gordon held my gaze with a question in his eyes, as he held the hand of his wife under the table. Out of sight, but not the picture.

  I smiled.

  He smiled.

  And in the middle of the beautiful old Town Hall building, in the centre of the elaborately decorated Great Hall, surrounded by exquisitely dressed dinner companions, Mrs Gordon shuddered. Her whole body spasming; a minute movement contained through training and nothing else.

  As her chest rose and fell swiftly, her eyes darted around the table, the room, anywhere but at the man at her side, and landed on mine. And she knew. She knew I’d seen it. Watched it. Was aware of what exactly had happened three feet across a table from where I sat.

  Her eyes were just as challenging as her husband’s, but for entirely different reasons.

  This woman was a submissive, to no one but this controlling man.

  Chapter 28

  “Guilty by process of elimination.”

  Did that make him a murderer? Did that make him good for the assault in Boardman Lane? Had David Gordon abducted Carole Michaels and even now kept her somewhere locked up as a sex slave?

  And what the hell did he have to do with HEAT?

  He acted as though he didn’t even know or care about Damon, only in so much as Damon’s claim on me had raised the hackles on his neck.

  The man was a controlling sexual exhibitionist, which definitely placed him on the list for killing Samantha Hayes. But any connection to the HEAT arsonist was a bust. I just couldn’t connect the dots.

  And the longer I sat opposite the man, who seemed to have relaxed into the dinner conversation without a ruffle in his evil cape, the harder it was not to demand answers. Answers that would get me nowhere and could escalate his crimes if he did do any of this.

  I just didn’t know, and I couldn’t spend anymore time on him. I had the Marcrofts to corner and my father to check in with. Gordon was going to have to stay on the maybe pile, and I just had to hope I ruled ou
t the other three. Guilty by process of elimination. It was something that Carl would say.

  Or Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes their imagined voices in my head overlapped.

  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” I said, leaning over to Damon and talking just loud enough for Gordon to hear. I felt dirty sitting here at the same table as him and his wife. But my chosen target for distraction would no doubt make me feel small. I wasn’t sure which was going to be better.

  But for now I’d had enough of David Gordon, that was for damn sure.

  “Great,” Damon replied, a little too eagerly. I blinked at him as he rose from his seat and clasped my hand in his. “Nice meeting you all,” he offered and practically dragged me away from the scene of what may not have been a crime exactly; it would be hard to prove, both the Gordons would deny it. And if it was a crime, it was only a misdemeanour.

  Just my innocence the victim of the day.

  And it appeared Damon’s.

  “Bloody hell,” he whispered in my ear. “That man is a sexual deviant.”

  “Deviant,” I repeated, thinking that choice of word was bang on.

  “Both of them, because she enjoyed it as much as he did.”

  “Were we the only ones who noticed?” I asked, astounded he’d been able to pay attention and still maintain a conversation with another couple at the table.

  “Not by a long shot. Maybe not the women, but the men were well aware of Gloria Gordon climaxing just across the table from them, you can be sure.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I commented.

  “Different strokes, Lara. The world is made up of many different sexual preferences, but that does not make him our man.”

  “Makes him a good target for it,” I argued, keeping my voice quiet as we wended our way through the throng of diners towards my father’s table.

  “I don’t think so. Was that the act of a man trying to avoid police attention?”

  “Or was he trying to scare me off.”

  Damon barked out a laugh, making several women we passed look up and smile appreciatively. “Love, he was offering you an invitation. Should you have excused yourself and gone to the bathroom right afterwards, he would have followed. To hell with me. To hell with his wife. It was for you that act was performed.”

  “Bullshit,” I grumbled, receiving a few looks that were not appreciation. “He was challenging me. Telling me the fight was on.”

  “Oh, it was a challenge, all right. One you beautifully ignored. Ignorant to its delivery or not, you shot him down. By inviting me to leave with you from the table.”

  “What?” I squeaked, embarrassingly.

  He pulled me behind one of those velvet curtains, sealing us away mere feet from the chattering, laughing, midday drinking guests at the Town Hall.

  “Damon,” I began. We didn’t have time for this.

  “Shh,” he said, wrapping his arms around me and leaning in to offer a chaste kiss. “Just a few minutes to send the right signal to Gordon.”

  “The right signal?”

  “That you’re mine and he better start fishing elsewhere.”

  “Neanderthal,” I muttered.

  His laugh was a low rumble emanating from his chest. I lifted my hand and rested it there, feeling his happiness through the fine weave of his dinner suit.

  “He was too involved in the game to be thinking of anything other than bedding you,” Damon whispered. The words not exactly intimate, but the setting certainly was. “I sincerely doubt that man can think past his next conquest, his next moment of controlling splendour, to be able to commit murder or assault.”

  “He riles easily,” I pointed out.

  “And his response is completely controlled. Right down to his emotions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You should run his profile by Hennessey, but I’d bet my left nut he’d agree.” I frowned at him, he waggled his eyebrows at me. Then added, “David Gordon is a predatory dominant who is too busy seeking his own sexual gratification to be interested in anything else. Including the death of one of his employees.”

  He was right. It was too elaborate of a smoke screen to be real. Because it wasn’t a misdirect at all. David Gordon was a self obsessed, egotistical, sexual deviant, who needed control.

  “I still like him for the murder,” I grumbled.

  Damon laughed, leaned forward and rubbed his nose against the edge of mine, and then clasped my hand.

  “By all means, keep an open mind,” he said, as he pushed the curtain aside and walked out as though king of the world. A cocky swagger to his step, a proprietary hand on the small of my back. “But I’d move him to the bottom of the list.”

  My eyes found Gordon’s across the room, and even from here I could see the disappointment staring back.

  We’d taken two steps when our path was blocked. Dark eyes flicked over my face, noting the lack of suitable make-up, then moved onto my dishevelled and free flowing hair, then down to my still slightly crumpled dress. Then he made a point of looking over our shoulders at the velvet curtains we’d just come out from behind.

  Finally, my father looked toward Damon.

  “Superintendent Keen, I presume,” Damon said, offering a hand. It took four long seconds for my father to accept it.

  “HEAT Investigator Michaels,” he said voice clipped. “Hardly the venue to seduce my daughter.”

  Strangely his comment made me feel warm. My desperation for any attention from my father was appalling.

  Damon didn’t make excuses. He held himself rigid, slightly taller than my father, and said, “I’ve heard so much about you.” In a blatant lie that my father saw through immediately. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet.”

  “Lara hasn’t said anything about you,” my father threw back.

  They stared at each other, having some form of pissing contest I was expected to ignore. To hell with that.

  “Are you here alone, Dad? Or did you bring a date?”

  My father stiffened, and then he turned slowly and held out his hand. A small, willowy woman with short dark hair and tanned skin stepped forward, accepting his offered hand meekly. She wore a stunning dress I immediately knew my father had chosen. It showed too much skin. Around her neck was draped a length of chain, wrapped tree times securely, with the bulk of the studded emerald and sapphire length hanging loosely between her breasts.

  It was unusual and mesmerising; sparkling as she shifted and swayed with a sense of grace I severely lacked.

  “This is Haydee,” he said, bringing his hand up to the back of her neck as she stepped to his side, then running a finger across the jewels on the chain at her nape. It was purposeful. That movement. For me? Or for her?

  She flicked Kohl rimmed eyes up to his, head still somehow lowered, and then smiled benignly at both Damon and myself.

  She did not talk.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Lara. Ethan’s daughter.”

  The smile remained in place. The lips serenely sealed.

  “This is my boyfriend Damon,” I added, waiting for her to return the greeting.

  Nothing.

  My eyes lifted to my father’s, who was watching me.

  “It’s strange to see you at an event like this,” he commented, ignoring the glaringly big elephant in the room. Why wouldn’t she talk?

  Couldn’t she? Then why didn’t he say something to cover the awkward silence? And not something about how strange it was to see me here of all places.

  “I’m on the clock,” I said, unable to think of a single thing to say otherwise.

  “Ah,” he said, looking Damon up and down again, and making a show of glancing towards the velvet curtains at our back. “Clearly CIB has changed its tactics since my day.”

  “We utilise all avenues available to us,” I said back in a steady voice.

  Damon didn’t shift as such, but suddenly the heated pressure of his touch was at my back. Reassuring me. Calming me. Letting me know I was not alon
e.

  “I can see that,” my father replied, just as steadily, just as devoid of emotion. “How is your case progressing?”

  “Slowly,” I admitted. “We have suspects.”

  His eyes stared intently at me.

  “Narrowing it down?” he queried.

  “Making some headway, but I could use your advice.”

  “Of course.”

  This was how we talked. If we talked at all. It was sad. Terribly, unbelievably, utterly sad.

  “Do you have a moment now?” I asked, looking around for somewhere for us to go.

  “I’m not sure now would be appropriate,” he replied in that same emotionless voice.

  “Just a few minutes. I’m sure Damon could take Haydee for a drink.”

  My father stiffened, his eyes flicking to Damon. The look one of challenge. Bloody hell. Everyone was challenging everyone today. And I still couldn’t figure out what this one said.

  “Very well,” my father replied, and there was a note of emotion in his voice for once. Regret.

  He didn’t want to spend any alone time with me. Because of who we were to each other? Or because of the case?

  Damon offered an arm to Haydee who immediately looked toward my father. As if seeking permission, or direction of some sort. He nodded his head, and said, “You know what to do.”

  She nodded back, a sense of calmness invading her frame, making her appear even more graceful as she swept off with Damon, silently walking at his side. Not accepting the offered arm.

  I whistled low and raised an eyebrow at my father, who ignored my immature response and indicated a vacant settee off to the side. We would still be in plain sight of the luncheon guests, so couldn’t start arguing - which was highly unlikely with Ethan Keen - but close enough to the velvet curtains to make me feel uncomfortable. I had a feeling everyone had seen Damon and I come out from behind those.

  “So, how can I help?” my father asked as soon as we were both seated.

  “You can tell me if you signed an NDA with Sweet Hell.”

  He stared at me for a very long time. It was hard to say if he was pleased I wasn’t beating about the bush or appalled at my lack of detective skills.