Of course, what those pictures hadn't shown was her checking her watch every five minutes, counting down the seconds until the date was over. What they hadn't shown was her angrily pushing Blake away after he grabbed her and slammed his mouth down over hers. What they hadn't shown was...the truth. Not that it mattered anyway, considering she'd betrayed Billy the second she agreed to that awful date, but still...

"You divorced me six measly months after we said our vows because you thought it was me," Blake shoved his thumb into his chest, "who called in the tip to the press."

"It was you," she insisted, her foreboding morphing into the kind of dread that had her scalp tingling. But there was no reason for it. Because she knew for fact it'd been Blake. After they'd been married only a few weeks and her head had had time to clear from the heartache of losing Billy and the whirlwind of the rushed wedding, she'd started having misgivings. Misgivings about the way Blake had been a little too outspoken in his anger with the press. Misgivings about the fact that he'd been a little too willing to hold her close and dry her tears while she cried over another man. Misgivings about how he'd been just a little too quick to propose marriage after it became apparent Billy was out of the picture. She'd started to feel instinctively that something wasn't right, that it all felt...planned somehow.

It'd taken her a couple of months to work up the courage to hire a private investigator, but she finally did it. And what'd turned up after some digging? Well, the not-so-insignificant fact that the phone call to the local media had come directly from Blake's cell phone that night. "You'd been hounding me to go out with you for months, just as much as my father had," she insisted. "And when I finally agreed, you found a way to make sure I stayed with you. You found a way to ruin my only other option. The phone records don't lie, Blake."

He shook his head, his expression derisive. "It's true I wanted you since the first moment I saw you on campus. I still want you." Ah, and now the real truth was coming out. Want. He wanted her. Which was a completely different song than the one he'd been singing for the last decade or so. The song of love. Like most spoiled rich boys, the one thing Blake Parish coveted more than anything was the one thing he couldn't have. And, deep down, even while they'd been married, he must've known he couldn't have her. Not in any way that mattered. "We're perfect together."

She barely resisted snorting and rolling her eyes. Perfect together? In what world? Certainly not hers.

"And I would've gotten you eventually, fair and square," he continued. Again, in what world? "had he," he tilted his chin toward her father, "not gotten impatient and decided to...help things along."

Wait, what? The room did a slow tilt to the left, and she found herself eternally grateful Billy was beside her to steady her when she wobbled. What was Blake saying? That it was her...her father's idea to call the press that night?

She slowly turned to the man accused. And from the way the muscle ticked in his jaw, from the way he couldn't quite hold her gaze, he didn't need to affirm or deny Blake's allegation.

No...

But the truth was written all over her father's face, flashing at her as brightly as a neon sign. Good G.o.d, had she really thought there was nothing Blake could say that would hurt her? Had she really thought there was nothing he could tell her to make her want to back away from the truth?

"How could you do that?" She meant to scream the words at her father, but they croaked out of her in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"Eve," he began, lifting his chin at a defensive angle, even now refusing to give so much as an inch. "I did what I thought was best for you and for your future. I did what-"

"And more than that," Blake cut him off. "He paid the newspapers and tabloids to run those articles, to make sure they were publicized both far and wide. It was his idea for-"

"Shut up, Blake!" her father yelled.

"f.u.c.k you, Patrick!" Blake shot back. "I'm done being your puppet! I could've won Eve all on my own if you'd just given me more time! If you'd kept your nose out of-"

She stopped listening because suddenly it was all too much. Her entire world, everything she'd ever known to be true, everyone she'd ever known to be true was just one big, stinking lie.

"G-get me out of h-here, Billy," she whispered. "I can't breathe in here."

"Done," he said. Then to Mac and Delilah he called, "Come on. We're getting the h.e.l.l out of this snake pit."

Snake pit? Yep, that's about right. And she'd been the field mouse, timidly waiting to be eaten alive by two vipers.

Well, not anymore! She was finished with them. Finished with- She didn't get to finish the thought because Billy started half carrying/half dragging her in a beeline toward the elevator. What the heck is wrong with my legs? It appeared they were only partially working. Well, she supposed that's what happened when one found herself stabbed in the back by her own father. But she didn't have time to worry about that now. Because Delilah, G.o.d bless her, had already punched the b.u.t.ton for the elevator, and Eve could hear the car cables creaking behind the closed silver door.

"Wait, Eve, I-" her father jogged over to them and reached for her. On instinct she pressed closer to Billy.

"Retract that hand before I rip it off, f.u.c.kwad," Billy snarled lowly, sounding more like a beast than a man.

Her father s.n.a.t.c.hed his fingers back like the air between them had turned into a gaping shark's mouth. His eyes, his lying, double-crossing eyes pleaded with her when he said, "Please, Eve, I-"

Bing-bong. No sound had ever been sweeter than that of the elevator arriving on the penthouse floor. Billy hustled her inside the car, and Mac and Delilah stepped in behind them, immediately turning around to create a wall of flesh and blood between her and her father. And when he tried to get into the elevator car with them, Mac stopped him with a straight-armed palm centered in the middle of his chest. "I'm not sure I understand exactly what just went down," Mac drawled, shaking his head. "But if I were you, I believe I'd wait for the next car. I reckon you're not very welcome in this one."

"But I haven't finished speaking with my daughter," her father announced, still trying to play the I'm-rich-and-ent.i.tled-and-you-don't-scare-me card even though everyone in the elevator knew it was all just a show. Because even Eve, naive, sheltered Eve could see the fear in her father's face.

"I believe you've said just about everything that needs sayin'," Mac informed him. "Now, please be so kind as to step back."

The words might've been phrased as a request, but Mac's tone was more in the line of do-as-I-say-or-find-yourself-eating-my-fist.

Her father obeyed. But before the silver doors slid shut completely, Blake got in one final, parting shot.

"And if someone's trying to kill you," he yelled, "start looking at your father! That business deal he got us involved in? Well, it's sunk! We're all bankrupt! And your inheritance and life-insurance policy are probably looking pretty sweet right now!"

Okay, she couldn't hold it in any longer. She tossed her head back and cried out with her all her fury and betrayal, all her grief and hurt. Billy raked her into his arms, pressing her face against his chest, whispering in her ear, "Shh, sweetheart. I've got you. I've got you, and n.o.body's gonna hurt you again."

Oh, if only she could believe him...

Chapter Sixteen.

Chicago Police Station, District 2, Second Floor, Homicide Division 10:45 p.m.

Bill stared down into his Styrofoam coffee cup. Its contents reflected his mood. Black. And bitter...

"They still back there?" Mac asked after returning from the vending machine. He ripped open a box of raisins, dumped a handful into his palm and tossed the lot to the back of his mouth before slumping onto the bench beside Bill. Bench? Ha! That was a nice name for the mesh and metal a.s.s-cheek-torture device that was pushed up against the drab, taupe-colored wall.

Taking a quick swig from his cup, Bill winced at the acrid taste-as far as he could figure, the only people who liked their bean juice stronger than covert operators were cops-before glancing across the sea of messy desks that made up the bullpen of Chicago's overworked homicide department. The place looked like an office supply store had thrown up. Post-its were stuck everywhere, white boards were covered with pictures and notes and magnets, and inboxes were overflowing with thick manila file folders. The air smelled like years of desperation, frustration, and sweat...and stale doughnuts.

Yeah, doughnuts. Stereotypes were stereotypes because they were usually true.

The late hour meant the floor was nearly deserted, though one detective still sat over in the corner wearing a half-undone tie and wilted suit jacket-apparently that was the standard uniform for Chicago's murder-cop force-and henpecking his keyboard with the index fingers on each hand. The sharp, intermittent click-clack was setting Bill's teeth on edge.

Or maybe it was the fact that, for the last hour, Eve and Delilah had been MIA, sequestered in separate interrogation rooms, getting grilled over the details of the stick-up and murder at Delilah's and that nasty scene up in her father's condo. And his not being able to check on Eve to make sure she wasn't having a nervous breakdown was making him...well...teeter on the edge of having a nervous breakdown.

"Yeah." He reached into his hip pocket to pull out his trusty bottle of Pepto. If anything deserved an antacid chaser it was that coffee. "They're still being questioned."

And d.a.m.n, but the thought of Eve having to relive this awful day was enough to have his ulcer doing hat tricks that had nothing to do with the strength and acidity of the police station java. Uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the cap on the bottle of pink medicine, he tossed back a mouthful. The chalky liquid was a welcome relief to his burning stomach. Too bad there wasn't a similar cure for his blistering thoughts or the hot ache in his heart.

Poor Eve...

She'd been through so much in less than twelve hours. h.e.l.l, more than that. She'd been through so much over the past three months. Wait, back up and rewind again. Because after that little expose in her father's penthouse, he realized she'd been the victim of years upon years of schemes and plots. And, to his utter shock and perhaps horror, he realized she hadn't really thrown him over for Blake Parish as he'd always thought. At least not in the traditional sense. It'd been her father who pushed her at the man.

Then again...she had ended up marrying Blake...

So, yeah. There was still that.

Why, Eve? Why? Even after today's revelations it seemed it was the same ol' question spinning through his cerebral cortex.

Mac interrupted his dismayed musings. "Did you see those photos they were talkin' about?"

"Yeah." He blew out a breath. It ruffled the hair that'd fallen over his forehead. "But not until months after they'd been published." One of his teammates who'd been sick and tired of his hangdog face had shoved one of the articles under his nose in an attempt to snap him out of his funk. Unfortunately, it'd had the opposite effect. Because even though at the time he'd already known he'd lost Eve forever-she'd been married for two weeks by then-seeing her in another man's arms, seeing her laughing and smiling had ground Bill's already broken heart into a fine powder. "Apparently during the time those stories were running in the papers, I was cut off from the world."

Mac lifted a brow.

"I was drowning-sometimes literally-in the third phase of SEAL training," he explained. "And by the time I was able to come up for air, I discovered Eve's phone had been disconnected, and her letters had stopped." Of course, now Bill understood it was because she'd been caught red-handed out with another man, and she undoubtedly didn't want to have to come face-to-face with his anger and betrayal. She'd likely thought it was easier just to cut off communication altogether. Make a clean break as opposed to dealing with the drama.

d.a.m.nit, Eve! Why didn't you at least try to talk to me? Why didn't you give me a chance to listen to an explanation? Didn't I deserve that?

Of course, coulda, woulda, shoulda. It was all water under the bridge now. Or was it? Did this change things? Change the way he thought about her? Felt about her? He looked inside himself, at all the years of hurt, at all the years of wondering, why, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, why? And realized he didn't know. The truth of the matter was she betrayed him and the vows they made to each other the moment she agreed to go out on that date...

s.h.i.t on a stick. Why the h.e.l.l does life, and matters of the heart in particular, have to be so c.r.a.ptastically complicated? Seriously. That wasn't a rhetorical question. He was really throwing that silent inquiry out into the ether, waiting for the universe to answer him.

A couple of seconds ticked by, but he heard nothing but radio silence. Go figure. In his experience, the universe was, more times than not, a total wad when it came to replying to the big questions.

"And then two days before I was due to finally get leave-I'd planned to fly to her university to figure out just what the h.e.l.l was going on-I received an invitation to her wedding," he finished the story in one long, weary breath. Once again, he glanced across the expanse of desks to the gray metal door leading to the interrogation rooms.

"Harsh," Mac muttered, and Bill snorted.

"Yeah. You might call it that." Or you might call it friggin' heartbreaking. Lord knows his ticker had d.a.m.n near exploded inside his chest cavity when he opened that envelope. To this day, he could still see that red and white invitation, still quote it word for word: With a joyful heart, Patrick Alastair Edens requests the honor of your presence at the marriage of his daughter Evelyn Rose Edens to Jonathon Blake Parish. The ceremony will take place at half past two o'clock on the afternoon of blah, blah, blah...

Christ.

Why had she sent him that awful invitation? He'd never taken her to be spiteful. Not the Eve he'd known then, and not the Eve he knew now. Unless...perhaps she'd thought it would be a signal for him to come crash the party? Perhaps she'd thought- "Then again," Mac mused, his lips pursed in consideration, "sounds to me like she might have been manipulated into the marriage. After those articles ran in the papers, perhaps she felt there were expectations placed on her. You know, from friends and family. Maybe she thought she didn't have another choice."

Bill wanted to tell Mac he was wrong. That she'd had another choice, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, because she'd had him. But the wide set of double doors connecting the elevator bank to the bullpen burst open, revealing the deep frown of none other than Chief Washington himself. Directly on his heels were Blake Parish and Patrick Edens.

At some point, Blake had changed his blood-soaked shirt for a fresh b.u.t.ton-down and a linen sport coat. But the getup looked a bit ridiculous considering the man's nose was three times its normal size and both of his eyes were swollen and turning a painful-looking purple. Bill didn't even try to hide his gleeful smile. And it only spread wider when he discovered Patrick Edens, freshly attired in a light summer sweater, was trying to stare holes through him.

"You better redirect that gaze, c.o.c.ksucker," he called to Edens. "Or else I might just decide to jump up and put a limp in that Jimmy Stewart swagger of yours."

"Can it, Reichert," Washington barked, just as the doors belched open again, admitting two gentlemen wearing pinstripe suits, shiny handmade loafers, and carrying briefcases.

Ah, yes. The ambulance-chasers. Although, Bill would bet a dollar to anyone's dime that these two overdressed, and no doubt overpaid lawyers had never chased an ambulance, or anything else for that matter, in their entire lives.

"Thank G.o.d you're here," Edens said to the men, studiously avoiding Bill's gaze as Washington led the group on a circuitous route through the desks in an attempt to bypa.s.s Bill and Mac's position by the wall.

Probably a good idea, Chief, Bill inwardly admitted. Because the reality was it wouldn't take much, maybe just a whiff of Edens's overpowering cologne, for him to follow through on that threat he'd just made.

Of course, he was careful to make sure none of this showed on his face when Washington glanced at him over his shoulder. Instead, he lifted a brow, letting his eyes drift to the lawyers before returning his gaze to Washington and calling, "What was that I mentioned earlier about me being able to say I told you so?"

Washington thrust out his lower lip all pugnacious-like and glared with those black eyes that seemed to see straight into a man's soul. Bill had always kind of figured the role of Sergeant Foley played by Louis Gossett Jr. in An Officer and a Gentleman was modeled after Washington.

"What did I just say, Reichert?" Washington bellowed.

He grinned cheekily. "About what, Chief?"

"About canning it," Washington barked.

"Um," Bill twisted up his face like the IQ fairy had pa.s.sed him by on Extra Points Day. "That I should do so?"

"Exactly," Washington said, holding the gray door leading to the interrogation wing wide so his train of murderers, manipulators, and, worse, lawyers, could precede him. "But don't you leave," the police chief added before following the group. "After I see these, uh, gentlemen in for questioning, I'm gonna want to have a word with you."

"I'll be right here, Chief," he promised.

The detective pecking at his keyboard spared the group a brief glance before they disappeared behind the door. Then he went back to glaring at his computer screen. And when Bill turned to Mac, he found the man's expression was as amused as Washington's had been irritated.

"I dealt with a lot of police chiefs during my time as a fed," Mac drawled. "But I never came across one with quite the...eh...what is that particular aura that hangs around our intrepid Chief Washington? I can't quite put my finger on it?"

"It's one part don't f.u.c.k with me," Bill supplied helpfully.

"And the other part?" Mac queried.

"Don't f.u.c.k with me."

Mac chuckled. "Yeah, I think you nailed it."

For a couple of minutes, the police station was silent save for the monotonous tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall above their heads, and the intermittent clickety-clack of the detective's keyboard. Then Washington burst back onto the scene with the force and vigor of hurricane.

Bill and Mac both jumped to their feet. "How much longer will Eve be in there?" Bill asked before Washington finished crossing the room.

The chief didn't deign to answer, the confounding sonof.a.gun, until after he'd sidled up beside them, all the while eyeing Bill in that deeply disturbing and blatantly considering way he had. He took his time loosening his red and blue tie, shrugging out of his suit jacket, and unb.u.t.toning and rolling up the sleeves on his white dress shirt. And Bill knew the chief was being purposefully annoying, proving to everyone that in this place he was the big, swinging d.i.c.k. But finally Washington relented, throwing his jacket on the bench and saying, "I suspect she'll be out soon. Normandy was wrapping things up when I looked in on them just a minute ago."

Bill was able to drag in a deep breath for the first time since she'd disappeared through that door. "Good," he said. "That's good." Because Lord knew he was completely wiped out from the day's events, which meant Eve had to be dead on her feet. And, yes, the truth was he was worried about her.

There. He admitted it.

He shook his head. At himself. At Fate. At the G.o.dd.a.m.ned, never-ending, roller coaster ride that happened to be his feelings for Eve Edens.

"And once Normandy's finished with her, he'll move on to questioning her father and her ex-husband," Washington added.

"That's good." Bill hoped they were questioned until they squirmed holes right through their designer pants. Questioned until they sweated blood...

"And we're in the process of pulling records to determine the locations of both men on the dates of Ms. Edens's previous...uh...mishaps."

"Good." Bill nodded. "That's good." He realized he'd gotten himself stuck in a loop when Washington's dark face pulled down a fierce frown.

"What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you?" the chief thundered. "You swallow a parrot or something?"

"Sorry." Bill shook his head, trying to wrangle his wayward thoughts. "My mind is all over the place tonight."

"Yeah." Washington's big lips twisted into what Bill suspected was supposed to be a grin but looked more like the man had a serious case of gas. "And if I had to guess, right now it's back in that interrogation room where a certain socialite is being interviewed. You got a hard-on for Evelyn Edens, Reichert? Is that why you're all rolled up into this mess? I just thought you were helping her out because she's your kid sister's friend."

A hard-on for Eve Edens? Yeah, that was one way of putting it. But he sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to tell Washington as much. "Let's just say we're old acquaintances and leave it at that, huh?"

"If you insist," Washington said, still eyeing Bill with blatant curiosity.