"The cops won't take this any further," Reed said. "It's too much of a needle in a haystack. Mitch, however, is another story. Let's see if Hadman can be persuaded to turn the telephone number over to him. If so, he can track down the store where the phone was bought and send one of his guys to talk to the clerks. Maybe someone will remember something."

"Maybe. But it's a long shot. Just finding the place could take weeks. And then, trying to get several-months-old information out of a store clerk who was probably yakking with a coworker when he or she sold the cell phone? I think we're talking next to impossible." Taylor stared off into s.p.a.ce, pervaded by a hollow sense of hopelessness.

"What about the Berkleys?" she went on. "According to the sketchy news reports 1 read there was no break-in." A shudder. "Which suggests it was someone they knew. G.o.d. And here I am, obsessing over a stalker. It sounds pretty minor in comparison, doesn't it?"

"It sounds normal. Crazies come in all forms. One of them is fixated on you. That's not minor." Reed paused, studying their joined hands. "You never did answer my question. Are you leaving town?"

"Honestly? I haven't had time to think about it. But maybe it's a good idea if I do. I'll get a mental break from all this insanity. I'll also get away from that memory-ridden apartment. By the time I get back, it'll be almost moving day. I'll go someplace warm. Palm Beach. My father has a place there. Mitch or Jake can come with me and guard me the same way they do here. I'll lie on the beach and just veg. Who knows? Maybe Jack's right. Maybe all these crises will have been resolved by the time I get back."

Reed nodded. "Maybe." He drew her closer. "I meant what I said. I'll worry. And I'll miss you."

"I know. I'll miss you, too." Taylor gave him a wistful smile. "I was really looking forward to that weekend in the ski lodge. It sounded wonderful."

"We'll reschedule."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Silence, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire.

"Stay with me tonight." Reed's request was uttered in a low, urgent tone, his hand unsteady as he raised her chin to meet his gaze. "You'll catch a flight to Palm Beach tomorrow. I'll put you and either Mitch or Jake on the plane myself. But for one night, let's forget the whole d.a.m.ned world. Let's just have us. We deserve that, don't we?"

"Yes. We do." Taylor didn't have to ponder that one. She threw herself into it, as eager as he to block out the world. Reaching up, she began unb.u.t.toning his shirt.

They made love on the rug by the fire, after which Reed carried Taylor to his bed, where they lost themselves in each other again. Their lovemaking was different tonight, not in its fervor, but in its emotional intensity. There was something deep and powerful underlying the motions of their bodies, a poignant quality that scared the h.e.l.l out of Taylor.

Reed was right. This feeling wasn't going away.

She cried out his name when she climaxed, everything inside her shattering at once. She heard herself gasp out that she loved him, and she felt the reaction to her declaration jolt through his whole body.

He lost it entirely, his grip becoming almost bruising as he jetted into her in hard, racking spasms. He shuddered, his hips jerking convulsively, pounding him into her, the force of his o.r.g.a.s.m shoving them both up on the bed until they collided with the headboard, which, in turn, collided with the wall.

When the wildness finally subsided, and awareness returned, they were in a half-sitting position. The pillow that Reed had shoved beneath Taylor's hips had inched its way up her back--which turned out to be a major source of salvation, since it served as a buffer between her and the heavy mahogany headboard. Her throbbing body was more than grateful.

Reed wasn't so fortunate. His head was pressed against the wall, and his shoulders were crunched into the headboard.

He let out a pained groan, and Taylor began to laugh.

"I'm glad you think it's funny," he muttered, shifting to his knees so he could wriggle them both down to a p.r.o.ne position. Another groan, this time with a heavy dose of male satisfaction. "I think I broke something."

"Nothing important," Taylor a.s.sured him, arching her hips just enough to keep him inside her.

A husky chuckle brushed her ear. "It's good to know you've got your priorities in order."

"Mmm." Taylor trailed her fingers along his spine, wishing she could freeze this moment, wishing she was as sure of everything as she was of the magic their bodies made together.

Reed must have felt the change in her mood, because he raised up on his elbows and gazed intently down at her. "I know you're scared. Don't be. This is about as right as it gets." He lowered his head, brushed his lips across hers. "We're going to make it, Taylor. You'll see." A slow, s.e.xy grin. "Although I can't promise we won't injure a few body parts along the way."

She smiled back. "I'll bear that in mind."

"I love you," he said quietly. "Bear that in mind."

A shaky nod. "I will."

Out in the hall, the grandfather clock chimed two. Reed stroked Taylor's hair off her face, then kissed her again. "Happy Valentine's Day."

Her arms tightened around his back. "Happy Valentine's Day."

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14.

4:45 P.M.

LAGUARDIA AIRPORT, NEW YORK CITY.

Reed watched Taylor's flight take off, p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l that he couldn't be with her, relieved that Mitch was. She'd met with Hadman today, who'd asked the usual string of questions pertaining to the party at Le Cirque. Whatever Taylor's answers had been couldn't have helped Jonathan, but that was life. He'd deal with the fallout as he had to.

He left the airport and was halfway back to Manhattan when his cell phone rang.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Reed, it's me." Jonathan sounded rattled. "Thank G.o.d I reached you."

"Why? What's going on?"

"I'm at my office. The cops are here. They're arresting me for the murders of Douglas and Adrienne."

Shock was eclipsed by training. "Okay, Jonathan, listen to me. Don't make a scene. Just go with them. Don't say a single word. I'm on my way. I'll meet you at the precinct in forty minutes."

CHAPTER 27.

6:45 p.m.

NINETEENTH PRECINCT.

153 EAST SIXTY-SEVENTH STREET, NEW YORK CITY.

Footsteps approached the holding cell, and Jonathan's head came up as the cop fit the key in the lock and swung open the barred door with a clang.

"Finally," he muttered, jumping up from the chair as Reed stepped inside. "I've been rotting in this cell for an hour."

"Sorry. I hit traffic." Reed shrugged out of his overcoat and draped it over his arm.

Jonathan's eyes were frantic, his face flushed and sweaty. "They handcuffed me right there in my office. They read me my rights in the middle of the f.u.c.king Chrysler Building. I was hauled in, fingerprinted, and shoved in this dark little hole over an hour ago. I'm losing my mind."

"That's the idea." Reed spoke in a steady, rea.s.suring tone. "They start with the shock effect of the arrest. Then they dump you in here while they're filling out reports and conferring with the a.s.sistant district attorney. They're joined by a detective from the Manhattan North Homicide Squad--he or she will a.s.sist the precinct detectives on the case. In short, they're hoping you'll freak out enough to confess. They would have taken you to the interrogation room, but I nixed that. I called the precinct and let them know I was on my way and that there was to be no communication with you until I arrived."

"Great. So this is good treatment." Jonathan yanked off his basket-weave silk tie, which was already hanging askew, and unb.u.t.toned the top few b.u.t.tons of his rumpled shirt. "What in G.o.d's name could they have on me?"

"You tell me."

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?" Jonathan slammed a fist against the wall, then began pacing around, plainly as freaked out as the police had hoped to make him. "Maybe it's the fingerprints on the old-fashioned gla.s.s. They probably figured out they were mine."

Reed gave a hard shake of his head. "I don't buy it. You told Hadman you were at the brownstone the afternoon of the murder, and that you had a Scotch."

"Then I don't know what evidence they concocted."

"The police don't concoct evidence, Jonathan. They find it and piece it together." Reed scowled. "In this case, whatever they found convinced the district attorney's office that they had grounds for an arrest."

He gripped the back of the chair and stared Jonathan down. "Before we talk to Hadman, you're sure there's nothing you haven't told me. Nothing at all?"

"I'm sure," Jonathan snapped.

"Then let's not speculate. Let's find out." Reed paused. "Remember two things. Hold it together at all times. And let me do the talking."

"Yeah. Right." Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck. "Let's get this over with."

"Okay." Reed walked over and called out to the cop, "Tell Detective Hadman we're ready to speak with him."

The cop gave them a tight nod as he unlocked the cell door. "Come with me."

They were ushered into the interrogation room, which was small, windowless, and starkly furnished, then left alone.

"Nice accommodations," Jonathan muttered, glancing at the metal table and hard chairs. "Right out of Architectural Digest."

"It's meant to make people break down, not move in," Reed replied. "Just relax. It's all a game. They'll make us sweat for a while longer while they all huddle together. Then they'll come in, ask questions, and take copious notes. Don't let it get to you."

Ten minutes pa.s.sed. Fifteen. Twenty.

After half an hour, Jonathan pushed back his chair. "Where the h.e.l.l are they already?"

As if on cue, the door swung open and Detective Hadman strode into the interrogation room, joined by another man--his partner, Detective Murray Olin. Olin looked like a nice, average joe. But Reed had dealt with him in the past, and he was well aware that beneath the easygoing, chatty manner, the guy was sharp as a tack and had earned a reputation as an outstanding detective. That wasn't his only rep. According to the grapevine, Olin's poker game was as good as his poker face, which told Reed that the guy was taking home a healthy pot of his fellow officers' cash every week.

Hadman pushed the door shut behind him. "h.e.l.lo, Counselor."

"Hadman. Olin," Reed acknowledged. "Let's hear what you've got. It had better be pretty good. You humiliated my client at his place of business."

"He'll get over it. It was after five on Valentine's Day. So only a handful of people were there to witness his humiliation. Besides, why should your client care after Wednesday's big announcement?" Hadman shot Reed a penetrating look. "He's moving out, and up, on his way to run Berkley and Company. So what difference does it make what the old crowd at the Chrysler Building thinks?"

"Detective, cut the sarcasm and--"

Hadman waved away Reed's protest. "I'll get right to it. The circ.u.mstantial evidence is d.a.m.ning enough. We've got no forced entry and no burglary." A quick look at Jonathan. "You did tell me you have a key to the house."

"Douglas gave one to each of his sons when they were teenagers so they could use the place when they stayed in the city," Reed answered for him. "Sounds normal to me. Not to mention that the housekeeper has a key, too. Anyone could have 'borrowed' it."

"Right. Then there's that empty Scotch gla.s.s. No surprise that the fingerprints we lifted belonged to your client. He told us he was at the brownstone that afternoon, and that he had a drink." Another glance at Jonathan. "Scotch is your drink, isn't it? It's what you were guzzling Wednesday night at Le Cirque.

Then again, you were celebrating. Or were you fortifying yourself for knocking off your father and stepmother later that night?"

"Don't even dignify that with an answer, Jonathan," Reed instructed.

"On the other hand, your client had lots of other reasons to drink that night," Olin pointed out. "Talk about stress. From what we've heard from the guests and the staff of Le Cirque, he was bickering with Adrienne Berkley, arguing with Douglas Berkley, and trying to pick up Taylor Hal-stead, all in one night."

"True." Hadman eyed Jonathan, who had begun to sweat. "Ms. Halstead doesn't like you much, by the way. In fact, I think she's afraid of you. But then, that's no surprise either. As for Adrienne Berkley, you two never much got along. So face-offs with her were status quo."

"Where are you going with this, Hadman? So far, all you've done is badger my client."

Hadman turned to Reed. "You want information? Fine. It seems your client had lunch with his father last Friday. According to the maftre d' at the Oak Room, as well as two of the waiters, the conversation at Mallory's table escalated into an argument. Douglas Berkley was upset about something. Care to tell us what?"

"I'll answer that," Jonathan replied before Reed could intercede. "We were talking about Gordon. I'd uncovered some unethical dealings he was involved in before he died. I pa.s.sed the information on to Douglas. He had a right to know, in case it affected the company. He was very upset." , "Sorry, that doesn't wash." Hadman pulled out a chair, propping one of his legs on it. "Although I don't doubt you touched on the subject of your brother's dirty dealings. But that's not what your argument was about. According to the e-mails you and Berkley exchanged the weekend after that dinner, it's clear he already knew about the securities fraud Gordon was conducting when you broke the news to him.

I'm sure you were very disappointed. Hot information like that might have bought you an even sweeter deal at Berkley and Company."

"What's the source of these e-mails?" Reed demanded, making sure to hide the fact that he hadn't a clue what the h.e.l.l Hadman was talking about. What securities fraud had Gordon been involved in that Jonathan uncovered?

Obviously, his client had forgotten to mention something to him. And he'd screwed it up further by opening his mouth and lying to Hadman.

More damage control for Reed to effect.

"We found the e-mails on Mallory's computer," Olin supplied. "Your client kindly allowed us access to his apartment, and to his laptop. We retrieved some messages between him and Douglas Berkley.

There are specific references to the major bombsh.e.l.l Jonathan had a.s.sumed he was dropping on his father, but that, as it turned out, came as yesterday's news to Berkley."

Hadman's features hardened. "But that's not what the fight at the Oak Room was about, was it? It was about Taylor Halstead, and your father's concern over your obsession with her. In fact, you were overheard defending yourself, swearing that you weren't the one hara.s.sing her."

Jonathan's jaw was working.

"What happened, Mallory? Couldn't you convince Douglas you were innocent?"

"Cut it out, Hadman," Reed said. "The only one who's doing any hara.s.sing is you. If Douglas doubted Jonathan on any level, he wouldn't have appointed him to a high-level position at Berkley and Company, and set things up so he'd be running the company one day."

"Maybe. Maybe not. We've still got lots of time to dig, and to find out if your client was blackmailing or threatening Berkley. Trust me, the prosecution will have everything they need by the time this goes to trial."

"Trial? This won't even get past arraignment." Reed shoved back his chair and rose. He knew in his gut that Hadman and Olin were playing cat and mouse. Which meant that they had some ace in the hole. It was time to push them to reveal it. "Everything you've said is either circ.u.mstantial or speculative.

Douglas was a powerful man. Like every powerful man, he had enemies. Including enemies he a.s.sumed were friends and would therefore welcome into his home. So much for needing a key to gain free access to the intended victims. As for Jonathan's relationship with his father--"

"Save it for the jury, Weston," Hadman interrupted, cutting to the chase in one punch-in-the-gut announcement. "We've got a positive DNA match. The s.e.m.e.n taken from Adrienne Berkley's body belonged to your client."

Dead silence.

Then Jonathan reacted, lurching to his feet. "That's impossible!"

"It's not impossible. It's fact."

"Run the d.a.m.n test again! I'm telling you, it's wrong!"

"Try again, Mallory. DNA testing is d.a.m.ned close to a hundred percent accurate. And in this case, when you add motive and circ.u.mstantial evidence . . ." Hadman eyed first Jonathan, then Reed. "Care to change your story?"