A rap on the door interrupted his next allegation. Irritation tightened his features as he twisted in his chair.
"What is it?" he asked the officer who poked his head in the room.
"Need you out here for a moment."
"Fine." Marshall glanced at her, his stare advising her to remain seated in the chair until he returned. "Be right back, Ms. Addison."
Since she couldn't tell him she looked forward to it, she didn't respond. But as soon as the detective exited the room, she slumped in her seat, loosing the sob that had been pressing against her sternum for hours.
This-Gavin's death, the amnesia, being questioned as a suspect in a police interrogation room straight out of a Law & Order episode-was a nightmare. Any moment she would wake up in her bed after having spent a reckless, hot night with a man who'd made her body sing. Her biggest problem would be deciding whether or not to contact Raphael after their one-night stand, not figuring out how to convince a cop she wasn't a cold-blooded killer.
Raphael.
She'd told the detective that after Ethan left the bar, she'd hung out with Raphael. But she hadn't gone into detail about what they'd been doing in those hours. Marshall would probably contact Raphael. Ask him about their activities, what time he'd been with her, brought her home. What would he think? She was guilty? She was capable of taking someone's life? He didn't know her-not for real. Would he doubt her innocence?
She rocked forward, propped her elbows on the table, and dropped her face into her hands. Just by speaking to Greer in a bar and deciding to have sex with her, he would become involved in an ugly murder investigation. She'd dragged him into her mess, and-and if there had been a chance of them having anything, the possibility had been crushed by the circus sideshow her life had become. And she would never force that on him … even if he wanted her. Wanted more from her.
Maybe it was for the best. Finding Gavin with Aubrey had hurt, but not enough. With Raphael she'd tasted sanity-obliterating desire. Hell, she'd had sex in an SUV on a public street. She wouldn't have been able to keep an emotional distance with him. Instead she would've done the very thing she'd promised herself she would never do-lose herself in a man. So yes, maybe the best thing was that any future between them had been aborted before it really began.
Scrubbing her palms down her face, she huffed out a heavy breath. And how selfish and narcissistic did it make her that here she sat in a police station, number one suspect in the murder investigation of her ex-fiancé, his parents grieving over their loss, and she worried over what the man she'd spent several sweaty, erotic hours with thought of her.
But if there was a protocol on how a person should think, behave, or crack in an interrogation room, she was flying blind.
The door abruptly swung open, and she jumped, her heart leaping to her throat. Detective Marshall stood in the entrance, his eyes narrowed, mouth flattened into a grim line.
"You're free to go."
She blinked, stunned at the abrupt order. For a moment, she sat, paralyzed, uncertain. Was it a trick? Another tactic to weaken her into confessing?
"What?" she stammered.
"You can leave." He paused. "For now."
Relief, fierce and heady, erupted inside her. Her legs trembled as she rose to her feet, and she grasped the edge of the table for support. Gathering her strength and what little pride she'd managed to retain around her, she strode past Detective Marshall. The controlled chaos of the station surrounded her-the clacking of fingers over keyboards, ringing phones, and cacophony of voices assaulted her senses after the intimidating silence of the small interview room.
"This way." Marshall placed a surprisingly courteous hand under her elbow, and guided her down a hall and through the pit of desks and officers. As they passed a closed door, it suddenly opened, and Raphael filled the opening.
Her feet ground to a halt, her breath trapped in her throat.
He was … beautiful.
Solemn, navy-blue eyes met hers, his full, sensual mouth unsmiling. Thick black waves brushed his chin and wide shoulders, and damn, she just wanted to walk into his arms and lay her head on that strong shoulder. His tall, big body seemed to offer security. Seemed to offer the assurance of nothing evil touching her as long as she was pressed against his chest, sheltered in his embrace. But that was her weary, overwrought emotions speaking, not common sense. Not reality. Reality argued she had no right to want sanctuary from him. He wasn't hers. She smothered a harsh, bitter chuckle. Never would be with a murder rap hanging over her head like Damocles's sword. Why would he willingly invite that kind of baggage into his life?
His startling appearance slowed her connecting his presence in the police station with her release. Had Marshall asked him to come down here to confirm her alibi? Of course he would. As soon as she'd revealed her whereabouts that night, he'd probably hadn't wasted any time contacting Raphael.
Shame, humiliation, anger-they swamped her in a heavy, powerful deluge. She hated that he'd been dragged into this. Why couldn't they have interviewed him at his home or office? Why had the police brought him to the station in front of all those reporters surrounding the station? Now his connection with her would be immortalized in sordid, sensationalized glory.
"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Marcel," the detective who'd interrupted the interrogation said from behind Raphael. "We intended to call you later today, so thanks for taking the initiative."
"No problem," Raphael rumbled, never removing his gaze from Greer.
The police hadn't contacted him. He'd come down on his own. How had he known … ?
Of course. Reporters and photographers had bombarded her the moment she'd exited the hospital and more had swarmed the steps of the police station when she'd arrived with Detective Marshall. A Boston socialite suspected of murdering her philandering fiancé in a jealous rage made for salacious copy. In the three days since the killing, he'd probably heard about it on the news or radio. Maybe read about the crime on the internet. And he'd come down here to provide her with an alibi. On his own. To clear her. To save her.
He was the reason Marshall had released her from the four-hour interview. Even though she hadn't wanted to stain him with the taint of this sordid situation and investigation, he'd voluntarily painted himself with the same dirty brush.
"Greer," he rumbled and lifted an arm as if to reach for her.
She stumbled back. Away. Because she wanted-craved-his touch too much. Hungered for the strength and support in those arms. Her insides felt as if they'd been scraped by a grater. Raw and bleeding with pain, fear, and humiliation. She would crumble if he touched her. And she couldn't do that. Not here. Not now. Not when he would only offer her a temporary embrace but end up walking away from her. Her own parents hadn't even bothered to show up at the hospital or the station. How could she expect him to stick around when the people who brought her into this world hadn't? But she would yearn for him to do just that. To stick.
His mouth hardened, his eyes transforming into chips of dark-blue ice. Slowly, he lowered his arm, and an aloof mask dropped over his face. Hurting, sickened, she turned away and allowed Detective Marshall to guide her farther down the hall, out of the busy bullpen, and into the waiting area. Ethan shot to his feet as soon as he spotted them and dragged her into his arms.
Tiny fissures zigzagged over the wall shielding her emotions, which threatened to crack and collapse. Not yet. It's not over yet. Hold on a little while longer.
"Honey, are you okay?" Ethan asked, pressing his lips to her forehead.
No. I'm not. I'm not sure I will be for a long time. "Yes, I'm fine."
Ethan gripped her shoulders, steadied her. "Reporters are still outside." He peered into her eyes, silently letting her know leaving would be as rough as coming in had been. "Are you ready?"
She nodded, her mouth an arid wasteland. The alternative was remaining in this station where she was viewed as a murderer. Traversing the gauntlet of avaricious media seemed the lesser evil.
Until she stepped into hell.
Flashes blinded her. Invasive camera lenses stalked her. Yelling voices assaulted her.
"Why'd you do it, Greer?"
"Have you been charged with murder?"
"Did you kill Gavin because he cheated on you?"
"Did your father pay to have you released, Greer?"
She detested how they used her first name as if they were friends, confidants. As if she would be more open to responding to their verbal jabs because they called her by her given name. The gross familiarity was another violation.