Secrets and Sins:Raphael(7)

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.