Jealousy

Chapter One

One, two, three, four, five, blood seeped through my fingers as I pumped as hard as I could on his heart. Kneeling beside him, covered in his blood, I stopped long enough to blow air into his lungs. Where was that ambulance? His eyes were closed. Long dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks. When I found him lying in the cold wet grass, in the shadow of the bushes next to my front door, he was still breathing, ragged gurgling breaths.

How many minutes had passed since I’d heard him breathe on his own? My arms ached.

Don’t die, I told him again. "Damn you, don’t you dare die." How could this happen? Why?

As I counted again, I strained to hear the scream of a siren. The open cell phone lay next to me on the grass where I dropped it after calling 911.

Where’s that ambulance? Tell them to hurry, I screamed, hoping the operator could hear me. If she answered, I didn’t hear. I was too busy trying to keep him alive. They always tell you to stay on the line. How you’re supposed to hold the phone, and do CPR at the same time was beyond me.

One, two, three, four, five. How long had he been here before I found him? It seemed like ages since I came home from work, turned into the driveway, and hit the garage door opener. My headlights illuminated the lawn, revealing a body lying next to my porch. I slammed on the brakes, threw the car into park, grabbed my cell phone off the seat, and bolted from the car. He was still alive. Blood gushed from the wounds in his back. I called 911and then dropped the phone. I slipped out of my jacket and laid it on the ground next to him, and then rolled him over and wrapped the sleeves around him, tying them together in front as tight as I dared, in an effort to create a kind of a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding.

One, two, three, four, five. I wasn’t even sure I was doing it correctly. I’d only had one class in CPR over two years ago. What if this made it worse? What else could I do? He didn’t have a pulse and now he wasn’t breathing. Finally, sirens and flashing lights turned onto my street. I didn’t look up. There’s no way they could miss us spotlighted in the headlights of my still running car.

We’ll take over now. Hands pulled me away. I stepped back and sank down on the porch, watching. Everyone moved so slowly. They seemed to be taking their time. Was he dead? Did I kill him? I looked down at the blood, all over my hands and my clothes. This felt wrong. Those shots were meant for me, I whispered.

Chapter Two

Three months earlier

Valerie Peterson, you mean to tell me Nick proposed and you turned him down? Charlene, her eyes so wide they were practically popping and eyebrows receding under her bangs, made it clear what she thought of my IQ. My secretary and best friend, privy to all my secrets, was having a hard time grasping why I moved out of Delgado’s penthouse, and back in with my mother, my only other choice since the fire at my house had left me temporarily homeless.

Well, he didn’t exactly propose and I didn’t exactly turn him down. It was all sort of hypothetical.

Hands on her hips, she glared at me. Why didn’t you haul his hypothetical butt down to a wedding chapel before he had a chance to change his mind? You know you’re crazy about him.

Crazy was the operative word. Whenever he came anywhere near me, I couldn’t seem to think. My insides turned into super heated molten lava, which apparently melted brain tissue. Detective Nicholas Carmen Delgado, gorgeous and rich, wanted me to believe he loved me, believe that I could actually have him all to myself, and believe that he would never want anyone else. He wouldn’t settle for anything less and I couldn’t allow myself to believe.

Hey, I got his Porsche, I said, dangling the keys for her to see.

She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and then flounced out. Even in four-inch heels, no one flounced like Charlene. Petite, not much over five feet, she weighed maybe 100 pounds and had spiky red hair. Pin on a couple of wings and she’d make a perfect pixie, complete with attitude.

She went back to her desk, leaving me sitting in my office and thinking about that last night in Delgado’s penthouse. He’d brought me there from the hospital to protect me until he could arrest the man who burned down my house.

During our hypothetical conversation on the balcony, Delgado stated that he wouldn’t have sex with me, because I wasn’t ready for a commitment. When I disagreed, he’d said, What would you say if I asked you to marry me? I’d considered it more of a challenge that an actual proposal . . . or so I’d been telling myself. After Delgado and I went to bed, each in a separate room, I tossed and turned most of the night, waking early the next morning with a headache. Still in the tank top and panties I’d almost slept in, I tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of water to wash down two aspirin.

Delgado stood in the kitchen, bare-chested, pajama bottoms riding low on his hips. Cover of GQ handsome, dark hair and flashing green eyes, he could stop traffic fully dressed. Half naked, he was nothing short of spectacular, broad shoulders, long muscular arms, and six-pack abs. If gladiators looked like him, I could understand women going to the games. They wouldn’t even notice the blood and gore.

We stared at each other, neither of us moving. His eyes held mine, and then traveled down the length of my body and back up. My pulse spiked. His eyes smoldered with glints of green fire. Self-consciously, I tugged on the hem of my tank top, which ended slightly above my hips and couldn’t possibly stretch to cover the length of legs and hips exposed to almost my waist in the bikini panties I wore. I knew, just knew, if I took one step toward him, neither of us would be wearing anything for long. Lungs constricted, I finally managed to drag in one ragged breath, but my legs refused to move.

He waited, his eyes never leaving my face.

My heart raced. Sweat trickled down my back. Here was my chance. He wanted me. I could see it in his eyes. I willed my legs to move and yet something stronger than gravity held me back—fear, mind numbing fear. He’d been right the night before, when he said that for me sex was a commitment. I couldn’t give him my body without surrendering my heart. As much as I wanted him at that moment, I couldn’t trust him with my heart, couldn’t survive having it broken again.

While my brain processed this epiphany, my hormones were screaming at me. Just one step, he’ll do the rest. C’mon, girl, you can do it. Do you know how long it’s been? Don’t be an idiot. Look at him! You’re going to pass that up. He was hard to resist, the hormones were doing a darn good job of drowning out any common sense. Yet, icy fingers of panic kept me rooted to the floor.

Either my hesitation gave Delgado time to get control, or he saw the indecision in my eyes, because he closed his and moved quickly around me. Going back to his bedroom, he shut the door behind him.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Obviously, I couldn’t stay in the same house with him. Eventually, the hormones would win. I couldn’t afford to take that chance. I’d only survived the heartbreak of divorcing my two-timing ex, Neil, by immersing myself in work. Allowing myself to love Delgado, would create a black hole so deep I’d never find my way out.

I walked to the sink, swallowed the two aspirin, and then leaned against the counter until my pulse stopped racing and I got my breathing back under control. If this was the right decision, why did I feel miserable? My head still pounding, I drug myself back to the guest room to pack. The conflict between common sense and lust continued to war in my head. While I threw clothes in a duffle bag, the sex kitten inside insisted, It’s not too late. Walk into his room. He’s only a man. He wants you. You want him. It’s doesn’t have to be forever. Now is good. Take what you can get and enjoy it while it lasts. Fighting the temptation, I continued to pack. It didn’t take long. The fire had decimated my wardrobe.

As I dragged the overloaded bag in the hallway, Delgado came out of his bedroom dressed in navy slacks and a light blue polo shirt, his sport coat slung over his arm. Val, are you trying to hurt yourself? He picked up the bag and placed it beside the front door.

He came back and took me in his arms, tenderly kissing me on the forehead. Going to your mom’s?

All I could manage was a nod.

He said, Take the Porsche. I’ll put your bag in the back and have the doorman bring it around.

I looked in his eyes. There was no trace of anger. Who was this man who seemed to know and understand me better than I understood myself? Even offering to lend me his car, an incredibly generous offer, since I’d already destroyed two cars in the last month. I leaned against his chest, drinking in the clean, soapy, masculine scent of him. How will you get to work? Even though independently wealthy, Delgado chose to work as a homicide detective for the Las Vegas Police Department.

I called Brian. He’s picking me up.

Before I could ask any more questions, the intercom buzzed. The doorman notified him his partner waited downstairs. He kissed me goodbye, just a light kiss that turned into much more. Several minutes later when the intercom buzzed again, we were still standing locked in each other arms. He peeled my body away from his, took a ragged breath, and said, I’ll call you later. He retrieved his jacket off the floor where it had fallen, picked up my bag, and left.

Now a week later, I was back to work and still driving his silver Porsche 911 convertible. Delgado, test-driving a new BMW convertible, told me to keep the Porsche until he made up his mind. Big mistake, the longer I drove it, the less chance he had of getting it back.

I shook my head. Why was I thinking in characters this morning, a pixie for a secretary and a Roman gladiator for a boyfriend? Probably not too surprising, since I lived and worked in Las Vegas, Nevada where everything was over the top. However, as Director of Human Resources for the Royal Hotel and Casino, my office had none of the glitz and glamour. No statues or picturesque architecture, just a boring office stuck at the back of the property.

Charlene interrupted my reverie. Mr. and Mrs. Conterras are here to see you.

Mrs. Conterras worked as a graveyard custodian. I’d had Charlene pull her personnel file prior to the appointment. I hadn’t expected her husband. The Hispanic couple, probably somewhere in their forties, followed Charlene in and took seats facing me.

Mrs. Conterras sat with her hands in her lap. Jaw set, eyes glaring at me she announced, I want you to fire my boss. He grabbed my breast.

I studied the couple. It was very unusual for a sexual harassment victim to bring her husband to a meeting like this unless the husband insisted. I waited, but Mr. Conterras said nothing. Looking very uncomfortable, he sat with his head down, refusing to make eye contact, his hands twisting the ring on his finger.

Taking out a pad of paper, I asked, When and where did this happen?

She sat up straight, a smug expression on her face. Last night in the storage closet.

The personnel action forms in her file indicated that Dwight Douglas was her supervisor. Would that be Mr. Douglas? When she nodded, I asked, What exactly happened?

I told you, he grabbed my breast. She held her head high, eyes defiant, exhibiting none of the usual signs of a victim, like fear or embarrassment.

Mr. Conterras continued to look at his shoes.

Doubt crept in. I told myself that she could just be one of those women with great self-esteem. Anger was, after all, an appropriate response.

I understand but I need to know a little more information. When did it happen? Was there anyone else around?

Oh . . . Her eyes darted back and forth. Finally, with a nod, she said, It was at the beginning of the shift. He was handing out supplies. I was the only one left in the closet. Everyone else left, and then he grabbed me.

I made a note on the pad. Were you talking? Did he say anything to you?

She frowned. No.

What did you do when he grabbed you?

Again, her eyes slid from side to side while she thought about it. After a moment, she said, I just left.

Did you report it to anyone?

She huffed and rolled her eyes. No. I told you. There wasn’t anyone else around.

She wasn’t happy when I told her that I would have to investigate the incident and see if I could find anyone who’d seen anything. Since she had the next two days off, I told her that I would call her once we completed the investigation. Mr. Conterras silently followed her as she huffed out of my office.

After she left, I called one of two full time investigators in security. I explained the complaint and asked him to talk to the other employees on Mrs. Conterras shift, keeping my suspicions to myself.

Charlene popped her head in. Pat called. Mr. Augustino would like to see you.

Being summoned to the General Manager’s office might scare some people, but I’d spent a lot of time there. Tony often consulted me about problems with his management staff, or asked me to sit in on a meeting with employees. I knew he liked me and seemed satisfied with my work, so it surprised me when he said, Valerie, I think it would be best if you didn’t attend the corporate meeting this afternoon. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?

Encouraging me to miss a meeting was totally out of character for Tony, who usually insisted I drop everything to attend. He’d been my biggest supporter in an industry that considered Human Resources just a fancy name for personnel, He’d always been adamant that employees were the key to revenue generation and, therefore, my insight and participation were crucial to our financial survival. Corporate didn’t buy into this theory, but unable to argue with his success, they usually indulged him. Obviously, something had changed.

Did you actually tell me to take time off? I said leaning back with my hand over my heart.

He huffed. You don’t need to look so surprised. I believe people need time off once in awhile.

I rolled my eyes. Right. I’ve only been back to work a week. What’s really going on?

He gave me the I-don’t-have-to-answer-that-I’m-the-general-manager stare. Tony, around fifty, distinguished sprinkling of grey hair, managed a powerful and menacing glare. I’d seen grown men quail under that gaze.

I stared right back, arms folded in front of me, waiting for him to see that I did not intend to leave without an explanation. Granted, I was never easily intimidated, but even I wouldn’t have had the courage to continue to demand an answer if I hadn’t know him as well as I did. When he looked down and began shuffling papers on his desk, I relaxed.

Without looking up he said, I just think it would be better if you kept a low profile for a while.

You’re trying to protect me? From what? The answer came to me like a shot of electricity. I leaned forward, placing my hand on his desk. Don’t tell me corporate blames me for the recent negative publicity?

Still not looking at me he said, It was your picture in the paper.

He didn’t say it to hurt me, but I still felt wounded. If you’ll remember, that was only because I was the victim.

He sighed. Look, you have to know that Katherine Collins doesn’t see it that way.

I bristled. It’s not my fault the newspapers found out her husband screwed around. I didn’t tell them.

In the course of an investigation into the murder of one of my employees, the media tumbled to the fact that Katherine’s husband, Darryl Collins, Vice President of Human Resources, had been bedding many of the employees of the company. At the urging of the tabloid press, several of those employees had come forward, telling their stories in embarrassing detail. It seemed like every day a new mistress surfaced. So far, Katherine had stood by her husband, but it had to be galling for her. Heavily involved in charity work, she was used to having her picture in the paper lauding her for her contributions to the community.

Why she blamed me, instead of him, was beyond me. I took a breath, gearing up to defend myself, but let it out when Tony held up his hand.

Holding out both hands in a gesture of pleading, he said, Do it for me.

Flabbergasted, I just sat there looking at him with my mouth open. I’d never seen Tony beg anyone—order, insist, demand—but never beg.

He rubbed his eyes. Look, you know that under ordinary circumstances I would defend you to the hilt, but right now I’ve got more important battles to fight. I don’t need this distraction.

I’d heard through the grapevine that Katherine Collins, sister to the chairman of the board, had been pressuring Tony to get rid of me. The recession had hit the resort industry particularly hard. The downturn in business had everyone looking for someone to blame. In order to survive, Tony needed corporate to focus on changing their business strategy, rather than seeking a convenient scapegoat.

Adept at these political games, he’d played the only card that would insure my cooperation—my loyalty to him.

Compliant but disgruntled, I spent the rest of the day returning phone calls and catching up on paperwork, while occasionally mumbling curse words. I thought up several new words to describe Katherine Collins, and in my mind consigned her to several uncomfortable, not to exclude lethal, situations.

Charlene came in at five to remind me I needed to leave to meet with a contractor at my house to discuss rebuilding.

Chapter Three

Dennis Jensen met me on the steps of my fire-gutted house. Dressed in faded jeans, he wore work boots and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the epitome of a stereotypical construction worker. Blond hair pulled back in a ponytail stuck out beneath a logoed ball cap. His watery blue eyes surveyed me, probably trying to decide if I could afford the astronomical estimate for rebuilding that he’d prepared.

Holding out a weather beaten hand he said, Hi, Ms. Peterson. I’m Dennis. The skin on his face and hands had the dark leathery look of someone who worked in the sun. The same height as me, around five ten and not much heavier, he could best be described as wiry. Veins stood out on his hands. Ropey muscles snaked up his arms.

Please call me Valerie, I said shaking his hand.

His grip was firm, but not crushing. He led me through the blackened shell of my front room asking questions and explaining what it would take to rebuild.

This part of the house, he said, throwing out an arm to indicate what remained of the front of the house, will need to be torn down, and rebuilt from the foundation up. I’m afraid that includes a good portion of the roof as well.

When I nodded, he went on, moving into the back part of the house. Although the kitchen, bathrooms and bedrooms weren’t touched by the fire, between the smoke and the water used to put it out, you’re going to need new drywall, carpeting, and it’s possible I may need to replace some floorboards. The good news is you don’t have to replace any of the cabinets or fixtures.

Even with the so-called good news, his estimate exceeded my insurance coverage. However, when my next-door neighbor recommended Dennis, he’d shown me around his house.

Dennis had remodeled his kitchen and added on a den. Even to my untrained eye, Dennis’ attention to detail and workmanship had been evident. Charlene’s research revealed no complaints. He was licensed and bonded. Best of all he lived in my neighborhood, so it would be hard for him to get lost or be unreachable.

He gave me a copy of the estimate. I wrote him a check for materials, and he promised to begin demolition the next day.

My cell phone rang as I got in the car.

Without any preliminaries, typical of a call from Delgado, he said, Do you own a cocktail dress?

Actually I do. They’d survived because they were hanging in the guest room closet where the fire hadn’t reached. Why?

I have to go out of town this weekend and I’d like you to go with me.

Just the thought of a weekend with Delgado had the hormones sending my whole body an instant rush of heat. However, he’d made it clear he had no intention of taking our relationship further until I found it in my heart to trust him completely. I took a deep calming breath and focused on the only thing he’d said that made sense. He had to go out of town. Therefore, it was business, not pleasure.

Where are we going and why do I need a cocktail dress?

"San Francisco and we’re going to a banquet. I’ll pick you up in about two hours. We should be back sometime