Deadly Intent

She headed to her office, where she passed him a pink napkin, from a Victorian tea shop in San José that she had visited last weekend, to use to stop his bleeding.

He seemed almost embarrassed to look up at her, but he was smiling as he dabbed his hand with the napkin. “You treat me like a normal person rather than as the official orthopedic surgeon of the Oakland Raiders. You’ve always done that.”

“Oh.” His vulnerability warmed her. She busied herself getting the first aid kit out of a cabinet. “I guess you do get your share of fawning, same as we do.”

“Because of the spa?”

“Because of Dad’s money and the spa.” Naomi pulled out some alcohol wipes, antibacterial ointment and some elastic bandages. “How badly are you cut?”

“Those bandages will be fine.” He took the alcohol wipes from her. “Men target you and your sisters?”

“Monica seems to attract handsome-but-out-of-work actors. In fact, when she started working at that hospital in San José, I think she kept secret her ties to Joy Luck Life.”

“I don’t blame her. But people seem to find out somehow.” He winced as he cleaned his cuts with an alcohol wipe.

“I don’t know how that happens. Rachel hardly gets out at all, but some biochemist found out about her and pursued her. Rachel rarely gets mad, but she lit into him like a harpy when she discovered he was trying to see her research.”

“And yourself?” He glanced up at her, pausing as he tore open an elastic bandage.

“The men I meet always seem so nice at first, but then that ‘I want something from you’ message always seems to seep out.” If only it still didn’t pierce so deep. “Dad gets the same with women.”

Devon grunted in agreement as he applied ointment to the bandage and placed it over a deep cut.

Now why had she mentioned all that? She had slipped back into their easy conversation as if the events of this morning hadn’t happened.

Except she had taken Devon’s attention more seriously than she knew she ought to. She’d sat next to him at three Zoe charity dinners, and after each dinner, she’d spent a few weeks hoping he would contact her again. And he never had. A sigh escaped her.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes turning to onyx in the light, as if he could read her thoughts. “Not all of them want something from you.”

“What?”

“Those men. They could be wanting to talk to you because you’re witty and interesting.”

She suddenly couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t look away, as if there were something in her that he liked looking at. Almost…admiration. Captivation.

Then he blinked rapidly and looked away.

Air rushed back into her lungs, and she took a deep breath. What had happened? Had that really happened?

He was busying himself with his bandages. She felt silly, sitting there watching him. Hoping he’d look up at her again. Hoping he’d look at her that way again.

Now that was silly. He’d probably been thinking about something else entirely.

She cleared her throat. “You never told me exactly why you needed to speak to Jessica this morning.”

He paused for a moment—short enough that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

He smiled at her, but it was inappropriate, considering her question. And the smile never reached his eyes. “She was my ex-wife. There were some things we needed to discuss. Things to do with the divorce.”

Naomi was tempted to pry further, but that would be too rude, especially if those things had to do with financial matters. But a niggling in her head told her he wasn’t being entirely forthright with her. Why would he be evasive? What could he be hiding? This uncomfortable feeling in her gut, combined with Devon’s timing this morning, was not a good sign.

But this was Devon Knightley. She’d spoken to him—for hours, at each Zoe dinner. He couldn’t be involved in this nasty business, could he?

She didn’t want him to be involved in this. That was the bare, honest truth.

He finished bandaging his hand. “Did I tell you that my sister’s getting married in a few weeks?”

She reluctantly followed his change of topic. They chatted about his sister’s upcoming wedding and other inconsequential things—but the conversation never returned to that same comfortable footing.

It only took twenty minutes for Detective Carter to arrive. He’d happened to be nearby when the call came through.

He seemed a bit tired to be back at the spa for the third time that day, but he did say, “Miss Grant, pretty soon you’ll qualify for police frequent visitor points.”

He seemed very interested in the man who’d come into the spa looking for Jessica when Naomi gave her statement. As she left so Detective Carter could interview Devon privately in her office, she noticed the detective eyeing the garish pink napkin, still on Devon’s hand.

Devon hastily threw it away in Naomi’s wastebasket.

She walked down the hallway, but hesitated just within hearing range.

“Dr. Knightley, what did the man hit you with?”

“I think a pair of sunglasses. They broke against my hand, but there were no embedded glass or plastic shards, as far as I can tell.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Outside. I think the pieces are still on the sidewalk.”

“I’ll bag it. Did you want me to call an ambulance?”

“For this? No, thanks.”

Devon told the detective about his lost cell phone—which Naomi had also explained—but also about how Aunt Becca had told him to come to the spa to find her. She understood the need for him to get his phone back, but her aunt seemed to have been trusting Devon Knightley a bit too much.

Naomi called Martin in the security office to bring the outside video footage with him. He appeared and handed the video over, and then gave his statement to the detective in Naomi’s office.

After he was done, he paused a moment in the doorway, glancing first at the detective, then at Devon, and lastly at Naomi.

“Did you need to tell me anything else?” Detective Carter asked him.

“No, no.” He left to return to his station in the security office.

Had he wanted to say something to her, but couldn’t because Devon and the detective were here? Naomi ought to talk to him tomorrow to make sure it wasn’t anything important.

As the detective left, her cell phone rang. “Oh no! I didn’t call Dad back to tell him why I’m not home yet. Hello?”

“What’s going on?” His raised voice shot out of the phone. “I’m worried sick, here—”