The Eyes Of Derek Archer

Her face flushing with unexpected heat, she almost increased her pace and told him to leave. But that would be a cop-out. His insolent glance was a conscious challenge, and Susan couldn’t ignore it, no matter how decrepit she felt. So instead she turned and faced him. “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow, Archer.”

“I don’t want to pry into your business, Susan, but I’m a good listener,” he said, buttoning his overcoat in the gathering darkness.

So he was curious about what had happened at the police station, was he? That’s what his challenge had been about. Disconcerted, she stepped off the driveway onto the sidewalk, trying to decide whether or not to tell him.

Behind those sexy eyes of his lurked a bitter cynicism that made her distrust him. After being photographed and fingerprinted at the police station, her earlier suspicions about him seemed silly. But he was still a stranger, not somebody she could discuss her personal feelings with.

“No, I’ve got to get home.” Susan started toward her car again. “I’m bone-tired. Our business will have to wait.”

He fell into step beside her. “So what’re you going to do? Go home and have a good cry?”

His abrupt, taunting words took her breath away. “Wha-what do you mean?” At the base of her throat, she felt a pulse beat as though her heart had risen from its usual place.

“Isn’t that what you were about to do? Huddle down in a corner somewhere and cry?” His iridescent blue eyes focused on her so accusingly that she shivered.

“I’m not upset,” she lied, unable to meet his gaze.

“Of course you are. The police have you scared witless. Now you’re going home and giving up, just like a world-class quitter.”

Susan could feel her eyes filling and swallowed hard, trying to force the tears away. He was right, damn him. She had planned to go home and spend the night feeling sorry for herself.

They’d reached the end of the sidewalk. He stopped and faced her. “What’d they do? Accuse you of killing your husband?”

She blinked her tears away. “How did you guess?”

“I took one look at your face when you got out of that staff car.” His eyes were no longer menacing. “I can help. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

NEXT TO SUSAN in her Firebird, Archer silently congratulated himself for forcing the truth out of her. He felt an unexpected pang of remorse that he’d made her cry, but told himself not to feel sorry for her: she’d probably killed her husband. Whatever she’d done, the knowing did nothing to lessen his lust for her. When she was around, he halfway forgot his desire for revenge.

Don’t screw up by playing around with Brian Wade’s widow, he warned himself. She’s only a resource for information to use against those dirt bags who witnessed against me. But he couldn’t rid himself of his awareness, no matter how much he concentrated on the downtown area as they drove through it.

Archer knew where she was headed. High Drive Parkway paralleled the edge of a steep drop-off to the canyon floor over one hundred feet below. The executive homes across the road sat well back from the rim, their windows looking out over miles of breathtaking scenery. On the canyon floor, a freeway snaked its way south.

Susan pulled into a turnoff. Nearby, a bench faced the hill across the canyon, now lined with scarlet in the rapidly fading light.

Archer undid his seat belt and leaned back against the passenger door, giving her plenty of room.

“Did they come right out and accuse you?” He made sure his tone was only mildly interested. She mustn’t guess he had an urgent need to know if the police had connected Brian Wade’s death to the murder of the squadron commander last year—and if they considered the middle-aged man in the newspaper picture a suspect.

“They didn’t arrest me, if that’s what you mean.” Lifting her chin, she looked him straight in the eye. “The police found the gun they say shot Brian at Cavanaugh’s Inn. It’s got a skylight and an atrium in the lobby.”

She swallowed hard, and Archer waited patiently while she got control of herself. “The weapon was buried in the dirt of a planter in the atrium. When the police questioned hotel personnel, several described a woman who looked like me. They say she was in the lobby that afternoon.”

“Several employees described this person? After two months?” Archer whistled softly. “Looks like somebody went to a lot of trouble to make sure those people remembered her, whoever she was.”

“Somebody went to even more trouble,” she said grimly.

Archer could see her mood veer sharply from despair to anger. “What?” Leaning across the car seat toward her, he caught a faint whiff of female skin and spicy lemon, and had to force himself to inch backward, away from her

Unconsciously, Susan moved toward him, maintaining the same distance between them. “That afternoon Brian was killed, somebody called me at the office, claiming to be the wife of one of my airmen. She said she was calling from a pay station along Argonne Road because she’d run out of gas. She’d left the house to get away from her husband and didn’t dare let him find her until he’d cooled off.”

Susan gave a forced smile, seeming irritated at herself for being taken in. “I should have known better than to traipse out there—her voice didn’t sound right to me. But he’s one of my best airmen, and I hated to see him end up in jail for wife beating. You can’t imagine how upset I was to telephone their house when I got home and find out she hadn’t made the call.”

He nodded slowly. “From my army days I remember how close our—” in the nick of time he remembered that a squadron was called a company in the army “—company was as a unit. Like a family.”

Her expression brightened. “Then you understand how it was.”

To his surprise, Archer found he almost believed her.

“Why wasn’t the woman’s husband—your airman—in the office with you?” he asked, caught up in her story.

“Because of the holiday,” she returned. “The squadron had Hercs—C-130s—in the air, so somebody had to be on duty in all the sections. I let my airmen off, and took the duty myself.”

She gave a hysterical little laugh. “And if all that’s not bad enough, the police say the gun they found in the atrium was registered to Brian.”

“Then you had access to it.” Archer whistled softly under his breath. Glancing at her chest he saw her expert marksman’s ribbon. He forced himself to concentrate on the decoration and not on the feminine curves underneath her uniform. The sight brought back his fantasy of the two of them entwined in an intimate embrace. He wasn’t able to let it go as easily this time.

“When I told them he kept the gun at the squadron, I’m sure they didn’t believe me,” she added.

A twinge of foreboding rippled down Archer’s spine. The mysterious telephone call, the reliable witnesses at the hotel, the late discovery of the murder weapon, its registration to her husband—her story had the touch of a well-thought-out conspiracy.

“Whoever planned this knew a lot about you and your schedule,” he remarked, reviewing her words in his mind. “I’m betting somebody’s trying to frame you.”

He heard her quick gasp. Panic glittered in her eyes.

“My God, what am I going to do?”

“You can get me to look into your husband’s death,” Archer returned quickly.

HAD SHE HEARD HIM RIGHT? Susan wondered. “What? Are you a private investigator on the side?”

When he shook his head, another lock of black hair dropped casually across his forehead. “No, but I’ve done some investigative work for my company. Since I’ve got to spend a few days here, anyway, calling on prospects, I could ask some questions, see what I can find out about your husband’s murder.”

Be careful, she warned herself, unwilling to trust him too far. He’s a good salesman, and he wants something from me. But what? In spite of her doubts, she felt herself reacting to his compelling indigo eyes, his square-cut features, the confident set of his shoulders as he sat next to her in the car.

“What makes you think you can locate Don Albright when the police don’t have a clue?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m not talking about Albright.” He studied her with curious intensity. “You’re not dealing with one man here, Susan. Too much coordination went into your husband’s murder to blame it on one individual with revenge on his mind. If one man was responsible for both murders, he had a lot of help.”

When Archer paused, Susan could see the wheels turning in his head. “There’s no other way to explain why the lights were turned off an instant before the commander was murdered last year,” he went on. “Or the fact that somebody was awfully familiar with your schedule—and your husband’s, too. They had to be to lure you away from the office at exactly the right time on a holiday when you normally wouldn’t be there.”

Susan felt herself frowning. “You might be right about accomplices being involved. But Don Albright’s behind this. I’d bet a year’s pay on it.”

The car was getting stuffy. Climbing out, she walked across the yellowed grass to the edge of the precipice. To the south, stands of fir trees circled the emerald green of a golf course beside the divided freeway. Directly below, the steep slope dropped one hundred feet to the valley.

Instantly, the blood rose to her face and the scene swam dizzily before her eyes. Looking straight down had been a mistake. Susan stumbled backward, her stomach a lump of ice. Archer appeared beside her, a large, solid presence. Acutely conscious of his tall, athletic physique, she took another step backward. Did she feel comforted or threatened by his nearness? To her dismay, she wasn’t sure.

“Vertigo?” His smooth baritone voice was both soothing and disconcerting.