It was the most romantic place she’d ever seen.

She turned to Memphis, saw he was waiting anxiously for her to say something. Anything.

Without thinking, she went to him and hugged him, hard. He slipped his arms around her back and held her. Not like a drowning man, the way he had in the past, but gently, suitably. She could feel how happy he was that he had pleased her.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, and kissed him on the cheek. He stared into her eyes. They were of a height and matched together well. He swallowed hard, and she knew she needed to move away, right now, before things went to a place she wasn’t willing to travel.

She stepped back and rasped, “Thank you,” again.

He pulled himself together, the pain shooting through his eyes and across his face plainly before he stowed it away and grew cheerful again.

“But you haven’t even seen your bedroom or the en suite. Come, I’ll show you the rest.”

The rest was fit for a princess. A duchess. A queen. And this was just a guest suite; she couldn’t imagine what the real aristocracy got. Her wooden bed was king-size on a platform with a pale yellow silk canopy, the bathroom travertine, limestone and glass, with a dual-head shower and separate massive soaking tub, actually long enough for her to lie down. The closet held more surprises, these more practical—a pair of shearling-lined bottle-green Wellies and a hip-length gray North Face down jacket.

“I wouldn’t want you to ruin your best coat. This will do for you to play on the estate, should you choose. It’s a bit muddy out there, and the weather is unpredictable at best.”

You’ve done too much, Memphis. Too much.

She sat on the edge of the tub to try on the boots.

“It could never be enough, Taylor. You deserve the world. If I could give you that, were it in my power, I would. Instead, I present you with rubbers.”

His blue eyes were sparkling. The teasing, flirting Memphis was back. She almost sighed in relief. That she could handle. Thoughtful, tender Memphis was too much for her to bear.

He turned to leave. “Dinner will be at seven. Things can get a bit draughty, so bring a sweater. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The door closed quietly behind him.

Leaving her sitting alone in an opulent castle bathroom, one boot on, one off, staring after him like the sun had gone out of the room.

Taylor didn’t bother unpacking, decided the best use of her hour alone was to warm her feet at the fireplace, reveling in the smoky smell. She knew they used to burn coal here, tribute from the cottars who were forced to dig and burn peat for their own fires—slow, smoldering and smoky—that would last for hours. The timbers above her fireplace had a coating of black that wouldn’t come off. She assumed the family left it to stay true to their roots, or maybe they were load-bearing. But this was a crackling wood fire—pine, from the scent of it. The wood sizzled and popped, the flames danced, making her feel completely at home.

Her throat hurt, and her head was aching. She went to her bag and retrieved the pills she needed. Percocet if the headache was horrible. Fioricet if it was only mild. Ativan for the panic. Found a fresh pitcher of water and swallowed the pills. She had a small bar to herself, with multiple variants of amber liquor in crystal decanters, handmade labels placed in front to identify the contents. Dalwhinnie. Oban. Glenmorangie. Bunnahabhain 18. Macallan 21. Laphroaig 12. Scotch. She hated Scotch. Beer. Where was a beer when you need it? She pulled open the cabinets. Of course, a concealed refrigerator, fully stocked with Diet Coke, bottled still water and Heineken. She knew she shouldn’t mix the meds with alcohol, but was more worried about showing up to dinner with liquor on her breath. Thinking caffeine might just help the pills’ efficacy, she grabbed the Diet Coke instead.

She sat back in front of the fire, her head angled so she could see both the rain begin to fall outside and the flames leaping into the flue. Sipped on the soda. Realized she hadn’t checked in with Baldwin. Realized that for the first time in a month, she felt like she could breathe.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sam Loughley was patiently waiting for Stuart Charisse to finish his lunch so they could get back to work. She didn’t have much of an appetite, had settled for a bag of chips out of the vending machine. Salt and fat, that matched her mood.

They had three bodies to post this afternoon, one of whom was the hit-and-run victim from yesterday. Sam might have thought to recuse herself had the lab been staffed to capacity, but as it was, she was two doctors and one death investigator short. The remaining MEs were all sharing duties in order to allow them some actual time off. Which meant Sam got stuck with double shifts five days a week until she got some budget work cleared up and another couple of MEs hired. Sometimes she wondered if she should turn the shop over to someone else, an administrator, but the idea of giving that level of control to a stranger made her numb with worry.

Marcus Wade was planning to attend the post. Sam liked all of the players on Taylor’s team, but she had a soft spot for Marcus. He hadn’t gotten jaded yet. She hoped that would never change, that he could keep part of himself innocent, separate from all of the horrors they saw on a daily basis.

Plus, he laughed at her jokes.

The Jaguar, an older model XJ6, hadn’t been found. It was probably sitting in someone’s garage, groaning from the beating it took. Cars don’t like to hit people almost as much as people don’t like to be hit by cars.

She went to the computer and started reviewing the case details. A late entry by the death investigator, Keri McGee—whom she’d stolen away from Metro’s crime lab a month earlier when her favorite ’gator took a bigger and better job in Alabama—caught her eye.

Victim has $1,000 in cash in her pocket, in a plain white envelope. Ten brand-new one hundred dollar bills. One bill seems to have a stain on it, blue, as yet unidentifiable. Sent to lab for testing.

Now that was weird. The woman had been dressed in nice but utilitarian clothes, designer-label slacks and a blouse, both with the label cut, indicating she’d bought them at a steep discount from an outlet store. Her wool coat had a Macy’s label, but it was threadbare, lived in, and about five years out of style. She wore black sneakers, the soles nearly worn through but with brand-new cushioned sports inserts inside, which screamed that she was on her feet all day.

Walking around with a spare thousand bucks in her pocket? No way.

Sam went back to the woman’s body, looked at her feet. Sure enough, they were covered with calluses. Her hands were also rough and cracked, the nails short and neatly filed. Menial labor then, maybe in a restaurant kitchen. Hard way for a middle-aged woman to live. Especially if she was undocumented. The simple fact that her family had clammed up was a clue that she wasn’t in the States legally.

Not a huge surprise. Though the laws were stringent now, for a time, Tennessee had possessed the most lax immigration regulations in the country, to the point of allowing thousands of undocumented workers to get driver’s licenses with just a pay stub and water or electric bill to “prove” residency. They’d come from all over the United States, and south of the border, to purchase that little piece of plastic that said they belonged. No more; the laws had changed and were practically draconian in comparison. Proof of citizenship was required now.

But in its wake, the initial freedoms had left behind a massive gang problem. Mainly members of MS-13. Not a nice bunch of folks. Sam saw the vestiges of their march for primacy almost daily.