Dead By Morning

“Angie, you may choose whether you want to stay here at Griffin’s Rest or if you prefer to take a temporary leave of absence. Talk it over with your husband and let him know that he’s welcome to stay here with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Angie replied. “Thank you.”

“I’m bringing in Cully Redmond,” Griff said. “He will join you three—Michelle, Shaughnessy, and Saxon—who will rotate between the house here and Dr. Meng’s retreat. You will be on duty twelve hours and off twelve, but you will not leave the estate.”

Griff had made his decisions without including her in the process. Oh, she could call him on it and he would tell her that they had discussed the situation. They had, to some degree, but talking about something and making definite decisions on how to handle the problem were not the same thing.

She knew he was doing what had to be done, and she agreed with his decisions, even the one to send Luke Sentell to London. She also knew that he would move heaven and earth to protect those he loved. And in her heart of hearts, she knew that he loved her more than anyone or anything and that he would die to protect her.

Poppy Chappelle loved her grandmother, loved the big old house in Ardsley Park, Savannah’s first suburb, a mere ten-minute drive from downtown, and loved her summers here with her father’s family. She had been barely two years old when her parents divorced, so she couldn’t actually remember a time when the three of them had been together. Her memories of her dad were sketchy, but she had a picture in her mind of a big, sandy-haired man who had laughed a lot and had called her “my little sugarplum.” He and his latest lady friend had died when his single-engine Cessna had crashed on their flight back from Vegas five years ago.

“Miss Poppy,” Heloise, her grandmother’s housekeeper and companion for the past forty years called to her just as she reached the front door. “Your grandmother wanted me to remind you that she is expecting guests for dinner. You need to be home no later than five-thirty.”

“I’ve already promised her that I won’t be late. She knows that I’m going sailing with Court and Anne Lee this afternoon.”

Heloise snorted. “Mr. Court and Miss Anne Lee are totally irresponsible. Your grandmother is sorely disappointed in those two.”

“It’s hardly their fault if they’re spoiled brats,” Poppy said. “Grandmother should blame their parents for their behavior, but she won’t criticize Aunt Mary Lee the way she does my mother because she’s her daughter.”

“I have no intention of getting into a conversation with you about the dynamics of the Chappelle family. It’s not my place to agree or disagree with you. I shouldn’t have said anything about your cousins. I simply meant to remind you not to be late this evening.”

Poppy rushed over to Heloise and hugged her. The dour-faced old maid who seldom smiled cleared her throat and patted Poppy’s back.

“You’re a good one, Miss Poppy. You and your uncle Saxon. You two are the best of the lot, if you ask me.” She shoved Poppy away and gave her a push toward the front door. “You behave yourself with those hooligan cousins of yours and don’t let them get you into any trouble.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

A car horn announced her cousins’ arrival. Poppy opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. She paused, glanced over her shoulder and waved at Heloise, then bounded down the brick steps and hopped into Court Dandridge’s black BMW M6 convertible.

Maleah and Derek ordered dinner in her suite, the same luxury suite that Nic and Griff had occupied before their departure from Nassau that morning. Nic had insisted she use the suite since it was paid for through the end of the week. The butler, included with the suite, cleared away the table, stacked the dishes on a serving cart and wheeled it away.

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” the prim and proper butler asked.

“Uh . . . no, thank you.”

“Very well.”

As soon as he pushed the cart out into the hallway and closed the door behind him, Maleah laughed.

“What’s funny?” Derek asked.

“I’m glad I’m not rich. I don’t think I’d ever get used to hot and cold running servants.”

Derek stared at her, an odd expression in his black eyes. “You have to be the only woman I know who wouldn’t love having servants to do her bidding.”

“You need to get to know a better class of women.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

She eyed their twin laptops, provided by the agency, lying side by side where they had placed them on the coffee table when the butler had set the table for their dinner. “We should check to see if Sanders has any new info for us before we go over the list Warden Holland gave you.”

“You check your e-mail and I’ll pull up the file containing the list of Browning’s visitors, telephone calls, and correspondence.”

Maleah picked up her computer and took it with her over to the sofa. She kicked off her low-heel sandals, wriggled her toes, and settled at the end of the sofa. After flipping open her laptop, with an attached USB-Connect device, she logged on to her Powell Agency e-mail account.

“Nothing from Sanders,” Maleah said.

After removing his sports coat, neatly folding it and laying it across the back of one of the chairs at the dining table, he got his laptop and joined Maleah on the sofa. They sat at opposite ends, leaving a wide space between them. Derek pulled up the file that Warden Holland had sent him about an hour ago. This was his first chance to take a look at the lists.

“Want me to read it to you or would you rather we take a look at this together?” he asked.

She shrugged. She wanted to read the info herself, but that meant close contact with Derek, something she usually avoided.

Grow up, will you, Maleah, she told herself. He may have a Don Juan reputation, but it’s not as if he’s going to try anything with you. The guy is no more interested in you—in that way —than you are him. You’re not his type. And God knows he’s not your type.

Who was she kidding? Derek Lawrence was every woman’s type.

She scooted across the sofa until she sat beside him, only inches separating their bodies. He grinned. She faked a pleasant smile. He lifted his laptop and rested it between them, one edge on her left knee and the other edge on his right knee.

Look at the damn computer and stop thinking about Derek’s knee pressed against yours.

“The first list has the names of all of Browning’s visitors for the past year,” Derek said.

They looked over the list, which turned out to be extremely brief.

“There are only three names,” Maleah said.

“Albert Durham, Cindy Di Blasi, and Wyman Scudder,” Derek read. “Scudder is listed as his lawyer. He visited him twice.”

“The other two are listed as friends.”

“Did the warden send Sanders a copy of this?”

“I don’t know, but I forwarded it to him before lunch, just in case.”

“Then it’s too soon for us to expect Sanders to have found out anything about these people.”

Derek grunted. “Let’s move on to telephone calls.”

“Same three names,” Maleah said. “His lawyer and his two friends. One call to the lawyer, one call to Durham and one call every week to Ms. Di Blasi.”

“Curious. I’m surprised Browning hasn’t asked for conjugal visits.”

“Don’t make me sick. What woman in her right mind would willingly have sex with a psycho like Browning?”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Derek told her.

Maleah groaned. “Don’t remind me about how many screwed-up women there are in this world, women who