be sealed off to all but official visitors.
Taylor was suddenly very tired. A series of adrenaline charges had kept her nerves tingling, through her arrival on this exotic island, her near escape from being run down and her unsettling encounter with Des Maxwell. This most recent jolt—the discovery of a dead body in her hotel—had sapped her final reserves of even that nervous energy. Now, all she wanted was to sleep. The police weren’t about to let her go to her room and lie down there. They might think it bizarre of her to curl up here on this settee, but she was too tired to care much what they thought. She was almost too tired to care where in the devil she might sleep tonight.
“Miss Bissett is a personal acquaintance of mine, and I would like to talk with her.”
The voice from the entryway had obviously been raised for emphasis. That was why Taylor could hear the words so clearly. But it wasn’t the loudness or even the demanding tone, that cut through her head-nodding stupor and snapped her to full attention. She had met very few people on Key West in her few hours here. Yet, she was certain she knew the owner of that deep, resonating voice. One glance at the opening between the double doors confirmed this certainty.
Taylor had no idea why Des Maxwell was here. Nonetheless, the sight of his brown, muscled arm flexing impatiently as he backed the policeman gradually toward the half-open doorway, told Taylor that she was no longer stranded and alone. A wave of relief swept over her, as deep as it was probably irrational. Taylor reminded herself that Des Maxwell was not a likely candidate for friend in need where she was concerned. Still, he was a familiar face in what felt at the moment like very alien territory. She couldn’t help being grateful to him for that.
There was something else about that face besides familiarity, something that struck her with a blow that took her breath away. It had happened when she had first laid eyes on him earlier in the Beachcomber barroom. It happened again now, with even greater force because he didn’t know she was looking at him and she didn’t have to be so careful to hide her reaction. She tried to tell herself she was only tired, otherwise his handsomeness wouldn’t have this effect on her. Still, she couldn’t keep the thought from crossing her mind that the word “manly” had been invented with someone like Des Maxwell in mind. Meanwhile, Des and the officer had walked out of the foyer and through the lace-curtained doors into the sitting room. The two of them appeared to know each other.
“Come on, Tony,” Des was saying. “What do you think I’m going to do? Abscond with your prisoner?”
“She’s not in custody, Des, and you know it. We’re just keeping her here to talk to Detective Santos. He’s on his way.”
“Does he have to talk to her tonight? Can’t it wait till the morning?”
“She may have been the last one to see April Jane alive. Santos will want to question her about that.” Tony glanced over at Taylor on the settee. “There’s something else too,” he added, barely loud enough for her to hear.
“What’s that?” Des asked, also glancing at Taylor then looking away.
She didn’t like the way they were talking about her instead of to her. She was even less pleased when Tony leaned toward Des and said something in a whisper. Des’s expression remained as unreadable as usual, except for a slight tightening around the eyes.
“Wait just a moment here,” Taylor said, rousing herself from the settee and mustering as much indignation as she could manage in her state of near exhaustion. “If you have something to say that relates to me, I want to hear it.”
Des gave her a cautionary look with “Keep quiet and let me take care of things” written all over it. That made Taylor even more indignant. Suddenly, she didn’t want anybody taking care of things for her, not even this man whose brawny body tempted her to do just that—at least until she wasn’t feeling quite so tired and out of sync with everything.
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Maxwell,” she said, “but I am perfectly capable of handling this myself.”
“I thought you said she was a friend of yours,” the officer said to Des. “How come she calls you by your last name if you’re such great friends?”
“We’re recent acquaintances,” Taylor said before Des could answer.
She was determined to speak for herself in every way. “Please tell me what you were whispering about with Mr. Maxwell.”
“That’s confidential police information.”
“If it’s so confidential, why were you sharing it with Mr. Maxwell? Is he a member of the police force?” Taylor levelled a steady gaze at the officer. “You can answer that question for me, or for my attorney.”
“I think I can help you out with that one, Miss...” The man who had stepped through the doorway consulted a notepad before going on. “Miss Bissett,” he said. “You are Taylor Bissett, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
He was medium height and sallow-complected. Taylor noticed a slight muscle tic in his left cheek. Even without that added clue, his manner told her that he took his job very seriously. In laid-back Key West, he was anything but laid-back.
“I’m Detective Santos. I’ll be taking charge of this investigation. What are you doing here, Maxwell?” Santos shot a dark-eyed, suspicious gaze at Des. “How do you know Miss Bissett?”
“She’s Netta Bissett’s niece.”
“Oh, yes,” Santos said with a nod. “Your friend with the big house in Casa Marina.”
Taylor thought she might have heard a hint of sarcasm in the way he said “friend.” Or maybe she was imagining that. Either way, Taylor didn’t like the tone of the discussion or that her aunt was its subject.
“If you have questions that have to do with me or my family, I must insist that you address them to me.”
“I see.”
Santos looked her over, no doubt taking in her rumpled dress and unruly hair and probably doubting that she was as capable of taking charge as she claimed. Taylor smoothed her skirt and stood very straight. She wasn’t about to be intimidated by this officious man. Des Maxwell was another story. He was looking at her too, and she felt his gaze as if it had fingers to reach out and touch her. Those fingers travelled over her, but not at all in the same way Santos had looked at her. There was nothing in the line of duty about Des’s eyes. She warmed to the tropical intensity of their touch, from the skin on down into the center of her where she suddenly felt desperately in need of warming.
“Since you are speaking on your own behalf,” Santos said, with unmistakable sarcasm this time, “maybe you can tell me why the perpetrator appears to have been in your room when the victim encountered him.”
“In my room?”
“You’re in... “ Santos again consulted his notepad. “Second floor, front left?”
“That’s right.”
“According to my officers, there are no signs of disturbance in any of the other rooms, but it looks like there was quite a disturbance in yours.”
“I don’t know why that would be.”
Taylor was confused. Why would
