Death of a Beauty Queen. Mallory KaneЧитать онлайн книгу.
that sudden pallor. But if she was that afraid of being found, why did she live only a few blocks from where she was attacked? Why hadn’t she left the city? Or gone back to her family? If anyone could make her feel safe, it was the Delanceys, wasn’t it? He filed that question away to think about later.
He continued, holding up a third finger. “Finally, why should it matter to you? I would think that the answer to that question is obvious, Miss Delancey.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. She moaned. Her face turned from palest pink to sickly green and her eyelids fluttered rapidly. Then her pupils rolled up and she collapsed into his arms.
Dixon caught her barely in time to keep her from crumpling to the floor. He struggled to hold on to her limp body. He’d deliberately baited her, throwing the name at her, and he’d been prepared for an explosive reaction—maybe even a violent one. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d hit him or tried to run away, but he sure hadn’t expected her to faint.
“Hey, Rosemary,” he murmured, close to her ear, as he slid his arm around her back to get a better hold on her until he could move her to the couch. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”
Her limbs went from rag doll–limp to stiff as boards in less than a second. “Let me go,” she cried hoarsely, pushing at his biceps and scrambling to her feet.
He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and gave her the once-over to be sure she was actually awake before he loosened his grip.
Immediately, she teetered, but when he reached out to steady her, she threw her palms up and stumbled backward. “I want you out—of here,” she demanded breathlessly.
He studied her. She was still pale—her skin looked translucent, but the greenish hue was gone and pink splotches were growing in her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“Not until I’m sure you’re all right.”
“Of course I’m not—all right,” she exclaimed. “You come—barging in here—making accusations—”
He arched a brow at her choice of words. “Accusations? I’m not accusing you of anything—yet. I’m a police detective. All I’m doing is asking questions, Miss Delancey.”
“Stop calling me that!” she snapped. “Why are you doing this?”
Dixon frowned at her. “I’m trying to get to the truth about what happened the night you were attacked. How did you get away? Why have you never come forward? Never contacted your family to let them know you’re alive? Is it because you’re afraid of your family?”
Rose gaped at him and her fingertips whitened against the back of the chair. Her other hand brushed at the scar that ran along her hairline and down her cheek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
As he watched her, a seed of doubt took root inside him. What if she was being honest? What if she really didn’t know what he was talking about?
What if she really didn’t remember?
He didn’t believe in amnesia. There were instances where people who had been through a traumatic event might not remember the specifics, but full-blown amnesia—forgetting everything about one’s life? Nope, he didn’t buy it.
But Rosemary looked completely dumbfounded. Her wide eyes were filled with terror. Could anyone fake that kind of fear?
“Okay, then,” he said, more gently than he’d spoken to her yet. “Tell me about Rose Bohème. Who are you? Where were you born? Where did you go to school? And how did you get that scar?”
Rose jerked her hand away from the side of her head and lifted her chin indignantly. “You have no right …” But her voice faded.
“Rosemary, what happened to you?” he said gently.
Her lips thinned and her eyes glittered with tears. “Please, go away. Please, leave me alone.”
“I can’t do that. You are Rosemary Delancey, aren’t you? Twelve years ago you were attacked in your apartment. Tell me what happened that night.”
She blinked, and the tears that had been clinging to her lashes streamed down her cheeks. She shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t know. I don’t—”
“How did you get away from your attacker?”
“Get away?” More tears fell. She swiped at them with trembling hands.
Dixon turned away and paced back and forth. He wasn’t by nature a bully, although he could be as tough as he needed to be with reluctant suspects. But he didn’t know how much longer he could keep hammering away at this seemingly fragile, terrified woman. He felt like a bully.
He stopped at the window and stared out at the quiet street. If she was acting, her performance was Oscar-worthy. He turned and stared at her for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me what you remember?” he asked gently.
She wiped tears away again. She looked at the couch and perched on the cushion’s edge, then stood again and wrapped her arms about herself. She looked miserable, cornered.
Dixon had a sudden, unfamiliar urge to go to her, take her hands in his and promise her that everything was going to be all right. He’d comforted victims and families many times, but he’d never wanted to. It had always felt awkward and insincere. He knew—all too well—that a pat on the hand and a there, there, was totally useless when someone’s life was in tatters.
“You have to go,” she muttered, standing there with her fists clenched and her eyes blazing like imperial topaz. “Get out of here.”
“Rosemary,” he said. “A terrible thing happened to you, but—”
“Get out!” she shrieked, flailing her lace-covered fists. “Get out now! Or I’ll call the police!”
“Hey.” He put out a hand toward her. When had she gone from terrified to hysterical? “It’s okay. Remember I showed you my badge? I’m a police detective.”
“I’ll do it!” she screamed, her eyes glittering wildly. “I’ll call 911. I’ll tell them you assaulted me!” She turned toward a table on the opposite side of the room, near the piano, and Dixon saw the telephone there. Her purse was sitting next to it. He beat her to it.
“Okay,” he said, holding up his palms. “You’ve had a shock tonight. I’ll leave, for now.”
He stayed between her and the telephone as he glanced inside her purse. “But first, I’m going to give you my cell phone number. Okay?” He eyed her carefully.
Her eyes were still wild and her face was unbearably pale except for the pink splotches, but she didn’t move as he dug in her purse.
“That’s my—” she started, but he silenced her with a gesture.
“All I’m going to do is call my number from your phone. Then you’ll have my number and you can call me if you need me, okay?”
She put her fingers to her left temple and rubbed, squinting at him. “I want you to go!” she said, her voice rising again.
“Okay, okay.” He touch-dialed his number on her keypad, then hit the stop button once his phone began to ring. “There,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Now you have my number and I have yours. Listen to me, Rosema—Rose. Remember my name. It’s Dixon. Dixon Lloyd. I’m not here to hurt you. I want to protect you. I want to help you find your way home.”
Her face changed so abruptly that Dixon was afraid she was going to faint again. The fear and agitation drained away. Her eyes softened and filled with tears. She pressed her hands together, prayerlike, and touched her fingertips to her lips.
“Find my way home?” she whispered.
Chapter Three
Home. The word from the detective’s