White Heat by Cherry Adair Read Free Book Online Page A

days.”
    The seat belt tightened as she turned her entire body to stare at him. “Your father’s been buried for three weeks. What are you saying? That you had his body exhumed on conjecture?”
    “Yeah.”
    Emily tried to digest what he was telling her as she observed the rain sheeting the windows, blurring the dark houses as they passed through the empty streets. She also tried not to let her own feelings for him, and her own guilt, cloud her judgment. She glanced away, refusing to be drawn in by his tight jaw or the way his knuckles showed white as they gripped the leather-covered wheel.
    Max wasn’t here to see her. He was here to say good-bye to a man he’d barely known. She needed to keep reminding herself that his presence in Italy wasn’t personal. Her feelings for Max were jumbled and disjointed. She missed Daniel. She was still mourning his loss. She’d forgotten Max—almost. She’d thought she wanted a life with Franco. Now she wasn’t sure. Damn it.
    How had life gotten so screwed up in such a short time?
    Her stomach wasn’t clenching just because of Daniel’s recent death. Or even wholly attributable to the intruder. Or the fight. Or the vial. Or the hazmat guys.
    Not hearing from Max right away had given her perspective and a plan of action. Even when she was leaving him curt messages and silently cursing his answering machine, she was rehearsing different scenarios. He’d walk back into her life and she’d be calm, collected, and immune.
    Why wouldn’t she be? She had an incredible new man in her life. A man who cared deeply for her. A man she’d considered marrying. A man she’d been taking home to meet her family. The final test. That seemed a lot of past tenses all of a sudden. She’d been prepared for seeing Max again. What she hadn’t been prepared for was the resurgence of heat. Not the kind of thing a girl could prep for. At least not this girl.
    She’d had all year to try to sort the wheat from the chaff. And she’d just about come to terms with what had happened between them the first time around. Now Max was back to muddy her emotional waters all over again. The big jerk.
    Just for a few hours, she reminded herself. She could deal with him for those hours. And then go back to forgetting him.
    Sure. Just like I forgot him for the last eleven months, one week, and three days? Riçht.
    Think Franco.
    This time tomorrow, she told herself firmly, they’d be in Seattle, and Max would be nothing more than a distant and annoying memory.
    This was about Daniel. Only Daniel. “The suicide note was handwritten,” she told Max, recognizing where they were, and feeling a strange combination of fear and anticipation. “The police asked me to identify his handwriting. It was very distinctive. There was no doubt at all that it was Daniel’s.”
    “Then either we’re dealing with an excellent forger, or they used something he’d written for something else. What did it say?”
    Daniel’s strong, unmistakable handwriting on that white sheet of paper would forever be indelibly etched in her mind. “He wrote, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do it. It’s just not worth it anymore.”
    “Could have meant anything.”
    She’d thought it was odd, too. But in context it made some sort of sense. “But it didn’t.” She’d never get over the fact that she hadn’t been there for Daniel when he’d really needed her. He’d seemed a bit more subdued than usual when they’d last spoken, but that was understandable considering his hands had been bothering him more than usual.
    Max turned the car into the long, tree-lined road leading up to the villa just as the sky was lightening from black to charcoal. “I’m sure you’ll find things at the villa that will help you connect with your father. He would’ve liked that.”
    “How he felt is irrelevant to me.”
    “Any relationship requires that two people make some kind of effort to communicate. Neither of you ever did. You hurt each