Private Passions

By Swanzetta Smith

Denise Richardson is determined to move pass her broken and saddened heart after a four-year relationship ends unexpectedly, following the death of her best friend to suicide. But things are about to get even tougher for the shy computer technician after witnessing her neighbor murdered, and the killers want her dead next. The only person who is willing to help her is the detective assigned to her case. But his suspicion of her involvement in the murder has her wondering if he is the right policeman for the job.

Homicide detective, Terrence O’Neal, has always been known for his cool tactics and confident style when it comes to solving his murder cases. But the trouble with his current case is the instant attraction he has for his witness. His patience is put to the test when Denise keeps him guessing about her innocence while his attraction for her grows stronger with each threat on her life. When he discovers circumstances surrounding the murder implicating Denise as a suspect, Terrence must search beyond the evidence to help her survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swanzetta Smith
• Release date: Jan 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9780759654501

Swanzetta Smith

Born in Los Angeles, California, Swanzetta began writing in 1996, completing Private Passions, her debut novel, shortly thereafter. Although Swanzetta began her artistic and creative career in singing and dancing, she contributes her passion for writing to her sister who gave her a romance novel, which featured African-American characters. She has been hooked ever since. Swanzetta holds a degree in Information Technology working as a computer technician within the educational system. As an active member of RWA, she resides in Moreno Valley, California with her family, where she is busy working on her next novel. For more information about the author, visit her website at http://www.swanzettsmith.com

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PRIVATE PASSIONS

By Swanzetta Smith

©2000 by Swanzetta Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, xerography, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author. For permission please visit my website at http://www.swanzettasmith.com

ISBN: 0-7596-5450-6

This work is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

First Printing: 2001

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

Slowly, Denise slid her heavy eyelids open and squinted at the brightness spilling into the large, comfortable room. Already? she groaned as she grabbed one end of her flattened pillow and pulled it over her face to shield her eyes from the intruding morning light. She thought it oddly bright for the start of a November day. Because her bedroom window faced east, she could marvel at a captivating sunrise whenever she chose. But this morning, a sunrise of any kind was the last thing on her mind. Not quite ready to leave the warmth of her cozy, queen-size bed, she shifted under the lightweight, autumn-brown spread as she protested the uncompromising sunlight. She felt as though she’d just gotten to sleep.

Despite her outer grumbles, she was thankful it was the end of the workweek. By the grace of God, she’d managed to survive another one.

With a breathy moan, Denise rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling as she absently massaged her scalp through her thick hair. Rise and shine, sleepy head, she told herself. Actually, she didn’t mind mornings so much; it was the wee hours of the mornings she found distasteful. No need in rising before the roosters crowed, she felt. She saw it this way. Everything had its place in nature, and she didn’t think hers was to put the roosters out of a job. And she was sure that the redheaded, feathered creatures were grateful for her sentiment on the matter.

After a much needed stretch and yawn, she focused her eyes on the blinking digital clock on the nightstand. She moaned. The electricity had gone off again. She roughly threw back the covers, exposing long caramel legs. Then she shoved her feet into her well-worn slippers and got up. She grabbed her watch off the dresser. 6:38 AM. It was too early, but she was awake now.

Following her morning routine, Denise lazily walked over to the lace-curtained window and gently parted the fabric. She gazed sleepily out at the sunshine playing peek-a-boo with the cottony clouds. Faintly, she could see her reflection in the glass. Her five foot seven frame was attractively slender, and a white nightgown hung just above her knees. Her skin was as flawless as soft porcelain and her dark brown hair lie on her shoulders, wavy from the braids she’d taken out the night before.

Standing at the window in a surrealistic state, Denise suddenly felt an odd feeling fall over her like a thick, ominous veil. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what caused this feeling, but it circulated quickly through every pore of her now-chilled body, leaving goose bumps on her skin. She wanted simply to blame her sudden ill at ease state on the tears she’d shed last night for Renee, but that wasn’t it. It was something else.

Consciously, shaking off her thoughts, she turned and reached for her robe, which was resting on the foot of the bed. After opening the bedroom door, she headed to the kitchen of her two-bedroom apartment.

As Denise contemplated on what she wanted to accomplish for the day, she took a tea bag from an ornate canister, placed it in a cup, and put water on to boil. Then she headed for the bathroom to start her shower. She passed the closed bathroom door and went to the linen closet at the end of the short hallway. She sighed at the sight of the lone white dry towel on the shelf.

She remembered the load of clean towels in the dryer and hurried to the laundry room to fetch her laundry.

As she lingered in the doorway between the kitchen and the laundry room, Denise paused. For a moment, she stood suspended, listening and waiting. She surveyed the laundry room. For the second time that morning, she had a sense that something was not right. Although she couldn’t put her finger on what it was, she felt it.

She stood still for a solid minute. What is wrong with me this morning? she muttered to herself.

It’s not like I had ghosts, trying to communicate with me, she thought, trying to calm herself. Of course not. Just the normal sounds you hear when you’re alone, she logically concluded.

With that settled Denise walked over to the dryer and grabbed the plastic blue laundry basket that was sitting on top of the machine. She looked like an oil derrick as she retrieved the load of crumpled towels from the white Westinghouse dryer. As they were placed in the basket, she noticed strange pieces of clothing intermingled with her own: a black slip, two white support bras, and a few unmentionables. She knew that the items weren’t hers, but assumed the extra things belonged to her next door neighbor, Mrs. Sheldon. She and Mrs. Sheldon’s apartments had a door from their kitchens that led into the laundry room.

Smiling, Denise thought warmly of the spry older woman who on occasion would leave a load of clothes in the dryer or forget to lock her kitchen door. Mrs. Sheldon’s forgetfulness was nothing to complain about, because she was sometimes guilty of doing the same thing.

Bending over, Denise quickly fished out the foreign articles and placed them in another basket. As she did this, her hair slid off of her back and obstructed her view. As she pushed it back behind her ears and straightened up, she again toyed with the idea of cutting the thick mass of waves. She just wasn’t sure what style she wanted. Until she decided, she’d leave it alone. Besides, her mother would kill her.

As she reentered the kitchen, she saw that the tea water was boiling. She quickly set the basket on the counter and lowered the burner beneath the teapot. Then she reached for the basket again. She took a few steps into the living room and was so startled that she dropped the basket.

She looked again in disbelief at the front door. It was ajar. I don’t remember opening the front door this morning or going anywhere near it, she thought anxiously. It couldn’t have opened on its own, either. She had already determined that she didn’t have ghosts.

Her breathing increased. Her hands began to sweat from her wringing them, and her whole body tensed with fear.

Without thinking, Denise had walked toward the front door. When she reached the center of her living room, she stopped, her eyes scanning the apartment like radar. Everything looked as she’d left it last night, but she still felt off-balance. And for good reason too. Her front door was open and she hadn’t opened it.

She suddenly felt hit with a twinge of dread. Had she really just seen movement out the corner of her eye? Or was her mind playing tricks on her? Despite the early hour, she believed she was alert enough to know the difference.

With her heart pounding deafeningly in her ears, she turned to look into the bathroom. Stupidly, she gaped at the door as though she’d never seen it there before. Hundreds of times, she’d sat in this very room, knowing every angle, crack, and stroke of plaster and paint in her apartment. Yet now she studied the beige door as if she’d never seen it before.

The door rocked on its hinges and swung open. At first, she couldn’t believe what she saw was happening. But then a large, dark figure came out of the bathroom. She turned, almost in slow motion, and saw a second figure approaching from the laundry room.

Instead of leaping to action, she froze. This can’t be happening, she told herself. Her instinct to run failed her, along with her ability to scream. How did they get in here? What do they want? Wait! Stop panicking! Just get out . . . get out of here now! Her mind screamed.

Snapping out of whatever state she was in, she turned and sprinted toward the front door just as one of the intruders grabbed for her arm. Finally, finding her voice, she screamed as she reached for the doorknob, yanked the door open wider, and ran outside onto the front deck. Still in her PJ’s and robe, she screamed and yelled as she descended the wooden stairs.

Help! Help me! she screamed, praying that someone would hear her and get help. There are two men in my apartment! Help me!

On the way down the stairs, Denise looked up and saw her neighbor, Mrs. Sheldon, through her living room window. Not only was she spry, but the seventy-two year old woman was also an early riser and did more before eight than most people did all day. She didn’t sit around letting roots grow under her feet. No way. She lived every day to its fullest. Denise hoped she would be just as active and spirited when she reached that tender age.

Barbara Jean Sheldon happened to look out of her large picture window and catch Denise wildly waving her arms.

Denise, remembering that Mrs. Sheldon was hard of hearing, cupped her hand to mimic a megaphone and bellowed, Mrs. Sheldon, call the police! Hurry, please! There are two men in my apartment!

Returning a slow wave, Mrs. Sheldon’s angelic features were molded into a warm smile. But it soon faded when she noted the terrified look on Denise’s usually cheery face. She wondered what had gotten the child so upset this early in the morning.

Denise made it to the ground floor and ran into the parking lot. She stopped, feeling her heart hammering in her throat as she tried to catch her breath. She turned to look back up at the white, stucco apartment building and Mrs. Sheldon.

One of the intruders had his deep brown arm wrapped tightly around Barbara Jean’s delicately slender neck. Although, she didn’t struggle, the terror in her eyes sent hot needles of fear down Denise’s spine. She was paralyzed.

My God, I didn’t think to tell her to get out, she thought too late. The possibility of her neighbor being in danger had never crossed her mind.

These men weren’t after her, they were after me, she hoarsely whispered. The guilt cemented her to the spot. She watched the horror unfold as if in a trance.

Piercing dark eyes went through her like two sharpened daggers, ripping through tender flesh. The unwelcome visitor mouthed a message to her to accompany his leer, as if he enjoyed the horror and shock on her face as she watched him. From where she stood there was no way she could have heard him. But she fully understood every word that his contorted, cruel lips uttered.

Go ahead and run. You’re still going to end up like this.

Denise immediately noticed a thin red line across Mrs. Sheldon’s neck. What is that? She then slapped a hand over her mouth, as the realization dawned on her. The man had just slit Mrs. Sheldon’s throat.

The intruder smiled devilishly at Denise as the old woman’s languid, thin body slid clumsily out of his grasp and out of sight.

Quiet whimpers came from behind Denise’s trembling hand as her other hand clasped her chest. This can’t be real, she kept thinking over and over, as if her mantra could make it true.

Her knees buckled, and her body began to shiver uncontrollably. She wanted to collapse to the ground, but her mind, running on autopilot, somehow found the strength to keep her on her feet. No! No! her mind screamed. How could this be happening?

Tears began to blur her vision, and her chest ached. She didn’t seem to be able to breathe properly. The more air she inhaled, the more air she needed.

Trying to calm herself down, Denise looked around for help, but there was no one in sight. Where was everybody? she wondered. Someone had to have heard her screams.

Her thoughts roared. She felt like she was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Her apartment had just been broken into. Someone has just been murdered. Oh God, is it true? she wondered, not wanting to believe it. Had Mrs. Sheldon actually been killed? Who are these men? What do they want from me? She wondered what she had done to incite such a horrible thing to happen.

She didn’t know which way to turn. Unaware of her surroundings, Denise started feeling dizzy and disorientated. She took a feeble step, feeling like she was moving in slow motion. Her feet felt like blocks of lead, and it took a great amount of effort to lift them. Walking seemed impossible. She couldn’t find her footing. She stumbled, but quickly righted herself. She had to find help.

Dark clouds began to roll in, making the day grow dim. Denise thought, as her drew her brows together, that the sunrise was breathtaking this morning, but it was going to be spoiled by the incoming storm clouds. Her hooded eyes looked around before capturing a familiar face. Mr. Clemens, another neighbor who was nearly Mrs. Sheldon’s age was walking toward her. At least it seemed that way. She wasn’t sure whether she believed he was actually there, any more than she wanted to believe that she had just witnessed a murder. She tried to blink away the dimness that was overtaking her.

She pointed toward her apartment, attempting to explain to him what had just happened. Her mouth was moving, but she couldn’t even hear her own voice. Everything was getting dimmer.

She felt herself slipping away, spiraling into nothingness. As the morning went dark, her thoughts started to fade. At the very last second, a voice intruded upon her retreating senses.

They’ll be back for you.

She fainted.

Chapter One

As Terrence O’Neal entered the small, rectangular room and closed the door behind him, he could hear the mildly hysterical woman being questioned. With an audible sigh, he shook his head. It never failed to amaze him how people changed between those drab four walls. Most who entered, went in calm, some even cocky. Yet during the questioning most people plummeted into the essence of their raw, human emotions. Was it that most suffered from fits of claustrophobia? Or was it the pressure placed on their convictions, which inevitably caused them to boil over from the stress? Whichever the case, the results were usually the same: a super-nervous, high strung or hysterical suspect.

Lifting an inquisitive brow, Terrence stepped over to the one-way mirror and positioned himself next to a police officer who was monitoring the conversation. Looking through the heavy glass that ran the length of the wall, he recognized the two detectives in the adjacent interrogation room.

Jeff Ryebeck, a balding, middle-aged man, stood rigidly near the door. His arms tightly crossed over his wide chest revealed his well-known, surly disposition, as did the expression on his face. Jeff was a man who was not easy to like, Terrence had discovered in recent years. However, his partner wore a more understanding expression on his cream-complexioned features. Brian McKinney, an eager young rookie, sat like a studious pupil at the metal table and faced the woman. He was vigorously taking notes. Terrence ran a quick hand over his jaw, quickly coming to the conclusion that the two detectives had everything under control.

He then turned his attention to the witness. Immediately, the distance between them seemed to close in; everything else around him zoomed out of focus.

The woman had a perfectly oval-shaped face, although it was now drawn in sadness and worry. Her delicate features were complimented by the thick braid she had twisted her hair into, which spanned the length of her long, graceful neck and rested on her left collarbone. Her complexion was smooth, like butterscotch, and her pearly, brown eyes were red and puffy from crying. He imagined that they would be bright and dazzling in happier times. As she moved her full lips to speak, they seemed to tremble.

She’s beautiful, he realized with a jolt.

He shook his head, a frown attacking his smooth brow. What was he thinking? Under the circumstances, that was irrelevant. Inadmissible, even. He was not one to get thrown off track by a pretty face.

Minutes before, Terrence had been in his office, working on a recent case, when he received a call about a homicide and was told a witness─a possible suspect─was being brought in for questioning. He was on his way to the crime scene, but first had to observe the witness. Reluctantly, his gut told him that she didn’t seem the type to murder someone. But was that his instincts as an investigator or his hormones talking?

With a slight tilt of his head, he motioned to the officer standing next to him. Is she the witness from this morning’s homicide?

With a nod, Officer Walter Stanton replied, Yeah, that’s her. He placed his hands on what little hips he had. Have you been to the scene?

No, I’m heading that way.

Well, this one’s sticking to her story like a flea on a dog’s tail, the officer confided with an insinuating nod. Don’t come across too many suspects like her. She seems too pretty to be a criminal. He snorted. "But it takes all kinds, right? It doesn’t make sense though. Why would two men break into her apartment, and then kill her neighbor? He shook his head in disgust. Yeah, I’d say there’s something mighty slippery about this one."

Mm-hmm. Terrence’s reply was noncommittal. Granted, her story sounded suspicious, but he couldn’t jump to conclusions in his line of work. He’d develop his theory of the crime based on the evidence, not personal judgments or guesstimates. Nothing but the facts.

Moreover, Terrence knew that Walter, nicknamed MC Mini Columbo after the TV detective Lieutenant Columbo of the crime fiction series in the late eighties by his fellow officers, believed that everybody had some kind of an angle. In his book, the accused were guilty until proven innocent. Walter solved cases in his own mind before the body was cold.

Listen to this woman. Walter yammered on.

Terrence spared the overly critical officer the merest of sharp glances. The interrogation had his complete attention. But his keen ear was listening to more than what was actually being said. He centered his full concentration on her.

More minutes elapsed, and Terrence continued his examination. Although Walter’s words about the witness didn’t quite ring true, he did sense that there was something about this one. All of a sudden, he couldn’t help wondering what her angle was. After he’d heard enough, he left for the interrogation room.

Denise struggled to concentrate on the questions the two detectives were asking her. She tried to recall every minute detail of the incident as accurately as she could, but her thoughts kept slipping back in time.

It had been close to two and a half hours since she first set eyes on these two men. And she was tired of their company. After they allowed her to change clothes, and nothing else, she was told that it would be easier to take her statement downtown. Too confused to protest, she had agreed, and barely remembered the ride to the station.

When the paramedics had revived her earlier, she prayed that her memories of this morning were merely a bad dream. She still hoped that she would wake up any second now and find herself safely curled up in her own bed.

But, reality was that it had happened. Every horrible moment had been real. The murder was real. The swarm of uniformed officers everywhere, the coroner, investigators, and the detectives probing her extensively for information were all real.

Sadly, Denise couldn’t help feeling that it was all her fault. If it hadn’t been for her, the killers wouldn’t have known that Barbara Jean Sheldon was there. She’d led them right to her. Denise’s asking her neighbor for help had gotten the older woman killed. She could have warned her. Mrs. Sheldon probably didn’t even hear the intruders until it was too late. Denise felt that she shouldn’t have involved her in the first place. But everything had happened so fast. How could she know what would transpire? She had been trying to save her own life. And because of that, Mrs. Sheldon was dead, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to change that.

How do you think these two men got into your apartment? The detective automatically repeated the last question.

What? She blinked, her glassy eyes refocusing on the detective’s awaiting expression. She wasn’t sure that she could take much more of this. She felt ready to explode. I-I told you . . . I don’t know.

Denise tried to keep her composure, but she could feel her emotions welling within her again. How many ways were they going to ask the same questions? I don’t know how they got in. I always keep my doors locked. She thought that maybe Mrs. Sheldon had forgotten to lock her kitchen door again, but that didn’t explain how the killers had gotten into her apartment. I . . . Exhausted, she stopped. Her sable-brown eyes burned as if they were on fire and her temples were throbbing with a vengeance. Right now, all she wanted to do was go home. She had had just about enough of this.

As she continued, her voice carried the irritation that had been building with each question. "Look, I’ve told you all I know, everything that happened. Now, don’t you have enough information from me to start looking for the killers?"

She didn’t miss the harshness of the stare Detective Ryebeck was giving her, so she returned the favor. But then she cautioned herself. She had distrusted him on sight and wanted to keep away from him. She brought her gaze to the kneading hands in her lap.

As soon as Detective McKinney noticed the combative exchange between the witness and his partner, he stepped forward to run interference. However, he was interrupted when the door swung opened.

Terrence strolled into the interrogation room, dressed in an olive-colored cotton shirt, comfortably fitting blue jeans and basketball shoes. His casual appearance seemed to match his casual manner.

Excuse me, Terrence said politely, more for the lady than for the two officers. Miss Richardson?

Silently, she met his stare.

Now, as he stood over her, he was disturbed to find that she was even more beautiful up close. I’m Detective Terrence O’Neal. I’ll be the lead investigating officer on this case. I apologize for the inconvenience and I understand how hard this must be for you right now. However, there are a few more questions I would like to ask you before you leave.

Denise knew he’d said something to her because his lips─and what a pair they were─were moving, but she just didn’t think she could respond coherently at the moment. She closed her eyes for a brief second to gather her thoughts, hoping that her mind and mouth would start cooperating. She hadn’t meant to stare, but those incredible mink-brown eyes of his were