Twisted Lies

by C. B. Clark

He picked up a picture, and then a second photo. After an eternity, he met her gaze. “What is all this?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Is this you?” He gestured at a color photograph of a red-haired toddler playing in the surf.

  She nodded.

  He pointed at another picture. “You?”

  Again, she nodded.

  “All these pictures are of you?” A small pulse beat in his jaw. “Did your parents take them?”

  “I…I don’t think so.” She stood and on shaky legs wobbled across the room and picked up an eight-by-ten photo and held it up. “My parents vanished when I was twelve.” She jabbed the picture. “I remember this shirt. My aunt gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday.”

  The lines in his rugged face hardened. “Why are the photos in Angus’s cottage? Why would he have them? I thought you said you hardly knew him.”

  Was that suspicion darkening his hazel eyes? “I…I didn’t know him. I hardly ever saw him, and when he came around, I hid.” She wrapped her arms tight over her chest. Memories of how uncomfortable Angus Crawford had made her feel chilled her. She hadn’t encountered him often, and only in the company of one or both of her parents, but when she did, his cold, penetrating gaze studied her as if he were examining every detail. Even as a young child, his unwanted attention filled her with unease. “He scared me. He never smiled, and he always seemed angry.”

  “If that’s the case, why would he have all these photos?”

  Her head pounded. “He took them. He must have.” She shuddered and wrapped her arms across her chest. “This was his cottage. He stored the pictures in the box in his den. Who else would have done it?”

  Russ shoved a dark curl off his forehead. “I didn’t even know he owned a camera. I haven’t found one in the house.” He prowled around the small room, stooping to pick up a photo, studying it, and then tossing it back on the floor. “You’re the only subject in all these pictures.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, the rasp of whiskers loud in the small room. “It’s almost as if he stalked you.”

  Pressing the pads of her fingers to her temples, she rubbed, hoping to ease the shooting pain. “Look…look at this.” She pointed at an eight-by-ten-inch color photograph. Her nine-year-old self grinned up at her from the floor. She held a red plastic pail in one hand and a small toy shovel in the other. A sandcastle was in the background. “How did Angus get this picture? I was afraid of him. I’d never have been so relaxed if he was around. He must have hidden in the forest and used a telephoto lens.”

  She indicated another photo. “And this one.” The picture showed her as a young girl of fourteen or fifteen, all gangly legs and arms, sitting on a large rock. Her head was bent over a book, her red hair hanging over her face as she read. A field of brilliant yellow mustard plants was visible in the background. “This photo was taken when Aunt Clara and I lived in Regina. I’m sure of it.”

  She stumbled over to the box and, with a shaking hand, plucked out another picture. In the photo she grinned a gap-toothed grin and carried a doll in her thin arms. A chill rippled through her. “I remember that doll.” She licked her lips. “Mom and Dad gave her to me for my seventh birthday.” She blinked back tears. “I named her Patsy. I packed her everywhere.” Her heart skipped a beat and flopped with a thud in her chest. “Why did Angus take these pictures? Why did he follow me? What did he want?”

  Russ paced around the room, stopping every few seconds to inspect a photograph before moving on to another. “He wanted the photos for himself. Why else would he store them in that box and keep them in this room? This was his study. When he brought me to the island when I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed in here, and he spent a lot of time in this room. He wanted these pictures somewhere he could look at them any time; somewhere no one else would see them.”

  His words sent a spike of unease straight to her gut. All those times she’d thought she was alone, and Angus Crawford had been lurking nearby, spying on her, and taking his invasive photos.

  Russ enfolded her in his arms and held her close. “This must be disturbing, but I promise you we’ll get to the bottom of these pictures.”

  She burrowed into his embrace and gave in to the fear she’d been fighting to hold at bay. Her tears flowed, dampening his smooth, warm skin. Time stood still as she remained locked in his arms and breathed in his tangy male musk.

  He cupped the back of her head with his palm, and his golden gaze fixed on her. “I can only imagine how you’re feeling.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “These photos are wrong in every way imaginable, but they were important to Angus.” His jaw tightened. “I’ll find out why he took them. I don’t know how, but somehow I will.” Determination blazed from his eyes.

  Relief she wasn’t in this nightmare alone washed over her. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Not yet, not until I figure this out.”

  “You will.”

  His gaze narrowed. “You’re that certain?”

  “I am.” She nodded. “You’ll find the answers to these photographs, and you’ll find out what happened to my parents.” She didn’t know him well, but she knew one thing—he was a man of his word.

  And he’d promised.

  Chapter 22

  “You’ve had a shock.” Russ’s voice was a deep, soothing rumble. “You’re exhausted. Come on. I’ll take you back to bed.” He grasped Athena’s hand and led her out of the room with its disturbing photos and into the dark hall.

  A hundred thoughts fired at once. Her unease at being in Angus Crawford’s cottage, the discovery of the shocking photos, Russ’s nearness…all blended together in a continuous, confusing blur.

  “Come on.” He tugged her hand. “It’s been a long night. We’ll deal with the photographs in the morning after we’ve had some rest.”

  She stumbled after him down the dark hallway.

  “Here we are.” He released her hand and reached over her and flipped a switch on the wall. The ceiling light blazed, illuminating her bedroom. The sheets on the bed were twisted in a tangle. A pillow lay on the floor where she’d tossed it in her frustration at not being able to sleep. Her sweatpants were crumpled in a heap on a chair.

  He picked up the pillow and set it on the bed and straightened the sheets. “Climb in.” He nodded at the bed. “I’ll cover you.”

  As if she were an obedient child, she shuffled to the bed and sat on the edge.

  “Attagirl. Now lie down and relax.”

  She lay back and rested her head on the pillow.

  He tugged up the covers, smoothing them under her chin. “I’ll get you a glass of water, and then you should try and sleep.” He strode out of the room.

  Turning on her side, she drew her knees to her chest, as image after image of the disturbing photographs flashed through her mind like an old movie reel. She squeezed her eyes closed, but shutting her eyes didn’t stop the images. The brush of a gentle hand on her shoulder startled her, and she sat up with a start.

  For the first time she noticed what he was wearing…a pair of red-and-black striped, silk boxers.

  Nothing else.

  Even in her state of numbed shock, a part of her melted. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes heavy lidded from sleep. He was all virile male. Sweet mother of God. He was so close his enticing masculine scent filled the air. If she shifted her hand a couple of inches, she’d touch him, feel his heated skin. Another inch closer, and she could run her fingers through the silky dark hair covering his chest and arrowing in an intriguing vee down his flat abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. His cute red-and-black striped underwear.

  Oh man.

  Russ handed her a glass. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

  “Th…thanks.” She grasped the glass with shaking hands and sipped. The cold water slid down her parched throat like silk, and she gulped again. Once the glass was empty, she handed it back.

  Their fingers grazed, a
nd their gazes met and held.

  The scratching of rain pelting the window and the creaks and groans of the gale-force wind gusting against the house were loud in the ensuing silence.

  He tore his gaze from hers and backed up two steps as if he were afraid.

  Of what? Her? Of the heated desire percolating through the room, thickening the air, making breathing impossible, let alone clear, rational thinking?

  “Goodnight.” He glanced at his watch. “Or I suppose I should say, good morning. It’s almost dawn.” He yawned. “I’m beat. I hope you’re able to sleep.” He turned to leave.

  “Russ.” She prayed he didn’t hear the aching hunger in the thin husk of her voice.

  He paused by the door. His dark brows arched. “What is it?”

  “Please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone.” She bit hard on her tongue to prevent any more foolish words escaping.

  A slew of emotions clouded his hazel eyes. His jaw worked, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his strong throat.

  “Please.” The damning word spilled out, drowning the inner voices warning her this was a mistake. One she’d regret. “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight.”

  Never taking his gaze from hers, he set the empty glass on the dresser and strolled to the bed. “Are you sure?” His voice was a throaty rasp, as if the sound came from deep in his chest.

  She bit her bottom lip. Was she sure? Hell no. She was terrified. Of him. Of her strong feelings for him. Of where this—whatever this was—could lead. But she didn’t want to be alone. Of that she was certain. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  He nodded, but still didn’t budge.

  Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into eons.

  She held her breath.

  He perched on the edge of the mattress, his body stiff and rigid. The veins in his arms bulged, his hands fisted at his sides.

  A foot of empty bed separated their bodies, but the distance might as well have been a mile.

  She drew in a shaky breath, and then another, and another.

  Anticipation, expectation, doubt, and fear hung thick and heavy in the air.

  Would he make a move?

  Would she?

  Should she?

  ****

  This is a mistake!

  The warning blazed through him like a lightning bolt. He wanted her all right. Damn straight he did. She drove him crazy with her beseeching blue bedroom eyes. He couldn’t remember desiring a woman so much. Kissing her sweet lips on the beach, tasting her, breathing her in, had damn near brought him to his knees. And he wanted more.

  The cells in his body had demanded he deepen the kiss and take what he so desperately wanted, but somehow, he’d dug deep and found the strength to release her and step away. The hardest thing he’d ever done.

  Bar none.

  Only a crazy man would have stopped kissing her. But he had. He’d lifted his mouth from hers and backed away, and nearly bitten his tongue off biting back a groan of regret. But that was his libido talking. Once he wasn’t kissing her, and cool air settled between them, his brain started functioning. Taking her on the cold sand would have been wrong in so many ways. She was vulnerable and wanted comfort and reassurance, not raw primal sex.

  Nothing had changed since that kiss on the beach. If anything, she was more vulnerable. Who wouldn’t be after finding those photos? He clenched his hands to stop from reaching for her.

  The bed shifted, and the mattress springs creaked. “Russ?”

  Her soft voice washed over him like liquid honey, adding fuel to the fire burning deep in his gut. “What is it?”

  The bed creaked again, and she sat up, leaning her back against the pillows. “Would…would you kiss me again?”

  Heat streaked through his body like liquid fire. Had the world shifted on its axis? Had the heavens realigned? Had he heard her right? “What?”

  “I…I asked you to kiss me.”

  The old saw was wrong. Lightning could strike twice in the same place. Miracles did happen. She wanted him to kiss her. Oh man. He was a fool if he gave in to his desires. He’d regret kissing her, but what red-blooded man could resist? Knowing what he was about to do was wrong, no matter which way he sliced it, he shifted closer and slipped his hand behind her neck. Lowering his head, he breathed in the sweet fragrance of her skin and claimed her mouth.

  At the first brush of her lips, heat streaked through him like lightning. He sank into the kiss, teasing her mouth open with his tongue. His blood thickened and pooled low in his belly. His limbs grew heavy, and his breath rasped in and out. He drew her nearer until her breasts flattened against the hard wall of his chest. Alarm bells clamored through him in a frantic refrain. Kissing her, touching her, wanting her, was a mistake. But in that moment, he couldn’t stop.

  But then he did.

  He broke off the kiss. Even more unbelievable, he spoke the words guaranteed to ruin any chance of kissing her again. “We need to stop before we do something we’ll regret.”

  “You’re right.” She slid her soft fingers through his chest hair.

  He sucked in a sharp breath and placed his hand over hers, halting her teasing touch. “I…I can’t think when you touch me.” Think? Oh, he was thinking all right, just not with his brain. He blew out a ragged breath. “I…I want to do the right thing, but I can’t, not…not when you’re so close.”

  “Just this once, don’t be an Eagle Scout.” She stroked his cheek. “I need you. I want to forget that room and those awful pictures.” She kissed his chin, her mouth soft and warm against his skin. “Let’s forget the world and what’s right or wrong and just enjoy this moment.”

  His breath gusted out in a rush of air. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? He was ready. More than ready. But that annoying little voice in what was left of his functioning brain pinged an alarm, and he opened his damn mouth…again. “We’re not doing this because you want to forget those photos. You don’t need me for that. A sleeping pill would work just as well.” He pulled back, putting space between them.

  She studied him with wounded eyes.

  Struggling to stick to his resolve, he rolled out of the bed and stood, keeping his back to her.

  “Russ?”

  He didn’t want to look, tried his damnedest not to turn around, but he was flesh and blood and infinitely weak. So damn weak. He turned.

  She met his gaze. “Make love with me.”

  The floor dropped out from beneath his bare feet. He sank back down on the bed and reached for her.

  He was in deep, deep trouble.

  Chapter 23

  She wanted oblivion, but more than escape, she wanted him. Not just the primal relief sex offered, but him, Russell Crawford.

  Once again, he pulled away from her embrace. “We shouldn’t do this. Not now.”

  She bit back her frustration. “Why not?” Did she have to throw herself at him? Oh, wait—too late. She’d already begged him to make love. His reluctance was definitely not good for a girl’s ego. Not good at all.

  He threaded his fingers through his hair. “I don’t have any protection.”

  She blinked. “You don’t have anything?” She certainly didn’t. The last time she’d had sex was so long ago, any condoms she’d bought would have long passed their expiration date.

  He grimaced. “Not here. I have some on the boat, but not with me, and somehow, I doubt Angus kept any around.”

  His mention of Angus Crawford doused her passion like a blast of frigid water from a fire hose. She jolted free of his arms and sat up. “That’s probably for the best.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded stiff.

  “Look. I’m sorry, but this doesn’t mean I don’t want you.” His eyes darkened. “You know that, right?”

  She twisted her hands together in her lap. “You’re right. We’re adults. We don’t want to do anything foolish.”

  “You little liar.” He drew her closer, capturing her mouth with his.

  A riot of sensations rockete
d through her. Damn, she wanted this man.

  He pulled back, his warm, chocolate-scented breath brushing her face. “Can we spend the night together?” He shook his head. “Not making love, though that would be awesome, but—” His throat worked. “—we could just hold each other. Would that be okay?”

  She stared into his golden eyes, and her heart melted. He wanted to cuddle? With no possibility of sex? Wow! He really was an Eagle Scout. “I…I’d like that.”

  His smile widened, and the dimple in his lean cheek peeked out. “All right.” He gathered her in his arms and pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin.

  Strands of her hair caught in his whiskers, and the heat from his body engulfed her. She snuggled closer. Outside the window, the storm raged, but inside the dark, quiet room, wrapped in this man’s arms, for the first time in years, she felt safe. “Mmmm. This is nice.”

  His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “Not too shabby.” He planted a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Not too shabby at all.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper of sound.

  “For what?”

  “For this, for being here with me, for agreeing to help.” She gulped. “Just thanks.”

  He smoothed the palm of his hand over her back. “So, tell me why you don’t drink alcohol.”

  She stiffened. “You want to talk about that now?” She didn’t discuss her drinking issues. Not with anyone, not with her co-workers, not even with her closest friends. Even Aunt Clara had had to pry the truth out of her. How could she explain without coming across as pitiful?

  He rubbed his callused fingers across her skin, his light sweeping strokes soothing. “Maybe you’d feel better if you did.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip and winced at the raw tenderness from his passionate kisses. What did she have to lose by revealing the truth? After he returned her to the mainland, and she signed over Angus Crawford’s estate, she wouldn’t see him again. They lived in different cities, hundreds of kilometers apart.

  She inhaled a shaky breath. “I…I started drinking when I was thirteen, sneaking wine and hard liquor from my aunt’s cupboard. I hung around outside liquor stores and convinced people to buy me booze so I could party with my older friends who drank.” She grimaced. “Cliché, right? I guess I was trying to deaden the pain over the loss of my parents.”