A Madness of Sunshine

by Singh, Nalini

  He knew already she’d never be an easy woman to be ­with—­if tonight wasn’t the only night they were to spend together. Anahera was complicated and strong and apt to be difficult at times. Of course, Will wasn’t exactly easy himself.

  Sinking deeper into the kiss, he fisted his hand in her hair but drew back before it could go any further. “How about a bed?” He leaned around her to put his beer on the counter.

  “It’s a single,” she warned.

  Will looked to the fireplace. “Hold that thought.”

  Leaving her with an amused look on her face, he went into the bedroom and hauled off the mattress to put it in front of the fireplace. She padded across to him as he was throwing the sheet over it. He’d just finished tucking it in when she reached back and undid the zipper on her dress. “Protection’s in the bedside drawer,” she said as the dress slid down her body, the firelight flickering over her proudly naked form.

  “I got us covered.” Pulling the foil packets from his jeans pocket and throwing them down beside the mattress, he put his hands on this woman who made him remember he was alive.

  Anahera felt as if she was coming out of a long winter. That winter hadn’t begun with Edward’s death; it had started in the years prior, when they’d slowly become strangers to one another.

  Will’s hands, rough and large, were as different from Edward’s as she was from the girl who’d once run wild on the beach below the cliffs. Sinking into the sensations, she pushed up his T-­shirt until he tore it off, then ran her own hands over the hard ridges and hollows of his chest and around to his back.

  The ridges there were unexpected, the skin coarse.

  “Burns,” he said, breaking the kiss. “They bother you?”

  Anahera devoured his mouth in response. A few scars didn’t bother her. Not when her nerves crackled with an electric heat. All she wanted was to feel more and more and more. Like a prisoner who’d been starved, she wanted to gorge.

  The firelight pulsed against Will’s body as he rose to strip off the rest of his clothing, and she had the best view in the house. When he came down over her, she picked up one of the flat packets beside the mattress and slapped it to his chest. “Put it on. We can do the foreplay later.”

  She wanted him inside her, wanted to feel sexually alive from the inside out.

  Rising up onto his knees, he sheathed himself. “Ready?”

  “Since you arrived.” Her words seemed to pitch him over the edge, this controlled man who burned against her.

  The next few moments weren’t controlled at all, the two of them coming together in a storm of need and lust and hunger.

  Racing heartbeats.

  Demanding hands.

  A guttural grunt from Will.

  A short scream from Anahera.

  Harsh breaths.

  46

  “I haven’t screamed for a long time,” Anahera said long minutes later. It might’ve been a cold crash into reality except that Will had his arm around her shoulders, and she was lying with her head against his chest. Anahera wasn’t sure how she felt about the ­intimacy—­sex was easy, it was the rest that complicated things.

  Will stroked his hand down her spine. “I haven’t been with anyone for over a year.”

  “High standards?” she said with a ­self-­mocking smile.

  “Nightmares.”

  “Those nightmares have anything to do with the burns on your back?”

  “Same case that led to the inquiry.” He ran his hand down her spine again. “You’ve got some scars of your own.” The words didn’t demand.

  Maybe that was why she gave him an ­answer… of sorts. “It shouldn’t be such a big scar, but it was an emergency and there were complications.”

  Will didn’t ask the obvious probing question, but he raised his free hand to brush her hair from her face. The gesture was oddly tender and it struck her with terror.

  Sitting up, she reached for her dress, tugged it on over her head. “Zip me up?” She swept her hair to one side.

  Will did as asked, then let her use the bathroom before he did so himself. He’d taken his clothes with him, came out fully dressed. “Should I drag the mattress back to the bed?”

  Anahera knew what he was asking. “I don’t have an answer for you yet.” She’d had no intention of tonight being anything other than a physical release, but Will wasn’t a simple man. He was the kind of man who got under a woman’s skin and made her feel. Made her come awake on the ­inside—­along with memories of the sterile cold of an operating theater, memories so painful that she didn’t talk about them even with her best friend.

  Will said nothing, just set the table before coming back for the pot of stew she’d reheated and was stirring.

  Pot on the table, he took her hand and tugged her to a chair. “Stop running, Anahera.” A press of his lips to her temple before he took his own seat. “I can tell you from experience that the demons eventually catch up with you, no matter what you do.”

  “Sometimes, we need to run, need to give ourselves time to heal enough to fight the demons.”

  “Do you think all wounds can be healed?”

  Anahera laughed, the sound more than a little ragged. “You’re a damn good cop, Will.” The wound inside her would never heal.

  Will looked at her with far too much insight, but didn’t say anything further. It was Anahera who finally spoke ten minutes later, after they’d served themselves and were eating. “Hysterectomy,” she said without attempting to soften the blow. “I guess that answers your question.”

  “My burns were second degree. But that doesn’t answer your question, does it?”

  She stared at him, at this man who was forcing her to confront the past, and she ­wondered… “Why the sudden desire to know my past? Am I still on your suspect list?”

  “No.” He closed his fingers around his beer but didn’t drink.

  “Then what’s with the questions?”

  “Because I want to get to know you.” Those gray eyes, so difficult to penetrate. “The sex, I could’ve had if I’d wanted it. I’m no prize, but there aren’t that many single men around for competition.”

  Anahera wondered if he truly believed that, if he truly didn’t understand the magnetism of his intensity and quiet competence. It kindled a compulsion to unravel him, see beneath that disciplined control. Ironically, one of the things Anahera had loved most about Edward was that he was an open ­book—­and look how well that turned out. At least Will was up-­front about his secrets.

  “I feel so special.” She took a sip of wine. “What sets me apart from the herd?”

  He didn’t flinch at her sharp tone, didn’t set his jaw or look away. “You’re unapologetically you,” he said. “Complex, difficult, gifted.” The slightest upward tug of his lips, the faintest whisper of a smile. “I’m a cop. We love solving mysteries.”

  “The only mysteries about me are sordid,” Anahera said, suddenly tired of pretending. “They involve a cheating husband, a pregnant mistress, and a case of ­deep-­vein thrombosis that led to a fatal pulmonary embolism.” Such an unfair way for healthy and fit Edward to die, such a senseless waste. “Mystery solved.”

  “No, that’s just a splinter of you.” Will held the dangerously intense eye contact. “You’re a creature of mystery and you always will be. I’ll never solve you.”

  Anahera didn’t know why, but she said, “Leave the mattress by the fire.”

  As she lay down on the mattress next to Will later that night, she knew this was nothing like what she’d had with Edward. That had been a bright, hopeful thing with butterfly wings. She was harder now, her wings torn off to be replaced by scar tissue.

  Will was the same.

  What would come of that? What could come of that?

  Will’s arm crept around her waist, hugging her to the heat and muscle of him. But Anahera’s eyes stared out into the darkness sketched in shadows by the firelight, her ghosts loud tonight.

  She woke to
the sound of movement. Her eyelashes lifted, her body heavy with the kind of sleep she hadn’t had for a long, long time. Still drowsy, she watched Will put on his clothes and boots, and wondered if he’d sneak out of the house, doing his version of a walk of shame.

  But, of course, that wasn’t Will. She saw him grab a small notebook she’d left on the counter, begin to write a note.

  “Will.”

  Abandoning the note, he came to crouch by the mattress. Brushing her hair off her face with one hand, he said, “I have to go. A local found something not far from the rubbish dump. The call just came in.”

  Anahera had a vague memory of hearing an annoying buzzing.

  Sitting up, she let his hand drop away, her attention fixed on his face. It gave her nothing. “What do you mean they found something? Is it Miriama?”

  “I hope not.” Hard lines bracketing his mouth. “Because that area was heavily searched. I asked Nikau to send extra teams out there.”

  Anahera sucked in a breath. “That means if it is her, somebody deliberately returned to put her there.” She had to say it out loud to get the horror of it straight in her mind. “I’ll come with you.”

  Will shook his head. “You’d just have to sit in the car. I can’t take a civilian into a possible crime scene.” He rose along with her. “I’ll call you the instant I know anything.”

  Frustration gnawed at Anahera, but she didn’t argue. This might be a small town, the rules not as hard and fast, but Will was a cop, a good one. And Anahera wasn’t about to mess up a future trial by being where she shouldn’t be; evidence mattered, blood splatter mattered. “I’ll keep my phone with me.”

  Walking him to the door, she thought about if she should kiss him ­good-­bye, but what they’d done in the night wasn’t quite settling in the pale dark before dawn.

  “I’ll call you,” Will repeated before heading out across the porch. He was halfway down the steps when he turned and came back. Closing one hand around the side of her face, he pressed his lips to hers.

  Embers low in her belly ignited, but this was no long burn. Will drew back almost at once and jogged over to get into the police SUV. She watched him reverse into the mist, her lips burning from his kiss and her face bearing the imprint of his palm.

  47

  Will’s radio crackled as he drove away from a woman for whom he’d never planned. Despite not having any staff who might contact him, he wasn’t surprised by the static. Something about the area did funny things to his radio every now and then. One of the old bushmen had been with Will during a previous static burst; he’d immediately made the sign of the cross.

  “Ghost,” he’d muttered. “Never figured one would want to haunt a cop car.”

  Will wasn’t afraid of ghosts. It was the ­real-­life monsters walking around that terrified him. Not for the first time, he thought about Vincent Baker and how his mask of grief had slipped when Will mentioned speaking to his wife, how quickly Miriama had changed from his true love to an object he’d used and discarded.

  Then there was Kyle Baker.

  Both hiding in plain sight. But where Kyle’s ego led him to flip off authority, Vincent had played the part of a trustworthy friend and neighbor his entire adult life. He’d never let the mask slip in public. Which, to Will’s mind, made Vincent the more dangerous of the two brothers.

  And Will had nothing on either Baker.

  What he did ­have—­courtesy of an email that had come through last night after ­dinner—­was a disturbing report about Tom Taufa: Assault on a girlfriend when he was thirteen and spending the summer with his grandparents in Tonga. Bad enough to have left the girl with a broken nose.

  All of which Will only knew because of that scribbled anonymous note telling him to “look into Tom Taufa’s record in Tonga.” He’d followed it up to cross it off the list, never expecting his contact to confirm the allegations.

  Boy was never officially charged, the other officer had written. Families sorted it out between themselves. Felt sorry for Tom because his father had been in and out of prison since he was a baby, and his mother had mental health problems.

  But the villagers have long memories, and it was a big, shameful thing for his grandparents. They say he’s been making it up to them ­since—­and the girl involved has forgiven him. Apparently, he even helped pay for her wedding.

  Tom hadn’t had a single brush with the law since then, so maybe the shock of what he’d done, accompanied by witnessing his grandparents’ shame, had put him on the straight and narrow. Or maybe Tom Taufa had become a plumber because no one noticed plumbers or thought it strange if they saw a trade van parked on the street.

  Tom had also been a poor kid with dysfunctional parents to Vincent’s rich boy cocooned in the heart of a successful family.

  Not the kind of boy who’d be gifted a puppy by his father.

  Will’s hands flexed on the steering wheel as he drove through the eerily silent town. Even Josie’s café was cold and ­dark—­he was used to seeing a light in there in the early morning hours, as Josie and Miriama got to work on the day’s baking. Julia Lee provided the cakes, but the breads, pies, and other products were all made in-­house. Every so often, when he had an extremely early start, he’d knock on the door and the women would open up to make him a coffee to take on the road.

  The weather didn’t help the sense of gloom that clung to Golden Cove.

  The clouds had returned with a vengeance; they hung black and heavy, just waiting to thunder down with rain. He always had a couple of tarps in the back of the SUV, along with some tent poles, in case he had to protect a crime scene from rain, but even as he turned into the road that led to the dump, he was hoping there was nothing to protect, nothing to see.

  The idea of Miriama forever gone, all that light, all that talent snuffed out, it seemed hellishly wrong. But hellishly wrong things did happen. Sometimes, they happened to small boys, and sometimes, they happened to beautiful young women just about to spread their wings.

  Parking his vehicle in the same spot he had when he’d come out here with Anahera, he grabbed a flashlight, then ran across the dump to the spot where the informant had told him he’d be waiting. “Shane!” he called out from a short distance away, after spotting the writer sitting on what looked to be an upturned plastic crate.

  The other man jerked up his head, the dark curls of his hair tumbling across his forehead. “You actually came,” he said, getting to his feet and thrusting that hair back with a shaking hand. “I’d almost convinced myself I’d hallucinated the entire nightmare.”

  Taking in the other man’s stark white features and dilated irises, Will said, “You don’t have to come with me. Just tell me where you found it.”

  Shuddering, Shane sank back down on his makeshift seat. “That way”—­he ­pointed—­“about fifty feet in. Follow the path.”

  Will had a lot of questions for Shane, chief among them, what the hell he was doing here at this time of the ­morning—­it wasn’t even five ­thirty—­but first, he had to see what the other man had found.

  Heading in the direction Shane had indicated, he followed the pathway of ­beaten-­down grass that looked to have seen several pairs of booted feet relatively recently.

  Shane’s find was impossible to miss.

  Bones, bleached so white they glowed under the beam of the flashlight.

  A full skeleton.

  Nothing appeared to be missing. Not the smallest finger or toe bone. And while Will was no forensic anthropologist, he had eyes. The leg bones weren’t anywhere near long enough for a woman of Miriama’s height.

  48

  Will had kept his promise to Anahera. He’d called.

  Just long enough to say, “It’s not Miriama.”

  The full horror of his words had only penetrated after he hung up. Because Will hadn’t said there was no body. Just that it wasn’t Miriama’s. Which meant someone else was dead.

  The first thing Anahera did was call Josie.

>   Please answer. Please answer.

  Her relief when her friend said a cheery, “Hello, Ana. Are you keeping baker’s hours now?” threatened to crumple her to her knees.

  Wrenching it together, she somehow managed to sound normal in her reply. “You prepping for the café at home?”

  “Yes, Tom doesn’t want me in there alone right now.” A pause. “I don’t want to go anyway. It feels awful knowing Miri won’t walk in the door yawning and demanding a coffee before we get to work.”

  “I’m sorry, Josie. I know you miss her.”

  “So much.” Josie bit back a sob. “Even Tom misses her and you know ­him—­he likes things settled and orderly and Miri’s never been that way. She puts smiley faces on his coffee or bags him up chocolate cake when he came in to grab a muffin.”

  Anahera felt a stab of suspicion, shook it away at once. Tom Taufa was as in love with Josie as it was possible for a man to be with a woman; the idea of him cheating on his ­wife… no, it didn’t fit.

  But she’d thought Vincent a man of honor, too. “Do they know each other well?” she asked and hated herself for mistrusting a man who’d done nothing to deserve it.

  “Well, he’s her ­cousin—­in a long, roundabout way. Used to babysit her way back when. I think he still sees her as that small girl.” A smile in her next words. “Now and then, when we see her dressed up to party, he shakes his head and mutters about her short hems. Honestly, he can be a ­fuddy-­duddy, but I adore him.”

  A man who noticed the length of a woman’s dress might just be a protective older ­cousin—­or a jealous one. No. Anahera fisted her hand. She couldn’t allow this situation to poison her ability to trust. Tom was a stick-­in-­the-­mud tradesman who didn’t enjoy change. He’d do nothing to fracture his life with Josie. “I’m in awe of how you’ve managed to keep him in the dark about your own wild ways, Josephine.”

  Josie giggled at the pointed use of her full name. “Shh. Josephine the Bad Girl shed her skin and became Josie the Good Girl the day I realized Tom had grown up into a big, beautiful creature I wanted to kiss.”