She inclined her head thoughtfully and saw him bring his hands to the button at the waist of his kilt.
"Stop right there, buster," Audie said sharply. "Don't move."
She scooted down and let her legs flop over the edge of the bed. Her nose was level with the button in question.
She leaned back on her hands and looked up into his eyes. "Tell me all about the kilt, Stacey." The corners of her mouth rose ever so slightly.
"What do you want to know about it?"
"Absolutely everything," she said, shaking her hair around her shoulders.
The sight of this woman beneath him, her hair spilling out behind her, her breasts just screaming to be touched—that was all bad enough. But then he felt her left toe start to tickle the hair on his right shin, moving higher along the inside of his calf, then around to the back of his knee.
He noticed that to inflict this agony, she had to crook her knee out to the side, and the flared skirt of her dress fell away, revealing lots and lots of bare inner thigh.
"Jaysus, Audie."
"The kilt."
"Yeah. Uh, the colors of the plaid are, uh, Douglas blue for the Chicago Police Department, green for Ireland, and white for the City of Chicago. Do you like it?"
"Lovely," she whispered, removing her toe from his skin. "Could you come a little closer, Quinn?"
He put his hands on his hips, and it was then that Audie noticed a definite change in the neat, straight pleat at the front of Quinn's kilt, as if it was hitched on something, something that was becoming more of a disturbance with each passing second.
She let her eyes travel up to his face and saw how his green eyes burned down at her.
"I'm not going to bite you," she said demurely. "At least not too hard. And I've had all my shots, like Michael."
He took a step closer, and Audie let her fingertips graze along the backs of his knees. She was surprised when Quinn shuddered and started snickering.
"Don't tell me you're ticklish, Detective!" Her hands pushed higher beneath the light wool tartan, her palms resting flat against the long, solid muscles at the back of his thighs, the warm skin, and the fine covering of hair.
Quinn tried to breathe easy, but he was looking at her face, and that was not the place to be looking if he planned on relaxation. She was holding his gaze and bit down on her bottom lip with a question. Then the little pink tip of her tongue licked at the very same spot, and Quinn let out a soft groan.
Suddenly her hands swept higher and cupped nothing but bare muscle, and Quinn felt his skin burn beneath her touch.
"So it is true," she whispered, smiling up at him with delight.
"Only on special occasions."
"Such as…?"
"Such as whenever you plan on putting your hands on my ass—that's special enough."
She tilted her head back and roared, which he watched appreciatively. "So you knew I was going to do this, did you?"
"God, I was hoping. I ditched my drawers in the kitchen."
She laughed some more and then squeezed his hard butt with her hands. "And how about this, Detective? Did you hope I'd do this?"
She leaned forward and brought him closer, her hands clamped on his ass, and began nibbling at him through the plaid. First she scraped her teeth into the root of him, then helped herself to a hard mouthful.
"Jaysus." Quinn whispered, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He spread his feet a little wider for balance and let his hands drop to his sides.
Audie moved her knees apart and snuggled him in tight, resting her bare legs against the outside of his calves. Her hands still gripped him, held him secure, while her mouth searched and kissed and bit at the big erection threatening to push through the flap of the kilt.
Audie grabbed the edge of the scratchy fabric with her teeth and moved it to the side, and the thick, satiny head of his penis burst through the curtain.
She was there to catch it, and he was inside her mouth, polished-smooths hard and hot, and she felt his fingers brush through her hair and grab on. His body moved instinctively to take advantage of what she offered.
Audie trailed her fingertips in lazy circles around his bottom and then reached up under his legs to cup his testicles. She felt his entire body shiver under the light touch. She pulled away.
"Wait, Quinn. I'm such a slow learner. I'm supposed to give it a little slap first, right? To get the juices going?"
"Whaaa…?" She did.
"Holy God, woman. You're going to kill me."
"And then I put my mouth on the reed and blow, right? Then play the chanter with my fingers?" She ran her tongue along the underside of his cock. "It might take some practice before I get the hang of circular breathing. I hope you don't mind."
Her wet lips parted and she welcomed him back inside. Quinn didn't know whether to laugh or cry and his head was pounding and the room was spinning and all he felt was Audie and it was as if all the power in the universe was concentrated right there in her hot little mouth.
"Audie?" he croaked out, his hands now reaching down to gently touch her face.
She raised her eyes but continued to give him a wealth of slippery, sucking kisses. She stopped when she saw a shadow of unhappiness in his face.
"What is it?" She sat up straight, thinking to herself that she'd done something wrong or she'd hurt him—but she didn't slap him that hard—or maybe he didn't like what was happening, though it certainly didn't appear that was the problem. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." He knelt down in front of her and placed his big hands around her hips. He leaned in to kiss her with decisiveness, letting his lips and the tip of his tongue trail along her lush mouth, so hot from the recent friction.
He whispered into her ear, "I'm not going to last if you keep doing that. It's too wonderful. I promise I'll make it up to you, though."
She sighed with immense pleasure and held his face in front of her, touching him softly around his eyes and at his temples. "Oh, Quinn," she breathed. "Did you enjoy playing for me today?"
"What?"
"Did you enjoy playing the pipes for me today?"
"Of course I did," he said, smiling sweetly. "I loved playing for you, seeing you enjoy yourself."
"Exactly." Audie kissed him tenderly, overwhelmed by a hot rush of feeling for him that she couldn't stop and didn't want to identify. "So just let me do the entertaining for a while, all right? Now stand up."
"I meant what I said. I love you, Audie."
Love! The word burned in her throat, behind her eyes, in her brain!
Quinn stayed on his knees and gazed at her long and deep. "I love being with you. You make me laugh—more than any woman I've ever known. You're good for my soul."
She shook her head almost imperceptibly and tried to smile, though her heart was splitting apart with fear and dread and panic.
"Quinn, I—"
"Don't." He stopped her abruptly, then softened his voice. "Maybe someday you'll tell me what I want to hear. But until then, don't say anything."
Audie blinked at him, not quite sure what she'd ever done in her whole entire life to deserve a man like Stacey Quinn, if only for a while.
"I told you I suck at love."
A very depraved smile spread across Quinn's face, and he ran a fingertip over her wet lips. "Then, lassie, for the time being let's just stick to the things you do extremely well."
He stood up and stepped away from the bed, smiling as he popped open the waistband of the kilt. It fell to the floor in a heap around his ankles.
"Aren't you going to fold it and put it on the chair?" Audie asked.
"I'll get it in the morning."
It surprised her that she could laugh at a time like this, but she did. Only Quinn could make her laugh while her blood boiled and her heart broke apart.
She gazed at him—his body hard with desire, his eyes so intense they burned through her. She'd always remember him like this.
"Then get your naked butt back over
here, Detective. I'm not done entertaining you."
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
The news wasn't entirely unexpected, but Marjorie was still stunned. The words themselves felt heavy. They settled on her with a loud thud.
"The aneurysm is thirty percent larger than two months ago," the doctor had said. "The medication hasn't worked as we hoped and now surgery isn't even an option. I'm very sorry."
She'd sat motionless.
"It could be any time—days, weeks. But very soon. You'll need to get your affairs in order."
He had no idea.
Marjorie looked around her now and sighed. She briefly acknowledged the brown and wilted plants at the windows, the disorder, disarray, and dust of these once elegant rooms. She could resist the idea of tidying up tonight, as she'd resisted it for over a year now, though the sight of all this disrespect made her sick, sick, sick!
Audie had ruined this apartment—Helen's place, her place—the symbol of everything they'd worked for. And the anger rose in her so hard and so fast that it made her blind the way it sometimes did, like the night she became the person she now was.
Marjorie felt a headache coming.
There was no time to waste. Everything she did from this moment on must be streamlined, purposeful—and perfect.
She took one last look over her calm black lake and her sparkling city, then walked slowly to the guest room. She lay down upon the bed to wait out the pain now throbbing through her skull.
The bedclothes were neat, but she could smell that detective on the pillowcases. He had defiled her room, her bed, and such awful visions of him and Autumn came to her that she felt ill again! Absolutely sickened! That girl had no right to be happy—no right!
Oh, Helen! How had it come to this?
Marjorie turned her cheek into the soft cotton of the pillow and allowed herself to cry. It was impossible to forget the image—the eyes that burned with a smoky dark fire, the way her hair fell in rich dark waves around her face, that lovely face! And those lips … those lips that were at once the essence of joy and the vehicle for betrayal.
For forty-four years, those lips made the world disappear. Then they said things that made it all look so sordid, so wrong, such a mistake.
Of course Helen deserved to die. Just as Autumn did. In fact, sometimes she had difficulty reminding herself that they weren't one and the same—Autumn looked so much like her mother did so long ago.
Marjorie's head was spinning.
They'd been as one since freshman year. All they'd survived! The delicate juggling act that allowed them to explore their passion for each other while keeping Helen academically sound and socially desirable. Then the sham of a marriage to Robert Adams! It was necessary, of course—Robert's presence gave their arrangement legitimacy.
And all they'd accomplished—the combination of Helen's charm and her own brilliance and determination made them unstoppable! How dare Helen decide—after a lifetime together—that she wanted to be with someone else! And a man, no less! Banner CEO Malcolm Milton!
Marjorie stared up at the ceiling in the guest room and laughed out loud at her own stupidity. Being Helen's business partner had made her wealthier than she'd ever imagined. And from the beginning, Helen had assured her the column would be hers if anything happened to her. It was only fair, Helen always said.
So when the will specified leaving the column to Autumn first, then Drew, Marjorie was devastated. There she was, dying, finally demanding the recognition she'd always deserved—but all she got was more money. But she didn't want more money. She wanted glory! She wanted to be Homey Helen!
Marjorie heard the sound of her own desperate laughter echo through the guest room. How many times had she gone over this in her mind since then? The absurdity of leaving something so precious to those two idiots!
Autumn? For God's sake. Her life calling seemed to be teaching delinquents to kick a little ball into a big net. And Andrew? Dear God! He was a gutless, indolent twit who was slowly killing himself with alcohol.
Helen's progeny. The offspring of a cold-hearted, selfish bitch and a cuckold.
You'll need to get your affairs in order.
She brought a hand to her head. She wrenched her eyes against the throbbing.
Marjorie didn't like to think about what had happened fifteen months ago, but sometimes the images were so raw that they crashed through her brain like a freight train—unstoppable, loud, and painful. Like now.
She'd suggested they meet after work for a drink. No, things had not been good between them for a while, but Marjorie now had an explanation for the mood swings and her raging headaches and her screaming fits. Helen would understand. Helen would take her home to the Lakeside Pointe condo and hold her, comfort her, remind her of all they'd shared.
She knew that as long as Helen told her she loved her, she could face whatever came next.
An enlarged artery was pushing against her brain stem, she told Helen, and surgery might kill her.
Didn't Helen see how much she needed her right then? Didn't Helen know that she held her heart in her hands?
Helen had looked her in the eye, patted her hand, and said how sorry she was. Then she proceeded to tell her that their relationship was over because she was in love with Malcolm Milton.
Marjorie's professional contribution was vital to the success of the column, Helen went on, so if Marjorie felt well enough, they could continue their working relationship.
"And I am sorry about the timing of all this," Helen added.
Marjorie's hands had turned to blocks of lead beneath Helen's touch, and for the very first time, she saw the ugliness in Helen's lovely face. That's when it started—the shift inside her. She felt her love break away, pull from the foundation like walls in an earthquake, only to be replaced by hate. Looking back, it was almost embarrassing how fast the transition occurred. And how complete it was.
The next night, Helen was dead.
You'll need to get your affairs in order.
Marjorie's head pounded. She groaned.
It had been shamefully easy to accomplish. She signed in at her obedience class, then slipped out the side door, as everyone did from time to time. When the dog has to go, he has to go, right? No one noticed that she didn't return.
She took Mark home and hailed a cab. She used a pay phone to call Helen's cell phone and relayed the news that Drew was in trouble and needed her—poor Helen was always blind when it came to him.
Helen picked her up on a North Side corner. As Marjorie explained how Drew had gotten himself in a jam in a bad neighborhood—drugs again, maybe?—Helen became so hysterical that Marjorie offered to drive. How perfect could it be?
Helen didn't suspect a thing until it was too late. The vagrant she'd hired to meet them took the first swing and Helen fell unconscious. Marjorie's turn came next. It felt satisfying. It felt final.
Early the next morning, Marjorie found the homeless man, thanked him for his efforts, and shot him. She took what remained of the money she'd paid him the night before, then threw the gun in a Dumpster across town.
Police never connected the deaths—and why would they? Helen Adams was rich and famous and her death was a front-page tragedy. The man disappeared as anonymously as he had lived.
Marjorie rose from the bed and walked to the guest bathroom. She washed her hands and tidied her hair in the mirror—and stared.
Well, she might as well have one last bit of fun. It wasn't as if she'd end up locked in a women's prison for thirty years! She knew how this sordid tale had to end—she had to put an end to the Adamses. Just like they'd done to her.
Drew was already taken care of—she'd seen to that long ago. And in just two days, she'd kill Autumn and put a bullet in her own brain in the ballroom of the Drake Hotel, in front of Malcolm Milton and everyone. Front-page news, most certainly. She'd get her glory after all.
The challenge would be in the details, she knew, in seeing how much
damage she could inflict between now and then.
Marjorie chuckled at the reflection in the mirror, watching the crows'-feet deepen around her eyes. She really was an attractive woman for her age. It was a shame she'd been betrayed by her lover and by her own body at the same time. But the circumstances gave her a freedom she would not otherwise have, she supposed.
She sighed. Every once in a while she'd feel a flash of guilt for how she'd tormented Autumn since Helen died. Slashing her tires. Sending her black and shriveled roses. The letters. But then she'd notice the liquid brown depth of Autumn's eyes and the way her hair fell in messy waves against her shoulders and the guilt would disappear.
With every passing day, that clumsy, ungrateful girl came closer to ruining it all. With every day, Marjorie hated her more.
It was ironic that Autumn was in love for the first time in her life, just as her life was over. Her love for the detective was pitifully obvious, though Marjorie knew Autumn was unaware of the simple truth. All the Adamses were such emotional invalids.
She'd have her fun with Autumn through Stacey Quinn. She'd considered simply killing him outright, but there was always the chance she'd be caught and prevented from making her grand exit. No, instead she'd throw the detective a juicy bone and make things unpleasant for the happy couple.
And did she ever know just the bonehead for the job—Timothy Burke! Oh, she had to laugh. When Autumn told her about the lifelong animosity between Quinn and Burke, she could barely restrain herself. This was going to be so entertaining!
She'd never liked Burke, anyway. She'd truly enjoyed torturing him this past year, egging him on to keep trying with Audie, sending him little thank-you notes with her signature and personal invitations to her book signings.
Marjorie giggled. It was shameful how in America these days a slimy good-looking man always made it further than an average-looking man with morals, character, and brains. She preferred to see what she'd done to Tim Burke as an act of community service.
You'll need to get your affairs in order.
Tomorrow she'd pay the vice mayor a visit and set things in motion. She'd also need a gun, though she already knew how easy it was to acquire one in this town. Next she'd need to make arrangements at the kennel for darling Mark—the one thing she hated to leave behind.
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