by Nancy Bush
“Well, that’s a good point,” he said.
Half an hour later they pulled into Sam’s father’s cabin. Jules remembered it immediately. She’d been here a number of times since that first Thanksgiving with Sam.
It felt cold as they entered, so Sam immediately went to the short hallway in search of the thermostat. Julia looked around, reacquainting herself, her gaze lingering on the couch where she’d first made love to Sam. She dragged her eyes away with an effort and walked over to the television, seeing the stack of DVDs on the shelf beneath it, recognizing so many of the familiar titles.
When Sam returned, he stopped at the edge of the living room. “You want anything to eat? I don’t know what’s in the refrigerator, but I could probably find something.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. I have a refrigerator full of leftovers the Fishers brought over earlier. Doubt I’ll ever eat them. Just don’t have any appetite.”
“I’m going to dig up some peanut butter,” he said, and headed into the kitchen. “Want a drink? Soda, water, wine? A beer?”
“I’m all right.”
She sat on the couch gingerly. She was afraid to stir up her memories of Sam, which were so readily accessible, a pisser when the others were so hard to reach.
He returned with a beer and a plate of saltine crackers slathered with peanut butter and sat down on the couch beside her, apparently unaffected by the memories of their shared past. Despite what she’d just thought, her stomach rumbled a little and she nibbled on a few of the crackers with him.
“They say you can’t whistle with saltines in your mouth,” Sam observed as he set the empty plate aside.
“I can’t whistle anyway.”
“Oh, come on. Sure you can.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Give it a try.”
She smiled. “No.”
“‘You just put your lips together and blow.’”
She lifted her brows. “Quoting Lauren Bacall, huh?”
“I watched a lot of those movies with you.” He waved a hand at the DVDs.
“Those don’t go any further back than the nineties. You just knew that phrase.”
“Maybe,” he admitted.
“No maybes.”
She smiled at him and he smiled back at her. Slowly, the smile fell from her lips. The same happened to him.
She didn’t look away. “The first time we ever made love was on this couch,” she said, a catch in her throat, her fingers running over the worn fabric of the cushions.
There was a moment of silence, then he reached forward and gently cupped her bruised chin in his hand. “A long time ago.”
“A lifetime,” she agreed.
“But it seems like . . .”
“Yesterday,” she finished, and in her mind’s eye she saw the two of them, naked, the television’s flickering light the only illumination. Her throat turned to dust and she yearned for those simpler days, those magical nights. She wondered how it would feel to relive those moments, then shut the thought down.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “I’ve wanted to do that all day. Didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You aren’t.” Her heart had started a slow, hard beat. They stared at each other a good long time, then she took the bull by the horns, leaning forward to brush her lips against his.
After a few moments, he gathered her close, and she made an involuntary sound of protest as she had to shift her damn arm. He let go of her immediately, but she said, “Help me take my arm out of the sling.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He unhooked it and pulled it off her shoulder. Her arm dropped as if it had no strength. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea. . . .”
She lifted the arm and carefully dropped it again. “I don’t care. I don’t want this to stop.”
When he kissed her again it was with respect for her arm. Jules just wanted to crush him closer to her. She wanted him. Had wanted him forever, it felt like, and whatever had transpired between then and now had no meaning. Not in this moment.
He helped her off with her clothes, and then she did the same for him. In minutes they were lying on the couch, him atop her, grappling for each other as if this was their last chance. Briefly, Jules realized she was breaking her promise to Georgie, but she didn’t care. Sam started to say something and she cut him off with kisses. No talking. No spoiling it. Please, Sam, don’t say anything!
And then he was inside her and they were moving together, their bodies one. She felt on fire and arched up and gasped, distantly aware of her arm, every little bruise, scrape, and ache, the throb in her head, but she didn’t give a damn. She craved him like an addict. All she wanted was Sam and the pleasure he was building in her.
Jules wrapped her fingers in his hair, holding him tightly, feeling his thrusts grow faster, harder, while she strained to meet him, gasping, crying, holding in a silent scream of desire until she suddenly felt him come inside her.
Sam . . . And then she was cascading over the edge, awash in pleasure, her chest heaving, her mind splintering.
I love you. . . . I’ve always, always loved you. . . . I don’t ever want this to end....
* * *
He drove his SUV to the lot where he kept his “For Sale” Honda Civic. He didn’t like leaving his good car there, but he’d done it before when he needed some anonymity. A new wrinkle had occurred that had nearly knocked the breath out of him. Someone had run Phoenix Delacourt off the road! He’d seen it on the ten o’clock news. Had the man done that himself? Or had he hired someone new?
And what did that mean about the money he owed them?
He was on his way to meet the man, and had caught himself driving about ten miles over the speed limit in his anxiety. Luckily, no cop had been around. Couldn’t be caught with this car.
And if that wasn’t enough, she was becoming a problem. Somehow, in their relationship, she’d started thinking she called all the shots. Like she was the Queen of Sheba. Well, fuck her and the horse she rode in on. He didn’t need her. He’d never needed her, and he was damn well better off without her.
Now he waited at their appointed meeting spot in Seaside, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, expecting to see the man drive up in his black Dodge Ram with the silver grill at any moment. What a vehicle for the old fool. He’d only met him in person a couple of times, which was just as well because the man was fucking crazy and paranoid and a whole lot else. But he had money and lots of it; he’d seen his statement from Joseph Ford Investments, which had a whole lot of zeroes . . . a whole lot of zeroes. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t access those zeroes unless Joe Ford was dead.
So, okay, there’d been that deal, which he had yet to be paid for, and now Ryan Mayfield, and of course, Julia Ford.... Probably worth a lot more than he was getting paid. He’d tried to get her tonight, but that damn house had been dark and no one was there. He knew Georgie was with Joanie, that rod-up-her-ass hausfrau who couldn’t keep a man if her life depended on it, and neither Julia, nor Joe’s younger look-alike, Sammy boy, had been around.
If Julia finally remembered him, it was going to be a problem. He’d have to lie. Bluff his way out. Her word against his.
But where was the man? He was late. What the fuck?
He checked the time on his phone. Twenty minutes past their meeting. He called him, no answer, then called right back. Still no answer. He damn well wasn’t going to leave a voice mail, something that someone could definitely track to him.
A sudden frisson of fear. Maybe the man had pushed Phoenix Delacourt’s car over, and maybe he’d been caught! No, the man was smarter than that. Smart enough to make a fortune.
Fuck it. He’d catch up with the man later. He had somewhere he had to be.
He drove the Civic to the Seagull, his dick twitching at the thought that there might be more coeds there. It was the weekend, after all; could be lots more action.
And then across the darkened parking lot he sa
w her standing by the door, teetering on her heels, a scarf around her neck and wearing a teensy skirt that made his mind go to what was between those legs.
But she was going to betray him. He could feel it.
Fucking Jezebel.
He cruised up and rolled down the passenger window. Spying him, her lips curled into a smile and she strutted over and leaned inside like a streetwalker. A game she loved. Everything was a game. Even the drinking. “Hey, baby,” she whispered. “Where’d you get this piece of shit? Maybe I should wait for someone else?”
“What are you doing out here? You trying to get caught?” he demanded, his anger exploding.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be that way.”
“Get in, Jackie,” he told her flatly. “Before someone sees you.”
Their relationship had just come to its inevitable end.
Chapter Nineteen
Jules awoke on a cry of terror, and Sam rolled away from her in the dark, instantly on his feet.
“What?” he asked tensely.
Immediately she remembered where she was. At Sam’s cabin. In Sam’s bed, where they’d moved after their initial lovemaking. “Nothing . . . just dreams . . .”
He slid back under the covers with her, his warm arms pulling her close to his body. It was only faintly light outside, about five a.m.
They’d talked into the night, discussing her neighbors, the laptop password, Mulhaney’s disappearance and the man and woman he’d last been seen with, the boat accident and Joe’s death, Ike Cardaman and the Summit Ridge development, Jules’s slowly returning memory, and Phoenix’s state of health.
They’d also made love twice more by mutual consent. Jules seesawed from elation over this night with Sam, unwilling to look ahead to the future and worry about what it meant, to a low-grade fear over what, and who, was lurking outside the safety of the cabin, someone, or ones, who wished her harm.
Now, curling next to him in the rumpled bedding, she said, “I’m going to have to go back this morning and collect Georgie. Joanie told me she’s got work today, and she’s been leaving Xena sort of in charge of Alexa. She has Jackie check in on them, just in case they fight. You know, the whole teenage girl thing, so I don’t want Georgie spending the day there.” He kissed her hair as she sighed and added, “I owe Joanie for taking her on short notice.”
“Okay.” Was there a hint of regret in his voice? She didn’t blame him; she felt it, too, the desire to throw the covers over their heads and make love all day, tune the rest of the world out and hide in their cocoon, here, away from the world. Which, of course, was impossible. “I’ll take you back as soon as we get up. Sadie said she was available, so I’ll call her and reconfirm.”
Sam had said he was planning to meet with Griff and go over the case. He also wanted to check on Phoenix. If it hadn’t been for Georgie, Jules would have gone with him. Already she didn’t like the idea of them being separated.
“C’mon, darlin’. Much as I’d like to, we can’t stay in bed all day.” He kissed her cheek and she turned to him. “Uh-uh. Don’t make this any harder than it is.” He rolled out of bed, grabbed her hand, and led her to the bathroom.
“Hey!” she cried, almost in protest. “What d’you think you’re doing?” But she knew, before he reached into the shower and twisted on the taps and steam began to roll toward the ceiling. “You’re bad.”
“Just bad enough.” He pulled her under the spray, grabbed a bar of soap and, before she could argue, kissed her, holding her tight with one hand while he lathered her back with the other.
Slick, hot, wet, they kissed hungrily, as if they hadn’t made love in years instead of hours, and as he lifted her up, she carefully wrapped her arm around him and threw her head back, lost in the feel and touch of him making love beneath the needle-sharp spray. Jules never wanted this moment to end and was sorry when she had to re-dress in the jeans and navy blouse that Sam had brought her yesterday. Seemed like a lifetime ago. So many things had happened in a short period of time.
Less than an hour later, as they were driving back down the coast, Jules opened a window, letting the salt air dry her hair. The patchy part that had been shaved to allow stitches was blown away from her face and she pulled it back in place, slightly embarrassed. Silly to be so consumed with her looks with everything that was going on, but she didn’t want to look like a haggard mess in front of Sam.
At Salchuk, they stopped in for breakfast at the Spindrift. Sam recommended the huevos rancheros and Jules managed to make her way through most of her meal, savoring the spicey sauce, trying not to stare at Sam across the table. She was all too aware of him and wondered, fleetingly, what would have happened had they never broken up? Would they be married, have children now? Or would their relationship have eventually dissolved or become old and tired? And what about Joe? Too many questions, she thought, pushing her plate away and realizing her feelings for Joe had never run this deep. Guilt chased through her brain, but she firmly pushed it away. Joe was gone, and he would want her to find happiness. That much she knew.
“Ready?” Sam said, and she thought for a second, as he held her gaze, that he might have read her thoughts. Ridiculous.
They held hands on the way back to his truck, Jules aware how much she never wanted the contact to end. Sam made her feel safe, and loved. Joe had, too, she realized as she climbed into the passenger seat, feeling sadness at the loss, elation at the rekindling of her romance with Sam, and beneath it all an underlying sense of fear. Whoever had murdered Joe and maimed both her and Phoenix was still out there. Waiting. Lurking. One step ahead.
They’d barely got going again, the road stretching out ahead, when Sam’s cell rang and Jules handed it to him. He looked at the number, said, “It’s Detective Stone,” then clicked it on to speaker and placed it in the cup holder, as he said, “Sam Ford. I’m here with Jules Ford. You’re on speaker.”
“Stone, here. You got the sheriff on board with your theories yesterday,” he said. “Didn’t know if that was gonna happen, but it did. We doubled our efforts on the cameras nearby the marina and hospital and finally picked up somebody buying gas in a can from Mayfield about five days ago. He’s in a hoodie and jeans. Also got a picture from the hospital, same thing. Guy in a hoodie and jeans. Can’t really see who he is, but I’m texting both shots to your phone.”
“Great work. Thanks.” He clicked off and said, “So Mayfield did sell someone gas, but it wasn’t on Wednesday.”
They heard the ding of an incoming text and Sam asked Jules to scroll through to the correct screen while he kept driving. She touched the most recent text and pulled up several black and white pictures. She focused on the one from the hospital camera first. It looked like the man in the hoodie had been aware of the camera from the way he ducked his head. His nose stuck out, but that was all she could see of his face. Her eye traveled over his build, and she felt a buzz of recognition, but couldn’t put it together. She’d seen him somewhere. Maybe knew him. She was sure of it.
Quickly, she scrolled to the next photo. In it a young man in shorts and a T-shirt was standing on the marina dock, handing a gas can to another man who wore an identical hoodie and jeans to the man in the hospital photo. Though the sun was bright and the water sparkled, the man reaching for the can was covered head to toe. A disguise, she thought, again feeling that tantalizing zing of forgotten memory.
“He look familiar?” Sam asked, glancing at the phone, then looking back at the road.
Jules stared at the hoodie. Gray. She couldn’t see a label. She went back and forth between the two photos, enlarging them to get a closer look at his face, but it was hidden. Still . . . the jeans . . . and those sneakers . . . She narrowed her gaze at them. Dark Nikes, maybe, probably black.
With silver . . . on the boat . . . walking toward her as she lay on the deck . . .
“You weren’t supposed to be here, Julia.”
She sucked in a startled breath and nearly dropped the phone.
“Who?” Sam asked before she could even speak.
“Those shoes . . . the guy on the boat wore those shoes . . . and a hoodie,” she said in a shocked voice, her heart drumming wildly, fear curling in her stomach. “I remember I saw him. . . . I saw him. . . . He came at me. Oh, holy God, it’s Stuart Ezra . . . !”
* * *
P. J. Simpson was having a crisis of conscience. He was staring slack jawed at the morning news. She survived? Phoenix Delacourt survived? She’d looked so dead that it hadn’t even crossed his mind that she could live.
He sat at the end of the motel bed and stared down at his toes in abject misery. He’d confronted Joe and that hadn’t worked. And he’d tried to kill Phoenix—which he couldn’t even believe now!—and that hadn’t worked.
What did you expect? And Joe was never going to give you the money anyway.
He shook his head. Thought of all the years he’d spent playing the role of the pauper, waiting for that big win. Maybe he could’ve taken out his money when Joe went out on his own, but questions would have been raised, and anyway, he’d had tons more money to make. He’d known he could do it. Transform thousands into a million, one million into two, two into three, four, five, ten . . . !
You got greedy.
He choked out a sob. After all the shit he’d put up with? All the terrible years? All the sideways looks and raised eyebrows by people who considered him a lesser being?
And then that phone call last night, where that lowlife Tom accused him of misrepresenting himself. Misrepresenting himself? All he had to do was get his hands on his own money and he could afford whatever he wanted. He just couldn’t do it!
God, it was FRUSTRATING!
In a fit of fury he stood up and stalked to the bathroom, ripping off the mustache he’d painstakingly applied just a few minutes earlier. What good was a disguise when Phoenix would remember who she’d met with right before she was pushed into the ditch! Everything would unravel. He couldn’t count on her having lost memories like Julia. Lightning never struck twice. No, Phoenix would remember him, all right, and she’d be on his trail like a bloodhound.