by J. S. Marlo
Sold on sleeping in, he turned around and pulled her close to him. “Sounds good. When the horses are taken care of, we’ll go have dinner with the kids, then we’ll fly out.”
As she leaned against his chest, a ring interrupted their short interlude. Riley reached in the back pocket of her jeans and retrieved her phone.
“Riley speaking,” she answered. “Beth?”
My sister Beth?
“Yes, he’s here. Hold on, please.” She handed him her phone. “Beth wants to talk to you.”
Curious as to why his sister had called Riley if she wanted to talk to him, he pressed the handset against his ear. “Yes, Beth?”
“Blythe? Do you know how many times I tried to call you? Where are you?”
He’d forgotten about turning off his cell while searching for Lucky. “I’m in Sparrowsnest with Riley.”
“But, didn’t I drive her to your place last night?”
Neither he, nor Riley, had talked to Beth since then, so she had no way of knowing about the tragedy. “Riley’s ranch burned last night. We flew here early this morning. We’ll return later tonight.”
“Is everyone all right?”
Riley had moved her back to the fence, and arms crossed over her chest, she squinted at him.
“Yes, but my phone was off.” He’d go into details later. “Why are you calling?”
“Your in-laws tried to reach you. When you didn’t answer, they came to my house.”
“Your house?” But Claire’s parents had never visited Beth. Blythe didn’t even know they knew where she lived. “Tell me it isn’t about the surgery?”
Concern etched Riley’s face. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she gripped the fence.
“No, it’s—I don’t know how to tell you this, but…Claire died this morning.”
Floored by the news, he expelled a sharp breath. “Do you know what happened?” Dr. Salinski had warned him that one day Claire would simply stop breathing, but Blythe had pictured it occurring years down the road, not mere weeks.
“Your in-laws said Claire stopped breathing during the night, and a nurse found her dead this morning. That’s all I know. I’m sorry.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Luggage in hand, Riley approached the front desk of her regular hotel. Like old times, Oscar was the manager on duty. “Hello, Oscar.”
He smiled, something he rarely did. “Good evening, Mrs. Kendrick. We haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I’ve been busy.” That was an understatement. “Would you have something available for the weekend by any chance?”
Not scheduled to arrive until Monday, she hadn’t called to book a room before flying back to Winnipeg with Blythe. He’d wanted her to stay at his apartment, but after they landed, she’d insisted that he drop her at her hotel. If for some unforeseen reason his in-laws were to stop by his place in the morning, she didn’t want to come face-to-face with them, not when they were unaware of her relationship with their son-in-law.
Oscar keyed in something on his computer. “I have your usual suite. Would that work?”
“That’d be perfect.” And it’d save her from switching rooms on Monday.
Why the manager always swept two magnetic cards through the coding machine when it was obvious she was alone never ceased to mystify her. He placed the cards into a key folder and handed it to her. “Will Mr. Huxley need a new parking pass, or does he still have his old one?”
She wasn’t aware Blythe had been issued a parking pass. “I didn’t see a pass in his car, but I’ll ask him when I see him later.”
“Very well. You have a good night.”
The elevator ride was as she remembered, smooth and quiet, and the hotel suite hadn’t changed. Still large, spacious…and lonely. The city lights illuminated the suite, guiding her steps into the bedroom. She pulled the curtains across the panoramic window, turned on the lamp sitting on the night table, and dumped her suitcase on the luggage rack near the dresser. Seeing no urgency in unpacking it tonight, she rummaged through it for her toiletry bag. Once she found it, she proceeded into the bathroom.
Stunned over Claire’s sudden death, they’d skipped dinner, flown in on the next available plane, and now Blythe was on his way to his in-laws’. For all their sakes, Riley hoped for a peaceful meeting between them.
Black and white ceramic steps led to a large roman tub nestled in an alcove, an assortment of bath salts and fragrant oils lined on the ledge. Next to the tub was a double shower.
She placed her toiletry bag on the left side of the counter between the sink and the wall and readied for bed.
While she brushed her teeth, she gazed at the reflection of the tub in the mirror. The nap she’d taken on the plane had chased away her immediate fatigue, and now she found herself wide awake. Afraid she might end up tossing and turning if she lay down right away, she opted for a long, scented bath.
On the wall, above the faucets, was a control panel that let her adjust the temperature of the water. It was supposed to keep the water warm for as long as she enjoyed her bath, but she hadn’t tested that feature yet.
The single-handle faucet turned smoothly in her hand. She set the temperature of the water then poured a double dose of lavender salts and a touch of vanilla into the tub. The scents wafting in the bathroom teased her senses. As she breathed in her favorite fragrances, she dimmed the lights, shed her clothes, and climbed into the bathtub.
The water’s warm embrace ebbed the tension of the last twenty-four hours. She closed her eyes, slipping into a realm between dreamland and reality where elusive fingers caressed her skin and sent waves of pleasure through her body. A touch as delicate as the wings of a butterfly brushed the swell of her breast. “Blythe…” She missed being held, being kissed, being loved.
“Tell me you’re dreaming about me.” Warmth cloaked his voice as it penetrated the haze enveloping her mind.
Duty demanded he meet with his in-laws, not stay with her. She dreamed of a future with him, but tonight he belonged to Claire, not her. If not for Piper’s ill-fated phone call, she would have spent the rest of the night with him. In a strange way, the fire had been a blessing in disguise. He shouldn’t have been making love with her while his wife drew her last breath.
“You’re beautiful, Shamrock.” His voice was low and husky as he murmured in her ear.
She tilted her head and breathed in the scent of moist earth and campfire mixed with a dash of lavender and a touch of—but she’d added vanilla, not moist earth—
Her eyes flew open, and she shrieked in surprise. “Blythe?”
Kneeling by the tub, he caressed her bullet scar with the tips of his fingers. “Did you miss me?”
Baffled by his presence, she sat upright and hugged her knees to her chest. In her haste, she trapped his hand against her breast. “How did you get in here?”
“Oscar gave me a key. Apparently you told him I’d be coming later.” The manager had twisted her words, and Blythe had taken advantage of the confusion. “In my defense, I did knock, three times, but you didn’t answer.”
“I fell asleep.” The warm water enveloping her body gave her no indication of how long she dozed off.
“I noticed.” As he slowly extricated his hand, he brushed her injured breast. “Does it still hurt?”
“No. Just tender.” The gentle caress felt wonderful, and she longed for more. “Why are you here?”
He stood up, unbuttoning his shirt. “My mother-in-law told me I smell like I haven’t showered in weeks.” His shirt fell on top of her clothes.
“You do smell like a cowboy.” Butterflies took flight in her belly. “What are you doing?”
His pants dropped to the floor, followed by a pair of plaid boxers. “I’m taking a bath, unless you prefer I use the shower?” The soft light tinged his sculpted body with a bronze hue.
The man was in incredible shape. “Yes—no—” Tongue-tied over the pleasing sight, she lost the ability to express a coherent answer.
He slid into the tub behind her, creating ripples in the water. She felt his muscular legs encompass her sides, and his loving arms wrap around her waist as his hands slipped between her stomach and thighs. Secured in Blythe’s tender embrace, she relaxed against his chest and stretched her legs, tangling waterlogged fingers with his over her tummy. “Am I dreaming this?”
Shaking with silent laughter, he trailed wet kisses along her shoulder and neck. “No dream,” he murmured against her skin. “Not unless you often dream of sharing a bath with me.”
The warm puff of air he expelled tickled the base of her neck. She shifted sideways and snuggled against his broad shoulder.
Myriads of emotions reflected on his face, but she was at a loss to isolate one. “What happened after you dropped me off, Blythe?”
“I went to see Claire’s parents, and we talked for hours.”
Hours? “How are they feeling?”
“They’re finally grieving. It’s a step in the right direction.”
Against her ear, his heart beat slow and steady. “How about you? How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.” Cupping the side of her head, he gently stroked her cheek with his thumb. “You were right when you said I would always love Claire, but she’s with Jonathan now. The battle with her parents is over, and I can bury her in peace. Would you come with me to her funeral and meet her? She’d love to know I’m happy again.”
The aura of serenity he exuded bode well for their future together. “I’d like it, but not without her parents’ consent.”
“I already told them about you.” His lips brushed her forehead. “Once the shock passed, they became curious.”
She trailed a finger over his chest. “They’re curious about me? Curious is good, right?”
“Yes. Very good.” Taking her hand in his, he kissed the tips of her fingers. “What would you say if we exited the tub before you turn into a prune?”
“What about the bath you were supposed to take?” The soap was in the corner of the tub, still wrapped in plastic. “I didn’t get to wash your back—or mine.” Basking in the sweet sensations he’d awakened, she didn’t want the interlude to end. “Would you like to join me in the shower?”
***
Jackson had stopped counting how many cans of diet, carbonated soft drink he’d gulped down so far that night. The murder and attempted murder cases of Claire Huxley and Riley Kendrick boggled his mind, and he couldn’t tear his attention away from the evidence spread on his desk.
The ballistic and coroner’s report confirmed what he’d suspected. The credit card receipts were legitimate. The pictures were genuine and spoke for themselves. The—
A knock on the open door of his office halted Jackson’s musing and preceded Macpherson’s entrance. “The result of the handwriting analysis, sir.” The officer stopped in front of the desk and handed in the report.
Jackson leafed through it. Two of their best experts had examined Huxley’s signature and came to the same conclusion. “Why am I not surprised?” He added the report to the pile of incriminating evidence. “Is Huxley still at his in-laws?”
Two officers had been assigned to Huxley’s surveillance, and Macpherson served as their liaison. “He left, sir, and was last seen entering Mrs. Kendrick’s hotel twenty minutes ago. He should still be there. Do you want the guys to bring him in?”
Though Jackson wasn’t done assembling all the pieces of the puzzle, the picture it depicted was pretty eloquent. “Not yet, but I want to know when he returns to his apartment.”
***
When Blythe had entered Riley’s bath, many fantasies had sprung to life in his mind, but none rivaled being dragged out of the water by an ethereal creature and ushered in the dimness of a corner shower.
“Shouldn’t we turn on the light?”
“No.” Her full breasts pressed against his chest as she turned on the water. “Now close your eyes and stay still.”
“But—” Sweet lips descended on his. The kiss was as gentle as a promise, and he forgot about any objection.
Her arm grazed his waist as she reached across his body. “Trust me,” she murmured. The silky inflection in her voice trailed like a waterfall, and when she ran a rich lather into his hair with her fingertips, the smell of fresh autumn breeze filled his lungs.
Eyes half closed, he fetched a bar of soap from the shelf and proceeded to wash her back.
“You’re supposed to stay still.” Laughter trickled through the words as she stole the soap from his hand and proceeded to lather his entire body. Her touch was intoxicating, and unable to follow her command, he reciprocated every gesture, every caress. Water and lather skimmed over the warm body he explored with his hands, mapping a path for his lips to follow.
“Blythe…” The soap hit his foot and slid away.
She squirmed in his arms, igniting a burning passion he hadn’t appeased in nearly a year. “Not in the shower.” Not their first time. Not at the risk of falling and hurting her.
With little willpower left, he turned the water off, scooped her in his arms, and carried her into the bedroom. Crisp sheets welcomed their wet embrace, while love and desire swept them away. Never had he imagined ravaging her like a starving man, but once he tasted the softness of her bare skin, there was no rest until he loved every inch of her.
“Love you.” With a ragged breath, she whispered the words he’d yearned to hear again, and in the heated bliss, he lost himself inside her as she branded her name all over his heart. Forever.
A forgotten lamp diffused a gentle light on their incredible night. Snuggled against her, he marveled at the strength and passion inhabiting the amazing woman in his arms. In the afterglow of their steamy lovemaking, a nice, rosy tint flushed her skin, highlighting the contour of her scar. He caressed the edge with the tip of his finger. That she’d survived was a miracle for which he’d forever be grateful. “You’re beautiful.”
Gazing at him with hazy eyes, she stroked his chin. “This isn’t another dream, is it?”
If this were a dream, he never wanted to wake up. “I love you, and this is only the beginning.” He leaned in for one last kiss and pulled on the sheets crumpled at their feet before turning off the lamp. “You close your eyes. I’ll still be here in the morning.”
His head on her pillow, a leg over hers, and an arm across her chest, he fell into a peaceful slumber until incessant pounding invaded his mind. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, he willed the dissonant sounds to subside. To his annoyance, they grew louder and more insistent, until they registered in his brain as knocks. He peeked at the alarm clock through heavy eyelids and growled. People shouldn’t be allowed to knock on a hotel door at 3:22 a.m.
Beside him, Riley stirred. Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of bed, picked up a towel from the floor, tied it around his waist, and closed the bedroom door behind him. Another knock resonated in the suite as he neared the door.
“Coming,” he mumbled, less than impressed. The Do Not Disturb sign hung on the doorknob for a reason. He unlocked the door, pulled on the handle, and froze.
The last person he’d ever expected to see was Detective Jackson. On the outside, he drew upon Carson’s persona to project an impassive front, but on the inside, his heart beat fast and furious, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Jackson?” Confusion racked his brain as to why the detective was visiting Riley’s hotel suite in the middle of the night with a briefcase in his hand.
“Mr. Huxley?” A brow arched over his eye, the detective looked him up and down. “Am I interrupting?”
“Yes.” Towel or not, his presence in Riley’s room in the middle of the night left little room for interpretation. He should have looked through the peephole and not answered. “I was sleeping. What do you want?”
“We need to talk, Mr. Huxley. Now.”
“We?” If Jackson intended to talk to me, how did he know to find me here? “If it’s about Claire, her paren
ts told me about her death.”
“Then you won’t mind discussing it with me, will you?”
Not now. “Can’t it wait till morning?”
“I’m afraid not. May I come in?” The detective stuck his foot out, and Blythe had the uncanny feeling he’d be arrested if he slammed the door on it.
“Please do.” He opened the door wider and motioned for Jackson to come in. “Would you like me to order some coffee and croissants?”
Jackson stared him down. “Please drop the sarcasm and go fetch Mrs. Kendrick. And while you’re in the bedroom, put some clothes on.”
***
Draped in a hotel bathrobe identical to the one Riley was wearing, Blythe exited the bedroom behind her.
In the suite, two loveseats faced each other, and between them was a low coffee table, clear of any items. The detective occupied the loveseat closest to the window, and his partially open briefcase leaned against the leg of the table near his foot.
Jackson gestured toward the other couch. “Have a seat, please.”
Few men showed the courage to look Blythe in the eyes as they gauged him. Not only did Jackson belong in that category, but he also sported the best poker face Blythe had seen in years.
Annoyed that he couldn’t read Jackson, he sat beside Riley and waited.
“I apologize for showing up at your hotel room, but this is important. It regards Mrs. Huxley’s and Mrs. Kendrick’s shootings.”
That progress had been made in the investigation improved Blythe’s disposition. “My in-laws told me about the autopsy. Did you receive the ballistic report?”
“Yes.” Without moving the briefcase, the detective pulled a stack of papers from it, deposited one sheet on the table, and placed the rest on his lap. “This is the picture of a gun that was fished out of the pond edging the trail where Mrs. Kendrick was shot. It was custom-made by a man named Cutter. He died a few years back. The gun was never registered, and we don’t know who bought it, but the lab confirmed it fired both bullets: the one the coroner removed from your wife’s brain and the one from Mrs. Kendrick’s chest.”