She rubbed the back of her neck to relieve muscles gone tense. The silence was thick and far too awkward. She sat in her chair, feeling like a fool. She’d talked way too much. The wine. God, the wine was dangerous and loosening her tongue. But at the same time she felt this strange sense of release by telling a near stranger things she’d never been able to tell her best friend Joyce.
“Do you want to go back into law?”
She glanced up, not realizing he’d sat down several yards away in a matching chair of deep green velvet. “No,” she answered truthfully. She made an arc with her wine glass. “I’ve got my books.”
“Sounds lonely to me.”
“I’m alone, not lonely. There’s a difference. I don’t need anyone. I’ve become self-sufficient. And I like it that way.” She raised a brow. “Why? Are you lonely? You’re not married, with two children, a loving wife and a picket fence, now are you?”
She stiffened. He actually could be. She’d just assumed for some crazy reason that he wasn’t married. My God, and she’d been kissing him. No chaste peck, but open mouthed, hot and wet, and so deeply erotic that it still had the power to curl her stomach in remembrance.
“No. I never had the opportunity.”
The muscles in her body eased and she sank back into her chair. “Why?”
“Work always came first.”
“Do I detect a note of regret?”
He’d been casually rubbing a gloved palm along the chair’s armrest, but his hand stilled and he lifted his head to look at her. “I had my priorities wrong,” he admitted. “Family, friends, the little things. I took them for granted. I should have learned from my parents. Hell, they were perfect examples of what not to do. Both workaholics. One a professor at a leading university and another a Dean to a prestigious college. They’re both so wrapped up in their positions and titles that I don’t think they have any real feeling or passion for anything or anyone beyond their careers.
“One thing I have learned in spite of them and myself, and that is that life’s too short and far too precious to bury yourself in a job that can drain the life blood out of you.”
Margot shifted and clasped her hands around the stem of her wine glass with rigid fingers. Such conviction, such deep passion beneath his words. She didn’t want to think they held any truth. To her, life was long, painful, and filled with disappointment after disappointment. “Is that why you quit?”
He laughed, a harsh, deep sound of bitterness. “Quit? No. You could say I was terminated.” He rose quickly to his feet and said gruffly, “I think I’ll go on a walk.”
She watched him slip from the room. They’d both lost their jobs and been rejected by their employers. She could relate to his bitterness, taste it on her own tongue. Having your job ripped from beneath you could shatter your self-confidence and also your sense of purpose or direction.
When she heard the front door close, she walked over to where he’d been standing by the books. He’d been looking at a certain book, a hardback set in the middle of the shelving unit with a dust jacket the color of blood. She lifted a hand to run a finger across the spines. When she saw the bold, black letters of the title against the red dust jacket, her hand froze in mid-air.
Vampire Myths.
My, God. Vampires.
Stiffening, she glanced over to the doorway but found it empty. Now that she thought of it, Jake reminded her of a shadow, dark, silent and without substance. He had an uncanny ability to move throughout the house and slip into the same room on soundless feet.
She’d never witnessed him eat anything. For that matter, the only time she’d seen him was at night when he was shrouded in darkness.
Ridiculous. She laughed aloud. “Come on, Margot. Get your head together. First ghosts and now vampires. You’re losing your mind.”
Chapter 6
A hushed stillness enfolded the house as Jake stood over Margot’s bed and watched her sleep. In an hour, the first rays of the sun would touch the sky, but for now only the stars and moon illuminated her bedroom.
Earlier that evening, he’d had to get away from the house and Margot. He’d been too angry, too frustrated, and too damn close to spilling his guts about Miracell, Miltronics, and every sick detail. Jake had a pretty damn good idea Margot didn’t know what was going on, and he wanted to keep it that way. He needed to keep her safe for John. He owed his friend that.
She lay on her side with a cheek pressed to her pillow, exposing the long, smooth column of her throat. Moonlight cast her neck and limbs to cool, silver marble, but he knew her skin would be warm against his hand. The temptation to touch her overwhelmed him. He wanted to stroke his lips and tongue along the sensitive spot below her ear and feel her pulse quicken with desire. Oh, God. How would she react? Would she arch her throat up against his mouth, would her body grow taut beneath him as he buried his hands in her thick, raven hair? He curled his fingers into fists at his sides.
She’d kicked off the top sheet, and her silk gown had twisted up around her thighs and pooled around her hips, leaving a healthy expanse of long, creamy legs.
Jake caved into temptation. Leaning forward, he trailed fingers over the satin skin of her calf, up around to the side of her thigh. She felt beautiful to the touch. He moved his hand up to the curve of her hip, inching the material higher until the fabric bunched up into his palm.
Her scent wrapped around him, womanly and exciting. Breathing deeply, he edged closer and eased down on the side of the bed. As the mattress sighed under his added weight, she shifted and turned onto her back. He stilled. A sigh slipped from her parted lips, but she continued to sleep, oblivious to him and the desire ragging through his body.
He glanced over at her night table and saw the empty wine glass. She was dulling her pain, her anger, all her feelings beneath a haze of alcohol. And there was nothing he could do to stop her.
“Margot,” he breathed her name. “How can I help you when I can’t even help myself?”
###
It was just past 9:00 in the morning when Margot stepped out of the double doors of the post office. She almost went back inside when she saw Carl leaning a large boned hip against the side of her Cherokee she’d parallel parked along the road. She tightened her grip on the handle of the plastic postal bin she used to mail her book orders.
“Just what I need,” she muttered between stiff lips.
“Hey, Margot.”
“Hi, Carl.”
She hurried past him to the rear of her 4X4. Maybe if she kept moving, he’d take the hint. Nope. No such luck. He was right there beside her when she opened the back hatch and tossed the bin in the back. Carl had a hand on the hatch before she had a chance to close the car or protest.
“Here, let me.”
He slammed it shut with enough force to rock the vehicle.
“How about we go to Pinetop for dinner?” he asked, his breath a cloud of warmth against the frigid air. “Hell knows you don’t get out enough. I bet you can’t remember the last time you went out to a dinner or a movie.” He rocked back on his heels and stuffed his bare hands into the pockets of his navy, down jacket. “It’s not healthy.”
“I’ll be the one to worry about my health, Carl. But thank you.” She added the last for his sister, Joyce.
“Oh, come off it, Margot. What’s a bit of dinner? It’s not like I’m asking for sex.”
She flinched. For some reason she hadn’t expected something like that coming from Carl. He might hit on her, but he’d never been crude. Even if for some bizarre reason she found him wildly attractive, she still wouldn’t be interested in any relationship, especially with a man like Carl. He retained too many antiquated ideas about women. Plus, she’d had more than enough with Malcolm.
“Carl, I’m not interested in dating right now. I’m not ready. It’s too—”
“Soon?” His thick lips thinned. “Give me a break, Margot. It’s been a good two years since you divorced Malcolm and came back here. You can’t live lock
ed up in that house of yours forever. And the drinking sure as hell isn’t helping. The way you’ve been going at it, you’re going to kill yourself. You know John would flip out if he saw you hitting the bottle like you’ve been doing. Joyce’s real worried about you. We all are. You’ve got to cut it out.”
Shock left her momentarily speechless. “I can’t believe Joyce’s been talking to you behind my back! What else have the two of you been talking about? My sex life? Has that also come up? Is that why you mentioned it?”
He raised his hands from his pockets. “Now don’t get all emotional on me. Joyce was just thinking of you.”
As he shifted, the sun glanced off the shield attached to his dark blue jacket, reminding her that he was a cop. It was enough to smother the nasty retort on her tongue. “I’ve got to go. I’m starting to freeze out here.”
She skirted around Carl to get to the driver’s side. Unlocking and opening the 4X4 with a fumbling hand, she jumped inside and slammed the car door right behind her. After starting the Cherokee, she guided it away from the curb with a tight fisted grip on the cold, leather steering wheel. She turned off the main street, and Carl’s pudgy figure disappeared from the rearview mirror.
She couldn’t believe Joyce had opened her mouth to Carl of all people. Granted, he was her brother, but he was also a notorious gossip. Anything Carl heard, he repeated within a twenty-four hour period. Joyce knew that. The whole town probably now knew every miniscule, boring detail of her life.
God, she wondered what everyone in town was saying about her. Was she now the town drunk? The crazy woman up at the house raving on about ghosts and other nonsense? Or the frigid bitch that couldn’t get a date if her life depended on it?
Okay, so maybe she was exaggerating, but hell. It hurt to have her best friend talking about God knew what behind her back. Darn it. Days like today, she wished she’d stayed in Boston where a person could lose themselves in anonymity, not some sick Payton place, where a person stepped out the front door and everyone knew the color of their underwear.
As Margot pulled up the drive, she quickly noted the absence of Jake’s pickup. Now he was a different story. She didn’t know him enough to tell whether or not his words were coated with lies. He was a mystery. And she hated mysteries.
What could he be doing right now? Or for that matter, what in the world had he been doing since he’d arrived at her door step? Margot hadn’t seen him once during the day or heard anyone mention him in town. She would have thought she’d get one or two comments regarding Jake from someone.
Maybe it was about time she asked where he disappeared to during the day. She frowned. He had her constantly thinking, wondering and questioning him. He was in her thoughts far too much. So much so that he was materializing in her dreams. And they weren’t just innocent dreams, she admitted as she slipped from the car. They were vivid, erotic dreams. Even with the snap of winter around her, she felt her face warm with the memory.
In the dead of night, she’d fantasized about him coming to her room. Without a word spoken, she’d sensed not only his desire, but also his need. The taste of his finger upon her lips, the scent of his male body had been so real. At times, she could swear they were a reality and not a fantasy.
Just this morning as the first light of dawn touched the windows, she’d woken. Her sheets had been down around her ankles and her nightgown had twisted and hiked up to her waist. She’d lain there, body flushed, hot and damp, her breasts swollen and heavy, and she’d been overwhelmed with such a frightening feeling of intense desire.
Enough. She closed her eyes against the hunger. It had been too long since she’d slept with a man. Since Malcolm. She hadn’t had the guts to move past the point of friendship with anyone else.
She hurried across the crackling snow and up the steps to the porch. That’s when she saw the front door. She’d thought—no, she knew she’d locked up.
The door now stood ajar, the wood along the jam frayed and splintered. It wouldn’t have taken much for someone to force their way in. What with the wood being old and the lock not the latest technical gadget.
That same someone could be inside the house this very minute. Fear crawled up her spine as she stepped back. She should do the logical, sane thing by getting back in her car. But since when had she ever done anything logical recently?
She stepped gingerly inside and glanced around. Nothing looked touched, but as a precaution she left the front door open. She walked further down the hall and peered into the kitchen. That’s when she saw what they’d done. She stood frozen, as if coated in ice, and as easily shattered.
Whoever had been here was long gone, leaving behind their apathy and malevolence. Cabinets and drawers stood half-opened with pots and pans spilling out from within. Kitchen utensils lay scattered across the counters and floor. The dishes. At least some of the dishes had been left alone. In a daze, she sidestepped a clay pot, shattered and lying on its side, the plant inside uprooted and the dirt splattered across the white linoleum. Glass crackled beneath her feet.
Why? Why would someone do this?
She swallowed. They couldn’t have gone through the whole house. Raped every room. Could they? Pivoting, she hurried from the kitchen, the need to know catapulting her down the hall and into her den, her sanctuary, the place she could hide and—
Her worse fears struck her head on.
Shelves lay barren. Books and more books had been tossed onto the floor, their pages creased and mangled from others piled on top of them, their boards bent backward, ruining fragile spines and hinges.
“Margot?”
She opened and closed her hands. Pain closed around her throat and strangled the ability to speak. She stepped over a mound of modern fiction hardbacks and worked her way to the corner of the room and her personal bookcase. These were the books she’d put aside, the rare, expensive volumes she’d kept for sentimental and investment reasons. The window case had been shattered, the lock meaningless. Shards of glass dotted the carpet and volumes.
The person or persons who’d swept through the house had turned vicious, even vindictive here. She lifted a book on top of a pile of ruined volumes. The boards had been ripped from their bindings, the pages torn, the jagged papers flung everywhere.
“Margot!”
The sound of steps rushed across the hall.
“Oh, no!” Joyce cried from somewhere behind her. “What happened? Who did this?”
“I—” Margot cleared her throat and dropped the book to the floor. “I don’t know.”
“We need to call Carl. Get him over here. Now.”
“No.”
Joyce’s raised her brows. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“Just that.” She rubbed her mouth with a palm. “I don’t want everyone knowing about this. I don’t want every little detail of what happened here brandished about.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Someone just trashed your house. Are you seriously going to let them get away with it? They could come back. This time you might be in the house when they do.” Joyce gasped. “You weren’t here when—”
“No.” Margot sighed. She gripped the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger and closed her eyes briefly. “You’re right. I hate the idea, but I do need to report it. At least for insurance purposes. It’s just I don’t trust Carl to keep it quiet. Or you for that matter right now. You’ve been talking about me to your brother behind my back. Things I thought were private—things I thought were just between the two of us.”
Joyce flushed. “Yes, well. I’m concerned. We all are. You’ve been acting stranger than—” She bit her lip.
“Stranger than normal?” Margot finished for her. She should feel hurt, offended, but strangely didn’t.
“That came out the wrong way.”
“Yes, well, why don’t you call your brother?” she asked instead of getting into a confrontation. Now wasn’t the time. “While you’re doing that I’ll go see what upstairs looks
like.”
Margot went through the second floor, mindful of not touching or moving anything for Carl. She found Marmaduke, safe and unharmed, hidden under a chair in one of the guest bedrooms. Thank goodness the vandals hadn’t hit that room or the other guest rooms. But they’d hit her bedroom. Hard. With complete carelessness and disregard for anyone else, they’d shoved her mattress to one side, upended drawers and tossed her clothing aside. Tampons, hair ribbons, sheer, dainty nylons and undergarments littered the floor. Anger, hot and corrosive, eroded away the hollow, numb feeling in her gut.
Why? What had she ever done to this person to make them lash out at her like this?
When she came back down, Joyce was waiting by the base of the stairs. Margot saw the question in her eyes. “There’s three bedrooms upstairs. They went to work on my room but didn’t mess with the others. I don’t know why.”
“Maybe they heard your Cherokee and took off before you came in,” Joyce suggested
“Is anything missing?” Carl asked from the front entrance. He rubbed the dirt and snow from his boots onto the mat. The front door still stood open, allowing winter air to sweep inside and chill Margot’s already cold body.
“Nothing that I can tell.” She rubbed her arms. “The TV and radio are still here.”
“What about guns?”
“No. I’ve always hated the things.”
Carl disappeared into the den. “Holy shit.”
A few minutes later he came out with a grim expression. “It almost looks like they were looking for something. That or they’ve got it in for you real bad.”
Margot grasped the glossy wood top of the stair, newel post.
“You don’t have any enemies that would do something like this, do you?” Carl asked.
She rested her chin against the top of her hand, closed her eyes and tried to think. It took all of a second to come up with a name. Tension rolled through her. “There’s Malcolm. He’s been in town.”
“He’s got a temper.” Frowning, Carl rubbed the back of his neck.
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