by Rebecca York
She’d been shaken. And she’d been trying to figure out what to say. Unfortunately, Adam Marshall had driven up and started speaking for her.
Marshall blamed the accident on the witches. But there was more to it than that. Stuff that neither he nor Weston was saying. Paul had been a cop for too long not to recognize evasive answers when he heard them. They were leaving something out, and he was going to find out what it was.
Was Sara Weston involved with the people he’d come to think of as the bad witches?
Adam had said it wasn’t true. Paul was still waiting for the rest of the chickens to come home to roost. And he had a lot of questions. Like, for example, he wanted to know how Adam Marshall had gotten there so fast. Did he really have some psychic power that had drawn him to the accident site?
He sighed. That was the least of his problems. At the moment, he had to figure out how to write up his report. Because he sure as hell wasn’t going to mention anything paranormal. Not hardly.
ADAM heard Sara’s indrawn breath. “Is love enough?” she asked.
“What the hell do you mean—is love enough?”
“It’s a fair question.”
“The hell it is!”
“Adam, I’m scared.”
“Of me?”
“Not of you. Of…of…” Her hands fluttered. “Of what’s happening. Of the witches. Of myself. Didn’t you hear what I said? When they hurled thunderbolts at me, I started fighting back the same way. Adam…I’m frightened of what I am. Of what I can do.”
“But not of a man who changes into a wolf and roams the woods at night?” he asked, putting the question in the most stark terms he dared.
“Not of you!”
“In that case, we’ll make it work,” he growled, unhooking his seat belt, then unhooking hers so he could haul her across the console and into his arms.
He cupped the back of her head with one hand, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss that started as a desperate attempt to show her what she meant to him. What they meant to each other.
The other hand dragged her closer so he could feel her beautifully rounded breasts pressed more firmly to his chest.
The contact delivered a jolt of sexual need that drove everything from his mind except the feel of her, the wonderful taste that he had discovered so recently.
She might have resisted, but her fingers kneaded his shoulders, moved to his upper arms, and back again, her touch questing and erotic.
He had driven home as though he were traveling through a dream landscape. He was still in a fog. He had forgotten where they were. Forgotten everything but the enticing woman in his arms.
With a jerky motion, he released the lever and pushed back the seat to its maximum extension. Lifting her up, he pulled her skirt out of the way and settled her in his lap, positioning her so that she was facing him, her legs straddling his.
He accomplished all that without lifting his mouth from hers. When he had her where he wanted her, he pushed up her knit top, then reached around to unhook her bra so that he could take her breasts in his hands.
She moaned into his mouth, moaned again as he played with her nipples, the feel of those hard pebbles against his fingers driving him close to insanity.
Her hips moved restlessly against his, and her lips were soft, warm, and open, silently begging him for more. He obliged, deepening the kiss, using his tongue and his teeth and his lips in all the ways he’d learned to please a woman.
It wasn’t enough, and he realized that he had moved her onto his lap too quickly. The layers of clothing separating them were driving him beyond the point of madness. And when she made a frustrated, whimpering sound of agreement, the blood in his veins turned to molten lava.
Somehow he kept himself from screaming in protest when she pushed away from him—until he saw that she was trying to struggle out of her panties. He ripped the fabric and tore them free of her body, so that he could dip his fingers into her throbbing center. She was hot and wet, and the stroking touch of his fingers seemed to make her whole body pulse and tremble.
Her fingers scrabbled at the snap of his jeans, then the zipper. And when she took him in her hand, he thought he would self-destruct.
“Sara,” he gasped. “Don’t. I want to come inside you.”
“God, yes!” As she spoke, she lowered her body, bringing him into her with a sure, swift motion that robbed them both of breath.
He brought his mouth back to hers, caressing her breasts as she moved frantically above and around him, her moans of pleasure mingling with his.
They climaxed in an explosion of passion that felt to him like a rocket blasting off into outer space.
She wilted against him, her face damp, her breath ragged.
He kissed her cheeks, her lips, his hands stroking possessively over the silky skin of her back.
For long moments, neither one of them moved.
He was the one who spoke first. “Don’t give this up because you’re afraid of the future.”
“There’s more to working out our relationship than great sex.”
“Was it?”
She reached up and gave a tug at his hair. “You know damn well it was!”
He laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah.” Laughing felt good. She felt good, her body covering his, clasping him. He kissed her again, slowly, tenderly, then with more urgency as he felt himself getting hard a second time, still inside her.
She raised her head, looking down at him, smiling. The smile turned to a small gasp as he found her breasts again.
“Good, that’s so good,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
They kissed and touched, arousing each other more slowly now that the urgency was sated. This time they enjoyed the delight of being together. Of giving and receiving pleasure, of working their way from peak to peak until climax overwhelmed them once more.
When they could finally move again, he helped her up, and she flopped into the passenger seat.
He stepped out of the car, pulled on his jeans, then circled around to her door. Helping her out, he stuffed the ruined panties into his pocket, then swung her up into his arms and carried her along the path to his cabin, determined to keep her safe no matter what the cost.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS TOO early in the morning for a business meeting. But Paul Delacorte was responding to a summons from the most powerful man in Wayland. The message had been on his voice mail when he’d arrived at the office. He’d figured that he might as well get the interview over with.
James Lucas had apparently been waiting for him. The two men met outside the front door of the mansion next to one of the variegated ivy topiaries that flanked the wide entrance.
They eyed each other gravely. They weren’t really friends. But they weren’t enemies, either. Their skin color made them allies. Although they were of two different generations, they were both African American men who had done very well for themselves in the small town of Wayland, Georgia. Each was conscious of his position in the community.
They were both wearing uniforms that proclaimed their status. James, who was in his late fifties, was dressed in the neatly pressed black suit and crisp white shirt that his employer required him to wear. There were folks in the black section of town who thought that suit was a badge of oppression. He ignored them and had survived bigotry from both the black and white communities with grace and determination and an ability to keep his mouth shut when faced with stupidity from either race.
Paul, who was in his early thirties, wore the crisp navy blue police uniform and plain black trooper boots provided by the Wayland taxpayers. He and James had grown up in a different world. James had come from a generation where Negroes were considered to be inferior to whites for a variety of racist reasons, ranging from skull thickness to body odor. Paul had been born into a world where equality was supposed to be within reach, if you trod carefully among the tar pits and quicksand traps of life in a small southern to
wn.
Ironically, each thought the other had gone too far in bowing to the subtle and not so subtle pressures that the white folks imposed on them. But neither of them would ever have voiced that opinion. They were allies in a struggle that remained on the collective radar screens of the African American community.
Paul might be the sheriff, but as the younger of the two men, he allowed James to take control of the conversation.
“I got a summons to the big house this morning. What’s up?” he asked.
James lowered his voice but spoke in tones dripping with sarcasm. “The massa’s scared,” he said, mocking a term of respect once used in slavery days.
“The field hands are rebelling?” Paul asked.
“Naw. I hear tell the witches have a grudge against him.”
“You got any idea why?”
“He don’t confide in me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I can get the straight story out of him.”
“Good luck.”
Paul had been summoned to the mansion a few times in the past. The last occasion had been when Barnette had wanted a police background check on the farm manager he was considering hiring. Paul had seen no harm in earning some brownie points by doing the town benefactor a favor. It had turned out the guy had a slew of DWI convictions, and Barnette had hired someone else.
“Where is he holding this audience, in the study or the conservatory?”
“Neither. You’re in the front parlor.”
“Well, well. The black folks is comin’ up in the world,” Paul muttered as he followed James inside.
The butler squared his shoulders and stood up straighter when he led the way down the hall to the house’s main sitting room.
“Sheriff Delacorte, sir,” he intoned, as though he were announcing an important courtier to an eighteenth century English monarch.
Paul strode through the doorway, then stopped and studied the man sitting in a carved wooden chair that might have been a throne. It had been almost a year since their last face time. The patriarch of Wayland, Georgia, looked older and on edge, despite his studied casual air.
“I appreciate your coming,” Barnette said.
“Yes, sir,” Paul answered, hating the way he’d added that sir. But it seemed to come automatically out of his mouth when he was in this house.
“Have a seat,” Barnette invited.
Paul looked around at the uncomfortable furniture and selected a Chippendale chair about five feet from the master’s throne, waiting for the man to say what was on his mind.
“I understand we have a situation in town,” he began.
“A situation?”
“Newcomers moving into the area and making trouble.”
“What trouble?”
“I expect you know what I’m talking about!”
“I’d like your perception, sir.”
Barnette permitted long seconds to stretch before allowing, “You know that over the years, we’ve had some unfortunate…incidents.”
He paused, but Paul remained silent and remained sitting quietly in his chair, although his pulse rate had picked up. He knew very well what the last unfortunate incident had been. It was decidedly different from what was happening now. Did Barnette recognize the difference?
The old man spoke again. “Things have been quiet for a while. But we both know there have been people in town who…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Whose behavior doesn’t conform to the community norm. Or any other norm. I expect that you’re alert to that?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, sorry that they were still tiptoeing around the subject.
“Down through the years, there’s been a history of incidents involving those people and the rest of us.”
Paul nodded, thinking that what Barnette meant was that homicide had been committed here. Out of fear and hatred.
Barnette rocked in his seat. “What happened was…documented.”
Paul blinked. “You mean murder? You mean somebody was stupid enough to write it down?”
Barnette’s face contorted. “We’re talking about papers that were supposed to be destroyed. Apparently, they ended up in a locked safe at the historical society.”
“Is that what the break-ins were all about?”
“Yes. And I wouldn’t call it murder.”
“What would you call it?”
“Self-preservation.”
“We have a different interpretation of the term.”
“I believe your daddy and I saw things the same way,” the old man snapped.
“I’m not my father,” Paul said in a low but firm voice. “I don’t sweep homicide under the rug because that’s what the white folks want me to do.”
A flush spread across Barnette’s wrinkled face. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
“What are you asking?” he inquired, keeping his voice low and even.
“First, that you recover the stolen property.”
“I’m doing my best. But we have no leads.”
“You know as well as I do who took those records.”
“Do I?”
“Troublemakers who have moved into the area. New people who…who are connected with families that might have lived here at some earlier time. I want them brought to justice.”
“I don’t have much to go on,” Paul repeated.
“You have employment applications. Real estate transactions. Phone records. Credit receipts. All kinds of information.”
“I’ve made a start on that. But I don’t have the resources to go through months of random civil records with little hope of finding anything useful.”
Barnette snorted. “I can provide the resources.”
Paul raised an eyebrow.
“A special grant to the sheriff’s department. More money for additional personnel. You run the department with eight deputies. That’s not much manpower.”
So the old man was paying attention to things like staff numbers. What else was he into? “The offer of additional money is very generous of you, sir. But we can’t hire personnel off the streets. Officers must have special training for their jobs. According to our charter, we can only take candidates who have graduated from the state police academy or who have been working in law enforcement.”
“I thought you’d give me some excuse like that!”
“I’m willing to hire suitable candidates after a thorough background check.”
“Which means it will take months.”
“I’m afraid that’s so. When sheriff’s departments skip that step, they can wind up with felons on the payroll. That happened in Dade County, Florida, not too long ago.”
Barnette’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I don’t intend to make myself a sitting duck. I’m hiring a private security company. I’m starting with two men right here.”
“At your estate?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have some reason to worry about your personal safety?”
“No more than any other normal citizen of Wayland.” He made a throat clearing noise. “I’d appreciate your keeping me informed on what you find out about any troublemakers in town.”
“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to do that, sir.”
“Yes, well, perhaps we should elect a sheriff who’s more cooperative. When are you up for reelection?”
“Next year.”
Barnette stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That soon.”
Paul ignored the implied threat and stood. “If there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.”
“Of course.” Barnette gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as if he was sending away one of the house slaves.
Paul pressed his palm against the side of his uniform pants, thinking that it was a good thing he was getting out of here before he lost his cool and said or did something that would make his daddy roll over in his grave.
As he left, James appeared in the hallway. They walked silently toward the front door, then exited onto the porch.
“Well?
”
Paul looked around, wondering if the portico was bugged. He made a quick negative gesture with his head, then walked slowly down the steps. James followed.
“You’re right. He’s actin’ like a cat on a hot tin roof. He wants me to find out who broke into the historical society.”
“I guess that old lady, Mrs. Waverly, has her skirt in a twist.”
“It’s more than that. What I got out of the conversation is that somebody kept some notes on who did what to whom over the years.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Barnette thought they’d been destroyed. Apparently, he was wrong!”
USUALLY Adam was up early. But exhaustion kept him asleep until long after the sun had risen.
He woke with a feeling of disorientation, followed immediately by a terrible tightness in his chest. The tightness eased when he found that Sara was still in bed with him. She was sleeping on her back. The covers had slipped part way down her chest, revealing the tops of her creamy breasts. He wanted to reach out and slide the sheet the rest of the way down so he could see more of her. But he held himself still, thinking he should be content with what the morning had given him.
Really, he thanked God for the morning’s gift because he had been secretly afraid that Sara was going to disappear again.
They had cleared that hurdle. Now all he had to do was make sure he woke up next to her every morning for the rest of his life.
His right arm was in an uncomfortable position. But he was afraid to move, afraid to wake her. So he feasted on what he could see. The mass of blond hair spread across her pillow entranced him. So did the curl of her ear and the curve of her eyebrow.
Long moments later, he saw her lashes flutter, and his breath stilled. Her eyes opened, and he caught her momentary sense of confusion. Then she turned her head and looked at him.
“Good morning,” he whispered, shifting to ease the cramp in his arm and hearing the gritty quality of his own voice.
She gave a small nod.
“Thank you for being here.”