Chasing Venus

by Diana Dempsey

He said nothing. After what seemed like forever, she rose from the table. She left everything behind, as it was, and without conscious thought, knowing only that she was sending Reid a signal she prayed he would answer, she walked away, into the larger of the two bedrooms.

  It was dark but for a puddle of moonlight falling on the bed from the lone window. She shed her clothes slowly, methodically, abandoning them in a pile on the floor. Her skin glowed silver in the moon’s glow. She slid her nude body between the cool sheets, staying carefully on one side of the double bed. Her head fell back against the pillow but her eyes remained open. Sleep was far away, unwanted. Like a night creature, her every sense was alert, attuned to the merest whisper of movement in the cabin.

  Seconds later Reid loomed in the doorway like an intruder, but one who had received the most intimate of invitations. His outline—tall, broad-shouldered, rugged, male—nearly made her shiver. She waited, barely daring to breathe, willing him to move a step nearer, then another, to intrude on her in primal, base ways. Her body roused at the sight of him, the anticipation of him, the anticipation of what she wanted him to do to her. She wanted his hands on her flesh, and his mouth, and his tongue … Her nipples stiffened and a heaviness settled between her legs.

  He moved into the shaft of moonlight. It cut across his face like a scar, slashing the ice-blue eyes, outlining the hard curve of his mouth. His eyes never left hers as he shucked his own clothes with sharp movements. She let her eyes roam him as he stood there, taking in the sheer male power of him, the naked arousal, the muscled strength she longed to feel pound within her.

  He tore back the sheets and climbed atop her, not hesitating for a second. His body was a blunt weapon, sinewy, strong, urgent. His erection pressed hard against her belly, a blatant instrument she couldn’t hold off for long even if she wanted to. His mouth took possession of hers with a rough hunger she had never known before and that stunned her with its power. She had started this game but realized suddenly that no way was she still in control of it. She was reduced to open arms, an open mouth, spread legs, a vessel waiting for his penetration. Wanting it. Longing for it. Nearly gasping for it.

  His tongue was deep inside her mouth. She grasped his head, angled herself to bring him in deeper still, to probe him as he probed her. His beard scraped against her fragile skin. Reid, she thought, this is Reid. She could scarcely believe it. She thought now that on some level she had wanted him from the moment she had met him, wanted the tall charismatic stranger in the black leather jacket who commanded attention without doing a thing. Then it might have been only a matter of animal lust. Now that was only a part of it.

  When at last he broke their kiss, his head dipped to her breasts. Her body tensed. Yet now he decided to tease her. With excruciating slowness, the tip of his tongue lashed at her distended nipple like a cat delicately lapping milk. Again and again he licked, darting with infuriating lightness around the stiffened peak of her nipple, refusing to suck at her, to give her the relief her body ached for. She arched beneath his mouth but couldn’t move far; he had her arms pinned, gently but firmly. She was his prisoner, of his touch, of his tongue. He must have sensed when she couldn’t stand it for a moment longer, for only then did he relent, sucking at her nipples with a force that nearly brought her to climax.

  She was so ready for him, pulsing for him, so hugely engorged and wet and ready she felt as if she might drown in her own arousal. Yet still he held himself back from her. His erection felt like a steel rod against her body but he refused to plunge it within her. Her body shrieked in protest. She pushed herself against him, trying to tempt him, to egg him on, but the movement only brought a smile to his lips. This was Reid being Reid again, she realized, reminding her that he was the master here, of this moment at least, of her pleasure and of his own. She would get back at him later, she knew—she would take control and she would torture him—but that could wait. This was now. And now she was beyond shame, beyond caring who did what to whom so long as his mouth kept moving. And she was beyond caring that her own need was so obvious. His eyes locked on hers, he rearranged his weight so that he could tether both her arms with just his left hand. Then, taunting her with his unblinking stare, slowly he dipped the fingers of his right hand in his mouth and began to lower his hand.

  She understood his intention then, and squirmed beneath him. When he reached between her legs, slippery with wetness, he was the first to release a moan. Of appreciation. Of anticipation. Almost of wonder. He kissed her again, lightly, then allowed himself to stroke the deep core of her. She thought she might explode. She arched beneath him, moving uncontrollably, thrusting her body against any part of him she could reach. His hand was stern and taunting, gentle and insistent both. He gazed at her face as he stroked her, though she could no longer keep her own eyes open. She was nearly thrashing beneath him, lost in sensation, in the building heat of her own response.

  But he would not let her build fast. He preferred to tease her instead, the tender moist folds of her. He rode lightly, ever so lightly, over the pulsating knob that cried for his touch. She thought she would die if he didn’t touch her there, right there, but he wouldn’t do it. It was so like him! He would torment her instead. Close. Closer. So close … then away again, leaving her maddened with desire and nearly breathless.

  A fire built within her. His name escaped her lips. His mouth closed over hers as if in reply, then he backed away again. He murmured her name, softly, but continued to plague her with his quicksilver touch. She thought he must have superhuman control over his own body, taut and tense above her. Yet still he could be slow, so excruciatingly slow as he pleasured her, as if he had all the time in the world. Time for her had swirled into strung-together moments of delirious need, when she was nothing more than wracked nerve endings that cried out for release. She felt his eyes on her face, watching, gauging her response. Finally, finally, he allowed his fingers to linger on the hot pulsing core of her. He concentrated there, his touch nearly painful with the intensity of sensation he brought to her. But this time she knew he wouldn’t pull back.

  And he didn’t. He was relentless, while she spiraled higher, higher, and finally felt herself go over the edge, moaning his name as she fell. She exploded in a cataclysm of spasms, her body radiating pleasure with an intensity she had never known before and wasn’t entirely sure she could bear. She was vaguely aware of him holding her, murmuring her name into her hair, his touch soothing her, gentling her as she trembled with the waves of pleasure that roiled her.

  She felt heavy and lazy and relaxed, but knew in a still functioning corner of her brain that another joy awaited her. And soon. She wanted it to be soon and so must he, for he didn’t wait to move atop her, fully this time. He pushed inside her and she arched to accept him, clung to his body to urge him closer, deeper. Gentleness swiftly gave way to urgency. She could tell how far gone he already was. Soon his breathing was ragged in her ear and his skin damp and hot, mirroring her own. A groan escaped him. She tightened her muscles around him and elicited an even more guttural response.

  Their bodies slammed together in slippery unison. Reid was greedy now, driven, pumping into her with abandon. She closed her eyes, gripped him tightly, thrilled at how lost he was inside her, how her body could give him such pleasure. She knew that this is what she had wanted long before this night, this mating of him and her, this most primal joining between a man and a woman. Even as her own sensation began to once again build, and she lost herself again in passion’s rhythm, a part of her looked beyond that moment to other nights, future nights, and she let herself imagine the same intimate ritual, in all of its wondrous variety. With Reid, always with Reid.

  He shuddered above her, and cried out. She clung to him, conscious thought banished, adrift in a bliss without end.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In his 54 years of life, thirty of which had been spent in the service of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Lionel Simpson had seen his share of fleabag motels. Earl
y on this Sunday morning, when he would much rather have been in church praising the Lord and anticipating brunch, he stood outside the Palm Tree Inn, an establishment that put the flop in flophouse. Peeling urine-colored paint. A garbage-strewn lot next door. Bars on every window. A don’t-bother-robbing-us sign displayed in the front window: WE KEEP LESS THAN $20 IN THE REGISTER.

  It was the tenth or eleventh such place he was visiting that morning. He could let the LAPD scour every no-tell motel in the vicinity of Annette Rowell’s abandoned vehicle or he could do some of the footwork himself. It was an easy call.

  He pushed open the glass door to the no-frills check-in area, which smelled of curry and disinfectant. A bell tinkled overhead. A Sikh man wearing thick bifocal lenses and a khaki-colored turban stood behind the counter writing in what appeared to be a guest register. He looked like the desk clerk and proprietor rolled all into one. Simpson extended his right hand. “Special Agent In Charge Lionel Simpson. FBI.”

  The man’s eyes widened, then he gave a quick deferential nod. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. …”

  “Arun Gupta.”

  “Mr. Gupta.” Simpson was digging his slim steno pad out of his rear trouser pocket when Gupta spoke up again.

  “I must ask, does your visit have anything to do with Mr. Reid Gardner stopping in here last night?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Gupta nodded vigorously. “He was here yesterday. And now you’re here today. So to me—” His index finger rapidly tapped his turban. “—the two incidents must be related.”

  Indeed they were. “Did Mr. Gardner introduce himself?”

  “No, but I recognized him right away.” Gupta pointed at a small TV across the room. “I watch his show. Very good show. Crimewatch.”

  “Are you sure it was him?”

  “Absolutely. Though I must say I was most surprised to see him come in here.” Gupta spread his hands. “Even though I am the owner, I must tell you it is not really the sort of establishment that attracts such a person.”

  No kidding. But it would be unkind to agree too heartily. Simpson acknowledged the observation with a slight nod. “And what did Mr. Gardner want?”

  “He was looking for a blonde. Not just any blonde,” Gupta amended quickly, “but one in particular.”

  Bingo.

  “She was supposed to meet him here,” Gupta went on. “But,” he shrugged, “no such woman ever appeared. I am afraid he was severely disappointed.”

  “Did Mr. Gardner provide any other description of the woman?”

  “He told me she was wearing jeans. And—” He held his hand flat in the air, palm down, around nose high. “He told me she was about this tall.”

  A few inches over five feet. That jibed, too. Who else could Gardner have been looking for but Rowell? The fact that the female in question was blond and Annette Rowell was brunette didn’t faze Simpson in the least. An hour and a bottle of dye were all it took to produce that transformation. “How would you describe Mr. Gardner’s demeanor?”

  Gupta creased his brow. “Nothing unusual. Perhaps slightly intense.” Again Gupta pointed at the TV. “But he is intense on Crimewatch, too.”

  “What time did he come in?”

  “It was around seven thirty. I remember because while he was here, my wife came in to inform me that dinner was prepared. We always eat at that hour.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gupta.” Simpson slid his steno pad back in his trouser pocket. “That’s all for now but I may want to ask you a few more questions another time.”

  “No problem. I am always here.”

  Simpson nodded and walked out. He paused on the curb and watched a few loose sheets of the Los Angeles Times blow down the sidewalk like newsprint tumbleweeds. They gathered in the gutter along with all the other crap. Empty beer bottles. Food wrappers. Used condoms. He shook his head. Hollywood on Sunday morning was depressing. Nobody cared enough to bother cleaning up from the party the night before.

  He headed for his rental car. He still had no Annette Rowell, but it was a fair conclusion that she’d arranged with Reid Gardner to meet him at the Palm Tree Inn just twelve hours before. Meaning she’d been in the vicinity recently, and might still be close, even though she’d failed to show.

  And now he had a likely connection between Reid Gardner and Rowell. It had to be highly unusual for Gardner to frequent dives like this unless he had a damn good reason. Like a particular five-feet-two-inch bottle blonde who nicely filled out a tight pair of jeans.

  And where the hell was Gardner, anyway? According to the cop who’d been on surveillance duty all night, he’d never come home. Nor was he answering his cell phone, at least not when Lionel Simpson called.

  Simpson unlocked his rental car and slid inside. There was little doubt in his mind that where Gardner was, Rowell was. And now he bet he had enough to convince a judge to give him a subpoena for Gardner’s phone records and credit-card receipts. And maybe it was also time to pay a visit to Gardner’s better half.

  Simpson turned the key in the ignition. May she prove as useful as Mr. Gupta.

  *

  Snug under the bedcovers, Reid felt Annie burrow deeper into his chest, and smiled. His outflung right arm was wrapped around the satiny skin of her shoulders; his left hand toyed with her fingers, splayed across his chest. Sometimes, as his chest rose and fell, her hair tickled his nose, but it didn’t much bother him. Not nearly enough to consider moving. Through the window, he saw the sky aglow with soft light. Occasionally a bird chirped, or the leaves on the oak trees that rose tall behind the cabin whispered as the breeze passed by. Other than that, everything on the hillside was quiet.

  It was Sunday morning. Annie was in his arms. He was happy.

  And beneath the happiness, layered down deep, he was worried.

  About what conclusion Annie might draw from their lovemaking. About who had killed all those authors, if it hadn’t been Frankie Morsie. About the net closing in on Annie, and on him, before they could figure that out.

  He pushed all that away. All that was for later. That wasn’t for now. Now was for making love to this woman again, the moment she woke up.

  She shifted, raised her head slightly.

  His smile widened. Playtime.

  “Are you awake?” She sounded half asleep herself.

  “Can’t you tell?”

  Her hand traveled south from his chest. He didn’t do a thing to stop it.

  Suddenly she bolted upright. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” His brain wasn’t fully functioning.

  “That.”

  Then he heard what she heard. Car tires, on the gravel outside the cabin.

  “Damn.” He scrambled out of bed and yanked his jeans over his hips. The car had stopped moving. He could hear the rumble of its engine. Behind him Annie was out of bed, too, wrenching on her clothes, cursing softly.

  Shirtless, he edged close to the cabin’s front window and peered out. He breathed a little easier when he saw that the vehicle wasn’t a black and white. Nor was it Sheila’s white Jetta, though that was both good and bad. A part of him didn’t want her to witness his and Annie’s obvious morning-after glow, yet Sheila should be the only person who knew anybody was at the cabin.

  Unless she’d told someone.

  His insides clenching at that possibility, he forced himself to focus on the vehicle, which faced away from the cabin so he couldn’t see the interior. It was a gold SUV, high-end, with California plates. In other words, an upper-middle-class family car. Another idea occurred to him. Could it be Sheila’s parents, who’d changed their minds and decided to come up from the city for the day? He had no idea what they drove. It certainly wasn’t Rajiv, 26 and single, who always drove something flash he’d resuscitated from the junk heap.

  Annie sidled up behind him. “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  They stood side-by
-side eying the vehicle through the cabin’s front window. Reid’s mind raced. His truck was parked right there as well. He hadn’t bothered to hide it since the cabin was removed from the main road and he hadn’t thought he’d be staying overnight. But now it was obvious to all comers that somebody was at the Banerjee cabin. What was he going to say if these people turned out to be Sheila’s parents? And if they were strangers, what then? Neither he nor Annie should answer the door in the latter case, he decided. He was too easily recognizable, and at the moment, given all the publicity generated by the manhunt for Annie, so was she. They’d have to remain hidden, pretend they weren’t there.

  He stepped back from the window, held a finger to his lips. He was about to motion Annie back to the bedroom when again he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. The SUV was moving. He saw a small hand emerge from one of the rear windows, and heard the sort of high-pitched squeal only a young child can produce. Then the vehicle disappeared down the lane that led to the cabin. Soon all that was left of it was a puff of road dust and a set of tracks.

  Annie let out a shaky breath. “Who do you think that was?”

  “I don’t know. But there was a kid inside. Maybe it was a family who got lost. People looking for their rental cabin who drove up our lane by mistake. The addresses around here can be confusing.”

  “It was a warning. And a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “That last night is over. And real life has resumed.” She grimaced. “And real life means that I’m wanted for a series of murders I didn’t commit.”

  Last night is over. And real life has resumed. Reid watched Annie’s face, so quickly transformed from joy to fear, and felt a pang of guilt that her words in one way relieved him. They let him off the hook. They let him believe that maybe she wouldn’t misinterpret what had happened between them. Maybe she would consider it nothing more than a wonderful interlude and wouldn’t conclude that a love affair had begun.