by EC Sheedy
He brushed his mouth across hers, softly and without threat. His breath stopped deep in his throat. Her scent slammed into him, woman, lemon, Chinese food. With effort, he lifted his mouth from hers, studied her amazing eyes, and saw surprise, mixed with hot blue and a trace of a confusion. He stroked her lower lip with his thumb. "And the truth is, I haven't been interested in much of anything for a very long time."
He kissed her again, another brush of his lips over hers, a warm mingling of breaths. God, he wanted more, wanted to crush and take, but he held himself back.
She inhaled sharply, and he lifted his head, looked down at her in time to see her eyelids open slowly, the light color of her eyes darker now, her pupils dilated. In the quiet of the room, he heard her breathe, saw her breasts rise and fall under the red cotton T-shirt.
Shaking her head, she said, "If there was an award for lousy timing, Harding, that bit of business would win hands down." She placed her hands on his chest. "And now that it's out of your system, I'd like you to step back."
He stepped back. "It's not out of my system." He was raw, hard, and sexually hungry. Add a triple shot of fascination to the mix, and it was a serious call of the wild. She was right about one thing: definitely lousy timing, which didn't stop him from adding, "And I don't think it's out of yours."
She walked around the counter, surprised him by not starting to fuss with the dishes in a busy attempt to ignore him. Instead, she sat on a stool, put her elbows on the counter, and cupped her face in her palms to look up at him, her eyes sharp and speculative. "Assuming you're looking for some quick, uncomplicated sex, you should know I don't do sex with strangers." She frowned, briefly looked away, before again looking him in the eyes. "Actually, I don't do sex at all."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I tried it a couple of times." She dropped her hands to the counter and flattened her palms there. "And I didn't like it much. I'm what you call frigid, I guess. No fun in bed at all. The first guy I slept with said I was a minus ten on his 'hot-babe scale.' And the second said—let me see if I remember right—oh, yeah, you'll have to pardon my French. He said 'fucking me was like putting his dick in a bucket of ice.'" Not for a second did she take her eyes from his face when she added calmly, "So you're wasting your time."
"I see," he said, seeing nothing but a beautiful woman who was as matter-of-fact discussing her libido as she was dumping soil from her wheelbarrow. True or not, it was a hell of a successful road-closed sign.
"Good." She picked up the Chinese food cartons sitting on the counter and headed for the trash. When she turned to look at him again, she appeared surprised he was still standing there.
So was he, but he was busy rummaging around his so-called educated brain looking for a string of words that made some sense. Nada.
"I embarrassed you," she said.
"Astounded me, more like it."
"Yes. My news flash tends to do that."
"I'll bet it does." He looked down at her, her placid expression, her too-wide eyes. Her too-clever eyes. Something inside him gave way, shifted from astounded to suspicious.
Addy walked to the door and picked up his sneakers, held them out for him. "I'm glad we had this talk, cleared the air. I hope it doesn't affect the rest of your stay at Star Lake."
He moved toward her, his sport-sock-clad feet soundless on the plush carpet. When he was directly in front of her, he took his shoes from her with one hand and used the other to grasp her chin, pull her face to his. "An ice bucket, huh? That's not the way you feel to me." He kissed her again, quick and hard, swallowing her surprised gasp, tamping down his need for more. "I'd say you went to bed with the wrong men."
"And you're the right one, I suppose." Her tone dripped sarcasm.
He looked at her a long time, until her defiant gaze slid sideways. "I think I am," he said quietly before he walked out.
Outside, he rammed his feet into his shoes and headed for his cabin. Along the way, he took some deep breaths of fresh air and inhaled some reality.
He'd damn near made a big mistake back there, the normal result when a man did his thinking from behind his zipper. Hell, the woman was wanted as an accomplice to murder and as a possible kidnapper—a couple of grisly facts he'd be wise to keep front and center from here on.
What mattered was Josh Moore, not his own back-from-the-dead dick.
But, Christ, she felt good...
Not that it mattered, because from here on, he planned to stay as far away from touching her as Star Lake allowed. He'd play the necessary part, gain her trust, and see where it took him. He couldn't hold Stan and Susan off forever, and if they showed up on the scene, Addy would be gone in sixty seconds.
He did not want that to happen—even if his reasons for it had muddied since he'd kissed her.
***
Addy watched Cade stride to his cabin, disappear inside. He came right back out with Redge at his heels and headed for the path around the lake.
She let the curtain drop and slumped against the windowsill, her body white-hot, her brain on fire.
Cade's lips on hers were like... it was like some kind of crazy magic potion thrown on a smoldering fire, making it wild and sky high.
Her stomach, a storm-tossed ocean, wouldn't settle.
And she needed to settle, because she had more to think about than Cade Harding's mouth touching hers.
She touched her lips, closed her eyes, and for a second drew back the taste of him, the sharp, clean scent of him—the sensations she couldn't afford to feel, to risk.
Not that it was worth thinking about.
She opened her eyes, and shoved her adolescent emotions aside to get to her brain, and her current problem. She needed to think about Beauty, about Gus, about Frank Bliss—not the possibility of sex that actually felt like something for the first time in her life.
She hadn't lied to Cade—maybe laid it on thick, but not lied. She'd never come close to enjoying sex, and she had given up on it. She'd tried it because her body told her to, but her mind set itself against the whole crazy idea. All it did was whir and beep inside her skull like some kind of whirligig of worry, sounding alarms and ringing warning bells.
Mostly she'd felt like she wanted to leap off the bed and run for her sanity. It made no sense until she thought it through, came to an understanding of herself.
Hot sex—and, God forbid, any kind of long-term commitment—didn't pair up well with an outstanding arrest warrant and the lies and evasions that came with it. Pretty impossible to relax in bed when you had one eye on the emergency exit and an ear cocked for the sound of a police siren. And none of that had changed, or would, no matter how many times Cade Harding kissed her.
Getting stars in her eyes back then was risky enough. If she let it happen now, it would be beyond stupid.
And she had Beauty to worry about.
She walked away from the window, her eyes again drawn to the phone.
Call me, Gus. You and I have to stop Beauty from killing someone. I need you, because I can't do it alone.
* * *
"Hey, Wayne, how's it going?"
Grover swallowed, shoved the file he'd been working on to the side of his desk, and tightened his grip on the phone. "Frank?" Stupid response; he knew exactly who it was. Let the game begin.
"The one and only. I've been trying to reach you, but keep ending up in voicemail hell."
"Sorry about that," Wayne uttered, his blood running through his veins like skim milk. "I'm not in the office all that much."
"Yeah."
Wayne coughed. "What can I do for you?"
"Like I said, I find myself a little short in the pocket, what with getting out of prison and all, and I was hoping you—or maybe Sandra?—would help me out."
Grover rested a hand on the pad of his stomach, told himself he wasn't going to be sick. He was smarter than Frank Bliss. He could handle him. Had to handle him. "I'd appreciate it if you'd leave my wife out of this." Grover glanced through th
e glass wall of his office toward the sea of people and cubicles on the other side. He'd been given the office five years ago. In lieu of a promotion, Sandra said, but Wayne didn't care how he got it. He loved this tiny space. Within these walls, he was somebody. He did good things, had control. He would not allow Bliss to spoil that.
"That's the idea, isn't it? To leave savage Sandra out of it." He chuckled. "Shit, quit worrying, will you? I can't tell Sandra anything that she doesn't already know. Now that boss of yours, that's another thing."
Wayne blanked his mind, swiveled in his chair, and lifted his face to the warm sun filtering through his window. "How much do you want?"
"Ten thousand ought to handle things. For now."
Ten thousand.
When Wayne found his tongue, he said, "You know I don't have that kind of money." Not even close.
"I know you'll get it."
Wayne cut in. "I'll need some time."
Silence.
"Okay," he said. "I can give you a couple of days."
"But, Frank," Wayne added, holding his breath a moment before going on, keeping to the putridly obsequious tone he used in all his dealings with Bliss, "I don't think it's safe to use Western Union. I'll bring it to you. In cash... if that will work for you."
"Suit yourself. Give me your cell number."
Wayne gave it to him.
"I'll call you," he said. "When I do, you better have the money and be prepared to move that fat butt of yours and make tracks. You got that?"
"Yes, I understand. You don't need to worry," he said, then took a deep breath. "May I ask who is included in that 'we' you mentioned?" Grover asked, his chest thick with dread.
"I figured you'd be curious about that." Bliss laughed, went silent for a bit as if considering whether to answer, then said, "What the hell. How about this for a clue? It's the bitch I pumped, while you were pumping dear old Mom." He stopped, added in a hard voice. "Get the money, Grover."
He hung up.
Grover had no idea which girl he was talking about.
* * *
During his lunch hour, Wayne worked through the errand list Sandra had given him; make arrangements to have the gutters cleaned, pick up the dry cleaning, go to the hardware store to buy those special bulbs for the dining room chandelier. The routine was welcomed and worked to regulate his increasingly bizarre thoughts.
When his chores were done, he went to the bank and withdrew the funds from his secret account. He walked out of the bank into an unseasonably hot day, the sun a glare in the western sky. He ignored it until he got to his Honda, parked a block away.
The car was warm and stuffy. He didn't have air-conditioning, so he rolled the windows down and sat for a time, waiting for the heat to dissipate.
He rifled through the glove department for some antacids. His gastrointestinal tract felt as if someone were hosing it down with lit kerosene—and another headache loomed. After gobbling some tablets, he put his head back on the headrest, weary, but grateful he had a few minutes to let his mind clear.
In seconds, his thoughts turned to Sandra.
She'd gone too far these past months. Way too far. He made fists of his hands and felt again the first lashes of the cane slapping languidly at his buttocks, the early prickles of titillation, the powerful pull of his sick desire.
Then the pain, Sandra's foul angry words. The beating.
He deserved it, she said, all of it, because he was bad. He was evil.
And she was right.
Excitement knifed through him and anticipation filled his lungs until his breath labored for release.
God, she was good...
Oh, how he hated her.
The sun pierced the windshield, and he clenched his eyelids closed. On the screen behind them the image came, blood running between his thighs after last night's beating, then pinking to run down the shower drain.
He had to leave her. Had to.
His muscles knotted, and his breathing shallowed.
But that would mean leaving DSHS, the only place he was safe, the only place he did some good. The only place he was a whole man. Because of Bliss, Sandra knew everything. She'd ruin him. Never let him be.
Never, never, never.
Thinking about her exhausted him, and he switched to Frank Bliss. Damn him to hell for stirring things up.
If it weren't for him, Belle would still be alive, and Wayne wouldn't have a damn hole in his life the size of Mount Everest. If anyone could have given him the courage to leave Sandra, it was Belle. No one understood him like Belle had.
His heart withered in his chest, tears welled, until holding them back hurt his eyes. In the end, he'd understood why her sons hated her so, but it was too late. He loved her, mindlessly and without reservation, and with a dark passion that all but destroyed him.
Belle. Oh, Belle...
Belle's image gave way to the present, to Linda Curl. She'd asked him out again this morning, and he liked that, liked how she took the lead, the way Belle had from the very first when he'd called on her to assess her home as an interim foster-care facility. She was so strong, so sure of herself... of him. He'd have done anything for Belle, and proved it by putting all those lies in the system, approving her, taking all those chances with his placements.
There hadn't been anyone like her until now, until Linda.
His chest constricted. Maybe that feral nose of Sandra's had picked up the scent of his need for another woman. Maybe that was why the beatings were growing so intense.
Sandra didn't trust him, hadn't since Belle. Everything would have been okay if Frank hadn't called her, told her everything.
Then he'd threatened to call DSHS, tell them about the sham placements. He could still hear him.
"You're going down, Wayne old man, unless you come up with some cash. Brett and I need to get out of this burg and you're our ticket. No way is that DSH or whatever the hell it's called gonna be happy to hear you're sending money old Belle's way, putting little kids with a woman who whores on the side—and dipping your own dick while you're at it."
Whores on the side...
His neck burned, his throat seized up.
Belle Bliss. She'd made him feel like a man—a real man—not the "sad excuse for his sex" Sandra said he was. He'd thought she'd opened her heart to love him, but it had been only her bag of tricks she'd opened to con him.
Now Frank was back, demanding money and putting everything, his job, what passed for a life, and all his good work in peril.
And the ten thousand dollars? It wouldn't be enough. There'd never be enough for Bliss. When his stomach recoiled at the thought of what he had to do, he did some deep breathing, told himself to calm down, get rational.
He had no choice... no choice.
He had to burrow under Bliss's skin, then finish him once and for all.
Weariness crept over him like a fog, and he rested his head on the velour headrest and let the heat in the car swaddle him, ease his nerves. He must have dozed off.
A harsh rap on his half-open window snapped his eyes open, and he stared blearily at a man standing outside his car door.
"Sorry, man, but this is a parking lot, not a park bench. Are you planning to leave anytime soon?"
Grover nodded and turned the key in the ignition. "Sorry. Headache," he mumbled, then pulled out of the spot and out of the lot, back to the office, back to his dark, painful thoughts.
Back to formulating his plan, how to get close to Bliss—and how to kill him.
* * *
Addy didn't dare leave the phone, so she'd asked Toby to take the old Ford Ranger truck into town for some supplies. She was on her own at the desk when an elderly couple came into the office, checked on the Star Lake rates, then registered for an overnight stay.
Because they were probably quiet, she put them in the cabin next to Cade's. She hadn't seen him since last night, although she did see his light go on at four.
She smiled at the woman and handed her the keys. "Enjo
y your stay at Star Lake, and if you need anything, be sure and let me know."
"Everything looks lovely, dear. Thank you."
As she went out the door, Cade came in—and the phone rang.
He nodded at her to go ahead, not that a herd of thundering elephants could have stopped her. Not only might it be Gus, it was a chance to get out from under those sharp eyes of his. Eyes she hadn't looked into since the Chinese food fiasco.
The phone call wasn't Gus—again—and while Addy got edgier by the minute, Beauty, now an impatient prisoner in her four-hundred-dollar-a-day suite, was getting bored, and she was drinking. Either one was a dangerous condition, together they were a recipe for disaster—or murder.
Their call last night had been an arduous hour and a half of Addy attempting to calm Beauty down, insisting she wait until she could talk to Gus, assuring her she would—when she was no closer to it than she was when she started. If Gus didn't call soon, she didn't know what she'd do.
She talked briefly to the woman on the phone, who was determined to sell her a vending machine, then hung up. She turned to Cade, who was idly scanning the tourist pamphlets in the rack on the counter.
"Hey," he said, when he looked up to see her attention finally fixed on him.
"Hey back." She stacked some loose papers on the counter, but forced herself to meet his steady gaze. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked in her best motel-owner's voice.
"Yes." He dropped a pamphlet back in its slot. "You can stop avoiding me, which will give me a chance to apologize."
"Done. Apology accepted. Anything else? Extra pillows, towels..."
"Did I actually kiss that smart mouth?"
"Yes, you did, and I didn't like it one bit."
He studied her. "Liar." Then he shook his head. "But if that's how you want it, that's okay with me. I was out of line, and I'm sorry."
"You already said that."
"And I don't plan on saying it again." He lifted the hand that was below the counter. "I brought you this." He held out a book.
Addy pursed her lips, looked at the book. It had a picture of a teenage boy on the cover. He was sitting on a blanket on the sidewalk, his back against a concrete building. She stared at it, her stomach tightening. She didn't take it. "I don't read... much." For the first time, she added the last word reluctantly. She glanced up at him, and as she did so, saw his expression flatten to a blank.