by Sylvie Kaye
"Ah,” he said, dragging out the sound.
She touched her fingers to his throat just for the thrill of feeling his delectable skin vibrate. He smelled of a hint of spicy aftershave and the fresh outdoors. “That sounded more like an aha,” she said. “Although I can't imagine what would surprise you about anyone wanting to move away from Lily Pond to start anew."
"I knew you weren't the typical tourist.” His tone was tinged with disapproval. “You didn't take in many of the local, historic sights."
"You're my main attraction,” she teased, massaging the arm he had draped over her shoulder. His muscles flexed tense and rigid beneath her persistent touch.
"I'd bet your uncle has a lot more drawing power than I do."
"If you mean the loan—"
"I mean the money."
Confused, she fell silent. He didn't sound jealous. More accusing, as if she'd done something wrong.
She searched his eyes, trying to read his emotions. She supposed his traumatic experiences over the past two years with the death of his best friend and his jail sentence required some coddling on her part.
Before she could assure him of his importance to her, the commercials ended and Spence refocused on the screen. The movie started back up where it had left off, in the middle of a dramatic scene between the lovers.
The gangster husband hung up the phone after finding out that his beautiful bride had betrayed him. Not to the police, not to another mob boss, but by having an affair with another man. A nobody in the mob scheme of things.
When the handsome husband smiled and hugged his wife in a loving embrace, the tension broke and Mercy sighed. “He's forgiven her.” What a man. What a lover.
Then, with a squeak, she covered her mouth.
As the husband caressed his wife, a knife glinted in his hand, and he stabbed her in the back. A splotch of dark red blood spread across the back of the woman's white dress, and she went limp in her killer's arms.
"I like happy endings.” Mercy reached for the remote, but Spence stopped her.
"Let's see it out until the end."
She waited as the scene changed, flashing to a crowd gathered in a cemetery by the woman's gravesite. The husband was shaking hands with the mourners.
"The rat."
"She betrayed him.” Spence's voice sounded bitter.
"That's no reason to murder her,” Mercy protested.
"He's dead, too, on the inside."
"He'd have to be to kill her.” Mercy squirmed on the cushion alongside Spence. The movie had lost all of its romantic appeal. She flicked the remote, stopping at a comedy show.
Comfortable once again in his secure arms, she nestled her head on his chest. By the time the first skit ended, she'd dozed off to peals of laughter.
When she awoke, the sound of static and a flickering screen greeted her. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she stretched. How long had she slept? She felt stiff and cold. Where was Spence?
Had he gone home? She'd counted on spending the night with him and awakening next to his sleep-warmed body. Spooning naked next to his morning boner and making love, relaxed and unhurried.
Yawning, she spied a light shining in the adjoining room. Her uncle's office. She shook the wrinkles from the skirt of her cotton dress as she stood up and padded toward the glow.
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Chapter Twenty-five
"What are you doing?” Mercy stood shadowed in the doorway of her uncle's office, her gaze disarming.
Spence froze, his hands full of papers from rifling through Parker's desk.
He wanted to talk to Mercy, but later, when he'd gathered enough information to pose the right questions. After he searched the place and was armed with proof to substantiate his suspicions about her and Parker's deception.
Caught like a whore in a police cruiser's flashing lights, Spence had no choice but to come clean. “I'm looking for evidence.” His voice sounded scratchy and defensive as he met her solemn blue eyes. Eyes that could fire his libido and melt his heart. Under other circumstances.
"Evidence?” Mercy's blonde brows crooked into a small, imperfect vee. Her pretty face had gone pale.
Spence dropped the papers he'd been going through back into the file folder and slammed the drawer shut.
"Why was this hidden from sight, face down?” He turned over the framed photo of Parker and a nameless man, the driver of the Caddy who'd knocked Spence and Mark down before punching Mark into kingdom come. Spence's fingers smudged the glass as he tightened his hold on the picture of the men who were responsible for spinning his life out of control. “Both of these bastards were responsible for sending me to jail.” He trained his unblinking eyes on Mercy, gauging her reaction.
"I—I don't believe you.” Her faint lips quavered. She shook her head back and forth. She was visibly upset and a part of him wanted to comfort her, even now. “There must be a mistake of some kind,” she uttered, barely audible. “One of those men is my uncle."
"Parker.” The perjurer's name tasted bitter in his mouth.
She nodded, her blonde hair bobbing against her colorless cheeks. “How do you know his name?"
"He testified against me,” Spence spat out, his tone grim. I'll never forget his name, or his face, or the sound of his lying voice."
"Don't let one mistake lead to another.” She quoted some philosopher, but in a mindless monotone. The usual pleasure at finding the proper adage for the given situation didn't gleam in her eyes. She leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb as if for support.
Spence wanted to go to her, touch her, soothe her, but he stopped himself, remaining cautious while her motives were still in question.
He hardened his demeanor. His voice became rough and tight in his throat. “I saw Parker in court everyday, but I swear I never saw him that night.” A loud tap, tap broke the silence in the still room as he drummed the callused pad of his finger against the pleased grin of the other man in the photo. “This was the man who drove Parker's car and knocked Mark and me down. He killed Mark."
"I don't know who he is.” She lifted her hands in a sign of appeal. “But I can tell you my uncle's a fine, upstanding person. Ask my mother."
She reached for the phone. Her hand shook. Spence felt the tremble of her slender fingers when he stopped her from picking up the receiver.
"I don't want to talk to your mother,” he said, slow and emphatic.
As if her mother wouldn't lie for her brother. As if the niece wouldn't for her uncle. If she was his niece. Spence's chest heaved with hurt at being used by Mercy for Parker's benefit.
He continued holding her hand as she gripped the phone. Her skin felt satiny soft beneath his work-hardened palm. He exhaled a long breath in an effort to keep his mind on his goal of getting Parker and away from Mercy's treachery or her attributes. She smelled sweet like orange blossoms, even in the stale quarters of the closed-up office. He fought off the temptation to take her, here on the floor or the desk.
"Wh—why not?” she stammered. “My mother knows her brother better than anyone."
"Does she know the other man in the photo? Will she tell me who he is and where the two of them are hiding?” Spence felt himself losing his cool. His grip tightened. The delicate bones in her fingers stacked against each other.
Letting go, he backed away before he squeezed too tight and had more regrets where Mercy was concerned.
"My uncle's not hiding.” She dropped her hand to her side and flexed her fingers. “He's visiting a sick friend."
"Where does the sicko live?” Spence persisted, giving her every opportunity to redeem herself and put an end to his doubts. He wanted to believe she was a bystander in Parker's disappearance instead of his decoy. He wanted Mercy in his life, in his bed. Not just in his head.
"I don't know.” She shrugged her creamy shoulders, bare in the pretty pink sundress she'd worn to lure him away from his prey and to who knows where. His gut knotted. And another pain twisted, highe
r in his chest around his heart. “I don't know my uncle well enough to know his friend's name or his address."
"How convenient.” The sight of Mercy weakened him, even as it angered him. He glanced away toward the window where dark emptiness reflected his despair back at him.
Her voice was gentle as a bedtime whisper when she said, “But I do know he wouldn't deliberately hurt you or anyone."
He turned toward her, despite himself. Her blue eyes shone with sincerity and innocence. He didn't dare believe in either. Not without proof.
"Right,” he bit out. “That's why I spent eighteen months in jail."
"If you truly believe he was responsible,” her wan lips trembled again, “how do I know you haven't used me to get to my uncle?” She searched his face. “Are you planning to harm him?"
"Beat the truth out of him if I have to,” Spence growled, hoping for the chance to do just that.
Mercy shivered. Covering her arms with her hands, she rubbed her flesh. “I don't know you at all. Do I?” She shrank away from the doorway, standing partway into the living room.
"Better than you should. I should've never let you get as close as I did.” Swallowing hard, he kept his disappointment from surfacing.
"Let me?" Her laugh was tinged with irony. “You were pretty persistent as I recall.” She stepped further away, and he stifled the urge to drag her back into the den and somehow force her to surrender her uncle to him. And then herself.
He eyed her stance. She was either a good actress or sincere. If he only knew which.
But he intended to be honest with her.
"Okay, we both enjoyed the sex. But I let you in. I shared my pain. You used me. How much is he paying you to report what I say and do back to him?” His hurt poured out. He threw the framed picture onto the desk. With an unexpected crunch, the glass cracked into several pieces.
"Don't you dare accuse me of selling myself.” She marched back into the office with all the fury of a Texas hurricane and shook her finger in his face from across the desk. Her body was rigid, but her color had returned. “If my uncle lends me the money to start fresh it will be because he loves me not because I sold him any of your so-called secrets."
"Admit my doubts are well-founded. You search me out, have sex with me, and afterward turn out to be the niece of the man who set me up. If you even are his niece,” he added, raising his eyebrow.
"If?” she sputtered. “Who in the heck do you think I am?” She leaned across the desk on braced arms, her pretty nose almost touching his. Her eyes were bright like blue flames. “I damn well know who you are. You're an ass.” She pounded her small fist on the desk, the blotter muffling her thumps.
"I'll tell you who I think you are. I think you're his trick."
Silence stretched between them, taut like a rubber band about to snap.
"Get out.” She pointed to the door, moving aside so as not to come into contact with any part of him when he rounded the desk.
"Gladly, lady.” He thought the day Mark died had been the worst day of his life, and then he thought going to jail had been, but Mercy's betrayal rated right up there on the cusp.
"Don't act as if you're the injured party here.” She tapped her chest. “I am."
Spence didn't move. He stood there, defiant. He couldn't go until he got what he came after. Parker, or her admission that she was guilty as sin.
"If you're the reason I haven't seen my uncle,” she went on as apparent new thoughts formed. “And if he had to leave town and flee his home because of you, I should call the police.” Her hand hovered over the phone, awaiting his reply.
"Yes, do that.” He didn't stop her this time when she picked up the receiver. “Let the police catch the suckers for me. I have proof they conspired. Or at least knew each other."
When he snatched up the picture frame, pieces of shattered glass fell away, littering the leather desk pad. He nicked the side of his hand, a droplet of blood forming as he tore the photo from its frame and stashed it in the pocket of his jeans.
"Is your hand okay?” she asked, concerned even now.
Faked or honest, he couldn't help but wonder.
He made heated eye contact with her, daring her to come and take the picture back. He cocked his hip to make the sexual challenge more obvious.
She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her enticing, pink tongue, and with a clatter dropped the receiver back into its cradle.
"I'd better let my mother do the calling,” she said. “I don't know my uncle well enough to answer many questions. What would I say?"
"That you're in it up to your tasty earlobes,” he accused, swiping his bloody hand clean on the side of his jeans.
"How can you say such a thing when we've been so intimate?” Her voice steeled, her eyes narrowed. “You're an—"
"Ass,” he finished for her. “That's what you called me a minute ago.” He was surprised how much her accusations hurt him. He'd played her fair. Why should he care what the little liar thought?
"Just go home.” She crossed her arms as if there wasn't anything else to be said.
He had plenty to say. A part of him wanted to stay and work it out, somehow. Argue it through until they came to terms and made up in a session of unbridled lovemaking. But her stance told him otherwise. He gave up. Sidling out from behind the desk, he sauntered toward the door but then stopped. He couldn't leave without one last try.
He turned and grabbed her in his arms and kissed her. Her lips gave beneath his, opening on a warm, breathy sigh. She responded with as much passion as he gave. Her honeyed mouth made him ache for want of her.
He'd promised himself not to fuck her out of revenge, but he was hard-pressed to stop from making love to her. Even now, when it was so obviously one-sided.
Leaning Mercy back, he swiped the surface of the desk behind them clean. The desk mat flew, along with pens, papers, and shards of glass from the frame. He lifted her bottom onto the wooden top.
"Spence,” she murmured.
He kissed her hard, reveling in the feel of her before he released her mouth to nuzzle her neck, scrape his teeth along her skin, and taste her flesh. The scent, sound, taste, and feel of her enveloped him, surrounded him. He allowed himself to become completely lost in her sensuality for another second before he forced himself to gain control over his senses.
He hugged her to him as silence took over like regrets. With a groan of surrender, he pushed away.
Oh, yeah. He got what he came after. His last taste of Mercy. He'd paid a high price. He'd let her too close to his heart.
Her eyes widened, searching his. “Aren't you going to stab me in the back now?"
The movie scene flashed between them. Betrayal by a lover. Was she admitting her guilt? Or blaming him? Her accusing eyes answered the unasked question.
He held his hands up to show his innocence as he backed from the room. “I'm not the backstabber."
She'd plunged the knife. Now how the fuck did he pull it out without bleeding to death?
She was right. There wasn't anymore to be said. Without another word, he left her alone in the den.
He headed for the door and whatever Mercy and her Uncle Parker had waiting for him.
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Chapter Twenty-six
Once Mercy heard the front door slam, she knew Spence was gone for good. She felt hollow on the inside. Did he actually believe she'd used their sexual intimacies to spy on him for her uncle?
He could've just as easily been using her to gain inside knowledge about her relative.
Why had she thought the passionate kiss they shared would change his mind, remind him of their closeness. She should've shaken off the unrealistic idea sooner. She knew him better than that. Had seen his resolve in his piercing eyes. He wouldn't put anyone ahead of his goal to uncover Mark's real killer.
She straightened her shoulders and shook out the hem of her dress. The spicy hint of aftershave and man lingered on her skin. Sex between h
er and Spence had been phenomenal each and every time, but there was more involved between them than sheer animal satisfaction.
When they were engaged physically, nothing and no one else seemed to matter. She'd given away pieces of her heart each time. She wouldn't feel so devastated right now if she weren't so in love with him.
Cindy was right all along.
Forcing herself to move, Mercy skirted the desk to kneel and sift through the mess on the floor. After tossing the pieces of the broken frame into the wastebasket, she scooped up the desk blotter and her uncle's scattered pens and papers. Once she had his desk righted, she reached for the phone.
Her hand went limp on the receiver. She wasn't ready to speak to her mother, or Cindy. Plopping onto the leather chair behind the desk, she looked around the den where she and Spence had argued, indulged in their last flicker of desire, and then parted. She touched her tongue to her lips. The tantalizing taste of his hot mouth still remained.
She loved the heat and feel of him, and not just in bed, but when they walked down the street or danced together. The way he moved, teasing and arousing her. His unexpected humor and candor when he let his guard down.
All their laughter and passion had now turned into pain.
How could she have been so wrong about him?
Closing her eyes, she massaged her forehead while she worried about Spence and her missing uncle and her mother's reaction to the news and what was to become of them all.
With a loud, unexpected brr-ring, the phone rang. Spence. A nerve in her forehead jumped when she blinked her eyes open.
Picking up the receiver, she heard, “Mercy.” Cindy's voice was hushed. “I'm sorry if I interrupted anything.” She paused, waiting for Mercy's reply.
"It's okay,” Mercy croaked, then cleared her throat. “Is Jay still there?” She wanted to talk about something pleasant, having wrung more than enough misery from her own situation.
"Jay left early. Another excuse about a meeting. As soon as we shut the computer down, which he promised we weren't supposed to use during off hours, he brushed me off.” Silence.
"I'm sorry, Cindy. Maybe he did have to meet someone."