by Leslie Kelly
“It’s her, the one who’s staying up there with him,” I heard someone whisper. But the whisper was so loud, I suspected I was meant to overhear it.
Turning to follow the sound, I saw the stoop-shouldered cleaning woman who’d been so nasty the other morning. “Well, hello to you, too,” I said, smiling pleasantly at her and her companion, a middle-aged woman wearing a purple ski cap. Indoors. On a nice autumn day. The cap was lumpy. Obviously covering a head full of curlers.
The pair of them whispered furiously, then the one in the hat trudged over. “It’s true then? You’re staying up there?”
“I am.”
The woman looked around, but her friend merely shrugged and rolled her eyes, as if saying she’d already tried to warn me and I’d been too stubborn to listen. For that’s what was about to come out of this one’s mouth, I knew it.
“You shouldn’t be up there, miss.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard that there are a lot of nasty, untrue rumors about Mr. Lebeaux.”
The woman shook her head, her expression dour. “Not just rumors, miss, I’ve seen the papers myself. I have a cousin down in Charleston who sent me clippings about the whole ugly mess.”
I wasn’t listening. La la la la, not listening.
“He’s dangerous. And I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I didn’t at least try to warn you.”
Spare me from people spewing gossip in the guise of doing good.
“You have to know the truth.”
Still not listening. Here are the vitamins. Big brand stuff, nothing natural. Too bad.
“Mr. Lebeaux was involved in some real ugliness down in South Carolina. That’s how he got that scar on his face.”
Okay, mostly not listening. I had wondered, so often, about that scar….
“It was right disgraceful. Sad what happened to him, of course, but not as bad as what he did.”
I stiffened, realizing I didn’t want to hear this from a gossipy stranger. Or a hateful cleaning woman who obviously had an ax to grind against her employer. I wanted to hear the truth—whatever it was—from Simon.
But before I could whirl around and dash out of the store, the woman rushed on. “He carries the scar out of shame, that’s what I think. It’s his scarlet letter. So all the world will know the truth about what he did to his fiancée.”
That was enough. I turned and started to walk away. The woman grabbed my arm, though, not letting me leave.
“Please, if you don’t believe me, do some looking on the computer over at the library. Because he’s a dangerous man.” Her fingers digging tight—tight enough to make me wince—she leaned close, so close I could smell cigarettes on her breath.
“Look and see for yourself. He threw a woman he supposedly loved off a tall building, not four months ago.”
I froze.
“Make no mistake…Simon Lebeaux is a murderer.”
10
Simon
SIMON HAD GOTTEN accustomed to Lottie being around, so spending the afternoon without her was surprisingly difficult. Having been alone for so long—by choice—he hadn’t anticipated just how empty Seaton House would be without her.
He’d gotten used to her company in a very short time. Even when she was off somewhere in the attic or the basement, knowing she was around gave him a level of pleasure. Without her, the place seemed as quiet as the grave.
It wasn’t until after he heard a clanging sound coming from the third floor that he remembered what else had disturbed him so much about being alone. In the days that Lottie had been here, there had been a few strange incidents. Her being locked in the attic and the carriage accident were the most obvious ones.
But there were also plausible explanations for both. Doors got stuck, despite what she thought about the knob. And the blocks holding the carriage wheels could have worked themselves loose with all the rain softening up the earth.
Beyond that, though, he hadn’t experienced any of the unsettling, disturbing events that had plagued him for so long before her arrival. Which made the noise coming from above him all the more surprising.
Leaving his office, he went up to investigate. He could have predicted what he’d find…absolutely nothing. No unlatched shutter banging against the house. No water heater with rattling pipes. Just a long silent hallway with closed door after closed door, except the one to the room Lottie had been using. That door stood open.
Suddenly missing her, he decided to go in and move her things. As far as he was concerned, Lottie would be sleeping in his bed for the rest of her stay. Moving her in while she was gone seemed the most straightforward way to tell her he wasn’t having any second thoughts about the previous night. And that he wanted whatever was happening between them to keep happening.
He didn’t fool himself that it was anything other than great sex for as long as she was here. He was in no way ready to get seriously involved with someone. Especially not someone like Lottie, who embodied everything he, himself, was not these days. She was light and laughter. He was darkness and regret.
She wanted to heal him, he knew that. He also knew that aside from her physical attraction to him, she had a lot of protective feelings. Probably sympathy, pity. Certainly not the basis for anything more serious.
They had sex in common. That was all. It would be enough.
Going inside, he saw her half-unpacked suitcase. Clothes were strewn across the neatly made bed, and he quickly packed them up. Hoping she wouldn’t mind him going through her personal items, he went over to the closed bathroom door, intending to get her toiletries. When he opened it, however, his nose was instantly assaulted by a thick, heavy perfume.
Instinctively flinching and staggering backward, he waved a hand in front of his face, wondering what the hell Lottie had been doing with the strong, heavy stuff. Her body certainly hadn’t smelled like that last night or this afternoon when she’d left. Thinking about it, he realized he’d never noticed this particular fragrance on her at all.
And yet it was familiar. Instantly—disturbingly—familiar. Though his mind hadn’t identified how he knew it, his body had reacted, tensing, almost recoiling. Not just because of how strong it was, but because of a vague, uneasy sensation associated with the smell itself.
Odd. Very, very odd.
One thing was sure, he needed to get out of here before the sickeningly sweet scent triggered a headache. Just as he headed for the door, he heard Lottie’s voice, calling out from below. She’d come back just in time to catch him invading her privacy.
“What the hell,” he murmured, leaving the bathroom and picking up her bulging suitcase and overnight case. She could get whatever she needed out of the bathroom later.
Going down the stairs to meet her, he prepared for some kind of reaction. She had to recognize her bags in his hands and he didn’t know whether she’d throw her arms around his neck and kiss him or get indignant that he’d taken her willingness to sleep with him for granted.
She did neither. Instead, she immediately launched into a bunch of inane chatter.
He knew something was wrong. Her face was pale, pinched. She kept going on about the weather, the drive, the last of the autumn leaves blowing away across the road down the mountain.
Finally, when she made no effort to take off her coat and walk away from the front door, he murmured, “In case you’re wondering, I was moving your things to my room.”
She said nothing but merely glanced at the bags in his hands.
Something was definitely wrong. Dropping her bags, he grabbed her hands, which were icy cold and quivering. “What happened? Lottie, tell me what’s going on.”
He thought she was going to say she’d been able to make no headway with the narrow-minded town officials. That it had been a wasted trip. So he was in no way prepared for what came out of her mouth.
“Tell me about the woman in Charleston.”
HE TOLD HER.
The story about what had happened that night wasn’t one he liked talk
ing about. But since Lottie had heard some version of it—probably a highly untrue one—he knew he had no choice.
Simon would not have Lottie afraid of him for anything. And while she swore she wasn’t, that her feelings hadn’t changed, she also insisted that he tell her the truth.
Yesterday, he might not have. But after last night, he could no longer hide behind their casual relationship. It had become anything but casual in his bedroom.
The woman deserved to know the violent truth about the man she was sleeping with.
“You must realize, I assume, that I have to travel a lot for my work,” he said as the two of them sat in his office. He’d led her here immediately after she’d asked for the story, figuring that though it was only five o’clock, they could probably both use a drink.
At least he could.
She had obviously felt the same and the two of them were sipping small, neat whiskeys as they faced one another on the couch.
“Of course,” she murmured. “You have to spend time in a place to write about it well.”
He nodded. “I like that part of my job, and my southern cities series has really taken off. I started with New Orleans and Baton Rouge, obviously, then moved on to Savannah, Atlanta, then Charleston.” Funny, really, since before that night, Charleston was becoming one of his favorites. “Anyway, I booked a room in one of the nicest downtown hotels and stayed there for two weeks, getting all the information I could.”
Sipping his drink, he leaned back, trying to remember the details of that night, some of which had grown hazy during his recovery. “It was my last night in town and I went down to the hotel bar to have a drink and say goodbye to some of the staff who’d been so helpful.” His throat tightened. “There was a woman there. A blonde. Sitting a few seats away.”
“A stranger?” Lottie asked, interrupting for the first time. “Not someone you were involved with?”
“No. I’d never seen her before in my life.”
She frowned. “Strike one for the rumor mill.”
He really didn’t want to know about the rumor mill.
“Sorry, please go on.”
“I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out. I’d been in town a few weeks, and I hadn’t been seeing anyone for quite a while… She was very obvious about what she was offering.”
Lottie’s mouth tightened.
“I’m not exactly thrilled to admit I picked up an easy blonde in a bar, but it happened.” Wondering just how much to say, he didn’t see the point in holding anything back. “I wasn’t the same man then, Lottie. I actually was somewhat social and enjoyed having fun. I wasn’t exactly a playboy, but it wasn’t my first bar pickup.”
Though, it had definitely been his last.
She waved an unconcerned hand. “I’m not a saint, Simon. Please don’t feel like you have to justify yourself.”
Relieved, he continued to explain, telling her how the woman had been the one to approach him, asking him to buy her a drink. How deliberate and provocative she’d been—which, of course, made sense given what had happened later. He’d been a mark to her, one she wasn’t going to let get away.
“So you took her up to your room.”
He nodded.
Her cheeks pinkening a bit, she softly asked, “Did you, umm…”
“No. I hadn’t even touched her when she said she wanted to see the view of the city. So we stepped out onto the balcony. Then she claimed she needed to freshen up. She told me to wait right there for her, and went back into the room.”
“Oh, no,” Lottie said, obviously knowing where this was going.
“Yeah. I heard a door open and close but figured it was just the bathroom one. Before I even knew what was happening, she came back, followed by a young, burly guy with a gun in his hand.”
She gasped. “They were rolling you.”
“Exactly.”
Lottie shook her head slowly, looking visibly distressed. “Simon, why didn’t you just give them your money? Why on earth did you fight back?”
The same thing the cops had asked him. And he told her the same thing he’d told them. “I didn’t fight back. I wasn’t about to get shot in the face over a hundred bucks. I handed him my wallet and my watch. When he asked what else I had, I told him where to find the laptop.” Smiling slightly, he admitted, “To tell you the truth, for a second there, I was more worried about whether I’d backed up the writing I’d done that day onto my memory stick than I was about losing a few possessions.”
She managed a smile. A shaky one.
“I figured that would be the end of it. They’d get out and be long gone, figuring—probably correctly—that a tourist wasn’t going to stick around town long enough to see them brought to justice.”
“But they didn’t leave?”
He shook his head. “No. That was when I realized I might be in a more dangerous situation than I’d thought. The guy ordered me to go to the edge of the balcony and turn around, facing away from him. I refused. Because I saw a look in his eye that I didn’t like and realized his accomplice—the woman—had edged around beside me, instead of heading for the door.”
Knowing he was reaching the most difficult part, he sipped his drink before continuing. “He lunged, and I knew at that second, he intended for me to go over the side. Make it look like a suicide or something. I guess that’s why he didn’t shoot at first.”
A sniff and a sheen of moisture in Lottie’s eyes told him how she was reacting. He put his hand on her thigh, squeezing lightly, and she covered it with her own, gripping him tight.
“Realizing this wasn’t just some robbery I was going to walk away from with a frightening memory to share with friends, I fought back. He wanted me over that railing and I wasn’t going. I was holding my own until the woman got involved. I didn’t even see the knife in her hand—didn’t realize she’d slashed at me until I tasted the blood.”
“That bitch,” Lottie said, visible tears now spilling out of her eyes. “I can’t even imagine.”
“I think that’s what made it real—made me know for sure I was fighting for my life. So I managed to trip him. As he went down, he hit his head on the edge of a wrought-iron table that I’d sat at every day to have my breakfast.”
“Was he…”
“Knocked out.”
“But she wasn’t.”
“No.” A muscle in his jaw clenched, causing the scar on the side of his face to throb. Just as it did every time he thought of the woman who’d put it there. “She was enraged, screaming at me for hurting him. I thought at the time he was her boyfriend but when the police checked their ID and found they had the same last name—Harrington—they figured they were married. We later found out they were brother and sister. Anyway, she was hysterical, thinking I’d killed him.”
“Oh, there’s moral authority, blaming a man for fighting for his own life.”
Simon continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “He’d dropped his gun when he fell. She picked it up.”
“She was the one who shot you,” Lottie whispered.
He nodded, rubbing at the scar on his chest, remembering the pain when the bullet had pierced his body. “Not in a really critical spot—she missed my heart by a couple of inches. So I wasn’t entirely out of commission. I lunged at her and we fought over the gun.” His voice quivering the slightest bit at the memory of how it had felt, in that moment, he proceeded to the ugly end.
“She was strong—I was getting dizzy from losing so much blood—and I knew she was about to shoot me again. So I tackled her, trying to knock the gun out of her hand.”
Staring into Lottie’s gentle brown eyes, he finally admitted, “And she went over the railing.”
SIMON HADN’T KNOWN exactly what to expect from Lottie after she’d heard the whole ugly story. In his mind, the images were so horrible, so bloody and vicious, he couldn’t help wondering if she’d retreat from him. What woman would feel okay finding out her lover had been responsible for the brutal death of another woman?
He should have known better. After a long moment in which Lottie absorbed his words, she slowly sipped the rest of her drink, and dried her tears. Shifting closer to him on the couch, she lifted her hand to his face. The soft tip of her index finger traced the scar from his cheekbone up to his forehead, then she twined her fingers in his hair and pulled him close. Just before touching her lips to his, she murmured, “Thank you for telling me.”
Her mouth was sweet and welcoming. She held nothing back, being as loving as she’d been before he’d told her the whole truth about himself.
Well, almost the whole truth. He hadn’t told her about the strange things he’d experienced here at Seaton House. Bad enough the woman found out he’d killed someone—he didn’t want her thinking he was a nutcase, too.
“I want you, Simon,” she murmured against his lips. “I want you so much.”
Almost groaning in pure relief, he dropped his hands to her waist and tugged her over onto his lap. She curled into him, tilting her head to kiss him again, deeply and passionately.
The warmth of her mouth and the softness of her body pressing against his soon had him forgetting everything else but her. Them. What they’d made each other feel last night. What he wanted to feel again, now.
Slowly lifting her mouth from his and smiling at him, Lottie slid off his lap and walked toward the fireplace. He’d started a fire in it while she was gone, both for added warmth for himself, and because he really liked the way she looked getting warm in front of it.
She wasn’t getting warm now, though. She was getting hot.
Not saying a word, she tugged her red sweater free from her jeans, and slowly lifted it. Seeing the lacy red bra beneath, Simon had to suck in a quick, appreciative breath.
Disentangling her hair from the sweater, she finally tossed the thing away, then ran her hands through those thick, long brown curls, shaking her head hard so they tumbled riotously over her upper body.
She didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t getting up to join her. He stayed sprawled on the couch, watching with lazy appreciation as she kicked off her shoes, then unsnapped her jeans. Rolling them down slowly—slowly enough that he knew she was intentionally heightening his anticipation—she finally pushed them all the way off. Her tiny red panties matched the bra. They were minuscule, just a red thatch of material barely covering her dark curls, and a few loops of satin cruising over her hips.