by Cait London
“Have it your way,” he said. “I’ve been looking after myself for a long time.”
“So have I. And if you don’t watch it, these clothes will mildew. You should hang your bath towels to dry when you’re finished.”
Nick’s unshaven jaw hardened. “It’s my house. I do what I want.”
Maggie reached to close the door in his face. She finished washing her other foot and decided since they were on such good terms anyway, she might as well take advantage of that king-size shower. She’d stay just to irritate him and then she’d walk home when she was ready and…
Her dark mood gave way under the shower’s luxurious spray. A big serviceable bar of men’s soap wasn’t up to Celeste’s fragrant, bubbly soap, but right then it was heaven. Maggie heard herself crooning in the shower as she used Nick’s masculine shampoo, lathering it into her hair.
She tried finger-combing her hair, and when that didn’t work, used Nick’s brush. She could have stayed in the bathroom forever, pampering herself, but keeping in mind Nick’s bad mood, she decided to finish the laundry quickly.
As she sorted the clothing from the towels and washcloths, Maggie decided she missed having her own home with her own washer and dryer and the things other women took for granted. The chug of the washer, the whir of the dryer, the warm, soapy scents were relaxing. Once started, she gathered the laundry from all over the house, stripping the two bedrooms.
Cleaning was automatic, and maybe it came from inside herself, to wash away—Maggie shook her head, forcing the past away. It was Nick’s house, and he’d disappeared—probably to sulk upstairs with the Frenchman’s ghost. She hesitated, weighed the right and wrong of her actions, and didn’t care. It wasn’t a crime to clean, and Maggie dismissed her doubts as she whipped through the rooms.
The larger bedroom hadn’t been used, and Maggie automatically opened the windows to the fresh cold air. Beneath the layers of dust, the room held a woman’s touch, softer shades of mauve and tans, the layers of pillows with shams on the bed. A tumble of women’s clothing lay on the bed, next to an opened box, as though someone had tried to put them away and couldn’t.
The shadows seemed to stir quietly as if dreams had died there…
A picture had been turned facedown, and when Maggie righted it, she saw it was of Nick seated on a motorcycle, dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, grinning at the camera, a young girl holding tight behind him. The frame’s glass had been shattered.
Maggie ached for Nick’s wife, for the children she would never have, for the dreams torn away.
Glenda’s two children, Seth and Cody, were two sweet little boys that Maggie ached to hold. They would soon be playing summer ball and soccer and diving into swimming pools, and she missed them desperately. But one look at Maggie and they would remember their mother, and probably not the pleasant things either.
The smaller room was where Nick slept—if not on the well-used couch. Maggie stripped the bed and gathered the clothing on the floor, dumping it in front of the washer as Nick passed, carrying a platter of barbecued chicken and foil-wrapped potatoes in one hand and a barbecue fork in the other.
He stood, boots on a towel, and stared at the mountain of laundry she had collected. “You’re on a cleaning bender,” he said with the doomed air of a man who had lived with women.
She poured stain remover onto the knees of his jeans, rubbing the cloth together. “That master bedroom smelled of must. I opened the windows. Don’t forget to close them—”
Nick’s dark eyes were taking in her damp hair, the way his overlarge shirt hung on her, the rolled up cuffs above her bare feet. Still holding the platter and the fork, he leaned toward her. “Hi, Maggie,” he whispered softly.
Maggie knew he was going to kiss her, and she leaned back against the chugging washer, the heavy beat matching that of her heart. Nick’s eyes closed, and his lips fitted gently over hers. She couldn’t move as a current of sweet hunger danced through her, and then his lips slanted to the other side. He moved closer, his body pressing against hers. “Nick?”
He didn’t move, watching her. She could refuse or she could take.
Nick placed the platter and fork down, and then his hands were braced beside her hips, the washer chugging behind her. “You smell like bleach,” he said huskily.
There was so much of him, dark and sensual, and Maggie’s senses started to quiver and warm. “Your sheets and towels really needed it. You’ll need to get more fabric softener.”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, as Nick slowly lowered his head for another kiss. “Okay. Anything else?”
This time her lips were parted and she needed more than a taste of him. “I can’t think of anything now—”
He kissed her again, this time slow and thoroughly, as if he were learning the shape of her mouth. “That’s good. Neither can I.”
He was tasting her, she thought distantly, as his lips brushed and teased and floated over hers. When she wanted more, just that nip of hunger, yet of beckoning gentleness, turning toward his lips, he’d move again.
Nick nuzzled her cheek, an erotic male brush of rough skin against her own. His face rested in the cove of her shoulder and throat and the gentle flicking of his tongue surprised her, sending a chill up her nape.
She turned to meet his kiss, and he moved to the other side of her throat, tantalizing her with his lips and tongue. Maggie had to have just one firm, long satisfying kiss, and the gentle pressure of Nick’s aroused body between her legs had set her body aching.
His light kisses trailed across her lips, ever avoiding full contact. “You’re really warm…really warm,” he said as his lips started to tempt her earlobe. “And you’re shaking. Why?”
She trembled, fighting the need to capture him, and the need to escape to safety.
“If you’re going to kiss me, do it,” she stated finally.
“I’m getting all the good flavor, the bouquet, that balance of aroma and taste and—”
She reached for his head, framed his jaw with her hands, and kissed him hard, finding the essence of his hunger and heat and danger. His arms went around her, lifting her up against him, pressing her close, one hand open on her bottom, cupping her tight against him.
He dived in for more, and she met him, arching against him, her fingers digging into his hair, then those taut hard shoulders.
Nick lifted back, just that fraction, and she came after him, pressing his head toward hers, and the low, ragged sound in his throat said he approved.
Not that she cared. Maggie was too busy taking, feeling like a woman, feeling soft and feminine and desired. It had been so long—
She broke away, leaning back, and Nick’s dark intent look traveled across her lips and slowly, slowly downward to where her breasts pressed against him. He moved his hand on her back up and down in a caress, and then ever so slowly, meeting her eyes, he unbuttoned the shirt, revealing the tops of her breasts.
He breathed raggedly as he looked downward, and his body trembled, a dark flush running beneath his tan. Nick eased back from her, and this time, Maggie trembled as she gripped the washer behind her. She wanted more, wanted to take and satisfy and be free once again.
Nick slowly reached for a sweatshirt and drew it on. Still looking at her, he lifted the platter beside her. “Dinner is ready. Sorry, no salad.”
No sex. Maggie held very still, her heart racing. She realized that her face was flushed, and when Nick’s gaze touched her lips, her tongue tasted him again. She felt as if her skin were shimmering, alive with sensation, needing more of—
His big hands hadn’t touched her skin and she needed that, his hands on her flesh, stroking her…
“I’ve been married,” she said suddenly, surprising herself. “It didn’t work.”
What was she doing? She didn’t need to explain anything to Nick.
“Okay,” he said softly, watching her. “Do you want to eat at the kitchen table or outside?”
“Outside
.” The night air would cool her cheeks. I can manage this, a little flirtation, a free meal, a little relaxation. No strings attached. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Bring plates and silverware, and don’t forget the butter and sour cream from the refrigerator.”
She turned back to empty the dryer, dumping the clothes into a laundry basket. When she stood, preparing to transfer a load from the washer, Nick’s lips were at her nape, his breath warm against her skin.
Electrified, Maggie held very still. It was a playful kiss, soon ended, with just that nip at her earlobe, and enough to make her senses quiver and heat.
Her hands shook as she removed the plates from the shelves, and when she went outside, Nick was sprawled in his lawn chair again. “You forgot the tea. Sun tea, on the counter, and don’t tell anyone that I like iced tea and barbecue. It’s not good for a vintner’s image.”
“I brought the plates and silverware. I don’t drink caffeinated tea.”
“Drink water. I cooked.”
“I’m doing your laundry.”
The lines beside Nick’s eyes deepened with humor. “My soap, my electricity.”
She fought the smile inside her; the argument was friendly, easy. “I’ll tell everyone you drink iced tea, probably beer, too, right? There’s a six-pack in the refrigerator.”
“Okay, you have me there.” He rose and stretched, and Maggie’s senses leaped again. She looked away into the marsh, the sun setting over it just as peace had somehow settled for a moment within Maggie.
It was gentle toss-and-toss-back play, not an argument. She could handle this—an easy evening, sharing a few hours.
When Nick came back, he carried a tray of glasses, bottled water, and a pitcher of iced tea. “Here,” he said, tossing a light jacket to her.
It was just that simple. No questions, no responsibility, just companionship. After dinner, Maggie leaned back in her lawn chair, snuggled down in Nick’s coat, and closed her eyes, inhaling the fresh, damp night.
She’d come so far, fought so hard, and now, totally relaxed, she dozed.
In the chill of the night, Celeste sat on her porch. She rocked within the warmth of her shawl, holding Earth’s warm body close to her. The cat purred loudly, boldly pushing against Celeste for more. The rest meant little, but her cats had given her comfort. She should make arrangements for someone to take them after she died.
Celeste inhaled the fresh scents of her herbs and thought of her family’s farm in Iowa, the rev of the big John Deere tractor coming out of the massive barn, the corn stalks in the field growing high over her head. Strange how approaching the end of her life, she remembered the beginning so clearly. Every breath meant more, the colors more intense, the smiles more welcome, a child’s laughter more delightful.
No matter how she laid her tarot cards and ignored her inner senses, the answer was always the same. She would die soon. But Celeste depended more on those flashing images in her mind, including the shadowy figure of a man reaching for her throat.
The cat’s warmth and purr relaxed Celeste as she settled deeper into her thoughts. She had accepted her own death; what would come, would come. But perhaps by knowing more, she could save her friends.
In the scheduled walks she took with Maggie, Celeste had hoped to learn more. She kept the conversation light and flowing, adding personal tidbits about her life, hoping to find an opening to talk about Maggie’s life. A loner, Maggie was holding her past, fighting it. The shadows beneath her eyes said she had sleepless nights, perhaps nightmares.
If only Celeste could hold something of Maggie’s, something from the past, then she might have the answer to her own death…
She eased her cats inside and gave herself to the night, walking toward the call of the harbor, the river walk, now quiet. No one questioned her now, the odd times that she strolled through town.
But tonight, the answers did not come—only the sense that her time was short.
SIX
If he found Maggie Chantel, he would kill her.
He’d had everything and she’d ruined his life. No one respected him now, his power was gone, and he would make her pay.
A foghorn sounded in San Francisco Bay, its cry punctuated by the loud jukebox music in the small tavern. Brent Templeton circled the glass rim of his drink, the neon light advertising beer over the bar flashing on a face that had once been handsome. Facials and manicures were in his past; he could no longer afford pampering.
He sneered at the waitress and with the arrogance of a lord, he lifted his empty glass for a refill.
He sank back into his brooding silence, and the side long look he gave the waitress caused her to pale and shrivel back into safety. In the short tight skirt, her legs weren’t as nice as Maggie’s, the barbed wire ankle tatoo not to his taste.
The man hunched over his drink and raked the men at the bar with one narrow-eyed glance. His mouth curled bitterly as he let his hatred for one woman churn and fester and grow.
Once he lived for his power, for what it could bring him, and now he lived to kill Maggie Chantel.
Not too quickly, taking days perhaps. Perhaps he would destroy those she loved first, making her watch and beg for mercy.
He’d practiced with the pretty young hitchhiker along the Interstate.
Then because he couldn’t stand the nagging slanted picture on the wall any longer, he stood to straighten it. He ignored the people watching him as he rounded the room, straightening the other pictures.
Everything had an order, he decided, as he straightened the stack of menus on the counter. He understood the rules of that order, and soon Maggie would, too.
She was on the move, and not in the vicinity. The message service she’d used had been closed for a year.
Maybe one of the men she’d confronted about using Glenda had already taken care of Maggie—Brent pushed away the thought. He could feel her out there, waiting to be punished for ruining his life.
Where was she?
“Tell me you love me,” he whispered as he walked out into the night. “Where are you, Maggie, dear?”
In the alley, he found someone to make him feel strong and in command again. The sleeping drunk huddled beneath newspapers died beneath the savage beating.
Maggie awoke to Nick crouching at her side and gently shaking her. She was tucked beneath a blanket, the pillow under her head resting on the lawn chair. The night was cold and damp, stars sprinkling the sky.
“Hey. Sleepyhead. Wake up. Time to go home.”
“Hi,” she said as Nick brushed her hair back from her face. Whatever had nagged her in her sleep slid into the night as Scout nuzzled her hand. Maggie could feel the remnants of stark fear, and yet she hadn’t dreamed…She petted the dog, and rested momentarily beneath the familiar safe weight of Scout’s head.
Nick seemed so familiar, and she remembered how gently he had first kissed her, and then how hungrily. She could still feel him hard against her, the press of his hand on her bottom, urging her closer.
There was tenderness in him, and so much sadness, and now something else bothered him. “Your hair is still wet. You’ll catch cold.”
She lay looking at him, snuggled beneath the warmth of the blanket. He seemed so safe. “Hi,” she said again and smiled sleepily.
Nick frowned and stood suddenly, his hands in his back pockets. The moonlight painted his hair silver and outlined the taut, edgy look of his body. “Do you want my pickup, or do you want me to drive you home?”
She wanted him to carry her into his house, to…Maggie stretched and squirmed beneath the blanket. She felt so good and warm and safe. Most of all, with Nick, she felt safe.
All angles and broad shoulders, his face in shadow, he watched her. “I’ll drive you home,” he said unevenly, his voice raspy and deep.
“Well, that was fast,” Maggie said when Nick bundled her in the blanket and carried her to his pickup. “I left my shoes.”
“I’m in a hurry. I’ll bring them b
y,” Nick stated roughly. It was a wonder he could talk. Ever since he’d heard her in the shower, her sounds of pleasure like those of a woman having a long, slow orgasm, Nick’s body had been humming. Those kisses at the washer, the way she responded, arching up to him bowstring-tight, hadn’t helped.
If he’d taken more than a taste, they’d be in bed right now.
Or not. Maggie was independent, the kind of woman who moved on when she decided.
Nick preferred to take it slow and let the flavor ripen between them. She didn’t trust him yet, and he wasn’t too certain about himself. Quick sex could only complicate both their lives.
On the other hand, his body protested the lengthy abstinence, needing relief.
Then Scout, lying on the deck, had come to lay her head on Maggie as she slept. The dog’s senses were right, because Maggie had started to squirm beneath the blanket he had placed around her.
Her face had been so vulnerable, soft and open, all the usual defenses wiped away. And then she’d frowned, her expression sad, then angry, then fearful. Her hands clawed at the blanket, fighting—and he couldn’t bear to see her locked in a nightmare.
When she awoke, all sleepy and snugly, he’d started thinking about how she kissed, hungry and hot and sweet, and how he wanted to wake up to her in the morning. But he suspected Maggie was like fine wine, better when understood and given time to ripen, and to come to her own rich flavor.
“I’m wearing socks,” Maggie stated in surprise as Nick opened the pickup’s passenger door.
“Your feet were cold.” He slid her onto the seat and motioned for Scout to leap up beside her.
When he slammed the door on the driver’s side and revved the pickup, Maggie studied him. “You’re mad. Why?”
“Just leave it, okay?” She wasn’t ready to trust him, and that nettled. Or did it hurt?
“If it’s because of the laundry, just stop the pickup and I’ll finish it.”
Nick shifted and drove toward her camper. He wasn’t ready to talk, and he knew Maggie wasn’t answering questions. “You’re not wearing shoes. I’ll carry you—”