The Locket

by Brenna Todd

  "You're not...going to... I mean, you wouldn't..." she sputtered, hoping... and hoping not.

  "Kiss you?"

  Her head angled back, she licked her lips, then nodded slowly.

  "Yeah, I would." Then his dark head lowered, and before she could shake herself out of the trance, he did just that.

  Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn. He was kissing her! She'd wondered and fantasized about this ever since she'd first seen him, and she couldn't for the life of her summon up the will to stop him. It was wrong to string him along just to satisfy her own curiosity, to feel his mouth on hers and his hands caress her. But she did it anyway. She told her conscience to take a hike and simply took what he gave.

  And could the man give! Heat pulsed in her blood when he opened his mouth over hers, his tongue stroking her lips, coercing, insisting that she open to him. She allowed him entrance, then closed her eyes when he thrust inside and immediately took up an age-old seductive rhythm.

  The kiss wasn't experimental or tentative, as first kisses ought to be. It was raw and sexual and underlaid with a lesson that he meant to teach another woman. For him, it was not a first kiss at all, and Erin was well aware of it.

  That fact should have made her wrench away, but her desire was almost painful in its intensity. She pushed closer and wound her arms around his neck, her fingers playing through the silky black strands at his nape even as her tongue joined with his in the dance. Her action seemed to surprise him, and Waite went still for the space of a moment. He broke the kiss and stared down at her, his eyes glazed and his breathing harsh and uneven. He blinked.

  "Waite," Erin whispered, feeling bereft. She trailed her fingertips over his firm jaw and rose on her tiptoe to taste the skin there.

  She got her wish. He groaned and buried his face in her neck, his mouth tasting her as his hands began to roam.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AN ANGUISHED SOUND tore from Waite's throat, and he trailed kisses up her neck to fuse with her mouth again. His hands traveled from the sweet curve of her waist to her softly rounded shoulders, then stole inside the open collar of her shirt as his tongue continued to claim what had once been his.

  His. She was to have been his for a lifetime. And kissing her again after so many years brought back memories of all the plans he'd made for them. A family. He'd wanted to be part of a family again. Della's fingers tunneled through his hair and, as she angled her head to deepen the kiss, as her fine, slender hips writhed against his arousal, he lost his hold on the present and slipped deep into the past, remembering what it was like when they'd been together—when they'd laughed, when they'd kissed, when they'd made love.

  It had been like this.

  No. Not as good as this. This was better. So damned much better. The woman in his arms seemed so different from the woman she'd been.

  Exactly how, he wasn't sure. He only knew that their kisses had been less passionate back then, less urgent. He had loved her but had always settled for what he'd later learned was detached lust. Now, she was acting the way he'd always dreamed she would; as though she was just as swept away as he was.

  She slid her fingers inside his shirt, touching, caressing, and he groaned again, rushing to pull open his buttons to afford her better access. Frantically he fumbled for her buttons, wanting, needing, to feel her satin-soft skin against his again, remembering how exquisite it had been when her breasts rubbed against his naked chest... when he cupped them in his hands, took them into his mouth. God, he remembered.

  She'd been his, damn it; his before she'd become J.B.'s wife! That thought jerked him back to reality in a flash of searing guilt, and he tore his mouth from hers. Oh, God, what was he doing? She wasn't his! J.R's wife... She was J.B.'s wife!

  He pushed her away.

  One hand covering his eyes and his breath rasping in his throat, he shook his head. He'd meant to drive home a lesson...to show her she would never change. How had he allowed it to get so out of hand? And what had possessed him to even think of such an insane act in the first place?

  He lowered his hand to look at her. She was trembling, clasping her shirt closed with her fist. Her face was flushed and her lips swollen from the ravishment of his mouth. A tear glistened as it rolled down her cheek.

  "Damn it, Della," he said, his voice harsh and raw. He shook his head again, turning away, his hands vicious as they did up the buttons of his shirt. He thought he heard her voice and glanced back over his shoulder. "What!" he snarled.

  "N-nothing," she said a bit too quickly, then wiped away the tear with her sleeve. She buttoned up her own shirt, then looked at him.

  He imagined it, he was certain, but it struck him that her normally pale green eyes appeared just a shade darker, a shade richer than before. And the expression she regarded him with had a strength and depth that Della wasn't capable of. She cleared her throat, seeming about to say something, then took a step toward him.

  "Stay away from me," he ordered. "Just stay the hell away from me, Della."

  Her lashes fluttered and she nodded, then turned away. "You don't have to worry about that. I won't come near you again." The words were adamant and filled with conviction. "But do me a favor. Don't call me that anymore. Don't call me Della."

  She'd made the same kind of cryptic remark last night. I'm not Della. Waite frowned, remembering how changed she'd seemed. And just now, as though she'd been a completely different woman, a woman he'd never met before, Della had come alive at his touch, his kiss. And her eyes...

  Ridiculous. He might want to believe that the woman who had just turned to flame in his arms wasn't Della Munro, but that didn't alter the fact that she was. That was J.B. Munro's wife standing not three feet away from him, and he was crazy to have forgotten it for even one moment. "You're right. Your name is Mrs. J.B. Munro. Something I accepted a long time ago."

  Erin was just as angry as Waite was. And the moment he'd left to find Sophie, she'd chastised herself for allowing that kiss. She perched on a rock next to the creek and pounded her knee with her fist. How could she have been so stupid, so irresponsible, so...so self-indulgent that she hadn't given a moment's thought to what kissing Waite would do to him? When had she become such a taker?

  The image of his face, stricken and ashamed when he'd pushed her away, came alive in her mind, and Erin squeezed her eyes shut. She was the one who should be ashamed, not him. Because she'd been fully aware of the fact that he'd loved Della. He'd loved her, then lost her to his best friend. Then Erin had rubbed salt in the wound by forgetting who she was supposed to be.

  Waite didn't know he'd been kissing someone else. He'd thought it was Della in his arms, Della kissing him back, Della acting as though she'd like to throw him to the ground and have him right there.

  Oh, damn, oh damn, oh damn!

  Erin wasn't absolving him of all responsibility. He'd started it, she thought a little childishly. He deserved to feel some guilt. But Erin had known better, and she should have put a halt to the kiss before it became so... so...

  Incredible. She could easily have terminated it, had the kiss been an everyday, garden-variety, vanilla kiss. But it had been like nothing she'd ever experienced before. It had filled her with desire, had made her ache for more than kisses. She'd like to meet the woman who had the willpower to resist him.

  And oh, dear Lord, how she'd like to have the chance to test her willpower again.

  Erin put her head in her hands. Home. Dear God, let me go home.

  PLEADING A HEADACHE had gotten Erin nowhere. J.B. had insisted his wife be present at the dinner party he was hosting for several of the civic leaders tonight, no ifs, ands or buts. And he'd demanded that she behave or else. "Him and his sacred image," she muttered under her breath, lifting a forkful of rich pastry to her mouth and wondering which would kill her first—Della's bearded murderer or the fat- and cholesterol-laden foods she'd consumed tonight. Not having eaten since her arrival, Erin had been so hungry that she hadn't cared at first. Now, with the heavy sauces,
ted meat and too-sweet dessert sitting heavily on her stomach, she found yet another reason to get back home again: her health.

  As if on cue, the woman seated next to her lifted an Art Deco clutch purse from her lap and extracted a long cigarette holder. She inserted a cigarette—filterless; what else?—in the holder and lit up, blowing a stream of smoke into Erin's face. "Want one, darling?"

  Erin bunked and quelled the urge to fan the toxic cloud. Did Della smoke? Most likely, since everyone else seemed to, but there were limits to how far Erin was willing to take this charade. "No, thank you. Maybe later," she said.

  The woman smiled and blew a series of smoke rings. Then, although cocktails had been served before the meal, she reached into her beaded purse again, drawing out a flask this time. Glancing down the length of the table, Erin noted that some of the other women had them, too. Amazing, she thought. She just couldn't get over how much it felt as though she were watching an old movie or had been cast in a period play where everyone but her was in character.

  Easy for them, Erin thought. They didn't have to play the part of Della Munro. She had to take on the personality of a floozy, pretend to be the wife of a man who wanted her put away, a woman of loose morals whose ex-lover sneered at her and a woman believed dead by a bearded man who'd tried to murder her. Which was the more challenging role?

  She hadn't thought about the murderer until this evening because she'd been too busy trying to find a way into the tunnels. But now that Erin wasn't so sure she could get back to the nineties anytime soon, the prospect of Della's killer coming after her became all too real. What if the man was one of J.B.'s business associates? What if he'd been one of the guests tonight? Wouldn't he have been one shocked puppy to see Della walking around, and with no bruises on her neck to show for all his hard work?

  Thank God that hadn't been the case—there were no beards in sight this evening. But how long would Erin's luck hold out?

  She glanced down the length of the table and her eyes locked with J.B.'s. Raising her hand to her forehead and mimicking a pained look, she mouthed, "Headache, J.B. Please?" He shook his head and sent her a look that said, "In your dreams."

  Erin dropped her hand to her lap and sighed, her gaze wandering around the table and finding Waite.

  Waite. The man had been devastating in riding clothes, but dressed in evening finery, he was mouthwatering. His broad shoulders emphasized the fit of the elegantly cut striped suitcoat, the snowy wing shirt collar contrasted with his deeply tanned skin and black hair, and the handsome silk tie and matching handkerchief that peeked from his front pocket were designed to attract female attention. They most certainly attracted Erin's. And a few of the other women's, she noted, suffering an inappropriate pang of jealousy. The woman next to him could hardly keep her bejeweled hands off him, and the one seated directly across from him looked as though she wanted to hike her skirt, climb over the table and sit in his lap.

  When Waite reached for the crystal water goblet in front of him, and caught Erin staring, she all but jumped. Heat flooded her face and she glanced away quickly, but not before noticing the scowl he gave her. Just stay the hell away from me, she remembered him saying.

  Sounds like a plan, she wanted to retaliate. She'd been foolhardy to step too close to the fire this afternoon, but Erin was a quick study. And she'd picked up immediately on the fact that Waite MacKinnon was a raging sexual inferno.

  The sound of voices in the foyer just outside the formal dining room caught Erin's attention, and she glanced back over her shoulder to see one of the servants talking to a woman. Plainly dressed in comparison to the peacocks seated at the table, she was tearfully asking to speak to J.B. When the butler tried to explain that wasn't possible, the woman's voice grew louder, more insistent. She noticed Erin watching her then, and suddenly stopped in midsentence. She lifted her chin and shot Erin a venomous look.

  Oh, no! Erin thought. What now?

  The more the butler tried to put the woman off, the more determined she became. He finally gave up, left the woman in the foyer, and strode back into the dining room and to J.B.'s side. J.B. frowned as the man whispered to him, then rose from his seat, making excuses to his guests. He followed the butler into the foyer.

  Something was up, Erin realized. Something big. It was clear J.B. had been intent on getting rid of the woman, but after only a few loudly whispered remarks from the woman, he glared over his shoulder at Erin. Erin caught snatches of the conversation and didn't like the sound of it.

  My husband... Your wife...

  No, she didn't like the sound of it one bit. Swiv-eling around in her seat, she was met by silence and the quizzical expressions on the faces of the guests. Harrison Wyndham, the Boston banker, seemed most interested of all. Erin prayed that J.B.'s desire for damage control would keep him from exploding. Surely he would squelch this, if for no other reason than his important business deal.

  But it appeared that she was to have no luck on that front. J.B.'s footsteps sounded like a death knell as he strode across the marble foyer and back into the dining room.

  "Della," he said, making little attempt to mask his anger. "We have a visitor we need to speak with. You'll excuse us," he added for the benefit of his guests. Then he grasped her arm and pulled her up. What she would have given to be able to take the woman up on that offer of a cigarette, now that she was about to face a firing squad, but J.B. didn't give her the time to ask. He had her out of her chair and striding toward his office before she or any of the dinner guests had known what hit them. Once inside, with the door closed behind them, J.B. whipped out his linen handkerchief for the woman, who had fallen tearfully into a chair, and Erin no longer had to fake a headache.

  "Explain yourself, wife," J.B. demanded through gritted teeth. He walked toward his massive oak desk and sat facing her as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked a drawer. He extracted a leather-bound book and flung it open. "Explain yourself to me and this poor woman."

  Erin shook her head slowly. "I... don't know this woman," she stated quietly.

  The woman raised her pretty, tear-streaked face from the linen cloth. Her hands trembled and her eyes were full of equal parts animosity and heartbreak. Her cloche hat was mouse brown and didn't match her well-worn black coat. On her feet were scuffed, down-at-the-heel shoes, and peeking out below the hem of her coat was a faded yellow dress, too thin for winter wear.

  An inexplicable surge of guilt washed through Erin. She was outfitted to the nines in Della's silk Lanvin evening dress. The long string of pearls she'd chosen to wear with it suddenly seemed distasteful and gaudy, the elegant T-strap heels frivolous. But they were Della's, she reminded herself, not hers. Just as it was Della's crime she was about to be accused of.

  "But you know my husband, Roy, don't you?" The woman pulled a photograph from her coat pocket and held it out to Erin. "You know him very well. He told me so... He said—" her voice broke, becoming a tortured whisper "—he loved you. C-couldn't... live with the thought that y-you... didn't love him, too. So he left town. Left me and the children...." She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, then gazed up at Erin. "I...just have to know if he was...telling the truth."

  Damn you, Della, Erin thought, her heart rending in two for the woman. If you weren't dead already I'd strangle you my self !

  But wait a minute. Della was dead. And maybe this Roy was her killer. Unrequited love was as good a motive as any. Hadn't the woman said that her husband had left town? Maybe it wasn't because he couldn't live with the fact that Della had spurned his affections. Maybe he feared prison, or even a death sentence. Erin reached for the photo, wondering if she'd found a piece of the puzzle.

  But the man had no beard and no other resemblance to the murderer. He was blond instead of dark, lean instead of large-framed. Erin suffered a moment's disappointment, but it fled the second her gaze lighted on the anguished wife again. The poor woman had it bad enough being married to an adulterous jerk, but if he'd
been a murderer as well, it would have been even worse.

  "Do you know the man, Della?"

  Erin hadn't realized how quiet the room had become until J.B.'s angry voice cracked the silence. His eyes were filled with that same anger, but there was something else, as well. The same thing, in fact, that had been in the woman's expression. Hope. Just as the woman had come here in the hope that her husband hadn't betrayed their vows, J.B. hoped it wasn't true. He might not consciously realize it, but it was visible in his eyes.

  He pulled a pen from the desk drawer and nodded toward the open book in front of him. "I want to help this woman, but first I need to know if what she says is true. I need to hear it from you."

  "Oh, no! I don't want no money from you, Mr. Munro," the woman objected loudly, jumping up from her chair. She tilted her chin at a prideful angle. "I didn't come here for that." She turned to Erin, her eyes beseeching. "I just had to know if Roy was telling the truth."

  Erin swallowed hard, glancing from the wife to J.B., then back again. The truth? It was the truth, wasn't it? It had to be! Della would have done this. Of course, she would have. The situation had her signature all over it. Erin was sick to death of all the lies, but this wouldn't actually be lying, would it?

  Though she couldn't be absolutely certain Della had done it, there was a better-than-even chance she had. Hell, even J.B. believed it, and had immediately pulled out the old checkbook.

  And besides, this woman needed the money in the worst way, no matter who Roy, the jerk, had fooled around with. She had children to feed and clothe. Her family shouldn't have to suffer for what her husband had done. Erin had the power to make sure they wouldn't, and even if the man bad lied about having had an affair with Della, Erin simply couldn't stand by and not do something!