by Skye Warren
Beau tenses, every muscle coiled for defense. Or attack.
It should make me feel safer, but instead it makes me feel more afraid—as if I’m stuck in a battle between wolves and bears, as if I’m a mouse destined to be ripped apart by both sides.
Detective Moss clears her throat. “We understand you witnessed someone walking on the beach. Can you tell me about that?”
The way she says it is nice… but a little condescending. As if she thinks I’m making a big deal about a tourist on the beach. “Maybe it’s nothing,” I say, my voice halting, hesitating. “I’m a little nervous after the fire. A little jumpy.”
“You’re fine,” Beau says, his voice hard. “The detectives requested this meeting.”
Right. They requested this meeting. I sit a little taller in the chair and lift my chin. It’s not easy for me to face them, but I’m determined to do it with my head held high. “I was giving Paige a bath. She likes to take her time, so it’s a full hour of splash time. I usually try to give her her privacy while also making sure she’s safe, so I check into the bathroom and also spend some time in the bedroom with the door open. I fold laundry and get her clothes ready while I wait.”
I take a breath and glance at the lawyer for reassurance. He nods at me to continue.
“That night I looked out the window. There was a woman walking on the sand. I had the impression of blonde hair the way the moonlight reflected it. But the strange part was that she was wearing this long, white nightgown. It seemed out of place on the beach.”
“Did she do anything suspicious?” This from Detective Causey.
My skin prickles the way it did when I saw her.
The truth is she wasn’t necessarily being suspicious, but somehow my instincts warned me that this wasn’t right. It warned me that this wasn’t… safe.
“No, I just thought it was odd. I’m used to couples walking together or someone walking a dog. Then I checked on Paige, and when I looked back, she was gone.”
“A white nightgown,” Detective Moss says, her pen poised to write more.
“It was far away, but it seemed like something long. It went past her feet.” I don’t share that it looked like she was floating along the beach. I don’t think they’d receive that information well. I’d probably get locked up in an insane asylum. “And it was long sleeved.”
“Even though it’s summer,” Detective Moss murmurs.
The truth is the nights here are still just as cold as the winter nights in Houston. But I’ve learned that people here consider anything short of a deep freeze to be temperate weather. At least I arrived in the early spring, when the snow had passed. The only thing I faced was freezing rain.
“Did you mention her to Rochester?” This from Causey.
“No,” I say, my cheeks burning as I remember what happened when he showed up.
Tell me the truth. Trust me with it. He’d given me more than words in those scalding moments. He’d touched me. Tasted me. Made me gasp and pant with desire before pulling back. His words had doused the embers in a single instant.
Someone was in the house that night. Someone lit a goddamn match.
“I didn’t think it was important,” I say. “Not until Paige told me about seeing a woman wearing a nightgown on the cliffside, near the Coach House. It was strange enough to see it in one place… but in two different places? It seemed suspicious.”
Detective Causey gives me a cold smile. “That, Ms. Rochester, is what we in the law enforcement profession call circumstantial. It means nothing.”
My cheeks heat. “My last name is Mendoza.”
“Oh,” Causey says with fake apology. “Of course you’re still Ms. Mendoza. He hasn’t coughed up an engagement ring yet, has he?”
Rochester glares at him, but I don’t want him to say anything. I don’t want him to defend me. Not when I can defend myself.
I spread my hands on the table as if to say, what’s next? “If it’s circumstantial, then why are you asking me about it? Do you have some questions that are relevant?”
Challenge sparks in Causey’s blue eyes. “Here’s something directly relevant to the fire. Do you know that Rochester changed his will?”
I glance at Beau, but he’s tense now. And silent.
“No,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”
Detective Moss studies me intently, as if she’s trying to look right through me. To the very broken heart of me. “Actually it has quite a bit to do with you. Only a few days before the fire Beau Rochester added an addendum to his will granting you a large sum of money when he died. You stood to become a billionaire if he died in that fire.”
Something tightens around my throat. He did that? Why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he tell me? I look at him. “Is that true?” I whisper.
He doesn’t meet my gaze. He’s busy glaring at Causey. “I told you she saved my goddamn life.”
Detective Causey makes a show of checking some notes. “As I understand it, the firefighters saved your life. Ms. Mendoza was in the house with you, that’s true. Perhaps she was only making sure that you couldn’t escape.”
Horror streaks through my veins. What if Beau believes that? I look at him, but he’s furious. I’m no longer worried about him suspecting me of anything, but now I’m worried for a different reason. He looks a hairbreadth away from launching himself across the table. This may not be a real interrogation room, but I’m sure assaulting a police officer won’t go over well in any setting.
“Goddamn it,” Beau says. “I told you to look at Zoey Aldridge.”
“We did,” Detective Moss says, looking serious.
“He doesn’t give a shit,” Beau says. “Causey isn’t checking any leads.”
Detective Moss doesn’t even deny it. “I checked out the lead. Thoroughly. I flew out to LA. Found footage from clubs and restaurants that prove she was in the city.”
Causey grins. “Lost your scapegoat, didn’t you?”
Something passes over Beau’s expression. Something venomous. “Hell, maybe we’ve been looking at the wrong people all this time. Women. Always blaming the women, but the person who wants to hurt me the most—it’s you.”
“You think so?” Causey says, a touch of mocking in his voice. “Where’s your evidence?”
“Ignore him,” I say, touching Beau’s arm. He’s vibrating with coiled menace, his muscles bunched. “He’s just trying to scare us. Don’t let him get to you.”
Causey glances at where we’re touching. “Is that how you got him to make you a beneficiary? It definitely worked. How many times did you have to sleep with him? Once for every billion? You must have a nice pussy to go for that much.”
Beau launches himself across the table. He’s stopped short by the lawyer, who’s surprisingly fast for his gray hair and genial demeanor. He leans across the table, catching Beau before he can assault a police officer. “Don’t,” he says, breathing hard. Then he turns to the detectives. “Did we mention we’ve been recording the interview? I think the police chief will have something to say about the way you just spoke to a witness.”
Causey was looking smug when Beau reacted to his taunts, but now he turns red. “You were recording us without consent? That’s illegal.”
“Don’t threaten me,” the lawyer says, low and fierce. He’s transformed into someone intimidating, and I see now why Beau hired him. “We had the consent of at least one person taking part in the communication. In addition, the conversation was audible by normal, unaided hearing. And on top of that, there was a notice that you might be recorded posted at the entrance of the inn. Or did you not read the fine print, Detective?”
Causey glares at the lawyer. Then at Beau. Then his dark, accusing gaze turns on me. His eyes remain focused on me even though his words are meant for someone else. “If she’s worth so much to you, Beau, you should take better care of her.”
Beau lets out a growl. “Leave her the hell alone. I know you’re only threatening her to get back at me,
because you’re a goddamn bully. I’m the one you want.”
Causey gives him a half smile. “Don’t blame me. You gave her the biggest motive in the world. And she was in the house. And like the fire chief said, she’s a woman. It’s only a matter of time until we find one more link. Only a matter of time until we get an arrest warrant.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jane Mendoza
I’m pacing in my bedroom, unable to calm down. I’m breathing hard, sweating, freaking out so bad I’m seeing rainbow colors instead of the calm, quiet room around me.
Beau bursts through the door, his expression dark as a storm cloud.
“I didn’t set the fire,” I say, breathless, shaking. “I swear to you. I would never do anything to hurt you, and God, I would never hurt Paige.”
He reaches behind him and shoves the door closed with his palm flat. The thud penetrates even my frantic, panic-drenched mind. “I know you didn’t set the fucking fire,” he grinds out. “This is the way Causey’s trying to get to me. Through you.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it, and I didn’t even know about the will and—why did you do that, Beau? Why did you change your will?”
Both hands on my shoulders, his grip as intense as his expression. It’s hard, almost bruising, but I wouldn’t want him to go softer. This isn’t a moment for gentleness. “I wanted you to have it. The money. What the hell good is the money if it can’t make your life easier? If it can’t send you to college? If it can’t give you everything you dream about?”
I don’t dream about money. I’m not dreaming about anything right now. I’m nerves and fear in a body that’s out of my control. They keep accusing me of things I didn’t do, and I can’t stop it.
I don’t want to stop Beau.
“Give me this,” I tell him. I’m not even sure what I’m asking for. More. More of his intensity and his storm. Let it break over me. My teeth chatter with the adrenaline rush. I need his rough control to meet whatever this whirlwind is. “Please.”
His dark eyes widen. “Tell me what you mean. Tell me exactly, Jane.”
“I need—” I don’t have the words for it. I can only feel it there under his skin. Coiled and waiting. As hard and possessive as he is, with his big hands on my shoulders and his body generating heat in the room.
“I don’t want to think anymore. Please.”
I don’t have answers. I didn’t have them downstairs, and I don’t have them now.
He must see it in my face.
“Fuck,” he says, expression even darker. A raincloud about to tear open and pour. The ocean about to crash on shore. He takes my face in both his hands and pulls me into a kiss that’s harder than any we’ve shared before. He tastes like salt and fury. Like the metallic aftertaste of a lightning strike.
The kiss is so all-consuming that it pulls my body into a new response. I was shaking before out of terror. Out of panic from that interview. Now it’s pure need.
I don’t need what he can give me.
I need what he can take.
All these roiling thoughts. All this fear. He can take it.
“You want me?” he asks, walking toward me. I’m forced to back up, back up, back up, until the wall stops me. It’s cool and impersonal, that wall, keeping me flush against Beau’s hard body. He grips my chin. His thumb runs over my trembling lips. “You want me in your mouth? Lick me? Suck me with this pretty little mouth?”
Words have escaped me. They’ve flown right out of my head, leaving only sensation. The sensual, ticklish feeling of his touch on my lips. The iron length of his erection against my stomach. I can’t answer him with words.
Instead I flick my tongue out against his thumbpad.
His eyes turn midnight black. It’s a threat, that color. The kind of night when the wind kicks up, making one-hundred-year old trees sway in the wind. There’s not a single star in his sky. “Get on your knees,” he says, his voice low and velvet.
For a moment I think he means he’ll step back. He doesn’t move. His thumb taps once, twice, three times on my lips, and I understand he means for me to slide down the wall. My knees hit the floor. He rests his hand on the wall above me, looking down, eyes glittering.
“Your leg,” I manage to say, my concern for him overriding my lust.
“I’ll survive,” he says, a mocking half-smile on his face. “Go on.”
I reach up and fumble at his belt. My fingers feel thick under this haze of arousal. Clumsy. I finally manage to open the buckle. Then I work the zipper of his jeans down over a rock-hard arousal. It’s difficult at first, the denim stretched taut, and then fast the rest of the way down. There’s still a layer of black fabric shielding my view.
His words come back to me in a rush. I only wear boxer briefs. Boxers are too loose. Briefs are too tight. Boxer briefs are perfect. He’d been teasing me, offering me that superficial intimacy, but now it strikes me as deeply personal knowledge—that I know what he prefers to wear. That I’m touching it, curling my fingers over the top, pulling the elastic down.
His cock springs out, heavy and almost painfully hot against the back of my hand. It leaves a streak of precum painted across my wrist.
I grasp him in my fist and glance up at him. His teeth are gritted. It looks like pain, but I know it’s something else. It’s that singular ache I feel between my legs, wanting so much it hurts.
This close, in the tiny pocket of universe between him and the wall, all I can see is his cock. All I can smell is his salt-musk. I place a hesitant kiss on the side of his erection.
It jumps in my hand, startling me.
“Don’t play with me,” he says, his voice low.
He’s never been this way with me, this intense, this severe. I should be afraid, but somehow it emboldens me. I’ve brought him to this pitch. “Or else what?”
“Or else you’re going to get fucked.”
A shiver runs through me, even though I don’t fully understand the warning. I thought that’s what we were doing here.
Then he pulls from my hand. He fists his own cock, fucking himself.
“Open,” he says, and now I understand.
He’s not going to let me suck him. I won’t be able to lick or kiss. I won’t be able to play with him. Instead I’ll be given his cock. I open my lips, and he pushes forward. My mouth is flooded with salt, with arousal. I’m full, gasping, almost gagging, and then he pulls back.
“Again,” he murmurs. That’s the only warning I get, the split second of knowledge before I’m filled again, my eyes watering with the pressure against my throat, tears running down my cheeks. He holds longer inside my mouth. When he pulls out, I’m gasping for air.
“Again.”
This time it goes too far. My throat convulses around him. My hands fly up, without thinking about it, without planning. I don’t want to stop him necessarily, but my body reacts. I try to pull back but the wall blocks me. My hands push at his thighs. It’s like trying to move a brick wall.
He pulls back, looking down at me, shaking his head. “No, ma’am.”
His tone is gently admonishing, playful and serious at the same time. It’s humiliating for him to chastise me this way, but my body reacts as if he swiped a finger across my clit. I’m immediately hotter, wetter. My thighs clench together.
“Give me your hands,” he says.
I lift them, and he pins my wrists to the wall on either side of my head. Then he pushes forward again. His progress is slow but inexorable. I try to open wide, to submit to him. Don’t fight, don’t fight. There’s a moment of panic, but he mutters words of praise and encouragement.
“Breathe through your nose.” The words are like a low, almost inaudible music in the room. “Relax. You can do this, sweetheart. You can take me.”
Tears run down my cheeks. I feel them drip off my chin and fall onto my chest. He holds himself inside my throat. I swallow around him convulsively, again and again. My lungs burn without air. A circle of darkness closes. Then h
e pulls out and air fills me up, almost violent in its return.
“Or maybe I won’t survive,” he mutters, his midnight eyes glinting down at me.
A hand fists in my hair. He uses it as a handle to lift me up off the floor, up and up and up until he can kiss me again. His teeth rake along my bottom lip—a flash of pain—and then he’s stripping me down. Fast. Efficient.
My shirt comes over my head. My yoga pants. Nothing withstands him.
“More,” he says. Nothing else. Just more. He’s going to take more.
“Yes,” I breathe. Take me. Take everything.
He’s breathing harder as he skims his hands over my shoulders, my breasts. This is as sweet as he’s willing to be right now. As slow as he’s willing to go.
I don’t want him to be careful with me.
He’s not.
He moves us over to my bed, turns me to face him, and pushes me up onto the mattress. There’s no hesitation now. He moves me how he wants me, and oh, God, it’s such a relief.
Finally, finally. I don’t have to think. I can just feel.
He spreads my legs apart, arranging me however he wants. And he wants me open.
Two fingers tease at my entrance. It’s like he’s testing how wet I am. How swollen. How ready. Then he shoves two fingers inside, fast, unrelenting, and my whole body bows with shock. Even as aroused as I am, it still feels like too much.
He kneels beside me, leaning over me. I feel dominated, whether I’m against the wall or against the bed. It’s my own personal cliff. He walks me to the edge, then pushes me over.
He finds a spot inside me that makes me gasp.
“What are you doing?” I manage to pant.
“Writing you a message,” he says, sensual knowledge in his eyes. He knows exactly how he’s making me feel, how hard it is to stay still.
He’s written on different parts of me—my arm, my stomach. Drawing letters that spell out secret words. This is the first time he’s written inside me, his fingers stroking over a sensitive place, making me squirm and beg. “Please, please, please.”