by Adrianne Lee
In prison he’d discovered the value of observation, of sensing something amiss in the very air. It was a lesson hard learned, at much personal expense. He rubbed the back of his scarred hand, tapped what remained of his original God-given nose, his God-given jaw.
A clunk-clunk caught his attention. One of the patio tables lay on its side beneath the bathroom window, colliding with the house on every gust of wind. He caught it and put it back where it belonged, wondering how it had escaped from between the chairs. Not the wind. More likely the gust that moved this was human.
He scanned the alleyway, the area beside the tree, rain slashing into his eyes. He no longer expected the best from his fellow man. He’d been naive once, but now he knew most people were capable of crimes the average Joe never suspected.
He saw no one, but if someone was out there, he hoped to hell they got drenched.
Wiping at his face with his sleeve, he turned toward the back door and stepped into the kitchen. He took a deep breath, feeling welcomed by the lingering scents of spices and sauces, the sense of sanity afforded him in this room by its pristine coolness, its homey chaos, its sources of creation. All the big and small appliances that allowed him to practice the one thing he had any feel for. The thing he’d been denied while behind bars.
He stroked the granite countertop. He owed Candee and Nanette more than he could ever repay them. After his arrest he could count his friends on one hand without using all of his fingers. He bit down that aging hurt and embraced instead his luck at having made a few true friendships.
Candee and Nanette had stuck by him, believed in his innocence, and aided in his re-establishing a new life when his lawyer discovered he had never been read his rights at the time of his arrest. This violation of his fourth amendment rights had provided the means of overturning his sentence. At the time, he’d feared the Rayburns and the press would descend on him like vultures seeking to finish their prey. But he wasn’t even sure if the Rayburns knew. Thanks to an exploding sex scandal involving the governor, the Ethan Marshall release dwindled to page ten news. The small article was accompanied by an old photograph, one taken before Mark had gone to jail.
So, here he was. A free man. Lucky to have a few good friends who’d believed in him and his talents enough to secure loans for the restoration of this house and provide the starter cash that had set their business on its feet.
Of course, it was also self-serving. As his partners, they shared in the profit. But he was using his share to pay off the loans, to purchase the house.
“Ah, Big E, you’re dripping wet.” Candee came through the swinging door, his jet-black hair combed smooth off his flat face and caught at the nape in a leather thong. His smile narrowed his eyes to slits. “I guess I’d better wear my slicker.”
“I’d recommend it.” Mark shook rain from his head and hands, noticing for the first time the discomfort of wet cotton clinging to his upper body. He tossed him the keys to the van. “Nanette is waiting for you to show up with that flan, buddy.”
“It’s ready. I can’t believe I dropped the tray this morning.” He glanced around the spotless kitchen. “Took me an hour to clean up the mess.”
“Stuff happens. Speaking of which, did you hear anything on the porch while you were working at the computer?”
“No.” He gave a sheepish grin. “But I was listening to a new CD. Rather loudly. Is something wrong?”
“Nah. Just a displaced patio table.”
Candee shrugged into his parka. “Ah, the wind… Perhaps we should not have set the patio furniture out this early.”
“Perhaps.” Mark didn’t believe for a minute that the wind had moved that table, but he left his fears unvoiced. Candee had had enough upset for one day. But as he watched his partner move to the refrigerator, he couldn’t resist ribbing him. “You need help with the flan?”
“You wound me.” Candee laughed as he pulled the covered tray from the middle shelf. “I’ll be extra careful with this batch.”
As soon as Candee pulled away, Mark locked the back door. Despite the fact he loathed being locked in, he had to lock the world out. Candee and Nanette wanted a security system, but Mark couldn’t stand cops, even rent-a-cops, showing up at his doorstep. They’d compromised, putting his sensitivities over their own. Something else he owed them for.
He’d installed dead bolts and other secure locks that required his personal inspection. He went through the house now, checking the kitchen, dining room, showroom and foyer, finding every lock engaged. The first irregularity he encountered was at the washroom. Company policy charged the door be shut at all times. It stood ajar. Had Candee left it open amid his distress over the spilled flan? Or did the table outside this window indicate something more sinister?
With the hair on his nape prickling, he pushed the door inward. The room was empty. Breath rushed from him on a laugh. He crossed to the window. Unlocked. His humor fled. He studied the room a long moment, then realized the brass towel ring lacked its guest towel, and a blue mark—the exact color of the stuff Nanette used to keep the bowl clean—adorned the oak toilet lid. He peered at it. Almost an outline. Like the edge of…of a shoe?
He glanced up at the window and his nerves chattered. Had someone stolen in through that window? Wouldn’t Candee have heard someone in the house? He considered. Then decided with a CD playing loud and the cacophony of thunder and wind for accompaniment, he might not have.
On the other hand, maybe he was jumping to conclusions. There were other explanations. Less nefarious ones. He should have asked Candee whether or not he’d had any customers this morning. Someone with a child, perhaps.
But as a precaution, he returned to the kitchen, gathered an iron skillet for a weapon, then went down to the cellar and found it secure. The only other place someone could be was upstairs in his private quarters, but no respectable thief would find anything there worth the price of admission. In fact, if someone was up there, what they were about to encounter was one pissed off chef, wet and cold, who wanted nothing more than privacy and a hot shower. Gripping the pan by the handle, he moved up the steps with unusual caution, and silently swung the door open.
This upper level divided into four rooms. No hardwood planking up here, but wall-to-wall carpet…for his son’s comfort. Plus, he figured it would mute any noise a child’s footfalls might make. Thinking to bring the outdoors indoors, he’d chosen to do the whole of his living quarters in shades of green with yellow accents, and a dinosaur theme.
The main area stretched the width of the house and held his exercise equipment—one of those Bowflex machines that bolted to the wall—a boom box, a recliner and a nineteen-inch TV with built-in VCR. There was also a full bathroom and two bedrooms, the largest reserved for Josh.
Mark approached the bathroom and bumped open the door. It appeared to be as he’d left it. The hand towel rumpled, the shower curtain bunched at one end of the claw-footed tub. He peeked behind the door. No one. He moved on to Josh’s room. Dreaded going in. Made himself. Without the boy, it seemed more of a monument to a kid than a kid’s room. He stood in the center of it. Studying it. The trucks and train set appeared unmoved. The books untouched. The bedspread unruffled. His frustration over Josh struck with renewed vengeance and Mark crossed to the closet, yanked it open. It was empty. He hadn’t bought the boy any clothes. Didn’t know his size.
Pain pressed his heart, digging deep through the unhealed fissure that had ripped through him that atrocious night two years ago.
He checked under the bed, then rushed out, closing the door as if that could lock away the hurt and pain he couldn’t ease.
He approached his own room with revived caution, bumping the door open with the toe of his shoe. His gaze went immediately to the bed—the sheets half on and half off in testament to his restless night.
Livia Kingston’s image filled his mind and he smacked the skillet against his palm. Damn that woman. She would get into his head. He stormed to his closet, slapped open
the door. Nothing. He plowed his hand through his clothes. No one hiding at the back. He knelt and checked under his bed. Nobody.
“You’re all alone, buddy.” He sighed at the cold, harsh truth of how very alone he was, put the skillet down on his bed, got a bath towel from the linen closet, then stripped off his wet clothes. With the towel wrapped at his waist, he stalked to the bathroom and lathered his face. Shaved. Then he reached behind the shower curtain, turned on the shower full blast and dropped the towel.
THE BLAST OF WATER drenched Livia. She yowled, leaping from behind the dinosaur shower curtain. Water dripped from her hair into her eyes and her clothes cleaved her body like wet paint, accentuating every feminine curve and crevice. But compared to the naked man gaping at her, she felt wrapped in blankets.
Mark Everett’s expression ran the gambit from shocked to pissed in half seconds, but his fury was lost on her as her gaze locked on his body. Dear God, he was gorgeous. His shoulders wide enough for a woman to feel protected in his embrace, the raven hair dappling his molded chest looking silken enough to tease a woman’s fingertips, his belly as hard as a rocky river-bed, and the prize package lower definitely worth taking off the ribbon to enjoy. She blushed, jerked her head up and met the fire of his golden eyes.
Mark’s heart galloped inside his chest as he glared at the drenched woman standing in his tub, her streaked-blond hair plastered to her head, her aqua eyes wide—not so much with shock but something…darker, sensual, definitely breath-stealing. His gaze wandered over her breasts, lingered on her erect nipples, probed the cleft between her legs. It was as if his dreams of her had caused her to materialize. He felt the heat reach into him, rouse him.
She noticed and yelped. He bent to grab the towel at his feet. She jumped from the bathtub and darted past him, out the door. Securing the towel, he raced after her. Tackled her. Pulled her beneath him. They were nose to nose, but she didn’t scream as he’d expected. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Let me up! Now!” Her hands slammed against his arms, his face.
He grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head. He felt her struggling beneath him, felt his body responding to the enticing movements, fought against it. “Why did you climb through my bathroom window and hide up here?”
Her eyes narrowed with defiance. “Who…who are you?”
Her question started his heart thundering harder and harder. Had she figured it out? Did she know? He stared deep into her eyes. Something sharp poked his breastbone, something she was wearing, a necklace maybe, and—as though it were a magical key, it seemed to unlock and reveal that strange connection he’d felt the night before with Livia Kingston.
What did it mean? What?
She gulped. “What are…are you going to do to me?”
Mark blinked, realizing he was fully aroused, his need pressing hard against the wet cloth gloving her belly, her beaded nipples jabbing his chest. She didn’t seem to feel the fear inherent in her question. In fact, her eyes shone with something like curiosity, like need. He stroked one of her rock-hard nipples, then began moving his hand over her belly and lower. “What would you like me to do?”
His gaze locked on to her mouth, and she licked her lips, quit struggling, puckering slightly as if challenging him silently to do what he wanted more than anything: to kiss her. He obliged, lowering his mouth to hers, tasting her. He released her wrists and she moaned, her hands moving into his hair, her lips going pliant, then hungry.
His need leapt degrees higher.
His conscience gnawed at him, shouting about the thin line he walked between acting on the fire raging through his veins and what was right. Livia Kingston would distract him. He pulled away from her and stood, gathering the towel around himself as if his erection were not visible to them both. “I’m not the one who was hiding in your bathroom, Ms. Kingston. You ought to consider yourself fortunate that I don’t thrust myself on women who don’t want me.”
Livia’s breath puffed out of her. Her face flared as red as ripe tomatoes. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Or mortification. The air between them seemed to sizzle. To crackle. She might regret what had just happened. Might want to deny she’d felt anything. But she hated that he knew she’d been as swept up in that kiss as he had.
She stumbled up and backed away from him, fingering her kiss swollen lips. “Why do you have a photograph of Josh’s family on your chest of drawers? Who are you?”
Mark pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
“I will find out.” Livia spun and left, running down the stairs as if he were chasing her.
But Mark couldn’t move. Fear shivered from his brain to the soles of his bare feet, nailing him to the floor. Fear that she would do exactly what she claimed.
And that would ruin everything.
Chapter Seven
STEAMED AND CLAMMY
Lots of Chicken Soup
Equal Parts: Soul Searching
Fact Finding
Serve with New Perspective
“Are you feeling any better, dear?” Bev Kingston’s face was inches from Livia’s nose.
Her red, runny nose.
She had lost a week, seven whole days of her precious remaining twenty-five, laid out by the worst cold—or coldlike flu virus—she had ever suffered. Every muscle in her body ached. Her head felt heavy, as though it was stuffed with packing peanuts made of lead; she could barely lift it off the pillow.
Her mother held a cupped palm beneath a spoon, bringing broth toward Livia’s mouth. “I’ve fixed you my special chicken soup. You really should try and eat some. A couple of sips at least.”
Livia groaned and tried raising up enough to take in the liquid without spilling it down her chin. The warm broth rolled over her tongue and into her throat. She knew immediately that she was nowhere near being well. Her mother made prize-winning chicken soup, but what she’d just swallowed had no taste.
“I really think you should let me call Dr. Smith.” Bev looked worried. “You haven’t been running a temperature this whole time, but, honestly, you’re as pale as eggshells, have lost what little appetite you had, and don’t seem to be getting any better.”
“I am better, Mom, honest.” But the lie laid heavy against her heart and hearing the list of symptoms, Livia began wondering whether she actually had a virus or if she’d contracted this “illness” to run away from the mess her life was in, to hide from truths she refused to face, from things she couldn’t figure out.
She glanced toward the flowers Reese had sent, a single bunch of roses, the same pink as the bedroom trimmings, the petals wilting now, withering. Like her? Was she ill? Or was her subconscious trying to protect her? The possibility wasn’t that farfetched. If she stayed in bed the next three weeks, she would stay alive, stay out of the line of fire of that fatal bullet.
Would not see that fatal bullet take Mark Everett’s life.
Shying away from the horror of that, she accepted another sip of soup from her mother, closing her eyes as she swallowed. Her mother dabbed her chin with a napkin, but Livia sensed it more than felt it, her mind absorbed elsewhere—back at the night she’d searched the caterer’s living quarters, which had been more of a surprise than a revelation. She’d expected a typical bachelor pad, like those of past boyfriends, but Mark Everett’s personal abode resembled the residence of a single father, child’s room and all. Except he had no child. If he did, there would have been clothing in the closet, in the dresser. Granted, there had been a few toys but none that appeared to ever have been played with.
And why did he have a framed photograph of Josh, Wendy and Ethan Marshall?
He’d refused to tell her.
Left her to figure it out for herself, and instead she’d run straight home into this bed, where she’d stayed ever since.
She accepted another spoonful of soup.
“I hope you aren’t fretting about your wedding preparations, dear. Things are getting handled,” her mother said. “Reese’s mother has so
me wonderful ideas for the flowers and says not to fret if she exceeds your budget. She’ll cover any extras. Your daddy and I have the invitations almost ready for mailing, and Bridget and that nice Mr. Everett have been busy designing your wedding cake.”
Livia choked, spewing the soup. “Mark Everett has been meeting with Bridget?”
“Yes.” Her mother mopped at her chin, her neck, and the bedding. “And oh, what a cake it will be. Too beautiful to eat.”
“Good,” Livia mumbled. Just the thought of cake set her stomach churning. Or was it that damned man who had her on edge? He had nerve, she would give him that. More than she did. She’d figured after their last encounter… Oh, God, their last encounter. Memories flooded back and smeared her cheeks with heat. Memories that included his beautiful body. His beautiful, naked body. His beautiful, naked, aroused body.
And her reaction to it.
The same flash of awakening arousal she’d felt then exploded through her now. She fought the sensation. Didn’t want to feel it. But she knew it was one thing to tell herself that she still had the right to look at the opposite sex when the mood struck, that she was a healthy sexual being who was only betrothed, not dead—and quite another to find her whole body tingling with awareness for a man other than her fiancé; to find herself so curious about that man’s kiss that she’d allowed—no, invited—his passion; to respond to that man’s kiss with a hunger she had never experienced with Reese, never even dreamed she could feel.
No. She did not want to be attracted to Mark Everett. Not only was he a complete mystery, he was far too dangerous to her on every imaginable level. Livia touched her lips, recalling the disturbing, illicit kiss and knew it was too late. She was already attracted to him.