Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  Leslie pulled her hands free, liking his touch far too much. She couldn't think when he was so close, his dark chocolate eyes opaque with worry. She got up and paced to the fireplace, laying her arm along the mantle. She had to get away from his potent presence for a moment. Not that she was complaining—he'd managed to distract her from her earlier panic.

  Simon regarded her thoughtfully. What was he going to do about her? She was in danger and he didn't know who was behind it. She certainly wasn't going to invite him to move in so that he could keep an eye on her.

  "I'd like to check your bathroom, and the other rooms upstairs.” At least he could reassure himself that there was no one still in the house.

  She nodded, climbing the stairs ahead of him. “I haven't heard anything up here since it happened. I'm sure he's gone."

  Simon looked in the bathroom. The air smelled faintly of gardenias. No one lurked behind the shower curtain. The tub was empty, the floor still wet where water had splashed out of it.

  He went back into the hall. Leslie stood in the doorway of her room. At the sight of her, his stomach lurched. She had an odd, newly distraught look on her face, and her mouth trembled. “My room—someone's been there."

  To his horror, her face crumpled, and tears filled her eyes. Leaning against the door frame, she buried her face in her hands. “Someone searched my room,” she wailed between sobs.

  Simon wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. Her body felt slight and fragile against his. An unexpected tenderness tightened his throat. Even through the terry robe he could feel the delicate bones of her spine. Her breasts pressed against his chest, small, soft mounds.

  Sucking in a breath, he realized her hands were no longer clenched in front of her. She clung to his waist with a strength that astonished him, as if she were drowning. As perhaps she was, reliving the episode in the bath.

  He balled one hand into a fist. If he caught the person terrorizing her...

  She stiffened as if she'd just realized where she was. Peeling one arm away from his waist, she pressed her hand against his chest, as if to push away.

  "Don't,” he whispered. “Stay. I won't let anyone hurt you."

  She gave a shaky laugh. “What about you, Simon? Will you hurt me?"

  He closed his eyes, swallowing painfully. “No promises. But I haven't been in the house except by your invitation."

  Abruptly she moved away. To his surprise, her eyes flashed angrily as she paced around the room. “I'm not going to let anyone drive me out. Jimmy said he'll keep an eye on the house, but obviously this person knows how to avoid the police. So I'm going to have to take my own precautions."

  "Move out,” Simon suggested. “You can stay with me."

  "I need to be here,” she said stubbornly. “I need to check out all of the house, find out what else Jason was hiding."

  "Leslie, come here,” Simon said softly.

  Her eyes met his, saw the gentleness there. Unable to help herself, she stepped forward into his arms. Against his chest, she allowed herself to relax, rubbing her fingers back and forth on his shirt. Through the thin cotton she could feel the roughness of his chest hair, the hard curve of the underlying muscle, the heat of his skin. She also felt him stiffen, felt the comfort he'd offered change to a darker, more elemental emotion .

  Simon took her hand in his. She thought he was about to push her away, but he merely held it. His palm was hard and callused. Absently she rubbed her thumb over the raised scar of some old injury.

  "Leslie.” His voice was low, a whisper that seemed one with the night.

  Leslie looked up into his face, saw the dark heat in his eyes. She knew what he wanted without his asking, and was torn between anticipation and terror.

  He lowered his head, and she held her breath as his mouth covered hers. His kiss was seduction itself. His mouth was firm, neither reticent nor predatory. She parted her lips, her hands clutching his shirt. He explored her teeth with his tongue, gently requesting entrance. “Leslie, open your mouth.” His breath feathered her skin, the sensitive inner lining of her mouth.

  This couldn't go on. Her heartbeat hammering in her ears, Leslie shook her head and unclenched her hands, taking a step back. “No. Don't."

  Her skin felt hot, too tight for her body, and her nipples stung as though burned. She was grateful for his hands on her shoulders, afraid her trembling knees would collapse and drop her ignominiously at his feet.

  "Why not?” he said, so calmly he might have been discussing the weather.

  "Because I don't play games."

  His hands tensed. “It's not a game. I wanted to kiss you, and I did."

  "We hardly know each other.” Her voice was ragged, her breathing rapid and shallow. And she knew she lied.

  "You wanted it, too,” he added.

  Her nostrils flared with temper, an anger ignited by her confusion. “Did I? If I did, it was because I'd had a scare. Don't take advantage of that."

  Abruptly he released her, so quickly she lost her balance and almost fell. He steadied her with one hand, then let go as if he'd scorched his fingers. Raking his hair back from his face, he turned away. “Hell!"

  Grinding his teeth, he fought for control, not even sure why he was angry. Maybe because she was right. He had taken advantage of her momentary weakness.

  "It worked, didn't it?” he said tightly. “You forgot you were scared. You don't seem to realize that you're an attractive woman."

  He turned abruptly away. “Go downstairs while I check your room."

  In her room, he found the sheets lying in a heap beside the bed. Clothes still hung in the wardrobe, but her suitcase was upside down next to it. The dresser drawers all hung open, and the garments they had once held were strewn on the floor. He picked up a lacy bikini. The silk clung to his hand. Was this what she wore under her conservative clothes?

  He rebuked the desire that coiled in his stomach. This wasn't the time to indulge it. Or to admit to the need that shook him when he was close to her.

  Shaking his head, he checked the French doors. Closed and locked. Just to be safe, he looked in all the upstairs rooms, with their empty cupboards and stripped beds. Nothing. Not a trace of an intruder.

  Leslie sat huddled on the sofa, her eyes red and swollen. Her fingers twitched nervously, shredding a damp tissue. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

  "No, there's no one there. And everything's locked."

  She nodded. “I'm sorry."

  "For what?"

  "I think I gave you the wrong impression.” The words spilled out in a rush.

  He walked over to her and drew her to her feet, lifting her chin with his forefinger. “I'm not sorry I kissed you. And I don't play games, either. But I'm not going to deny that I'm attracted to you."

  He pulled her against him. Sliding one hand down her back, he pressed her hips close to his. “You've been married. You understand when a man wants you. I want you.” The cool green-apple scent of her hair filled his nostrils, his being.

  "Yes, Leslie, I want you,” he repeated when she remained silent. “And now, what the hell are we going to do about it?"

  * * * *

  When Leslie woke the next morning, the episode with Simon seemed like a dream. She remembered giving him a look that she'd hoped was quelling but that probably had conveyed only her uncertainty. She'd pushed him out the door as quickly as possible, brushing off his offers to spend the night, or to send a policeman to guard the house. “The intruder won't come back,” she said, hoping she wasn't just trying to reassure herself. “And if he does, I'll be ready for him."

  She'd double-checked the locks on all the doors and windows, left a light on downstairs, and gone up to bed. As an added precaution, she had wedged a chair under the doorknob in her bedroom and locked the French doors leading to the balcony.

  To her surprise, she'd slept well, long and dreamlessly.

  The rising sun slanted into the room, illuminating one of the ornate plaster cheru
bs that graced the corners of the ceiling. Leslie licked her lips, tasting Simon on them, which was absurd since she had thoroughly brushed her teeth before going to bed. The cherub smirked, the tiny arrow in the bow he held pointed directly at her.

  "Oh, go away,” she muttered. She hated the four plump creatures, with their knowing smiles and their bright blue eyes that seemed to follow every move she made.

  The faint scent of wood smoke drifted past her nostrils. She glanced at the door. The chair still stood braced against it. She buried her face in the pillow, wishing she could stay in bed instead of facing Simon, who would undoubtedly show up right after breakfast. When he'd left last night, he'd promised to come back to check her cellar again.

  What could she say to him? She'd acted like an affronted virgin, while he'd treated the episode with mature honesty. He didn't play games, he'd said. Which meant he truly was attracted to her.

  What was wrong with that? Plenty, she thought savagely. She'd just recently ended a relationship that hadn't left her eager for another. She was doing just fine on her own.

  A pair of mourning doves cooed in the huge fig tree outside her window, their gentle hoo-hoo mocking her. Knowing she wouldn't sleep any longer, she pushed aside the light blanket and sat up. She didn't have time for Simon's flirtation, no matter how good it felt to be held tightly to that hard, lean, male body. Her eyes softened briefly as she straightened the bed. He had the ability to make her feel like a desirable woman, and that was what made him dangerous.

  The smell of smoke was stronger. Turning her head, she looked at the French doors. They were closed but the lace curtain stirred faintly and she remembered a small crack in the glass. Someone must be burning brush outside.

  Outside?

  Fireplace. The image of kindling on the hearth leaped into her head. Had someone started the fire? And if the chimney was blocked, the house could be filled with smoke.

  She jumped out of bed, and ran to the door.

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  Chapter Seven

  Leslie kicked aside the chair and flung open the door, remembering too late that she should have checked it first for heat. The hall was clear, smelling only of the musty potpourri used in the linen cupboard opposite her room.

  She ran back inside to the French doors and stepped out on the balcony. The crisp morning air enveloped her with the fragrance of jasmine and wood smoke.

  Down the slope toward the village, she saw a thin blue wisp rising from a stone chimney visible through the trees. An unseen donkey brayed, a raucous sound like a creaking gate. On the patio, the cat rolled over in the sun, his paws kneading the air like a kitten's.

  She laughed. The serenity of the scene filled her with sheer relief and a sense of euphoria she couldn't control—didn't want to control.

  She laughed out loud, shuffling her feet in a little dance. In daylight, last night's events seemed unreal, as if they'd happened to someone else.

  The storm the night before had taken the edge off the heat. Downstairs Leslie filled a bowl with corn flakes and milk and took it out to the patio to eat. The little table was pockmarked with rust and the cane seats of the chairs were unraveling, but the fresh air and the exotic scent of the garden made up for these deficiencies.

  The cat lay in boneless slumber next to the back step. When Leslie walked past him, he got up, stretched, shook himself to settle his coat, and meowed inquiringly. She set a saucer of milk before him and after a suspicious sniff, he began to lap it up.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel as Simon, dressed in work boots, a yellow T-shirt, and ancient jeans bleached almost white, strode around the corner.

  "Last night you drove. Today you walked. How far away do you live?” Leslie said by way of greeting.

  "I've been checking kiwi vines,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “The top end of my property borders on the street out there."

  "And where were you yesterday, when the electrician came?” She'd been too distraught last night to mention it. “I thought you wanted to talk to him."

  "Unexpected business in Corfu.” He grinned, and his eyes warmed. The memory of the kiss they'd shared hung between them like a sensual perfume. Cheeks hot, Leslie looked down, fidgeting with her spoon. “Why, did you miss me?” he added slyly.

  "In your dreams,” she retorted, embarrassed that he had probably read her thoughts.

  He laughed. “You must have had a good night. No more disturbances?"

  "Nothing."

  "Was anything missing from your room?"

  "Not that I can see."

  Simon frowned. “Then what were they looking for? Leslie, are sure you're telling me everything?” He made an impatient sound. “How can I help you if you're not honest with me?"

  "Why should you help me?"

  "Somebody has to. It might as well be me."

  She lifted her chin, pushing aside the uncomfortable reminder that last night she'd been grateful for his help. “I can take care of myself. I was just upset last night. I overreacted. This morning it seems stupid."

  His expression didn't alter. “What about the bathtub thing? Someone tried to drown you."

  "Well, they didn't succeed, did they?” she said tartly. “Maybe they just wanted to scare me. It's just too crazy. Why would anyone want to harm me?"

  "That's a good question,” Simon said, getting to his feet. “And I'd like an answer."

  Leslie carried her bowl into the kitchen and put it in the sink. A knock sounded on the front door. Simon strode through the hall and opened it. The glare of sunlight dazzled Leslie's eyes and she saw only the silhouette of a man.

  "Mr. Gage, I presume,” Simon said, using his best sarcasm.

  "Who are you?” the man asked, standing his ground. “I was told Mrs. Adams is staying here."

  "What do you want with her?” Simon said belligerently.

  "I'd like to talk with her. About her late husband, with whom I had business dealings."

  "Jason's dead. Mrs. Adams has never had anything to do with his business, so she can't help you. Good day.” Simon turned away, starting to close the door.

  Enough of this, Leslie thought. She squeezed past Simon and addressed the man who stood outside. He was neatly dressed in a tan summer-weight suit and a linen fedora. Under the brim his face was pale, his eyes in shadow.

  "How may I help you?” Leslie asked. “I'm Leslie Adams."

  The man smiled and extended his hand. “I'm so pleased to meet you. My name is Harlan Gage. Please accept my condolences on your husband's unfortunate demise."

  His hand felt damp, his fingers limp. Leslie let go, hiding her distaste. His oily smile and polished words were no doubt meant to instill trust in her. It wasn't working. She'd run into plenty of people in her life who were perfectly polite on the surface but stabbed you as soon as your back was turned.

  She simply didn't trust Mr. Gage. He was too smooth, his clipped accent too perfect, as if he'd gone to speech school. Not only that, he hadn't removed his hat when he greeted her.

  "Thank you,” she said under a guise of civility. “Simon is right, however. I knew nothing about Jason's business."

  "No matter. All I want is a look around the house. I understand you might be willing to sell it."

  "Where did you hear that?” Leslie said sharply.

  He shrugged. “Around the village."

  "Well, they're mistaken. The estate isn't settled."

  "Perhaps you could let me look around anyway?” The man straightened and took a step closer. Behind her, she heard Simon make some sort of noise, and almost laughed. What was he now, her watch dog? “Jason invited me a number of times, but this is my first visit to Corfu and I wondered if you would indulge me."

  Leslie stared at him. He had nerve; she had to say that for him. And her first impulse was to send him packing. Especially since she suspected that his desire to look inside the house was motivated by more than architectural interest. “Why not?” she said, swinging the d
oor wider and standing to one side. “Come in."

  She could have sworn Simon ground his teeth. Gage stepped inside and made a great show of admiring the curve of the stair banister before going into the living room to check out the hand-carved mantel over the fireplace.

  As soon as he turned his back, Leslie elbowed Simon sharply in the ribs. “Smile, you idiot,” she hissed. “I want to see what he wants."

  "The silverware, probably,” Simon muttered darkly.

  "More likely the wine cellar,” she predicted.

  And Gage's next words proved her to be right. “I'm also a connoisseur of fine wines. Would it be possible for me to see the wine cellar? Jason told me all about it, that he even has a couple of bottles of Napoleon brandy."

  Simon, resigned, took the key ring from Leslie. “Maybe I'll lose him in there."

  "They're gone,” Leslie whispered to Simon the moment they opened the wine cellar door. She stared at the clean squares on the dusty floor where the crates had sat.

  "They're gone, all right,” Simon agreed. “Except for this one.” Behind them, Gage cleared his throat. “Let's take care of him first."

  "Where are you from, Mr. Gage?” Leslie asked as Simon stepped aside.

  "From London, my dear.” He sniffed the air like a bird dog. “This is marvelous. Truly marvelous."

  "The brandy's out here,” Simon said in a repressive tone.

  Gage moved after him, prattling about how wonderful it was that all this had been preserved. He examined the bottles Simon picked out, shining the flashlight beam on the labels. “Marvelous. Marvelous. If you ever decide to sell any of this, please get in touch with me. I'll be in the area for the next week."

  Simon pulled down a bottle and handed it to him. “Here. A little souvenir of your visit."

  Gage's face lit up. “Oh, thank you.” Then his expression altered, and the smile slipped. “Uh, thank you."

  They went back upstairs. Leslie wasn't surprised when Gage declined to tour the rest of the house. She shook her head. Even scam artists—and she was sure he was one—had no finesse any more.