Hunter's Moon

by Karen Robards

  20

  Molly’s hair tumbled around her face and shoulders in a dark, wavy cloud. Her eyes, rimmed with kohl and enhanced with mascara, looked heavy-lidded and sensuous as they met Will’s gaze. Faint traces of a deep red lipstick clung to the tender curves of her mouth.

  Will didn’t like to think about what had happened to the rest of that lipstick.

  She wore a fingertip-length gray blazer, a skirt maybe two inches longer, and a tight black knit turtleneck that clung like a second skin.

  Her legs in black heels and stockings were slim, shapely, and endless. Of course, the effect was heightened by the fact that her skirt ended at approximately mid-thigh.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice and the sudden bright gleam in her eyes were insolent.

  “Waiting for you.” Having gotten himself under control, Will leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb again.

  “If I’d known, I’d have stayed out later.” Molly walked toward the refrigerator, shedding her blazer as she went. She dropped it on the table. Will was left to stare at her back as she opened the refrigerator door and extracted a can of soda.

  “Want a Coke?” she asked over her shoulder, as if she was just remembering her manners. With a grimace she added, before he could reply, “Oh, yes, I forgot: I mean, want a glass of milk?”

  “No.” Her outfit was too tight, too short, too—everything. She looked very slender, fragile even, except for the tantalizing curve of her butt and, when she closed the refrigerator door and turned to face him, the soft fullness of her breasts.

  Will realized that he had never seen her with her hair curled and makeup on, or dressed in a skirt and stockings and heels.

  She was naturally beautiful, with her hair pulled back and wearing sweat pants or jeans. Got up like she was tonight, she took his breath away.

  She was the sexiest thing he had ever seen in his life.

  “Did you want something? If not, I’m going to bed.” Molly popped the top on her Coke and took a sip, her eyes challenging him over it.

  Will tried in vain to banish the instant erotic image of Molly in bed. His eyes narrowed at her.

  “Did you do what I told you?” he asked, keeping his voice low. The TV in the other room was loud enough to cover their conversation, and the kids were in bed, but still he wanted to take no chances of being overheard. When she had reported to him that afternoon at Keeneland the results of the daily mouth tattoo checks—negative, as he was learning to expect—Will had given her another assignment: to photograph the files in Don Simpson’s office. He had provided her with a pen-camera for that purpose.

  “Did I have a choice?” Molly took another sip of her Coke.

  “No.”

  She sipped without replying.

  “Well?” Will prompted, holding on to his patience with an effort.

  She moved. Despite his best efforts, Will couldn’t keep his eyes off her legs as she crossed to the cabinets, opened a drawer, extracted the camera, which looked exactly like an ordinary Parker pen, and threw it at him with rather more force than was necessary.

  “Catch.”

  Will did, one-handed, and stowed it in his shirt pocket.

  “Good job,” he said.

  “There wasn’t anything in our deal about me sneaking into Mr. Simpson’s office and taking pictures with a spy camera. I want extra pay.”

  “I’m paying you enough.”

  “I thought it was the government that was paying me.”

  “It is. But I authorize the disbursement of funds.”

  “So I guess you think that makes you the boss.”

  “You’re right. I do.”

  Molly didn’t like that, he could tell. She took another sip of Coke.

  “Now that you got what you came for, would you please go? I’m tired.”

  “I bet you are.” The words with their snide edge came out before Will could stop them.

  Molly stiffened. “Why shouldn’t I be? I got up at four a.m., worked all day, went out to dinner and a movie, and now it’s almost midnight. And I have to get up at four tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “So? Horses don’t observe the Sabbath. They need care on Sundays just like they do on any other day of the week.”

  “I need you to go to Howard Lawrence’s memorial service with me tomorrow.” Will revealed the other reason—the official other reason—he had waited around to talk to her.

  “I can’t. I have to work.”

  “So call in sick.”

  Molly laughed.

  Will reconsidered. “The memorial service isn’t until ten. The first race starts at one. If you can’t call in sick, you’ll have to duck out for an hour.”

  “Oh, right, and go to a memorial service in jeans and a T-shirt? I don’t think so.”

  “So bring some extra clothes, and change in the car.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” On a mouth less luscious than Molly’s, that twist might have been described as a sneer.

  “You think I’d watch through the mirror?”

  “You might.”

  “You’ve got me confused with your drooling boyfriend.”

  “All men drool.”

  “You may be right, but not necessarily over you.” The implication that he didn’t find her drool-worthy was a lie, but a necessary one, Will thought, for his own self-preservation. If she ever got an inkling of just how intense his physical response to her was, Will had a feeling he would be in a lot of trouble.

  Molly said nothing, her gaze dropping to the bright red can she held. After a moment she glanced up at him again. “Why do you need me to go?”

  “To identify some people.”

  “You mean your computer can’t do that?” She was mocking him.

  Will shook his head, refusing to be drawn.

  “All right.” Molly capitulated suddenly, wearily. “I’ll tell Mr. Simpson I’m going. He won’t like it, but he won’t fire me over it.”

  “I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty in front of the barn.”

  Molly shook her head. “I’d rather meet you away from the track. I don’t want Mr. Simpson to think I’m skipping work to meet a man. He’s going to be mad enough as it is.”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Where’s the memorial service?”

  “St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Versailles.”

  “How about the 7-Eleven on Versailles Road? Do you know where that is?”

  “I know,” Will said dryly, remembering the gum on his shoe. “Nine-thirty?”

  “Nine forty-five. I can’t be gone too long.”

  “Nine forty-five it is, then.”

  “Is that all?” She put the Coke can on the counter and crossed her arms over her chest, clearly wanting him to be gone.

  “You weren’t so anxious to get rid of your boyfriend a few minutes ago.” Despite his firm intention of leaving, Will couldn’t resist the gibe.

  “But you’re not my boyfriend, are you?” Molly replied with a saccharine smile and a toss of her hair. “Not for real.”

  “You’ve got a hickey on your neck.” The small brown bruise marred the pale curve of her throat just beneath her jaw. Her hair had hidden it till now. The sight of it jarred Will.

  Molly flushed, lifting a hand to her neck. “So?” she said defensively.

  “Better cover it with makeup tomorrow. I don’t want people to think I did it. Hickeys aren’t my style.” Will was surprised at how annoyed he felt, looking at that love bite on her smooth skin.

  “I guess not.” Molly smiled that too-sweet smile at him again, and dropped her hand from its defensive position at her neck. “You’re way too old.”

  “I’m thirty-nine,” he replied, stung.

  “Old.” Molly nodded sagely.

  Will felt the familiar burning in his stomach. It was his body’s usual response to stress, frustration, and/or anger—all of which he was starting to feel in spades.

  �
�Thirty-nine only seems old when you’re twenty-four.”

  “I’ll be twenty-five next month—and thirty-nine still sounds old. Drinks milk, doesn’t give hickeys—old.”

  Will turned and padded into the living room without a word.

  “In case you missed it, the door’s the other way.” Molly stood in the aperture watching him.

  “I’m getting my shoes. And my coat. And my tie. So I can leave.” Will picked up the items as he spoke. Shoes in hand, coat and tie over his arm, he turned to face her. Jay Leno was cracking jokes on TV. Except for the glow of the set, and the light spilling in from the kitchen, the living room was dark.

  All that hilarity on the screen was too much. Will turned the TV off with a semi-savage jab as he passed. Immediately he felt better.

  Molly didn’t move from the doorway as he padded up to her. With her blocking his path, he had to stop. Will was surprised to find that, in her high heels and with him in his stocking feet, her eyes were nearly on a level with his.

  So was her mouth.

  Will looked at that soft mouth with its parted, red-stained lips, and instantly he grew rock hard.

  He wanted to put his mouth on hers so badly that he was afraid she might be able to read it in his eyes. He lowered them, but that didn’t help. Instead it brought into focus the bruise on her throat, the one that had been made by another man.

  “I don’t want you going out on any more dates until this is over,” he said abruptly, hoping his voice didn’t sound as thick as he feared. “We’re supposed to have a romance going here, remember?”

  “You can’t stop me from dating.” Her voice was a cool challenge—and she still hadn’t moved out of his way.

  Will’s lids lifted. “Can’t I?” he asked.

  Defiant, Molly shook her head.

  A drift of perfume wafted under Will’s nose. Her eyes dared him. Her body did too.

  Will reminded himself that the long-legged, big-eyed creature before him was the human version of a Venus’s-flytrap, with men cast as flies. He reminded himself that she had just spent half an hour making out in a car with another man, and sported the love bite to prove it. He reminded himself that he never mixed his personal and professional lives. He reminded himself that he was older, she worked for him, and she was trouble with a capital T.

  “Would you mind stepping out of the way?” he requested politely.

  Her lips compressed, her eyes narrowed, but she moved. Will walked into the kitchen, sat down on the edge of a bench, and put on his shoes. He could feel her watching his every move.

  He stood up and shrugged into his coat, stuffing the tie into his pocket.

  “Lock the door after me,” he said, moving toward it.

  “With pleasure,” she answered with bite.

  He opened the door, then glanced over his shoulder at her. “Tomorrow, I’d appreciate it if you would wear something a little more—conservative.”

  “You don’t like this outfit?” The insolence was back in her voice.

  Will shook his head. “It’s too damned short and too damned tight,” he answered, and walked on out into the blessedly cold night.

  21

  October 15, 1995

  Molly changed in the 7-Eleven’s rest room. Just to be perverse—and because her wardrobe truly was limited, though she could have borrowed something of Ashley’s—she wore the same short black skirt she had worn the previous night. With sheer black panty hose and her black high heels, her legs looked a yard long.

  She had seen Will eyeing her legs.

  A white nylon blouse primly buttoned up to the neck and a hip-length, double-breasted black sweater jacket made the outfit demure enough for church. The blouse sported a delicate ruffle down the front. Pearls were in her ears.

  Her hair was down, brushed carefully under at the ends and forward to hide the mark on her neck. Layers of coverstick and powder rendered the bruise all but invisible.

  Molly had almost left it alone in a fit of defiance at Will, but the thought of sitting in church with a clearly visible hickey dissuaded her.

  Her skirt would be enough, she thought. She didn’t have to suffer public embarrassment to provoke Will.

  Just why she wanted to provoke him Molly refused to examine too closely. She only knew she did, and the urge was all but irresistible.

  Looking in the mirror, she flicked mascara on her lashes, powdered her nose, and smoothed deep rose lipstick on her mouth.

  Sweet and innocent, she decided, examining her reflection. Except, of course, for the length of her skirt.

  Molly grinned wickedly at herself, snapped her purse closed, then turned away from the mirror. She only hoped Will was already outside, waiting for her.

  She meant to put everything she had into her walk across the parking lot to his car.

  Outside in the car, two men saw Molly emerge from the rest room and glance around. In the driver’s seat, Will took one look at the teensy skirt, at the long-stemmed legs in black stockings and high heels, and felt his blood pressure start to rise.

  She was wearing that skirt because he had told her not to. Will knew it as well as he knew his own name.

  She spotted the car and began walking toward it. Though the way she moved bore absolutely no relation to the way his own two feet carried him over the ground. There had to be another name for what she was doing besides walking. Sex on the hoof, maybe.

  In the backseat, Murphy, obviously also watching her approach, let out a low whistle.

  “I don’t believe it. I’m getting a boner just from watching her walk.”

  Will froze as the comment hit him, feeling his blood pressure soar and his stomach burn. He slewed around in his seat.

  “Shut up,” he said, fixing Murphy with a deadly stare. “Just shut up.”

  “Sorry,” Murphy said, taken aback. To Will’s fury, after a few seconds the other man’s eyes began to twinkle. Then he grinned.

  Molly had reached the car by that time. With one last glare at Murphy, Will got out. Murphy followed suit.

  Will walked around the hood to open the door for Molly. He was furious, at her, at Murphy, at himself, but he was determined not to show it.

  As he came up to her Molly smiled at him, a smile so sweetly innocent that Will recognized it as pure mockery. He swung open her door, waging a fierce inner battle to keep from scowling, snapping, or doing anything else that would give her the satisfaction of knowing that she had gotten under his skin.

  “This is John Murphy. He’ll be going with us” was what he said, indicating his partner, who ogled Molly more or less discreetly across the Taurus’s roof. “Murphy, Molly Ballard.”

  “Hi,” Molly offered with a smile.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Murphy replied. When Molly ducked into the car, Murphy’s gaze shifted to Will. A wide, knowing grin split his face.

  The memorial was short and—even to Molly, who had barely been acquainted with the deceased—the service was moving. There was no casket. The body had been cremated. The church was packed.

  Molly knelt between Will and Murphy in a back pew, providing at Will’s urging a whispered biography of everyone who was anyone in the Bluegrass. Nearly all the big horse farms were represented: besides Cloverlot Stables, whose personnel had turned out in force to pay last respects to one of their own, there were contingents from Sweet Meadow Stud, Green-glow Stables, Wyland Farms, Rock Creek Stables, Oak Hill, Mobridge Stud, and Hillside Farm.

  “Those are the Wylands,” Molly whispered in response to a nudge from Will as a pew emptied to approach the altar for Communion. “The woman in the hat is Helen Wyland Trapp. Her daughter Neilie is behind her, and that’s Helen’s husband Walt Trapp with Neilie. You already know who Tyler is, and Thornton. The blonde with Thornton is Allison Weintraub. She and her mother—that’s her mother with them—have been chasing Thornton for years.”

  “Jealous?” Will mouthed with a sideways glance.

  “No.” Molly didn’t even dignify t
hat with indignation. Because the church was so crowded, she knelt very close to Will, her shoulder brushing the sleeve of his dark blue suit. She wondered if her nearness was having any effect on him. She hoped it was. His proximity was certainly having an effect on her.

  On her other side, she was barely aware of Murphy’s pants leg touching her calf. He could have been a mannequin for all the notice her body took of him.

  Unlike her, Will seemed right at home amidst the quiet, luxurious trappings of moneyed worship, Molly thought. His suit and tie were as elegant as any man’s there. She was beginning to feel her own miniskirt might have been a mistake—except, of course, for the irritation it caused Will. The other women were all dressed in knee-length or longer suits or dresses, very conservative. Every time Molly glanced around, she was reminded that her blouse was nylon, not silk, and she’d bought the sweater-jacket two years ago at T.J. Maxx for $29.99.

  The church was all mahogany paneling and stained glass and candles. A robed choir sang softly from behind the altar. Incense scented the air. Will’s head was bowed, his face in profile both austere and ruggedly handsome. His skin looked very bronze against the pristine whiteness of his shirt; his close-cropped hair shone gold even in the subdued light. Molly caught herself tracing the outline of his features with her eyes, and dropped her gaze to her clasped hands.

  Another nudge drew her attention to the next group to leave their pew.

  “Those are the Colemans from Greenglow Stables. Remember we were talking about Libby Coleman, the little girl who disappeared?”

  Will nodded.

  “The white-haired woman in front is her mother Clarice. That’s Clarice’s daughter Donna Coleman Pierce behind her, with her husband, Ted Pierce. And Clarice’s son Lincoln Coleman, with his wife, Diane. Behind them is Tim Harden, Greenglow’s trainer, with his wife. And behind them is Jason Breen, Sweet Meadow Stud’s trainer. Mr. and Mrs. Armitage, who own Sweet Meadow, are behind them.”

  Molly continued to identify anyone Will indicated, until it was time for their pew to join in. Will stood back to allow her to precede him up the aisle. With him and Murphy behind her she approached the altar, knelt, and was given Communion.