by Cait London
Shelly’s blush began at her toes and began a warming path upward. “Um. I don’t suppose you would know what time it is?”
He chuckled and the deep, rich, intimate sound curled around her. “Not exactly the first words I was hoping for from you this morning, but they’ll do.”
She couldn’t breathe, lying naked beneath the sheet that she tugged up to her chin.
“People do it in the daylight, too, you know, honey,” Roman said, and his finger tugged at the sheet. “I want to know that I wasn’t dreaming.”
“Um. I’d rather not.”
She held firm to the sheet and Roman’s hand cruised over the gold chain at her throat and lower, smoothing her breasts. “Is this the same woman who pushed me last night?”
She’d met him in fire, taking her share, giving, pitting herself against Roman without shame. Without shame…the words prodded her. She closed her eyes, unwilling to meet his searching gaze. “I have work to do.”
“Are you sorry?” he asked abruptly, cupping her cheek and turning her to him.
“No. But this is a new experience for me.”
“I’ve been in a few women’s beds. Maybe more than my share. That isn’t going to happen again. Not after you,” Roman said slowly as his thumb stroked her cheek. “You’re all wide eyed and sweet, Shell. So sweet…”
He bent to brush his lips across hers. “I’ve never wanted to linger and talk with any woman. This is new for me, too.”
She tried to breathe and pushed away the brief, nagging workday that waited for her; she knew that if Dani needed her, she would call…Shelly sensed that this moment with Roman might not come again, and she loved him so. He seemed poised on a discovery that he wanted to unravel with her.
“I love you, Shell. I never thought I’d say those words, but that’s how it is. I’ll try real hard, Shell.”
He looked away, his lashes catching the light, his mouth tight as if he wasn’t certain of her response. She stroked his cheek and turned him back to her. “I’ve always loved you, Roman Warren. Always, and I always will. I’ve known that since I was just a child, watching you play ‘Eagle’ and swaggering around, trying to impress the girls…which you did very well, by the way.”
He swallowed roughly and those light brown eyes shimmered with tears. “It’s been a long, hard road, Shell. I thought I had everything once, and I had nothing. When that was ripped away, I thought about ending it.”
Intimacy, she thought, loving him more. There would be quiet talk in the mornings and at night, sharing the years between and the ones together. She smoothed his hair, enjoying the texture, watching his changing expressions, the uncertainty hovering around him.
“How you look at me,” he whispered unevenly. “As if I’m someone special.”
“You are. Very special and sweet.”
He snorted at that. “‘Sweet.’ That’s the first time anyone has called me that.”
“Well, I just know certain parts of you that no one else does.”
When his lips smiled lazily, smugly, she traced them. “Those parts, too, but I mean what’s inside, where you’re good and kind and loving.”
If she told him he was blushing, he’d deny it. She decided to hoard that secret for herself. Because Roman was uncomfortable with his good qualities, he moved toward a safer reaction—easing down the sheet from her body.
His gaze took in all of her, slowly, warmly. And then his hands began their magic—
A flash of time and heat and storms later, Roman’s breathing slowed, and he relaxed slowly into Shelly’s arms. He’d just told her he loved her again, by the cherishing touch of his hands, by the slow, drugging kisses. Still luxuriating in their lovemaking, Shelly stroked his back, enjoying the floating after-pleasure as his face nuzzled her throat.
“You’ll wear a white dress, shell…at the wedding…”
“Hmm?” She smiled lazily, drifting exquisitely, as he nibbled at her ear.
“Our wedding. You’ll wear a bridal gown. Something long and sweet and virginal, and at the church…what’s wrong? You just went stiff as a board.”
Shelly held her breath; if there was one thing she didn’t want it was to be the focus of attention at a church wedding. She’d lived with gossip for years, and a wedding like that would only create more. “I’m a private person, Roman…I don’t think so.”
Roman eased away, watching her. “Why not?”
She sensed his brewing frustration, that agile mind leaping through all sorts of conclusions, including the one that said she was ashamed of him. “I’m not ashamed. I’m just a private person.”
“Dani wants my name. It would look a whole lot better if you and I got married first.”
She placed her open hand on his chest. “Roman, you’re moving too fast. I—”
“You like to be independent and call the shots.” There it was, right on the edge, Roman’s frustration that he hadn’t been a part of her life and now she wasn’t letting him into it.
“Let’s not argue. I have to get to work.”
“You’re staying right here until this is settled. I want to wake up to you every morning and hold you all night long. I want to know that you’re safe and so is Dani. I don’t want another night where you’re in the house with someone else, and I’m on the outside. I want—”
“Is everything about what you want? What about what I want?”
“What you want to do is to run everything your way. Maybe I’m saying it wrong, but you’re my woman now, and that’s that…‘My woman,’ funny, I remember Dad saying that in just about the same tone, fierce-like, as if he’d fight the world for Mother. That’s what I’d do for you, Shell, but you’ve got to let me in.”
Now he was on the side of the wall and she was on the outer side of the bed. Shelly sat up and started to leave the bed and Roman’s arm looped around her waist, dragging her back into bed with him. He pinned her beneath him, holding her wrists in his hands.
“Let me go.” She tried to buck his weight from her and Roman’s expression darkened.
“If you want me again, you’ve got just the right moves, honey.”
She flattened to the bed, lying still. She wasn’t afraid; he wouldn’t hurt her. “Let me go, Roman.”
“What’s wrong with us getting married in a church and you wearing what a bride should wear, and doing the whole thing up right?” he demanded.
“You don’t understand—”
“No, I don’t. But this is going to have to come from you. I thought you’d want what most women want, what I hope Dani will have—all her family and friends there, wishing her well. That’s what I want for you.”
Roman released her hands and eased to the side. He lay staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. “I don’t want to sneak around, Shell. I want the woman I love to have everyone know that I love her. Is that so wrong?”
He frowned at her as she rose, clenching his discarded shirt to her body for protection. “Go ahead. Go to work.”
“I’m sorry—” She hadn’t meant to hurt him, to toss away the lovely offer he’d served her, and now he’d stepped back into his shield, closing her off.
“Sure. Dani will probably stay with Grace again tonight. I’ll cook supper.”
She’d just ruined one moment and wondered if she should push now. “Roman, I really am sorry. I’ve just never—”
“You’re scared, Shell. So am I. We’re going to make mistakes,” he said curtly. “Especially me…is there something else you wanted to talk about before you run out of here?”
“I’m not running. I have a job; it’s my day to do the Morrisons. What are you going to do?”
Silence.
Shelly took a deep breath and plunged right into what she hoped would happen in Roman’s day. “It’s important to me that you talk with Grace.”
Now the silence was throbbing, almost tangible, as Roman stared at her coldly. “Have a nice day.”
Shelly’s knees shook as she descended the stai
rs and walked out into the hot August day. From the looks of him, Roman wouldn’t be dropping the subject of their wedding, and he could be very, very persuasive.
And tonight, they would be alone in the house.
Uma pushed herself through the layers of fog and found herself in a small barren room, lying on a metal cot. One tug of her hand proved she had been handcuffed to it. At the sound of a motor, she sat upright and held her breath as a rock-hard headache stunned her.
The door unlocked electronically and Pearl pushed Shelly into the room at the point of a revolver.
“Shelly!”
Pearl tossed another pair of handcuffs on the bed and pointed the automatic at Uma. “Put them on, Shelly, dear. And please use the other end of the bed. Just put one on the metal bedframe. You wouldn’t want Uma to be punished because you didn’t obey me, would you?”
Shelly’s green eyes were wide in her pale face. “Uma, she said that Mitchell had beaten you and you didn’t want anyone to know, that you wanted me to come to you. That isn’t true, is it?”
“Mitchell would never hurt me.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Pearl eased luxuriously into the wood chair and looked at her manicured nails, admiring them. “Well, dear old chums, here we are. For your information, Mitchell is going to murder both of you, and then, horrified at what he has done, he’s going to kill himself. There are one or two little problems to tidy up after that, but I’m really good at this. Little Pearl. Huh. Who would have thought it?”
“Where are we?” Uma asked, stunned that Pearl could be dangerous.
“At the old motel,” Shelly answered quietly as she shook her head. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Believe it.” Pearl rose and stretched and pushed the flat of her hand against the board wall and a door swung open to reveal a closet.
Pearl removed a man’s suit and held it high, admiring it. She stroked a torn section on the sleeve. “I had these made. Exact copies of Clyde Barrow’s wardrobe. I admire him so. Inside, that’s who I really am, someone like him—edgy, dangerous, taking what I want, and yet maintaining style. Rosalie fitted the last to me, and then she had to die, of course. That old cat tore this one and the rose bushes another. I guess I’ll just have to find another seamstress.”
“You killed Rosalie?” Uma tried to stand and the handcuff on her wrist clicked firm and taut on the bedframe. From the distance of a few feet, she knew that it was true; the scrap of material in Rosalie’s trash matched the suit’s color exactly. The threads Mitchell and she had found were of the same shade. She didn’t want to believe that Pearl could be stalking and killing—
“Just a little push down the stairs. Rosalie was old and disposable, and eventually she’d have told. Then Gerald Van Dyke happened to see me there, dressed as Clyde Barrow. I just couldn’t let him live. He’d have wanted to be with her, anyway. I did them a favor, killing them both. Now they’re together.”
She glanced at both women, who were tugging desperately at their handcuffed wrists. “Sit down, dears. The bed is bolted to the floor. Pete was a wonderful fix-it man. I hated to lose him, too, but then there was that awful more-money thing when he killed Lauren—he wanted more for a second pass to get Shelly. You two are both so easy. Uma can’t resist a chance to get into someone else’s life and comfort the abused, can you, dear? And Shelly would do anything for Uma. This may be easier than I had planned. You’re both so gullible.”
Uma couldn’t move, frozen as she sat on the cot with Shelly, their hands gripping tightly together. She couldn’t believe Pearl’s admissions. If she’d killed Pete, then—her body chilled despite the heat in the room. “Tell me that you didn’t cause Lauren to be killed.”
“She was a mistake. Shelly should have died that night. That scarf I wanted Shelly to try on? That was the mark Pete needed. Only Lauren grabbed it and he shot the wrong…friend.” Pearl replaced the suit and took the gun, tapping it on the table as she frowned at Shelly. “Walter has had indiscretions before, but they have never produced a child. Dani is the evidence of Walter’s indiscretion with Shelly and she’ll have to be removed. I can’t have her—”
“Pearl, Walter is not Dani’s father, Roman is,” Shelly cried out. “You can’t hurt her.”
“But I must, and I know you’re lying. She’s evidence…proof. Walter told me so himself just a month or so before I knew I had to act last year. I couldn’t seem to do anything as Pearl Whiteford, so I had to invent another person, one with strength and cunning, and that was when I created Clyde—my Clyde, fashioned after Clyde Barrow. I found I could do amazing things when I thought and acted like him. I made contact with Pete. Walter repeatedly told me how good you were in bed—”
“He lied to you, Pearl. I wouldn’t let Walter touch me…ever. He’s not Dani’s father.”
“Walter never lies to me. I would know. He said you enticed him, flirted with him and it wasn’t his fault—that a man is a man and can only resist so much. It was then that I knew you had to die—and Uma just knows too much. She’s even tried to sully the name of my esteemed ancestor Matilda Radford. I can’t have that.”
Pearl shook her head and tsk-tsked. “I really have to clean all this up. I’m on a schedule, you know. When the last petal falls on the last rose in Madrid, I’m going to have everything neat and nice in my life. Oh, I may have to weep and mourn and wail a bit, but that’s just acting, and I’ve managed that for years—haven’t I, Uma? Well, I have work to do. There’s bottled water in the ice chest on the table and an old covered pot beneath the bed, if you need the bathroom. You’ve each got a free hand and you’ll manage. You always do. You’re both so capable, and now, so am I. Ta.”
After the door locked behind Pearl, Uma closed her eyes, and in her mind, that night over a year ago came swirling back, the stillness she felt, the way that Pearl preened with her new scarf, offering it to Shelly—the way Lauren took it playfully…I’ll always be with you…
Shelly’s face was pale, her eyes enormous and haunted. “Every accident I had…Pearl had been nearby or had just left. The skillet fires…the misplaced knives, a broken glass in the dishwater…how could she?”
I’ll always be with you.
“We’ve got to get out of here. She intends to kill—Shelly, she killed Rosalie and Gerald. And she thinks of Dani as proof…”
“Dani…” Shelly struggled futilely with her wrist, the abrasions from the cuff starting to bleed.
Uma took Shelly’s free hand. She couldn’t bear to see her friend struggle, hurting herself. And she couldn’t bear to think that Pearl could be so evil, so demented. Pearl had caused Lauren to be killed—sweet, innocent Lauren, who’d only wanted to tease Pearl with the scarf that night.
Again, the image that wouldn’t go away slid in front of her—Lauren’s summer dress, stained with blood that was warm and sticky on Uma’s hands. “Don’t…don’t, Shelly. We’ll think of something. We’ve got to be calm. Didn’t you tell me that you had to sometimes unlock Dani’s bedroom door with a hairpin?”
“Uh-huh. So?” Shelly followed Uma’s look at her hair and then hurriedly removed the bobby pin there. “It’s worth a try.”
Mitchell looked up at the old windmill, the blades still at ten o’clock in the morning. He was hot and sweaty and tense and ripping into the old house’s burned rubble; pitting himself against it gave him something to do. He hefted an old board, tugged it from the overgrowth, and tossed it into a pile he intended to burn. Glass and other debris would go into a rusted barrel.
He circled an old wringer washer with a rope, then walked back to the tractor and slowly pulled the rusted washer away, disturbing the field mice that scampered back into the rubble.
If Rosalie had been killed, the murderer was also a serial killer.
With Lonny’s help, Mitchell had made calls to the manufacturer of the thread and the unique matching fabric. Four different seamstresses had ordered the fabric, a unique blend of material used in the 19
30s. Lonny’s calls to the local law said that all four seamstresses had died by accidents and their appointment books were missing.
Mitchell swung down from the tractor and hefted a grappling hook into the pile of shingles that had once been a roof. It caught and held as he tugged on it. With snakes and rats in residence, he moved carefully, beginning to methodically pull the old rubble apart, sorting his thoughts as he worked.
Mike knew something, his eyes darting to the side when Mitchell questioned him about the Colt Model 1911 .45-caliber automatic slugs that had been dug out of Uma’s office wall and from the windmill and from Shelly’s house. The big man’s fear was hard to miss, and Mike had stiffened at questions concerning the Browning automatic rifle that had probably peppered the windmill.
While Mitchell was waiting for slow-thinking Mike to understand how serious it was to aid a murderer, and that other people might be killed, he decided to clear Warren land and his thoughts. Taking the old house apart was only physical and easier than sifting through layers of bad times and new emotions.
Uma had changed him; he wanted a life with her. He wanted peace, as much as he could wallow in with a woman that fascinated, frustrated, and loved him.
“I love you,” she had whispered, and the words that he wanted to serve her wouldn’t come to his lips, locked inside him.
She deserved a man who said he loved her, and acted like it.
Mitchell couldn’t give her what she needed, if he acted like his father, closing doors, letting pride make him unreasonable.
That new life he’d delivered in a taxicab had started his voyage toward unraveling the darkness within him, that dark closet that held so much that he was afraid to open it.
Just as Uma needed to be cherished, Grace deserved to know that Fred’s dying words were for her. “Now that one is going to be hard,” Mitchell noted to the crows perched on top of the windmill, watching him.
The incredible softness within his house had influenced him. Lauren seemed to touch him somehow; he was sensitive to her life, her joys—the roses and her kitchen and the need to have children. “We’ll get him, Lauren. And Uma won’t have your blood on her hands anymore. I promise you.”