by LENA DIAZ,
His gaze dropped to her hand. “It’s been a long time, Bex. A lot has happened since then. I don’t know that I want to go down that same road, risk you crushing me like you did. It took me years to get over you. But I’m happy now. I like my life, enjoy my family, this house, the life I’ve built. I’m not sure you fit in anymore.”
She smoothed her hand over his shirt, her hand shaking, sadness welling up inside her. “I’m not asking you to fit me back into your life. I’m asking you to work on trying to forgive me. And then maybe we’ll see where we go from there.”
Slowly, as if he wasn’t sure what she’d do, he moved his left hand toward her face, then gently stroked her hair back, feathering his fingers through the strands.
“Still as silky as ever,” he whispered.
“Still so handsome you can stop a girl’s heart with one look,” she whispered, smiling up at him.
His mouth twitched. “That handsome, huh? Sounds dangerous.”
“You have no idea.” She moved closer, until her breasts pressed against his ribs.
His lids lowered to half-mast. His hand shook as he continued to stroke her hair. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Bex. We haven’t settled anything at all between us.”
“You’re right. Nothing’s settled. But we’ve had an incredible run. And I can’t think of a better way to say goodbye—if this is goodbye—than to share ourselves with each other one last time. It sure beats how we ended things last time. How I ended things. Let’s write a better ending to our story than walking away from each other angry and bitter. We deserve that. Max and Bex deserve that. Don’t you think?”
In answer he groaned and yanked her to him, his mouth slamming down on top of hers. Heat filled her, warming her from the inside out. She struggled to get closer to him, standing on her tiptoes. He lifted her with one hand beneath her bottom, setting her feet on the edge of the hearth, the roaring fire warming her back, Max warming everything else.
This kiss was nothing like the one he’d given her earlier. That one had been distant, questioning. He’d held back. He wasn’t holding anything back this time. And even though she’d always thought they had something special between them, comparing everything before to this was like comparing a candle to an out-of-control wildfire.
Thunder boomed overhead. Lightning lit up the house like broad daylight. But it barely registered in her mind. There was only room in her thoughts for Max and how he made her feel. She twisted against him, her tongue tangling with his, her fingers sliding down between them, eagerly working at the buttons on his shirt.
Groaning deep in his throat, he lifted her again, striding across the room to the big leather couch. He gently lowered her back onto the cushions, following her down, down until his delicious weight pressed against her. Every inch of her body was plastered to his, and it felt so good she stretched, rubbing the side of her calf against his hip as they kissed and kissed and kissed. It was as if they were trying to catch up on every moment they’d lost in the years they’d been apart. And neither of them could bear to stop long enough to shed a single item of clothing.
Desperate for more, she reached between them and fumbled with his belt. She managed to get his jeans unzipped, and then she slid her eager fingers inside. His entire body shivered as she filled her hands with him. He broke their kiss, gasping for breath, already rock hard, his hips jerking against her.
Then he was sliding his own hands down her body, and they were like two frantic teenagers all over again, working at each other’s jeans, only managing to get half-undressed before he was poised at her entrance, pushing against her.
He swore and pulled back.
She wrapped her knees around him, trying to pull him down again.
He laughed, his harsh breath rasping against her ears. “Hold it. Just give me a second, sweetheart.”
The sound of foil tearing jolted her out of the haze of passion enveloping her. A condom. Had he kept it in his pocket? That thought had her remembering the interns he’d dated and she stiffened beneath him. But then he was pressing against her again and all her jealousies evaporated beneath the need to have him inside her, filling her. She’d wanted this for so long, with him, and nothing was going to spoil it.
And then he was inside her, and it was even more wonderful than she’d remembered. Her body knew Max’s, yearned for his, as if they’d been made for each other. Every thrust was met with an answering arch of her hips, heightening her pleasure, making his heart gallop faster in his chest where it pressed against hers.
He braced his forearms on the cushions, keeping the full weight of him from crushing her as he made love to her. And she took full advantage of the space between them, sliding her hands up beneath his shirt, relearning his contours, every muscle, every dip. She wanted to slide down his body, taste him, stroke him. But that would have to wait. The delicious things he was doing to her, his clever fingers caressing her as he thrust inside her, were bowing her body back against the couch.
Panting, she drew her knees up on either side of him, twisting, arching, her fingers curling on the leather couch as she strained with him to reach that pinnacle of pleasure she knew was waiting for her.
He leaned down and captured her mouth with his, his back arched, his hips bucking against hers. And then, with one clever stroke of his body and his hand, she came undone in his arms, crying out his name as she exploded in a shower of ecstasy around him.
His powerful body thrust into her several more times, wrenching every last bit of pleasure from her that he could, all while he worshipped her mouth with his. Then he stiffened, his body spasming inside hers as his own climax washed over him. His fingers tightened on her bottom, clinging to her as he spent himself. And then, ever so slowly, like embers from fireworks floating to the ground, he lowered himself to the couch, turning with her in his arms.
They lay there, holding on to each other tightly, their hearts racing, breath coming out in harsh pants until their bodies began to cool and they could once again breathe without rasping.
She kissed the base of his throat, and he whispered romantic words in her ear, making her hot all over again. A few minutes later, he left her long enough to clean up. She should have gotten up, too. But she felt like her bones had turned to water and couldn’t bring herself to do more than pull up her panties and jeans and collapse back onto the couch.
Then he was there, fully clothed again, like her, pulling her into his arms as he cradled her against his chest on the couch.
“I’ll carry you into the bedroom when I get my strength back,” he promised. Seconds later, he was softly snoring.
She smiled, then closed her eyes and joined him.
* * *
THUNDER BOOMED OVERHEAD, startling Bex out of a deep sleep. She jerked upright in the dark, confusion clouding her mind as she tried to remember where she was. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the family room for a brief second. She let out a breath of surprise. She was on the couch. But Max wasn’t with her. Had he gone to bed and left her there? No, as soon as that thought occurred to her, she pushed it away. He was probably in the bathroom, or maybe in the kitchen getting a late-night snack.
She swung her legs over the side of the couch and stood, expecting to see him standing on the other side of the island, maybe grabbing a couple of beers out of the refrigerator.
“Max?” She squinted in the dark. “Where are you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Max?”
She felt her way through the house, checking the three bedrooms, yanking blinds open so the moonlight and lightning would help her see. One of the bedrooms was set up like an office. But she didn’t find any sign of him. Worry began to coil in her stomach. She tried a light switch, but the house remained dark. The power was still out. Maybe he was in the garage, checking the fuses. Yes, that made sense. That�
�s what she’d do if the power was out.
She hurried through the family room to the left side of the house, which boasted a powder room, a laundry room and a three-car garage. Lightning flashing through the glass panes in the garage door showed her that he had a Jeep parked inside. But there was no Max to be seen. Where else could he be?
Real fear began to gnaw at her. She ran back into the family room, turning in a wide circle.
“Max, where are you? This isn’t funny. Max?”
Again, nothing.
Had he gone outside in this wretched storm? She couldn’t think of any reason for him to do that. But maybe he liked watching the rain. Her mom always had. Yes, that was it. There was an enormous wraparound porch on the front and sides of the house. She ran to the door and jerked it open. The front porch was empty, except for some man-size rocking chairs on either end.
“Max,” she yelled out into the yard. “Where are you?” The wind seemed to capture her words and snatch them away.
His truck remained parked just a few feet from the steps. Empty.
Panic had her fairly flying through the house again, checking every room, every closet, even looking beneath beds. Finally she stopped in the middle of his bedroom. She had to acknowledge what she’d been trying to avoid all along. He was gone. Something must have happened to him.
She couldn’t fathom what that might be. All she was sure of was that he must be in danger. And she needed help to find him. She ran back into the main room and grabbed her purse to get her phone. But her phone wasn’t there. She frowned. Had she left her phone at her mother’s house? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen it.
A landline. There had to be a landline in the house somewhere. No, she hadn’t seen any phones either time she’d run through the house. What was she supposed to do now? Lightning lit up the back wall of windows again, illuminating the back deck. Could he be out there? It was the only place she hadn’t looked.
She ran to the sliding door. The storm was getting worse, blowing rain in great sheets. She peered out at the darkness.
Thunder boomed overhead, and a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the deck before plunging everything into darkness. Wait, something was off. What had she seen? She leaned forward, peering in the moonlight. Part of the deck seemed charred. From the lightning? It flashed again, and she let out a startled scream. There was a large handprint on the glass. And it was covered in blood.
Chapter Twenty
Rain whipped at Max’s face like dozens of icy-cold needles pricking his flesh. The ground was turning to mud, making the field treacherous and hard going. Lightning flashed overhead. He instinctively ducked down, not that it would have done him much good if the lightning had been close enough to hit him.
“Stop stalling. The cabin’s straight ahead. Move.”
He looked over his shoulder. The long bore of the rifle pointed steadily at him, but too far away for him to have any chance of knocking it down.
“Move,” Marcia repeated, shouting to be heard above the storm.
“Drop the gun,” he called out to her. “You haven’t shot anyone yet. You can still get off without much jail time, maybe only probation.”
She laughed bitterly. “I’m not going to jail. And if you want your girlfriend to live, you’d better get moving.”
He clenched his fists but started forward again. Just ahead, the silhouette of a familiar cabin loomed in the dark. The same cabin he’d seen in dozens of crime-scene photographs, the one at the edge of the Caldwell property where it joined his father’s, and now his, as well. The cabin where Bobby Caldwell had been killed ten years ago.
And now Max knew who’d killed him.
He stopped at the door and glanced back. “Now what?”
Marcia motioned with her rifle. “Go inside and shut the door behind you.”
Something metallic flashed in the moonlight just over Marcia’s shoulder. She stiffened, then very slowly raised her hands in the air. The person behind her yanked the rifle away and shoved her toward Max. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the man behind her.
Deacon Caldwell, holding a wicked-looking knife.
He shoved the knife into the top of his boot and straightened, the rifle pointed at Marcia now.
“You okay, Detective?” he called out.
Max looked at Marcia, who was glaring at Deacon.
“I’m fine,” Max yelled back. “Thanks to you. Follow me back to my house and I can handcuff her and check on Bex.” He grabbed Marcia’s arm and yanked her toward Deacon.
When they reached him, Deacon was shaking his head. “Too far. This lightning’s getting too dangerous to be outside. My house is much closer, and I’ve got a generator. We can call the police from there.”
Another bolt of lightning struck close by, the thunder boom almost right on top of it. Sparks showered down from a nearby tree.
Max swore, the hairs on his arms standing up from the electricity in the air. “That was close. Where’s your house? I thought you lived with your father?”
He motioned toward the trees on the other side of the cabin. “Straight through there. I had it built for when I got out of the military. Close enough to help my dad when he needs me but not so close that I give in to the urge to strangle him.” He grinned. “You know how families can be.” He waved at the cabin. “The roof’s gone on that, no shelter there. My house is the only place that makes sense. Let’s go.”
He headed past Max, going at a fast clip toward the trees.
Max hesitated, looking up the hill that would lead him back to his house. He hated leaving Bex alone. If she woke up and saw the charred wood on the deck and his bloody handprint on the glass—both courtesy of Marcia’s sick plan—she’d think the worst. What would she do then? Especially since Marcia had forced Max to take his and Bex’s cell phones and toss them into the lake?
“He’s waving at us,” Marcia grumbled beside him, tugging at her arm to get him to let her go.
He tightened his grip. “Come on.” He hurried after Deacon, pulling Marcia with him.
As soon as they rounded the copse, the lights from a two-story house came into view. Deacon was right, his house was much closer. He was standing on the porch already, waiting for them.
Max bounded up the steps, pulling Marcia with him. When he reached the top, he shook his head. “It’s a monsoon. Can’t believe we were out there in that.”
Lightning flashed again, thunder cracking overhead.
“It’ll play itself out soon if you believe the weatherman. Come on in. The mudroom’s on the right. We can dry off there.”
The three of them sloughed off the rain with a handful of towels as best they could, then they headed into the main room of the house.
Max directed Marcia to a chair beside the couch. “Sit down. Don’t make me chase you. I’m mad as hell at you and won’t take kindly to having to run out in that storm after you again.”
She rolled her eyes and plopped down, crossing her arms and promptly ignoring both of them.
“Mad as a hatter,” Deacon said.
Marcia glared at him, then turned away.
Max shook his head. “I don’t think Marcia’s insane. I think she knows exactly what she’s doing. She must have planned this from the moment she saw Bex and me in town.”
“What exactly did she do?” Deacon asked.
“Set my back deck on fire, for starters. I saw flames flickering outside and ran out to see what was going on, thinking lightning might have hit something close by. She was waiting right outside the sliding glass doors with her rifle. The rain put the flames out pretty quick and she poured a bottle of blood onto my hand and made me press it against the glass. Bex is going to think the worst if she wakes up and sees that.”
“It was possum blood. But your girlfrien
d won’t know that. She’ll think you got hit by lightning and you’re done for. It’ll be nice for her to be scared for a change, for her to see how it feels to have someone you love die,” Marcia said.
“That was your plan?” Max asked. “To kill me in that cabin? Like you killed Bobby?”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t kill Bobby. Bex did.”
Was Deacon right? Had Marcia lost her sanity and convinced herself she hadn’t done what was now obvious? He studied her carefully as he said, “Bex didn’t kill Bobby.”
“Oh, please. Everyone knows she did.”
“I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Deacon said, sounding regretful. “I allowed everyone to think that for so long that after a while it seemed more like fact than conjecture.”
Max grew very still and turned toward Deacon. “What are you talking about?”
The rifle in Deacon’s hand lifted, pointing straight at Max’s gut. “I think it will be better if I show you. Marcia, be a dear and get the DVD out from beneath the TV over there, the one on the bottom in the red case.” He shrugged. “Red seemed only fitting. Makes it easy to find, too.”
Marcia hesitated, looking confused.
The rifle swung toward her. “Hurry up,” Deacon ordered. “Knowing dear old Dad, he’ll make one of his men bring him over here to check on me in this storm. Not because he gives a damn but because the chosen one is long dead and I’m the only heir he has left.” His mouth twisted in a sneer. “I’d rather have all of this over with before he does. It will be easier that way.”
“What will be easier?” Max asked, taking a step toward the other man.
“Don’t,” Deacon said, aiming the rifle at him again. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Don’t force my hand. All I want you to do is watch a movie. Marcia, if you please.”
She pressed a button, and a black-and-white picture displayed on the TV. Max recognized it immediately.