Southern Gentlemen: John Rip PetersonBilly Ray Wainwright

by Jennifer Blake

  “I’m surprised you remember.”

  Rip, however, recalled it well. It was one of the few times they had been there alone instead of going Dutch treat with Tom, or with Tom shelling out for what they ate.

  She caught an impending drip as she answered. “It was a special occasion.”

  Rip almost groaned aloud as he watched the slow, sinuous movement of her pink tongue, thinking of how cool and sweet it would taste. Voice suddenly husky, he said, “I wanted to buy you a hamburger and shake, but didn’t have the money.”

  “I didn’t want a hamburger and shake.”

  Her level gray glance sought and held his. He thought there was a message in it, if only he could decipher it. He tried, turning over that long ago day in his mind, searching for clues.

  It had been a summer day, like this. He’d met Anna and Tom and King Beecroft on the road at the edge of town, and they had all pulled over to talk. He thought Anna had been annoyed with the other two over something, for she asked where he was going. When he’d said the Dairy Queen, she simply announced she was going with him and climbed into his truck. That was the same afternoon the two of them had wound up lying in the grass at Blest.

  Was she saying, just possibly, that she had gotten exactly what she wanted that day? That to be with him, to take what he had been able to give her, to lie, finally, in his arms, was enough? He’d like to think so, but wasn’t quite so egotistical. Unlike some.

  As if picking up on his train of thought, she asked, “What did you think of King last night?”

  “He’s the same as ever,” Rip answered with inflection.

  “Unfortunately.” A wry smile flitted across her face. “I was surprised that he mentioned Tom. It’s the first time he’s spoken his name, to my knowledge, since he disappeared.”

  “Too far removed from his favorite subject?”

  “Himself, you mean? Maybe. But I was wondering if he could have a guilty conscience.”

  “You think he might’ve had a hand in what became of Tom?”

  “Or knows something he isn’t telling. Tom did run around a lot with him and his crowd that last summer, after you started working so much at the service station. It would make sense.”

  Rip thought of agreeing with her, of letting someone else carry part of the load of suspicion that had burdened him so long. But he couldn’t do it. “King wasn’t one of my favorite people, but I don’t know that he was ever crooked.”

  “He was strapped for cash pretty often.”

  “So was I.”

  “Yes, but he had expensive tastes in cars, girls and other toys. You didn’t. He was in the crowd that did drugs, too. I seem to remember he was in rehab during the trial.”

  Rip hadn’t known that, but even if it was true, he couldn’t see that it made a real difference to Tom or him.

  “I can’t prove it, but I always suspected King of getting Tom hooked. What do you think?”

  He remained silent. He’d been fairly certain of it back then, still was, but the final choice had been Tom’s.

  “You aren’t going to say, are you? Just as you never said a word to explain or protect yourself during the trial. Why, Rip? What are you hiding?”

  “Do I have to be hiding something?”

  “You don’t have to be, but what else is there? Talk to me. Tell me what you did, who you saw, exactly what took place.”

  “You know all that, you were there in court when it came out.”

  “I know what was said, which was precious little. Sometimes my brain goes round and round with it until I feel sick. First, I think maybe you took the money for Tom but he wouldn’t accept it. Then I think maybe King took it, but Tom found out and asked you for help putting it back. Or I wonder if it was Tom and King together, but something went wrong. The two of them ran, in their different ways, leaving you to pick up the pieces. Sometimes I picture Tom living on the streets somewhere, a shuffling, worn-out drug addict too ashamed to come home. Or I wonder if maybe he quarreled with King, was killed somehow, and now has turned to dust and bones in a shallow grave somewhere.”

  “And sometimes,” he said softly, “you put my name in all the places you just gave King, and wonder if I’m guilty as sin.”

  She rubbed between her eyes with two fingers, as if she was getting a headache. “I tried that, but it doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t you have concocted ah alibi if you were going to rob the place where you worked? You’re too intelligent not to have planned better than that. And why wouldn’t you have arranged somewhere to go and a safe place to leave the money until it could be used? Then there was another thing. The station was robbed around eleven in the evening, but you weren’t arrested until after 2:00 a.m. Surely you didn’t drive around in your truck all that time. So what happened in between? What?”

  He searched her face, seeing the frustration mirrored there and, beneath it, the doubt. “What are you doing, Anna?” he asked softly.

  “Looking for answers, what else?”

  “Right. That’s the reason you’re here with me, isn’t it? Not faith or trust, nor even what’s best for Blest, though it’s important to you. It’s about Tom and where he is now. You think I can somehow lead you to him.”

  “I only want answers,” she cried. “The not-knowing is like an open cesspool poisoning the air. I have to discover the truth before the ugliness of it can be covered over and the space reclaimed. I need that, my mother needs that, so we can stop wondering, wishing, hoping, and finally move on. Let it go, you said, but we can’t. We’re not holding it. It’s holding us.”

  For a single instant, Rip felt the twisted jealousy of Cain, as if Tom were really the brother he used to pretend when they were kids, the beloved Abel who could do no wrong and was treasured by all. Then the feeling faded, melting away as if it had never been.

  There was no blood bond. What’s more, Cain had at least been due the same affection as his brother, whether he received it or not, while he himself had no such claim.

  “Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” he said evenly. “What happened is no lurid mystery, nor even particularly interesting. It’s just a sordid episode of a kind that’s happened a thousand times before and will happen a thousand times again. I paid the price for it. It’s over and done. If you can’t accept that, I’m sorry, but there it is. If I could take you to where Tom is, I would do it in a minute. If I could produce him for you, I would. I can’t do either one. End of story.”

  “Not in my book, it isn’t.” Anna’s face had not a glimmer of a smile for the neat riposte. They stared at each other across the table for endless seconds.

  Abruptly, she glanced down at her watch. “I should be going. I’ve been away from work long enough.”

  Before he could form a protest, she slid from her seat and turned toward the door. He rose to follow her. He saw her pause at the trash receptacle just outside the door to discard what was left of her cone. It felt like a rejection, not only of the treat, but of him.

  Catching up with her in a few steps, he reached for her arm and pulled her to a halt. Ignoring the scandalized look from an older woman with crimped white curls covered by a purple hat to match her jogging suit, he said, “Don’t forget we have a date to find a bed tomorrow.”

  “I offered to help you find your antique bed, and I’ll do just that,” Anna returned with emphasis as she spun to face him. “When I start something, I see it through to the end.”

  “I’m depending on it, since I have your word.”

  “So you do. But if you expect me to abide by it, then I think I have the right to look for the same from you.”

  “Fine, though it sounds to me like an amendment to our agreement. Shall we seal it the way we did last time?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  The chill in her voice did nothing to cool his irritation. “What about expedient, if not necessary? There’s no telling what you might learn with the proper incentive. And if a mere kiss has so much influen
ce, just think of the possibilities next time we get naked together.”

  A flush bloomed across her cheekbones. “That will happen,” she said in incensed precision, “when the ice cream melting all over your shoes freezes again.”

  She pulled her arm from his grasp, turned sharply, then walked away. Rip stared after her a long moment, watching the proud tilt of her head, the determined set of her shoulders and the length of her strides that took her away from him.

  Then he cursed in soft virulence and dumped his dripping cone in the receptacle. He thumped his fist down on top of the red plastic lid.

  Ice cream was off his list. For good.

  8

  When Anna arrived at Blest on Saturday morning, a motor home as long as a city block was sitting on the lawn. She stood staring at it with her fists on her hips. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what it meant: Rip was in residence.

  As if to prove the point, he stepped out of the big vehicle and sauntered toward her. His hair was still damp from his morning shower, and the clean scent of a citrus-based aftershave drifted around him on the warm summer air. A species of hunger moved through her that had nothing to do with the fact she had skipped breakfast. She forced it down immediately, but annoyance for the necessity was strong in her voice when she spoke. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “I’ve lost all I want and more,” he came back with at once, his eyes narrowing a fraction.

  Her face grew hot as she recalled, abruptly, the note on which they’d parted the day before. That embarrassment hurried her into speech with her next waspish thought. “I’m sure it will be more convenient, not to mention more comfortable, when your decorator comes calling.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted and his dark gaze grew warmer. “We can find out, if you’d like.”

  “I didn’t mean me!”

  “Funny, because you’re the only decorator I’ve got.” His gaze slid over her, from the ponytail that hung down her back, to her legs exposed in natural linen shorts. “Not that anybody would guess this morning. You don’t look a day over fifteen.”

  The memory in his eyes was one she had tried so hard and often to erase that her brain felt as if it had calluses. She drew a strangled breath. “I think we were supposed to look for a bed?”

  “Any time.”

  “I meant the one in the attic!”

  He lifted an innocent brow. “So did I.”

  He hadn’t and she knew it. He stood there, so assured in his physical strength and the power of his hold over her through ownership of Blest. He seemed invincible, nothing at all like the frowning, self-effacing boy she had once known. She mourned that boy, with his tender touch and unshakable loyalties.

  “You don’t need me to make you over, and never did,” she said against the pain of loss. “You’ve already done that job extremely well.”

  “I need you,” he answered, the words as stark as the expression that closed over his face.

  “Oh, yes, for respectability.” She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her shorts, a movement that made her breasts strain against her red T-shirt. “You’ll be happy to hear we’ve made a start. Apparently some of the people we met yesterday, not to mention the cleanup crew you’ve hired, have been talking about what’s going on out here. I had a call from the president of the chamber of commerce wanting to know if it was true you’re going to revive the old art festival.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Her,” she corrected him, hastily shifting position as she realized where his gaze was centered. “I said I was sure you would, that it was your fullest intention to preserve and protect Papa Vidal’s legacy and encourage the growth of the arts in this area. I also said you would be happy to open the house to the public for the Fall Pilgrimage of Homes, once the restoration was complete.”

  “Did you, now?” he demanded as his brows snapped together over his nose.

  “It seemed the best way to make sure people remain interested, by giving them reason to believe they’ll benefit.”

  “I don’t want people tramping through my home, pointing and staring.”

  “You should have thought of that before you decided to live in an historical monument.”

  He gave a stubborn shake of his head. “Blest isn’t that important.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It qualifies to be registered with the National Trust for Historical Preservation. All that’s needed is verification of its background.”

  “I looked at all that before I signed the deed,” he answered impatiently. “If it’s registered, it means I have to follow specific guidelines for restoration, but there’s no obligation to open the place to John Q. Public.”

  “You didn’t buy a house, you bought an idea. To make the best use of it, you’ll have to convince people your motives spring from something more than self-interest. It’s going to take a clean start to wipe out the past.”

  The words were hard, but she did nothing to soften them. There were some things that couldn’t be helped.

  He lifted a hand to massage the back of his neck as he looked away through the oaks with their leaves shining in the morning sun. After a moment, he sighed, then gave an abrupt nod. “You’re right. So what’s first on the agenda?”

  “Crawling through a dusty attic that’s getting hotter every minute.”

  His glance returned to her. “Since you’re dressed for the job, we may as well get at it.”

  Finding the bed was like a scavenger hunt. They were seduced from their quest by a thousand other discoveries: a washstand topped by a broken mirror, picture frames whose faded prints were protected by concave glass, a windup Victrola with the original wax recordings stored inside, a rocking horse shedding its moth-eaten wool mane. They poked through cartons of old Christmas ornaments, boxes of musty dress goods, crumpled frocks from the flapper era and ancient uniforms from World War I. They stepped around empty china barrels filled with yellowed wood straw and peeked into boxes of crumbling wax candles.

  It was a mission into another dimension where they fought spiderwebs, endured stifling heat and inhaled nose-tickling shreds of disintegrating paper plus the lingering smells of ancient camphor, lavender, mildew and sweat. Bumping their heads and scraping their knees, they crawled over the accumulated trash and treasure of ages. The dust they stirred hung in the air, turning like golden veils in the shafts of light slanting through the gable vents.

  The bed was in a comer, behind one of Blest’s six chimneys. It had been dismantled, of course; there was no other way it could have been carried up the steep attic stairs. Anna and Rip stood looking at it, at the graceful curves of the head and footboards, the gold leaf that still embellished its carving, its massive strength that had survived nearly two centuries of use and abuse. It would have to be taken downstairs and put together again, piece by piece, like a puzzle. But when it was done, it would be a prize.

  She reached out to smooth a hand over the heavy curves of a side rail. “They don’t make things like this anymore,” she said reverently.

  “Think of the workmanship, the time and effort that went into it,” Rip said.

  “Think of the men and the women who slept in it,” Anna added, “who were born and died in it.”

  “Who made love in it…”

  She looked up at him in the dimness, caught by the vibrant huskiness and longing in his voice. They were both hot and dirty, but triumphant. Their hearts pumped living blood through their veins and they breathed, felt, were sentient with life as they stood there among the litter of distant, long-vanished souls. The moment of recognition stretched, becoming anticipation. Requiring affirmation.

  Anna could not sustain the heat of his gaze. She lowered her lashes, staring instead at the warm, firmly molded contours of his mouth. His lips parted on a hissing intake of breath.

  Did he move first, or did she? And did it really matter?

  They came together, hot flesh against hot flesh with the gríttiness of dust under their h
ands as they caught and held each other. His mouth was hot and devouring on hers, yet achingly sweet. His hard strength surrounded her; his arms and his hands molded her to him, matching contours and hollows. Their heartbeats thudded in their chests while their breathing was loud, near-desperate in the silence.

  He traced her lips with his tongue, lapping her taste, urging her participation. She opened to him, welcoming him in as she twined her tongue around his, abrading, remembering. She couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t take him deep enough inside her. The scent and feel of him were inflaming; she wanted more. The ache for the swift, fast surge of completion flooded her so suddenly that she felt dizzy with it.

  It was so right, so perfectly familiar that the anguish of it caught in her heart. Her soft murmur of old pain and new need trailed off with the ache of a sob. Tears pressed upward, wetting her lashes. She glided her open palms over the taut muscles of his shoulders, clutching handfuls of his shirt as she burrowed into him, slanting her mouth to allow him greater access.

  It had been so long. So eternally long.

  He spread his hands over her waist and down to her hips, dragging her closer. His mouth, hot and demanding, clung to hers while a shiver ran over him, leaving goose bumps behind. He shifted his hold, smoothing one hand upward and sliding it under her shirt to explore bare skin. He cupped her breast in the hot cage of his Angers, testing its resiliency. Bending his head, he laved the mole beneath it with his tongue in careful salute before shifting to attend to the tight bud of her nipple.

  Her knees gave a little and she swayed under the onslaught of piercing sensation. He spread his legs, holding her even as the movement brought their lower bodies into greater, better, alignment. Heavy and heated, he pressed against her.

  He broke for breath, chest heaving, as he glanced around in the semidarkness. Anna guessed what he was looking for, understood what he wanted: a clear space on the floor, protection, perhaps, against the chafing of bare, tender skin. Was it what she wanted also?

  She wasn’t sure, couldn’t put two coherent thoughts together for the race of blood in her veins, the haze of arousal in her brain. Yet she must decide. Now, before it was too late—if it wasn’t too late already.