FORGOTTEN VOWS

by Maggie Shayne

  She lay just as he'd left her, eyes red rimmed and wide, staring at the ceiling, looking shaken and vulnerable. The surge of emotion that flooded him was ridiculous and silly and inexplicable. But that didn't stop him from feeling it, and he decided to stop trying to figure this out and just go with it

  "Joey?"

  She blinked, but didn't face him. "I'm all right. I can handle this."

  "Never doubted it." He moved around the foot of the bed and sat down close to her.

  "Caro was right about that, you know." Her voice was coarse as cherry bark, but no longer wavering or weak. "I am the strong one. I'm the one Mom leaned on when things went bad. And now Caro's doing the same thing, turning to me when she can't turn to Ted."

  "You're right." He reached up and began freeing the buttons down her shirt. "But you know something, Joey?"

  She shook her head, finally meeting his eyes.

  "You have someone to lean on now."

  Her lips trembled, turning upward at the corners, but it wasn't quite a smile. "If I lean on you any harder, I'll break your back." She closed her eyes briefly. "I'm not usually like this, you know."

  He finished unbuttoning the shirt and moved his hands to the fly of her jeans, deftly releasing the snap, sliding the zipper down. "Like what?"

  "Weak. Dependent. Weepy. I usually hate women who act the way I'm acting right now."

  He tilted his head to one side, giving that some thought. "Look at it this way, kid. A man wants his woman to lean on him once in a while. Just so he knows she still needs him." He turned away from her, taking her foot in his hands and removing her shoe, then her sock. He repeated the process with the other foot.

  She drew a deep breath. "I do, you know."

  "Do what?"

  "Need you."

  He turned fast catching her gaze in time to see the anxiety in her eyes before she averted them.

  "It scares the hell out of me. I hate it, and God knows I never meant for it to happen. But all of a sudden I don't..." She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed tightly. The act didn't stop the tears from seeping through to dampen her lashes. She swallowed loudly and rushed on. "I don't know what the hell I'm going to do without you."

  "Baby..." A fist gripped his heart as Ash gathered her into his arms, held her to his chest, stroked her hair. The words that leapt into his throat and danced on his tongue were reassurances, promises that she'd never have to be without him. He bit them back, just barely restraining himself from blurting outright lies. Of course she'd have to get along without him. They weren't married. She'd lied and schemed to get him here with her, though he still didn't know why. And no matter how comfortable or how right it felt, it was just a game. They were two grown-ups playing house, and nothing more.

  She pretended they were married, he pretended to believe it. He couldn't tell her of his deception—no matter how powerful the urge to do just that had suddenly become— until she told him about hers. He had to know the reason for her lies. She'd started this deception, only she could end it.

  He held her close and pushed the blouse down her arms. She remained still, not objecting when he unhooked the bra and stripped that away, as well. He ignored the taut, warm skin of her back beneath his hands, and the gentle curve of her spine, and the soft swell of her breasts pressing to his chest. He'd have to be heartless to try to make love to her now, when she was an emotional basket case. But that was exactly what he would do if he looked down at her naked torso, her peach-colored skin, her dusky-tipped breasts.

  Instead, he rose, lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the bathroom. There he lowered her to her feet "Lose the jeans, fair lady. Your prince hath deduced you be in need of a relaxing bath and some fruit of the vine to ease your weary mind."

  She smiled, just a little, then glanced around the bathroom. Ash turned away from her on the pretense of filling the glasses. In truth, he didn't think his chivalrous mood would last two seconds if he had to stand there and watch her slide out of those jeans. He heard the brush of the denim over her legs, her hopping steps as she kicked out of them. He closed his eyes in agony and waited for the gentle lapping of the water to tell him she'd sunk into the tub before he faced her again.

  She lay in water to her chin, her knees poking up out of the water, her bandaged thigh just above the surface. Her head rested on the white porcelain; her lashes caressed her cheeks. "Mmm, smells heavenly."

  Ash put a glass of wine close to her face, touched it to her cheek. Her eyes opened, then she lifted a dripping hand to take the glass from him. She sipped. Ash's gaze stubbornly fixed itself to her lips, loosely pressed to the rim of the glass, slightly parted as the soft pink liquid flowed through them. She lowered the glass to the side of the tub. Her tongue swept over her lips, sweeping up the traces of wine there. Ash swore under his breath.

  "What's wrong?"

  He met her gaze head on. Not much sense in lying about it, was there? It must be written all over his face. "I'm an insensitive clod, driven by a one-hundred-eighty-proof libido, and sadly lacking in princely chivalry, no matter how I try to fake it"

  She frowned at him. "In English, Your Highness?"

  "Okay, in English. I want you, Joey. Here I am, blown away that you'd even think about leaning on me in your hour of need, that you'd trust me to help you through this crisis. And all I can think about is stripping naked and climbing in that tub with you." Her green eyes rounded, but he held up two hands before she could speak. "Don't say it. I'm a rutting buck, a pig. I know."

  She looked to be deep in thought for a moment. She took a slow sip of wine, then another, while Ash awaited her condemnation. Then she stood. Graceful as a swan taking flight from the glistening surface of a lake, she rose out of the water. Rivulets streamed down her body. Droplets clung to her belly, glistened on her breasts. She reached out, caught the front of his shirt in two hands and pulled him closer. Her lips pressed to his as her hands worked the buttons of his shirt. A second later she pushed the material down over his arms and the shirt pooled at his feet.

  "Do me a favor, Ash?"

  "Name it." His voice was throaty. His hands skimmed over her wet skin and he found it hard to breathe.

  "Leave the mind reading to me. You're no good at it"

  "No?"

  She shook her head, shoved at his jeans. "No. I want you, too. I want you to hold me and make this crazy world disappear, just for a little while."

  Ash glanced at the bathroom door to be sure it was locked, then kicked away his pants and stepped into the tub with her. Joey's arms slipped around his waist and her body pressed tight to his. He groaned under his breath, bending over her, catching her mouth beneath his and kissing her deeply. His hands slid up and down over her back, tracing its contours, then lower, to cup and squeeze her perfect buttocks, and lower still to the backs of her thighs. He lifted her legs, wrapped them around his waist and then anchored them atop his hips, slowly lowering himself into the water.

  Their lips never parted. He sipped hungrily from her mouth, and she returned every sweep of his tongue with equal fervor. When he was sitting, the hot water surrounding him, he clasped her waist lifted her slightly and positioned her over his pulsing need. He nudged her open. Her eyes opened, pinioning his. He pulled her down, sheathing himself inside her as all the air rushed out of her lungs. She moved up the length of him and down again, slowly, languorously. His arms wrapped around her waist with room to spare.

  He kissed her jaw, her throat Her head tipped back as he bit and suckled her neck. He pushed her back still farther, and she arched to give him access to her breasts. Those dark peaks strained toward him, silently begging for attention. He laved them with his tongue, going at one after the other like a man possessed. Her body moved faster, harder, taking him more deeply into her with each thrust. He bit her nipples, tugged at them, sucked them mercilessly, until she was trembling and biting her lip to keep quiet. Her fingers twining in his hair told him it wasn't too much and urged him on. He obliged h
er, loving to feel the shivers that raced through her body with every touch of his lips, his teeth. Her pleasure magnified his, and he thought it worked both ways—when he groaned ever so softly, she moved faster. When he shuddered her body trembled in response.

  In no time at all he found himself drowning in a sea of sensations, each more intense than the last, each wrapped in a blanket of Joey. Her scent, her feel, her sounds, her taste. He spiraled out of control, catching her mouth beneath his once more, plunging his tongue deep to taste more of her, thrusting it to mimic the movements of their bodies. He was beyond restraint, and he had only a second to wonder if she'd made the journey with him. Then she bucked, clutching him tighter, her silken dampness convulsing around him, milking him.

  He died a little bit as he poured himself into her. What this woman did to him!

  As his muscles uncoiled he stretched out, lying back in the tub and pulling her down atop him, her chest pressed to his. He massaged her shoulders, rubbed her back.

  "Mmm. Nice."

  He smiled, glad he could give her something "nice" to counterbalance all the not-so-nice things in her life right now. "Feel better?"

  "Yes." She was utterly relaxed against him, and her voice was drowsy.

  "Think you'll be able to sleep now?"

  "Umm-hmm."

  "Right here in the tub?"

  "What?" She lifted her head, but her eyes were heavy lidded.

  "The water's getting cold, fair lady."

  "I thought frogs liked cold water."

  "Not this one."

  She settled her head on his chest again. “Well, I guess that proves it. You're no frog."

  "Oh, no?" He gripped her tight and held her as he rose. He reached for a towel, wrapped it around her and saw goose bumps rising on her thighs.

  "No. You've evolved."

  He chuckled as she tucked her head down on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Stark naked and dripping wet, he carried her back into her adjoining bedroom, tugging down the covers on the bed. He stood her on wobbly legs and rubbed her vigorously with the towel, then urged her to lie down and pulled the covers over her. "How's the leg?"

  "Mmm, just a little sore. No problem." She burrowed deep, hugging the comforter around her shoulders, pushing her head into the pillow. Her eyes closed and she released a long sigh. "Maybe you were a prince all along, and I just couldn't see it."

  "I'm no prince, Joey."

  Her lips thinned, but she said nothing. Ash used her towel to dry off, then went back to the bathroom to drain the tub and swipe up the water they'd splashed all over the floor. He poured himself some wine, refilled Joey's glass and took them back to the bedroom with him.

  She lay very still, and he would have thought her asleep except that her breathing wasn't deep or regular. He set the wine on the nightstand.

  "What am I going to do about that damned diary, Ash?"

  He shrugged, facing her. Her eyes were open now and searching his. "Read it?"

  She licked her lips. "You think?"

  "That's what I'd do."

  She nodded. "Okay. I'll read it. Only...only not now. I've got enough to deal with right now, with the Slasher, and Caro and Ted breaking up, and this thing with you—"

  "Thing with me?"

  She averted her face, closing her eyes again. "No, I have too much to deal with now. I'll read it later. When all this is settled."

  He wanted to ask what she'd meant by that remark, but realized a second later that he didn't have to. He knew. Hadn't he been wondering about this thing with her? This feeling of being too close? Of caring too much? Was he to assume, then, that she was having similar concerns? Maybe she'd never intended to care about him when she'd concocted this insane plot of hers. And maybe now she found herself caring in spite of herself, just as he was.

  Right. And maybe I'm spinning straw into gold thanks to an overactive imagination and a case of wishful thinking.

  Wishful thinking? Then he did care about her? And he wanted her to care back?

  Not. Why would I care for a woman I know is lying to me with every breath she draws? A woman I can't even trust? No way.

  He glanced down at her again and knew without a doubt she was sleeping this time. She looked utterly relaxed, peaceful, innocent.

  Gorgeous.

  Shut up.

  He went to the dresser and quietly pulled open the drawer she'd cleared out for him. He found clean jeans and a sweatshirt and pulled them on. He had to go out. Alone. He had to get to the bottom of all of this. He'd never be able to sort out his feelings for Joey until he knew why she'd lied to him. And he knew, instinctively, that he wouldn't know that until the Slasher was stopped, once and for all. It was time to start doing some serious digging and he couldn't risk dragging Joey along. She'd be safe here. He would make sure of it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She knew when he left the room. Not that she'd been feigning sleep. No, she'd really been asleep. But she'd drifted off only because of the comforting warmth of his aura. She woke with a chilled start as soon as that warmth left.

  What was it? She shook the grogginess of sleep from her mind and focused on what she was feeling. Blackness. An ugly, bloodstained soul eclipsing hers. Cold. Violence. Death. She ran a hand over her brow and felt the cold sweat beading there.

  God, no!

  She lunged naked from the bed, tore clothes from the dresser and slung them on at record speed. She pulled on shoes with no socks and ran from the room, wincing every time she landed on the injured leg, but refusing to slow her pace because of it. Ash was gone. Nowhere in the house; she was sure of it without even looking for him. She turned, raced crookedly down the stairs and skidded to a halt. She looked toward the guest room door.

  "Caro," she whispered. Then she glanced down the stairs. "Ash." God, to protect one of them was to leave the other alone, vulnerable.

  The sound of a car out front snapped her out of the quandary. She hobbled through the living room to the sliding-glass doors.

  The car was Caro's. Her father got out of it and stood there, staring at Joey through the glass. For the first time in recent history, Joey wrenched the broom handle from the tracks, flicked up the lock and tugged the door open.

  "Dad. What are you—?"

  "Ashville called, asked me to come."

  Joey shook her head in bewilderment.

  "He said you could be in some kind of danger, Joey. Why on earth didn't you tell me about this? What's been going on in your life that's got you in trouble? What—?"

  "Not now." The tone of her voice must have gotten through to him. "Look, I'll explain later. Right now I have to find Ash. He's the one that's in danger, not me. Did he say where—?"

  "He's in danger?"

  "Where is he, Dad?"

  Her father stepped forward, ran one hand over her hair as if soothing a child's headache. "You saw it, this danger he's in?"

  She nodded hard. Her father had never doubted her being ultrasensitive—psychic. He was the only one who had never doubted it.

  "But you're safe? You're sure?"

  "Yes, Dad. But I'm not so sure about Caro. I want you to stay here with her. Watch the house. Don't let anyone in. No one, not even the police. My gun is in the nightstand beside my bed. Go and get it, and then stand watch over Caro and the girls."

  "You're going to try and find Ashville?"

  She nodded. "I have to."

  "You love him, Joey?"

  She swallowed a huge lump in her throat. "God, yes."

  "He said he needed to ask someone some questions. I thought he sounded like he suspected them of something."

  One of the people Ash suspected could be the Slasher, she thought grimly. Ted, or Beverly Issacs?

  She'd have to check both. She gripped her father's arm, looked him in the eyes. "This is no joke, Dad. Watch out for Caro. Don't let me down...again." She drew him inside and turned to grab her leather jacket from the back of the chair where she'd left it. Then she exited the door he'd just enter
ed. "Lock this behind me."

  He did, and turned on the outside light. Joey trotted to the garage, swung one leg over the big bike and painfully kicked it to a start. Thankfully the Harley always started on the first try. With a swing of one foot she got the kick-stand up. Finally she notched it into first gear with her toe, released the clutch and gunned the motor. The rear wheel spun as she took off into the night.

  #

  The message was simple. "Meet me to talk about the Slasher." Ash had only needed to utter those seven words into her answering machine's recorder before Bev had snatched up the receiver.

  "Ash, what is this?"

  "You tell me. Screening your calls now, Bev?"

  "What have you got on the Slasher?"

  "Meet me. We'll talk."

  "Where?"

  "Someplace quiet. How about the last crime scene?"

  "You're one morbid son of a—"

  "'Fraid I'm the Slasher, Bev? 'Fraid your throat'll get cut?"

  "Try it and I'll break you up in little pieces and feed you to the glow-in-the-dark bass in Onondaga Lake, Coye."

  "Funny."

  He hung up and then eased Joey's car out of the driveway as quietly as possible. He'd already put in a call to Joey's father, explaining as much as he could and asking him to come and stand watch over the girls while he checked this out. If Bev was guilty, which Ash found himself doubting more and more, then he'd be able to get her to slip up and reveal something. The woman had a temper like nitro and it wouldn't take much to set it off. If she got mad, she'd slip and then he'd know for sure.

  Or at least he hoped so. It was worth a shot.

  Anyway, he'd made it here, to the old man's house in Central Square. It was empty, ghostly, and the sickening aroma of decay still lingered. It was a simple house, a shoe-box kind of a place with the sickly sweet kind of smell on everything—tobacco mingled with liniment mingled with mothballs. It almost overshadowed the scent of death.

  He walked back and forth in the living room, past the worn brown sofa and the tilted recliner and the rocker, the magazine rack that spilled over with junk mail, the flooded ashtrays with their stale butts, the half-dozen brown pill bottles huddled together as if for warmth on a folding tray table nearby.