Copper Lake Confidential

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Clary!” She raced up the stairs to her room, flung back the covers and gathered her daughter into her arms. Thank God, her daughter was safe...but someone had been in the house!

  “Okay, okay. We can go to the guesthouse. Better yet, we’ll check into a hotel. I can call Jared at The Magnolia. He’ll make room for us even if they’re full.” She paced to the closet, shifting Clary, mumbling now, to one arm and hip while yanking clothes from the rods. “I’ll call Jared from the car...call Brent and tell him... Stephen.”

  Scooter appeared in the doorway and barked once, then headed back out of the room.

  Stephen. He was only a quarter mile away. He would welcome them. He would understand. He wouldn’t think she was crazy. He would hold her, comfort her, keep her and Clary safe.

  Scooter came back to bark once more before trotting off again. Telling her to come on, quit wasting time, get out of this house.

  She looked at the clothes she’d grabbed, two and a half outfits for herself, none for Clary, then dropped them on the bed. They could come back here and change in the morning, when it was daylight, when it was safe. She needed only two things besides her daughter and Scooter. She took her phone from the nightstand, grabbed her medication from the bathroom drawer and headed toward the stairs as Scooter barked a third time.

  At the front door, she risked a look into the living room. The candles were still lit, their flames sending ghostly shapes across the canvas. “Gotta get out,” she whispered, arms clenching Clary more tightly, but halfway out the door she remembered Brent. If he found them gone and the clothes tumbled on the bed, he’d panic.

  Rushing to the kitchen, she scribbled a note and left it in a prominent place on the island, then rushed back to the door. She was all the way out when she thought about the candles. She couldn’t leave them burning. They were a fire hazard. She didn’t care about losing the house, but she couldn’t endanger Brent and Anne or her neighbors.

  She ran into the living room, blew out the flames, breathed in the acrid smoke that curled up from the wicks, then ran out again. Scooter, waiting patiently on the steps, barked, and she closed the door, locked it and hustled for the van. For such a short drive, she set Clary in the passenger seat, shushing her when she murmured and shifted. Scooter jumped into the front floorboard and rested his chin on Clary’s leg. She sighed, patted his head and went on sleeping.

  Once Macy drove through the Woodhaven gate, streetlamps were fewer and much farther between. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly they almost went numb, and her gaze kept shifting: street ahead, daughter beside her, road behind her. She braked to a jerky stop in front of the neat little cottage, yanked out her keys, ran around to the passenger side and lifted out Clary, then followed Scooter to the porch.

  Her first knock qualified as polite. Ludicrous. She’d fled her house with her little girl in the middle of the night and acted as if she were making a routine visit. Scooter thought it silly, too, because he nosed the screen door open, banged the door with one paw and let out a great deep bark. She imitated his knock, curling her fingers into a fist and banging on the door, then called, “Stephen! It’s me and Clary! Open the door, please!”

  Lights came on in the bedroom, thin wedges spilling around the edges of the curtains, and she practically danced in place, anxious to get inside and into his embrace. A moment later, the lock clicked and Stephen pulled the door open. He was wearing boxers—black, she noticed, charmed in some small corner of her mind—and nothing else, not even glasses. His expression was dazed, worried and startled when she threw herself and Clary against his bare chest.

  “Mace?” His mouth brushed her ear, and his arms automatically went around them, as if it were the most natural action in the world. She felt as if having them around her was the most natural. “What— Why— Are you guys okay?”

  Scooter brushed around them and went into the kitchen, and the sound of lapping at water came a moment later. Normal, she thought again. Scooter was home and getting a drink. She and Clary were home and getting hugged by Stephen. Normal was such a shaky idea for her, one that she wanted so desperately that she didn’t trust her voice to work. “C-can we st-stay here?”

  “Of course you can.”

  His sleepy, husky voice drifted over her, and the sharp edge of tension gripping her began to dull. Whatever had happened at the house, now she could relax. Now she and Clary were safe. The knowledge sent shivers through her, each ripple diminishing fear and anxiety, until at last her body went limp, taking support from his, her mind easing with the soft stroking of his hand down her spine, the soft murmurs. You’re okay. It’s okay.

  When the shaking had stopped, he stepped back, moved his hands to her shoulders and met her gaze. “What happened?”

  Her deep inhalation smelled of him and Clary and soap and triggered another loosening sensation of tension. She wanted to just breathe it in, just stand there, her, Clary and Stephen, and absorb the goodness of it, the rightness, but the muscles in her left arm and back were showing the strain of holding her baby for so long. She started to shift her to the other arm, but Stephen intercepted her, lifting Clary gently and laying her on the couch. He slid a small pillow under her head, tucked a quilted throw over her.

  When he came back, he closed and locked the door and asked again, quietly, patiently, “What happened?”

  Her first attempt at answering was little more than babbling, but after another deep breath, she folded her arms across her middle and feigned control. If you could pretend it, she thought, you could be it.

  “Something startled me awake, and I realized Scooter was at the bedroom door, wanting to go out. I took him downstairs and let him out. When he came back in, he stopped in the living room doorway and that’s when I saw candles burning on the mantel under the portrait.”

  His gaze narrowed so intently that she wondered for one heartbreaking moment if he doubted her, if his reassurances that afternoon had been merely an attempt to placate her, as her family often had. When he held up a finger and pivoted away into the bedroom, though, then came back with his glasses on, relief banished her own doubt. He’d just been trying to bring her into focus.

  “Where did the candles come from? There have never been any on the mantel.”

  “The candlesticks were in the dining room. The china cabinet at the far end. Bottom cabinet. Paul Revere made them. The tapers must have been in there, too.”

  His eyes widened slightly. “The Paul Revere?”

  “That’s what the documentation says.”

  “Wow.” That quickly the candlesticks’ provenance was dismissed. Pulling one hand loose from where she hugged herself, he led her into the kitchen, flipped on the overhead light and seated her at the table. He took two mugs from the cabinet, looked at the coffeemaker, then took a bottle from another cabinet instead. After sitting next to her, he opened the scotch and poured some into each cup.

  She gazed at it longingly. She’d never been much of a drinker, but a little liquid heat and courage was so tempting. Grimacing, she said, “I’m not supposed to drink with the medication I’m on. Not that it seems to be working so well lately.”

  “What is it?”

  She pulled the bottle from the pocket of the gym shorts she wore with a T-shirt for pajamas and handed it over. He gave it a doctorly study, taking note of the dosage, the date it was refilled and how many pills were inside, then set it down and nudged the cup closer. “A few sips won’t hurt.”

  The scotch was good, smooth, burned her throat and heated her core temperature to almost normal. It felt pleasurable enough that she took another drink. Even her fingertips and toes were warming, and her knees had stopped knocking. If it weren’t for the subject, she could almost pretend this was just a man and a woman who were attracted to each other having a drink together in the middle of the night.

  “What did Scooter do when you let him outside?”

  The unexpected question made her blink. “He raced out the door, ran into
the shadows near the back fence and presumably did his business there, then sniffed around the pool and all the way back to the house. Usual dog stuff.”

  He was quiet a moment before saying, “I should have told you, Mace, so you would’ve known but...Scooter doesn’t go out at night.”

  Chapter 13

  Her grip tightened around the cup, and she took a third drink, larger than the first sips. Her mouth thinned and shadows darkened her eyes. Stephen shrugged. “I suppose it could happen. I can’t remember him ever doing it before, but that doesn’t mean he can’t. It’s just his routine is to go out before bed, then sleep like a log until morning. Unless...”

  “Something wakes him,” she said flatly. “You think whoever lit those candles was in the house when he got me up?”

  He hesitated to answer. She’d had enough scares already. But that was the point, wasn’t it? She’d had plenty of scares by someone, ghost or human, who had access to her house. If one more fright put her on edge enough to keep her and Clary safe, it would be worth it.

  As long as it didn’t push her over the edge.

  “More likely the guy woke him as he was leaving. Scooter would have let you know if someone was actually in the house when he was awake. Maybe his point for going out was to make sure the guy was gone.”

  “But the alarm was set. I had to disarm it to let him out. I had to reset it when he came back in.”

  He summoned his calmest doctor voice. “Honey, if someone’s been moving things, they’ve been in the house before. They have the code and the key.”

  “But—but who? I haven’t just given out codes and keys to random people. There’s no reason.”

  Random people. That was the problem. Whoever was doing this wasn’t some acquaintance.

  When she reached for the cup, he took her hand instead and pulled her over onto his lap. Her slender body was trembling again, nowhere near as badly as when she’d dragged him from a deep sleep, but enough to make him hurt for her. Enough to make him want to hurt whoever was doing this to her. “Who has access?”

  She dragged her fingers through her hair before settling her head on his shoulder. “Me. Brent and Anne. Robbie Calloway. The alarm company. Possibly the cleaning service Robbie hired when I told him I was coming back.” A defensive tone entered her voice. “Who has access to your house?”

  “Me, Marnie and my landlady.” He trusted Marnie with his life, the same way Macy trusted Brent.

  But Stephen didn’t really know Brent, and he hadn’t talked as much to Anne as he had to Brent. His gut instinct was to trust them, but with Macy’s sanity on the line, if not her life, he couldn’t rule out anyone automatically.

  “Okay. Robbie. Could he have a motive to hurt you, scare you, make you think you’re crazy?”

  “No. No one does.” She lunged to her feet to pace, and he missed the warmth and weight of her body immediately. “I’m just an average woman, Stephen. I’ve got a daughter, and we’ve both got some money. There may be people who don’t like me, but no one who cares enough to qualify as an enemy. No one feels that intensely about me.”

  “That’s not true. I feel intensely about you.”

  Slowly she smiled, though the stress didn’t leave her face. “But in a good way. No one dislikes me enough to want to hurt me.”

  She wanted to believe that. So did he. But the events of the past few days suggested otherwise.

  Okay, so he knew Robbie and figured he could dismiss him. The Calloway family had multiple fortunes of its own, one with Robbie’s name on it. He would have been careful about the access granted to the cleaning service, and as for the alarm company, Macy was just one more customer. There was nothing personal between them and her.

  And this was very personal.

  “What about Mark’s mother and grandmother?”

  She had stopped in the doorway to the living room and was watching Clary sleep. Her own shoulders were rounded, and when she faced him, exhaustion was etched into her face. “They both had keys. Lorna probably still does. But Robbie changed the code after Mark died.”

  Granted, Lorna could buy the code from a cash-strapped employee at the alarm company or even hire someone who could bypass it. But Lorna hadn’t had contact with her daughter-in-law in a long time. Why harass her now?

  Which led back to Brent and Anne. Brent knew how fragile his sister was. He knew how much money she and Clary had. He was next in line for custody of his niece and control of both fortunes.

  But he loved his sister—loved her in the never-ending do-anything-for-her way Stephen loved Marnie. If Brent needed money, hell, if he just wanted it, all he had to do was ask, and Macy would give it to him.

  Anne loved her, too, and Clary. She was like a second mother to Clary. Macy credited both Brent and Anne with getting her through the ordeal of losing her baby and her husband with her sanity more or less intact.

  Could Anne love Clary too much to let her go? Now that Macy was ready to settle elsewhere, was Anne afraid of losing her little girl?

  It didn’t feel right. None of it felt right.

  Across the room, Macy was standing with her arms across her chest again. Earlier the posture had made her look vulnerable, as if she were trying to protect herself. Now she looked on the offensive, as if she knew the things he was thinking and didn’t like them one bit. “No one I know would do this.”

  Someone she knew was doing it. Or Mark’s ghost was hanging around. Or she was terrorizing herself.

  Grimly he left the table and went to stand beside her, close enough to feel the chill emanating from her, to smell the faint fragrance of her perfume, the fainter scent of her fear. Together they stood and watched Clary for a moment, then he bumped his arm against hers. “You need sleep. Let me move Clary into the bedroom.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “She’s fine where she is.”

  He stilled, gazing down at her delicate fingers, the nails pale pink with white tips. Pretty, pampered hands, but strong enough to pick up her daughter and carry her where she needed. Strong enough to fight for her daughter. For herself.

  She sweetened his next breath as well—less fear, more woman. He shifted his gaze to her face, also delicate, pretty. “Tell me you’re not planning to sleep in that chair.”

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me you’re not planning for me to sleep in that chair.” He managed something of a grin. “Though I will if you want.”

  Amazingly, slowly, she shook her head again.

  Wow. He combed his fingers through his hair. He’d thought...wanted...wondered... But now... Wow.

  A hint of a smile touched her lips. “I feel very intensely about you, too, Stephen. I want to sleep with you, but I also want to sleep with you. I want to be close.”

  He didn’t have a clue exactly which meant have sex—sleep or sleep. He didn’t care. If all she wanted tonight was to share space and warmth and know she wasn’t alone, he was okay with that.

  But when he followed her into the bedroom and turned from adjusting the door so they could hear any sound from Clary, Macy was stripping off her clothes. He stared long and hard. In a minute, he’d have to take his glasses off, and he wanted to remember her like this—naked, pale, sleekly curved, so damn beautiful and smiling at him with shy innocence, uncertainty, need.

  You’re getting lucky tonight, a voice crowed in his head. The cheerleader/homecoming queen/prom queen had chosen the nerd. He felt just like that nerd again as he removed his glasses and everything went fuzzy, as his knees went weak and his erection swelled hard. If he tried to speak, he was pretty sure his voice would wobble and squeak, so he didn’t say anything. He just walked to her, cupped her face and kissed her.

  He was devouring her, easing her closer to the bed, when she began tugging at his boxers. She got distracted, though, her delicate, strong fingers wrapping around him and wringing a guttural groan from him. Evading her hands while still feasting on her mouth, he shucked the boxers, managed to find the night table behind
him and located a condom inside before they tumbled onto the bed together.

  * * *

  He didn’t know how much time had passed. Two condoms’ worth, the first too fast, of course, the second long enough to make a nerd proud if he weren’t too tired to think about it. Then Stephen grinned. A true nerd was never too tired to take credit for and pride in his accomplishments. He’d made the Warrior Princess cry out, made her cling to him as if he were the only important thing in her world. Damn right he was proud.

  Beside him she slept, her head on his shoulder, her arm over his middle. Her breathing was even and slow, her sleep so deep that when he brushed her hair from her face, she didn’t even twitch. He wouldn’t be surprised if she could sleep twenty-four hours. Sexual release was good for more than just sexual frustration.

  But just as release had made her melt and go limp, he was now wide-awake, and his thoughts returned to her brother and sister-in-law. Macy had known Brent all her life; presumably it would be harder for him to harbor any great secrets without tipping her off.

  Anne was another matter. She and Brent hadn’t been married a year yet. How long had they dated? Where had they met? Was it good fortune that she seemed to love his family as much as he did?

  There wasn’t a correlation between length of time known and depth of love. Stephen had met Macy a week ago, and he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, be father to Clary, have more babies. He wanted to make Macy laugh and smile, to wake up with her every morning, to be exactly who he was and to let her be exactly who she was. He felt right with her. He belonged with her.

  Anne could have had that instant strong connection, too. If her family was warm and loving, she would have been predisposed to want that kind of relationship with her in-laws. If her family was distant and dysfunctional, she could have been predisposed to want a normal relationship with her in-laws, to embrace a healthy family life with enthusiasm.

  Unable to sleep and needing to do something, he carefully slid out from beneath Macy. She didn’t murmur or cling; her breathing didn’t change. She adjusted her head on the pillow and kept right on sleeping. He put on his glasses and boxers, then the thought of Clary made him add shorts and a T-shirt.