Since the kitchen sink was a different setup, he made the repair himself, then they moved on to the next room. By the time they finished, there wasn’t a drip to be heard anywhere in the motel, and Hannah was convinced she could repeat the repairs in her sleep. While Mick put his tools away, she turned her attention to the laundry. She did at least one load a day, and sometimes, when they were lucky enough to fill more than a few rooms, five or more. It was another task she could do in her sleep. In fact, the only challenge around here was paying the bills.
And escaping Brad’s trap.
Sylvie came into the utility room as Hannah began folding the sheets she’d washed that morning. The old lady took two corners of the first sheet, and they gave it a sharp snap before starting the folding process. A second followed, then a third, before finally her grandmother spoke. “Merrilee’s resting.”
“Good.”
“What have you been up to?”
“Fixing the sinks.”
“You mean helping Mick do it.”
“No, doing it myself. He showed me how.”
The fifth sheet joined the others on the shelf where they were stored. “He seems like a nice enough young man.”
Hannah reached for the next one without answering.
“This place could do with a nice young man who’s handy like him. You’d be amazed at how much easier running the motel would be if you had a husband to help. Neither your granddaddy nor I could have done it without the other’s help. The same was true for your parents.”
“I have help.”
Sylvie snorted. “I know you don’t mean Merrilee. Seems like we all spend more time undoing what she does than we would doing it right the first time ourselves. And I’m too old to be of much help. Besides, what I don’t know about fixing things could fill a book.” She nodded toward the door. “I imagine what that boy doesn’t know about fixing things wouldn’t fill a postage stamp.”
“This is a big change of heart. This morning you didn’t want ‘his kind’ staying here. Now you’re talking as if I should drag him off to the preacher before he can get away.”
Sylvie refused to see the inconsistency. “This morning was before I talked to him this afternoon. Besides, I don’t mean him necessarily. There’s plenty of nice young men out there who know how to take care of things, and I think it’s past time you found one. You’re not getting any younger, Hannah. You’ve got a future to think of, children to have, a home to make.”
Not if Brad made good on his threat. By the time she got out of prison, she wouldn’t have much of a future left, she would be too old to even think about children, and her home would be someplace like this. Dreary. Shabby.
“If finding a husband was that easy, Sylvie, I would have done it by now.”
Her grandmother snorted again. “If you didn’t set impossible standards, you’d’ve found one by now. I can’t even remember the last time you dated.”
“What about Brad?”
“Doesn’t count. It was plain from the beginning that he would never marry you, and even if he would’ve, you never would’ve had him. I always figured that relationship was just about sex. Was it?”
In spite of her laughter, Hannah felt her face grow warm. “You’re not supposed to know anything about my sex life. You’re my grandmother, for heaven’s sake.”
“I know about sex. If I didn’t, your daddy never would’ve come to be, and you wouldn’t be here, either.”
After laying the last sheet aside, Hannah turned to the dryer and began folding pillowcases. “Well, you’re wrong about Brad. I liked him. I liked him a lot.”
“Did you ever for a minute believe he was going to get serious about you?”
Knowing all she knew now, Hannah was ashamed to answer. The truth was, she’d known from the start that she wasn’t his type. Heavens, he’d told her so on their first date. But there had been some small part of her that had hoped, anyway, that she could be the exception to his rule, that she could be the average, everyday nobody who won the heart of Brad born-to-a-fortune-and-making-a-secondone-now Daniels.
“No. I never believed it.” It had only been a wish in her heart, and not a very strong one at that.
“So. Mick seems a nice young man. He’s got the skills to have this place in tiptop shape in no time.”
“What in the world would he want with a place like this? He’s part-owner of a multi-million-dollar construction company,” Hannah pointed out dryly.
“All the better. He’s got the money to do things right.”
“He’s also a suspect in his wife’s murder.”
“Do you believe he did it?”
“No. But guilt isn’t a prerequisite for a conviction.” Especially when someone as cunning and determined as Brad wanted that conviction. “Mick Reilly might be spending the rest of his life in prison—” and she might be there herself “—so don’t go marrying me off to him, okay?”
“He probably wouldn’t have you, anyway. You’re cranky and stubborn and convinced that you have to do everything on your own.”
And a liar, Hannah thought. A deceiver. A desperate woman who tried desperate measures with desperate results. “Sounds like you’re describing yourself.”
With a great laugh, Sylvie started toward the door that led to the quarters she shared with Merrilee. “Even if I had other grandchildren, you’d still be my favorite, Hannah, because you’re just like me.”
Once she was gone, Hannah left through the other door, went to the kitchen and filled a bucket with sudsy water, then returned for the weekly chore of washing the plate-glass windows. At least it was supposed to be done weekly. Usually she wound up waiting until the morning sun was merely a hazy glow through coated glass. It was the one job she hated even more than scrubbing toilets, and so she didn’t allow herself to think about it. She just went to work, climbing onto a chair to reach the top, using the sponge side of the squeegee to wash away dust and fingerprints, the rubber side to wipe the glass dry.
“Don’t you have a ladder around here?”
Bracing one hand on the wall above, she deliberately kept her gaze off Mick as she leaned across to reach the farthest corner. “Somewhere, but I’m not going to drag it out just to wash windows. I always use a chair.”
“Great. Then you can fall and break something, and who will run things then?”
“I did fall once.” She pointed with the dripping tool. “Broke that tile with my knee. Didn’t do my knee much good, either.”
He slipped one arm around her waist, and every muscle in her body tightened. He lifted her to the floor and, for a moment, continued to hold her. Not close. They had been much closer than this, intimately close, naked, together, their bodies joined. But still she felt edgy. Nervous, as if in a situation she didn’t have a clue how to handle. She felt shy. She, who had stripped off his clothes along with her own, who had seduced, as well as been seduced, who had, in one long night, become as familiar with his body as she was with her own, felt shy.
When he raised his free hand, she tried to shrink away, but all he did was tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was gentle. His fingers were strong. His hands had touched her in ways that other, different hands had, but the sensations had been heightened. Because of the illicit appeal of sex with a stranger, she’d thought. Because what she was doing was so wrong. Because he’d been alone so long, and so had she, and they’d both had enough to drink to loosen their inhibitions.
Or maybe because there was something between them. Sexual attraction. Lust. Pure base need.
And though that was apparently enough for him, it wasn’t for her. She didn’t want to feel cheap or easy again. Once was more than enough.
He was looking at her in the same intense way he had studied her Saturday night when she’d invited herself to join him. She had walked up to his booth in the bar’s dimmest corner and said what she hoped was a sultry comeon in a sultry voice. “You look like you could use a little company, cowboy.” He had returned th
e look, but where hers had been appreciative, his had merely been measuring. After a long minute, he’d turned back to the drink in front of him and replied, “You look like more than I can afford.”
The memory brought the same hot flood of shame that she’d felt then, when she had swallowed hard, tried for sultry again and said, “I’m not for sale, darlin’.” Only because she’d already been bought and paid for. No, she corrected herself now. Bought. Not yet paid for. Maybe the distinction made a difference to some, but not to her. She’d had sex with a stranger with the expectation of profiting financially from it. The fact that the payment had never been made didn’t make her any less guilty.
When he spoke, Mick’s voice was soft, thoughtful. “Your mother’s wrong. You don’t need makeup or different clothes to attract a man. Of course, I have an advantage over most men. I know what that shirt’s hiding. I know the shape of your breasts and your hips. I know your skin is this same creamy gold all over.” He rubbed his fingertips across her jaw, down her throat, to just above the ribbed neck of her T-shirt. “I know how hot you get, how sensitive you get, how the simple stroke of my fingers across your stomach makes you quiver.”
She had trouble opening her mouth, forcing words out when her tongue was thick and her temperature was rising and her mind was focused on remembered sensation, but she managed. “Please...don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t touch me. Don’t talk... Don’t remind me.”
“Remind you of what? The way you smiled at me in the bar? The way you touched me in the truck? The way you damn near burned when I kissed you? The way you whimpered when I was inside you? Or how about the way...”
She shoved the chair out of her path and started to walk off, but he caught her wrist and pulled her back, this time right into his arms. Right against his body—his clearly aroused body. She didn’t struggle, didn’t try to free herself. She’d already learned that he would let her go only when he was ready.
“Feeling a little remorse, Hannah?”
“Far more than a little. I regret ever meeting Brad. I regret borrowing money from him and agreeing to his stupid plan. I regret going to the bar Saturday night, and most of all I regret you.” With those last words, she looked right into his steady dark gaze.
“That’s too bad,” he murmured. “Because I don’t regret you at all. The circumstances, definitely, but not you.” He leaned closer, as if he might kiss her, as if he might give her a whole new set of regrets—might-have-beens, could have-beens—then abruptly he released her and moved a dozen feet back, where he leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. The stance pulled his shirt taut. The soft swelling of arousal pulled his jeans taut. He watched. Waited.
She looked at him warily. He looked as innocent as any sinfully handsome man could, as harmless as any wickedly sexy man could, but he was neither. In fact, it was a tossup as to who was more dangerous to her—him or Brad. Brad could take her home, her freedom, even her life.
Mick could break her heart.
“Excuse me.” The interruption came from behind her, from the man who stood just inside the glass doors. Like Mick, he wore jeans and boots, but instead of a T-shirt, his was a polo in emerald green. He was probably in his thirties, not bad-looking at all and definitely a stranger in town. “I’m looking for Michael Reilly.”
Hannah looked from the newcomer to Mick. It was his turn now to wear the wary look. “That’s me.”
“I’m Trey Landry.”
The name meant nothing to Hannah, but it increased the wariness in Mick’s expression as he pushed away from the wall. He met the man halfway for a handshake. “You’re not quite what I expected.”
“You expected a three-piece suit, a Jag and the instincts of a shark? I’ve got the instincts. I also have a few small college and law-school loans to pay off.” He pushed his hands into his hip pockets. “Speaking of expectations, what I saw a minute ago wasn’t quite what I expected for a man whose wife has just been brutally murdered.”
Heat rushed through Hannah as she turned her back, dipped the squeegee in the bucket and returned to work. Parked in front of her and just a few yards down, the only vehicle in the lot besides her car and Mick’s truck, was an old Grand Am that looked as if it belonged. How had Landry driven up and parked without their notice? And what kind of lawyer was he? One fresh out of law school, it seemed, without the experience, expertise or wherewithal to handle a case like this. Given ten years, Trey Landry—great name, great face—might be one hell of a lawyer, but that would be too late for Mick.
And once it was too late for him, it would forever be too late for her.
Maybe it already was.
It was a still night. There was no traffic on the road, no loud guests, not even an occasional plane flying overhead. The sky was dark, clouds blocking the moon and stars, and the air was uncomfortably warm and sweet with the promise of rain. An infrequent flash of lightning to the west spread its glow in long fingers to the horizon, but the storm was miles away. Mick wished it were closer. He could use a good storm tonight.
He leaned against the faded siding beside his door and watched Hannah through the glass. She stood behind the counter in the office, head bent over work, shoulders rounded. She’d had a long day and probably wanted nothing more than to go to bed. He felt guilty about imposing his will on her, but he needed to see Brad’s cabin.
And he wanted to spend more time with her.
The lawyer had taken up the rest of his afternoon and the first few hours of his evening. He’d asked more questions than the sheriff had ever dreamed of, and he’d accepted Mick’s answers with no indication of whether he believed them. He had said his schedule was tight, that he would be back Sunday unless something happened before then. Before he’d left, he’d given Mick a warning. “Your wife was murdered a few nights ago,” he’d said, his gaze never wavering from Mick’s. “You’ve already admitted that at the time of the murder, you were in bed with a woman you know only as Elizabeth, and when I arrived this afternoon, you were all wrapped up with another woman. Looking callous, uncaring and promiscuous doesn’t do much for your image as a grieving husband.”
“I’m sorry Sandra’s dead,” Mick had replied, “but I’m not a grieving husband. I won’t pretend to be.”
“The problem, Mick, is husbands who don’t grieve tend to lose sympathy. They look real good as suspects. Have your affairs if you want. Just don’t be so public about them.”
Mick hadn’t reminded him that he’d never been promiscuous or that Elizabeth had been his first and only affair. He sure as hell hadn’t told the lawyer that Elizabeth and Hannah were one and the same. What purpose would it serve? If Landry questioned her, she would deny it. Besides, he’d made a promise that if she told him who set him up, he wouldn’t name her to the sheriff or anyone else. If telling would benefit him, maybe he would break that promise. Since it wouldn’t...
The rumble of a car drew his attention to the parking lot. The night clerk had arrived. She climbed out and made her way inside, limping heavily, carrying her weight with little ease. Hannah, the elderly and the infirm. She claimed she was no good at running a motel, but with the help she’d had, she’d done okay.
The two women talked for a few minutes before Hannah finally came out. Her head down, her hands in her pockets, she made her way along the sidewalk, passing from light into shadow, then into light again. He waited until she was only a few yards away before he stepped in front of her. “Ready?”
She looked up. The weariness that he’d recognized at a distance was more prominent up close, in the droop of her mouth and the shadows underneath her eyes. She didn’t try to back out, though. “Sure. You have a flashlight?”
He nodded, then unlocked the passenger door and held it open for her. Once she was inside, he circled around and joined her. “We’ll make it quick. I know you’re tired.”
“No more so than usual. Head toward Yates.”
He followed her
directions, eventually turning onto a dirt road that wound through the trees and offered occasional glimpses of the lake, a shadow among other shadows. There were tumoffs along the way, but he followed the road until it ended about fifteen feet in front of the Daniels cabin.
Once he shut off the headlights, it was eerily dark. He sat for a moment, listening to the sounds of the engine settling, then to the sounds of the night—tree frogs, crickets, whippoorwills. The lapping of water against the shore. The soft, uneven whispers of Hannah’s breathing.
She sat all the way across the seat, right against the door. She wasn’t looking at the cabin or at him, but off into the dark woods.
“Nice place,” he commented.
“Uh-huh. But not nice enough for Brad.”
“Did you...” He thought of the word he’d been about to say, discarded it and chose another less important. “Did you care about him?”
She was silent a long time. In the darkness he couldn’t get even a hint of her feelings from her too-expressive eyes. “I liked him,” she admitted. “Yes, I cared about him. But I wasn’t heartbroken when it ended.”
He wondered if that was true and decided that he wanted it to be, so it was. He didn’t leave it at that, though. “Have you ever been heartbroken?”
“When my grandfather died. When my father died. When I realized that I was stuck at that motel for the rest of my mother’s life. For the rest of my life.”
“You hate it that much?”
“I just wanted something—” she shrugged “—different.”
She didn’t go into detail, and he didn’t ask, because he suspected her different was very similar to the different he’d been looking for when he’d left the family farm seventeen years ago. A life with less hardship. A town where not everyone knew him. A place with people his own age. A place with choices. His hometown in West Texas had one grocery store, one café, one bank, two gas stations and four churches. Sunshine offered even less.
The Overnight Alibi Page 10