He paused for a minute and said very softly, “I’m sorry. I never meant to come off the way that I did earlier. But a woman was murdered. Three young women are missing.”
“I’m sorry, as well. I thought... Never mind. I don’t know what I thought. But you seriously think that...there will be more kidnappings? And that the same person who murdered the poor woman whose remains were found at the laundry has taken these other women?”
He nodded grimly. “From what I’ve learned, there is no way Lydia Merkel just walked away from her life. I haven’t had time for other interviews yet, but I imagine I will find that neither Lily Sylvester nor Amy Bonham just walked away, either. And—while other businesses had sheets and used the laundry and fall in place with other leads as well, the Frampton Ranch and Resort still comes out on top of every list. Maybe I am touchy as far as this place goes, but in truth, I was sent here because of my familiarity with not just my home state but with the Frampton Ranch and Resort. You...you need to be so careful, Maura.”
“I will be—I always am. But I’ll be very careful. And...thank you.”
He nodded. He knew that she was thanking him for the warning—and for telling her just how hard he had tried to reach her years ago.
He still hadn’t moved; neither had she.
There were five rooms in the attic. The space was small. The walls were old and solid, and they were speaking softly, but it had grown late.
There was nothing more to say.
And there were years and years of words that they might say.
And, still, neither of them moved.
“I, uh... I’m so sorry for the families and friends of those poor women. And it’s truly horrible about that young woman who was murdered, but do you think that they’re all related?”
“We don’t know. But they did have this place in common. And there’s the past.”
Maura shook her head. “You mean Francine?”
“Yes.”
“But...that was twelve years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Peter committed suicide,” Maura said. “I remember reading about it, and I remember him fighting with Francine. But then again, I remember everyone fighting with Francine. Still, with what Peter did...killing himself. Peter was a bit of a strange man with intense religious beliefs. He also had a temper, which usually came out as a lot of screaming and boiled down to angry muttering. It wasn’t hard to believe that he had gone into a rage and dragged her out to the History Tree—and then been horrified by what he had done and regretted his action. Committed suicide.”
“That’s what was assumed. Never proved,” Brock told her. “He was stabbed in the gut, something someone else could have done. Wipe the knife...put it in his hand. Leave him in the freezer. Easy to believe he might have done it himself. Especially when there were no other solid suspects. Just as easy to believe he was stabbed—and that the scene was staged.”
He took a slight step back—almost as if he needed a little space. “Well, I’m in room three. I guess we should call it a night. I...uh... Well, you look great. And congratulations. I understand that you’re doing brilliantly with your career. But I guess we all knew that you would. You’re a natural storyteller—easy to see how that extends to directing people, to making them look great on video.”
“Thanks. And you’re exactly what you wanted to be—an FBI agent.” She paused and took a deep breath. “And...Brock, I never received any of your messages. I don’t know if my parents thought they were protecting me... They’re good people, but... I am so sorry. I really had it in for you for years—I thought you just walked away.”
He shook his head. Shrugged.
“Well, where are you?”
“I’m the last down the hallway, in five,” she said.
“I’ll watch you through your door,” he said with a half smile. “I mean, I’m here—might as well see it through to perfect safety.”
“Okay, okay, I’m going. I...I assume I’ll see you,” she murmured.
“You will,” he assured her.
She turned and headed down the short hallway to the end. There, she dug out her key, opened her door, waved and went in.
Finally alone and in the sanctuary of her room, she leaned against the door, shaking.
How could time be erased so easily? How could the truth hurt so badly...and mean so very much at the same time? What would have happened if she had received his messages? Would they have been together all these years with, perhaps, a little one now, or two little ones...
She could have turned to him, laughed, slipped her arms around him. She knew what it would feel like, knew how he held her, cupped her nape when he kissed her, knew the feel of his lips...
Time had gone by. She hadn’t received his messages.
She hadn’t known he’d tried to reach her; she should have. As soon as she was home, her parents had gotten her a new phone with a new, unlisted number. They’d insisted that she change her email and delete all her social media accounts—not referencing Brock specifically, so much as the situation and the danger that could possibly still come from it.
Maybe she should have tried harder to get in touch with him. But when she’d never heard from him, she’d given up. Tried to move on.
Now they were living different lives.
She pushed away from the door. It had been a long day. She was hot and tired and suddenly living in a land of confusion. A shower was in order.
Maybe a cold shower.
She doffed her clothing, letting it lie where it fell, and headed into the bathroom. And it was while the water was pouring over her that she felt a strange prickle of unease.
It was like a perfect storm.
She was here. Brock was here...
Nils and Mark Hartford were here. Donald and Marie Glass... Fred Bentley...
And then, today her and Angie in St. Augustine, Brock in St. Augustine.
In the same restaurant. At the same time.
She turned off the water, dried quickly and stepped back out to the bedroom. She knew that Brock was working—that they all needed to be concerned. One poor woman was beyond help. Three were still missing, and maybe, just maybe...
There was nothing that she could do except, of course, be smart, as Brock had warned. And suddenly she couldn’t help herself. She was thinking like Angie.
A night, just a night.
As Angie had made sure they all knew at dinner, Brock wasn’t sleeping with anyone now in his life. There was no reason that the two of them shouldn’t relive the past, if only for a night, for a few hours, for...
Memory’s sake. If Maura just revisited the past, she might realize that it hadn’t been so perfect, so very wonderful, that Brock wasn’t the only man in the world who was so perfect...for her.
She knew his room number. It was wild, but...
Yes. It was too wild. She forced herself to don a long cotton nightgown and slip into bed.
And lay there, wide-awake, staring at the ceiling, remembering the contours of his body.
Chapter Five
Brock closed and locked his door, set his gun on the nightstand, and his phone and wallet on the desk by his computer. He shrugged out of his jacket and sat at the desk, opened his computer, keyed in his password and went to his notes.
He quickly filled in what he had learned that afternoon.
The most interesting had not been his conversation with the manager at Saint.
It had been earlier, when he had visited the offices of SAMM.
The event Lydia Merkel had played had been a social for members of the society. It hadn’t been a mere boat, but the yacht Majestic, and fifty-seven members of SAMM had been invited.
Donald Glass and his wife had been among them.
The contact at SAMM had known that Maureen Rodriguez—or her sad remains at any rat
e—had been discovered. Every hotel, motel, inn and bed-and-breakfast that used the laundry facility had been questioned upon that finding. But no evidence had led to any one property.
Donald Glass knew about the women who had disappeared. He had never mentioned that he had met any of them.
To be fair, he might not have known that he had met Lydia Merkel. She had been working under her performance moniker—Lyrical Lee.
And, of course, the proprietors of many of the properties that used the laundry service were among those who had been on the yacht.
It was still a sea of confusion.
Except that Frampton Ranch and Resort was the location where the missing girls had been—or been headed to.
Brock filled in his notes, then stood, cast aside the remainder of his clothing and got into his shower. He needed to shake some of the day off. His puzzle pieces were still there, but he was missing something that was incredibly important.
Hard evidence.
And back to the old question—what the hell could something that had happened twelve years ago have to do with the now?
And why, in the middle of trying to work all the angles of the crimes, concentrating on detail and logic, did he keep seeing Maura’s face as she stood before him in the hallway?
He knew her so well. He smiled, thinking that she hadn’t really changed at all.
She’d been polite, always caring, never wanting to hurt another person.
She’d been so stunned to see him in the restaurant and stopped short and then...
He smiled again, remembering her face. So mortified.
And then trying to clean up the mess herself because she’d caused it. When they had spoken...
She’d obviously been stricken, hearing that he had tried to reach her. He’d seen the pull of her emotions—she had to be angry with her parents, but they were good people and she did love them, and now, with the passage of time, she surely knew that they had thought they were doing what was best, as well.
He showered, thinking that washing away the day would help; sleep would be good, too, of course. He felt that learning about Lydia Merkel and her aspirations to be a full-time musician were another piece of the puzzle—not because she entertained, but because of who she had done entertaining for: the hospitality industry—including the Frampton Ranch and Resort.
Brock and Maura had once been part of that. And they had intended to work part-time through college. His future had been planned out—he’d known what he was going to do with his life. And he had done it.
But Maura had always been part of his vision for his life, and maybe the most important part, the part where human emotion created beauty in good times and sustained a man through the bad.
He wasn’t sure he ever made the conscious decision to go to her. He threw on a pair of jeans and left his room, years of training causing him to take his weapon and lock the door as he departed.
Which made him look rather ridiculous as he knocked softly on her door. When she opened it—he hoped and assumed she’d looked through the peephole before doing so—she stared at him wide-eyed for a minute, a slight smile teasing her lips—and a look of abject confusion covering her features.
“Um—you came to shoot me?”
She backed into the room. He entered, shaking his head, also smiling.
“Can’t leave a gun behind,” he told her.
“I see,” she said.
For a moment, they stood awkwardly, just looking at each other, maybe searching for the right words. But words weren’t necessary.
He set his holster and Glock down, fumbling blindly to find the dresser beside the door. He wasn’t sure if she stepped into his arms or if he drew her in. But she was there. And time and distance did nothing except heighten each sensation, make the taste of her lips sweeter than ever. Their kiss deepened into something incredible. He felt her hand on his face, her fingers a gentle touch, a feathery brush, something unique and arousing, incredible and just a beginning.
His hands slid beneath the soft cotton of her gown and their lips broke long enough for him to rid her of it. He felt her fingers, teasing now along the waistband of his jeans. A thunderous beat of longing seemed to pound between them; it was his own heart, his pulse, instinctive human need and so much more.
Her fingers found the buttons on his jeans.
He couldn’t remember ever before stepping from denim so quickly or easily.
Nor did he remember needing the feel of flesh against flesh ever quite so urgently.
They kissed again, his hands sliding down her spine, hers curving from his shoulders and down to his buttocks. They kissed and fell to the bed, and as his lips found her throat and collarbone, she whispered, “I was on my way to you.”
He found her mouth again. Tenderness mixed with urgency, a longing to hold the moment, desire to press ever further.
It had been so long. And it was incredibly beautiful just to touch her again, hear her voice, bask in the scent of her...
Love her.
Familiar but new.
Their hands and lips traveled each other. He loved the feel of her skin, the curves of her body, loved touching her, feeling her arch and writhe to his touch.
Feeling what her touch did to him, hands traveling over his shoulders and his back; hot, wet kisses falling here and there upon him; that touch, ever more intimate.
As his was upon her. The taste and feel of her breasts and the sleekness of her abdomen, the length and sweet grace of her limbs.
And finally moving into her, moving together, feeling the rush of sweet intimacy and the raw eroticism of spiraling ever upward together, instinct and emotion bursting upon them with something akin to violence in their power, and yet so sweetly beautiful even then.
They lay together in silence, and once again he heard the beat, the pulse, his heart and hers, as they lay entwined, savoring the aftermath.
At last, he kissed her forehead, smoothing hair from her face.
She smiled up at him. “Twelve years,” she said. And her eyes had both a soft and a teasing cast. “Worth waiting for, I’d judge.”
“How kind. May I say the same?”
“Indeed, you may,” she said, curling tighter against him. “You may say all kinds of things. Good things, of course. My hair is glorious—okay, so it’s a sodden, tangled mass right now. My eyes are magnificent... Well, they are open. And, of course, you’ve waited all your life for me.”
“I have,” he said gravely.
She grinned at that. “You joined the FBI monastery?”
“I didn’t say that. And I’m doubting you joined the Directors Guild nunnery.”
She smiled, but she was serious, looking up at him. “I—I knew some good people.”
“I would expect no less,” he said softly.
“None as good as you,” she whispered.
“Now, that can be taken many ways.”
“But you know what I mean.”
“I do. And don’t go putting me on a pedestal. I wasn’t so good—I was...a bit lost. The best way I had to battle it was to plunge head-on into all the plans I had made. Most of the plans I had made,” he added softly.
“I am so sorry.”
“Neither of us can be sorry,” he assured her.
She kissed him again. For a while, their touching was soft and tender and slow.
But it had been so many years.
Somewhere in the wee hours, they slept. And when morning came, he awoke, and he saw her face on the pillow next to his. Saw her eyes open and saw her smile, and he pulled her to him, just grateful to wake with her by his side.
“Perfect storm,” she murmured. “And I’m so sorry for the cause of it. So grateful for...you.”
“We can’t change what happened then. Now it’s all right to be glad that we’ve...connected.”
<
br /> She nodded thoughtfully. “I keep thinking...there’s something in history, something in the books, something that has to give us a clue as to what is going on.”
“You need to stay out of it all,” he told her firmly.
She rolled on an elbow and stared at him. “How? How would I ever really stay out of it? I was here when Francine was killed. That in itself...it’s most horrible that a woman was so cruelly murdered, but, Brock...it changed everything. Changed us. And you do believe that what is happening now is related.”
“There is really no solid evidence to suggest that,” he said. “In fact, as far as profiling and evidence go, there is little reason to suppose that a killer might have hanged Francine—and then stuck around for over a decade to murder one young woman and kidnap three more. Really, the best thing would be for you to head to Alaska—as quickly as possible.”
She smiled. “I would love to see Alaska one day. I haven’t been. I’d love to see it—with you.”
He was certain that, physically possible or not, his heart and soul trembled. They had just come together—tonight. And, well, thanks to Angie, they were both aware that nothing else had ever really worked for either of them in the years that had been lost between them.
He had never found her again. And she had never found him.
He grinned, afraid to let the extent of his emotion show.
“I don’t think I have vacation coming anytime soon. But how about Iceland? What an incredible place for you to do legends and stories.”
She was next to him, the length of her body close, and she touched his forehead, moving back a lock of his hair. “I don’t work for myself—well, I do, but I’m a vendor hiring out my services. We need to be realistic. This is your work and more than your work. And now I’m working here, too. And I can help. I’m not stupid, Brock, you know that. I lock doors. I stay where there are other people. Whoever is doing this—be it a new thing or a crime associated with the past—they’re smart enough to work in the shadows. No one is going to be hurt in the resort. You’re in room three, and I’m in room five, and I’m not worried at all about the nights. Brock, I’m all grown-up. Quite a bit older than the last time, remember.”
Tangled Threat (Mills & Boon Heroes) Page 10