by Sandra Brown
“I’m aware of that. But there were rumors and speculation.”
“Which I squelched under threat of suing for libel if they were printed or broadcast. They were never made public, not even by the most jaundiced media. So how did you—” She stopped. “Oh. Glenda again.”
“She has a ferret in her gene pool.”
“So now I’m trapped into talking to you about it.”
“No you’re not.”
“Sure I am. How can I dispel your misconceptions about my father’s death without talking about it?”
“You can leave me with my misconceptions.”
That wasn’t a desirable option, and he knew it. “Do I at least have your word that anything I say is off the record?”
“Yes.”
Perhaps she was swayed by the intimacy of the situation, or his masculine appeal, or the sincerity in his eyes. But, for whatever reason, in that moment she accepted him as trustworthy. “I’ll never believe Daddy did it on purpose, especially knowing that I—the boys and I—would be the ones to find him.”
“Christ.”
“We were expected at his house at three o’clock, after I had picked them up from preschool. His time of death was placed at somewhere around two. He wouldn’t have done that to me. I know it. The boys rushing in, seeing him slumped at his desk?” She shook her head adamantly.
“Never in a million years would he have deliberately left us with that memory. And that’s assuming that he had a reason to take his life, when there was no evidence of any. He embraced life and lived it to the fullest.”
“Incurable cancer? Financial troubles? Woman problems? A political scandal about to come to light?”
“Nothing. I swear to you, Dawson. I would know.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Fathers don’t tell their daughters everything, especially ugly things.”
“I would have known if something were terribly wrong.”
“Okay.”
“You say okay, but I feel your skepticism.” She continued trying to convince him. “It was his housekeeper’s afternoon off. Which explains how he could have overdosed. She’d been with us for years, even long before Mother died. She adored him, as everyone did.
“She nagged him about diet, exercise, and taking his various medications. She knew which were to be taken with or without food. She kept track of all that. So it’s conceivable to me that he simply made a mistake, and she wasn’t there to prevent it.”
He frowned doubtfully. “It was a lot of pills to swallow by mistake.”
“Says one who takes a lot.”
“Exactly,” he said with matching curtness. “And I know better than to eat a whole damn bottle full.”
She put her hand to her forehead and rubbed it with her fingertips, noting that they were chilled. “He loved me and the boys to distraction. He was devoted to us. I’ll go to my own grave believing that his death was a tragic accident, not a suicide. Jeremy…” She waved her hand. “Everything associated with him was terrible, including the way he died.”
She glanced at him, thinking he might dispute that point. He didn’t. “But I would gladly go through the whole Jeremy episode of my life again, I would endure anything, if I could have my father back. If only for long enough to ask him if he did it intentionally, and if he did, why? I’d ask him how he could have abandoned me so cruelly?”
Dawson’s eyes seemed to be lit by an internal fire that burned through her. After a long moment, he relaxed his intensity, stood up, and extended his hand to help her up. “It’s late, and you must be exhausted.” He left her only long enough to get a drinking glass from the kitchen, then they climbed the stairs together.
“How’s the knee?”
“I’ll have a bruise tomorrow.”
“You need some skid-proof socks.”
“I’ll put them on my Christmas list.”
When they reached the bedroom where the boys slept, she opened the door and peeked inside. “I don’t think they’ve moved.”
“You’re a good mother, Amelia.”
His tone had the ring of unmitigated sincerity, and when she came back around to face him, she saw that his expression was just as serious.
“Thank you.”
“You would never abandon them, would you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What about him? Would he?”
Jeremy. His murder would have orphaned Hunter and Grant. Faking his death would be abandonment of another sort entirely. As cruel as a suicide.
Gruffly, she said, “I appreciate your hospitality. Good night.”
* * *
Dawson went into his bedroom, closed the door, and leaned back, gently knocking his head against it as though trying to beat some sense into it. If the door had had a lock, he would have locked himself in. Tonight he’d protected Amelia and her family from the storm, as well as from any unknown perils.
But who or what was going to protect her from him?
Her heartbreak over her father’s death had almost broken his determination not to touch her again. He didn’t trust himself to lay a hand on her, even in a comforting gesture.
He moved to the window. The wind still howled, the rainfall was torrential, and occasional lightning revealed the thick cloud cover. The storm hadn’t yet blown itself out. He looked toward Amelia’s house. No car. No Stef.
While Amelia had been preparing the boys for bed, he’d slipped back down to the kitchen and retrieved his pills and a bottle of bourbon. Now he sat down on the side of the bed and self-medicated with two tablets and two slugs of whiskey. He undressed and got into bed.
Lightning flickered across the ceiling. Thunder rumbled. It was a menacing night, but he didn’t have to worry about Amelia, Hunter, and Grant. Tonight they were safe. Which was probably why he was able to fall asleep faster than usual.
The nightmare left him in peace for the better part of the night. But it was merely stalking the perimeter of his subconscious, biding its time as it gathered momentum, because when it pounced, it did so with renewed ferocity.
“Dawson! Hey, man, up here!”
He turned toward the direction of the voice. The sun was blinding, silhouetting one of the soldiers against its glare on the crest of the ridge. Dawson raised his hand to shield his eyes and, making out Hawkins, waved.
“Dawson?”
“Dawson, get up here.”
“Be right there.”
“I ain’t gonna wait forever. You want a story, haul your ass up here.”
“Let me grab my laptop.”
“Fucking now, man!”
“Dawson.”
As he made his way up the unforgiving incline, time and again he lost his footing in the loose sand and rock. It seemed an endless climb. Hawkins became increasingly impatient, urging him to hurry. He was out of breath by the time he reached the ridge. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, stinging them. He tried to wipe it away, but the salty film remained, so it was through blurred vision that he saw Hawkins grinning at him.
Then—“No!”
“Dawson.”
As always the noise ricocheting inside his skull woke him. He sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, futilely trying to wipe it from his eyes with a hand that was bathed in the brine of his own terror, his mouth still open around the scream that invariably came too late.
This was like every other time he was jolted out of the nightmare, except now Amelia was here, her hand resting on his shoulder, and he realized that she’d been here for a while, her voice mingling with that of the smiling young soldier from rural North Dakota.
Dawson drew up his knees and placed his elbows on them, holding his head in his hands as he gasped for breath. The terror gradually receded, but not the humiliation, made even worse when Amelia sat down on the edge of the bed. He was as sharply aware of her pity as he was of her nearness.
“You were calling out.”
“Sorry I woke you. Go back to bed.”
She asked, “Is it always the same dream?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to—”
“No.”
“It might help if you—”
“I’m not going to talk about it.”
“Not with me or not with anyone?”
“Anyone.”
“No one would think less of you if—”
“I would.”
“You’ll never get rid of it until—”
“I’ll work it out, okay?”
“How?”
“Leave me alone.”
“To do what? Take more pills?”
“Maybe.”
“You have a problem, Dawson.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. And drugs and alcohol aren’t the solution.”
He whipped his head toward her and snapped, “What the fuck do you know about it?”
She recoiled as though he’d struck her.
Realizing what he’d said, he muttered an expletive and reached for her, catching her hand as she shot off the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Applying only light pressure so as not to frighten her, he brought her around to face him. He looked directly into her eyes, silently appealing for forgiveness and, short of that, understanding. She remained unmoving.
“Please don’t look at me like that.” Then he closed his eyes and raised her hand to his mouth. He kissed the inside of her wrist, whispering repeatedly against her pulse, “I’m sorry.” Bending his head low over her hand, he kissed the base of her thumb, and finally pressed his lips into her palm, hoarsely whispering, “Don’t be afraid of me. Please.” He touched his tongue to the hollow of her hand.
She made a small sound that brought his head up. Her expression had turned into one of confusion and indecision. She was breathing lightly and rapidly through her lips.
Caution and conscience kept him from dragging her down to him.
Caution and conscience be damned.
He pulled on her hand, gently but inexorably, until she was again sitting on the edge of the bed. Wide-eyed, she watched him as his fingertips explored the features of her face. Brows, cheekbones, nose, lips, jawline, and chin. He memorized them by touch.
Since she allowed that, he brushed her hair aside and nuzzled her neck until he felt the warmth of her skin against his lips. “I wouldn’t…I couldn’t ever hurt you. Believe that.” He planted a tender kiss on the side of her neck. Then another.
Her head tipped back. Taking that as encouragement, his kisses on her neck became more fervent. By the time they reached her ear, there was intent behind them, and she responded. Tension escaped her on a sigh. Her body settled, ever so slightly shifting closer to him. Tentatively she placed her hands on his shoulders.
He eased his head back and looked into her eyes. “I’m not him, Amelia. I’m not like him. I swear to you, I’m not. I have it under control.”
“I’m not afraid you’ll lose control.” Her voice was low and husky, and he wished it was something he could touch, stroke, taste. “I’m afraid I will.”
With a rasped curse, he cupped her head between his hands and claimed a kiss that was unapologetically deep from the start. There was no buildup to the intimacy, because he’d been thinking about making love to her mouth from the moment he saw her in the courtroom.
She didn’t shy away, but kissed him back in kind, with heat, her fingers alternately kneading his shoulders and tugging handfuls of his hair. Her unrestraint was as much a surprise as it was a delight.
He lowered her back onto the bed, where the kiss grew hungrier. As their mouths feasted on each other, he angled his body above hers. The sheet had become displaced, so there was nothing between the sensitized tip of his erection and her soft pajama bottoms. The contact caused a low groan to vibrate in his throat.
Amelia rubbed against him seductively, each movement sweetly feminine and small but breath stealing. He wasn’t as subtle. His hands roved selfishly and impatiently, greedy for the feel of her skin. He pushed his hand into the loose waistband of her pajama bottoms and caressed the curve of her hip. In response, her thighs shifted, separated. He fit himself into the notch.
When the doorbell rang, he was in such a fog of lust that it didn’t at first register with him what it was. When it rang a second time, they jerked apart and stared at each other, breathing loudly, sharing incredulity over someone’s ill timing. Blistering the walls of the room with a scorching curse, he rolled off her.
She scrambled off the bed and yanked her clothing back into place. “It must be Stef.”
“Or Bernie.” He snatched his gym shorts from the chair beside the bed and pulled them on. “I invited him for breakfast, but, Christ, it’s barely dawn.”
He went to the window that overlooked the front of the house, expecting to see a familiar person below. He didn’t. When he turned back to Amelia, she must have read the foreboding in his expression, because her hand moved to the base of her throat.
“What?”
“It’s the police.”
Chapter 12
Quickly, she checked on the boys, but they had slept through the ringing of the doorbell. By the time she got downstairs, Dawson was admitting a uniformed officer and a man in plainclothes into the house and saying to them, “She’s here.”
They introduced themselves as deputies from the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office in Savannah. Saint Nelda’s Island didn’t have a police force of its own. To Amelia’s knowledge, there had never been a need for one.
The uniformed man was young, so cleanly shaven that his cheeks were abraded. The tops of his ears turned red when he looked beyond Dawson’s bare torso and took in her dishevelment.
It was clear to her that he was the junior official of the pair, probably serving as a chauffeur to the other man, who introduced himself as Deputy Tucker, a detective for the sheriff’s office. He was potbellied, ruddy-faced, and all-business.
Amelia asked him why he was looking for her.
He took a small spiral notebook from the pocket of his rain jacket. “Do you own a car with Georgia license plate number…” He flipped open the notebook and read out the characters of her license plate.
She confirmed that that was her car.
“Are you acquainted with a young woman named Stephanie Elaine DeMarco?”
“She’s my children’s nanny. Is something…Has she been involved in an accident?”
“No, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Miss DeMarco was found dead this morning.”
Her knees gave way. Dawson and the uniformed deputy both reached for her, but Dawson got to her first. He supported her as he backed her into the nearest chair, where she sank down onto the seat. “Dead?” she wheezed. “Stef is dead?”
“My condolences, ma’am.”
Madly, she wondered if she was dreaming. Or if someone was playing a vicious practical joke. Or if a dreadful mistake had been made, a mix-up of identities, perhaps. It happened, not often, but she’d read about such instances. Anything was possible except that vibrant, healthy, funny Stef was dead. Her mind refused to accept it. “There must be some mistake.”
Tucker said, “A purse containing her identification was found on the passenger seat of your car. Her body was discovered just a few yards away.”
“Discovered by whom?” Dawson asked. “Where?”
“In the parking lot behind the café. Kid who works the kitchen at Mickey’s was taking out trash, noticed the car and wondered what it was doing there that time of morning. Then he saw the body behind the Dumpster. When my partner and I got to the island, we were told she worked for you. Your numbers were programmed into the cell phone found inside her purse. We’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I haven’t checked my pho
ne this morning, but the last time I did, I didn’t have service. I’ve been here since late last evening. I left Stef a note so she’d know where we were when she got home.” Her voice cracked with emotion and she stifled a sob.
Dawson took over the explanation. “Practically the whole island lost power last night. This house has an emergency generator. I invited Ms. Nolan and her two young sons to ride out the storm here.”
“You own this house?”
“I rented it for the Labor Day weekend.”
“Are you Dawson Scott?”
“That’s right.”
“Mickey mentioned you. Where’re you from, Mr. Scott?”
“Alexandria, Virginia.”
He moved to the table where his laptop sat and took a business card from the pocket of a brown leather messenger bag. He handed it to the deputy, who studied it thoroughly before placing it in his pocket. “Did you know the girl?”
“I met her a few days ago, along with Ms. Nolan’s family.”
At the sound of her name, Amelia raised her head and realized that she’d been following their conversation with only half an ear. Her mind was still trying to process the inconceivable. “You said Stef was ‘found dead’ near the car. Was she struck by lightning?”
Tucker divided a glance between her and Dawson, but addressed his answer to her. “We’re in the process of conducting a full investigation.”
“But you know what killed her, so why don’t you just tell us?”
It was clear that Dawson’s impertinence was an affront to Tucker, but Dawson stared him down until he relented. “She suffered a head wound. She might have been struck from behind by debris carried by the strong winds, but foul played hasn’t been ruled out.”
Amelia couldn’t speak at all, leaving Dawson to say the unthinkable out loud. “You mean she could have been murdered?”
“The ME will make a determination as to the manner of death.”
For several moments following that, no one said anything. Then Amelia asked, “Where is she now?”
“Miss DeMarco’s body is being transported to the morgue in Savannah.”
“Have her parents been notified?”
“They’re on their way from Kansas, but since they have to make a couple of connections, they aren’t expected to arrive until midafternoon.”