by Sandra Brown
He opened it and looked at her, his gaze scorching every place it touched on. He caressed her tummy with the backs of his fingers, gauged the narrowness of her rib cage by bracketing it between his hands, then plumped her breasts in his palms. She leaned into them and made small wanting sounds when his fingertips charted the tapering shape of her breasts all the way to the tips which hardened beneath his caress.
“Damn,” he murmured.
Taking her hand, he towed her over to the bed, where he pushed the shirt off her shoulders so he could continue to look at her while he pulled his sweater over his head and threw it aside.
Then his hands went to his fly and deftly unbuttoned it. His eyes never breaking contact with hers, he slid one hand inside the vee of soft denim and made an adjustment that caused her breath to hitch.
“I won’t last long.”
“You won’t have to.” She lay back on the bed and scooted up to make room for him.
He got onto the bed on his knees, leaned over her and peeled off her running tights, then positioned her bent legs on either side of his hips. He looked down at her with such avid interest, she went hot all over.
Swearing with impatience, he worked his jeans down, then did as he’d said he would: he put his hands on her. First insistently against her inner thighs as he spread them, then tenderly when he stroked where she was wet and achy, then aggressively beneath her ass as he tilted her up. He pushed into her in one, purposeful glide.
“Jesus, Doc,” he groaned, “I promised you it wouldn’t hurt.”
“It won’t.”
“It might.”
Flexing his hips, he seated himself even deeper, then stretched out above her and began moving. Mating. All raw, male power and surety. Unapologetic, dominant and possessive.
Encircling her wrists he raised her hands above her head. Looking directly into her eyes, he slid his other hand between their bodies and touched her with such carnal precision, she arched up into his hand, rubbing herself against it in a silent plea that he press, circle, stroke. And he did. Again and again. He lowered his head to her breasts, sipped at her tight nipples and flicked them with his tongue.
Her orgasm was shattering.
With a snarled obscenity he pulled out barely in time and imprinted her body with his.
Writhing and straining, they wrung out every ounce of pleasure, and when he came, the pulses were strong and intense. Then they seemed to melt into each other, spent. It was a long time before he released her hands and moved off her.
When she finally had the wherewithal to open to her eyes, he was lying beside her on his stomach, cheek resting on his stacked hands, black lashes casting long shadows on his cheekbones.
There was a sheen of sweat on his back. The skin was smooth, the slopes and hollows of his musculature beautiful. His jeans rode low, in the seductive territory where the dip in his back swelled into his ass.
Feeling her stare, he opened his eyes. It was like twin lights coming on inside a blue glass bottle. His attention was drawn to the semen on the flannel shirt that was now hopelessly twisted around her. His eyes moved back to hers. Sounding defensive, he said, “You sorry yet?”
By way of a reply, she reached out and brushed her fingers across the small of his back. Then a bit lower. Then her fingertips ventured beyond his waistband and flirted with the shadowy cleft.
“You keep doing that, I’m gonna have to roll over.”
With a touch as light as a breath, she traced the groove as far as she could reach.
Grunting with a mix of discomfort and arousal, he rolled to his back and kicked off his jeans.
The human body held few mysteries for her. She’d seen hundreds, thousands, of bodies. Every shape and size. But she was awestruck by his. And actually a bit shy of its uncompromising maleness—his overall size, the fan of hair that spread over his chest, the lightning bolt tattoo just above the crease where his thigh met an abdomen corded with well-defined muscles, his sex, tight and full again with want of her.
Impatiently he rid her of the shirt, then placed his hand on the back of her head and pulled her toward him. He kissed her long and deep, his tongue repeatedly plumbing her mouth. When he finally broke the kiss, he set her just far enough away from him so that he could study her, which he did with a boldness that thrilled and excited her.
He placed his hand around her breast and gently squeezed the nipple between his fingers. His voice a sexy rasp, he said, “You’re not gonna go run screaming from me?”
In a sublime state of arousal, she smiled and shook her head no.
“Then make memories for me, Doc.”
“Memories?”
Leaving her breasts tingling, he skimmed his hand down over her belly. He contemplated the architecture of her hipbone as though it was a marvel. Then he brushed the backs of his fingers over the soft hair. “Make memories for me to take out and play with when you’re gone.”
“What kind of memories?”
Her question ended on a surprised inhale when he deftly relocated and moved her thighs far enough apart to accommodate his wide shoulders. She could almost feel the probe of his hot gaze as he slid his hands under her and pulled her closer. She definitely felt the first sweep of his tongue, then his lips moving against her as he whispered. “Dirty ones.”
Chapter 20
Something woke her, and she came awake knowing that she was alone in the cabin.
She lay cocooned beneath the covers, but the bed had begun to cool without his body heat.
Maybe he’d stepped out to get firewood.
But she knew she was deceiving herself. It was more than the empty place beside her that let her know he was gone. Just as he seemed to fill the room with his sheer presence, his absence created a vacuum.
She dreaded learning what her solitude indicated.
But she must.
She sat up, hugging herself for warmth. Her nipples contracted in the cold. They were sore. A thousand other effects of their lovemaking combined to create a general achiness all over her body.
To feel this way was shocking and wonderful and she couldn’t conjure up a shred of remorse for it. Indeed, she hoped the twinges and stings, these sweet reminders of their ardency, would stay with her for a long while.
He’d left the space heater on in the bathroom, but with the flame turned low. She didn’t switch on the light, not wishing to have a clear reflection of herself in the mirror. She didn’t care about her dishevelment. What she didn’t want to see was the forlornness of her expression. It was one thing to feel sorrow; seeing evidence of it in her eyes would make it worse.
She showered quickly. When she came out of the bathroom, she got a fresh shirt from his drawer, then went to one of the front windows and raised the shade. It was still very early. Wispy clouds hovered above the distant peaks like a sheer stole. Otherwise, for the first time in days, the sky was clear and promised to become blue as the day progressed.
The yard was empty. His pickup wasn’t in its parking spot.
Listlessly, her hand dropped to her side. The muslin curtain fell back into place.
She turned. That’s when she noticed that on the dining table, where she couldn’t fail to see it, was her fanny pack. The two twenty-dollar bills, her driver’s license, credit card, and her marked map were inside. Beside it were her sunglasses.
Her running clothes, including her gloves and headband, had been folded neatly. Her shoes had been placed beneath the table, side by side, heels and toes aligned, socks stuffed into them.
The array signified that it was time for her to go.
Her limbs felt as though they weighed a thousand pounds apiece as she removed his shirt and draped it over the ladder-back chair. She dressed mechanically and collected her belongings. When she was ready, she sat down on the sofa to wait.
Last night he’d said, “When you’re ready.” Clearly she hadn’t been ready to go, nor had he been ready to return her. During the night, they’d whispered and sighed th
e urgent language of lovers, but they hadn’t spoken once of the life to which she must return, or of the something, which even Lisa had intuited, that made his anonymity necessary. Each had known that last night represented a King’s X. They had taken a time-out.
But with morning—
Her eyes strayed to the end table. Conspicuously missing from it was the pistol.
She jumped to her feet. “Oh God. Oh no!”
In three strides, she made it to the door and yanked it open. The cold air took her breath, but she practically hurdled the porch steps. She slipped on a patch of ice on the flat rock embedded in the ground, but the skid only served as impetus. She pounded across the yard, climbed over the gate, and started running full out in the direction of the Floyds’ house.
It was uphill all the way, but she ran it as though it were level ground, fearing that, if she slowed down even a little, she would be too late. Her best effort might not be enough. She might not make it in time to prevent—
There! The tin roof line with its lightning rods appeared above the treetops. Rather than letting up, having her destination in sight spurred her on. She was heaving each breath when the trash-strewn drive came into view. Then she saw his pickup. And saw him.
Her breath stopped, trapped between her lungs and her throat, which froze up with dread, so much so that she couldn’t even call out to him as he took the porch steps two at a time, practically ripped the screened door from its hinges when he pulled it open, then kicked the front door so hard it swung wide into the room and banged against the inside wall. He disappeared into the house.
Seconds later Norman was hurled out of the house with such force that the screened door didn’t impede his headlong plunge across the porch and down the front steps. He somersaulted and wound up on his back only a few yards away from her.
He clambered to regain his footing and defend himself against the man who followed him out of the house. He was carrying the familiar shotgun, but he tossed it aside and jumped the steps, bearing down on Norman and hitting him in the face with a fist that had the impact of a sledgehammer.
Bone and cartilage crunched as Norman’s nose was ground flat into his face. Tissue liquefied. Blood spurted. He yelled in pain but got several rapid punches to the gut before he fell to the ground.
Emory covered her cry of dismay with her hand.
The mistreated dog was running circles around the two men, barking maniacally.
“Sic him, you goddamn mutt!” Will shouted as he came crashing through the screened door wearing only his pants.
He lunged for the discarded shotgun but caught a boot in his crotch before he’d cleared the steps. He dropped to his knees, screaming and clutching his testicles, but he wasn’t spared another boot, this time to the face. It demolished his cheekbone. A slug to his jaw relocated his chin to beneath his ear and ruined his lupine leer forever.
He went over backward, his head landing on the lower step with a sound like clapping two-by-fours, but not so hard as to knock him unconscious. He howled in agony.
Norman wasn’t finished. By now he’d regained some of his wits. Despite the blood running down into his beard from the mess that used to be the center of his face, he somehow staggered to his feet and took two wild swings that were easily ducked. His right fist was caught in midswipe and used to whip him around.
Placing his lips a breath away from Norman’s ear, he said, “You only thought you missed all the excitement of Virginia.”
Then he shoved Norman’s hand up between his shoulder blades. Emory heard the sickening sound when the ball joint popped from his shoulder socket. His scream became a strangled whine as he took a blow to the kidney. When his dangling arm was released, he fell like a ragdoll.
“This one’s for the dog, you cock-sucking son of a bitch.”
Emory was certain that the kick he gave Norman’s ribs left several of them broken.
The victor was seemingly unaffected except for being slightly winded. He backed away from Norman, walked over to Will, and surveyed the damage, apparently finding it sufficient because he didn’t touch him, only said, “If you lay a hand on Lisa again, I’ll come back and break your neck.”
He picked up the shotgun, removed the shells, then carried it over to a stout tree, and swung it at the trunk again and again until the stock broke away from the barrels. He collected the two pieces from off the ground and tossed them into the bed of his pickup.
The dog came over to him, tongue lolling, tail wagging. After getting a pat on the head and a scratch under the chin, the animal went over to its place beneath the tree and plopped down with a sigh of canine gratification.
Emory ran over to Norman.
Or tried. Her arm was hooked, and she was jerked to a stop. “Don’t touch him.”
“We can’t just leave them like this.”
“Hell we can’t,” he said and propelled her toward the truck.
“I can’t.” She dug her heels in.
“You are.”
Before she could protest again, she noticed that Pauline, huddled inside a moth-eaten cardigan, had come out onto the porch. He turned to see what had drawn her attention, then went around to the driver’s side of the pickup and took a brown paper sack from the floorboard.
He walked back to the house and leaned forward over Will to pass the sack up to Pauline. “There’s a coffee cup inside to replace the one I broke. The cash should cover the cost of a new television.”
Looking baffled, she said, “Thanky.”
“How is Lisa this morning?”
“Good. Sleepin’ sound.” Looking down at Will, who was loudly moaning, she added, “Was, anyhow.”
“Pack up her things, and yours. I’ll come back for you later.”
With even more perplexity than she’d shown before, she looked around, taking in the dilapidation of her house, the shambles of her life. When she came back to him, she said, “I can’t leave my home.”
He looked about to speak, then sighed with resignation. “Have Lisa ready.”
He walked back to the pickup, and this time when he opened the passenger door, he said, “We’re not arguing about this, Doc.”
Seeing it would be pointless to try, she got in. What other choice did she have?
* * *
“Did I wake you up?”
Sam Knight rolled onto his back and fumbled his cell phone closer to his ear. “She found?”
“No,” Grange said, “but Jeff’s mistress caved.”
Knight sat up and shook off his grogginess. “That was fast.”
“I drove down to Atlanta early, skipped interviewing the neighbors, and instead was ringing her doorbell before dawn. Woke her up and took her off guard.”
“Aren’t you a go-getter?”
“At first, she was defensive and evasive, but when I pretended that we know more than we do about her relationship with Jeff, she started crying. Broke down, admitted to their affair.”
“Huh.” By now Knight was trying to pull on his socks using only one hand and mimicking drinking a cup of coffee so his wife would take the hint and bring him one. “She say how long it’s been going on?”
“Six months. Since Memorial Day weekend. Emory got an emergency call, had to meet a patient at the hospital, left a cookout at Alice’s place early.”
“And the minute her back was turned…”
“To bed they went. From the start Alice has been afraid Emory would find out. Never meant for it to happen. Never intended to hurt anyone. Just one of those things. Nobody sees it coming.”
“So to speak.”
Grange was too excited for the double entendre to register. He kept talking. “She blubbered the typical guilt-trip stuff that people blubber when they’re screwing a friend’s spouse.”
Knight blew an air kiss to his wife, who’d brought him coffee. “So what about the spouse, our dear Jeff?”
“I asked her if she thought he had something to do with Emory’s disappearance. She jumped all over that
.”
“Which direction?”
“Shot down the notion. Adamantly. Said it was unthinkable. Besides, she says he couldn’t have done it. She claims they were together from Friday evening till Sunday daytime.”
“Where?”
“Her house. They always shack there. She’s his client, which gives them a plausible out if Emory ever catches them.”
“Stop. I’m getting an image of him doing her taxes while naked.”
Grange laughed.
Sam thoughtfully sipped his coffee. “She says they were together all weekend, huh? Convenient, wouldn’t you say? Could be she’s only providing him with an alibi.”
“Could be, but I believed her, Sam. By that time, she was making me coffee. She was shaken and eager to cooperate.”
“Okay, so they were keeping the sheets hot till Sunday. Till how late in the day on Sunday?”
“After a late breakfast. Not too long before Jeff started making his round of calls.”
“Hmm. This isn’t good for us, Buddy. It doesn’t fit the Saturday night scenario we discussed last night. Either Alice is lying about him being with her all that time, or, if she’s telling the truth, when did he kill Emory?”
Grange thought about it. “He admits to driving up here on Sunday. Maybe he met Emory somewhere along the way. They set up a place to hash things out. Wherever that place was, he left her body, then drove on up here and did the woe-is-me.”
“Doesn’t work. Doesn’t for Saturday, either. Because,” he stressed, “Emory’s car was in the parking lot on the mountain, preserved in two days’ worth of ice and fresh snow. Came to me in the middle of the night. She didn’t leave the mountain. Not in that car.”
“Shit.”
“We gotta put Jeff on the mountain, and so far we ain’t.”
“Double shit. But the thing is, Sam, I think he did it.”
“I think he did, too,” he grumbled.
Each contemplated the dilemma, then Grange said, “The extramarital affair, plus the money, plus his being a prick, gives us reason enough to hold him and buy ourselves a little more time to either break him, break Alice, find Emory’s remains, or come up with a piece of physical evidence.”