by Anne Stuart
She wouldn’t have thought him capable of such rare sweetness. She hadn’t really thought he could make love to her, real love. She hadn’t realized how very dangerous it could be, to let him love her.
He stripped off her clothes, slowly, pulling the t-shirt over her head with delicious deliberation, putting his lips against every inch of flesh he exposed. His skin was hot in the cool night air, gilded by the moonlight, and she felt strange, floating, like a pagan goddess with her hair spread around her naked body. His hands were deft, arousing, and then deliciously not-gentle, and she arched her back, crying out, only to have him cover her mouth with his, stifling her cry, drinking it in.
He pulled away from her, leaning back against the wall, watching her out of hooded eyes, and she knew what he wanted. He reached out his hand and she took it, she came to him, straddling him, clinging to his broad shoulders, trembling.
“Look at me, Carolyn,” he whispered, a plea, not an order, and she forced herself to open her eyes, to stare into the deep depths of his Cossack eyes, as she slowly sank down on the fierce length of him, filling herself with his cock. She was hypnotized, silent, entranced, by the intensity of his face, by the invasion of his body, and when she’d finally taken all of him, deep inside, shudders began to wrack her body.
She gave in then, kissing his mouth, his face, with anxious, hungry kisses, all the while he held her body pressed against his, held completely still within her, until nothing but his very presence sent her over the edge, and she buried her face against his shoulder to muffle her cries as her body exploded and her soul incinerated, and he joined her, pulsing hotly, deep within her.
She collapsed against him, as weak and boneless as a rag doll, and his arms were around her, holding her, protecting her, loving her. She wanted to cry, she wanted to tell him, when suddenly she became aware of a sharp, acrid odor.
He must have sensed it at the same time. He lifted her off his body with a care that belied his strength. “Get your clothes on,” he whispered. “Fast.”
She was already scrambling for her discarded t-shirt. “What is it?”
“Gasoline.” Such an ordinary word, and so horrifying in its ramifications. He was already dressed, towering over her, and she was struggling into her jeans when the explosion came, a fireball of light that dazzled and blinded her.
The flames seemed to surround them almost immediately, a wall of fire across the front windows of the house, and there was no escape. He kicked open the bedroom door, grabbing her hand and hauling her with him, directly into the billowing smoke of the hallway.
The fire engulfed the ancient building, coming up in sheets of white-hot flame on all sides, but Alex must have remembered that the back of the house was partly brick. There were no porch roofs on the back, and if there had been they would have been engulfed in flames, but he simply dragged her into her old bedroom, picked up a chair and sent it crashing through the window.
“Come on!” he shouted, starting through the jagged remnants of glass.
She tried to pull back, suddenly terrified, but he wasn’t having any of it. He simply picked her up and shoved her out the window, then followed her a moment later.
He’d also remembered the boxwood that surrounded the back of the house, thick and solid enough to break her fall. For a moment she lay there, winded, aching, her lungs still filled with smoke as the inferno filled the sky, and then Alex crashed into the hedge beside her, almost landing on her.
A moment later he was up, dragging her with him. She could hear the fire sirens in the distance, but he seemed intent on ignoring them. He dragged her across the deserted back lawns of the summerhouses, over stone walls and across picket fences, pulling her into the shadows as the fire engines raced by.
“The car . . .” she managed to gasp.
“We’ll find another one,” he said ruthlessly. “Whoever torched the place will be waiting to make sure we didn’t make it out alive. I’m not taking any more chances.”
“How can we just find another car?” she protested. “It’s the middle of the night—?”
“I’m an expert at stealing cars, remember? That’s what started all this mess eighteen years ago. I’m out of practice, but I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle—once you learn you never really forget.”
She stared at him in astonishment. He seemed almost lighthearted, and the flames shooting into the night air gave a satanic cast to his features. “Someone just tried to kill us,” she said in a voice roughened by smoke. “The house is destroyed. What the hell do you have to be so cheerful about?”
“Because they’re getting closer, and they’re getting careless,” he said. “In a matter of hours we’ll know who’s behind all this.”
“In a matter of hours we could be dead,” she said flatly.
“That too.” He looked down at her. “Do you want me to find you a safe place to hide?”
“Is there such a place?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not leaving you,” she said, not caring how it sounded
“I know you aren’t,” he said. “I wouldn’t really let you.” And he took her hand, heading off into the firelit night.
He stole a pickup truck with surprising ease, ripping out the ignition wires and starting it with an almost frightening efficiency even before Carolyn could climb into the front seat. It was a rusty old wreck, and if it ever possessed seat belts they’d been removed by an impatient owner, but the engine ran smoothly as Alex pulled out onto the highway heading toward the west end of the island.
Carolyn felt a lump under her butt, and she reached down and pulled out a crushed beer can. “Why couldn’t you have stolen a Mercedes?” she inquired.
“They have too many antitheft devices. We were looking for transportation, not luxury,” he said, concentrating on the road in front of him. Behind them the night sky was a brilliant canvas of orange and red and smoky blue as the historic MacDowell house went up in the flames of century-old timber, but the roads were devoid of traffic, and resolutely Carolyn turned her face forward. “Who was it?” she asked in a low voice.
“I still don’t know.”
“Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He was headed in the direction of Gay Head, and she knew without asking what he wanted to find.
“Take the first left,” she said finally, as they were approaching the cliffs.
He slowed the car, turning to look at her in the moonlight. “What?”
“Take the first left. You want to see where the Robinsons lived, don’t you? It’s down that road.”
His smile was slow and heartbreakingly sexy. “When did you start to know me so well?”
“Decades ago,” she said.
The Robinson house was nothing like the architectural splendor of the MacDowell house in Edgartown. Menemsha and the southwest tip of the island were much more rural and far less upscale, at least in Vineyard terms. The Robinsons had owned a small, rambling cottage off by itself on the backside of the Squibnocket Cliffs near Gay Head. A weathered-looking for-sale sign hung lopsided in the front yard, and the place looked lost and deserted.
He pulled the stolen truck into the driveway and climbed out. The eerie fire-glow had already started to fade in the distance—obviously the blaze hadn’t spread to the other old houses surrounding the MacDowell place. The moon was low in the sky, getting ready to set, and there was just the faintest touch of pink on the eastern horizon. It must be near dawn, Carolyn thought dazedly, climbing out of the truck as well, her body stiff and aching.
“This place looks deserted.” Alex had paused on the front steps, staring up at the cottage.
“I told you, the parents died and the only heirs were distant cousins. The house has been on the market for a while—it’s priced too high, but no one cares enough to let
it go.”
He was as adept at breaking into houses as he was at stealing cars. She followed him into the dark, musty interior, flicking a light switch with no results. It was cold, a damp, bone-biting cold, and Carolyn sank down in one of the old mission oak chairs, shivering, while Alex prowled around with the aid of a small flashlight.
She thought he’d forgotten about her. He was staring at framed photographs on the wall, his back to her, and she wrapped her arms around her body, trying to control her shivers.
“I’ll make a fire,” he said, not even looking at her. Staring at an old photo of a young girl, her sweet young face oddly familiar. He was looking at his birth mother.
“I will,” she said, moving toward the fieldstone fireplace, but he was ahead of her, settling her back in the chair.
He stripped the sweater from his body, seemingly impervious to the cold night air against his bare skin. “Put this on.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll freeze,” she protested, but he simply overruled her, pulling it over her head. It was warm, and it smelled like him, and it made her far too vulnerable.
In a matter of minutes he had a small fire going, warming the rustic living room, filling it with light.
He sat back on his heels once he’d coaxed the fire into a decent blaze, turning to look at her. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Can I stop you?”
His smile was slight. “There’s always a chance we might not survive.”
“A fairly good chance, if one can go by what’s happened so far,” she said.
“What was it you didn’t tell me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday afternoon, you said there was something you felt about me that I didn’t know. Or maybe that was lust.”
“You already know perfectly well I lust after you,” she said in a deliberately cool voice. She didn’t want to be having this conversation, not now. Not with the smell of the burning house still clinging to her hair and clothes, not with him kneeling, shirtless in front of her. Not with the sky turning pink with dawn and a murderer out there, waiting for them.
“Then what was it?” He tilted back his head, watching her with utter stillness. “You aren’t in love with me, are you?”
Odd, how her heart could stop beating, how her breath could stall in her body, and yet she could still appear perfectly calm. “That’s idiotic.”
He shrugged. “If I die I’d like to know I’ll be mourned.”
“Trust me, if you die I’ll mourn you,” she said dryly. “Though chances are if you don’t make it, neither will I.”
“Are you in love with me, Carolyn?”
“You’re very annoying. You’ve pissed me off for as long as I can remember.”
“That still doesn’t answer my question. Are you in love with me?”
She made a disgusted sound. “Of course I am. Don’t be so damned stupid. I always was, I expect I always will be, and I don’t like it one damned bit. Happy?”
“Yes,” he said, and reached up his hands to cup her face. He was lit by the firelight in the rustic old house, and she knew she was doomed.
She wasn’t going down without a fight. Pulling away from him, she scrambled from the chair and headed for the front door. “I’m going to check something,” she said nervously, flinging it open, ready to barge out.
The sight of the man standing there stopped her cold. It was growing lighter in the distance, but even in the predawn shadows and the firelight emanating from the room she never had any doubt as to who it was.
It was the first time she’d looked into Warren MacDowell’s face since she’d found out he was her father. The effect was startling, and she stood in the doorway, frozen, terrified, waiting for something. He was her father, and she felt nothing more than she’d always felt. There was no sudden wash of filial love. No resentment, either. She was too busy facing the possibility of death.
She’d never seen him less than perfectly dressed. He was still wearing a jacket, but his tie was long gone, the shirt was wrinkled and stained, and he had soot streaks across his face. His silver hair was mussed, and the eerily calm expression on his face was the most frightening of all.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said. “Where’s Alex?”
She didn’t make the mistake of looking behind her. Obviously, Warren couldn’t see him, a small advantage they needed to take advantage of. “Somewhere,” she said vaguely, horrified to hear her voice tremble.
“He’s the real Alex, isn’t he?” Warren said wearily. “He had me fooled, but then, he always was a conniving little trickster. I was a fool not to realize the truth, but then, I was so very sure he was dead.”
“MacDowells are hard to kill.”
“We both know he isn’t really a MacDowell,” Warren said gently. “And you are.”
“Have you suddenly developed some paternal feelings for your long-lost daughter?” She kept her voice cool and cynical.
“You weren’t long lost. Sally brought you home, much to my disapproval. I wasn’t cut out to be a father. You were an accident, one that I would have much preferred to forget all about, but my sister liked to have her own way. She wanted you as a little playmate for Alex. I’m not sure she had in mind the kind of games you two must have been playing recently, however.” Despite his rumpled appearance he was his usual waspish self.
“That doesn’t explain why you’d want to kill us, Warren.”
He looked utterly astonished. “Kill you? Why would I want to do that? I came to—” He stopped mid-sentence, an expression of absolute shock on his face. And then he collapsed at her feet in a soundless puddle, and she looked down to see the growing stain of red in the back of his perfectly tailored jacket.
She was too horrified to scream. She looked up, numb with shock, into the smug, pleased face of Cousin George. “You really are quite stupid, Carolyn,” he said. “He didn’t even have a gun. Why in the world would he want to kill you? The poor fool wanted to save your life.”
“You,” she said helplessly.
“Of course, me,” he replied. “Now why don’t the two of you come on along now, so we can finish this up? I need to get back to my dear mother’s bedside before anyone realizes how long I’ve been gone. Come along, hmmm?” And he gestured sweetly with the big black gun in his hand.
Chapter Twenty-three
IT WAS A GLORIOUS sunrise. They walked up the winding path toward the cliffs, a bizarre funeral cortege. They’d left Warren’s body behind in a growing pool of blood, and now they walked, climbing the hill that they’d climbed as children, with George chattering with inane cheerfulness as he drove them upward.
“How’s your memory now, Alex?” he taunted. “Is the murky past all coming back to you?”
“Somewhat,” he said, his hand tight around Carolyn’s. “Seeing you standing there with a gun in your hand did wonders.”
“I’m sure it did. I can’t believe how you managed to fool Uncle Warren into believing you were an imposter. I knew it was you the moment I saw you, and I was the one who killed you before. Even my mother recognized you, though she was merely convinced you were the dead returned to torment her.”
“Did they know you shot me eighteen years ago? Were they part of it?” Alex sounded distant, only slightly interested in what should have been of paramount importance.
“Yes and no. They knew after it was too late, and they had no choice but to cover up for me. After all, I’d done it for all of them, hadn’t I? And Aunt Sally had always been ridiculously doting—it obviously wouldn’t have mattered to her how big a stink it would have made if I’d been accused of murder, so they had to keep it a secret. Patsy and Warren would have made sure I wouldn’t have been charged, of course, but it still would have been quite a mess.”
“You want to refresh
my memory?” Alex drawled. “Why kill me? Apart from the fact that I was a royal pain in the butt. As I remember, you weren’t any too charming yourself back then.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. I was a perfect son. Devoted to his mother, always looking out for her best interests. I’m very observant, you know that. The night you were going to leave you caught me watching my mother and her latest boyfriend go at it. They were into kink, which made it particularly entertaining. You absolutely spoiled everything.”
“What did I do?”
“Threatened to beat the hell out of me if I didn’t stop watching. But of course, that’s a habit that’s hard to break.” He grinned with impartial cheeriness. “You two were quite entertaining in the library a few days ago. I was hoping for a replay before I burned the Edgartown house, but you were so unobliging. Not that I believe for a moment you weren’t going at it like rabbits. You just kept out of range of the windows.”
Nausea rose in Carolyn’s throat. “You watched us?”
“I watch everyone. It’s my major pleasure in life, one I learned young. I don’t usually have to resort to my own arrangements. I belong to a very discreet club in New York that organizes such things for connoisseurs like me.”
“Perverts like you,” Carolyn snapped.
“Now, now, dear cousin. There’s no such thing as perversion among consenting adults. And you were very consenting indeed, I could tell. He does have a way with him, doesn’t he?” George sighed gustily. “I wish we had more time. I don’t know who I’d want to fuck more, you or him. But I doubt either of you would be terribly cooperative. Still, it would be so much fun to have the other one watch.”
“Why are you in such a hurry?” Alex said in a silky voice, ignoring Carolyn’s expression of sick horror. “I’m game if you are.”
George laughed. “Very thoughtful of you, but you don’t fool me for a minute. You just think if you have extra time you might be able to trick me. I’m afraid I’ve learned to sublimate my appetites to a greater good. You two need to be dead by sunrise. A lovely suicide dive off the cliffs.”