Still Lake

by Anne Stuart

  She slid out of the truck and he shut the door behind her, but to her surprise he started up the hill to the porch, holding her hand.

  Someone was watching them from the windows. Grace couldn’t be bothered—it was probably Sophie, making sure her sister didn’t get into trouble.

  She liked his hand in hers. His hands were big, strong, callused, and yet amazingly gentle. She liked everything about him.

  They reached the porch, the orangeish glow of the light swarming with tiny bugs. “Uh…you can’t come in,” she said nervously. “Sophie would kill me. If you want to go to your place…”

  He did have the loveliest smile. “I told you, Marthe,” he said patiently. “I’m not interested in sex without commitment.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, shifting nervously. “And no kissing until the third date.” He was still holding her hand, and she felt strange, awkward, as she broke his grip, transferred the flowers and reached out to shake his hand. It felt stupid, but she didn’t know what else to do, how else to end the evening that she didn’t want to end. “You have too many rules, Patrick. Don’t you ever make exceptions?”

  “There’s only one thing that would get me to kiss a girl on a first date,” he said. “If I was falling in love with her.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’m flat out of luck….” Her words were silenced by his mouth on hers.

  It was quite a kiss for such a well-behaved young man. No groping hands, but he didn’t need to. He was a very good kisser. Maybe the best she’d ever kissed. And then she stopped thinking and kissed him back.

  When he drew away she stared at him, confused, entranced, half crazy. “See you tomorrow, Marthe,” he said cheerfully, and bounded off the porch.

  She could see the grin on his face as he got into the truck and drove away. He was pretty pleased with himself, she thought. Well, she was pretty damned pleased with him, as well.

  She stayed on the porch until his taillights disappeared into the night, then she opened the kitchen door, ready to face her disapproving, eavesdropping sister.

  Doc was sitting at the kitchen table, alone, a cup of coffee beside him, a genial expression on his face.

  “Hello, Marty,” he greeted her warmly.

  And then she saw the gun.

  Griffin liked the expression of outrage on Sophie’s pale face. Hell, he liked everything about her, from her surprisingly long, gorgeous legs beneath the tattered skirt to her lush breasts. He liked her full, sweet mouth, he liked her soft, clever hands, and he wanted them on his body.

  He pulled off his T-shirt. There was no such thing as a warm night in August in Vermont, but it was close enough, and the slightly cool air touching his skin merely made him hotter.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Guess,” he said, reaching for his zipper.

  She let out a protesting shriek. “I didn’t say I would.”

  He unfastened the button, letting the zipper ride over his erection as he reached for her. “You didn’t need to,” he said, unbuttoning the row of tiny buttons down the front of that stupid thing she was wearing. The buttons went all the way to the ripped hem, and it required great concentration to undo them all, when he wanted nothing more than to rip them off and pull her across the table and wrap her legs around his hips. “Just once,” he said under his breath, “I would like to see you in something skimpy. Something that clings to your body and doesn’t end at your goddamn ankles.” He reached the last button, and spread open the jumper, only to find a ruffled petticoat beneath it.

  He cursed. “This is like trying to strip a nun. What am I going to find next, a chastity belt?”

  “A little late for that,” she said in a shaky voice.

  She was still frightened of him. Not afraid that he was a killer, but afraid of sex. Of him making love to her, even though she wanted it almost as much as he did. Hell, she had to want it, since she was still here and hadn’t run screaming into the woods again.

  He slid his hands up her legs, slowly, beneath the ruffled petticoat, and her eyes widened. She made a soft, gasping noise when he reached her hips. He was half expecting bloomers, or at least some enveloping cotton panties. Instead his hands reached thin strips of silk.

  He pushed the petticoat up to her waist, exposing what looked like white-lace thong panties. “Now, that’s more like it,” he said. “Come here.” He pulled her off the table, into his arms, and began to strip the layers of clothes off her and toss them on the table.

  He found her bra to be as stimulating as her almost-nonexistent panties. Her breasts were magnificent—there was no other word for them. Full, luscious globes of pearly satin, spilling out of the lacy cups of her bra. It would have been enough to finish a lesser man.

  He left the underwear on her. After all, she’d worn it for a purpose, and he had every intention of putting it to good use. “Get up on the table,” he said, his voice tense.

  She did, dressed only in her skimpy lace underwear, and she gave him a worried look. He leaned forward and nipped her lace-covered breast with his mouth, careful not to use his teeth.

  Her nipples were hard beneath the lace and he licked her, feeling the bud tighten beneath his tongue. She was trembling. He looked at her in the moonlight, all ripe, abundant, silvery flesh, her hair flowing to her shoulders, her eyes dark with worried desire.

  “Lie down.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She lay back on the blanket of discarded clothes, wearily, helped by his slight push, and she closed her eyes to the bright moon overhead.

  And opened them again when he touched her. Her panties were slightly damp now. He wanted her wet with need.

  The panties were going to have to go, much to his dismay. And the bra—the satin and lace were exciting, but not nearly as delicious as her skin.

  The bra fastened in front, and he wondered if she’d worn it on purpose. He unfastened it, though he would have had no trouble with a back clasp, and her breasts spilled free in the moonlight, the rosy tips beaded with desire.

  He was momentarily distracted from his eventual goal. He climbed onto the table, feeling it rock slightly beneath his weight, and caught her breast in his mouth, sucking at it, letting his tongue scrape against the distended nipple.

  He could make her come that way, he thought. Hell, he could make her come in any number of ways, any number of times, and he had every intention of doing so. Right now he didn’t want to think about death and murder, about the blood-soaked past or the doubtful future. He didn’t want to think about any other woman. He just wanted to lose himself in the scent and sound of this woman, the taste and texture of her, the rare, impossible delight of disappearing into pure sensation and bringing her with him. He’d never needed sex, never needed a woman, this woman, so desperately.

  He ran his tongue down her stomach as he slid his hands beneath the thin strips that held her underwear on. He knew exactly where he was headed, and she wouldn’t like it, at least not at first. And then she’d like it very much indeed.

  She let out a soft murmur of protest as he slid the panties off her long legs, but he ignored her. What the hell did she expect? He needed her naked, needed her now, and he wasn’t about to wait any longer.

  He unzipped his jeans, freeing himself in the moonlight, and the feel of the cool air on his cock was a sharp delight. Not as good as her hot, damp body would feel, though, taking him deep inside.

  Her hips bucked when he kissed the soft curls that protected her. And then he slid his tongue down against her clitoris, and she practically exploded.

  She grabbed his head, and he half expected her to pull his hair in an attempt to move him, but somewhere along the way she changed her mind, and her fingers slid through his hair and her hips softened beneath his grip.

  She came immediately, almost a disappointment, since he wanted to make it last. It was just a small climax, and he knew he could do better, so he ignored her efforts to tug him away, returning to his task wit
h renewed dedication.

  The next one was better, and he could prolong it for her, with his tongue, his lips, even his teeth, until she was sobbing and gasping for breath.

  He’d wanted to get her to use her mouth on him—he’d been obsessed with the fantasy since he first noticed her full, lush mouth, but by now it no longer mattered. All that mattered was being inside her.

  He pulled away from her, wiping his mouth on his arm, and reached for the condom he had in the pocket of his jeans. He had three of them with him, and he wasn’t sure they’d be enough. He couldn’t imagine ever having enough of her.

  He tore the packet open with his teeth, ready to sheath himself in latex, and then in the sweet folds of her body, when she reached up and took the open packet from him.

  He let her, though her hands were trembling, and she was struggling to breathe evenly. He was on his knees beside her, on the table, his cock jutting out straight and hard, and he expected his Victorian virgin to cover her eyes and shriek in horror.

  Instead she touched him, and he almost came in her cool, soft hands. He couldn’t stifle his agonized groan, and she quickly pulled back.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  He took her hand and put it back on his cock, wrapping her fingers around its thick length. “No,” he said, moving her hand, showing her what he wanted.

  It was sheer torment, exquisite pain, but he had himself under control again, and he could stand it, savor it, the awkward tug of her hand on him.

  She moved, and he opened his eyes to see her lean over and kiss the coiled snake on his hip. And then she closed her mouth over the head of his cock, her tongue quicksilver light, tasting him, sucking at him, until he knew he couldn’t hold out a moment longer. He needed to be inside her, now, or he’d fill her hungry mouth with his seed.

  He touched her, and she came again at his touch, her mouth pulling at him.

  He was beyond gentleness. He shoved her back against the blanket of clothes and moved between her legs.

  He went in hard, fast, deep, only barely able to control himself. She wrapped her legs around his, and he reached down and pulled them higher, up around his hips, so that he was deeper still, and she was tight, clasping, milking him with the power of her climax, which was almost sweetly painful.

  He’d had a vain hope that he could hold out, but he was past any chance of self-control, and he followed her, filling her, spilling deep inside her before collapsing on top of her.

  He wasn’t sure when he realized what he’d done. The condom lay forgotten, unused. The feel of her mouth on him had wiped the last vestiges of rational thought from his brain, and he hadn’t remembered.

  “Shit,” he muttered. It was the first time he’d forgotten in fifteen years. The woman beneath him made him as randy and stupid as a teenage boy. “Shit,” he said again.

  “Please, don’t” came her weary voice. “It’s really disheartening to have your reaction to making love to me always be the word ‘shit.’ Couldn’t you go for something a bit more positive, like ‘well, that was pleasant,’ instead of cursing?”

  He was still inside her, still partially erect. Or maybe he was getting hard all over again. Anything was possible with this witchy woman.

  “Shucks, we may just have to do it again.” And he bumped his hips against hers, so she could feel his cock still hard inside her.

  Her eyes widened in the moonlight. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

  “Says you from your vast experience. Trust me, with you and me all things are possible when it comes to making love.”

  “I thought it was fucking.”

  He had to kiss her. The word sounded absurd coming from her soft mouth, but then, she’d shown herself to be surprisingly adaptable with that mouth. He kissed her, and he felt an answering shimmer of response from deep inside her.

  He almost said “shit” again, but decided to spare her. Besides, he had more important things on his mind right then.

  He took his sweet time, and nothing would make him rush it, not her breathless requests, her choked begging. He got her to straddle him, and she arched over him like a magnificent warrior goddess, and this time when she came she couldn’t stop crying, collapsing on top of him, her limp body racked by hoarse sobs.

  His usual style with crying women was to beat a hasty retreat until they got over it. With Sophie he simply wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to his body, and stroked her hair until the sobs died away and she fell asleep.

  It was a hell of a place to sleep, Griffin thought lazily. A hell of a place to have sex. Right now they could be in his comfortable bed back at the cottage, not lying on a hard surface in the middle of the woods, buck naked.

  He ought to wake her, drag her back to the cottage to finish the night in comfort. But he couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move. The smell of the lake and the pine trees and the cool mountain air surrounded him, and for the first time in twenty years he was at peace.

  With the hard wood of the table hurting his back, with Sophie’s hair tickling his nose, with a mosquito biting his butt, he felt almost…happy.

  He wasn’t used to it, he didn’t trust it. But for right now he had no interest in fighting it.

  He simply closed his eyes and waited, listening to the sounds of the night, while sweet, soft Sophie slept safely in his arms.

  20

  Doc hadn’t meant to hit her so hard. He had a long night ahead of him, and he didn’t want to rush things. He hummed beneath his breath as he carried her through the rubble-strewn hallways of the old hospital annex. She barely weighed anything, and Doc was a strong man. It was easy enough to toss her over his shoulder and make his way through the candlelit passage.

  The electricity had been turned off long ago. He wasn’t surprised—the wiring dated from the early part of the century, with exposed black wires and white porcelain insulators up near the ceilings. It was one of the reasons the hospital had been closed in the first place—the danger and the cost of replacing the electricity. Sophie had told him she planned to open the place, fix up the rooms when she could afford it. In the meantime it was tightly sealed, so no one could get in.

  She hadn’t bothered to board up the main door, relying on the substantial locks that were still there. And of course he had the key.

  Marty groaned, and Doc quickened his step, heading down the narrow wooden stairs to the old hospital kitchen. It wasn’t the first time he’d used the place, but it would be the last. He was going to finish the night in a blaze of glory. Like the fireworks over the lake on the Fourth of July, he thought fondly. A final burst of multiple rockets and then all would be silent.

  He’d killed three in one night, long, long ago. He preferred to take his time, choose his subjects carefully, but twenty years ago Lorelei, Valette and Alice had given him no choice.

  Valette had come to him first, bleeding from a botched abortion. He’d used the knife on her, a fitting justice. And her father never had to know that his daughter was capable of such a great crime. Alice had shown up a few hours later, looking for her missing friend, her makeup smudged, her hair mussed, smelling of sex and sin.

  And then he went hunting for Lorelei, the third of the town whores, determined to finish it all, finish God’s work, and take his punishment.

  It hadn’t worked out that way. No one even guessed that he was the one who’d dispensed justice. No one had known Lorelei was coming to visit him except Valette. No one had seen any of the girls in hours. Except that hellion who worked up at his sister’s place.

  He’d never meant for anyone else to take the credit for his work. He’d acted wisely, sparingly before that dark night twenty years ago, and he’d always felt a certain pride in his deeds. But the Lord worked in mysterious ways, and the boy had appeared guilty as sin. He was, of course. Guilty, sin-ridden, a thousand crimes on his young, twisted soul. Murder would have followed soon enough—he was simply paying for his crimes ahead of time.

  Since then he’d been carefu
l, more selective, and no one had ever guessed there was any connection between Abby Ling’s car accident, Sara Ann Whitten’s disappearance and Doc’s frequent trips out of town.

  Tonight there would be four of them. Three were sinners, all in one tainted family. He should have known there was deep wickedness there. He’d chosen Marty at first glance, knowing she had come to Colby to be cleansed of her sin by sword and fire. He had no idea the wickedness ran clear through the family, striking the witless mother, even devouring sweet Sophie. She would be better off dead than living in whoredom. It was only his duty.

  And Rima. She lay in her bed at home, her sightless eyes staring out into the night. She’d wept when he told her. He couldn’t make her understand that this was his calling. He brought life into the world, and he took it from them when necessary. It was his love for humanity that made him do it. Wickedness must be sought out and destroyed. Surely she understood that?

  But she didn’t. He knew his saintly Rima hadn’t been corrupted—after all, she’d suffered as he had, the loss of their unborn children, blameless infants destined never to walk this vale of tears. The last one had been the hardest. This was the pregnancy that lasted, though Rima had grown sicker and sicker. And when she’d gone into labor two months early, she’d given birth to a monstrosity that had damaged her internally, so severely that she was never well again. And he’d buried the loathsome thing in the cemetery by the village, weeping, as he heard the tramp shriek with laughter from the public beach, mocking him. And he’d known what he had to do.

  He’d silenced her laughter. Not that night, when he longed to, but later, when she came to him complaining of headaches. June’s headaches came from her vain refusal to wear glasses, but the town had taken Doc’s diagnosis of a fatal brain aneurysm with sorrow and acceptance. And he’d followed God’s work ever since.