Slow Burn

by Heather Graham

  Was she trying to leave the ghosts behind, as Jared had suggested?

  Maybe. But she had a feeling that Danny was a ghost who would follow her all her life. She needed to learn to live with him. He was a good ghost. And that was why it hurt so badly sometimes to have him with her. Maybe if she could come to terms with that…

  She spun around suddenly. David was standing behind her, drinking coffee from a mug. He was wearing the Dolphins T-shirt. He was freshly bathed and shaved, his dark, wet hair slicked back.

  “Jimmy’s on his way,” he told her. “I’ve got to go out for a while. What are your plans for the day?”

  He asked the question like a dictator snapping out demands. She folded her arms over her chest. “You know, this is getting just a little bit ridiculous.”

  “Spencer, don’t argue with me. I’m not in the mood for it.”

  “And I’m not in the mood to have a dictator run my life! This is crazy—”

  She broke off. It was crazy. She didn’t know what was happening anymore. But one thing was true. She had been afraid of Jared.

  But he wasn’t the one who’d jumped her fence last night. He had been in a car at the time, with his wife and children.

  “What?” he demanded, cocking his head as he watched her.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Spencer…”

  “Jimmy’s going to be here, right? If I make any sudden, wild plans, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”

  “Don’t try getting on an airplane again or anything, Spencer. I’ll drag you right off it.”

  “David…”

  “Damn it, Spencer, I can’t have you working against me all the damned time!” With that he spun around and walked to the front door.

  A moment later he was gone.

  Oppenheim was off, sitting in his backyard in South Miami, watching one of his grandkids play in the wading pool.

  He groaned when David approached him.

  “I know, I know. I’ve read Harris’s full report,” he said.

  “So you know someone was trying to break in.”

  “David, I love Coconut Grove. It’s one of my favorite areas of the city. I even love it on Friday and Saturday nights, when it’s wall-to-wall people, outside cafés filled, rickshaws going, music seeping out from the clubs, traffic jammed. But, David, it’s a high-crime area, too. You know damned well just how many robberies there are in the Grove.”

  “This is different, and you know it.”

  “David, face the truth! A concerned grandparent hires you because a beam fell in a dilapidated old house! Spencer Huntington sticks her nose in where she shouldn’t and ends up in danger in a graveyard. There’s a problem with a rental car—in Rhode Island, no less!—and then a robbery attempt. And you’re on my back again!”

  “I’m not on your back. You did have Harris there.”

  “Then what more do you want from me? I’m doing my best.”

  “I just came to make sure you knew that I was right, that Spencer is in danger.”

  Oppenheim sighed. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  “Are you keeping someone on it?”

  “As much as I can.”

  “Thanks,” David said. He started to walk away, waving to the three-year-old splashing in the pool.

  “David!”

  “What?”

  “You’d better keep your people close to her for the rest of the weekend. Saturday nights are hardest for me. You know this city—weekends can be murder.”

  No pun intended, David thought.

  “Yeah, thanks, we’ll stick to her through the weekend. I want to get down to the lab, though.”

  “It was a heel print from a Frye boot,” Oppenheim said. “No fingerprints. None that helped. We lifted yours, but don’t worry, you’re not a suspect.”

  “Thanks,” David said dryly. He decided to stop by the lab anyway.

  Downtown, he found Hank Jenkins on night duty. David had gotten lucky since Hank had been the one to receive the samples the night before.

  “Frye boot, a size nine, for whatever good that will do you,” Hank told him. He shrugged. “Good boot, not cheap, but there are probably hundreds of thousands in existence. Nine is a bit small, though. And the depth of the print would indicate that your perp is small, one hundred and twenty to one hundred and fifty pounds, maybe. Might even have been a woman.”

  “A woman?” David asked, surprised.

  “There are female thieves.”

  “This isn’t an ordinary thief,” David said. Then he thanked Hank and left, glancing at his watch. The day was gone. Entirely. And half the night, too. It was already after nine. He was still tired. He was too old to sleep on steps.

  He drove to Spencer’s house, the restless feeling that he couldn’t leave her alone stronger than ever.

  When he rounded the corner, he saw a beige Plymouth sedan parked just across the street.

  Harris was sitting in it. He lifted a coffee cup to David, who waved in return.

  Jimmy’s car was in Spencer’s driveway, but Jimmy wasn’t in it. He was probably inside, David thought sourly.

  He was.

  When David rang the bell, Jimmy answered. He was in cutoffs and a T-shirt—Danny’s old clothing. At least he had the grace to look a little abashed as David stared at him.

  “Mrs. Huntington sent out for pizza. Harris was outside, so I figured it was all right to come in. I’ve been alert, though. You know I’m good.”

  David nodded. Jimmy was going to start stuttering any minute.

  “It’s been so damned hot…she spent the day out by the pool, reading. I did some swimming, too. She said to dive in for a while, so I did.”

  David was still staring at him.

  “I swear to you, I didn’t let my guard down for a single second, David.”

  “It’s okay, Jimmy,” David said at last, though it wasn’t exactly the right way to guard a client. He sighed. “It’s okay because Harris is out here. But if he’d left—”

  “I would have known. He said he’d call in if he had to go out on a call.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well,” Jimmy said awkwardly, “if you’re here, I guess I’ll take off.” He looked at his feet. He was barefoot. “I’ll just get my shoes and take off.”

  David nodded again. He waited while Jimmy went out back, said good-night to Spencer and came out—shoes in hand.

  “Good night. Do I take the morning again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you around eight?”

  “That will be fine.”

  Jimmy left. David set the alarm and walked through the house. Lots of good the alarm was going to do for the moment, with Spencer outside, caught in the soft glare of the pool lights and stretched out on one of the lounges.

  He didn’t think her bikini had been designed with the absolute intent to seduce. It wasn’t a thong bikini; in fact, it wasn’t especially bare at all, not compared to a lot of what you saw on the Florida beaches.

  It was just the way Spencer wore the damned thing. It was downright erotic.

  Her knees were up, a copy of Architectural Digest leaning on them as she studied it. A slim, frosty glass of something sat by her side on a little wrought-iron patio table. Her hair was wet and slicked back, her face makeup free. She looked somehow very young, very innocent.

  Yeah, right.

  Was this a setup? Apparently not. She looked up and groaned at the sight of him.

  “What if I were to buy a very large Doberman?” she asked him. “Would you just go home then? We can shop the kennels tomorrow.”

  He walked over to her, picked up her glass and swallowed some of its contents. Ice tea. He’d hoped for something stronger.

  He sat in the lounge opposite her, folded his hands and watched her. “Nice outfit. Seducing poor Jimmy, eh?”

  She kept her eyes on his. “You’ll notice that there is something called a pool behind me. And I’m wearing a bathing suit. Something people wear in pools.”


  “Quite a suit.” He nodded.

  “Perfectly decent.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s better than a towel—or nothing,” he said agreeably.

  “So let me get this straight. You really are accusing me of trying to seduce your employee?” she inquired. Her tone was light. Amused.

  Furious.

  He shrugged. “You are good at seduction. I know that firsthand.”

  “Now just why would I want to seduce Jimmy?” she asked him. “After all, you were the first one to notice that I wasn’t incredibly happy after stumbling into bed with you.”

  “After stumbling into bed with me…hmm. Interesting.” He leaned forward. “Maybe that’s the problem, Spencer. It’s me. Maybe you wouldn’t be half so miserable if you ‘stumbled into bed’ with half a football team.”

  She sat up, setting her magazine aside. “You’re an idiot, David. A complete idiot!”

  She stood up and walked away, executing a perfect dive into the deep end of the pool, then swimming to the opposite end, as far from him as she could get.

  He watched her for a minute. God, he was an idiot.

  He stood up. Ripped the Dolphins shirt over his head. Kicked off his shoes, jerked off his socks. Hobbled his way out of his jeans and briefs.

  Spencer was at the far end, staring, ocean blue eyes narrowed sharply on him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Swimming,” he told her briefly.

  He cut into the water after her. He thought she would dive away beneath the surface, try to elude him.

  She didn’t. She remained leaning against the edge, watching him tensely as he broke the surface.

  He meant to say something. Anything. He didn’t. Instead he reached out for her, pulling her to him, then backing her against the cool cobalt tiles that rimmed the edge of the pool. His mouth crushed down on hers while he slipped his hand beneath the bikini bottom, sliding it down over her hips and buttocks, then discarding it completely.

  He moulded the curves of her backside with his palm, then brought his hand in front, rubbing his knuckles against her even as he all but devoured her mouth, forcing entry with his tongue, so damned hungry that he was determined to force the fire that filled him to leap to her as well. A sound escaped her, but barely. She was stiff, but just briefly. Then her fingers were on his cheek, his shoulders. Running down the length of his back. Nails just brushing his buttocks.

  He caught her hand. Curled the fingers around his thrusting sex. Groaned against her mouth.

  Her lips broke free of his. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she told him, her voice rasping.

  “I know.”

  They shouldn’t be doing this. But he would shoot himself if they didn’t. She stroked him, and then her fingers dipped lower, cradled his balls. He groaned again. The bikini bra had a hook in front, and he popped it open, then leaned forward and caught a taut pink nipple between his teeth.

  “David…This is crazy,” she gasped.

  “Yeah. It’s one of the definitions of insanity, you know,” he told her.

  She shook her head, blue eyes on him, confused.

  He smiled. “This is crazier than you think. Going in circles. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome. We’ll make love. You’ll cry. I’ll go away furious with myself. Right?”

  “Then don’t—”

  “No.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Just call me fucking insane,” he told her.

  He lifted her suddenly, setting her on the tile edge of the pool. Then he parted her thighs and buried his face between them. She cried out, trembling. Seconds later, she cried out again, and he caught her hips, dragging her into the water, on top of him, slowly, impaling her as he lowered her. She seemed to close around his shaft like flowing lava. He held her against the side of the pool, shuddering with the force of his desire as he slammed into her, his arms around her, holding her.

  This seemed like the only true drive in life. But it was a little like dying, as well. Finally his force was spent. The hunger exploded, shattered. Exploded from his body, swept into hers. She was limp, arms around him, holding him.

  He didn’t move. For the longest time, he simply didn’t move.

  Hell and damnation. He couldn’t believe what he’d seen tonight. He’d been all but glued to the narrow slit in the fence, but, cono, what a night. And it was even sweeter because he’d eluded the cop sitting out front.

  He leaned closer for a better look. His knees trembling, and his blood racing, he eased one foot back.

  David shifted at last. She was shivering. The night air was cool, the water a shade warmer. But the intense heat of the day was gone. Chills were setting into her.

  Either that or she was sobbing again.

  “Don’t cry!” he told her. “Damn you, don’t start crying again!”

  “I’m not crying,” she grated out.

  He started to set her down so he could look in her eyes.

  Then they both heard it. A snap in the foliage beyond the fence.

  “Son of a bitch!” David swore. He was out of the water in a flash, wrenching on his jeans in one fluid motion. He didn’t try for his shirt or shoes, but leaped for the fence, half jumping, half crawling up it.

  He leaped down the other side as a car engine revved from the other side of the block.

  He tore through the brush tripping over a sprinkler in the yard behind Spencer’s.

  Some bright dog finally started to bark.

  He hit the street just as a car went flying along it.

  A blue sedan.

  15

  Spencer dispensed with the idea of trying to find the pieces of her suit quickly, leaped from the pool and dived for her beach robe. As she huddled into it, she felt absolutely ill. Violated.

  Someone had been out there. Watching them.

  She nearly screamed when David suddenly—and all but silently—vaulted over the fence into the yard. She stared at him, pale and stricken, but he ignored her, walking to the open French doors. “Get in and lock up,” he told her.

  “Should I set the alarm?”

  “I’ll do it from the front. What the hell happened to Harris?” he demanded.

  He was talking more to himself than to her, Spencer realized.

  She locked up the back and followed him to the front door. He was looking out into the night in disgust.

  “Gone. He was supposed to call in if he was going to leave the house. Damn him! We could have had our man!”

  “Did you see—”

  “I saw a blue sedan. Speeding away. There isn’t a prayer of catching it now. I’ve got to call in and report our peeping Tom. And find out about Harris. You can call it a night, if you want.”

  He was almost casual. Very matter-of-fact. Ignoring what had just happened.

  Spencer felt as if she were a vivid crimson hue from her hair roots to her toenails. “You can’t call it in. What are you going to say?”

  “I’m going to say someone was in the bushes, staring in through the fence!” he told her.

  “They’ll ask questions.”

  He set his hands on his hips. “Don’t worry. I won’t report just what Danny’s widow, Saint Spencer, was doing.”

  “Fuck you, David.”

  He arched a brow. “Again? Twice in one night? This could become habit-forming.”

  She spun around, starting for the stairs. She was going to start crying again, but he would never understand why. Not when she couldn’t articulate her feelings, even to herself. Not when they were so confused. If only he wouldn’t mock her.

  But maybe he had to. She had hurt him badly once. And David was a careful man. He wasn’t going to leave himself vulnerable a second time. Not with her.

  She started up the stairs, turning back at the landing. “You sure as hell can’t blame tonight on me!” she told him.

  “I don’t know. I think maybe bikinis fall into the same category as towels, robes and nak
edness.”

  “David, you are a—”

  “Spencer, I’m not blaming anything on you, all right? Any time, any thing, I take full responsibility for what I do, okay?”

  She turned without answering and walked to her room, where she paced the floor. She could hear him on the phone. He seemed to be talking forever.

  He was probably on with Oppenheim. Robbery and homicide were handled by different divisions, but in situations like this, where the two cases ran together, the different units worked together well. More men would probably come out and look for more clues. Which would be fine—as long as they didn’t question her.

  She hesitated, then went to the linen closet and found an extra pillow. After slipping it into a pillowcase and taking the matching sheets, she went to the top of the stairs. She couldn’t hear him talking anymore.

  “David?”

  He came to stand at the foot of the steps and she threw the bedding down to him. “The daybed is much more comfortable than the stairs,” she told him.

  He caught the pillow, but the sheets ended up draped over the banister.

  “Thanks,” he told her.

  Spencer nodded coolly, then turned and went to her bedroom.

  Lying down on her bed, she stared at the picture of her and Danny together at the amusement park. Fingers trembling, tears stinging her eyes, she turned the picture facedown. She was going to start flat-out crying again. But tonight it was different, she realized.

  She wasn’t crying for Danny anymore. Tonight she was crying for herself.

  David made up the daybed, then walked around the house, checking windows, doors, bolts, locks and the alarm. Finally he stretched out to rest. The daybed actually was fairly comfortable.