I volunteered to come in the next day, Saturday, as did Mary Kate and Hannah. The three of us entered into negotiations regarding organic coffee cake versus donuts. Donuts won, although it was hardly fair since Mary Kate automatically voted with me. Not that I protested.
Taking advantage of the festive mood, I suggested we all head out after work to the Northern Lights, a local bar-and-grill. Much loud, joy noises erupted.
Marshall looked at me quizzically, but I simply smiled at the group, letting Lisa sort out the details. She was so happy, she spent the rest of the afternoon humming pirate songs.
Not everyone made it to the bar. Bob claimed his wife wanted him home, Carol had to pick up her kids, and Regina didn’t bother to explain. Marshall was right—her vacation hadn’t done a thing for her attitude.
We convoyed over to the Lights. As everyone clamored in to the bar, I hung back, timing it so that Marshall and I reached the doorstep at the same time. He grasped the handle, but instead of entering, he stood starting down at me.
My heart thudded, draining the moisture from my mouth. Be careful what you ask for…
“Do you think this is such a good idea?” he asked. His dark eyes were impossible to read in the shadows. What did he know?
I had to clear my throat twice before asking what he meant.
“Well, you may not have the search warrant issue hanging over your head, but I imagine the police are still… attentive, shall we say?”
I was a Northern girl, so I couldn’t bat my eyes without making it look like I had a facial tic, but I licked my lips, smiling softly.
“I hadn’t planned on drinking. Maybe I should be ‘designated driver’ again?” I offered.
His breathing slowed, eyes narrowing as they flicked over the afternoon shadows dappling my sundress. My heart was banging so hard I was afraid my boobs might bounce. After a lengthy pause, he said, “That could work.” Then he pulled the door open, letting me pass before him. “Maybe we can get you to let your hair down,” he murmured.
Shiver.
The evening slid into a weird holding pattern. I tried joining in the conversations around me, especially since the outing was my idea in the first place, but my mind kept clicking around a hamster-wheel of worries. I did manage to get the bartender to dress up my nonalcoholic drink so I wouldn’t be hassled by the “just one won’t hurt” crowd. He gave an understanding wink, and I spent the rest of the night trying not to stab myself in the nose with the toothpick-speared fruit wedges floating as camouflage in my ginger ale.
Marshall didn’t sit next to me, choosing instead a spot off to the side where he could watch me. My skin would tingle, and I’d turn to find his gaze on me, hot and languid. I kept watch on his drink so I could signal the bartender to refresh it as soon as the booze sank below the ice cubes, but after only two bourbons, he asked the bartender for a Coke.
Not only were my alcoholic sensibilities taken aback by his restraint, but this was not the plan at all. I needed him blitzed. Preferably passed-out, dead-drunk, so-I-can-ransack-your-cabin blitzed.
Most of our group took off for home before midnight, although, as before, a few die-hard stragglers remained. Marshall caught my eye and winked, tipping his head to the exit in a “meet me outside” signal. Although he hadn’t drunk enough for my purposes, he wasn’t as subtle as he might have thought; Lisa’s eyes glittered in delight at the intercepted message. Marshall said his good-byes, telling everyone to drive safe, and thanking us all for the amazing amount of work we’d put in that week.
“If I’m going to help finish up tomorrow, I better take off, too,” I said at the end of his little speech.
“I’ll walk you out,” said Marshall, ever the gentleman. Lisa snickered quietly but let us play the scene out without heckling. Unexpectedly tactful for her—a kindness I knew I’d pay for later.
Outside, despite the supposed advent of spring, the air had a zing that mirrored my nerves. I hugged myself, wishing sexy 1950s vixens wore parkas and snow boots. And chastity belts.
“I think we’re both okay to drive,” Marshall’s voice broke into my shivering. “It’ll be less obvious if you follow me. That is, if I didn’t get my signals crossed?” He tucked his hands into his pants pockets for warmth and stood facing me, his back taking the brunt of the wind, providing a harbor. His tentative, questioning expression made it clear that I could pull back if I chose.
I didn’t choose.
Clouds covered whatever sliver of moon there might have been, and the high-beams from our two vehicles swept the clearing like synchronized blades of light. Our headlights clicked off, leaving a mass of twining black shadows, the image of the house disappearing into the inky swirl like the negative of a mirage.
If Marshall hadn’t been there to lead the blind, I’d never have made it the fifty or so yards to the porch without falling on my face. Silently, he took me by the hand, escorting me across the dark expanse. Dependent and alone with him in the wide-spread farm country drove home the fact that I was acting like every dumb ingénue in any slasher movie ever made.
There appeared to be a subtle difference between “not wanting to go on anymore” and holding hands with a potential psychotic murderer moments before he hacked me to death and tossed my body parts into the shrubs for the bears to devour. I was no longer so sanguine about my own death.
This would have been a handy insight to have back at Northern Lights.
It took forever to cross the yard. Frost soaked through my inappropriate high-heeled pumps. Hobbled by my unsuitable shoes and ridiculously swirly skirt, I was defenseless—a detail that had slipped through Quality Control in the seduce-the-killer planning stages. If he attacked now, it would serve me right.
I kept waiting for the blow to fall, for his hand to drop mine, only to wrap around my throat. Tears pricked my eyes. So helpless. So stupid.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Instead, Marshall led me through the night, continuing to grip my hand gently in his even after we were safely inside. Mine were chilled—from nerves as much as the night air—and with a wash of relief that was nearly erotic in its intensity, I suddenly felt absurd. And a little tingly.
Adding to that, Marshall’s thumb rubbed against my palm, sensual and inviting, setting an electrical frisson slicing through my body.
As we stood blinking like libidinous moles in the sudden light of the cabin’s foyer, he took both my hands, cupping them with his own, raising them to his mouth, breathing soft, warm air over them. More tinglies. Shutting my eyes, I shivered. As though coming awake from a deep slumber, my rational self sent up a Hail Mary-pass, inserting the image of the bloody hunting knife, effectively dissolving the pirate fantasies that yo-ho-ho’d in my head. Or in parts more southerly.
More shivering—different motivations. I gently pulled my hands free, stepping back, gaining some nonhand-holding breathing room and made a big production of looking around the room. Yep. The cabin. Just as I remembered it. And not a single bloody hunting knife to be seen.
“Something to drink?” Marshall asked, grinning.
“Maybe just some coffee.”
“Sounds good. I’ve got a bit of a headache,” he said as he walked into the kitchen.
Since he wasn’t drunk, I had to revert to Plan B. Unfortunately, I was entirely without such a fine thing as a Plan B—another Quality Control issue—so while Marshall puttered in the kitchen, I retired to the “thinking place” to see if I could figure something out. If I couldn’t, the bathroom had a window, although I’d probably break my neck in the stygian darkness trying to find my car.
Cover down, I sat on the stool, giving a fierce lecture to my vacillating girl-parts and sorting through the various issues. First of all, I was alone in the woods in an enchanted cabin with my boss who A) at the very least, was infatuated with me and with whom a relationship would complicate both my work situation and my sobriety or B) was a Shakespeare-In-Lust, psycho-killer stalker. Secondly, I had to figure out how to rend
er my boss/beau/bad guy unconscious so I could scour the enchanted cabin for the grisly murder weapon.
I don’t think this is what my AA gurus meant when they told me not to make any major changes in the first year of sobriety.
I nearly opted for the window, but then I noticed the medicine chest. Actually, I noticed the medicine chest when I was trying to shimmy myself up to the windowsill. My foot slipped off the sweating porcelain tank, and I almost fell in the sink.
“Everything okay in there?” Marshall called.
“Doing good.”
Nestled inside the medicine chest was a nice assortment of generic acetaminophen products, including one that promised a good night’s rest. I’ve tried those sleep aids; they knock you on your butt. Thankfully, enough time had passed from Marshall’s two measly drinks that I didn’t have to worry about sending him on the “Big Sleep,” if I doped him up. I had enough on my plate without that. Snagging two capsules, I strolled out to the main room.
Marshall lounged on the chocolate-colored leather couch. In his beige button-down shirt, he looked like a smooth and creamy truffle, just waiting to be unwrapped. Or just possibly one of those goopy surprise candies that look like an eyeball when you oh-so-unsuspectingly bite into them. I wondered briefly if this was how schizophrenia developed.
Sade’s “Kiss of Life” played softly in the background, emphasizing the sensual turn the evening had taken. I joined Marshall on the couch, spreading my skirt like Scarlett at the picnic, leaving enough space between us to park a bus.
“Here you go,” I said in a fake chirpy voice. I dropped the two pills into his cupped palm. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice where I’d scratched “PM” off on the little devils.
“What’s this?”
“You said you had a headache. I’m just returning the favor. You saved me from a killer hangover the last time I was here.”
He grinned, popped them both in his mouth with a swallow of coffee. I squelched a premature sigh of relief. There was a lot that could still go wrong before Marshall felt the effects.
I debated my next move. I could leave—although that might be awkward—wait an hour, and then sneak back in. Marshall left his doors unlocked, so that wouldn’t be a problem, but I didn’t want to risk him grabbing a beer before tucking in for the night.
Of course, if he did, he would be less likely to wake up while I was digging through his desk drawers. Or ever. That would be the down side.
It would be just my luck to prove my innocence in two murders during the commission of the third. Plus, Lisa would kill me if we had to break in a new boss, and I’d never find out if Marshall was pirate-worthy.
So I stayed.
The stereo clicked over to a new CD and another of my favorite artists, Ray LaMontagne, came on. Liquid sound. Marshall added a log to the fire. Sparks flew, snapping like a feral animal, as the fire bit into the dry wood. A burst of heat fanned over my bare skin, making me conscious of the chill everywhere else.
Marshall came back, sliding my skirt over, sitting close. His eyes, dipping to my cleavage, did that sexy crinkle thing I liked, warming me even more than the fire.
“I haven’t mentioned how much I liked your dress, have I?” he murmured staring at the swell of my breasts. Thank you, Miraclebra.
“That’s not my dress,” I pointed out.
“That’s why I didn’t mention it at work. I didn’t want to risk a sexual harassment suit.”
I stiffened slightly, and he leaned back, opening the space. “I talked with Detective Blodgett,” he said, changing the subject. “But I haven’t had a chance to see how you are, or to tell you how sorry I am that your friend was murdered. Have there been other developments?”
Even if he hadn’t seen Blodgett, Marshall had to have known the detective had met with me at the clinic earlier. The dancing firelight was playing tricks with my eyes, making Marhall’s difficult to read. The uncertainty made me answer more abruptly than I should have.
“Another crazy sonnet.” I meant to go on, but my throat closed up when Marshall stretched his arm across the back of the couch, his expression troubled. By turning my head slightly, I could brush my lips against the warmth of his wrist. Not that I wanted to.
“Crazy?” he asked.
I cleared my throat, gaze flitting nervously to the bookshelves lined with English literature. Flitted away from the large hand that rested just over my left shoulder. I forced myself to look at him when I answered. “I’d say so. Yes.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Context can influence our perspective, of course. Which sonnet was it? Another of Shakespeare’s?”
“One twenty-nine. The one that goes, ‘The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action.’ And then it goes on to talk about sex as murderous and bloody and leading to insanity or hell, whichever comes first, I guess.”
“Not sex, per se, but sexual desire. I know the one you mean.” His fingers absently reached out to toy with a strand of hair that had escaped my twist. I shivered.
Goosebumps rose, making me want to wrap my arms around myself. “Regardless of context,” I heard myself say, “you must agree that the images are beyond horrible. There’s such a profound hatred of women—”
“Not ‘women,’” Marshall interrupted. “Woman. The Dark Lady, to be specific, although there’s some debate as to whether she was the subject of that sonnet at all. Shakespeare never specified, though it seems likely. No other sonnet in the Fair Youth series comes close to the level of rancor shown in this one.
“But what I meant by ‘context,’ before I so rudely interrupted you,” he smiled, “had to do with the Western viewpoint of sexuality and with the traditionally repressive nature of sexual morality. That is as long as you don’t count the Bible’s own ‘Song of Songs,’ which is pretty hot stuff. But, at any rate, I didn’t mean to imply that your situation was skewing your perspective. Just the opposite, in fact. I believe that your experience gives you a deeper insight into … this person.” His fingers dropped to my neck, stroking my skin lightly.
“You do?” A whisper.
“Oh, yes. There’s a connection between you. He’s after you. He wants you. I understand that.”
Marshall’s eyes, deep, black pools where gold reflections of fire danced like pagan spirits, pulled me in. He leaned forward, just slightly, just enough to signal his desire, eyes never releasing mine. I didn’t think I moved, but I must have. Maybe I leaned. Still, it surprised me when our lips met. Met, moving and sliding and shaping one to the other, testing the surface before deepening. Warm and soft and silky, it felt like I was melting.
He moaned, slipping his arm behind my back, down my waist, levering my hips forward so I slid against the length of him, under and alongside the length of his lean body. I wasn’t sure of much, but this I knew: he was pirate-worthy.
The CD switched again. The between-tracks silence dropped into the room, exaggerating the slight night-sounds of labored breathing, the fire’s snap, the shush of rustling clothes, the rasp of his axe-calloused hand as it slid along my thigh. The music kicked in—Portishead’s “All Mine”—a smooth counterpoint to the pulsing beat of our hearts. The hauntingly eerie noir tones filtered through my consciousness, moving us deeper into the night. Gasping, I pulled back and away, levering up.
“What is that?” I asked, though I loved the band and was completely familiar with their work. Familiar enough to know that the song—disturbing in its chilling sensuality—could have been chosen as the anthem for the next Stalkers Association of America convention.
“It’s…um…I thought you liked this band.” Marshall spoke slow and carefully, as if trying to calm a jumper on a ledge. Or possibly he was just having difficulty shifting gears from lust to loony. Alternatively, perhaps someone had drugged him with over-the-counter sleep aids. Eenie meanie minie mo.
“How do you know what bands I like?” In contrast, my voice sounded shrill and accusatory, the panic reined in only by confusion and leftover ho
rniness.
Marshall straightened up, running a hand over his face, yawning. “I don’t know. Maybe we talked about it?”
“Marshall, we never talked about music. I don’t remember telling anybody…” I trailed off.
“What?”
“Lisa and I talked about our favorite bands. A couple of ks ago.”
“Well, there you go. She must have mentioned it.”
“Why would Lisa tell you what bands I like? That makes no sense. Maybe you heard us?”
“Maybe. Look, I don’t know. I just wanted you to feel comfortable. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He unsuccessfully squelched another yawn.
“Right. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge these days. You know.”
“Don’t apologize. I understand completely. It’s my fault for pushing too soon.”
Taking that as my cue, I stood, simultaneously smoothing my skirt and trying to stuff wispy tendrils back into the French knot in an effort to ignore that we’d been making out like hormonally charged teenagers at the drive-in. Marshall looked dazed and befuddled. He’d pass out as soon as I left, or so I hoped. If he locked his door or turned into an insomniac despite the drugs I’d slipped him, I’d give up. For the night anyway.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It wasn’t a stormy night, but it was still pretty damn dark. Chilly, too. I’d let Marshall walk me to the door, turning on his porch lights so I could make my way to the car without mishap. I’d hoped he would be too woozy to remember to turn them off, but no such luck. They clicked off as soon as my headlights pointed toward the road.
I let the car roll forward until a stand of bushes and scrub trees blocked the view from the cabin. After smoking a gotta-stay-calm cigarette, I fished in my glove box, momentarily freaking out when my hand closed on something soft and fuzzy—my slightly shredded “emergency” tampon, not a dead rodent as I first imagined. I finally found a mini-flashlight. Slightly more powerful than a firefly’s butt, it was capable of shedding just enough light to match key to keyhole on a dark night. Not so good, however, for willful trespassing in the enchanted forest. Come Monday, Quality Control would be pink-slipped.
The Enemy We Know Page 25
