I glanced toward the water. Each wave brought the ocean nearer its crest, almost as high as the spring tide that tried to snatch Bea’s corpse. That tide’s demarcation line was clear. The sea had deposited reeds, tiny shells, and the occasional Styrofoam scrap in an undulating pattern. We ran uphill of the detritus, hugging a line of chameleon dunes that appeared and disappeared at nature’s whim. Braden was right. The sand was too soft for running. Sucking at my feet, it caused my ankles to wobble.
I stumbled against him. “Sorry. I forgot it was high tide. Not the time to run here. You’ll have to come back at low tide. Acres of white sand, hard-packed enough to ride a bike. Next crossover we can cut over to a road.”
We skirted a stretch of four-to five-foot dunes. Sea grass anchored the shifting mounds. The winter’s nor’easters had bent and battered the once golden stalks. My mind floated as I shook off last night’s ordeals and surrendered to the cleansing salt air. Then the world exploded.
“Get down.” Braden tackled me.
We landed in a sweaty tangle. He rolled his body on top of mine.
Boom. Crack. Boom. Crack.
For a second, I shared the deputy’s alarm. Gunfire? My heart hammered so hard I thought it might crack a rib. Then laughter bubbled up.
“Quiet,” he hissed. “They’ll hear you.”
Braden clearly figured I was hysterical.
“It’s okay. Just some touron shooting fireworks.” I chuckled with relief as an additional snap, crackle and pop marked the launch of more harmless pyrotechnics. “You get used to it. Fireworks are legal in South Carolina, and people pick them up en route to the beach.”
Braden didn’t move. He was still on top of me, his weight a pleasant pressure. His mint-scented breath made my lips tingle. I’d quit laughing. I scarcely breathed as I searched his face. I’d never been much on mental telepathy but I gave it a go: Don’t move. Kiss me. Messages I’d never utter aloud. It had been so long. How did this work?
God help me, I wanted this man. It had been more than a year since I’d felt the solid comfort of a man’s body atop my own. Forgive me, Jeff. I need to feel alive again.
The cool sand cemented itself to my legs. I felt clammy and flushed at the same time. Braden toyed with a damp curl matted to my forehead. A finger sauntered down my cheek and grazed my lips. His eyes no longer looked hazel; they’d darkened, a smoldering ash that overpowered the lightning flashes of green.
An arched eyebrow asked the question. I gave the answer in my steady gaze and the tremble of my lips. Slowly he lowered his mouth to mine. The kiss began as a whisper. A promise. Then I felt the liquid heat of his tongue and joined the duet. The song began sweetly, our tongues shyly flirting. But my nerve endings were dry tinder, aching for a match. I felt his arousal and shifted my hips to intensify our contact. I wrapped my arms around his muscled back and hugged his hard body to mine. The sand grinding beneath my limbs was a forgotten irritant.
In seconds, we’d reached the flashpoint. My ferocious longing frightened me. Braden’s need appeared just as keen. Our bodies raced ahead of conscious thought.
When he broke our full-body embrace, I felt dazed.
“Can we head back?” he asked between ragged breaths.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice husky with want.
Am I nuts? I’ve got twelve years on this man. We’ve never been on a date. Yes, but he saved your life. And you’re alive…alive like you haven’t been in thirteen long months.
My decision made me feel giddy with anticipation. “Race you back,” I taunted impishly, wondering if a hard-on would add or subtract from his foot speed.
We were both panting and shivering when we burst through my front door. The minute it shut, we grappled like mud wrestlers, slick with sweat. Encumbered by few items of clothing, we were naked in a flash—and still in my foyer. If Janie walked onto my porch, the glass sidelights would give her an eyeful.
I giggled.
“What?” Braden asked, somewhat irritably.
“I hope Girl Scouts don’t pick this moment to make a cookie call. We’re in plain view.”
“Oh. We can fix that.”
I let him lead me toward the master bedroom, but resisted his pull toward the bed.
“Let’s do this right,” I said. “We’re caked with sand. Shower first?”
“Why not?” Braden’s lazy grin made me melt. “We have all night.”
We stood slightly apart under the pulsing cascade, our fingers reaching across the steamy divide to explore. My skin tingled from the prickling spray.
Mini droplets clung to his long black eyelashes. Inside-out tears. His eyes met mine, unblinking. They told a bedtime story I’d sorely missed.
I want you.
He reached for the soap. In his clever hands, the slick bar slithered across my shoulders and snaked down one arm. When he reached my hand, he opened it, brought my palm to his face and tenderly kissed it. Then he lavished his attentions on my other arm.
A clean piney scent rode on the shower mist and filled the spare space between our bodies. The drumbeat of warm water painted my breasts the delicate pink of seashells. My nipples hardened though he had yet to touch them. Braden bent his head and licked at a rivulet of water as it meandered from my shoulder to my chest. His tongue, a marriage of velvet and sandpaper, felt even warmer than the shower’s cascade. His teeth grazed my flesh and I sucked in my breath. Oh, God, his touch. A gentle, easing rain after a long drought.
“Hey, you can’t have all the fun.” I tried to quell the quaver in my voice.
I soaped Braden’s chest and watched as his matted hairs first clung to his skin and then slowly sprang back to life. Resilience, what a marvel.
“Turn around,” I ordered.
“You want me to turn my back on you?” He laughed. “What do you have in mind?”
I soaped a long-handled brush and made lazy circles down his spine. Then I traced them lightly with my fingernails. He gasped. “May I turn around now?” His voice rumbled, cascading over me like the water.
Braden captured the soap from me and lathered his hands. Now the soap was gone. Yet I could see bubbles where his fingers painted sudsy designs on my skin. My body hummed. He pushed me against the smooth tile, and I wrapped my arms around him once more. As the warm water sluiced over us, it found the few tiny crevices where our bodies were not wholly joined. Trickling into these voids, the water perfected our fit.
This felt wonderful. This felt right.
ELEVEN
Braden proved to be a marathoner, not a sprinter. What more could I ask for in an exercise partner? Strength, endurance. Shared exuberance at the finish line. And the knowledge that warm-down exercises do count.
His caresses hadn’t stopped. Now it was light finger exercises, a hand skating over my thigh as I curled against his length. More than an hour had elapsed since we’d entered the shower. As I lay in bed with my eyes closed, I could replay each sensuous moment.
When was the last time I’d felt this good? I almost wanted to burst into song. Not a love song, mind you, but something exuberant and free-wheeling like Jan & Dean’s “Little Old Lady from Pasadena.”
He yawned, stretched and patted my behind. “Time to get up. I’ll fix dinner, but first let’s see what Sheriff Conroy fed the newshounds.”
In the living room, Braden claimed the recliner, a man magnet if I ever saw one. If I’m ever desperate for male company, I’ll just buy a La-Z-Boy for yard art. I curled up on the couch. At least I beat him to the remote control.
The DVD rewound to the start of the news conference. Conroy’s voice boomed. “I have a statement, then I’ll take questions.” I punched down the volume.
“Last night saw another horrible, senseless murder on Dear Island. Beatrice Caldwell was killed after midnight. We believe her killer to be the same person who murdered Stewart Hartwell early Monday morning.
“This vicious murderer left the island by boat shortly before dawn. A Dear Island security officer scuffled with
him at the marina. We hope to circulate a sketch of the suspect shortly. The guard suffered minor injuries and a concussion, but she’s recovering nicely. Our witness got a good look at her attacker. While her short-term memory remains a bit cloudy, doctors are confident it’ll clear quickly.
“We will catch this killer. We’ve got a crackerjack team working the case, including forensics experts from the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division. Our lead investigator has ten years of experience as an Atlanta homicide detective.”
The Q&A freefor-all that followed yielded no surprises. Conroy tailored his answers to soothe the citizenry. By the end of the press conference, he’d repeated umpteen times the number of officers, squad cars, helicopters and boats trolling for the killer and protecting the populace.
Conroy deserved high marks for schmooze. But would our killer buy his heavy-handed hints? I turned to Braden. “Was Conroy too obvious? Authorities normally don’t spill the beans about an eyewitness.”
He chewed his lip. “Let’s pray the perp thinks the sheriff’s a local yokel who forgot himself. I wish Conroy hadn’t sent such a clear message. I have a strong feeling our killer will be back. Sure you don’t want to leave the island?”
I teased to keep the mood light. “What? Think the pressure will get to an old retiree?”
“I don’t want to take any chances.” His eyes were dark, brooding.
Nothing would convince me to abandon the plan. The only way to trap the killer.
When I said nothing more, he relented. “Okay, I’ll make a salad and grill our steaks. We can talk strategy later. At least we’ve settled the question of sleeping arrangements. I plan to stay glued to you until this maniac’s caught.”
I answered with a grin. “You do ‘glue’ nicely.”
I walked into the great room and checked my answering machine. I’d heard the phone ring while we were otherwise engaged. The neon counter read “10.” Clearly the Dear Island tom-toms had identified me as the “mystery” witness. I fast-forwarded through seven nearly identical messages—callers clucking over my bad luck. I jotted a note to return the eighth call. Tammy Nowling asked if we were still on for lunch tomorrow.
The ninth message came as a surprise. Leyla’s rich near-baritone always commanded attention. We shared the same last name, Clark, and, if we were feeling mischievous, we introduced ourselves as sisters. Leyla’s skin was dark chocolate while mine is nearer marshmallow, even when toasted. So our banter either drew a good-natured laugh or a bewildered mumble.
The tension in Leyla’s voice signaled her call was no laughing matter. “Marley, my niece has gone missing. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and the sheriff’s office said we have to wait forty-eight hours before they’ll look into it. Can you stop by my office tomorrow? Say eleven? Don’t bother calling tonight. I’ll be at my sister’s.”
Though I hadn’t the foggiest notion how I could help, I would meet her at Gedduh Place in the morning. I tutored in the center’s adult literacy program.
Janie was the tenth caller. How did she always manage to have the final word?
“Listen, I talked to April. My sister says this Kain guy hangs out at her club. Shows up about nine every Friday. Usually leaves with a young chick, but never plays hide-the-salami with the same gal twice. I told April we’d be there Friday. We can bunk at her place since there’s no way to get back on Dear after sundown. Bye.”
I considered calling Janie to remind her I was joined at the hip with a bodyguard. Of course Braden might not object to visiting a gentlemen’s club. Tomorrow I’d spring the idea of a Hilton Head sleepover on my new roommate.
The sizzle of steak and its companion aroma made a sneak attack. My stomach rumbled. “How much longer?” I called.
“Five minutes, tops.”
Time enough to power up my laptop and check emails. Earlier I’d fired off questions to Steve Watson, an Army buddy who’d opened a Web-based “defend-yourself” business. His Internet storefront did a brisk trade in non-lethal weapons from stun guns and pepper spray to blinding LED guns. I hoped Steve could suggest how our killer acquired his weaponry. He’d responded quickly—two lengthy emails.
“Dinner’s ready,” Braden called.
“Just a minute.” I printed Steve’s missives to read later and powered down the computer. For the remainder of the night, I had no intention of dealing with modern technology. An easy decision when there’s age-old—or is it old age—lust to satisfy.
***
I awoke with a start. Disoriented. I was tucked into the king bed in my master bedroom, not my normal sleeping digs. More important, a warm naked rump pressed against mine. I smiled. Change can be good.
The room wasn’t so much black as mocha. I could discern the shape of my dresser, the outline of the bathroom door, the picture window where moonlight cast shifting shadows of overgrown oleanders against the shades.
Wind-blown branches scratched against the siding. The sound probably nudged me to consciousness. In winter, I’d have blamed the commotion on a large buck that liked to hone his antlers on my shrubbery. But spring wasn’t the season for antler rattling.
A hoarse whisper brought me fully awake. Should I wake Braden? What if it’s my imagination? I didn’t want to appear a high-strung ninny.
I crept out of bed. Nakedness compounded my feeling of vulnerability. I edged to the window and peered out a corner of the shade. A shadow moved. I blinked, then focused where a silhouette darted into deeper shadows. This was no dream. A man moved. He held a long gun. A rifle?
My pulse rate be-bopped up the charts. I backed away from the window.
How could I wake Braden without creating a ruckus? I wanted to catch the prowler, not scare him off. Maybe we’d bag our murderer.
After pulling on running shorts and a tee, I tiptoed to his side of the bed and squeezed his shoulder. With my other hand, I pressed two fingers against his lips. He shot up like a geyser, his breathing staccato. I’d scared the crap out of him.
I whispered. “Someone’s outside. In back. By the window. I think he has a gun. A rifle, maybe.”
“I’ll go,” Braden whispered fiercely. “You stay here.”
“Fat chance.” Though it was too dark for meaningful glances, I was pretty sure the deputy was pissed.
“Come on, let’s do it,” I urged. “No time to waste arguing.”
Braden pulled on pants and grabbed his gun from the holster draped over a rocking chair. I retrieved mine from a dresser drawer. We both slipped on shoes and stole from the room.
I cursed the squeaking floorboards I’d pledged to fix many moons ago. To surprise our backyard intruder, we snuck out the front door and down the three steps from porch to lawn. Braden motioned me to follow him to the right. I resolutely shook my head “no” and pointed left. Making a Yellow Pages walking fingers motion, I signaled my intent. My partner wasn’t a happy camper.
I’d barely cleared the front corner of the house when my foot landed on a palm frond. I froze, certain the crackle of a tinder-dry frond could be heard for blocks. I listened for fleeing footsteps, a curse or a shot. Silence. Even the tree frogs had stilled their chorus.
The absence of bushes on this side of the property provided a clear view. No one lurked near my path. I uttered a silent prayer, crouched low and scuttled forward, hugging shadows cast by the house. I peered around the corner. Silhouettes. Plural. Crap.
There were two of them. Only one carried a gun. I inched forward. Since no one ever called me Dead Eye Dick, I needed to creep mighty close to nail anyone. And I needed to make damn sure no stray bullet flew in Braden’s direction.
My fear decreased as my anger surged. I was ninety-nine percent sure I knew the identity of the culprits. When I got within fifteen paces, I yelled, “Drop it. I have a gun, and I’ll shoot if you don’t put yours on the ground this instant.”
Boys, not men. They reeked of alcohol. Their lack of sobriety probably explained their bumbling lethargy. No telling how long the
Cuthbert twins had been dithering about.
“I’ve got you covered,” Braden yelled from a nearby vantage point. “Don’t be stupid.”
Jared flung his rifle to the ground, as I was certain he would. Braden rushed to retrieve it.
“For Christ’s sake,” he yelled at me. “You didn’t wait for me to get in position. Are you trying to get killed?”
Ignoring his ire, I turned mine on the twins. “As soon as I got a good look—and a whiff of you two—I knew I was dealing with inebriated dumbbells. Introduce yourself, boys,” I ordered as I began patting down the twins.
Hands held high, the teens started to whine.
“Hey, man. No guns,” Henry said, his speech a sibilant slur. “Ours wuz just a pop gun.”
“Yeah, we only wanted to scare you a little,” Jared added. “You really spoiled things the other night. We owed you.”
I turned toward Braden and holstered my weapon. “Meet Dork Number One—Henry Cuthbert—and Dork Number Two—brother Jared. Let’s take this discussion inside.”
TWELVE
I made a pot of Ajax-strength coffee and dealt mugs to all players. Some do-gooder would probably haul me up on charges for over-caffeinating minors. I wanted the boys a lot less pie-eyed. Interviewing drunks is seldom enlightening. Either they’re laughing like lunatics or they’re so wiped drool snakes down their chins as they stare into space.
Braden and I didn’t bother with a good-cop, bad-cop routine. Neither of us was in the mood to play the good guy.
“How’d you get out of your house?” I asked. “Tie Hugh to a chair?”
“He’d probably like that,” Henry snickered. “Wouldn’t give that kinky mother the satisfaction. You oughta see his porn collection.”
When Braden replied, his tone was pure drill sergeant. “Cut the crap. No elaboration. No f-words. No attitude. Just answer the questions, and make it snappy. I just met the two of you, and you already turn my stomach.”
Jared’s eyes went wide. Then the sneer returned. “Hey, you’re a cop. We know our rights. I demand a lawyer. You aren’t messing with some lame-brain lowlifes, you know.”
Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) Page 13
