by Sandra Brown
“I’m glad to make them available to you now.”
Wes’s shoulders relaxed. “Are they ready to go?”
William nodded. “Before I bought them, I had a mechanic check them out. They’re in showroom condition. The keys for them are at my house. We can pick them up on our way to the garage. While I’m changing clothes, Marilee can make coffee for us to take along.”
“You’re not going.”
Wes kicked Dutch’s leg beneath the bar to prevent him from saying anything more. He flashed his best smile at William. “We wouldn’t even have the nerve to ask that of you. It’s going to be a miserably cold trip. Besides . . .” He glanced at Dutch and gave a sympathetic wince, then lowered his voice and said to William, “We’re not sure what we’ll find when we get up there.”
“Of course. There’s that.” William gave Dutch a smile that even a blind man couldn’t mistake for sincere. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Yeah. Thanks. But Wes is right. We won’t know what we’ll be walking into until we get up there. We must assume that this Tierney character is armed and dangerous. I can’t ask you to share the risk.”
“You didn’t ask. I volunteered.”
“I realize that, but—”
“I know the road, Dutch. Better than you. Better than anyone. I drive it several times a week and have since I learned to drive.”
“All the same—”
“They’re my snowmobiles.”
The statement was a threat. Veiled, but a threat nonetheless. Wes could all but feel Dutch’s hackles rise. “That’s true, but I could impound them for taking up space in a garage paid for by taxpayers.”
“I have permission.”
“Not from me,” Wes said. Arguing hadn’t worked with the little bugger. Maybe two strong arms of authority would. “I’ll ask Dutch to impound your snowmobiles.”
“The school board said I could keep them there indefinitely.”
“I have more authority than the school board. They do what I tell them to.”
William shifted his angry gaze from Wes to Dutch. He stewed for as long as thirty seconds. Wes gave him the glare he gave to the running back who’d fumbled on the five-yard line. Dutch’s expression was similarly daunting.
Finally he said, “You give me no choice.”
Dutch came off his stool. “We’ll follow you to your house.”
William turned off the flame beneath the pan of water, which had almost boiled dry. “I’ll ask Marilee to make coffee. It’ll be better than this.”
“No need to get Marilee up,” Wes said.
“I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Dutch and Wes went out and climbed into the Bronco. Wes grinned. “Congratulations, Chief. You’ve got your snowmobiles.”
They watched William Ritt get into his car and back it out of the slot. Dutch followed him down Main Street. Thumping the steering wheel with his gloved fist, he growled, “After all this rigamarole, I had better get my crack at Tierney.”
“That’s the plan.”
“I want him to bleed, Wes.”
“I hear you. If he’s been boinking Lilly—”
“What?”
Wes looked over at Dutch with misapprehension. “What?”
Dutch said, “I’m worried he’s killed her.”
Wes moved his mouth, but for a moment no words came out. “Well, sure, Dutch. Naturally that’s what we’re all worried about.”
“Do you think they—”
“Look, I don’t know. All I’m saying is that anything you do to him, it’ll be justified for whatever he did to or with Lilly.”
Dutch squeezed the steering wheel. “I want him to bleed.”
CHAPTER
28
I DON’T WANT TO SLEEP.
As though Lilly’s simple statement had snipped a thread holding Tierney in check, he moved. Somehow the blanket separating them was cast aside and he was on her, his mouth fastened to hers even before his arm went around her, before his other hand slid up into her hair.
His tongue was strong and bold, delicious with the taste of him. It was a potent kiss that freed her memory of ever having kissed anyone else. The sexiness of it was intoxicating, making her feel as if her bones were melting.
He raised his head and looked into her eyes. She met his gaze without fear or misgiving. Never breaking eye contact, he reached between their bodies and unfastened her slacks, worked his hand inside. Her panties were damp with wanting him. He lowered his head and flicked his tongue against her parted lips. Through them her breath was coming hot and rapid.
He slid his hand inside the silk and fit his palm over her mons. His fingers tapered into her cleft. And then he just held her like that. While they kissed. Nothing more. Only their tongues sliding against each other as though mating, while her sex pulsed inside the warm security of his hand.
Maybe he took his cue from the subtle arching of her back that pressed her more tightly against his palm. Or from the moan of heightened arousal that vibrated through her throat. Or maybe his own desire caused him to wedge his knee between hers, separating them. He levered himself up on one arm so he could get to his belt. He unbuckled it, unbuttoned his jeans, while she slipped out of her slacks and underpants.
Then in a single movement as supple as a ballet, he relaxed his arm, lowered himself onto her, pushed into her, sheathed himself with her. She made an inarticulate sound of pleasure that he echoed, and then they were quiet except for their heartbeats. Their breath mingled to create clouds of vapor above their heads.
After a time, he began to move. At first it was no more than a slow rocking, his hips against hers. But then he drew out further, pushed higher. The tempo increased gradually but steadily, until with a low growl, he suddenly stopped. She slid her hands past his waist, splayed them over the cheeks of his butt, and pulled him deeper into her.
He groaned, buried his face in her neck, and came.
When the crisis passed, he relaxed. Totally. She absorbed all his body weight. But only briefly. He gave himself scarce moments to recover before levering himself up several degrees.
Watching her expression with fierce intensity, he slowly reached behind him and slid his hand along her thigh until he reached her knee. Folding his hand around it, he guided it back until it was even with his shoulder, resting on her chest. He did likewise with the other knee. Her sex flowered open, exposing the tender center of it. He slid his hand between their bellies, into the damp where they were connected. The pad of his thumb found what it sought. His touch was delicate, but a jolt of sensation shot through her.
She almost sobbed as his thumb tantalized her with small, slippery circles. He lowered his head to her chest, raked his teeth across her nipple so she would feel the caress through all the layers of clothing. Ever so slightly he increased the pressure of his thumb.
The pleasure built and built until every nerve ending in her body buzzed and tingled, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Her nipples strained to the point of near pain. A scream was trapped inside her throat as it arched high against his waiting lips. The walls of her body milked his penis, still buried deep inside her, ample even in its softness.
The aftershocks of the orgasm continued for several minutes. When finally they ceased, Tierney kissed her lips lightly and gathered her beneath him.
Neither made a move toward disengaging themselves.
Not a word had passed between them.
They hadn’t even disturbed the blankets covering them . . .
• • •
Lilly came awake with the memory of last night intact, every detail having replayed in her mind even while she slept. Her body felt languid and heavy, chafed by lust, drowsy with satiation. Tierney was curved around her, the fronts of his thighs aligned with the undersides of hers, her bottom snugly tucked into the concave warmth of his lap.
When she tried to move, he grumbled a protest and gently tightened his arm across her waist.
“Bathroom
,” she whispered.
“Hurry back.”
“Save my place.” As she slid away from him, she glanced over her shoulder. His eyes were closed, but there was a smile on his lips.
In the fireplace, only a few live coals were glowing beneath a deep layer of ash. The room was frigid. She pulled on her coat as she tiptoed to the bedroom door. The hinges squeaked when she pushed open the door; she halted, looked over her shoulder. But Tierney had gone back to sleep. His even breathing continued uninterrupted.
She hoped he would sleep for several more hours to make up for yesterday’s exhaustion. His body needed rest in order to heal.
The bathroom was impossibly cold. She finished her business quickly and returned to the living room. Tierney still slept. As quietly as possible, she placed the two remaining logs on the grate and stirred the smoldering coals beneath, adding a few splinters of kindling to spark flames.
Soon they would need more wood. She debated only a moment before going in search of her scattered clothing. She found her underpants and slacks beneath the covers, pushed to the foot of the mattress. The rest lay scattered across the floor or on pieces of furniture where they’d been tossed.
When she had assembled the articles, she dressed hurriedly. Her boots had dried. The leather was stiff but no longer cold and damp. She put on her gloves and wound Tierney’s scarf around her throat.
The last thing she did was use her inhalers.
When she stepped out onto the porch, she immediately noticed that the clouds had cleared. Although the sun was well below the mountain peak, the eastern horizon was a golden pink color. Overhead the sky was spattered with stars, still visible against the deep indigo blue. Gauzy clouds scuttled above the peak, carried by a wind strong enough to bend the treetops and toss about branches.
Despite the wind, the day held the promise of rescue.
Nevertheless, they must prepare as though help would be unable to reach them today. The logs in the stack of firewood on the porch were thick. Without being split, they would be slow to catch fire. Tierney had managed to split smaller ones with the hatchet, but it would be useless against the wood that remained.
She looked across the clearing in the direction of the toolshed. It hadn’t snowed that heavily since Tierney’s return late yesterday afternoon, so the path he had cleaved was still discernible.
She’d used her inhalers. It wouldn’t take her but a few minutes to walk to the shed and back. Despite his insistence that the ax wasn’t in the toolbox, she knew it was. He’d just overlooked it.
She wasn’t foolish enough to try to split the logs herself. She’d save that chore for him. He wouldn’t be pleased with her for fetching the ax, but after he’d saved her life, the least she could do was spare him this one task. The fresh air felt good, even if she had to breathe it through Tierney’s scarf. She also welcomed the chance to stretch her legs after being cooped up for the better part of two days.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she went down the steps and started along the narrow path that Tierney had made through the snow.
Tierney. Strange she had never called him Ben. Even that day on the river, she’d used his first name only once, and then he had corrected her. “Everybody calls me Tierney.” It suited him.
Stirred by the memory of how many times she’d spoken his name last night in passion, she hugged her coat about her and buried her smile deeper inside his scarf. His scent seemed to have been woven into the wool fibers. She relished it.
Happier than she’d been in a very long time, she crossed the clearing without mishap.
And then she entered the woods.
• • •
William Ritt led Dutch and Wes from his carport to the back door of his house, then through the kitchen into the living room.
“There are still some live coals. I’ll have a fire going soon.” He crouched in front of the grate and went to work.
Dutch was wild with impatience. Every minute he spent idling in neutral worked to Begley’s advantage. He didn’t need a fire. He didn’t want a fire because of the time it would take to build one.
Still, he was hesitant to bully William to the point where he would defy Dutch’s threat of impounding the snowmobiles and withdraw his offer of their use. So he stood by and watched as William added logs to the grate and stirred the coals.
Before it slipped his mind, Dutch took a two-way radio transmitter from one of the zippered pockets of his ski suit. He nudged Wes and pressed it into his hand. “In case we get separated up there. Remember how to use it?”
Wes nodded. “Press the button to talk, release to listen.”
“Right. It’s good for up to seven miles.”
The logs had caught. William stood. “There, that’s better. I’ll get Marilee up to make some coffee.”
“We really don’t have time,” Dutch said. “Just give us those keys and we’ll be on our way.”
“It won’t take but a few minutes. She’ll fill a thermos for you to take along.” He motioned them closer to the fire. “Make yourselves at home.”
“Really,” Wes said, “I hate for you to disturb Marilee on our account.”
“She won’t care,” he said and started down the hallway.
Dutch, figuring he might just as well take advantage of the warmth while he could, approached the fireplace and extended his hands toward the flames. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw William approaching a door midway down the hall.
Even if Dutch didn’t have a deadline, he would still be against waking up Marilee. That would be an additional person who knew his and Wes’s plan, and the more people who knew about it, the better the odds were of having it screwed up.
Too late now.
William tapped twice on the bedroom door before pushing it open. Then he just stood there, arms at his sides, staring. Why was he standing there staring into his sister’s bedroom, acting weird even for William Ritt? Dutch wondered.
Unless what William was staring at had rendered him unable to move, unable even to react.
Dutch’s cop instincts kicked in. He spoke William’s name with a question mark behind it, but already he was moving down the hallway. He wouldn’t be surprised to see blood spatters on the walls and a dismembered body.
“What the hell’s going on?” asked Wes, who also must have noticed William’s strange behavior and was following close on Dutch’s heels.
In the few short seconds it took to reach the bedroom, Dutch’s adrenaline was pumping in cop mode. Mindful not to rush into the room and destroy or compromise crime evidence, he drew up short at the doorway and pushed William out of his way.
There were no blood spatters. Marilee had not been dismembered. She was sitting bolt upright in bed, covers drawn to her chin, staring at him, shocked speechless by the intrusion.
Beside her in bed, equally shocked, was Scott Hamer.
“Oh, shit.” Dutch spun around, hoping to block Wes from getting any closer, but he was already there.
He shoved Dutch into the room, then stood with his hands braced against the doorjamb as though he needed them for support. “What the hell is this?” he boomed.
“Wes.” Dutch reached out to lay a cautionary hand on him, but Wes knocked it aside as he angrily lumbered toward the bed.
Scott threw off the covers and scrambled out of bed. He was buck naked. But far from ashamed. He faced his father belligerently. “It’s exactly what it looks like. Dad.” He attached the name like an epithet.
Dutch guessed that Wes was furious as much over Scott’s defiant attitude as over catching him with his pants down. But it was to Marilee that he directed his furious glare. “You couldn’t get a man, you pathetic old cunt.”
Scott sprang forward and rammed into Wes like a linebacker, driving his head into his father’s belly and propelling him back several feet. He crashed into an old-time cheval glass. Wood splintered, and the mirror shattered into a thousand shards. That didn’t stop Scott. He was pummeling Wes with his fists
and yelling how dare he talk to Marilee like that?
Dutch could see that both of them would be sliced to ribbons by broken glass if he didn’t intervene. Glass crunching under his boots, he grabbed Scott around the waist from behind and hauled him off Wes, who was winded and panting.
Dutch slung Scott toward the other side of the room. “Simmer down and put your clothes on, Scott. Wes.” With his head, he motioned him toward the door. Wes shot one murderous look toward Marilee, then stepped into the hall. Dutch followed, pulling the door closed behind him.
Wes paced the hallway like a caged lion. Dutch turned to William, ready with a suggestion that they return to the living room to await an explanation when he realized that William didn’t need an explanation. He was wearing a self-satisfied smirk. And suddenly it all made sense to Dutch. William’s insistence they come to the house and wake up Marilee, that had been a ploy. He’d staged this scene. “You son of a bitch. You knew.”
William didn’t even try to hide it. “My sister is a noisy lover. To say nothing of Scott.”
Marilee stepped out of the bedroom, remarkably composed, wrapped in a robe, her hair pulled back in its customary ponytail. “Scott has left,” she said. “He’s extremely upset.”
Wes bore down on her. “He’s upset? He’s upset?”
“Yes, and he is my only concern.”
“Well, you’d better be concerned about future employment. Your teaching career is over.”
“I realize that, Wes, so you can stop yelling at me. I’m not afraid of you. Nothing you threaten me with will hurt or matter.”
“How many other boys have you taken to bed?”
“Scott is not a boy.”
“Don’t smart-ass me. You should be begging my forgiveness.”
“For sleeping with Scott?”
“For fucking him.”
“How is that worse than giving him steroids?”
Dutch reacted with a start. He shot Wes a look of dismay, but Wes didn’t see it. He was so angry, he was shaking. At his sides, he was clenching and flexing his fingers as though preparing to wrap them around Marilee’s throat.
