Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  A shudder rips through me, and I barely bite back a groan as he slides my other strap down, then pushes my dress over my hips. We’re in the kitchen and I’m naked except for a bra and panties, but the blinds are closed and I couldn’t care less.

  It’s been too long, we’ve waited forever, and the bedroom seems really far away.

  I fumble with the buttons on his shirt as his mouth captures mine again, kissing me until my head spins and fog obscures any rational thought.

  There’s nothing but an expanse of chiseled muscle under his shirt. Planes of pecs, abs, and shoulders blend together, threatening to overwhelm me with lust. The way he moves, breaking off our kiss so that he can stand, then pushing me backward toward the waist-high kitchen table, says I’m not alone in my growing desperation.

  I slide onto the table, scooting a little ways and dragging Beau between my knees by his belt, which then goes the way of the rest of our clothes. His fingers unclasp my bra as I work on his button and zipper, then drop his pants on the floor.

  Our eyes meet, both of us nearly naked, and I drown in the reverent desire burning in his gaze.

  He pauses, reaching out to touch the hair tumbling loose from my bun. “You are beautiful, Graciela.”

  I drink in his sweet face, his hard body, including the swell in his red boxer briefs, then offer him a wicked smile. “So are you, Mr. Mayor.”

  He groans as I reach out to squeeze him, and the tenderness evaporates, which had been my plan. Beau makes me care, and I’m not sure yet how I feel about that. Right now, I’d rather follow the animal instincts driving us both and think about my feelings some other time.

  “Hold on one second, gorgeous.” Beau grunts, bending to his pants and digging a condom out of the pocket. He straightens up and tosses it on the table, then precedes to drive me crazy with hands that are suddenly everywhere.

  I let him lay me down on the table, my back arching as he sucks a nipple between his lips. Beau doesn’t let up until I’m squirming, soaked with desire, and I let go of him long enough to push his underwear out of the way.

  His fingers hook my panties and slip them over my hips, calves, and past my feet before coming back to make sure that his ministrations have me ready—though I don’t see how he could have doubted it—before the blessed sound of a crinkling condom wrapper meets my ears.

  Our lips fasten together, his elbows and forearms resting on either side of my head. He feels so good as he slides inside me that I want to cry, and my eyes take in his rugged face as we find a rhythm here as easily as we’ve found it in every other aspect of our relationship.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, and it’s been even longer since I felt both sexy and cherished at once, so I let go of all of the thoughts and worries trying to encroach on my pleasure and hook my arms around his neck and let him make me feel good.

  Let him make me happy.

  “I’m going to have to sanitize that table before I have the guys over for poker this week,” Beau comments, fingers trailing lazily up and down my arm.

  We moved to the bedroom after he asked me in an adorable, fumbling way whether I would please consider spending the night. It’s inappropriate, maybe, given his status as mayor, but I’ve never been the type to care what other people really think. Nothing will stop the likes of Mrs. Walters from gossiping, anyway.

  “I hope you think about what we just did during the whole game.”

  He chuckles, the rumble transferring from his chest to my cheek that’s pressed against it. “I doubt I’ll ever sit at that table and not think about it again.”

  The sex was good, but also disconcerting because I liked it a little bit too much. I like Beau a little too much, along with the life that he represents in Heron Creek. I’ve had enough of future plans and wanting—needing—my life to meet some kind of archaic standard of marriage and kids and settling down. I left those dreams behind when David cheated, when I finally had the push I needed to walk away from our engagement, which, in hindsight, had been a terrible idea in the first place.

  But Beau makes me wonder if those are things I could still want. If those are things I could find a way to have without losing sight of myself again.

  Stop overthinking, Gracie. You’re naked in a warm bed with a handsome man who treats you like you’re just about the best thing since sliced bread. Enjoy.

  Easier said than done, but I have to try. At least spending the night with Beau means no frustrated old man ghost or demanding Glinda spirit. They don’t seem to trust him. Lucky bastard.

  “Now that we’ve taken this next step in our courtship, I need to ask you something.” He says the word courtship as though it’s perfectly natural in a world where Jane Austen has been dead for two hundred years. It makes me smile, even as my guard immediately goes up at the rest of the sentence.

  “Ask away, Mr. Mayor,” I reply, easing back in order to tip my head enough to see him.

  His expression turns serious, his gaze fastened to my face as though he’s trying to memorize every line. “Please don’t go out into those woods alone again. It was fortunate that Will was there to help, and I don’t like the fact that those men know who you are and how to find you. Don’t make it easier for them.”

  “The sex must have been okay if you don’t want me to get kidnapped by moonshiners.”

  “The sex was better than okay, or good, or any other mediocre term. But I’ve had a preference for you not getting kidnapped since the day we met.”

  I let my teasing facade drop, knowing there’s no point in keeping it up while he’s being so serious, and he’s right, anyway. The thought that Clete and his cronies can find me any time they’d like has tickled my fear—and my conscience—more than once since Thursday. I have to start thinking for three, since Millie and the baby are living under the same roof as me, and leading criminals and murderers to their door is irresponsible to say the least.

  “I have no plans to confront them again, Beau. I just wish there was another way to figure out what Glinda wanted me to find at the cabin.” Even this conversation can’t totally smother my afterglow. But it’s trying.

  The idea that even if I do make Glinda happy enough to move on, and then figure out what the mystery historical man wants, the ghosts might not stop coming almost kills the mood, but I remember my grandmother’s saying and stop borrowing trouble.

  “Hm.”

  “What?” I ask, rubbing my fingers across the soft hair on his chest.

  “Well, my friend Jasper is the sheriff in Berkeley County. He might be willing to escort you out to Glinda’s property, though if you want to keep your secret about the ghosts we’ll need to figure out what to tell him instead.” He jerks away from my finger when I jab him in the side. “Hey, you’re the one insisting on keeping your talent a secret. You could open up a Heron Creek ghost tour, really rake in the cash.”

  “Funny.”

  “Seriously, Gracie. Think about trusting people a little more.”

  I think about it for five to ten seconds, then conclude that’s a decision for another day.

  “How do you know this Jasper character?” I wrinkle my nose. “And why is his name Jasper?”

  “It’s a good Southern name that I’m told was appropriated by some woman who wrote a vampire novel.”

  I snort. “Oh, you heard there’s a character in Twilight named Jasper. Suuuure.”

  “You actually might have seen him at my party,” he continues, ignoring my insinuation that he’s read Twilight. No judgment; that’s some addictive shit. “He was there while Ms. Massie was acting like a foolish, money-grabbing old biddy, but I didn’t have a chance to introduce you.”

  “Oh, fantastic. Then he already thinks I belong in the loony bin and not running around the streets. Or the hills.”

  “I’m just saying I can call him if you want, let him know you’d like to talk to him about Glinda. Maybe Boone can put you in touch with the granddaughter and she can give you some insight or something.”
He slips a hand under the sheets and covers my breast with his palm, his thumb and forefinger making me nearly forget that we were having a conversation at all. “But I have other plans for us at the moment, Graciela Harper.”

  I sigh and melt into him, tipping my head back to give him access to my mouth. For the next hour I forget about ghosts and granddaughters and Beau’s friends who may think he’s wasting his time with me.

  It will all be there in the morning. So will Beau.

  Sooner or later, I’m going to have to figure out how I feel about that.

  Chapter Ten

  My head stays in the clouds while I get ready for work the next morning. Amelia and I spend most of the day discussing Beau’s finer points and researching local history instead of working, which is fine since we have three patrons the entire day—one of whom is mean ol’ Mrs. Walters. There’s a strong-to-certain chance she’s here just to eavesdrop. Millie and I have taken to talking about drinking and reality television and any other “inappropriate” topic of conversation for ladies whenever she pokes her curly blue hair through the door. It could use a wash and a perm, which brings to mind the question of who is going to take over the arduous task of mutilating the hair of Heron Creek following Glinda’s untimely demise. There’s a barbershop in town, which gives the men at least a chance at decent haircuts, but the ladies are left high and dry.

  A fact that probably gives them more relief than sorrow.

  “You girls need to shape up, and you also need to hire a gardener to do something about those peonies. It looks like they’re trying to eat the side of your house, and maybe mine too,” she snaps on her way out the door at closing time. “Your grandparents must be rollin’ over in their graves, having ta look at that mess.”

  “Amelia’s in charge of the gardening, Mrs. Walters. I’m in charge of the weirdness.”

  “Don’t you get cheeky with me, girl. Even if you’ve got the wool pulled over the mayor’s eyes now, he’s like to see the wild thing we all know’s inside soon enough. Then where will you be?”

  I don’t answer, thinking that I’ll be exactly where I am now except single, and there are worse things. She shuffles off with a huff before I can come up with a response that’s appropriate but not heart-attack inducing, and Millie snorts as we lock the door and set off toward home.

  “That woman is about as unpleasant as they come. Wonder what Saint Peter’s going to have in his little book about her when she heads that way?”

  “Well, she goes to church every Sunday, Amelia. I’m sure that’s all Jesus said the God-fearin’ folks have to do to get into heaven. I’m remembering that right, aren’t I?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s been a while.” There’s the slightest bit of regret behind the guilt in her voice. Amelia’s always been the good everything—the good daughter, the good Christian, the good wife—but she hasn’t been to church once since moving back to Heron Creek, or even said anything about it. There are several things that let me know my cousin is not back to her former self, like the way she’s quiet and unsure, and religion is just one more. They all make me worry.

  “So, are you going to be staying at home tonight?” She asks the question like my college roommate used to, with a wicked intonation that makes me feel delightfully wanton.

  In this case, it also makes me sad, because as much as I’d loved living with Sumer, my cousin and I had planned for years to go to the same school and live together. I’d been the one to break that contract, though, not her, and I can’t help wondering if I could have stopped her from dating stupid Jake from the beginning, had I been there.

  But then that little baby boy wouldn’t be baking.

  Life is complicated.

  “I think so, yes. Beau has a poker game, and I’ve been missing hanging out with you since you were in Charleston last weekend. Maybe we can order a pizza and watch a baseball game.” My throat constricts at the suggestion, even though it came out of my mouth. Still, if I have to watch the Braves play ball without Gramps in the chair beside the couch, there’s no one I’d rather do it with than Millie.

  The sad smile on her lips tells me she’s thinking along the same lines. “That sounds nice.”

  We pass the rest of the walk in companionable silence. It’s pleasant enough even though I’m reduced to little more than sweat and body odor by the time we turn the corner onto the street where we grew up. The sight of Clete lounging on our front porch in a pair of cutoff jean shorts, a tank top, and a ragged baseball cap turns the perspiration to ice on my skin. It freezes me in my tracks, but it takes Millie five seconds or so to realize we have company.

  “Who’s that?” she asks, then, realizing I’m not right behind her, turns back.

  I’m guessing the look on my face lets her know it’s not a stranger and that I’m less than thrilled about his visit. That, coupled with his general appearance, lets her conclude he’s one of the mountain men.

  She waits for my feet to start working again, and we approach the porch side by side. I’m alternately happy to have her with me and horrified that I’ve put my pregnant cousin in such a precarious situation. Her hand finds mine, and even though it probably makes us look like a couple of twelve-year-old girls finding the courage to check the closet during a sleepover, I don’t pull away.

  Clete stands up when we hit the end of the driveway. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, his hawklike eyes taking in every movement. The sweet smell of tobacco and cloves surround us for the last five feet, and we stop just short of the stoop. The fact that he’s up on our porch and we’re down here, blocked, smacks of a power maneuver and makes me rethink the assumption that because Clete lives in the woods and makes moonshine for a living he’s automatically stupid. In fact, he seems pretty damn sharp to me. I guess running any sort of business takes smarts, and maybe getting away with running an illegal one takes more than the average bear’s.

  “Miss Harper,” he says, mocking me with a tip of his hat like he’s Rhett Butler.

  “Clete,” I reply in a tone that leaves no doubt that I’m in no mood to play Scarlett O’Hara.

  I mean, I’m always into playing Scarlett O’Hara if the other option is Melanie, because seriously, that girl is a threadbare dishrag. Sometimes I wonder whether her mother named Mel after the character expecting a limp, demure, obedient girl who would marry well but got my firecracker of a friend instead. I also wonder whether she blames the failure on Mel’s friendship with me. It’s nice to think at least part of the credit lies in our summers together.

  I eye Clete. He looks as though he’s waiting for me to introduce Amelia, but I have no intention of doing any such thing. Most men are either afraid of or extra respectful of pregnant women, so I nod toward her barely showing belly.

  “She really needs to get off her feet before they swell up, so if you’d step aside.”

  “Be glad to, long as you stay out here a while and have a chat with me. My business is with you. For now.”

  The implied threat is so thinly veiled he might as well have spoken it aloud, and it nudges my caution aside to make room for indignation.

  “Grace, I can stay.”

  “Don’t you have to pee?” It’s a guess, but given recent statistics, there’s about a 102 percent chance the answer is yes.

  My cousin’s eyes cloud with irritation. She gives me a tight nod. “Fine. Yes. But I’ll be right inside.”

  She turns a hard look on Clete, one that’s full of promises that aren’t any less subtle than his threat a moment before. I think we’re all three more convinced of Clete’s ability to follow through, at least at the moment.

  Millie stomps up the steps, letting her shoulder bump the moonshiner’s, but the whole display seems to amuse him more than anything, judging by the small smile on his thin lips. She goes into the house and then stares at us through the glass on the right side of the door, but she gives up and leaves when I give her a wave.

  It relaxes the knot of tension stiffening my neck
the slightest bit to know she’s inside and that Clete won’t kill me in front of witnesses. At least until I realize that that means he just won’t leave anyone behind to tell the tale.

  When my gaze snaps back to his he’s grinding the cherry of his homemade, half-smoked cigarette out beneath his toe, adding to the smear left behind by the smooshy clump I keep sweeping away. It annoys me that he leaves his trash on our front porch, but at least he didn’t throw it in the pot of Millie’s baby hydrangea plant. That would have meant war for sure.

  “Well?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to look as though he doesn’t frighten me. He does, actually, but for some reason it’s a little bit hard to take him seriously. Maybe it’s the stereotype.

  Instead of answering right away, he bends his bony frame in half, settling on the smeared top step of the porch beckoning me to join him. He’s at my house, and obviously wants to have a discussion, so it seems pointless to argue such a small request.

  I sit on the step below, keeping as much distance between us as possible, and give him a wary look. It turns to curiosity as he reaches a spindly arm through the wrought iron railing and comes up with a mason jar full of clear liquid.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I ask, half horrified, have mesmerized.

  “If you’re thinking it’s damn fine moonshine then yes,” he comments, blowing what looks like road dust off the top and unscrewing the cap.

  I’ve never drank moonshine before, unless I count the fruity kind that comes from the nearby Firefly vodka distillery. I’m guessing that doesn’t count, and every warning about not taking drinks from strangers flashes in my mind like a neon sign.

  That has to go at least double for drinks made by said strangers, and triple if they live in the woods in South Carolina.

  He holds the jar out to me. I shake my head.

  Clete narrows his eyes, setting the jar down between us. “I came all the way out here to ask you one thing, Miss Harper, and if you answer me true I’ll be on my way. After we have a drink.”