Twilight Whispers

by Barbara Delinsky

  Katia could have taken his question many ways, but she chose to take it on its simplest level, as, she assumed, he had intended it. “No. You haven’t.”

  “So now, for the first time, I’m asking you to inconvenience yourself a little. After all we’ve been through is that too much to ask?”

  “Oh, Jordan,” she sighed, “if I only knew that it was urgent. You’ve already told me that you love me, and how you love me. Do you really have anything new to add?” Like what he was going to do about it, the nitwit.

  “Yes! Lots! But you’re not going to hear a thing unless you come up here tonight. And if you don’t come, if you let me down this one time when I’m begging for your help, I’ll get the message. So help me, Katia, I will.” With that he hung up the phone.

  * * *

  It was after eleven when the helicopter touched down on the beach. Katia climbed out, ran free of the eddy of wind produced by the whirling blades, then watched the craft rise into the air again and head back for the mainland. With its departure went the broad beam of light it had cast on the sand. She found herself in sudden darkness and rain.

  Shouldering her overnight case, she looked up toward the house. Its surprising darkness brought home the conflicting emotions she had experienced in the past few hours. She wasn’t sure she should have come; Jordan had manipulated her so often in recent months that she felt raw. As long as she had remained in New York it had been easy to hold him at arm’s length—well, not easy, never easy given what she felt for the man—but certainly easier than it would be now. But she had been frightened by the near panic in his voice, and even if he hadn’t put his request in a you-owe-me-one context, she would probably be standing here now. In the darkness. And the rain.

  Belatedly she wished she had worn a jacket, but it had been warm and dry in the city. She had a sweatshirt in her case, but it seemed pointless to dig it out now. Putting her head down against the torrent that had already soaked her hair and clothes, she started across the wet sand. She had gone no further than the boathouse, beyond and behind which were trees and then the open path leading to the house when she stopped.

  A dark figure stood in the rain, unprotected by the overhang of the boathouse.

  Jordan.

  For a minute they simply looked at one another. Then he came forward slowly, transferred the strap of her bag to his own shoulder, and, rain or no rain, as if he couldn’t help himself, he took her in his arms and held her close.

  “Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Katia felt her own arms slip around him. His body was chilled on the surface, but his inner warmth reached out to her as it always had. He was tired; she could feel it in the way his shoulders slumped over her, in the way his head sagged against hers. It occurred to her that he was simply feeling relief, though she suspected that it was a combination of the two, and she was glad she had come.

  “I was worried,” she murmured against his chest, just loud enough to be heard above rain battered surf. “You sounded awful.”

  “You’re here. I’m better.”

  “You’re soaked.”

  “So are you. Come on. Let’s go inside.” But rather than leading her up to the house, he took her hand and loped toward the nearest shelter, the boathouse. Once inside its broad opening he tugged down the garagelike door.

  Katia didn’t ask questions. Not yet. She wanted to see what Jordan planned to say and do. So she watched, arms wrapped around herself for warmth, while he lit a small hurricane lamp, then dragged cushions from a shelf, tossed them into the hull of one of the small sailboats, and reached for a pair of blankets. He wrapped one around her shoulders, did the same for himself, then helped her into the boat.

  Faint amusement lit her features. It was typically Jordan to avoid the main house and burrow instead under a blanket in the hull of a boat.

  “Warm enough?” he asked, nestling close beside her.

  “Um-hmm.”

  He nodded and looked off into the darkness, only to look back moments later. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Again he nodded. Beneath the blanket his clothes were soaked. He knew Katia’s were, too. “Would you rather go up to the house and change?”

  “No. This is fine.”

  The hurricane lamp cast a faint golden glow on her face. He studied it. “You’re not still angry?”

  “No. I guess I left that behind in New York.”

  “You had a right to be angry. I’ve been a bastard.”

  She said nothing.

  “It’s amazing,” he thought aloud as he gazed into the darkness again, “I’ve always prided myself on being on top of things. Knowing the score. But man, I’ve really blown it this time.” He blew out a breath of dismay. “I assumed things I shouldn’t have and reached conclusions I shouldn’t have, and now, when things should be coming together, they’re falling apart.”

  Instinctively Katia knew, as she had on the phone, that Jordan had a problem that went beyond their relationship. “What do you mean?”

  Katia’s mere presence had a soothing effect on him, enabling him to say what he had to with a remarkable degree of calm. “It looks like I may be indicted for Mark and Deborah’s murders.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the prime suspect.”

  “That’s absurd! Who said that?”

  “Cavanaugh. He’s a great guy, and I’m convinced he’s on my side, but the evidence he has points directly to me.”

  She turned toward him and clutched the ends of the blanket to her thudding heart. “What evidence?”

  As succinctly as possible he told her about the tape with its incriminating threat and about the motive that, with a stretch of the imagination, a jury might believe. He even told her about his alibi.

  “She didn’t mean a thing to me, Katia,” he said quickly. “I’d been with her two, maybe three times before that, and there was nothing to it but sex.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I haven’t been celibate either.” Her response had been given softly, but it didn’t hide the touch of hurt she felt. It wasn’t Jordan’s sex life that bothered her as much as the fact that he had never allowed himself to indulge in that luxury with her.

  He tugged the blanket closer around him and studied its fraying edge. “I am apologizing. It makes me sick to think of what I was doing at the time Mark died. If I’d been doing it with you it would have been different.”

  “But you weren’t. We don’t do that.”

  He looked at her with a return of the desperation he had expressed on the phone. “We haven’t. And now that I finally feel free to I’m facing the prospect of a trial and if I’m convicted a jail term. A lengthy jail term.”

  “Shh, Jordan,” she whispered, hearing only the last. All thought of personal hurt was gone. She touched the spot high on his cheek that always twitched when he was upset. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

  He covered her hand with his and pressed it closer. “I try not to, but it just won’t go away. I think of my entire life being cut off, just like that, and I begin to sweat and shake. Forget my business. Can you imagine what a trial, let alone a conviction, would do to my family? And the Warrens. How do you think they’ll feel if they think I was the one who killed Deborah?”

  “They’ll never think that. They’ll know it was a mistake, and they’ll do everything they can to correct it.” She shivered, realizing that she was thinking ahead, doing just what she had told Jordan not to do.

  Jordan caught her shiver. “Cold?”

  She shook her head. “Nervous.”

  “Come here.” He opened his blanket and within moments she was enclosed in it, resting snugly against his chest. “Better?” He knew it was for him. The world was still very dark, but not quite as ominous as it had seemed before.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “But I can’t take all this in.”

  He knew the feeling. “The proverbial nightmare you can’t wake up from.”

 
“It’s so incredible that it should be laughable, only it isn’t. Cavanaugh struck me as being so … reasonable.”

  “He is. I told you, he’s on my side. He’s doing his best to come up with an alternate suspect.”

  And if his best wasn’t enough? “Alternate suspect. It sounds like a game.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “On the other hand, maybe it is—in some warped guy’s brain. Someone committed murder, and whether the murderer intended it or not, I’m about to take the fall. Cavanaugh and I discussed the possibility that I’m being framed, but we haven’t any more idea of who could be doing it or why than we have of who could have been vicious enough to take two innocent lives in the first place.”

  “You do trust Cavanaugh?”

  “I haven’t any choice. He’s the least of the evils. From what he’s intimated, his boss is the toughie.”

  “Who’s his boss?”

  “A guy named John Ryan. Chief of detectives.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “I know that he’s a career man who worked his way steadily up in the ranks, that he’s as parochial as they come, and that he’d like to nail me to the wall.”

  “It can’t be personal.”

  “Maybe not, but he wants a suspect brought in and brought in fast. He’s given Cavanaugh a week. After that you’ll be seeing my mug shot splashed over every paper in the country.”

  “Oh, God, Jordan, they couldn’t—”

  “They could and they would,” he answered with a spurt of anger. “They’re not concerned about the damage a simple indictment can do. Even if the charges are dropped before it gets to the point of a trial, the harm will have been done. Personally and professionally. And if I’m tried and acquitted, can you imagine what would happen? I’d walk down a street and people would stare at the murderer who got off thanks to some fancy attorney.” He threw back his head and let out a throaty growl. “I feel so frustrated!”

  She squeezed him with the arm that circled his waist, then moved her hand higher to rub his back. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “No.” His was the voice of despair. “That’s the worst part. From the time I went off to college I knew I wanted to be my own man. When I graduated and went to work I thought: You’ve got it all in your hands, Jordan, my man. You can do what you want. You’re calling the shots.” He grunted. “But I’m not any more and it’s driving me insane.” He paused, lightly caressing her elbow, and spoke in a very quiet voice. “Maybe I’ve been deluding myself. In some things I’ve never called the shots.”

  “What things?” she asked, but she knew what was coming. She had felt his small caress and was increasingly aware of the nearness of his body.

  “I’ve been such a fool, Katia.”

  Her silence was an effective prod toward explanation, but Jordan wasn’t sure exactly where to start. After several moments of internal debate he went with what he thought would be the simplest and most straightforward. “I know this is going to sound stupid,” he said, the words racing out, “but for years now I’ve actually thought you were my sister.”

  With a hand flattened on his chest, she levered herself so that she could see his face. “Your sister?”

  “Half-sister, actually.”

  “Sister … half-sister … that’s ridiculous, Jordan!”

  “You’re laughing at me,” he said more gruffly, because he hadn’t missed the small smile that had broken through her astonishment. “It’s not funny. I’ve been in agony. I wanted to love you when you were nineteen years old—no, even before that—but I was afraid. I honestly thought … we were related.”

  Katia did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. When he growled in embarrassment, she put soft fingers against his lips. “I’m not laughing at you—well, maybe a little.” In truth her laugh was more one of relief, even exhilaration. He had given her the missing piece to the puzzle she had agonized over for years. She would have jumped up and shouted in jubilation had the urge to hold Jordan not been as great. She slid her hand around to knead the back of his neck. “How could you have thought that?”

  This was the part he didn’t want to go into. So he waffled. “I don’t know. Maybe because you were with us so much. Maybe because you were so young at the time and I seemed so old. Maybe because I was just plain dumb.”

  “I’ll second the last,” she said, still grinning.

  But Jordan was dead sober. “What do you feel, Katia? For me.”

  “You know.”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I’ve always loved you.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God,” he said, hugging her, “Oh, God, I’m glad.”

  Katia could have told him she loved him again and again, but she was too busy enjoying the full force of his hug. When he lowered his head and kissed her, she was with him all the way. At first there was a desperation to the kiss, coming as it had on the heels of that more sobering discussion. But desperation inevitably fell victim to the overpowering and highly emotional attraction between them, which was now enhanced by their declared love.

  There was a freedom to their mouths and tongues that had never quite been there before, and that made the kiss all the sweeter. And slower. What started with greed and hunger gradually eased into awe-filled exploration.

  “Right about now,” Jordan murmured somewhat dazedly, “I was always thinking that I ought to stop, only I couldn’t, so I gave myself another couple of minutes. I’d kiss you again.” He put his words into action, then after a bit went on, “But it would never be enough. I wanted to touch you and hold you like a man holds a woman, so I’d give myself another couple of minutes.…”

  His voice trailed off. In the dim glow of the lamp, his eyes caught hers and held them while he worked his way between the blankets until he reached her blouse. His hands were unsteady and the sodden fabric fought him, so it was awhile before the last of the buttons squeaked through their holes. But the wait was worth it, for both of them. Jordan carefully eased the wet cloth aside and rested appreciative eyes on her breasts, while Katia felt her flesh swelling into his view.

  “Right about now,” he want on hoarsely, “I’d be thinking, you’ve got to stop, my man. You’re treading on dangerous ground. But I wouldn’t be able to stop, because more than anything I wanted to take off your bra and see you and feel you.”

  His eyes rose to hers, asking permission. Rather than give it, Katia released the front closure of the bra herself and drew the lacy cups away. Instinctively, because everything inside her was starting to stir, she arched her back. It was an invitation that Jordan accepted with a low moan.

  His hands were gentle, worshiping her as though it were the first time he had touched anything as beautiful. His long fingers covered her, outlining her shape and fullness. She was unaware of the chill in the air; she had begun to smolder from the inside out. An arc of fire seared her when he touched her taut nipples, and she cried out at the near painful sensation.

  Then she bit her lip, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Right about now, I’d be thinking that if I didn’t touch you myself I’d die.” Fingers eager, she pulled the bottom of his turtleneck from his pants and pushed the jersey fabric only high enough to allow her hands access to his chest. She loved the hardness of his muscles, the faint abrasion of the dark swirls of hair against her palms. No man she had ever known was quite like Jordan this way, with an outer strength that masked an inner warmth that, in turn, positively captivated her.

  She bent to kiss his chest at the same time that he bent toward her breasts, and their heads knocked. Laughing, Jordan simply drew her against him. His eyes closed, he drew in a quivering breath. He moved her around, rolling her breasts against him. “Do you remember when we were on the Vineyard and I did this?”

  “I remember.” She was having trouble breathing. Everything in her system was going haywire.

  “You
were half zonked—”

  “So were you—”

  “But I felt everything, and I thought I was going to make a complete fool of myself by coming there and then I was so hard.”

  “Jordan, Jordan,” she whispered against his throat. “I want to touch you. I’ve always wanted to, and only once you let me, and after that everything hurt, but I couldn’t forget how you felt.”

  “I was so close … and sinful, I thought.…”

  Her hands were already inching their way down his sides. “Let me do it now … unless.…” Too clearly she remembered the times he had caught her hand and pulled it away.

  But this time when he caught her hand he pressed it to his stomach while with his free hand he unsnapped his jeans. He struggled with the wet zipper, and swore softly when he had to release her to complete the task. The instant the zipper was lowered he brought her hand to him, urging it under the band of his briefs, then moaning when she took him in her grasp. He remembered that day, too, up on the little beach grass throne, only now it was so much better because he knew it was right.

  Soft gasps mingled with the pounding of rain on the roof, Katia breathing as raggedly as Jordan. She caressed him; he caressed her back. He bared more skin, both hers and his, savoring each new revelation until they both were on the verge of losing control.

  “Right about now—” he began with difficulty, because they were naked, kneeling before one another. “But there’s never been right about now before.” His hands clenched her hips as he swallowed hard.

  “In my dreams,” she whispered, then shifted up when he urged her astride his lap. “So many times in my dreams.…”

  Jordan felt near to explosion, and he knew Katia was because he felt her warmth and wetness and quivering when he stroked her. Now, looking into her eyes, he wondered if anticipation could be as heady as consummation. He loved her. He felt the words, spoke them with his eyes, whispered them with the last bit of unfragmented breath he could summon.

  Then, very slowly, he lowered her. He nearly closed his eyes; she was tight and hot around him, seeming to grow more so as he penetrated, and the knowledge that this was Katia combined with the physical pleasure itself to make the sensation almost unbearable. A low sound of passion tore from his throat simultaneously with one from hers, but he didn’t close his eyes, and what he saw made the effort worth it.