by Nora Roberts
He silenced her quickly, completely and effectively. He’d meant to tease her, continue the half torturous, half pleasurable game they’d begun under the cool spray of the shower. But her legs were tangled with his, her body yielding, and her mouth . . .
“Oh, God, Laurel, I need you.” His mouth crushed back on hers with a savagery the night seemed to have worked on him.
He forgot patience, and she, the need for it. He forgot gentleness, and she, the need for it. His tongue dived deep into her mouth as if there were some taste, some hint of flavor he might be denied. But she would have denied him nothing. Her passion raced from tingling arousal to raging desire, and her mouth was as greedy, as insistent, as his. She was not to be seduced this time, or to be swept helplessly along, but to take as much as she gave.
She hadn’t known passion could strip every remnant of civilization away, but she learned. Glorying in the abandon, she touched and tasted where she would with hands and lips that moved quickly, with no more patience than his. He smelled of the soap she’d lathered on him herself. The sharp, clean scent played with her senses, swam in her head while her needs delved in darker places.
They were only shadows in the bed, tangling, clinging, but their passion had substance and form. Perhaps the whispering threats of the past hours drove them both to take, and take hungrily, all that could be found between man and woman. Damp skin, thundering pulses, breathless moans. For both of them it was the moment, the heady present, that mattered. Yesterday and tomorrow were forgotten.
He knew he was rough, but control had vanished. Heat seemed to pour out of her, drawing him deeper and deeper into his own furious passion. Her body was as it had been when he’d first taken her hours—oh, God, had it only been hours?—before. Sleek and smooth and agile. But the change came from within. There was no pliancy in her now, but an urgency and demand that raced with his.
His lips rushed over her, running low on her stomach with hungry kisses. But his need to taste wasn’t any stronger than her need to experience. She wanted all there was to have this time, everything he’d already given her and whatever secrets were left. She wanted to learn whatever desire had left to teach.
She opened for both of them, eager, urging him down until he found her. She arched, stunned and only more desperate at the play of his tongue. He whipped her up and over the first crest, never pausing, relentless, as she shuddered with her nails digging into his shoulders.
Wave after wave of heavy, molten pleasure swept her, but he continued as if he would keep her, keep them both, spinning on the very verge of fulfillment. There couldn’t be so much. But even as the thought raced through her mind there was more. And still more. She should have been sated from it, but she pulsed with energy. She should have been overwhelmed, but it was as if, somehow, she’d always known it would be like this. His heart raced with hers, beat matching beat. Passion poured out of her, but as it poured it was replenished.
“Matthew.” His name was a moan, a gasp. “I want you.”
As his mouth hurried back, skimming over her, she felt his tremors and the hammer-thrust beat of his heart. Each rasping breath seemed to merge with her. She saw his eyes glimmer once in the pale light of the moon, then tasted the mixture of soap and salt on his flesh.
“I need you. . . .” They spoke together. She arched to meet him.
Chapter 9
The sky hung low. Thick pewter clouds trapped the heat and humidity so that rain wouldn’t have been a threat, but a blessed relief. The leaves didn’t stir, or turn their pale undersides up in anticipation, but hung limply.
Laurel leaned back and let the sticky air coming through the car window do what it could. Along the sides of the road the trees stood, casting shade that could offer only slight relief to the throbbing heat. Glancing at them, she wished she were sitting under one, near a cool river on soft, damp grass.
She was traveling the road to Heritage Oak for the third time in two days. Each time, it was just a bit more difficult to face the kind of answers she might find there.
Louis would be angry, she had no doubt of it. The man she’d seen yesterday would be furious at being disturbed again—if he spoke to them at all. And Marion . . . Marion would be hurt, Laurel thought with a flash of guilt. Hurt that she persisted in pursuing something Marion found distasteful and distressing to both herself and her brother.
I won’t think about it, Laurel told herself, and turned her head to stare, brooding, out the window. What choice do I have? Questions have to be asked, things have to be said. It’s gone too far to turn back now. If anything, it should be easier to have the questions come from me. But it wasn’t, she thought miserably. Not for any of us.
She knew why Matt was silent. He was giving her time to pull herself together, sort out her emotions for herself before they arrived at Heritage Oak. Considerate. Strange, she thought with a small smile, a week before she’d have sworn Matthew Bates hadn’t a considerate bone in his body. She’d learned quite a bit about him in the last few days. Not quite all, Laurel mused, thinking of the paintings in his apartment. But still, a great many important things—the most important of which was that she loved him.
They’d yet to speak seriously about what had happened between them. In an odd way, she felt they’d both been reluctant to probe the other’s emotions. Treat it light—don’t press. Those were the words that ran around in her head. She wondered if they ran in his as well.
It had all happened so fast. A year? That’s fast? she thought with a faint smile. But it had. Whatever had been building between them over the months had been so cleverly ignored that the sudden blaze of passion had been totally unexpected. And that much more exciting. But was that all it was for him? Laurel wished she had the confidence, or the courage, to ask.
Turning back, she studied his profile. Strong, casually handsome, with an easygoing smile and amused eyes. Yet he wasn’t quite all those things. From his writing she’d already known him to be savvy, ironic, insightful. She’d also discovered that he was only laid-back when he chose to be. That wasn’t his true nature. He was an impatient, restless man who simply played the game his own way. Over and above the love that had crept up on her, Laurel had discovered to her own amusement, that quite simply she liked his style.
Partners, she thought as her smile widened. You’d better get used to it, Bates, because we’re going to stay that way for a long, long time.
“See something you like?” he asked dryly.
Laurel tilted her head and continued to study him. Play it light. The words ran through her mind yet again. “As a matter of fact, I do—and it still surprises me.”
He chuckled, and with his eyes on the road reached over and tugged on her hair. “I’m crazy about your compliments, Laurellie. A man never knows if he’s been pumped up or slapped down.”
“Keeps you on your toes, Bates.”
“You did tell me once I had fabulous eyes.”
Her brow lifted. “I did?”
“Well, you’d had four martinis at the time.”
She laughed as he swung between the pillars of Heritage Oak. “Oh, well, who knows what a person might say in that condition? What color are they, anyway?”
He narrowed them as he turned toward her.
“Blue,” she said, catching her tongue between her teeth. “Blond hair, blue eyes—rather an ordinary combination, but you do the best you can with it.”
“Yeah. And it is a pity about your chin.”
Laurel lifted it automatically. “My chin,” she said as he stopped the car, “is not pointed.”
“I hardly notice it.” Matt jingled the keys in his hand as he stepped from the car. He’d lightened her mood, he noticed, but only temporarily. Already, as she glanced up at the house, he could see the struggle between her emotions and her profession. Laurel being Laurel, the profession won, but not without cost.
“Matthew, Marion will see us because her upbringing wouldn’t allow her not to, but . . .” She hesitated as they c
limbed the porch. “I doubt if Louis will talk to us.”
“We’ll have to convince him otherwise,” he said flatly, and let the knocker fall heavily on the door.
“I don’t want to push him too hard right now. If—”
It was the way his head whipped around, the way his eyes flared, that stopped her. “When?” he demanded.
She opened her mouth, but the annoyance and impatience on his face had her biting back the first reckless words. “All right,” she murmured, turning to face the door again. “All right.”
Guilt. He felt the sting and wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. “Laurel—”
The door opened, cutting off whatever he might have said. Binney glanced at both of them while a flicker of surprise—and something else—came and went in her eyes. “Miss Laurel, we didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“Hello, Binney. I hope it’s not inconvenient, but we’d like to speak to Louis and Marion.”
Her eyes darted to Matt, then came back to Laurel. “Mr. Louis has a black mood. It’s not a good time.”
“Black mood?” Laurel repeated. “Is he ill?”
“No.” She shook her head, but hesitated as if the denial had come too quickly. “He is . . .” Binney stopped as if searching for a phrase. “Not well,” she finished, lacing her long, bony fingers together.
“I’m sorry.” Laurel gave her an easy smile and hated herself. “We won’t keep him long. It’s important Binney.” Without invitation, she stepped into the hall.
“Very well.” Laurel caught the quick, accusing glance before the housekeeper shut the door. “Come into the parlor, I’ll tell Miss Marion you’re here.”
“Thank you, Binney.” Laurel caught her hand at the entrance to the parlor. “Is Louis often . . . not well?”
“It comes and goes.”
She closed her other hand over the thin, hard one as if willing Binney to understand. “Did he have these black moods when Anne was—when he was married to Anne?”
Binney’s lips compressed until there was nothing but a tight line. In the way of a woman well used to the house she lived in, and the people she lived with, Binney let her gaze sweep down the hall and up the stairs in a gesture so quick it was hardly noticeable. When she spoke, her words were hurried, low and French.
“You knew him, Miss Laurel, but there have been so many changes, so much pain. Nothing is as it was when you came for your tea parties and riding lessons.”
“I understand that, Binney. I’d like to help him.”
Binney’s gaze swept the hall again. “Before,” she began, “during the time between when Mr. Charles left and when Mr. Louis brought the girl home, he had many . . . hard moods. He might roam the house and speak to no one, or lock himself in his study for hours. We worried but . . .” Her shrug was eloquent. “Later, he began to go away on business and it would be better. The years, they weren’t easy, but they were . . . quiet. Then he brought the girl back, his wife.”
“And things changed again?” Laurel prompted.
“Only better.” The housekeeper hesitated. Laurel thought she understood perfectly the tug-of-war her loyalties were waging. “We were surprised. She had the look of the first one,” Binney said so quietly Laurel strained to hear. “It was strange to see her, even her voice. . . . But Mr. Louis was happy with her, young again. Sometimes, only sometimes, he would brood and lock himself away.”
Ignoring the knot in her stomach, Laurel pressed on. “Binney, was Anne afraid when Louis would . . . brood?”
Her mouth became prim again. “Perhaps she was puzzled.”
“Was she happy here?”
The nut-brown eyes clouded. Her mouth worked before her face became still again. “She said the house was like a fairy tale.”
“And the swamp?”
“She feared it. She should have stayed away. What’s there,” she said in a low voice, “is best left alone.”
“What’s there?” Laurel repeated.
“Spirits,” Binney said, so simply Laurel shivered. There was no arguing with old beliefs, old legends. She let it pass.
“Did Anne see Nathan Brewster often?”
“She was a loyal wife.” Her tone changed subtly, but enough that Laurel knew the automatic defense of the estate and all in it had been thrown up. Laurel took what she knew might be the final step.
“Did Louis know that Brewster was in love with Anne?”
“It is not my place to say,” Binney replied stiffly and with disapproval. Or yours to ask. Laurel heard the unspoken words very clearly. “I’ll tell Miss Marion you’re here.” Coolly, she turned her back on them both and walked away.
“Damn,” Laurel breathed. “I’ve lost her, too.”
“Sit down,” Matt ordered, steering her to a chair. “And tell me what that was all about.”
Sitting, Laurel began to speak in the flat tone of recital. “She told me that Louis was prone to black moods and brooding after Charles and Elise left. Understandable enough,” she added automatically—too automatically for Matt’s liking. “The servants worried about him. Then he apparently pulled out of it a bit when he began to travel on business. They weren’t expecting him to bring Anne back and obviously her resemblance to Elise caused some talk, but Binney seemed fond of her. She said Louis was happy, less moody, that Anne was happy, too.”
She sighed, leaning back in the chair, but her fingers drummed on the arms. “She holds to the local feeling about the swamp.”
“Ghosts again?”
“Don’t be so literal-minded,” Laurel snapped. “It’s the . . . essence of the place,” she finished lamely.
As Laurel had with the housekeeper, Matt let it pass. “Didn’t I hear Brewster’s name mentioned?”
“She’d only say that Anne was a loyal wife. I tried to press.” She lifted her eyes to his. “That’s when I lost her.”
“Forget your feelings for a minute and use your head.” He spoke sharply because he’d rather face her annoyance than her vulnerability. “If the housekeeper knew about Brewster—and from the way she clammed up she must have—who else knew?”
“You don’t hide things from servants, Matthew. They’d all know.”
“Yet not one of them mentioned his name when they were questioned by the police.”
Laurel linked her hands in her lap to stop her fingers from drumming. “To have mentioned it would’ve cast a shadow on Anne’s reputation and therefore Louis’s. Remember, too, the investigation led to nothing more than a verdict of accidental death. It would’ve seemed pointless to stir all that up then.”
“And now?”
“The servants are loyal to Louis,” she said wearily. “They’re not going to gossip to outsiders about something that would bring him more pain.”
“I have connections downtown,” Matt mused. “I could probably get someone out here to ask a few questions.”
“Not yet, Matthew, a few more days.” Laurel caught Matt’s hand in hers as he stood next to her chair. “I don’t want to push the police on Louis until there’s no other choice. We don’t have enough to justify reopening the investigation in any case. You know it.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He frowned down at her and bit back a sigh. “A few days, Laurel. That’s all.”
“Laurel, Mr. Bates.” Marion came in with her hands already extended for Laurel’s. “Please, sit down, Mr. Bates. I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting, but we weren’t expecting you.”
Laurel caught the faint disapproval and acknowledged it. “I’m sorry, Marion, I hope we didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“Well, I’m a bit pressed, but . . .” She squeezed Laurel’s hands before choosing the brocade love seat across from her. “Would you like some coffee? A cold drink, perhaps. It’s such a dismal day.”
“No, thank you, Marion, and we won’t keep you long.” Party talk, she thought in disgust. How easy it is to cover ugliness with party talk. “It’s important that we speak to you and Louis again.”
/> “Oh.” Marion’s gaze swept from Laurel to Matt and back again. “Louis is out, I’m afraid.”
“Will he be back?” Matt asked her, without accepting her invitation to sit.
“I can’t say. That is, I can’t say when. I’m sorry.” Her expression altered subtly, brow creasing as if she were forced to say something unpleasant. “The truth is, Laurel, I’m not sure he’ll agree to talk to you again.”
That hurt, but she’d expected it. Laurel kept her eyes level. “Marion, Matthew and I went to see Nathan Brewster yesterday.”
They both saw, and registered, each flicker of expression on Marion’s face. Distress, agitation, annoyance, doubt; all came quickly and were as quickly gone. “Did you? Why?”
“He was in love with Anne,” Laurel returned. “And apparently made little secret of it.”
Marion’s eyes cooled, the only hint of annoyance now. “Laurel, Anne was a lovely child. Any man might be attracted to her.”
“I didn’t say he was attracted,” Laurel corrected. “I said he was in love with her, in his way. He wanted her to leave Louis.”
Laurel saw Marion’s throat work before she spoke. The thin gold chain she wore around it glittered with the movement. “What Mr. Brewster may have wanted doesn’t mean anything. Anne loved Louis.”
