Every Move She Makes

by Beverly Barton

  “This could have been someone’s idea of a sick joke,” Ella said. “It may have nothing to do with the letters and phone calls.”

  Webb stomped into the room. “I thought we’d agreed not to tell your mother about—”

  “She didn’t tell me,” Carolyn explained. “I already knew.”

  “Viola.” Webb groaned.

  “We can’t go to the Gulf now, Webb.”

  “I agree.”

  “No!” Ella flung out her arms, the palms of her hands open, in a gesture of exasperation. “Letters, phone calls, and a harmless garden snake aren’t going to hurt me. I refuse to allow the person who is harassing me to scare me.”

  “The person who is harassing you?” Carolyn inquired. “You can’t mean you think it’s anyone other than Reed Conway.”

  “I don’t know who it is, but we have no proof that it’s Reed.” Ella didn’t dare say more, couldn’t defend Reed and risk her parents’ displeasure. Displeasure? Get real, Ella. Outrage would be more like it.

  “He went a little too far with the prank he pulled today,” Webb said. “Frank Nelson should be able to track down the florist those”—Webb eyed the flowers in the floor—“roses came from and find out if they have a record of who purchased them.”

  “Unless they’re stolen,” Carolyn said.

  “What?” Webb and Ella piped in unison.

  “Reed Conway killed a man. You don’t honestly think that stealing flowers would be beneath him, do you?”

  “I’m calling Frank,” Webb said.

  Ella laced her arm through her father’s. “The flowers were probably purchased at Food Express or another grocery store. If that’s the case, there won’t be any record of who purchased them. So, go ahead and call Frank, but after you do that, put this problem in his hands. I insist that you and mother get in the car this morning and head for the Gulf as planned. I’ll be perfectly all right here for a week without y’all. Aunt Cybil and Uncle Jeff Henry are right next door, and if I get lonely I’ll spend a few nights with Heather.”

  Carolyn frowned. “Oh, dear. I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I shudder to think what might happen while we’re gone.”

  “Nothing is going to happen. And if by some chance it does, I’ll contact Frank immediately.” Ella knew what this week at their family’s cottage meant to her mother. Over the years, it had become an annual ritual.

  “Maybe I’ll pay Reed Conway a visit before we leave,” Webb said.

  “No, Daddy, don’t do that. You’ll lose your temper and there’s no telling what might happen. You and Reed might come to blows. You don’t want to go on vacation with a black eye, do you?”

  “Someone needs to warn that man again.” Webb clenched his hands into fists.

  “If Reed needs warning again, let Frank do it. After all, it’s his job.” Ella patted her father’s forearm. “Besides, how many times can Reed be given a warning when there’s no proof that he’s behind the harassment.”

  “We’ll get the proof,” Webb said. “And when we do, Reed will be heading straight back to prison.”

  “That’s exactly where he belongs,” Carolyn said.

  Was Reed the person harassing her? Ella asked herself. She didn’t believe he was. But what if she was wrong? What if he’d sent the letters, made the phone calls, left the flowers? What if pursuing her was part of his plan for vengeance?

  She wouldn’t see him again, wouldn’t allow herself to be alone with him. He might excite her in a way no other man ever had, but he also frightened her in the same inexplicable way. No doubt about it—Reed was a dangerous man. Any smart woman would stay the hell away from him.

  Cybil looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and groaned. Despite the face-lift she’d had three years ago when she turned forty-five, old age was catching up with her. Every day she noticed a new wrinkle, fine lines creeping up her neck and at the edges of her eyes. She ran her fingers through her tousled hair. If not for the monthly visit to her beautician, her black hair would be streaked with gray.

  She filled a cup with water and rinsed out her mouth. The residue of one too many whiskey sours last night had left a bitter taste. At least her teeth were still good and all her own. She raked a hand down over her naked body, across her full breasts—not quite as pert as they’d once been, but not sagging either. Her hips were trim and her legs lean. She eased her hand between her thighs and rubbed her fingers over her feminine folds. Even though she’d begun menopause last year, she hadn’t experienced any real problems. Her periods were erratic, but she had yet to have her first hot flash. And there were no problems with dryness. Thank God. She inserted her fingers into her body and strummed her thumb over her clitoris. Her nipples peaked. Moisture coated her inner folds.

  Loud, repetitive tapping from outside her bedroom door ended her sensual musings. Damn, it was probably Judy, all fresh and cheerful. How the woman had anything to smile about, Cybil would never know. She was poor as a church mouse. She had slaved away five days a week as their housekeeper for the past twenty-odd years. She had an ex-con son who was nothing but trouble. She’d been married and widowed twice—once to a real louse who deserved killing more than anyone Cybil had ever known. In retrospect, Cybil admitted that her brief fling with Junior had been the biggest mistake of her life. Death had been too good for the likes of Junior Blalock. Someone should have tortured him for endless weeks before slitting his throat. Of course, she didn’t have the stomach for torture herself. Murder, yes. Torture, no.

  “Judy, just leave the tray outside and I’ll get it later,” Cybil called to the housekeeper.

  “It isn’t Judy,” Jeff Henry said.

  Cybil went deadly still. Her husband seldom bothered coming to her room anymore. If he came to her more often, she might not be inclined to seek out lovers elsewhere. And if Jeff Henry truly loved her, she’d swear off booze and other men altogether. But his loving her was about as sure to happen as Webb ever loving Carolyn again.

  On her way out of the bathroom, she jerked a sheer black robe off the door rack and slipped into it, but didn’t belt it. She opened her bedroom door to her husband, the front of her body boldly displayed for his view. He stood there with a breakfast tray in his hands. His gaze traveled the length of her, from head to toe. The expression on his face didn’t alter, showing no sign of either disgust or arousal. But she detected a gleam in his eyes. He wasn’t as immune to her charms as he’d like for her to believe.

  “We need to talk,” Jeff Henry said as he pushed past her to enter her private domain.

  When was the last time he’d been in here? Hmm…Almost a year. She’d lured him in here on their wedding anniversary. After plying him with champagne to loosen him up a little, she had seduced him. He had been tenderly passionate. Jeff Henry was always a considerate lover.

  “What could we possibly have to discuss?” she asked flippantly as she closed the bedroom door and turned to face him.

  He set the tray on the writing desk by the windows overlooking the backyard. “I’ve been patient and understanding. I’ve excused your drinking binges and I’ve looked the other way when you’ve had affairs.”

  “How very noble of you, the poor cuckolded husband.” She noticed how red his face was and thought it odd. Only when he was very hot or very angry or sexually aroused did a scarlet flush stain his face. “My goodness, something has your boxer shorts in a wad.”

  “I will not allow you to publicly shame yourself or me or our families.” His broad, thick hands curled into fists. “We have an unspoken agreement, or at least I thought we did, that you’re to keep your misconduct discreet.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Cybil sauntered across the room, lifted the silver dome from the plate, and inspected the pancakes dripping with butter and maple syrup.

  Jeff Henry slapped the dome out of her hand. It hit the floor with a thud. “You’re nothing but a slut.”

  “And just how is this news to you?”

  Jeff He
nry’s eyes glimmered with pure rage. “I saw you yesterday. In the park, in the garden. You and that white trash grease monkey, Briley Joe Conway.”

  Cybil’s mouth opened to a shocked oval. He’d seen her? With Briley Joe? No, no, no! They’d chosen a secluded spot, hidden behind shrubbery and a grove of trees. She’d been so sure no one could see them. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry, all right. A sorry piece of nothing. But you know what makes it even worse? I wasn’t alone when I came upon you and your lover. Ella was with me. Do you hear me? The child who means more to you than anyone in this world was with me, and she saw you screwing that low-life scum. He had you backed up against a tree, pumping into you like a jackhammer.”

  “Ella saw me?”

  “She saw you and felt the same disgust that I did. How do you think she’s going to feel about you now that she knows you’ll spread your legs for any man?”

  Pain washed over Cybil, drowning her with self-pity and self-loathing. The only person whose opinion still mattered to her was Ella’s. She had loved her darling girl since the first moment she saw her, since the very instant she had held her in her arms.

  “You, of course, told her what a slut I was, didn’t you?” Cybil glowered at her husband. “You enjoyed filling her in on my legion of lovers. Did you tell her that I’d even screwed Junior Blalock?” She saw the truth in his eyes. “My God, you did, didn’t you? You bastard!”

  She slapped his face, anger and frustration riding her hard.

  Jeff Henry grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm, painfully tugging her up against him. His nostrils flared. His eyes flashed. The red stain on his cheeks darkened even more. For the first time in a long time—not since the night Junior was killed—Cybil was afraid of her husband.

  He dragged her to the bed and tossed her down atop the wrinkled satin coverlet. She watched anxiously, shocked by his actions. He unzipped his pristine khaki slacks. She shook her head in disbelief. He eased his hand inside the open zipper slit and into his boxer shorts. She scooted away from him. He jumped her, almost knocking the breath out of her. She glared up into his face, into his hard, cold eyes, and wondered who this man was. It wasn’t Jeff Henry Carlisle, her well-bred Southern gentleman husband. He forced his knee between her legs and parted her thighs.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  “I’m going to fuck my wife,” he told her.

  Before a rational reply came to mind, he grabbed her hips, lifted her swiftly, and thrust into her, hard and deep. She moaned with unexpected pleasure. He pumped into her relentlessly, like a madman bent on breaking the spirit of the animal he rode. He lifted one hand to her breast and kneaded it roughly; then he lowered his mouth to hers and consumed her with a raging hunger.

  Cybil wrapped her legs around his waist, lifting herself up to take all of him, to accept every pounding thrust. She caressed his buttocks, then slipped her hand between them and sought his scrotum. They mated wildly, passionately, Jeff Henry using her as if she’d been a whore he’d picked up for the night.

  He climaxed first, jetting into her as he groaned and buried his face against her shoulder. The feel of his fluid bursting within her sent Cybil over the edge. A powerful orgasm shook her to her bones.

  Without saying a word, Jeff Henry disengaged his body from hers. He lifted the edge of the satin sheet and cleaned himself with it. Then he stood, put his penis back in place, straightened his clothes, and walked toward the door.

  “I’ll bet that was one time you weren’t thinking of my sister when you were screwing me,” Cybil called after him.

  He halted but didn’t bother to glance back at her or respond in any way. He opened the door, went into the hall, and closed the door behind him.

  Cybil lay on her back, not moving, her body still tingling as aftershocks of release rippled through her. Only one other time had she ever seen Jeff Henry so upset. Only one other time had he taken her with the same fury as he had this morning. And God help her, she’d loved it—then and now. This morning he had been angry enough to kill, just as he had been that other day. The day he’d caught her with Junior Blalock, less than eight hours before Junior had been found with his throat slit.

  Chapter 14

  Ella walked down Main Street, smiling and speaking to people on her short trek from the courthouse to Callahan’s, three blocks away. She was meeting Dan for a farewell lunch. They had agreed that they wanted to part as friends. After all, they moved in the same social circles and were bound to run into each other on numerous occasions. And if Ella didn’t miss her guess, it was only a matter of time before Heather zeroed in on Dan. Why the guy had never noticed her gorgeous redheaded friend, she didn’t know. Back in high school, Heather had had a major crush on Dan. Of course, he’d been older and considered quite a catch. Dan was conservative to a fault. And Heather was liberal in the extreme. They’d probably mix like oil and water, but then again, opposites do attract. Case in point—Reed Conway and Ella Porter. Not in a million years would she ever have thought she’d be in a perpetual state of heat over a man like Reed. No, not a man like Reed. Just Reed.

  No matter how much her body yearned for Reed, her mind warned her that he was dangerous, not to be trusted. Okay, so her instincts told her that he wasn’t the person harassing her. But what if her instincts were wrong? Reed could very easily be coming on to her as part of some elaborate scheme of revenge against her father. After all, why would he want her? She couldn’t possibly be his type. Even in high school, he’d gone for the flashy sexpots. She had to stay away from Reed. No good could come of getting involved with him.

  She crossed the street at the red light. The restaurant was in the middle of the three-hundred block of Main Street. Checking her watch, she realized she was running five minutes late. Dan was a stickler for punctuality. She could see him now, waiting at Callahan’s, his arms crossed over his chest, his right foot tapping impatiently against the floor.

  As she approached the restaurant entrance, something up the street caught her attention. Reed Conway. Her stomach tightened. He doesn’t see you, she told herself. And if he looks this way, act as if you don’t see him. But for the life of her, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. What was he doing? He reached inside the pocket of his T-shirt, pulled out a folded envelope, and spread it apart. Ella’s heart caught in her throat. He went straight to the mailbox on the corner, lifted the metal flap, and dropped in the envelope.

  He’s mailing a letter. A letter in a white envelope. Another threatening love letter to her? No, please, no. Even if she couldn’t surrender to the temptation and become lovers with Reed, she didn’t want him to be her stalker. Please, let him be innocent.

  Do not let your imagination run away with you. Just because Reed mailed a white envelope does not mean the content is a letter to you. It could be a kill he’s paying. A letter he dropped off for his mother. A business letter of some sort for Conway’s Garage.

  But if she got another letter—tomorrow—she would know there was a very good chance that it had came from Reed. But why would he mail this one? The others had been hand delivered, hadn’t they?

  Her mind swirled with concern as she reached for the handle of Callahan’s front entrance. But the door swung open, almost knocking her over.

  “I was concerned that something had happened,” Dan Gilmore said. “You’re late.”

  Ella sighed deeply. So predictable. So typical of Dan. “Yes, I know and I apologize. But I’m here now.”

  “So you are.”

  When Dan slipped his arm around her waist, she started to pull away, but instead she glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze traveled down the street to where Reed Conway stood by the mailbox. Reed nodded, acknowledging that he knew she’d seen him. And then he smiled. Damn him! He actually smiled. As if he were saying, “You saw me mailing a white envelope and I don’t care what you think.”

  Ella quickly averted her gaze and focused on Dan. “Having lunch together today was a won
derful idea. I certainly want us to remain friends.”

  The moment Ella Porter turned to her lunch date, the smile on Reed’s face vanished. His gaze was riveted to where Dan Gilmore’s arm circled Ella’s waist. He wanted to walk down the street, rip her way from the man, toss her over his shoulder, and carry her off to the nearest private corner. Ever since yesterday afternoon when they’d come so close to making love in the park, he had been unable to think of anything or anyone else. He could have gone to Ivy again and worked off his desire for Ella. He could have, but he hadn’t. And he wasn’t going to. Screwing Ivy might ease some sexual tension, but only temporarily. The frustration would stay with him, and the moment he thought about Ella again, the desire would return. The only woman who could ease his suffering was Ella Porter herself.

  Yeah, and hell will freeze over before she ever lets you get near her again!

  The moment Ella and Dan disappeared inside Callahan’s, Reed walked up the street and went directly behind them into the restaurant. The hostess was showing them to their table when Reed took a stool at the bar. He could see them from his vantage point, since the bar area was four steps up from the restaurant. He ordered a Coke and popped a few peanuts into his mouth. Striving to act as nonchalant as possible, he eased his sunglasses off, slipped them into his T-shirt pocket, and spied on the couple at the corner table.

  He had allowed Ella to become a distraction. That wasn’t good. His purpose in returning to Spring Creek rather than trying to start over in another town was to search for Junior’s real killer. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, that it might even prove an impossible task. After all, Junior hadn’t been a very likable guy. He’d had a lot of enemies. Just about anybody who knew him was suspect.

  But someone—maybe the real killer—was running scared. He wanted Reed back in prison, not free to snoop around into the past. Without realizing it, that person was actually helping Reed. It might be impossible to solve a fifteen-year-old murder, but it should be easier to solve an ongoing harassment case.