Every Move She Makes

by Beverly Barton

  With the hot summer wind whipping her short hair about her face, she laughed, the sound lost in the breeze. She continued laughing—at herself, at Briley Joe, at Jeff Henry, at Webb and Carolyn. And at Junior Blalock, the sorry son of a bitch. If anyone had ever deserved to die, he had. If he had lived, he would have destroyed several lives, including her own. The man had known too many secrets, had threatened too many people.

  Images of that black-haired devil flashed through her mind. He’d been handsome in a lean, mean sort of way. She’d been attracted to him the minute she met him. There had been something about him that had reminded her of Webb. The same coal-black hair and striking good looks. The same cocky, insolent manner. The same self-assurance with women. But where Webb possessed a conscience and a heart, Junior had been sadly lacking in both.

  She recalled the times she and Junior had set the sheets afire. She’d been damned and determined to hurt and humiliate Jeff Henry. If he couldn’t love her, then by God, she had wanted him to hate her. She’d desperately needed him to feel something, even if it was loathing.

  But Junior had threatened to make their affair public. Jeff Henry knowing about the affair was one thing, but the whole town knowing about it would have been different. Jeff Henry’s humiliation would have been public, and he’d have had no choice but to divorce her. She’d warned Junior that if he dared breathe a word about their sordid affair, she’d kill him.

  She’d gone to him that night and found him lying in a heap, bloody and bruised after Reed’s beating. An unopened pocket knife on the ground beside his body had glistened in the moonlight. The temptation to pick up the knife and use it had been overwhelming.

  Cybil sighed deeply and shoved her foot down on the accelerator, speeding the T-bird to ninety. She jerked the bottle from between her legs and lifted it to her lips. Just as her sister Carolyn intended to spend her entire life as Mrs. Webb Porter, Cybil meant to live out her days as Mrs. Jefferson Henry Carlisle…no matter what.

  Jeff Henry strolled through the park. His walking cane was simply for show, as was his white Panama suit. But the Cuban cigar in his mouth was for pleasure, one of the many he could well afford. Being the descendant of one of the town’s founding families, he had a reputation to uphold. As a gentleman. As a pillar of society. As an eccentric. He knew his reputation. Some envied him; some pitied him. Some believed him to be a relic of a bygone era. But everyone knew him and had a begrudging respect for his money and social standing, if not for him personally.

  Despite his unhappiness because he was married to a drunken whore, he rather enjoyed his life. Although the woman he truly loved could never be his, he could see her, be with her, and lavish attention on her. And he could fulfill his duties as godfather to Carolyn’s only child. Never once did he look at Ella without thinking that if circumstances had been different, she might be his daughter and not Webb’s.

  Other than losing Carolyn, his biggest regret was that he and Cybil hadn’t had children together. Of course, if his wife had gotten pregnant, God only knew who the father would have been—someone like Briley Joe Conway or Junior Blalock. What would it have been like, being stuck with the offspring of that black-hearted bastard? Junior hadn’t been merely scum of the earth; he’d been evil. Any man capable of raping a child didn’t deserve to live.

  A lot of people had hated Junior and had been glad to see him dead. Jeff Henry knew at least a half dozen people who’d had a motive—and the opportunity—to slit the drunken bum’s throat as he lay there semiconscious on the ground. Jeff Henry could see him lying there where Reed had left him after beating the hell out of him. Reed’s pocket knife, which had apparently fallen from his pocket during the fight, lay on the ground, shiny and tempting, there in the moonlight.

  Killing Junior had been a good deed, not only for Junior’s family, but for the Carlisles and the Porters. Hell, the killer had done the whole goddamn town a favor.

  While Webb Porter watched from the doorway, Viola lifted Carolyn out of her wheelchair and placed her in the bed. What would she do without Viola? No one cared for her as much as Viola did, except perhaps Jeff Henry. And if her old beau really knew the person she had become, he might not remain so infatuated with her. But there was no reason for her sister’s husband to ever know the truth.

  Carolyn held out her hand to her husband, beseeching him to come to her. He didn’t move, made no attempt to accommodate her request. Although he had been dutifully attentive while on vacation, he’d been in a rush to leave this morning. He had used some feeble excuse about business to explain why he was cutting their vacation short by a day. Only when they were within a few miles of Spring Creek had he told her about the break-in at the house. She was sure Ella was fine, but she could hardly have told him that her concern for their daughter didn’t equal his. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Ella. She did. She simply wasn’t obsessed with the girl the way her husband was.

  Webb had been a less-than-pleasant traveling companion on the drive up from the Gulf. No doubt he had been in such a tizzy over Ella’s well-being that he’d all but forgotten he had an invalid wife to consider. Hadn’t he realized the fact that it was her home that had been invaded, her beautiful house ransacked, her priceless antiques destroyed? You’d have thought he could give her some sympathy and a little consideration. After all, she was his wife. And it wasn’t as if Ella had been hurt.

  But with each passing year, Carolyn realized more and more that if it ever came down to a choice between his wife and his daughter, Webb would choose his daughter.

  “I’m going next door to speak to Jeff Henry about what happened here last night,” Webb said. “Then I’ll have a talk with Frank Nelson. By that time, Ella should be out of court and the three of us can have dinner together tonight.”

  “The house is wrecked,” Carolyn said. “There are so many beautiful things that can never be replaced.” A lone tear trickled down her cheek. She had learned years ago how to cry on cue, and had perfected the poor, pitiful invalid act to perfection.

  “They were just things,” Webb said. “All that matters to me is that Ella wasn’t harmed.”

  “Of course, that is what’s most important to me, too.” Carolyn swiped the tear from her cheek and gave Webb a forlorn look. “You must have Frank do something about Reed Conway before he actually harms Ella. Apparently the man isn’t going to stop with simple harassment.”

  “If Reed Conway is behind the break-in, then I’ll—”

  “What do you mean, ‘if’? Who else could it possibly be?”

  “I don’t know,” Webb admitted. “But I intend to find out.”

  The moment Webb disappeared down the hallway, Carolyn sat up straight in bed and listened for his footsteps as her descended the staircase. “Go make sure he leaves and that there’s no one else in the house,” Carolyn told Viola. “I have a few things to do and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Viola, ever dutiful, obeyed instantly. Carolyn stretched her arms over her head and leaned back into the pillows stacked behind her. The downstairs area of the house had been thoroughly ransacked and several priceless antiques destroyed. The sight of the destruction had turned her stomach.

  She couldn’t believe Webb had the slightest doubt that Reed Conway was responsible. After all, their home had never been broken into before, and Reed was the only logical suspect, wasn’t he? The man was a bad seed, a murderer. Birthed by a whore and the brother of an emotionally disturbed bastard child.

  If Carolyn had her way, the entire Conway family would be wiped off the face of the earth in one fell swoop. It was unfortunate that the night Junior Blalock met his fatal end, his wife and two stepchildren couldn’t have joined him in hell.

  Reed tossed the wrench into the tool box, slammed the lid shut, and shoved the red metal box aside. Holding out his hands, he inspected the grease and grime covering his skin, and the thick black muck under his nails. Only hours ago those very hands had caressed Ella Porter, had explored her body and helped br
ing her to fulfillment. Just the thought of Ella’s whimpers, of her shuddering completion, gave him a hard-on.

  Cursing under his breath, he jerked a rag from his back pocket and wiped the top layer of filth from his hands, then tossed the rag into the nearby garbage pail. He’d spent the afternoon working like a madman, determined to put Ella out of his mind, but the harder he tried to dismiss what had happened, the more vivid the memories became. So he’d screwed Webb Porter’s daughter. No big deal. She was just another woman, another really good lay.

  If that was true, then why was he so bent out of shape? Maybe she was hot for him. Maybe she couldn’t get enough of him. Maybe he had never wanted a woman quite that much before. So what?

  Truth time, buddy boy. Who was it you fantasized about all those years in prison? It hadn’t been any of the girls he had dated in high school, or any of the older women he’d messed around with. No, it had been Ella Porter. That plump, shy little girl who used to look at him with those big brown eyes of hers and never say more than hello. He had thought about her a great deal because of those two stupid letters he’d written to her…and because she was Webb Porter’s daughter. He had thought how much it would upset Webb if he screwed Ella. He’d gotten a great deal of pleasure from that particular daydream.

  Was that why it felt so good making it with Ella Porter? Was that why he wanted her again right now? Maybe. Hell, he didn’t know.

  Reed jerked open the door to the washroom, turned on the faucets, and covered his hands with a generous amount of Go-Jo. After lifting the scrub brush from the edge of the sink, he went to work removing the grease from under his fingernails. When he touched Ella again, he wanted his hands to be clean, as clean as the hands of those fancy gentlemen she dated.

  Staring at himself in the mirror, he asked, “What makes you think she’ll let you touch her again?” He grinned. “Because she wants you as much as you want her. If one time wasn’t enough for you, it won’t be enough for her.”

  Judy opened the door of the Carlisle home to discover Webb Porter standing there. Big. Handsome. Every time she saw him, her stomach quivered nervously. How was it possible that at her age, a man could still make her feel like a giddy teenager? Perhaps because, despite everything that had gone wrong between them, she still cared about Webb, still loved him.

  “Afternoon,” he said as he entered the foyer. “I’d like to speak to Jeff Henry and get his version of what happened at my house last night. Damn place looks like a bomb exploded in the downstairs area.”

  “I’m terribly sorry about your home being broken into and ransacked.” Judy knew that the police had questioned Reed. And she knew just as surely that her son hadn’t committed the crime.

  Webb focused his gaze on Judy. She willed herself not to blush. She was too old to let a man’s sexual perusal embarrass her.

  “How is it that you’re still so pretty?” he asked. “You don’t look any different now than you did—”

  “Mr. Jeff Henry isn’t here,” Judy said, squaring her shoulders as she gazed point-blank at Webb. “He’s taking his afternoon stroll in the park.”

  “The man needs a job. But then when you inherit a sizable fortune and a penchant for laziness…”

  Webb left the sentence unfinished, the thought incomplete, but his meaning was clear. Judy had always known that although Webb liked Jeff Henry, he had little respect for his brother-in-law.

  “When do you expect him back?” Webb asked.

  “His walk usually takes about an hour, but since the weather is so miserably hot, he’ll probably cut it short. I’d say he’ll return in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Then I’ll wait.”

  “Very well, Senator Porter,” Judy said. “May I get you something to drink? I made a fresh pitcher of lemonade this morning.”

  Webb nodded. Judy closed the front door and, with a sweep of her hand, invited him into the living room. “Make yourself at home,” she told him. “I’ll bring in your drink shortly.”

  When she turned to leave, Webb grabbed her wrist. She gasped as her gaze met his. “Please, let me go.”

  “Don’t you feel anything?” he asked. “Don’t you ever want—”

  Judy jerked her wrist out of his grasp. “You’re a married man. I ignored that fact in the past. I won’t make that mistake ever again.”

  She all but ran from him, escaping down the hallway and into the kitchen. Breathless, her heart racing like mad, she leaned her head against the refrigerator and prayed for strength. From time to time over the years, Webb had made overtures, but she had always rejected him. Only God knew the strength it took to refuse the man to whom her heart had always belonged. And always would.

  As she poured the lemonade into a glass, she checked the wall clock and hoped that Jeff Henry would return early today. She could hardly ask Webb to leave, but she couldn’t allow herself to be alone with him for very long. Make an excuse, she told herself. After all, it wouldn’t be a lie to say that you have work to do.

  When she entered the living room, she found Webb still standing, obviously waiting for her return. He smiled. Memories of sweet moments in this man’s arms flooded her mind. Promises had been made to each other in the aftermath of passion. Broken promises. A child born without a father. Bittersweet memories.

  Webb held out his hand for the glass of lemonade, and Judy gave it to him, being careful not to allow their fingers to touch. “I’m sure Mr. Jeff Henry will be home shortly. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “I suppose you know that the police questioned Reed about last night’s break-in at my house,” Webb called after her.

  Judy froze to the spot, just inches from the doorway, only a hairbreadth from escaping. With her back to him, she replied, “Yes, I’m aware that my son is always going to be the prime suspect in any crime against you or your family.”

  “Reed has always hated me, even when he was a child,” Webb said. “You must know that the last thing I ever wanted to do was cause you pain, and that seems to be all I’ve done.”

  Judy reversed her avoidant position to one of head-on defensiveness. She looked right at him. “His aversion to you when he was a boy was childish jealousy over his mother. But now his hatred has merit, don’t you think? After all, you went after him with a vengeance when you prosecuted him for Junior’s murder. You were determined to see my son convicted.”

  “Your son killed a man.” Webb set the glass of lemonade down on a nearby Chippendale table with such force that the contents spilled over onto the highly polished wood.

  Judy whipped out a cleaning cloth from her apron pocket and rushed across the room to wipe up the spill. Once that had been accomplished, she picked up the glass. “Reed didn’t kill Junior. I tried every way I knew how to convince you of that fifteen years ago, but you wouldn’t listen. You sent an innocent boy to prison. So if he hates you now, he has good reason.”

  “Do you hate me, too?” Webb asked.

  Her hand trembled. She tried to move away from Webb, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Tell him that you hate him. Tell him that you can never forgive him.

  “No, I don’t hate you,” she admitted reluctantly.

  Jeff Henry lifted his hat and nodded his head in a mannerly greeting when he met Regina Conway on the walkway leading to his house. Such a pretty girl. A young replica of her mother. The child’s father hadn’t left his mark on her, disproving the old adage that illegitimate children always resemble their fathers.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Jeff Henry.”

  Such a pleasant child. So sweet and friendly. How was it possible that Judy had mothered two such different children? Reed had always been sulky and insolent, and downright unfriendly. That boy had been headed for trouble all along, and everyone had turned a blind eye to his boyish high jinks because he’d been such a great athlete.

  “Well, hello, Regina. Don’t you look pretty today in that pale-blue suit. Pretty as a picture.”

  “Thank you.”

 
The girl possessed a marvelously shy smile, as if she truly had no idea what a rare beauty she was. If he were twenty years younger…But no, not even then would he have approached this young lady. She might be pretty and sweet and educated, but she was the housekeeper’s daughter and therefore innapropriate for any type of personal relationship. A man in his position couldn’t lower his standards any more than his predecessors had. A Carlisle always chose a mate from his social stratum. It was expected. And never let it be said that Jeff Henry Carlisle didn’t do the proper thing.

  “Is Mama still here?” Regina asked. “I’ve come by to give her a ride home.”

  Jeff Henry glanced at the driveway and the small compact vehicle. Some sort of economy car, and not a new one from the looks of it. “As far as I know, Judy’s still here. She always prepares dinner before she leaves. I think it’s prime rib tonight.” He walked up onto the porch and straight to the front door. “Come on in, dear.” He opened the door.

  “Beautiful day today,” Regina said. “I heard it’s supposed to rain before morning and be dreary all day tomorrow. Maybe the rain will cool things off a bit.”

  “More than likely it’ll only add to this dreadful humidity.” As if to emphasize the truth of his comment, Jeff Henry removed a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped the perspiration from his face as he crossed the threshold. “Go on in the kitchen. I’m sure that’s where you’ll find your mother.”

  Regina followed him inside and closed the door behind her. Intending to go straight up to his bathroom for a shower before dinner, Jeff Henry headed toward the staircase. He glanced casually into the living room, which was to his left. He gasped loudly. What the hell? Before his mind could process the full implication of what he had seen, Regina cried out, “Mama?”