White Hot

by Sandra Brown

  “Eventually Selma found me there. She bathed my face with a cold washcloth and told me that I was the lady of the house now, that my mother was looking down on me from heaven, and did I want to disappoint her by carrying on like that? So I stopped crying.”

  “And became the lady of the house.”

  When she laughed, she shook back her hair. “I think we’ve covered that subject. I never acted much like a lady. But that’s when I developed a dislike for the doctor who couldn’t make my mother well, and I’ve disliked him ever since.”

  “Understandably.”

  “Is your mother still living?”

  “Yes. She managed to survive Daddy’s death and me.”

  Nodding, she said, “I’ll bet you were a demon growing up.”

  “And still am?”

  She studied him for a moment, then said quietly, “Some say you are.”

  “Who says that?”

  Uneasy with the question, she avoided answering it and finished her beer. “I’d better go check in. The Lodge may have had a run on rooms tonight.”

  He placed his hand beneath her elbow, guiding her over the uneven ground as they walked back to the truck. For once, she didn’t recoil. “Whether or not the motel has a vacancy depends on the bowling league,” he told her.

  “The bowling league?”

  “On the nights the men bowl, the wives have their affairs. Not a room to be had on those nights.”

  Standing within the wedge of space between the door he had opened for her and the cab of the truck, she turned to face him. “What about the nights the women bowl?”

  “Same thing. All the rooms are booked because the husbands are entertaining their lady friends. But I think you’re safe tonight. Nobody’s bowling except the Knights of Columbus.”

  “Catholic women don’t fool around?”

  “Yes, but discreetly. They go out of town.”

  She laughed and climbed up into the truck, unaware of how tightly that big step stretched her skirt across her ass. Luscious curves and no panty line. His mind blared: thong. Instantly he was infused with lust. As he walked around the rear of the pickup, he took another swipe of his forehead with his sleeve.

  He got in and started the truck. She asked, “How did you come by all this valuable information about the adultery in Destiny?”

  “Part of my job.” He made a wide turn and redirected the truck onto the narrow road that led back to the highway. On both sides of them, the darkness of the forest was impenetrable.

  “I see. You get the goods on people, find out who they’re sleeping with, how much they drink, where they’re vulnerable. Just in case Huff ever needs leverage against them.”

  “You make it sound like blackmail.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He looked at her with disappointment. “Here I’ve treated you to a fine dining experience, and I still can’t get into your good graces. I hate for you to leave town tomorrow thinking so poorly of me.”

  “I’m not leaving tomorrow.”

  chapter 14

  Beck braked so hard the pickup skidded several yards along the gravel road before coming to a complete stop. “Why not?”

  “What difference does it make to you?”

  “You were ready to rocket out of here this afternoon. What happened to change your mind?”

  “Chris came under suspicion in connection to Danny’s death.”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Huff.”

  Beck assimilated that, then removed his foot from the brake and continued driving.

  “Was it Huff’s medications talking?” she asked.

  “No. He was lucid.”

  “Can you—will you—talk about it?”

  He shrugged with more nonchalance than he felt. “Red Harper asked Chris to come to his office to address some questions.” He glanced at her. “Apparently your comment about Danny’s aversion to fishing got Deputy Scott excited.”

  “I thought it might be pertinent. Danny hated the fishing camp. He never went there.”

  “He hadn’t been out there as long as I’ve been around,” Beck admitted. “Not to my knowledge anyway.”

  “Then don’t you find it strange that he died there?”

  “I don’t know, is it?”

  By now they had reached the outskirts of town, and he had to stop for a traffic light. She hadn’t responded to his question, so he turned to her and repeated it. “Is it strange that he died there? Why didn’t Danny like the fishing camp?”

  She remained mutinously silent.

  “Was he afraid of snakes? Allergic to poison ivy? Why didn’t Danny like the camp?”

  “Painful childhood memory,” she snapped. “All right?”

  He backed off instantly. “All right.” The light turned green, and he accelerated through the intersection.

  He heard Sayre sigh as she leaned her head against the passenger window. “You want to know the story?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  “You would get it from Chris anyway. At least my version won’t be sugarcoated. Maybe it’ll give you a clearer understanding of what life among the Hoyles was like when we were kids, and give you an unvarnished look into the nature of the man you work for.

  “One day not long after our mother died, Huff decided we needed a family outing. A day that just the four of us would spend together. Which was quite a concession for him. As you know, there’s rarely a day that he doesn’t go to the foundry.

  “Anyhow, he took us out to the fishing camp. He set up each of us with a pole and bait and instructed Danny and me on how to go about it. Of course Chris was already a proficient fisherman because Huff had been taking him fishing for years.

  “Danny began whining that he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t like baiting the hook, because he didn’t want to hurt the worm. He said he hoped he wouldn’t catch a fish because then it would die. He was preoccupied with death, you see, because of Mother. A week earlier he had cried for hours after finding a dead cricket on the gallery.

  “Rather than comforting him, talking him through it, or, dammit, just letting it go—because what difference did it make whether Danny caught a fish that day or not?—Huff became furious and told him he couldn’t go home until he caught one.

  “He made him sit there in that stinking, yellow mud all afternoon, subjecting him to his own father’s scorn and his brother’s ridicule. And Chris was allowed, even encouraged, to humiliate him.

  “The sun had gone down before he finally caught a fish. He blubbered the whole time he was struggling to get it off the hook. But he did it,” she finished softly. “He did it. Then in the only act of defiance I ever saw from Danny, he threw the fish back into the bayou and swore that he would never catch another.”

  Beck had pulled into the motel parking lot and stopped in front of the office. By the time she finished the story, he was turned toward her, his arm stretched along the back of the seat, his fingers within touching distance of her shoulder.

  He knew the moment she realized that she had become immersed in the recollection, and that she was the single object of his focus, because she sat up straighter and cleared the huskiness from her throat. “Danny hated that place. It held a terrible memory for him. So why would he choose to go there last Sunday afternoon?”

  “Maybe he chose it for that very reason, Sayre. If he was despondent enough to commit suicide, perhaps he masochistically chose the site of a hateful memory in which to do it.”

  “If it was a suicide.” Meeting his gaze directly, she said, “Why are they investigating Chris?”

  “They’re not. He’s only being asked—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. He’s answering questions. But those questions were serious enough to bring on Huff’s heart attack.”

  He turned his head away and looked at the blinking red neon arrow pointing down at the motel office. Through the plate-glass wall, he could see the clerk. He was sitting in a recliner, chewing on a toothpick,
and watching TV. He hadn’t shown the slightest interest in his potential customers. Apparently it wasn’t uncommon for a man and a woman to remain outside the office and discuss whether or not to go inside and register for a room.

  “They found something in the cabin that implicates Chris. He says he hasn’t been out there since the night Frito chased off the bobcat.” Facing her again, he added, “I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “What did they find?”

  “A matchbook. From a nightclub in Breaux Bridge.”

  “That’s it? That’s not very solid evidence. Anybody could have dropped a matchbook there at any time.”

  “Ordinarily, yes. But the club’s grand opening was last Saturday, the night before Danny died. The matchbooks weren’t available until then,” he explained. “Chris admits to being at the club and coming home late. He admits to smoking a few cigarettes, so he had reason to have a matchbook.”

  “I don’t suppose Danny was at the club that night, too.”

  He shook his head. “Not his kind of place. Especially not recently. He never smoked, so it’s unlikely he dropped the matchbook. Anyway, where would he have got it between Saturday night and Sunday morning, when he left for church?”

  “So Deputy Scott wanted to know how a matchbook that couldn’t have been obtained until Saturday night wound up in the cabin on Sunday afternoon. Chris was at the nightclub, making him the most likely culprit.”

  “That’s Deputy Scott’s theory.”

  “But who else could it have been?”

  “I don’t know, Sayre, but if that’s all Scott has got on Chris, a grand jury wouldn’t go near it, even if a prosecutor was hot to indict him.”

  She seemed taken aback by his use of the legal jargon. “You actually think it will go that far?”

  “No, I don’t. What would be Chris’s motive?” He posed it as a rhetorical question, but she took it at face value.

  “I don’t think Chris requires much motive for doing anything he wants to do.”

  Beck couldn’t dispute the statement because he knew it to be true.

  After a short silence, she said, “I’ve decided to stay in Destiny until it’s been resolved.”

  “What about your business?”

  “I spoke with my assistant this afternoon. I don’t have any pressing deadlines this week, and she can reschedule the appointments on my calendar. Besides, this is more important. I hadn’t had contact with Danny for the past ten years.”

  Her voice faltered, almost cracked, and he got the distinct impression that she was withholding an important factor in her decision-making process. Whatever it was, she didn’t share it with him.

  “I can’t let his death go unexplained,” she said. “Whether he killed himself or otherwise, I need to know why he died, for my own peace of mind if for no other reason.

  “I also feel an obligation to my mother. She doted on Danny. Left to Huff and Chris, his death would go practically unnoticed. I couldn’t live with myself if I just swept him under the rug like so much dust. That would break Mother’s heart. This is the least I can do for her. And for him.” She reached for the door handle.

  He touched her shoulder. “Sayre?”

  She looked at him, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Her reasons for staying were selfless, so what argument could he offer against them? The best thing for her would be to leave Destiny. He just couldn’t bring himself to encourage her to go.

  The moment stretched out. Finally she said, “Don’t bother coming around for the door. Thank you for the dinner. Good night.”

  He allowed her to get out on her own and retrieve her bag from behind the seat. She didn’t even look at him when she shut the door. He heard the bell jingle above the door when she went into the motel office. He watched her transact the business of registering with the clerk.

  Beck told himself to drive away, to make a clean break. He even reached for the key in the ignition. The less he had to do with Sayre Lynch the better for everybody, especially him. She didn’t like him anyway. What was he hanging around for?

  “Dammit!”

  When she came out of the office with a room key, he was waiting for her. Reaching for her bag, he asked, “Upstairs or down?”

  “You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

  “Huff would never forgive me if something happened to you.”

  “What could happen to me?”

  He wrested the bag from her hand. “It’s not up for debate, Sayre.”

  Resigned, she pointed down the long open-air corridor. “Last room.” Then she gave a bitter laugh. “Huff. Don’t fool yourself into believing he’s concerned about my well-being.”

  “I take it that you didn’t have a sentimental reconciliation in the ICU.”

  “He was playing one of his sick games, and I was the pawn.”

  “He thought he was dying. Maybe you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not.”

  “No benefit of the doubt for Huff?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Then I guess when he broke up the romance between you and Clark Daly, you—”

  “What?” She came to an abrupt stop and grabbed his arm. “What do you know about that?”

  “Only what Chris told me.”

  “Chris told you about Clark and me? When?”

  “While you were in the ICU.”

  “Why?”

  Her fingers were digging into the crook of his elbow, although he didn’t think she was even aware of it. Her eyes were ablaze. Hoping to defuse her, he kept his voice even. “I asked Chris what had started the feud between you and Huff.”

  “Well, I hope you found the story entertaining.”

  Letting go of him, she continued down the corridor at a steady clip, and when she reached the last in the row of identical doors, she shoved the key into the lock with such force, Beck was surprised it didn’t break. She yanked the bag away from him and threw it into the room.

  “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I’d known it would upset you like this,” he said.

  “It upsets me to know that you and Chris were gossiping like two old ladies about my private life. He had no business discussing it with you or anybody else. Don’t you have anything better to talk about?”

  “We weren’t gossiping. Besides, it’s ancient history.” Then his eyes narrowed on her. “Isn’t it?”

  “Why should that interest you?”

  “It interests me the same way your two marriages do.”

  “You discussed my marriages, too?”

  “They’re part of the family record.”

  “A family of which you are not a member.”

  “True. I’m an onlooker. Merely curious.”

  “About?”

  “Two husbands in three years. Huff picked the first, which could explain why the marriage didn’t last very long. What happened to break up the second?”

  She remained rigid and silent.

  “Incompatibility? Alienation of affection? The torch you were still carrying for Daly? I’d bet on that. I understand you two had a hot thing going.”

  “You understand nothing.”

  “Then explain it to me, Sayre. Lay it all out there, so I’ll understand.”

  She seethed.

  “Maybe you thought since you couldn’t have the man you wanted, you’d at least go for the goodies.”

  “Yes,” she hissed. “That’s exactly what I did. Do you want a sampling?”

  She reached up and hooked her hand around the back of his neck, pulled his face down to hers, and stamped a hard, angry, and defiant kiss on his lips. Then she released him so abruptly that his head snapped back.

  Turning away, she stepped into the room and was about to slam the door when he reached for her. “I want to sample more than that.”

  Curving his arm around her waist, he pulled her against him, then walked her backward into the room. He was the one who kicked the door closed as his mouth came down on hers.

  He w
orked her lips apart and thrust his tongue between them. She tried to turn away, but he took her jaw in one hand and held her head in place while he plundered her mouth.

  Suddenly her hands were in his hair, her fingers tightly gripping strands of it. But she wasn’t pushing him away. She was pulling him closer, now kissing him back, hotly and wetly and with small wanting sounds vibrating up from deep within her throat and driving him a little mad.

  Immediately he tempered the violence of the kiss. His hand no longer held her jaw but caressed it. Their tongues still tangled, but sexily not angrily. He turned them so that her back was against the door and he was leaning into her, pressing his middle into the receiving hollow of hers and wishing like hell their clothes would dissolve.

  Coming up for air, he rubbed her lips with his. “I knew you were hungry for this.”

  In breathy stops and starts, she fiercely denied it, but she angled her head to one side, inviting his lips to slide down the column of her throat. He’d been wrong. Her skin had a fine sheen of sweat on it. He opened her suit jacket and kissed her breasts, which were swelling out of a low-cut brassiere.

  When he kissed her raised nipple through the lace, she murmured, “Don’t, don’t.” But he continued and she didn’t stop him.

  Kissing her mouth again, he put his hands on her ass and pulled her against him. “Oh God,” she moaned, then turned away to face the door.

  Undeterred, he lifted her arms above her head, planting her hands flat against the wood. He nuzzled the back of her neck while his hands coasted down the undersides of her arms. He pressed his palms over her breasts, squeezed them, reshaped them, then smoothed his hands down her stomach, hips, her thighs, all the way to her knees.

  On their way back up, one hand slipped beneath her skirt. Fabric gathered against his wrist as his hand moved higher along the longest, smoothest thigh a man could imagine.

  The thong was a patch of lace. He caressed her through it, then beneath it, where the hair was soft and the flesh pliant. His fingers found her center ready. Awed, thrilled, grateful, he whispered her name.