by Kay Hooper
She left the notes on the bar and went to her work area, staring at the beginning of the painting of a feminine hand holding the mirror. She had barely worked on it the day before, though she had spent a great deal of time staring at it. A great deal of time moving restlessly around her apartment while her thoughts chased around and around in her head and common sense and logic clashed with yearnings she didn’t even understand.
I can’t go back there.
I have to.
Laura rubbed the ache between her eyebrows fretfully and was just about to go in search of aspirin when the phone rang. Calls from the press had tapered off, so she had turned the phone back on the previous afternoon, but Laura still approached the instrument warily.
“Hello?”
“Laura? This is Amelia Kilbourne.
“She didn’t relax. If anything, she grew tenser. “Hello, Amelia.”
“Forgive my impatience, child, but at my age time is a matter of some concern. Have you decided to accept the commission?”
“I—I still don’t know, Amelia. I’m sorry.”
“If you’re troubled about the family, don’t be. They’ve been informed, and no one objects.”
Laura wondered if it was a case of no one daring to object, but she didn’t voice her reservations on that point. Instead she said, “If the police didn’t suspect me, it might be different, but—”
“Daniel spoke to the police—and I spoke to the commissioner.” Amelia uttered a little laugh, slyly pleased at having disregarded her grandson’s wishes again. “They admitted they have no evidence against you, Laura. They can’t connect you to Peter in the past—or that night. They showed that photo you gave them to the motel manager, and he’s sure it wasn’t you he saw in the car. As far as the police are concerned, you’re no longer a—what do they call it?—a prime suspect.”
It was a relief to hear that, even though Laura had told herself often that no evidence of a relationship existed because there had been no relationship. Still, mistakes were sometimes made, and innocent people were sometimes convicted of crimes they had not committed. Laura would not feel entirely safe until Peter Kilbourne’s killer was in jail.
“I’m glad to hear it, Amelia,” she said. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Does it make it easier for you to accept the commission, child?”
Sidestepping that question, Laura said, “Amelia, wouldn’t you rather get a real artist with recognized ability to paint your portrait?”
“You are a real artist, Laura. And what’s wrong with my choosing to advance the career of an unknown? I can guarantee you that if you produce work we’re both happy with, you’ll have more commissions than you can accept within a month.” There was no conceit in her voice, but simple certainty; she might not be the leader of society she had once been, but Amelia Kilbourne knew that there were still many people in Atlanta who would follow her lead.
“I don’t think you’d be happy with the result, Amelia.”
“Let me be the judge of that. In any case, how will you know if you don’t try?”
Laura closed her eyes, wavering. She felt the pull of Amelia, the sensation of being drawn in, and every instinct urged her to be wary. This was wrong somehow. There was danger in this offer, in that house. But there was also Daniel.
I can’t go back there.
I have to.
Opening her eyes, Laura said steadily, “All right, Amelia. I accept the commission, thank you. We can get started on Monday, if that’s all right with you?”
MADELINE’S FORK CLATTERED to her plate, and she turned wide blue eyes, still pink-rimmed from crying, to her mother-in-law. “Oh, Amelia, no,” she whispered.
“It’s all right, Mother,” Daniel said quietly from his place farther down the table. “The police believe Laura Sutherland had nothing to do with Peter’s murder.”
“She’s coming here, Madeline,” Amelia said in a matter-of-fact tone. “She’ll be here Monday, and she’ll continue to come here until the portrait is finished. I’ve asked her to do all the work on it here at the house.”
“She isn’t moving in?” Alex asked politely. “I thought I heard you give orders that a room’s to be prepared for her.”
“In case of need,” Amelia replied, and her lips tightened slightly. “She prefers to return to her apartment each evening, but I’ve told her the room will be ready should she decide otherwise.”
Alex looked across the table at Josie and let his eyes widen slightly, asking silently—and sardonically—why anyone would prefer not to spend the night in this house. Knowing all too well that he considered the place gloomy and the current atmosphere unnecessarily depressing, Josie looked away hastily and encountered Madeline’s anguished gaze.
As Daniel had, Josie spoke gently. “It really is all right, Madeline. I met her, and she seemed very nice. I’m sure she’ll be … sensitive to your feelings.”
“I wonder if she’ll be sensitive to Kerry’s,” Alex mused.
Josie glanced at the empty chair beside her, where Peter’s wife—his widow—normally sat; Kerry was spending the weekend with a sister who lived here in Atlanta. Josie said, “Surely she will. I mean, we don’t even know that she was—was involved with Peter.”
“I’d bet hard cash on the probability,” Alex said.
“That’s enough,” Amelia snapped, sitting up even straighter than usual in her chair at the head of the table. “Laura will be here as my guest, and I expect you all to behave accordingly.”
Amelia’s granddaughter, Anne, sitting between Madeline and Daniel at the long table, said, “Whether we like it or not.” Her voice was flat.
Amelia looked at her, frowning. “This is still my house, and I’ll thank you to remember that fact.”
Anne, a dark-haired, brown-eyed woman with her grandmother’s elegant features spoiled by a discontented expression, shrugged pettishly. “Oh, I remember. How could I forget, when you remind me almost daily?”
“I shouldn’t have to remind you.”
“No, I suppose not. After all, everything done in this house has to have your stamp of approval or it just doesn’t get done. I couldn’t choose wallpaper for my room without your okay, and we’re all forced to eat this bland, unimaginative food because it suits you, not because any of us like it.” She shoved her plate away with an angry gesture.
“You don’t have to live here,” Amelia reminded her coldly.
Josie intervened before Anne could voice a retort, saying quietly, “I think we’re all still coping with shock, and—”
“Don’t help me!” Anne told her in fierce resentment. She pushed her chair back and stalked from the room.
There was a little silence, and then Josie sighed. “No matter what I say or do, I always seem to rub Anne the wrong way.”
“She’s jealous of you,” Amelia said with a shrug.
“She shouldn’t be.” Josie felt distinctly uncomfortable. “I … think I’ve eaten all I can. Excuse me, please?” Receiving a gracious nod from Amelia, she left the table and the room, hearing Madeline’s plaintive voice behind her.
“But, Amelia, this girl—!”
Josie frowned a little as she went to the library and the small desk she used. She didn’t really have any work to do, beyond sorting and filing copies of some of Amelia’s notes from the last day or so. Amelia was an inveterate letter writer at all times, maintaining a steady correspondence with friends all over the country, and she insisted on keeping copies of letters received and written for the family archives. Recent letters and notes concerned Peter’s death, of course, and Josie had been too busy to get them all filed.
Not that Amelia either asked or expected her to be working on a Saturday evening, but Josie was restless and needed to be occupied. She was worried. In many ways, Peter hadn’t exactly been an asset to the family, but his death had upset a careful balance, and the result was a great deal of tension—and suspicion.
Josie didn’t want to think that, but during th
e past days she had come to the reluctant conclusion that someone inside the family might have had something to do with Peter’s death. For one thing, the police seemed far more interested now than they had been initially in the whereabouts of family members the night Peter had been killed; they had returned twice during the week, polite but full of questions. And for another thing, the faces around her seemed guarded and wary when they hadn’t been before.
Even Alex …
“You surely aren’t planning to work tonight?”
Josie looked up as Alex came into the room, and after a slight hesitation placed a crystal paperweight atop a stack of Amelia’s notes. “No, I guess not. I was just restless.”
“After that little scene at the supper table, I’m not surprised. Madeline is still upset, and Amelia lost patience with her. So it’s left to Daniel to try and calm his mother down.”
“I can’t say that I blame Madeline, really,” Josie said. “To bring any stranger into the house right now would be upsetting, but Laura Sutherland? What’s gotten into Amelia? This sudden obsession with getting her portrait painted, and by an unknown artist, seems so …”
“Crazy?” Alex supplied wryly.
Josie got up and absently pushed her chair neatly back under the desk. “Eccentric, let’s say.”
Alex laughed shortly at her careful choice of words. “She’s up to something, that much is certain. So’s Daniel.”
Josie looked into his speculative greenish eyes and felt a little chill of unease. “What do you mean?”
“I mean … things are going to come to a head in this family, and soon, if I’m not much mistaken. The only question is, how many of us are going to be left standing when it’s all over.”
“You make it sound like a war.”
He shrugged, suddenly careless. “Nothing for you to worry about, sweet. Both Amelia and Daniel like you.” He reached out and took her hand, smiling. “Anyway, let’s not think anymore about that. You’re restless, and I’ve had about all of this house I can take for the moment, so why don’t we get out of here?”
“You’re on.” Josie didn’t know what he had in mind, but she didn’t really care. She didn’t want to think or worry anymore, at least for a while, and Alex was the best cure she had ever found for too much introspection.
• • •
THE CLOCK ON his nightstand proclaimed the hour of midnight when Josie stirred beside Alex. She was reluctant to move, very reluctant, but she had never yet spent an entire night in his bed and wasn’t about to start now. Whatever he said, Josie doubted that Amelia would like her secretary and the soon-to-be family lawyer openly sharing a bed right here in the family house.
“Where are you going?” he murmured when she pushed the covers back.
“To my room, of course.”
Alex hooked an arm around her waist, hauled her easily back to his side, and shifted his weight so that he held her trapped. “I don’t think so.”
“Alex—”
He leaned down and kissed her, his half-open eyes gleaming at her in the lamplight as his mouth played on hers. His tongue glided sensuously, his teeth nibbled gently, in a caress that was blatantly sexual.
Josie felt his hard shoulders under her hands and wasn’t surprised that she had reached for him. He knew just how to touch her, just how to arouse her until she was beyond protest. Beyond herself. No matter how closely she tried to guard herself, he always found at least this way in.
Her body arched into his, pressing closer, and she made a little sound when his hand slid up her rib cage and cupped her breast. Her flesh responded instantly to the gentle kneading, to the rhythmic brushing of his thumb back and forth across her tightening nipple. She made another sound, harsher and more urgent, hearing it throb in her throat, which ached just as the rest of her body ached for him.
His eyes still slitted, still gleaming enigmatically at her, he murmured against her lips, “You don’t really want to leave me, do you, sweet?”
She looked at him dazedly, then caught her breath when he lowered his head so that he could brush his lips across the straining tip of her breast. He held her gaze while his tongue darted out and flicked lightly, while his mouth captured and sucked her sensitive flesh.
“Do you?” he demanded insistently, his low voice as seductive as his caresses.
Josie wanted to say yes. She wanted to be able to be strong, to prove at least to herself that Alex had changed nothing in her. But her body had changed, had learned to respond to his touch, and as much as she would have liked to deny that, he knew it as well as she did. He was feeding at her breast, not like a child but like a man hungry for the taste of her, and the hot sensations were driving her mad. With every pull of his mouth, the empty ache deep inside her intensified until she couldn’t be still—or silent.
“No,” she said huskily, her fingers threading through his silky blond hair. “No, I don’t want to leave you. Oh, God, Alex—please …”
“You’ll stay all night?” His mouth toyed with her nipple while his hand slid down over her belly and probed gently between her thighs.
Josie shuddered, her body going as taut as a bowstring when his long fingers penetrated, his thumb stroked and teased. She tried to find the breath to answer him, realizing dimly and with an oddly relieved sense of surrender that if he had asked her to walk through fire or over broken glass, her reply would have been the same.
“Yes. Yes, Alex. Oh—!” She couldn’t help crying out, writhing against him when she felt his teeth rake her nipple gently and his fingers plunge deep. “Alex, for God’s sake!”
“Not for yours?” he murmured, raising his head at last and smiling at her.
A little wildly, she said, “What are you trying to do to me?”
Whether he heard in her voice that she was pushed to her limits or simply lost patience himself, Alex answered her with his body. He slipped between her thighs, drawing them high around his waist, and slowly entered her.
Josie was so close to the edge, and he kept her there, moving with exquisite care, the strain showing on his face and in quivering muscles. He seemed bent on drawing out the lovemaking until neither of them could stand another moment more, and though Josie wanted to protest, she couldn’t find the breath or a single coherent word with which to do so.
It seemed to go on forever, pleasure that rippled through her in tiny, rhythmic waves that grew more and more powerful, until finally she was swept up in a hot, dizzying whirlpool of sensation so intense that she was blind and deaf to everything except the overwhelming satisfaction of her climax.
Josie became aware of her surroundings once again just as Alex rolled onto his back, carrying her with him. He was still breathing harshly, and she lay with her cheek against his chest and her eyes closed while her pillow gradually steadied into a slow rise and fall.
“That wasn’t fair,” she murmured at last.
His arms tightened around her, and Alex didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “No, I guess not. But you’ve been slipping out of my bed like a nervous schoolgirl for two months, and I couldn’t take it anymore.”
She raised her head and looked down at him gravely. “You never said anything.”
“Would it have done any good?” And when she remained silent, he nodded. “Yeah, I thought so.”
“Amelia—” she began, but Alex was shaking his head.
“Don’t kid yourself, Josie. You don’t creep back to your own room in the middle of the night because you’re worried about what Amelia might say. You do it because in your mind you’ve put this affair of ours into a nice, neat, safe little category. It’s sex. Just sex.”
She frowned. “Isn’t that what you want?”
He gazed up at her for a moment, a little smile playing around his mouth. Then he said, “Sure. But having sex makes us lovers, sweet, and lovers sometimes sleep together—all night—in the same bed. I want that too. But you don’t have to worry. It won’t make us married. It won’t even make us in love. So you don’
t have to give up Jeremy.”
Josie moved off him jerkily and yanked the covers up to hide her nakedness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” He raised up on an elbow, his handsome face a little mocking. “If it’s just sex between us, then it’s no threat to your memories of Jeremy. If you slip back into your own bed in the night, the bed you’ve turned into your marriage bed and keep sacrosanct even though he never slept in it with you, then you haven’t really been unfaithful to him.”
“He’s dead,” Josie said shakily.
“Yeah, but you haven’t buried him. You haven’t let go of him.” Alex smiled slightly, seemingly a little amused. “Oh, don’t look so horrified, Josie. It doesn’t bother me. If you want to wear your widow’s weeds for the next forty years like Amelia and keep Jeremy’s ageless picture on your dresser to smile at every night, that’s your business. Hell, it might even be just the way he’d want you to live out the rest of your life. But since he’d have a bit of trouble performing his husbandly duties as things stand now, I doubt he’d begrudge us an hour spent together here and there. Or even a night. Who else would he expect to see to his widow’s needs, after all? I am his cousin.”
With a choked sound, Josie flung back the covers and scrambled from the bed. She didn’t look back at Alex, but was highly aware of his silent attention as she found her clothes scattered on the floor and dressed hastily.
“You said you’d stay all night,” he reminded her coolly.
She threw him a single incredulous look and fled from his bedroom as if something with teeth and claws pursued her. She was automatically quiet as she hurried down the dimly lit hallway, carrying her shoes, and didn’t realize she was actually holding her breath until she was inside her own bedroom and leaning back against the door. Then her breath escaped raggedly, catching at the end in a dry little sob.
She felt a little sick, and more than a little shaken. Alex had never before been cruel to her, never. He had never taunted her about Jeremy, and he’d certainly never uttered anything like his mocking words of tonight. So why had he tonight? Why had he said things he must have known would upset her terribly? It was so unlike him.…
