by Rebecca York
They swayed together in the center of the room, touching and kissing and making small exclamations as their hands and lips explored each other and gave pleasure.
She felt her blood singing, felt sweet pressure building inside her.
“Take me to bed,” she said, hearing the thick, shaky timbre of her voice.
“Oh, yes,” he agreed, his fingers moving in a sensual pattern across her back as his mouth played with hers, demonstrating his expertise with a kiss. As she clung to him for support, his lips traveled lower, teasing her neck, her collarbone, the tingling flesh where her neck met her shoulder.
When she swayed on her feet again, he eased them toward the bed, pulling aside the covers so they could slip between the sheets.
He looked slightly dazed, as if he couldn’t believe they were really here together, naked in his bed.
But it was true. Caught by a giddy sense of wonder, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You’re shaking.”
“So are you.”
Whatever else she might have said turned into a long sigh of pleasure as his hands came back to her breasts, lifting them, then drawing circles that grew smaller and smaller as they converged on her nipples.
He was teasing her, building her anticipation. She gave him a pleading cry before he finally captured the hardened centers between his thumbs and fingers, eliciting another exclamation from her that was close to a sob.
He followed the caress with his lips and she cupped his dark head, caressing his thick hair, murmuring his name as he pleasured her.
He rolled her to her back and she smiled up at him, reaching to stroke the hair away from his forehead. It was just a bit too long, and she thought that perhaps later she could trim it for him.
But it was difficult to hang on to a coherent thought when his fingers found the moist, throbbing center of her.
She wanted to close her eyes and cling to him, but a small edge of panic threatened to intrude.
Last time he had tricked her. This time she wasn’t going to let it end in the same way.
Sliding her hand down his body, she found the hard shaft of his erection again, closing her fingers around him, stroking a sensual pattern that she knew would bring her what she wanted.
“Troy, this time I want you inside me when I come.”
“Yes.”
He moved over her, his legs opening hers, and she felt that wonderful hard shaft press against her, into her, his body staking its claim on hers.
She kept her eyes open, kept them on his face, watching the tight pleasure she saw there. The intensity of it took her breath away.
He smiled down at her, then lowered his head to kiss her softly, tenderly. Shifting slightly, he found her breast with his fingers, caressing her, adding to her pleasure.
When he moved his hips it was slowly, deliberately, maddeningly.
Her body clamored for release. But he kept the pace where he wanted it, using his body and his hands and his mouth to bring her to an aching pinnacle of need.
“Troy… Oh, Troy, please,” she cried.
He took mercy on her then, quickening the rhythm, wringing a deep, glad cry from her as an explosion of pleasure tore through her.
He gasped her name as his body convulsed above hers, and she clung tightly to his shoulders, thinking now that he had claimed her for his own.
Aftershocks of pleasure rippled through her as he held her in his arms. When he moved to her side, she snuggled against him, drifting as her hands tenderly stroked his slick skin.
“Thank you,” she murmured, then took a chance and added, “I’ve waited years for that.”
“So have I.”
“Don’t leave me. I don’t want to wake up and find you’ve vanished.”
His embrace tightened around her. “Sleep,” he murmured.
She nestled down beside him, feeling more fulfilled and peaceful than she had in years.
None of the questions and problems had gone away, but because she wanted this time with Troy, she only burrowed against him, then lost herself in sleep.
Her slumber was deep and untroubled, perhaps because Troy held her in his arms. Just as the first light of dawn crept into the room, the gentle touch of his fingers on her cheek woke her.
Her eyes blinked open.
“It’s time to go,” he whispered.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t push my luck by staying any longer.” She sat up and as she smoothed her hair back from her forehead, she remembered why she’d come here in the first place. “I forgot about looking for the strongbox.”
“We had better things to do last night. The strongbox is behind a panel on the right side of the closet,” he said, as if the hiding place were of little importance. “About three feet from the door.”
She stared at him. “How do I get into it?”
“You just press on the wall there, and it will open.”
When she started to scramble out of bed, he caught her wrist in his big hand. “It’s not going anywhere.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s inside?” she demanded.
“My birth certificate, my marriage license.” He stopped.
“Hardly worth hiding.”
“Some stuff of Helen’s.”
“Helen! What does that have to do with you?”
“You can figure that out later. But right now you need to come outside with me.”
She stared at him uncertainly. He’d made wonderful love to her a few hours ago, and she thought—no, she hoped—that everything had changed. But he was still acting the way he had since she’d first arrived: evasive, secretive.
She sighed. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what’s so important outside?”
At least he looked regretful. “It’s not the easiest thing to explain. You’d better come with me.”
She didn’t like the tone of his voice and she wanted to protest, yet she felt his sense of urgency.
She wanted to tell him what she had said before: if he was in some kind of trouble, she could help. But she didn’t even know if that was true. Maybe there was nothing she could do. So she slowly got out of bed and began searching for the clothing they’d scattered around the floor.
She found his shirt first and silently handed it to him, her fingers lingering on his for just a moment.
Then she snatched up her own slacks and underwear.
He was dressed first, waiting while she went into the bathroom.
Back in the bedroom, he led her to the closet, then past the clothing hanging on the rod at the back. She wasn’t really surprised to find a secret passage there, considering he’d appeared and disappeared through the closet several times. There was a flashlight hanging by a loop at the side of the doorway. He picked it up, playing it along the floor as they followed the tunnel downward.
First they came to what looked like a blank wall. Troy worked some hidden mechanism there, too, ushering her into another passageway that revealed itself.
A bunch of underground tunnels should look the same, but she suspected she’d been in this one before.
“Does this lead to the closet in my old bedroom?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“So that’s how you’ve been getting into my room so easily!”
He didn’t comment, only led her along the stone passageway to the place where the tunnel made an abrupt turn. She realized she’d always kept to the right-hand wall. The left would have been a better choice, she noted as he opened a panel then ushered her into still another passageway.
“Who needed all these tunnels?” she asked.
“Smugglers. My grandfather had a nice illegal import business.”
She wanted to ask more questions, but she was using all her energy to keep up with him. Ahead of her she could hear waves pounding against the shore, and when they came to stone steps, the surface was damp.
He took her arm, holding her tightly as they climbed to an opening just under the level of the cliff.
Below was a sheer drop to roiling water crashing against jagged rocks. One false step and you’d be dashed to death by the waves pounding the rugged shoreline.
She shrank back.
“It’s okay. I won’t let you fall,” he said, and she remembered that other time when he’d caught her in midair.
She reached for his hand, her trust in him absolute as he led her up a rocky path to an indentation in the cliff wall that was much too high for her to scale on her own.
“Let me go first. Then I’ll help you.”
Detaching his hand from hers, he pulled himself up. Then he reached down for her.
She grabbed on to his solid flesh, knowing he was doing most of the work. Still, it was difficult to make those last few yards.
When they reached the top of the cliff, she stood in the shadow of a large huckleberry bush, breathing hard and looking back the way they’d come, thinking she never would have made it by herself.
Troy kept his arm around her, staring out at the churning water. “I always loved this place,” he said. “I love the sound of the waves and the power of nature.”
“Yes, it’s beautiful.”
“If Grace could have moved the house a couple of miles inland, she would have done it.”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, his expression regretful. “Come on. We’d better—”
He stopped abruptly, then thrust her roughly down behind a huckleberry bush, hunkering beside her, his hand clamping over her mouth as she tried to ask what he was doing.
Moments later she heard footsteps coming along the path. Apparently someone else was out and about early this morning.
She heard a voice and as the person came closer, she realized it was Graves.
Apparently he was talking to himself, muttering something she couldn’t distinguish. Still, the tone of his voice made goose bumps rise on her arms.
She edged closer to Troy, comforted by the solid feeling of his body, the warmth of his skin.
Graves passed by the huckleberry bush where they were hiding.
For long moments neither Bree nor Troy moved. Finally she risked a peek around the foliage and saw the man’s retreating figure. Still, if he turned around, he would see them. She didn’t want to confront him and she was pretty sure Troy didn’t want to give his presence away, so she waited until the handyman had passed into the garden and disappeared from view.
When Graves had exited the scene, Troy got to his feet and started through the scrubby, windblown vegetation that covered the headlands.
“Wait!”
She might as well have been talking to the sea. Running to catch up, she saw that they were only fifty yards from the grove of trees.
So the exit from the tunnels was near Troy’s grove, which made it easy for him to get there—then back to the house when he was finished putting on a show out here for the Sterlings. Well, not just the Sterlings. Probably Mrs. Martindale and Graves, too.
She might have remarked on that, but his lips were set in a grim line. Apparently he wasn’t happy about this little expedition, yet he was taking her here anyway.
They climbed over a fallen log, then plunged into the twilight under the trees. He led her across a patch of ground to a little clearing.
“There,” he said, pointing to a spot where she could see a slight indentation in the earth. “That’s why they don’t come here.”
The way he said it made her skin go icy.
“What is it?”
“Troy London’s grave.”
Chapter Fifteen
Bree felt as though a wrecking ball had hit her square in the chest, knocking all the air out of her lungs. She gasped, grappling with the enormity of what he had just said.
Troy London’s grave!
It was too much to believe. Too much to absorb. And her only defense was a quick, decisive denial.
She swung toward Troy and grasped him by the shoulders. “Stop it! What are you trying to do? Did you know Graves was going to come walking along the cliff? Did the two of you cook this up?”
He stared down at her, his gaze intense and regretful. “No.”
“Troy, I’m tired of this. Tired of your playing games. Tired of your saying something one minute and something else the next. If you can’t be straight with me, then leave me alone.”
“All right.”
She hadn’t meant it in literal terms. It had simply been her anger and her frustration—and her fear—talking. But Troy chose to take her at her word. He wrenched away from her, stumbled once, then dashed through the underbrush.
Wide-eyed, she started after him, shouting for him to stop. “Wait. I didn’t mean it. Come back.”
He didn’t answer. Instead a gale-force wind rose up to hold her back, sending pine needles and other materials from the floor of the grove whirling in her face. Dust hit her eyes and she cried out, putting up her arm for protection, even as she tried to struggle forward. The whirlwind came fast and furious, tearing at her clothing, obscuring all vision, so that clouds of debris spun around her, rising to a frantic crescendo that roared in her ears like the howl of a lost soul in agony. Moments later, it was all over and she was alone in the grove.
“Troy!” she screamed, screamed until her throat was raw. But she already knew it would do her no good. He was gone again.
Only this time it was after they’d made love, when she’d thought that everything had changed. Well, not everything. At least she’d assumed that he was ready to work with her, not against her.
Now he had taken the first opportunity to let her know that she’d simply been operating on wishful thinking.
The new dishonesty made her angry. And, as she had when he’d shown her the grave, she focused on the anger, because there was no alternative. If she let go of the anger, she would be left with raw, blinding terror.
The night before, in the bedroom, when Troy had been kissing and caressing her, she’d felt as though her legs wouldn’t hold her weight.
She felt like that now. Sinking to a fallen log, she huddled there, feeling her heart beating wildly in her chest.
He’d shown her Troy London’s grave but he’d been standing next to her when he’d said it. It couldn’t be his grave. It had to be a hoax. But at least now she knew the kind of thing he had in mind. He had been hiding out for weeks, probably because he’d lost all his money in those bad stock investments. Or maybe it was worse than that. Maybe he’d done something highly illegal to try to get his fortune back and it had all blown up in his face. He wasn’t planning to stay around much longer. He wanted people to think he was dead, so he could disappear permanently. She wasn’t part of his plans. He had been saying goodbye last night.
The scenario didn’t make perfect sense, but it was the best she could conjure up, since there was no way to wrap her mind around the alternative.
It was several minutes before she was able to push herself to her feet. Then, resolutely, she started back to the house, unsure what she was going to do when she got there.
As she neared the back door, another thought intruded. She’d been so overwhelmed that she’d forgotten all about the strongbox!
Slipping her hand into her pocket, she was relieved to find the key. Now on a mission, she was about to charge inside the house when she checked her reflection in one of the windowpanes beside the door. She couldn’t see much in the makeshift mirror, but what she could see wasn’t pretty. Leaning forward, she picked several pine needles out of her hair, then tried to finger-comb her curls.
The hasty grooming hadn’t done much good. She looked as though she’d been in a hurricane.
Well, she’d been out on the headlands, she reminded herself, where the wind was always blowing. That was a good excuse for her disheveled looks.
Slipping inside, she made her way toward the back stairs. She’d almost reached her goal when Mrs. Martindale stepped out of a doorway.
“My word, you do look a fright,” she said.
“
I was out for a walk, and the wind was blowing pretty badly.”
The housekeeper gave her a studied look. “You’re getting to be quite a morning walker.”
Bree cocked her head. Was the housekeeper keeping track of her habits? Great!
“Well, I’m probably still on east coast time. I’m often up early, and it’s good to get some fresh air.”
“You didn’t see Graves by any chance, did you?”
Bree caught the woman’s tension. “No,” she answered quickly.
“I went to his room. He wasn’t there. I need him to empty the garbage. He should have done it last night and now the can’s full. I’m afraid I’ll hurt my back if I try to lift it.”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
“Thank you. And you don’t want to be late for breakfast. I’m making my hot cross buns. They’re best right out of the oven.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Bree answered, then hurried up the steps to the room where she’d moved her belongings. After a quick shower, she pulled on fresh slacks and a beige knit top, then slipped back into the hall, thinking that if she moved quickly, she could get a look at the strongbox before breakfast.
As she had the night before, she heard voices and went stock-still. Again she recognized Abner Sterling. But he wasn’t talking to his wife.
“What have you done with her?” Sterling demanded.
“I haven’t done anything,” Graves answered.
“She’s not in our room.”
“I haven’t seen her. If you can’t keep track of your wife, don’t blame it on me.” There was a long pause. “Didn’t she say she was going to leave you?”
“How would you know that?”
Graves gave a nasty little laugh. “You two were talking about it loudly enough last night. If you want to have a private conversation, don’t do it on the stairs.”
Sterling cursed.
Then Graves raised his voice. “If you put your hands on me, you big ox, you’ll be sorry.”
