Beguiled

by Deeanne Gist

  Moistening her lips, she took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is, I can’t start something.”

  “Why not?” He glanced at her. She tried to slip her hand free, but he tightened his hold. “Don’t pull away, Rylee.”

  “I have to.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated. I’m not even sure I can explain it.”

  “Try.” He stroked her palm.

  “It goes back. Way back.”

  They rode in silence again, her heart keeping time with the thrumming of the tires. He drew her hand to his lips, tasting, nipping, kissing. Singling out each knuckle like he’d never known a hand before.

  A ball of desire she’d kept hidden even from herself shattered into a million pieces, scattering fragments of yearning throughout her body. She shivered, goose bumps covering her arms, her legs, her chest.

  “Logan.” Her whisper a plea. For what, she wasn’t sure.

  He lowered her hand, resting it against his thigh.

  “I’m afraid.”

  He frowned. “Of me?”

  “Of me.”

  The car slowed. Whether he did it on purpose, she didn’t know.

  She pulled against his hand again. This time he released her.

  “My granddad, Nonie’s husband?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, he took off when my dad was a teenager, leaving Nonie at a time when single parents weren’t at all the norm. Her family had money, so she and my dad were okay financially, but emotionally— from what little Nonie has told me—my dad was never the same.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  She looked out the window. They were crossing the Ashley River, leaving the island and heading toward the city. “When I was five, my dad did the same thing to my mom. One day he was there, the next he wasn’t.” She looked down at her hands. “Two days after he left, she overdosed on sleeping pills. We don’t know if she did it by accident or on purpose.”

  He ran the back of his fingers against her bare arm. “Two days is pretty quick to lose all hope. How could she be sure he wouldn’t come back?”

  She stared at him, completely taken aback. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it. But, yes. That does seem kind of strange.”

  He turned onto Broad Street. “So now you’re afraid of what? That if we get serious, I’m going to do the same thing?”

  “It’s not you, Logan. It’s me.” She crossed her arms. “Monroe women can’t seem to hold their men. That’s all.”

  He wove through the streets of the historic district, finally pulling up in front of the Davidsons’ house. He parallel parked, then turned off the ignition.

  “You brought me to Toro’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t have to. I could have come over after you took me home.” She put her hand on the door handle.

  “Rylee?”

  She paused.

  “Just because you’re a Monroe doesn’t mean you’re an automatic candidate for abandonment.”

  Her eyes moistened. “You can’t tell the future, Logan.”

  Placing a finger at her chin, he turned her toward him, wiping a tear that trailed down her cheek. “No, I can’t, but I can tell you this. I’m not your granddad, and I’m not your dad. When I find the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, it’ll be for the rest of my life. Death do us part, just like the vows say.”

  Pulling away from his touch, she opened the door and fled before he could say any more.

  He leaned against the hood of the car, thinking of the manuscript pages waiting back at his apartment. The book he wasn’t writing.

  He shouldn’t be here. Waiting for her to emerge from the David-sons’ house. Waiting to be near her again. But he was.

  He ran a hand through his hair. Her being in cpd’s sights might be inconvenient, but nothing he couldn’t cope with. This abandonment thing, though. That was a problem.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. The incoming number was blocked.

  “Woods.” Marcel Gibbon’s voice. “Half an hour. Washington Park.”

  “You sound funny. Is everything all right?”

  “Half an hour—”

  “No, wait. I can’t get there in thirty minutes. Make it an hour.”

  “You can make it,” Gibbon said. “Bring the girl.”

  The line went dead. Rylee came out of the gate. Toro immediately growled, showing his teeth.

  Logan froze.

  She gave the leash a quick jerk. “Bad dog! This won’t take long, Logan. I’ll be back in no time.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  “You don’t have to. I know you don’t like him.”

  Pushing away from the hood, he fell in beside her. “Keep him on his side of the sidewalk and we’ll be fine.”

  No response. Not even a smile. He sighed.

  They walked in stiff silence. He brushed her hand. A block later, he hooked her pinkie with his. When Toro stopped, Logan intertwined his fingers with hers and tugged her to him.

  Nuzzling her ear, he caught a tiny hint of the fragrance she’d had on when he first picked her up. “I’m sorry, Rylee. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

  She looked up, her eyes luminous, distraught.

  “It’s okay.” He cupped her cheek, brushing her lower lip with his thumb. “We’ll just take it slow. One day at a time. Okay?”

  Her chest rose and fell with deep breaths.

  Moving his hand to the back of her head, he lowered his mouth.

  They’d barely touched when Toro gave a bark. She pulled back and patted the dog.

  The mastiff led them down an alleyway, finally emerging at the waterfront. They climbed the steps and walked along the bulkhead.

  The sound of the waves along the wall, the salty, flowery scent of the wind, caught them up in a momentary reverie.

  He glanced at the mansions lining East Battery. “Rylee?”

  “Hmmm?” A lazy breeze stirred the fabric of her dress.

  “I . . . I was wondering about that house, the one your grandmother called home.”

  “I was wondering about that, too.” She looked at him in surprise. “Those old pictures, I haven’t flipped through them in years. The ones of my parents and me, I’ve memorized them all. But the older ones, not so much. I never really paid attention to that house before—just the people in the photo. But, now it’s stuck in my head.”

  “Do you know where your parents lived when you were little?”

  “Somewhere around here, though I don’t know exactly which house. Nonie hated to talk about anything relating to that time. She’d get really short with me and stay mad for days if I even brought it up. When I got old enough to insist, she was so confused, I never could get a straight answer.” She sucked in a quick breath. “Do you think that might be it? Do you think that’s a picture of my house?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea. I thought maybe you did.”

  They turned around and headed back toward the Davidsons’. Her explanation rang with honesty, a fingernail striking crystal. All of a sudden, he felt incredibly stupid. Not for giving credence to Nate’s crackpot theories—he hadn’t—but for letting the cop bend down and drip poison into his ear.

  He slipped his arm around her. As they walked, she tucked her head against his shoulder, her body warm, touching from head to hip.

  “Rylee, you need to be careful.”

  “Careful?”

  “Of the police. Of Nate.”

  “He’s a doofus.”

  “A doofus with a badge. If you give him something—anything— he’s gonna use it against you. Understand what I’m saying?”

  She lifted her head. “Are you serious?”

  “The police seem to think you’re some kind of accomplice.”

  She pulled Toro up short. “Did Detective Campbell say something to you?”

  He shrugged. “That’s the impression I got from him.”

  “But it’s so ridiculous.
”

  In spite of the dismissive words, her face went pale and hardened. Like a weight had just settled on her, and she had to strain to keep from crumpling. The dog, sensing her mood, gazed up at her.

  His warning had hit her harder than he’d expected. “Don’t worry. They’re keeping tabs on George. If there’s another robbery, they’ll catch him in the act.”

  She glanced up and down the Battery. “What about me? Are they keeping tabs on me?”

  “What? No. Rylee, of course not. Don’t worry, all right? I didn’t mean to upset you. I can’t seem to say the right thing.”

  She looked so bereft, he had to pull her against him.

  “Don’t worry. Okay?”

  She nodded, then buried her face against his neck, arms jutting over his shoulders. She hung there limp as a rag doll, breathing hard, her heartbeat thumping so he could feel it against his chest.

  Behind them, a woman in a track suit approached, a long-nosed gray dog leashed to her wrist. She passed them, then did a double take.

  “Hey, Rylee.”

  They parted, Rylee turning to face the woman. Toro let out a quick bark, but stayed on his side of the walkway.

  “Oh, Belinda. Hey.”

  The woman trotted away with a salute.

  When she was gone, Rylee sighed. “The competition.”

  He slipped his hand into hers. “Let’s get going.”

  A few minutes later, they made it back to the Davidsons’ gate.

  Yawning, she ruffled the dog’s head. “He did really good tonight. Let me go give him some water and put him in his crate. I’ll be right back.”

  He checked his watch. Still time to get to Washington Park.

  When she returned, he had the car door open and waiting. He hustled around to his side and started the engine. “Rylee. There’s one thing.”

  She leaned her head against the headrest, turning toward him. “What is it?”

  He glanced at the dashboard clock. She followed his gaze.

  “The guy from the other night? Marcel Gibbon?”

  “What about him?”

  “I . . . He wants to see me.”

  “Why? When?”

  He made a u-turn and headed toward Washington Park. “Well . . . now.”

  “Right now?” She frowned, then slowly lifted her head. “At, like, one in the morning?”

  He looked at her. “This all came down earlier today. I’m sorry. Seriously. But he just called and sort of drew a line in the sand, and I really need to talk to him.”

  “Right now.”

  He tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. “I mean it, Rylee. I really am sorry. Tonight has been . . . incredible. I don’t want it to end like this, but I think . . . It’s about George.”

  He waited, feeling the distance between them stretch from inches to miles.

  “Okay,” she said with a sigh. “If we have to, let’s get it over with.”

  “Thanks.” He put his hand on her knee, an apologetic touch, and they headed toward the park in silence.

  Logan came back to the car, waking her from restless sleep. She rubbed her cheek, feeling the impression left by the leather seat.

  The clock on the dashboard said three.

  “I don’t know where he is.” He flipped his cell phone shut, tucking it into his jeans pocket. “He said he’d be here.”

  She yawned. “I don’t care where he is, Logan.” Fatigue slurred her words. “I don’t care about anything but sleep.”

  “But what?”

  “Sleep!”

  He closed the car door. “Okay, okay. I’ll take you home. It’s just weird. He made it sound like it was now or never. ”

  He’d left her in the car on Broad, telling her he’d ask his questions of Marcel and return to her in short order. Now he put it in gear and headed to her place.

  “I’m glad he wasn’t there. That guy creeps me out.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but I thought he could help.”

  Her limbs felt too heavy to lift. She let her hand drop. Her eyelids, too. She slid sideways in her seat, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. He put his arm around her, pulling her closer, but the console thwarted his efforts.

  “I just want to sleep,” she said.

  “Then sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

  So she did. She slept and eventually dreamed, her unconscious mind all rolling ocean and gritty sand.

  When she finally woke, it wasn’t Logan that roused her, it was the warmth of an early morning sun. She opened her eyes, her whole body stiff from contortion, awake in the passenger seat as Logan slept deeply next to her, his breathing regular, the clock on the dash reading ten past seven.

  They were in the parking lot of her building, Daisy beside them.

  She eased back, freeing herself from his encircling arm, then watched him for a while. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt, but there was a faint smile on his lips. His eyelids were troubled, a current of dreams running underneath. Arriving a few hours before, he must have looked at her the way she looked at him now, deciding not to wake her.

  She felt the same way. She slipped out of the car, careful to close the door with as little noise as possible. She tiptoed to the stairs. He’d open his eyes and she’d be gone, leaving him to wonder if any of it had really happened at all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pausing at her apartment door, Rylee fumbled for the keys. Over her shoulder, she heard Logan’s car start, then listened as he drove away. She felt a pang of separation but knew he’d not been able to see her, even if he’d looked up. Her door wasn’t visible from the parking lot the way Liz’s was.

  She slipped her key into the lock, but the pressure of her hand pushed the door open. She frowned. When they’d left for their date, she’d made sure the door was locked. She was positive.

  Prickly tingles went up her back, down her arms.

  Pushing the door open slowly, she peered through the ever-widening crack. She stole forward, no sound but her breathing.

  Flipping on the lights, she discovered . . . nothing. Not an object out of place.

  But looking around, something didn’t feel right. Crazy as it seemed, she thought the carpet looked different, pushed against the grain by an alien set of tracks. She bent low to inspect. Maybe she was wrong.

  She continued toward the bedroom, pulling up short at the threshold. The bedcovers were tucked in with near-military precision, the surface of her down comforter utterly smooth. Not even the slightest sign of disturbance.

  She gripped the doorframe. She’d been running late yesterday.

  And as a result, she hadn’t bothered to make the bed.

  On shaky legs, she wobbled to the side where she slept, certain something was waiting for her under those sheets.

  She reached out for the edge of the comforter, hardly able to force herself to make the contact. The fabric, soft from a multitude of washings, felt foreign to the touch.

  She peeled back the layers. One after another. Her imagination ran wild. Pools of blood. A severed carcass. A smeared threat written in sanguinary finger paint.

  But again, there was nothing. The message wasn’t under the sheets. It was the sheets themselves. Someone had entered and left a sign that was intelligible only to her.

  After making sure once again that the apartment was empty, she checked every window. All the screens were in place. All were locked from the inside.

  She went to the front door, dragging a chair over to brace it.

  Logan had been right. The lock was a joke. With a credit card and a flick of the wrist, she’d let herself in more than once after misplacing her key. That was going to change.

  New locks, she promised herself. In the morning, first thing.

  Kicking off her flats, she entered the bathroom, its tiles cooling her feet. She reached behind the curtain and turned on the water. Ordinarily, she never bothered to close the door, but now she pushed it tight and thumbed down the spring-loaded lock.


  Discarding her clothes in a little pile, she stepped into the tub and let the water drizzle over her, wishing just once it would pound through the rusty nozzle in a constant stream instead of in spurts.

  The shower curtain brushed against her skin. She peered around the corner to make sure the room was empty, images of Psycho slashing through her mind.

  She soaped, shampooed and conditioned in record time, then wrapped her head in one towel and her body in another.

  Why hadn’t she thought to bring her clothes into the bathroom with her? But she knew why. Because there was never any need. Because the door was never closed.

  I have confidence in sunshine. . . .

  She whipped open the door, releasing a cloud of steam. Nothing. No sound but the drip, drip of the shower nozzle.

  . . . I have confidence in rain. . . .

  She padded across the room, the matted carpet coarse under her damp feet.

  . . . I have confidence that spring will come again. . . .

  She pulled open her underwear drawer and reached inside.

  . . . Besides which you see, I have con— She snatched her hand back.

  They’d been returned. The things he’d taken. Laundered, positioned neatly, and left on top.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Yellow tape fluttered along the perimeter of the historic home like leftover decorations from a Policeman’s Ball. Men in white overalls went in and out from the Davidsons’ front door. Charleston police officers conducted a fingertip search of the lawn.

  Logan’s pulse hammered in his head. This was bad, very bad. Just six hours ago, he’d stood on this very spot, waiting for Rylee to emerge from the house.

  Nate Campbell stood sentry at the front gate, arms crossed, boring holes into Logan with his eyes. The detective looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep, either. At least he’d managed a fresh pair of clothes, which was more than Logan had.

  Logan stopped short on the sidewalk, not liking Nate’s expression. “What?”

  “You’re here pretty fast,” Campbell snapped.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Well, you can park it right here for the time being, ’cause we’re a long way from done.” He gave Logan’s rumpled clothes a once-over, then cracked a mirthless smile. “Long night?” An irritating chuckle. “Did you, uh . . . get to home base?”