Between the Sheets

by P. J. Mellor

  “Speaking of thinking, I was doing just that last night.”

  “Uh-huh.” Amy’s head bobbed. “And what did you come up with now?”

  “It’s just a theory….”

  20

  “Doctor Garrett? Are you listening to me?” Gerald Flowers’s voice jerked Daryl back to his session.

  “Sorry, I have a killer headache,” he lied, rubbing his temple for effect. “What were you saying?”

  “I said I was thinking of different ways to kill my wife and asked if you knew any poisons that would be undetectable.” A grin flashed, revealing white teeth with a space in the middle. “Just yanking your chain, Doc. I just said I was going out of town next week, so I’d have to move my appointment.”

  “Oh.” Relief washed through him. “So you and your wife are getting along better?”

  “Yep.” Mr. Flowers stood, offering his hand. “And I can’t thank you enough. Mildred thanks you, too. In fact, we’re taking your advice and taking the honeymoon we never had time for. That’s where I’ll be next week.”

  Daryl smiled for the first time since leaving Ashley’s condo a week ago. “I’m glad things worked out.”

  Mr. Flowers gave a broad wink. “Sex with the woman you love does wonders. I highly recommend it. ’Bye!”

  Daryl sat back down, swiveling his chair to look out the plate-glass window. A slight breeze stirred the tops of the crepe myrtle trees edging the parking lot, their bright pink blooms nodding in the late afternoon sun.

  He thought of the breeze at the beach house and wished he could go back there with Ashley, this time being completely honest about his feelings. Honest about the phantom’s true identity.

  He picked up his phone, as he’d done a million times over the past week. Eight missed calls. Ashley. No messages.

  If it was important, wouldn’t she leave a message?

  His phone chirped, indicating a text message. Ashley.

  R U there? Call me.

  His thumb hit her speed-dial number.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Ashley Clark. I’m unable to come to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  He waited for the beep. “It’s me. Let’s talk. Coco’s at”—he paused to glance at his watch—” about seven? If that doesn’t work for you, give me a call. Otherwise, I’ll see you there.”

  He saw Ashley’s Mustang convertible when he pulled into the parking lot a little before seven. Did the fact that she was there early mean anything? He took a deep breath and stepped out of his car.

  Only one way to find out.

  Regardless of the outcome, Ashley deserved to know the truth about the first time they’d made love.

  He pushed through the doors, the delicious aromas of seared meat reminding him he’d missed lunch.

  Ashley sat at a table in the corner, waving to him.

  Maybe she’d changed her mind about being only lovers.

  Maybe she thought he had.

  She stood as he approached and gave him a quick hug, a friendly peck on the cheek.

  He swallowed his disappointment.

  Hell, what did he expect, her to strip naked and demand sex on the tablecloth?

  Interesting fantasy…especially since he’d missed her so damn much the past week.

  “We need to talk,” they said in unison, then laughed.

  “Ladies first,” Ashley said, taking his hands in her cold ones. “I’ve missed you, Daryl. As a friend and a lover. And you were right. Despite my best intentions, I fell in love with you. Heck, I may have always loved you, too. I was just too stupid or stubborn to admit it.” She squeezed his hands. “Forgive me? Please? I want you back. In my life and my bed.”

  “There’s something you need to know before I say anything else.” He let go of her hands to rake a hand through his hair, then heaved a sigh. “The only way to say this is to just come out with it.”

  “You’ve already moved on?” She looked stricken.

  “What? Hell, no! If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone. What do I have to do to convince you of that?”

  “Shut up and kiss me?” She leaned closer, her lips puckered, waiting for his kiss.

  He licked his lips. “I can’t. Not now. Not until I tell you what I came to say.”

  “You don’t find me attractive anymore? You decided you really don’t love me?” His startled gaze met her twinkling one, and he finally relaxed a little. Maybe things would work out.

  “Will you shut up and let me talk? It’s hard enough for me—”

  “Ah, but is it hard enough for me?” she teased.

  He heaved a sigh and placed one hand over her smart mouth. “Shut. Up. I’m serious. I should have told you a long time ago. I think I may have figured out why you’ve had so many problems with committed relationships. And it may be sort of my fault.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  He nodded, wondering if it was safe to keep his hand so close to her teeth when he told her what he’d done.

  What the hell. He deserved any punishment she dished out.

  “I’m the phantom,” he blurted out. “That night, years ago? At the costume party? That was me. The first phantom. The one who, you know, with you in the closet? I left to get drinks. I planned to tell you who I was when I came back. But you were gone.” He shook his head. “I could never figure out how you could have had such hot sex with me and then moved in with my roommate the next day. Then, the other night, Andre mentioned he’d rented the same costume, and it suddenly became clear.”

  He leaned closer, his hand still covering her mouth, and begged her with his eyes to understand. “I’m so sorry, Ash. I should have told you right from the start. I guess I was hurt to see you with Andre. And, I swear, I didn’t know about his costume until recently.”

  She pushed his hand away from her mouth and took a sip of water before meeting his gaze. “But you knew about the sex in the closet. You let me go on. You could have told me at any time. I’m especially thinking about my painful breakups, when I cried on your shoulder. You could have told me either of those times. Or how about when I asked why we’d never hooked up?”

  “In my defense, I was angry by then. I thought you knew and were refusing to acknowledge it for some reason. Then I worried I’d somehow traumatized you and you’d repressed it.”

  “Get over yourself.” She grinned over the edge of her glass, then set it on the starched tablecloth. “Okay, I’ve had my fun. You can stop the self-flagellation. I already figured it out.”

  “What? When?”

  “After your huffy little sex object rant, when you walked out on me. I kept thinking I was missing something, that there was something you weren’t telling me. Then I thought about how I’ve felt every time we made love. There was only one other time I’d felt like that. It was simply a matter of deductive reasoning, Doctor.”

  Relief coursed through him, causing him to slump for a moment. Reaching across the table, he took her hands. “And you still love me?”

  “Daryl, sweetie, I’ve probably always loved you. I was just too blind to see it. Of course, thinking my most memorable sexual experience happened with another guy sort of threw me off track for a while. Andre was too easy. Connor was too difficult. It took me a while, but I finally realized you are the only one who is just right for me.”

  He kissed her fingers. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “I figure you have two choices: you can either pay me exorbitant amounts of money to keep me from suing you…”

  “Or? What’s my other choice?”

  “Well…you could marry me to shut me up.”

  “I’d never want to shut you up.” He stood and tugged her to her feet, then pulled her into his arms. “But I definitely choose marriage.” He kissed her, then pulled back and winked. “Besides, it’s probably cheaper.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

  1

  Beth Simpson stood on the edge of the upper deck
of the yacht, blinking back tears as the medics loaded her nine-year-old student into the evacuation cage.

  Squinting against the bright Gulf of Mexico sunshine, Ryan gave her the thumbs-up sign with his unbandaged hand.

  “Wait,” she called, hurrying over to the boy as he was being strapped in. She twisted her dive ring off her finger and pushed it onto Ryan’s pudgy thumb.

  “That’s your favorite ring,” he objected. “You always said you never took it off. I can’t take it; it’s yours.” He struggled to get the ring off with his limited dexterity.

  “No.” She placed her hand over his, calming his movements. “You earned it down there.” She swallowed a lump of emotion, recalling her horror when the wreck they’d been exploring folded in on her diving student. She should have gone first. It should have been her trapped beneath the wreckage. “You’re a real diver now,” she choked out.

  The smile he beamed at her as he was lifted from the yacht told her she’d done the right thing.

  “Beth,” Ryan’s dad, Jack Holms, said as he walked up to her. “I want you to know we don’t hold you responsible for Ryan’s accident.”

  She sighed and forced a smile for her employer. “Thanks, I appreciate it, but I still feel responsible.”

  “Ryan said you told him to stay with you, and he disobeyed. He’s fortunate all he suffered was a broken arm. He was worried I would fire you, I suspect.” Mr. Holms looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Are you firing me, sir?” It wouldn’t be a surprise, since her student was being flown to a hospital. It had been a dream job while it lasted. She had no regrets. Spending her summer cruising around on a yacht and diving. Was that a cool summer job or what? She’d have done it for free, but the pay was pretty good. Good enough to pay for her last year of tuition at the University of Texas.

  She held her breath. If Mr. Holms fired her, she’d have to find another job. The summer was half over; opportunities would be slim.

  “Of course not!” He frowned. “Well, technically, I guess I have to release you from your contract, since Mrs. Holms is insisting we go home early. So, since I’m breaking our contract, I insist on paying the rest of the agreed-upon salary.”

  “Oh, Mr. Holms, I appreciate that, but it’s really not necessary. We agreed on that amount because I’d be teaching your children to dive. Why don’t we just part ways now and call it even?” While she appreciated his gesture, she would feel she hadn’t earned the money.

  “Too late. The money has already been transferred into your account.” He held up his hand, stopping her refusal. “In return for paying the rest of your salary, I do have one more task for you. It’s entirely up to you, though, and if you refuse, the money is still yours.”

  Unless he wanted sexual favors, she’d agree to whatever he asked. “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

  “The yacht has been rented to another family, and I gave the crew their pay, so they’re gone until the new people arrive. If you’ll agree to pass the keys to the renters at midnight, three days from now, you can continue to enjoy the yacht until they arrive. Though the staff is gone, there’s plenty of food. I’d really appreciate it if you’d stay.”

  “Of course I’ll stay! Thank you for such a generous offer.” Wow. A whole yacht to herself for three days. She should be paying them.

  “Great. I left a list of contractors in the salon, in case you have any problems.” He shook her hand enthusiastically. “We all had a great time and would love to hire you again next summer, if you’re available,” he said as he climbed down to the water taxi. He held up his hand, index finger and pinky extended, and called, “Go Texas! Hook ’em horns!” before the motorboat revved its engine and roared away.

  Beth wandered around the empty yacht, peeking in closets, checking out the more-than-ample food supply, acquainting herself with the amenities.

  It took less than an hour.

  Slathering on sunscreen, she climbed up to the tanning deck with her paperback romance, prepared to bask in the sun and the luxury of the life of the idle rich.

  The sun was really hot, with no clouds in sight. She didn’t want to get sun poisoning. How long had she been up there, anyway? She looked at her watch, strapped to her insulated water jug. A whopping fifteen minutes had passed.

  With a sigh, she flopped to her stomach. Twelve minutes later, she gave up and went to her quarters. After a quick shower, she wandered into the aft salon, where the Holmses hosted cocktail parties, and thought about making a pitcher of margaritas. But margaritas were no fun alone.

  Sitting on the padded bench, she swung her leg and looked out over the sparkling blue water. Maybe she would take the skiff to Crystal Key and check out the dive shop. She looked at her watch and slumped back on the thick pad with a sigh. Crystal Key would be shut down for siesta.

  The yacht gently rocked, the soft sounds of waves lapping at her hull, calling to Beth.

  She really wanted to go back down to the wreck. The silt would be settled by now. The sun was high, and the wreck was less than fifteen meters deep. She was a master diver.

  And she knew better than to dive alone.

  Grabbing a pair of binoculars, she headed back out to the deck. Maybe she’d spot a dive party and could join them.

  Nothing but sparkling water greeted her.

  Stripping to the bikini she always wore beneath her clothes, she dove into the water.

  Five laps around the yacht later, she stopped to tread water, again scanning the Gulf for any signs of life.

  If she held the bowline, she could snorkel alone. The thought cheered her as she headed for her quarters to grab her fins and snorkel.

  Swimming out as far as her tether allowed, the edge of the wreck taunted her peripheral vision. Dipping below the surface only brought frustration. She really needed to get closer, deeper.

  A movement caught her eye. Bubbles danced toward the surface. A diver. How had she missed seeing his buoy?

  Beth kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp and scrambled up to the deck, tossing her fins on the chair. Her wet feet slipped on the warm decking as she headed for the compartment holding her equipment.

  “Please don’t leave until I get down there,” she chanted to the unknown diver below the surface. “Please don’t leave!”

  Throwing on her tank, she fastened her weight vest after quickly checking her gauge and hoses and taking a quick hit of air to test her regulator.

  Sitting on the rail, she spit into her mask, rubbing the lens hastily, then rinsing. Still no dive buoy in sight. She’d better take one. Fins on, feet beneath her, she held her secondary regulator and hose against her chest with her left hand. She put her regulator in her mouth and held it and her mask on with her right hand as she rolled backward into the warm water of the Gulf of Mexico.

  Pausing while the water settled around her, caressing her, she squinted in the direction of the wrecked commercial fishing boat she and the Holms children had been exploring for the last few days.

  Her heart plummeted. The wreck looked deserted. Did she dare swim closer to confirm?

  While she argued with her better judgment, a stream of bubbles rose from the aft section of the old fishing boat.

  Grinning, Beth sank deeper, then kicked out, anxious to join the dive.

  Her hand touched the rough barnacle-edged bow, slowing her progress in order to peek around at her potential dive mates.

  Make that mate. A lone diver moved slowly along the bottom of the wreck, searching inch by inch.

  Curious, Beth held back, observing.

  The diver knew what he was doing, as evidenced by the surety of his movement. Obviously experienced, she had to wonder why he chanced diving alone. Wait. She was alone, too. But at least she had a dive buoy. Where was his?

  The diver looked up as she approached, nodding in greeting, strands of light hair floating out around his mask to give him a startled look.

  She paused, allowing the silt she’d stirred to settle, then raised
her hand.

  The diver wrote on his dive slate, then held it up. New here?

  Her hand automatically went to her hip. Crap. She’d forgotten her slate in her hurry to get below.

  His eyes crinkled behind his mask, and he offered her his slate and pen.

  Shaking her head in disgust at forgetting such a standard item, she wrote Visiting. She held the slate up, then passed it back and fell into line behind him as they made their way along the bottom edge of the wreck, occasionally tapping each other to point out interesting things or brightly colored fish.

  The diver pointed at the dive computer on his arm. Beth glanced at the submersible pressure gauge on her wrist, surprised to see how much air she’d used, and nodded, pointing to the surface.

  After the cool depths, the sun was blinding and hot when they broke the surface.

  A few feet away, the diver blew water, then shoved his mask up, his grin white in his tanned skin. “Hi,” he called, “I’m Will. Will King.”

  Beth shoved her mask up and brushed strings of wet hair from her face. “Hello, Will King. I’m Beth.” She pulled on the anchor rope to free the buoy. “Where’s your buoy?”

  Will looked around. “Are you sure that’s not mine?”

  She tapped the side of the optic plastic where the yacht’s name, Salsa Time, was stenciled beneath the larger diver logo.

  He muttered something and pulled a Z-knife from his dive vest. “I’ll be right back.” He jackknifed and disappeared below the waves.

  Beth treaded water for a few minutes, then decided he may not be coming back. Should she check on him?

  While she debated, he popped up, spraying water as he shoved his mask up. A coil of rope was clutched in one hand. “Must have come loose and drifted away.”

  “Where’s your boat?”

  “Coming back for me around two.”