Sam brought his gaze from the portrait to Brett's face. "You resemble her."
Brett shook her head adamantly. "Only a little physically." Turning away, she walked over to a brocade upholstered chaise longue and sat down. "She was aptly named. She resembled Melanie Wilkes in her favorite book, although she didn't think so. My father and I used to tease her by calling her Miss Melly. She would smile and say 'fiddle-dee-dee'." Brett smiled at the memory, then continued, "I would like to have her sunny disposition and her willingness to see the best in everything and everyone."
"Sometimes nice can be irritating," Sam said as he sat beside her. "Rough can often get more of a response than being rubbed the wrong way with something smooth."
"Maybe," Brett said. "But that wasn't her way. She believed more in honey over vinegar."
"Why did you bring me here, Red?" he asked gently. "What did you want to show me?"
She nodded her head toward the portrait. "I wanted you to see her. She's the reason I didn't want you to bring your production company out here. It would only take one individual moving something in one of the rooms or a reporter digging too deeply to ruin what I'm trying to do."
Sam turned so he could see Brett better. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like her answer, but he asked the question anyway.
"What exactly is it you've been doing?"
Staring at the portrait, Brett said, "I've been trying to find proof that someone killed my mother."
FIVE
Sam's mouth didn't quite drop open in shock, but almost. "What?" Before she could answer, he held up one hand. "Never mind. You don't need to repeat what you said." He got to his feet and took several steps toward the portrait. "It's just that I'm having trouble understanding what I heard."
Brett left the chaise and walked to where he was standing. She stared up at the painting too. "You knew she was dead."
He nodded even though she hadn't asked a question. "Darren had the title searched, and had the record of her birth and death along with a report saying she died here at Maddox." He turned to look at Brett. "She's no longer just a name and a statistic to me now. I'm sorry, Brett."
"Why are you sorry? You were only doing your job."
"I'm sorry you lost your mother. I'm sorry you're sad, and I'm sorry for being the cause of you having to defend your privacy. You don't want the press to speculate about her death."
"The person responsible for her death thinks he's gotten away with it. He'll be extra cautious if he thinks the press is digging it all up again."
Sam stared at her, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. "You're serious, aren't you? You think someone killed your mother."
"I don't think someone killed her. I know someone did. Another reason for not wanting you and your film crew here is because I'm looking for evidence that would prove that."
"Isn't that what police are for?"
"Their official verdict was that death was due to a fall down the stairs after an overdose of sleeping pills. The implication was that my mother had taken too many pills on purpose, then tumbled down the stairs. The cause of death was a broken neck. Neither my father nor I accepted their theory then or now. My mother never took a sleeping pill or any other type of medication in her life, except for an antibiotic prescribed for an infection shortly after I was born. She believed in natural healing and vitamin therapy."
Sam's gaze returned to the portrait of Melanie Southern. Brett's mother was posed on the same chaise they had sat on, her white dress spread over her legs. In her hands she was holding a book and a fountain pen. The artist had managed to convey the impression that she had just been interrupted from writing in her journal and had looked up, pleased to see the person.
"I can understand how you must feel losing your mother in such a way, Brett. But what motive could someone have to kill her? She doesn't sound like a woman who would have a lot of enemies."
"That same reasoning applies to her taking her own life."
Something was niggling in the back of his mind as he stared at the painting. Finally his gaze narrowed on the book Melanie held.
"Did your mother write something in her diary that makes you think someone killed her?"
"I could have used your deductive reasoning before this," Brett said with a pained expression. "It took me a lot longer to realize the significance of the book in the painting. It finally occurred to me that her last journal wasn't with the others or among her personal belongings, so I began to look for it about a month ago. The fact that I haven't been able to find it makes me wonder what she had written in it that would make her feel she had to hide it."
"Or why someone might have taken it. There is also the possibility she destroyed it herself. A lot of people do. They record their innermost thoughts and feelings, but to prevent anyone else from reading them, they burn the journals."
Brett walked over to a bookcase with beveled glass doors covering the front. She turned a knob in the middle of one of the doors. Using the heel of her hand, she then hit the top corners where the doors joined. They swung open. She reached in and removed a single copy of a series of similar-looking hardbound books.
As she carried the book over to Sam she saw his attention was on the cabinet. She had automatically gone through the usual procedure to open the doors, not thinking of how intrigued he'd be.
He grinned at her. "I bet using the bathroom in this place is a real challenge. Does everything in this house have trick devices?"
"Not everything." She handed the journal to him. "Open this to any page you want and read what it says."
He gave the bookcase one last lingering look, then dragged his attention to the book in his hand. Opening it at random, he read several paragraphs. Melanie Southern's handwriting was small and precise; the few sketches he saw were drawn with a talented hand. Turning several pages, he scanned over the notations and pictures, and the pressed flowers, stalks, and leaves.
"This reads more like a gardener's handbook." He leafed through some more pages. "Or an herbalist's record book. Are all of your mother's journals like this one?"
"Pretty much. The only personal items are when she mentions giving someone an herbal remedy for some ailments and the success rate of each concoction."
"Then why are you so intent on finding her last journal? Even if you do come across it somewhere, the chances of finding any clues to her death are real slim if she only entered her usual herbal information."
"Because a slim chance is better than no chance at all," Brett said with more defensiveness than she would have liked to hear.
Sam took one of her hands in his. "I'm probably repeating what other people have told you, Brett, but anytime we lose someone we care about, there's always a degree of guilt attached to our grief. Maybe if we'd done this or said that, or noticed something we should have seen, the person wouldn't have died. You have to accept that your mother is gone and get on with your life."
She snatched the journal out of his hands and returned it to the bookcase. "I've accepted her death. I can't accept that she took her own life."
Once she replaced her mother's journal, she closed the doors, hitting the bottom of them with the toe of her shoe, then turning the knob back. If she used a little more force than necessary when she kicked the bookcase, the only harm she did was to her toes.
"Feel better?" Sam asked quietly, close behind her.
"No," she said shakily. "I don't."
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. "Perhaps if you think of something else for a few minutes, it will help. A reminder that life goes on."
Before Brett could ask him what he meant, he showed her.
A variety of sensations blocked out any feeling but deep sensuality as he covered her mouth with his. His hands cupped the back of her head so he could control his passionate assault. He alternated from soft and tender to hard and deep, then back to light, tempting tastes.
Whether it was his intention or not, he was driving her crazy by leading her
to the brink of ecstasy, then drawing her back to primitive need.
Sam felt a triumphant joy unlike anything he'd ever experienced when Brett raised up on her toes to press closer to him. Her fingers combed through his hair, her body leaned into his. When he eased his tongue between her teeth, her moan was as much an erotic stimulation as her kiss.
He made a sound of his own deep in his throat as her fingers clenched in his hair and he molded her hips tightly to his. His breath burned in his lungs, his heart rate soared out of control.
She tasted like heaven, and he wanted her like hell.
His hands skimmed over her hips, her waist, her rib cage, up to the curving swell of her breasts. His body shuddered with a hot surge of desire as he ran his thumbs over the tips, marveling at the gasp of arousal that escaped from her.
He didn't understand why, but the realization that Brett wanted him as badly as he wanted her enabled him to release her. He accomplished that difficult task slowly, drawing away from her by degrees to make the withdrawal less of a torture.
This wasn't the time. Her mother's bedroom certainly wasn't the place. He might be having difficulty with the when and where, but not the how. He could imagine making love with her all too well.
Breaking away from her mouth, he eased his hold on her enough to change the embrace from passionate to comforting. He stroked his fingers through her hair and held her head against his shoulder.
He let his breath out in a long sigh. "What were we talking about?"
"I haven't the faintest idea." She tipped her head back so she could see him. "What was my name again?"
He smoothed his hand over her hair. "Red."
"You know, I really hate that name. That's what all the rotten little boys used to call me in the first grade."
"If I had been there, I would have beat them up for you."
"Then you would have continued calling me Red yourself."
He chuckled. "Probably." Moving away from her with more than a little regret, he slid his hand down her arm and clasped her fingers. "Show me how the bookcase lock works."
She shook her head in amusement. "I suppose I might as well. You'll only nag me until I do."
"I do not nag, Miss Southern."
"What would you call it then?"
"Gentle coercion," he said as he walked beside her toward the bookcase. "That's how I plan to persuade you to let me help you find your mother's journal."
She stopped walking and turned to look at him. "Why would you want to do that? I've given my permission for you to use Maddox Hill, so why would you want to help me?"
"Who would have thought there was such a suspicious nature behind that sweet face," he murmured. "Have you given any thought to the interesting little fact that if your mother didn't want to take those sleeping pills, someone had to have made sure she took them?"
"Of course. That's what I'm trying to prove."
"If they've killed once, they might not find it as difficult to kill again. If you're determined to go through with this search, then you have to accept my help. It's too dangerous for you to continue on your own."
"It's been over a year since her death and nothing has happened to indicate anyone is concerned about me or my father finding any evidence of murder."
"Where have you looked for the journal?"
"I haven't accomplished much," she admitted. "I've searched all the rooms on this floor, but it's taken more time to go through each item on the first floor. I can only do my hunting when the plantation isn't open to the public, and I have to put everything back exactly the way it was."
"Tonight over dinner at your place, you can tell me what you've done so far, and who might have a motive for killing your mother. In the meantime show me how this lock works."
"Has anyone ever told you that you are extremely pushy?"
"All the time," he said easily, pleased to see the haunting sadness in her eyes replaced by the more familiar teasing sparkle. "It's one of the many burdens a man of my genius must bear."
She smiled. "I don't remember inviting you to dinner."
He touched her nose with the tip of his finger. "It must have slipped your mind. Are you going to show me how this works or not?"
That evening Brett nearly sliced off her finger as she was chopping vegetables. It wasn't because what she was doing was that difficult. Preparing vegetables for stir-fry didn't require a great deal of mental stimuli, just a little hand-eye coordination.
Waiting for her dinner guest to arrive was the cause of her preoccupation and was responsible for the three onions she'd diced when all she'd needed was one. Though she knew it was silly to be nervous about Sam coming for dinner, that didn't stop her from jumping at her own shadow and wielding the knife as though it were an ax and a stalk of broccoli were a giant redwood tree.
She put the knife down on the cutting board and took several deep breaths, willing her nerve endings to stop vibrating like plucked guitar strings. This wasn't the first time she'd ever had a man over for dinner. Usually she invited them, however, instead of her guests inviting themselves.
Sam would be there in three minutes if he arrived on time. Hopefully, she wouldn't cut off her fingers in the meantime.
Brett took a sip of the wine she'd poured earlier and thought about why she was so tense. It was time to be honest with herself and admit she wasn't sure how she was going to react if Sam planned on more than dinner that night.
After the kisses and caresses they'd shared at Maddox, she knew he wanted more from her than her signature on the dotted line. And Sam had to know that she wasn't indifferent to him either.
Lord, she thought with more than a little embarrassment. She'd practically dragged him down to the floor.
The attraction between them had been there from the very start. She could give it an assortment of labels and file her reaction to him in the casual category of a healthy female responding to an attractive male.
It wasn't simple sexual response, though. What she felt ran much deeper than that. This emotion, whatever it was, was different from anything she'd felt for any man before. He was different from any man she'd ever known. And she was different when he touched her. She couldn't even begin to analyze how or why so much was happening between them, considering they didn't appear to have a great deal in common and they hadn't known each other very long.
None of those things mattered, though, she admitted to herself. When Sam was with her, she felt alive in a way she'd never experienced before. And she suspected she wasn't likely to feel like this with anyone else. Lightning had been known to strike twice in the same place, but she couldn't imagine feeling such encompassing need to be with someone the way she craved to be with Sam.
What she had to decide was whether she could accept an affair with Sam, knowing he would leave as soon as his filming was completed and she would never see him again.
When the kitchen clock chimed the hour, Brett went downstairs to the shop instead of waiting for Sam to ring the bell. The only light in the front room was a security lamp in one corner near the ceiling that was directed toward the counter where the cash register was. It was enough for her to see her way around the display tables without bumping into anything.
She didn't need to look through the glass pane in the door to see if Sam was there. Even before she had entered the store, she'd known he was waiting. She unlocked the dead bolt and pulled the door open. The bell attached at the door rang several times, but she didn't hear it.
Sam stood on the threshold holding a lighted candle that was inside a clear glass globe on a brass base. He was dressed in tan slacks and a champagne-white shirt open at the neck under a dark brown sport jacket.
She had changed her clothes, too, discarding her jeans and sweater for a gauzy white skirt and a matching shortsleeve top with a scooped neck. A wide leather belt woven through gold-tone rings was loosely fastened around her waist. She had left her hair down.
Her nerves disappeared like magic when she met his gaze, and she
smiled. "I paid the electric bill this month," she said, nodding at the candle.
He glanced past her to the dimly lighted shop. "Knowing that you are naturally thrifty and tend to drag me into dark places, I thought I'd provide the lighting for our dinner."
"How thoughtful," she said as she stepped back so he could enter the shop. "And to think most men settle for flowers or candy."
"No imagination."
"That's true enough." She turned to lead the way to the stairs to her apartment. "Although one gentleman did bring his own silverware, which I thought was tacky."
"Did he have some kind of fetish about eating with strange utensils?"
"You're close," she said. "He was a tad paranoid about germs. When he examined the plate before he put any food on it, I knew we were not destined to grow old together."
She made a startled sound when Sam wrapped his free arm around her waist and turned her to face him. "What's wrong?" she asked.
His voice was slightly husky. "I don't want to hear about other men you've been with." He left a trail of moist warmth as he touched his lips to her throat, the corner of her mouth, her cheek. Returning to her mouth, he murmured, "I don't want anyone else touching you but me."
The abrupt change from casual to commanding shocked Brett. She felt swamped by the fierce rush of male hunger emanating from him in waves. She sensed he was as startled by the sudden shift in mood as she was. Knowing she had the power to affect him so strongly was extremely satisfying to her feminine pride. He was a well-traveled, experienced man who probably could have any woman he wanted. Yet he wanted her.
His name came out low and ragged from her when he broke away from her mouth to sample the soft skin of her throat. Her head fell back and her eyes closed as she absorbed the raging torrent of arousal he was unleashing within her.
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