“Okay.”
She went ahead. He gathered up their bags and the wine they’d bought. When he entered, she was standing in the middle of the living room, her back to him, facing the gray stone fireplace. The staff had already prepared a cheerful fire for their arrival.
He set down the items, keeping his distance. She didn’t face him.
“I know, Annie. I’m a little scared too.”
“I’m more than a little scared.”
“That’s all right. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready. I’ll use the bathroom down here.”
She turned to him. She looked small and vulnerable. “It’s so beautiful, Dylan. It’s perfect.”
“It is now that we’re here.”
*
The inn’s five-star restaurant was renowned for its spectacular cuisine and service. All tables were filled for the Saturday night, and Hunter felt fortunate to have reserved an isolated one for two. Carved oak wainscoting embraced their corner table; a fringed silk shade muted the overhead lamp; thick, coffee-colored drapery, drawn back with golden rope ties, highlighted the window beside them. Outside, the lawn rolled away to a distant grove of trees almost hidden in the misting rain.
Her head was turned toward the window, taking in the magical scenery. She wore a sleeveless red taffeta dress, cut low, slit to mid-thigh. A black velvet sash fell at an angle across her narrow waist; she had matched it with teardrop earrings of black tourmaline and a black velvet choker.
They feasted on lamb carpaccio, cold pear soup, filet of halibut, and braised veal. The wine pairings were superb, and by the second glass, she began to relax. Laughing and gazing into each other’s eyes, they fed each other morsels from their plates and talked about things that he knew he would never later recall. By the time the dessert sampler arrived, he had slid his chair around the table to be next to hers.
He treated her to a spoonful of rum-flavored crème brûlée; it left a small dab on her lower lip.
“Miss, I’m afraid you’ve got some dessert on that mouth,” he said, leaning close.
“Do I, now.” She greeted his lips with hers.
*
They walked hand in hand under a broad hotel umbrella to their cottage. His hand shook a little as he inserted the key in the lock.
Then they were inside. He kept his eyes on her as his hand sought the switch to turn out the lights.
The burning coals in the fireplace were the only illumination. They had made the room hot. She stood unmoving, her back to him, a curving silhouette against the glowing rectangle.
He reached around from behind her and undid the clasp at her throat that held her short fur jacket. It slid to the floor; he left his palm moving over her breasts. Intoxicated by her scent, he leaned down and his lips traced the curve of her bare shoulder to the back of her neck with light kisses. She drew in a sharp breath and he felt her shiver. Still behind her, he pulled her head around and met her open mouth.
Then she was crushed against him, her breasts squeezed to his chest, her hands pushing the jacket of his tux from his shoulders. He let it fall. One hand under her, his other tight around her back, he lifted her against his body. In response, she hooked a leg around him. Somehow he carried her that way up the stairs, to the waiting canopy bed.
*
Annie did not know how many times they made love that night. It was beyond her experience, beyond even her fantasies. She could not believe his insatiability, or her own. It had begun as desire, runaway desire. But it descended into ruthless need—then into sheer savagery, into a dark place where pain and pleasure lost any distinction.
A place where there no longer was any distinction between the two of them.
Somewhere in the night, hours later, as they once again lay gasping and trembling, as she stroked the head of thick tangled hair lying heavily on her breasts, she knew that their passion at last was spent. She was beyond exhaustion; she was in physical pain from their excesses. She felt his warm breath against her belly, his big hand resting on her thigh. His breath slowed. She smiled. He was finally falling asleep.
Then he stirred. Raised his head, looked at her. In the dying light of the fire, his eyes seemed to be blazing coals, too.
He slid up her body, resting his face on the pillow next to hers. His hands moved up and down her skin, owning her. She shivered under his touch.
“My God, Dylan, I can’t. Not again.” She moved his hand away. “No!”
He grabbed the back of her hair. Pressed his lips into light contact with hers. His eyes, so close, bore into hers.
“You listen to me, Annie Woods. The one word that’s forbidden when we’re in bed is ‘no.’”
She felt the power in his arms, in the thighs against hers. Impossibly, she found herself stirring once again.
“Tell me something, Annie Woods,” he continued, his voice hoarse. “Is there anything you’ve ever imagined doing in bed with a man, that you’ve never gotten around to doing?”
She swallowed, felt her lips part against his.
“Yes.”
*
He heard the phone purring. He opened his eyes, finding himself entangled with her. Then hers blinked open, too. She looked at him and smiled, said “mmmmm,” then closed them once more.
The phone hummed again. He sighed and pushed himself away from her. The covers fell back, revealing her body to him for the first time in full light. His breath caught in his throat.
His hand groped for the phone as he drank in the sight of her. “Yes?” he said, never taking his eyes off her.
“Hello, Mr. Hunter. Sorry if I’m bothering you, sir. It’s ten-thirty. Would you be joining us for breakfast this morning in the dining room? We stop serving at eleven.”
He stared at the swell of her breasts, the smooth, gentle curves of her belly and hips, the impossibly long legs. “No, I don’t think so. Thank you. Is it possible to have a breakfast sent to our cottage?”
“Yes, sir. All day.”
“That’s great. I’ll call in an order later.”
He slid back under the covers, drew her close. Felt the silken warmth of her flesh against his. He wrapped his arms and legs around hers.
Smiled and closed his eyes.
*
He felt something tickling his leg and woke up.
She was sitting upright in the bed, naked in the soft light, like a pale goddess. Her finger was tracing the scar on his thigh.
“Hi, you,” he said. “Good morning.”
She looked at him. “Hi, you. But it’s afternoon.”
They held each other’s eyes, remembering.
“Wow,” he said.
She began to giggle. “You creep. Do you have any idea how sore I am?”
He sat up, grinning. “Aw, the poor baby. Should I kiss it and make it better?”
She blushed and threw a pillow at him. He grabbed her and she squealed as he wrestled her back onto the thick down comforter. He held her close and they searched each other’s eyes and he kissed her, long and gently.
She giggled again. “Down, boy.”
“But you inspire me.”
“Please, Dylan. I just couldn’t. Besides, I’m starved.”
He sighed. “Okay. I’ll order room service. Besides, I guess I’ve gotten my money’s worth from last night’s dinner.”
“You bastard,” she laughed, pounding his shoulder with her fist. Then, looking serious, she held his face between her hands. “Dylan?”
“Mmmm.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way. You’ve got a gorgeous body. But the scars. Do you mind telling me what happened?”
He buried his face against her throat. Felt its pulse against his lips.
“Automobile accident. Three years ago. Truck crossed the center line. I swerved, but he clipped me and sent me over the guard rail. My car flipped a few times. I was pretty badly carved up.”
He felt her forefinger on his scalp, tracking the thin scar down and along his jawline. “My face w
as especially bad. The door caved in and mashed it pretty good. It took the doctors weeks to put it back together.”
“They did a great job. I love this face.”
“I’m glad. It took me a while to get used to the new me.”
“You didn’t look like this before?”
“Somebody once told me I used to look like Tom Hanks.”
“Well, now you look a lot like Clive Owen.”
“Who’s Clive Owen?”
She kissed his cheek. “A man who looks a lot better than Tom Hanks.”
*
She lay back against him in the tub, her head resting on his chest. The hot, powerful jets pounded at them, raising coils of steam into the air. He could smell the scented candles positioned around them. He tilted his head back, noticing for the first time that the ceiling of the luxurious bathroom was composed of mirrored tiles. Using his legs, he lifted her body slightly out of the water.
“What are you doing?” she said above the churning noise of the jets. “I’m getting cold.”
He pointed toward the ceiling. “Look at us.”
In the shimmering candlelight, the steam drifted like fog across their reflected bodies, alternately hiding and revealing.
“Oh, great. I’ve gotten myself involved with a voyeur.”
“No jury of men would convict me.” In the mirrored surface, he watched his own dark hand slide slowly over the naked, glistening curves of her torso. “I feel like Michelangelo.”
She was quiet for a moment. “We are beautiful together, aren’t we.”
He squeezed her, then closed his eyes, letting their bodies relax and drift as one in the roiling water. He tried to push from his mind all thoughts of his past and his future. He tried to hold onto nothing but this moment of magic.
But the warning voice was whispering.
NINETEEN
ROCKVILLE, MARYLAND
Thursday, September 25, 1:02 p.m.
When the blond man with the mustache and sunglasses entered the crowded clubhouse and looked around, Barton Ames figured that it had to be the guy. He pushed away from the bar and carried his Scotch over to meet him.
The man turned to him. Smiled. “Mr. Ames. How do you do?” He held out his hand.
“That’s me. Thanks for making the trip over.”
“No trouble at all,” Grayson said. “I am delighted that you saw my little ad here on the bulletin board.”
“Me, too,” Ames replied. “New carts cost an arm and a leg, so I have to stick with used. But if yours is everything you say it is, the price sure is right.”
“Shall we take a look?”
“Great.” He downed the rest of his drink, left the glass on a table, and they went outside.
Grayson wore brown tweed, real high-quality. He had this air about him, too, like some kind of aristocrat or something. A faint accent. Upper crust, for sure. And you couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored shades. Ames felt a little intimidated by the guy.
“So, you said you don’t have time for golf anymore?” Ames asked as they crossed the grass near the first tee.
“Not with my travel schedule. My clientele is far-flung, regrettably. I rarely stay in one place long enough to have the opportunity to work on my game. So, it’s a complete waste to keep a cart.”
“Investment advisor, did you say?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, my sporting goods shop—business hasn’t been so great this year.” He grinned. “So maybe you got some hot investment tips?”
A little smile played on the man’s lips. “A golf cart, perhaps?”
He laughed. Grayson was cool, for sure.
They reached a row of parked golf carts, where Grayson pointed out the pale green one with the white sun top. Ames walked around it, took a long look at the electric engine and batteries, ran his hand over the white leather seats. He liked the rear flip seat, too, since he often golfed in a foursome. He asked Grayson to start it up for him, and the thing hummed smooth and quiet.
“It’s a beauty, all right. Looks brand new.”
“It’s three years old, but as you can see, I haven’t used it much. In fact, it’s been sitting idle for so long that the original tires suffered. So, I got rid of the old ones last week and put on a new set. Also, I had it cleaned thoroughly. I think it’s good to go.”
“And only twenty-four hundred, you say?”
“That’s right.”
Ames nodded. “Well, your loss is my gain.”
Grayson turned to him; his mirrored sunglasses reflected the mid-day sun.
“I wouldn’t say that I am losing anything,” he said, smiling. “It served its purpose.”
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Thursday, September 25, 2:45 p.m.
“Got some new paper here on the forensics,” Paul Erskine said, entering the office.
Cronin looked up from the piles of paperwork on his desk. “Okay, put it on that stack.”
“FBI report’s on top.” The stocky, middle-aged detective plopped several file folders onto an already-teetering column.
“They send that stuff out to the rest of the task force yet?”
“Sure.”
“Give me the talking points.”
Erskine settled his bulky frame into the worn armchair next to the desk. “Let’s start with the ballistics. The slug they retrieved at the scene, this time it was an Alabama Ammo Special K.”
“So what have we had so far? Bracey’s round was a Remington Golden Saber. Valenti’s was a Fiocchi, right?”
Erskine nodded. “They’ve all got things in common, though. All 9 x 19’s, all subsonic. But Ballistics says that from the rifling, they all came out of different barrels.”
“So three different guns, then. Which tends to confirm our theory of multiple shooters. Subsonic ammo and nobody hears any shots—so figure they’re using silencers, too. What else?”
“The tire prints are common Goodyears. Length and depth of the tracks, and the mark where the rear ramp came down to unload the golf cart, all consistent with a small box truck—like the ten-or-twelve-foot Ryders and U-Hauls. The federales ran down all the rental places within a hundred miles for the days before and after. So far, zip. If it’s privately owned, we got problems, because they’re not really sure about the make or year.”
“Terrific. Tell me more.”
“From the tracks on the lawn, they ID’d the brands of the golf cart tires and the man’s golf shoes.”
“Golf shoes?” He chuckled. “Clever. They dressed the part. They probably figured— Wait. Did you say ‘man’s’? Singular?”
“What I said. Just one set of footprints, in and out. Also, one set, the same ones, where the truck was parked. Looks like only one guy unloads Conrad and the cart from the truck. Then shoots Conrad right at the scene. Then drives him on the cart over to the house. Then lugs the stiff all the way across the yard to the flagpole. Carries him, ’cause there’s no drag marks. Then climbs the pole, rigs the pulley, and hoists the body. All by his lonesome.”
Cronin frowned and sat back in his swivel chair. “Jesus. He has to be hellaciously strong. What do we have here, a weightlifter?”
Erskine looked at him over the top of his half-moon reading glasses and shrugged. “You’d think, but he can’t be too big. Yeah, we have deep prints tracking in—short steps, because he’s carrying the body. The prints going out, though, they’re much shallower and wider spaced. From that, the feebs say the depth works out to somebody no more than two hundred, max, probably lighter. And the stride suggests medium-tall height, maybe just over six feet.”
“I’ll be damned. Okay, what about the pole? Prints, blood, fibers?”
“Dream on.”
“The pulley?”
“Homemade gadget. The tube part of it tracks back to the type of pipe used at probably half the construction sites around here. They could’ve bought or just swiped a chunk of it almost anywhere. The pulley itself, and the weld rod they used to make
the tube, they’re the most common brands out there, too. You can get them at any hardware store.”
Cronin thought about it. “They had to know all about that flagpole in advance to fabricate that pulley gizmo to fit it. And the golf cart: They knew where they were going and what they needed once they got there. That means they had to be inside that community snooping around on at least one previous occasion. Just like the other hits, these guys planned this one down to the tiny details.”
“Did they ever.”
“They aren’t making it easy for us. They’re real pros.” Cronin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Then looked at his partner. “Paul, you know what worries me?”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m starting to think that maybe they’re law enforcement. Current or ex.”
“Jesus. You think?”
He sighed. “Right now I don’t know what to think.”
“Don’t worry, Ed. Whoever they are, they’re taking way too many chances. Sooner or later, they’re gonna screw up.”
“Sooner rather than later, I hope.”
FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA
Friday, September 26, 6:45 p.m.
“Who the hell is this?” Bronowski answered his cell with his patented charm.
“The last great hope of Western civilization.”
“Oh. Hunter. Your name didn’t come up on the Caller ID.”
“I would hope not.”
“So, what’s the occasion? Feeling lonely? Where are you? Want to come to my house and introduce yourself, at long last? Meet the wife and mooch some supper?”
“Nothing, no, none of your business, no, and no. I’m in my car, heading off on a few weeks’ vacation.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed, Bill. Haven’t I caused you enough grief for the time being?”
“You have, and then some. But I was hoping you might do a follow-up on the Lamont story next week. I’ve gotten mail from a few people, crime victims, who want us to poke into the history of his rulings in criminal trials.”
HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller) Page 14
