Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie

by Marianne Stillings

  He broke the kiss, turned his head and slanted another kiss over her mouth, stealing her breath way. Through the fabric of her soft dress, he gripped the globes of her bottom, edging his fingers underneath, closer to her center.

  She pushed him away. “Somebody’s going to come—”

  “Damned straight,” he growled as he lifted her skirt and slipped his hand into her panties. Without deciding to, she simply eased her legs apart to give him better access.

  His gently probing finger found its mark. She cried out against his open mouth as heat and tension and desire swirled through her body like ripples on a warm pond. Her nerves tightened, her knees went weak.

  With his thumb, he moved the fabric of her panties aside until his finger was on her again. He found his mark, gently rubbing until she became slick, until her body felt like it was locked in a vise. She couldn’t move. All she could do was stand there while he made her feel so good…

  Max, she tried to say, only the sound never formed. Her lips moved but she was too paralyzed with pleasure to speak.

  He slid the shoulder of her dress down, taking with it her bra strap, leaving her breast nearly bare. Instantly, his mouth was on her flesh, kissing the rounded top of her breast, urging the fabric to fall away until her nipple popped free. In a heartbeat he was on it.

  Her body felt like a living flame. She panted, tried to catch a breath, but his tongue on her nipple, his finger moving, circling, all combined to drive her insane with pleasure.

  “Max… oh, God, Max…” Her neck arched and she closed her eyes, letting the sensations overtake her.

  “Come for me, baby,” he rasped. “Let it happen, Evie. Come against my hand.”

  With that, he slid his finger inside her and she clamped around him, nearly delirious with the need for release. Her back arched and she thrust her hips against his palm.

  “That’s it, Evie. A little more. A little more. God, you are so hot.”

  He leaned down and softly bit her nipple, and pleasure shot through her, sending her over the edge. Her climax burst hard, pulsing through her body as wave after wave of sensation rushed over her skin, through her muscles, clenching and releasing her insides until she thought she would die from the pleasure.

  “Oh, God… oh, Max,” she sighed as her hips writhed against his hand.

  Barely able to breathe, she leaned against him for support, hanging on until her head stopped spinning.

  Reason eased its way into her brain, and she realized Max was putting her panties back in order and gently lowering her leg. He tucked her breast into her bra and straightened her bodice. Her back was flat against the office door and he was still pressed snuggly against her.

  When her breathing had steadied, he lifted his hands and cradled her face in his warm palms. Then he kissed her as though he were kissing a shy, timid girl. His lips were tender as he moved them over hers. He made no demands, just held her in place while he soothed her hot mouth with his gentle kiss.

  When he pulled away, she sighed. “Did that just happen?”

  He gazed down at her for a moment, then whispered, “The look on your face when you came was… Jesus, Evie. You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  “D-Don’t you want to… I mean, what was in this for you?”

  He smiled into her eyes, and her knees went so weak, she thought she’d drop right to the floor.

  “More than I bargained for, I think,” he said sardonically. “Definitely more than I deserve.”

  “Tell me what you mean,” she said quickly, then frowned. He’d run hot and cold since she’d met him, a nice guy one minute, distant and cynical the next. His remark opened the door and, by God, she was going to walk through it.

  “Who are you, Max? Who are you really?”

  His lips flattened. “I’m the man who just made you come.”

  “That’s a knee-jerk response,” she accused. “With the emphasis on jerk. It’s a defense. Maybe even a decoy. You’re smart and funny. You carve pretty things for your mom. You get choked up at an old folk’s home, and you’re often heroic. You’re pushy and controlling and sullen and snappish, and you despise somebody I loved without even considering you might be wrong about him. How can you be all those things, all those people, Max? Or do you just wear a variety of emotional masks so you can keep others from seeing who you really are?”

  “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Evie,” he growled. “I’m exactly who I appear to be. I’m selfish and self-involved. Me first. Always.” He glared down into her eyes, and she almost believed him. If she were smart, she thought, she would.

  She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “It’s funny,” she said. “I’ve always been the one to shy away from relationships, afraid of letting anybody too close. And now that I’m finally coming to terms with it, when I might welcome it, I find I’m attracted to a man like you, a man who doesn’t want what I’m offering.”

  “Depends on what you’re offering.” His voice was gruff, his eyes dark, smoky green, his lids sleepy.

  She gazed up at him and felt her heart tear into little shreds.

  He cocked his head to one side. “Have you had your say, or is there more?”

  If only you knew…

  She was falling in love beyond anything she had ever imagined, and she wanted to tell him so. Maybe if he knew how she felt, he’d decide she was worth the risk of opening up to her.

  And maybe not. She didn’t think she could bear to see that kind of rejection in his eyes. It would hurt so much, and the tiny spark of love she felt for him right now would be doused—and she did not want it doused. She wanted it to grow and warm her whether he knew it existed or not.

  So she didn’t say a word.

  Chapter 17

  Dear Diary:

  I got my period today! My first one! Sarah and Lindsay already got theirs and they said it was very messy and not quite what they expected, but I didn’t think it was so bad. I asked Mrs. Robely, the cook, how many periods I would ever have, and she looked at me like she was really tired, and said I would have one every darned month for the next forty years (except she didn’t say darned). That is so cool! I can hardly wait for my next one!

  Evangeline—age 12

  Max pursed his lips. “We, uh, we need to go in to dinner.”

  Evie had grown quiet. She’d straightened her clothes and stood now with her back to the door while she concentrated on not looking at him.

  She wanted to know who he was, who he really was. He knew he could tell her, and then she’d leave him alone. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  Yeah. Maybe. Maybe not.

  He reached for her and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. What in the hell did you say to a woman you just brought to orgasm up against a door only a few feet away from a room full of people searching for a murderer? A woman you’d known less than two weeks who had already made inroads to your soul others hadn’t been able to make in a lifetime? A woman who challenged you on every level, including being unwilling to accept your bullshit?

  If this were any other woman, she never would have had a chance to confront him. He’d have been half out of his clothes by now and had her naked and flat on her back on the desk. End of conversation.

  He hadn’t intended to haul her off into a dark place, shove her up against a door, lift her skirt, and engage in heated sexual foreplay only moments before dinner. He liked to think he had a little more going for him than that.

  But when she’d walked into the dining room and he set eyes on her, something inside him had shattered into a million pieces, stopping his heart, piercing his throat so he couldn’t breathe, tearing at his muscles until they ceased to function—unless it was to put his hands on her.

  And when he had finally touched her, some frozen thing had melted inside him, some iron barrier turned to dust.

  Was it conceivable he could simply shove aside his father’s toxic thoughts and replace them with purity and truth? Was it possible t
o fall in love in a breath and a heartbeat? Or had he been falling for her all along?

  He gazed down at her. Evie, with her big blue eyes and her tender heart, her smelly llamas and indomitable spirit, her tears for old people she didn’t even know. He’d often heard that the love of a good woman could change a man. His mother had been a good woman, but his father had changed not at all. Maybe that said something about his father; he hoped it said more about him.

  Perhaps the love of a good woman could change a man, if that man wanted to change.

  A rap on the door startled him.

  “Dinner is served.” Edmunds? He knew they were in there? Jesus, he’d never intended to embarrass her like this.

  She closed her eyes. “Great. Damn.” Running her fingers through her hair, she gave a little sigh. “Well, so much for open communication. Let me know if you ever—”

  “Evie, listen, I…”

  The words were on the tip of his tongue, but courage failed him just as he was about to speak.

  Then he remembered Madam Grovda and her admission that she was a lousy psychic, that she had wanted to find her former lover’s killer but failed. He remembered the tears in her eyes, and the pain, at having to confess that to a stranger.

  “Evie,” he said, “I, uh, I think we should talk later. Maybe I can explain a few things, and maybe you can tell me a little more about Heyworth. I’m not saying I’ll agree with you that he was a great guy, but, uh, I’ll listen. You know, if you want to tell me.”

  “Oh, Max,” she whispered. “Would you?”

  He gave a sharp nod. “After dinner. We can, uh, you know, just talk.”

  She smiled up at him. “We’d better go now before Edmunds breaks the door down.”

  “I’ll go first,” he said. “You can come when you’re ready.”

  Without missing a beat, she reached up and curled her fingers around the knot of his tie.

  “Apparently,” she murmured, her mouth curved into a flirty smile, “I can come even when I’m not.”

  “…and finally, keep in mind,” Felix Barlow announced, as though everyone at the table was not already acutely aware what day it was, “you have until midnight seven days from now to capture the final clue, or Mr. Heyworth’s estate, in its entirety, will be forfeit. Any questions?”

  “I have one,” Nate said. In an apparent attempt to look the part of the urbane poet, Detective Darling had somehow managed to find a velvet jacket and a blue silk ascot. Unfortunately, his build and rugged looks made him appear more like an undercover cop unsuccessfully trying to look like an urbane poet, but Max had to give him points for trying.

  “According to the will,” Nate said, leaning forward in his chair, “Heyworth claims he left no heirs. But what if he did? Would the winner still get the estate?”

  “The question is moot, Mr. James,” Barlow said politely, “as Mr. Heyworth left no heirs.”

  Nate pressed on. “But what if there…. were an heir? Would the outcome be fair, I dare… uh, say?” He adjusted the ascot and flashed a grin at Lorna.

  Max drowned his laugh in a giant gulp of water while Lorna sent him a smile dripping with adoration.

  Barlow put his hands together and tented his fingers, a detached look on his face as he considered Nate’s question.

  “The original treasure hunt was based on Mr. Heyworth’s belief that no heir existed. Should an heir be discovered, and be able to prove without question a blood relationship to the deceased, the terms of the hunt would become void, and the heir would undoubtedly be awarded the estate.”

  Next to Nate, Lorna looked thoughtful. “But how would a person prove they were related? Mr. Heyworth is dead, so—”

  “Documentation,” interrupted Barlow smoothly. “Certificate of birth, sworn affidavits, and most tenably, DNA testing.”

  “But how could anybody do that if Mr. Heyworth’s dead?” she asked.

  “To prove a relationship,” he explained, clasping his hands in front of him on the table, “DNA samples must be collected from both parents. As his death was the result of a homicide, the authorities have no doubt maintained a sample of Mr. Heyworth’s DNA. Anyone purporting to be an heir would have to provide a sample of his or her own DNA, and a sample from the birth mother in question. Without the mother’s DNA, too, the only definitive result would be that paternity could be ruled out.”

  “So,” Max said, “with only the suspected father’s DNA, you could prove he was not the father, but you could never prove that he was, without DNA from the kid’s mother.”

  “Correct.” Barlow shoved his dessert plate away and poured himself another goblet of wine. Lifting the glass to his lips, he said, “Edmunds tells me he and Madame Grovda are in possession of their third clue and will venture to the mainland tomorrow in search of the fourth.”

  At the end of the table, the Russian psychic examined Barlow as though she were trying to see him through an aquarium filled with darting fish. Finally, her eyes seemed to focus and she slurred, “This is so.” Setting her empty wineglass on the table, she stood. “I go now to punch the straw.”

  “Hit the hay,” Evie corrected.

  “Da.” With that, the woman wobbled her way out of the dining room and disappeared down the hallway that led to the stairs.

  Nate stood and grabbed Lorna by the hand. “We have work to do. Good night.”

  Lorna’s eyes brightened for a moment, then she softly said good night to all and followed the ersatz poet from the room.

  Turning to the lawyer, Max said, “I’d like to have a word with you, Mr. Barlow. Are you staying the night?”

  “No, no,” he said with hearty enthusiasm. “Edmunds is waiting at the dock to take me back to the mainland. Much to do, much to do. I’m running late. Can this wait for another time?”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes,” Max assured him. Before either man could say anything else, Evie interrupted. “I should go. It’s getting late and we have a big day tomorrow.”

  Barlow’s brows lifted. “Are you on to your next clue, too?”

  “Good night, gentlemen,” she said, not answering Barlow’s question.

  As soon as Evie was gone, Max turned back to the lawyer. Without prelude he said, “Where were you the night Thomas Heyworth was killed?”

  “Excuse me? Oh, well, I was at a fund-raiser, Detective.” Barlow tossed down his napkin and rose from the table. “The police have my full statement.”

  “I know. I read it. Any witnesses?” Max swallowed a last gulp of wine, set down the empty goblet, and stood.

  “About forty or fifty I should think.”

  “You own a boat, Mr. Barlow?”

  The lawyer flattened his mouth. “Yes, as do hundreds of thousands of other people in the Puget Sound area.”

  “What kind of boat?”

  “It’s a Sea Ray Sundancer. Thirty-one foot.”

  “Yeah? Nice boat. Big. Expensive. What kind of horsepower you get on that? About three hundred?”

  “Sounds about right. Not that speed matters. I use it mostly for fishing.”

  Max considered this. “Did you go fishing Tuesday night?”

  Barlow’s brows shot up. “See here, I—”

  “Where were you, sir?”

  The man sent Max a look of pure antagonism, then shrugged. “Dinner. With a friend.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female. A client. I can give you her name, but I beg you not to disturb her.”

  Max smiled. “Only if I have to.”

  Barlow whipped out a business card and wrote down the woman’s name and address, then shoved the card across the white tablecloth to Max.

  As he tucked the card into his breast pocket, Max said, “Where do you keep your boat docked, Mr. Barlow?”

  The man made an elaborate gesture at his watch. “I must leave immediately or be late for a very important teleconference.” Pushing back his chair, he turned to go.

  “Sorry,” Max said to Barlow’s back. “I didn’t mean
to keep you so long. Just tell me where your boat is, and we’ll be done.”

  Buttoning his jacket, Barlow faced Max once more.

  “I loaned it to a friend for his honeymoon. A week ago. He’ll be back in two weeks.”

  “A friend’s honeymoon,” repeated Max. “What an altruistic thing to do. Must be a very good friend.”

  “He is. Are we finished?”

  “Just about. How did you meet Mr. Heyworth?”

  Barlow eased his hands into his pants pockets. “He and my older brother were friends. I tagged along.”

  “Ever tag along to Heyworth Island when you were a kid?”

  “On occasion.”

  “Where’s your brother now?”

  Barlow straightened his shoulders, then relaxed a little. “Killed,” he said softly. He pursed his lips, as though being asked to remember his brother was uncomfortable. “He was barely nineteen, you see. I understand it was a land mine. Korea. A long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Max said. “The Forgotten War.”

  “Forgotten, Detective?” he said, his voice weary, edged with bitterness. “Not by my mother who mourned for him. Not by my father who wept over his ashes. And not by me, Detective.” His shoulders rose and fell on a deep sigh. “Never by me.”

  In the darkened room, sitting cross-legged on her bed, Evie let her head fall back against the headboard. She could still feel Max’s fingers against her flesh, pleasuring her, making her want so much more of it, so much more of him.

  His hands and mouth on her body were one thing, but it had been the look in his eyes when he asked her if she wanted to talk that she couldn’t forget. For the first time since she met him, he’d looked vulnerable, even shy. He’d stammered and been uncertain, but in the end had said the words. He was willing to talk. Better, he was willing to listen.

  Such a simple thing, yet it had given her something valuable and very precious—it had given her hope. But Barlow had droned on, and dinner had gone late, and she returned to her room and waited, but so far Max hadn’t knocked on her door.