Killing Her Softly

by Freda Vasilopoulos

  Leslie rested her forehead against the steering wheel, dust settling around the car and drifting into the open window. Her heart pounded in her throat. It felt as if it would never beat at its normal pace in her chest again.

  "Leslie, are you all right?” Simon's voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Where'd you learn to drive like that?” His voice cracked, and he grabbed her shoulder, pulling her against him. “Don't you ever scare me like that again."

  "I don't want to scare myself like that again, either, thank you very much,” Leslie said shakily.

  He hugged her close, and she let herself fall against his chest. His warm, hard chest, where she could hear his heart beating in double time. The gear lever dug into her thigh, but it was a minor discomfort compared to what could have happened.

  Still holding her, Simon reached forward and turned off the Renault's head lights. “No use draining the battery. You must have lost the brake fluid. I saw the brake light come on."

  Leslie nodded. “Yeah, it blinked before, but it stayed on just before the brakes died."

  "Can you stand?” Simon asked.

  She laughed unsteadily. “How did you guess?"

  "Oh, I've had a few mishaps in my life. Fell off a roof once. Lost my lunch, and couldn't stand alone for half an hour."

  He got out of the car and came around to her side to help her out. For a moment Leslie clutched the roof of the car, until the trembling of her legs subsided. “Wasn't there's a flashlight in the glove box?” Simon asked.

  "I think so."

  He got it out and knelt beside the car, shining the light underneath. He groped with his hand, then stood up and showed her his fingertips, shiny with oil. “You lost your brake fluid. Whether by accident or not, I can't tell, not until the car is towed and put on a hoist."

  A chill ran over Leslie's skin. She shivered, hugging her arms around her chest. “It could have been an accident.” Even to her own ears, the statement sounded hesitant, as if she needed to reassure herself. The alternative was too horrifying.

  "It could have,” Simon agreed. “But the mechanic checked the car over thoroughly the other day, and it was okay. Brake seals can deteriorate, but that doesn't cause entire system failure all at once. It's a gradual process, and you'd notice."

  "The brakes were fine this morning. If it was tampered with, it had to have happened in Kerkira today."

  "I think we'd better report this to Jimmy tomorrow morning,” Simon said grimly. “In the meantime, I guess we walk. Good thing it's not far."

  * * * *

  The house appeared undisturbed, but Simon walked through all the downstairs rooms anyway, checking the locks on the doors and windows. The gray cat wound himself around his ankles, purring, apparently at ease.

  Leslie picked up the cat, hugging him close. He nuzzled her, his whiskers tickling her chin. “I'm going upstairs. I need a shower."

  "Just let me look around first.” Simon walked past her, loping up the stairs two at a time. After a moment, he called to her. “All clear. I see you're being careful about locking your balcony door."

  She went slowly up and entered her room, aware of Simon standing on the landing. Was he waiting for an invitation to stay? She was tempted; the brake incident, on top of everything else, had shaken her and she didn't want to be alone. But having him here would lead to complications she felt in no condition to handle.

  Not that he would force himself on her. He hadn't last night, had he? No, she was more afraid that she would fling herself at him, and never let him go home again.

  In the glow of light from the hall, she could see the bed sheets in disarray, attesting to her haste that morning. She set down the cat. He stopped purring and stood in the middle of the room, ears pricked but tail down, growling faintly. Shaking her head at him, Leslie crossed over to the dresser to turn on the lamp.

  In front of the mirror, she slipped off her earrings and unhooked the shell necklace she'd worn. Her white sundress was wrinkled, and an oily smudge decorated the front of it. She grimaced at her reflection. She looked like a ghoul, dead white face with hectic dots of red on the cheekbones.

  As red as—Her throat closed over her scream and all that came out was a thin, despairing wail. “Si-i-i-m-m-mon!"

  * * * *

  Simon had reached the foot of the stairs when he heard her cry out. The sheer terror in her voice congealed his blood and made the hairs rise on his nape. He whirled, found himself upstairs without being conscious of moving.

  Leslie stood next to the bed, her hand pasted over her mouth. Behind her, the cat crouched against the headboard, his fur bristling. He growled deep in his throat and launched himself toward the door, nearly tripping Simon in his rush to escape.

  "What is it, Leslie?” Perplexed, Simon swept his gaze around the room. The French doors were firmly closed; nothing appeared to have changed from five minutes ago. He focused back on Leslie. Her eyes were wide with horror. He followed the direction of her gaze, realizing she was staring at the vase of roses on the night stand as if it were a coiled cobra.

  "Another unsolicited gift, I take it,” he said tightly. “I saw them when I checked the room, but I thought you'd put them there."

  Impotent rage flared within him. Who was tormenting her? And how was he getting into the locked house?

  "Look at the note.” She gulped for breath.

  The white square lay on the floor. He picked it up and read the neatly typed words aloud.. “'I'm sorry, Allegra. I didn't want you to die.’ What the hell?"

  "Don't you see?” Leslie cried. “He meant me to die when the brakes failed."

  "He has you mixed up with someone else,” Simon said, his jaw clenched. “Who the hell is Allegra?"

  "You'd probably know better than me. Maybe she used to live in this house."

  "Not in recent years.” Simon shook his head. “It could have been one of the summer tenants, but I don't recall the name. Are there any other beds? I'm not leaving you alone. And that couch last night was torture."

  "There's a bed in the next room,” she said, her voice still shaking. “It's not made up, but there are linens in the hall cupboard. I'll get them."

  "Don't bother. I can manage.” He picked up the vase of roses. “Would you like me to get rid of this?"

  She gulped. “Please."

  He took it downstairs, pausing at the kitchen table to put down the note. It was too late tonight, but tomorrow they had to talk to Jimmy again, about the brakes, the roses, the note, everything. And this time Jimmy would have to do something.

  Unlocking the back door, Simon set the vase outside. The cat moved past him, silent as a shadow, and disappeared into the bushes.

  Going back into the hall, Simon paused at the bottom of the stairs. How could he spend the night here again, alone, when he wanted nothing so much as to sleep beside her, all night, holding her, protecting her?

  Loving her.

  Ah, hell, he might as well admit it. He was more than halfway to loving her and he wanted to show it. Last night had been the purest torture; tonight would be worse.

  He couldn't take advantage of her. She was frightened, uncertain, and possibly grieving for Jason, even if the emotion was inspired by guilt. He had to give her a chance to get over that first.

  * * * *

  Clutching a couple of towels to her chest, Leslie turned from the linen cupboard, and found herself looking into Simon's face. Her heart stumbled as she saw the yearning in his eyes.

  He touched her as if he couldn't help himself, pulling the clip out of her ponytail. Gathering the long waves in his hands, he spread them on her shoulders. “So soft, like satin moonbeams. I've waited so long to touch you like this. I want to feel your hair brushing over my body when we're alone and naked together. I want—"

  "Simon!” Heat flooded Leslie's face and slid down her body, leaving scorching awareness in its wake.

  Simon laughed softly. “Leslie, you know I want you. I've wanted you from the beginning, when I fe
ll into those mist gray eyes and knew nothing would ever be the same again."

  "It's still not right."

  "What's not right?” Simon demanded. “Jason's dead."

  "We're in Jason's house.” She groped for a reason that would convince him. “And even you said Jason could be alive. I want to find the truth first."

  "Whatever the truth is."

  "The truth is, I'm not ready,” she blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

  He smiled, a smug male light in his eyes. “Yes, that's the truth, isn't it, Leslie? You're afraid to have a relationship with another man. Well, I can change that, if you give me a chance."

  She held her breath, waiting for him to grab her, kiss her brutally in an effort to convince her she needed him, like a couple of the men she'd dated after the divorce.

  "When you're ready,” he whispered. Then his mouth came down to cover hers and she forgot her protests, her misgivings, her common sense.

  His lips were soft, hot, moving over hers, cherishing rather than coercive. In a moment she was burning, as he filled her whole world.

  Simon kissed her as if it was the most important thing in the world, as if everything else could wait until they were satisfied. His hand slid down to her hips. He was aroused, hard and hot against her, and she reveled in the feeling that she could do this to him. She moaned and tangled her fingers in his hair, wanting more.

  Wanting all of him.

  He lifted his head, his eyes amused, although she could also see the need in them, the desire. “Let's call it a deposit on account,” he said, his voice faintly breathless.

  He studied her intently for a moment longer, running a gentle fingertip over her hot cheeks. “Just let me know when you're ready,” he said quietly. “I'll be waiting.” He turned and walked into the other room.

  Leslie sank down on the floor, burying her face in her hands. She'd never felt like this, and for a wild moment she reveled in the feeling.

  Was it love? Or was it only a powerful chemical attraction fueled by danger and Simon's proximity? She'd heard of women falling for a handsome man they met on holiday, and she'd always thought them foolish. Was that what was happening to her?

  No, she told herself. If she'd met Simon in Toronto, or London, or anywhere else, she would have felt the pull between them. But could she trust that feeling, when she wasn't sure she could trust the man?

  She got up and briskly straightened the stacks of towels in the cupboard, picking up the ones she'd dropped. Going into her room, she began to get ready for bed, resolutely banishing thoughts of Simon.

  * * * *

  The day's heat hadn't abated at nightfall. Simon lay naked on the bed in the room to which Leslie had banished him. Not a breath of air came from the open window. It must be hours since he'd gone to bed. He was thinking of getting up and taking another shower when he heard a sound from the other room.

  His heart leaped into double time. Someone had broken in and was attacking Leslie. The French doors—he knew he shouldn't have let her open them.

  He catapulted off the bed, through the door, and into her room. Good thing her door hadn't been locked; his momentum would have broken it down.

  She was alone, no one else in the room. Relief nearly flattened him. He gulped in a breath and willed his heart to slow.

  "No. Please, no.” He jumped. The voice trailed off in a high, keening cry.

  He sat down next to her, gently shaking her shoulder to wake her. Startled, she batted his hand away, opening her eyes. They were wide and terrified.

  "Leslie, wake up. You're dreaming.” He kept his voice low, soothing.

  Recognition came into her eyes, and the tension left her limbs. She pushed back her tangled hair. “Simon, what are you doing here?"

  "I heard you cry out,” he said, lying down beside her.

  "Bad dream."

  She went into his arms as if they'd been lovers forever. He lay beside her, simply holding her until her trembling subsided, until she relaxed. Just when he thought she had fallen asleep, her hand began to stroke restlessly over his arm.

  "Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

  Her fingers stilled. “The car. Like tonight, only I couldn't stop it. And I dreamed about my parents’ funeral. I was six when they died.” She sighed, her hand resuming its mindless motion. “I haven't had that dream in years."

  Her face was inches away from his, her eyes soft, sleepy. He began to be painfully aware of his nakedness, even though a sheet lay twisted between them. “Thank you."

  "For what?” he asked.

  "For being here."

  He ducked his head. “You're welcome.” How the hell was he going to get out of there without embarrassing her? She lay half on the sheet, preventing him from dragging it around himself. And if he stood up as he was...

  He shunted himself back until he felt the edge of the bed. He'd never been self-conscious about his body, but that quality of innocence in her made him want to protect her. When they made love, he wanted it to be romantic, not stark and carnal.

  He smothered a laugh. Tell that to certain parts of his body. The moonlight had brightened. There was no way he could hide his rampant arousal.

  "Simon, please stay.” Her low murmur cut through his discomfort.

  "What?” His voice rasped in the silent room. Stay? He couldn't believe she'd said that. No, he must be dreaming.

  "Simon, stay. Make love with me."

  He felt as if a fist had clutched his heart and then let it go. “Leslie, are you sure?” he whispered, hardly aware of what he was saying.

  She gave a throaty laugh. “No, I'm not. But I think I soon will be. Please, Simon. I want this. I wanted it all along, but I kept trying to convince myself I didn't."

  Convoluted logic, if he'd ever heard it. But who was he to argue? A fierce tenderness overwhelmed him. He would take care of her. Yes, he would cherish her. They had tonight. He bent his head and began to kiss her.

  Passion ignited within her, sending incandescent sparkles through her body. She leaned into the hand that Simon laid on her cheek, nuzzling it with a soft, open-mouthed kiss. The car, the other things that had happened—was danger arousing? She'd never felt like this, aware of every pore in his skin, every nerve in her own.

  "Sweet,” he murmured. “You're so sweet.” His breath kissed her lips just before his mouth came down on hers.

  After an eternity, he pulled away, slowly, reluctantly, his fingers trailing a hot path down her throat before he lifted himself off the bed. “I'll be right back.” He turned before she could get a good look at him, almost running out of the door.

  Leslie closed her eyes, her limbs heavy with a lassitude almost as profound as the aftermath of love. In a moment he was back, dropping something on the night table. When he didn't come down on the bed, she opened her eyes. His expression was troubled, uncertain.

  Seeing it, she knew this was more than just a summer conquest to him. If she hadn't been sure it was right before, she was now. No matter how long this lasted, and where it led, he would not willfully hurt her. In fact, his brief visit to his own room proved it. In spite of the overpowering desire he felt, he had put concern for her first.

  She lifted the sheet, pushing it to the end of the bed. Grasping the bottom of her nightgown, she pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. A fine tremor roughened her skin. Nervous sweat trickled between her breasts, cool against her hot skin. Amid the turmoil in her mind, she could isolate only one fact. She wanted Simon. She wanted to lie with him, explore him, love him. So much that it terrified her.

  "Come. Simon, come to me.” The ragged edge of her voice betrayed her.

  Simon knelt beside the bed. “Leslie, don't be afraid.” Gently he caressed her cheek, the heat of his hand annihilating the shivers in her body.

  She closed her eyes, inhaling his clean scent as he pulled her against his chest. His body was hard, solid, a bulwark against danger. “Please, Simon."

  He kissed her m
outh, her throat, her breasts. For a brief second, he laid his cheek against her waist, his hand running softly up and down her thighs. “Leslie, why did we wait so long?"

  Why indeed? From the first moment she'd met those fathomless chocolate eyes, Leslie had known this would come. And suddenly she couldn't wait.

  She pulled him up beside her with surprising strength, feeling the roughness of his chest hair against her nakedness, an erotic contrast that heightened her arousal.

  For a long moment they lay together, savoring their closeness, listening to each other breathe, absorbing the essence of each other through their skin. But soon that wasn't enough.

  Simon ran his hand up her back, aligning her precisely against him. Leslie shifted so that one of her thighs lay between his. At the intimate pressure, he groaned. “Yes, like that. Oh, yes."

  He kissed her, and her mouth flowered under his, their tongues intimately meeting. Leslie felt the last of her nervousness float away. She responded with the passion that had lain dormant in her. She kissed him all over his body, until he shook with the need to bury himself in her. And when it came time, she helped him roll on the condom, and positioned herself to receive him.

  He whispered passionate words in her ear, words that would never have passed Jason's lips. Erotic words that had the power to arouse her unbearably. Then all thoughts of past or future faded. She cried out in joy and relief when he joined their bodies. And she was with him all the way on a journey that culminated in a crashing pleasure that left them exhausted and giddily euphoric.

  * * * *

  "Good morning, Simon.” Despite her efforts at nonchalance, her voice sounded breathless as she walked into the kitchen the next morning.

  He turned from the eggs he was frying, dropping the spatula. His eyes twinkled. “Yes, it is, isn't it?” He pulled her close and kissed her. Her mind and body went into an instant replay of the night before. Where the renewed kindling of passion would have led, they didn't find out, as a thin column of smoke began to rise from the frying pan.

  "Damn.” Simon let her go and dragged the pan off the burner.