The car following her pulled over to the side of the road and parked three doors down, in the tall grass, but the car door never opened. Parked in Ian’s yard, Augusta sat, waiting and watching.
Probably a reporter, she decided. Poor Ian. She didn’t know how he managed. This was the first time she’d come by his house when he didn’t have half a dozen strange cars parked in his yard.
However, this one was clearly tailing her—probably trying to figure out what her connection was to Ian. Nosy hounds. Let them say whatever they wished to say. Unlike other people in her life, Augusta had nothing to hide.
Curious, she sat and watched in her rearview mirror, trying to make out the driver, but it was dusk now and she couldn’t see much inside the car with the last bright streams of sunlight beaming down on the windshield. As Ian’s black Acura came racing around the corner, the car’s headlights flicked on; then it pulled out into the street behind him. She watched as the car drove slowly by, but the windows were all tinted too dark a shade to see inside. She was pretty sure that wasn’t legal anymore. She caught the first three letters on the license plate before the car turned the corner: NZ3. It was an older black Dodge that looked as though it had seen way too many miles on the road—maybe even a rehabilitated police car.
NZ3, she repeated to herself.
Ian was out of his car before she managed to open her door, and she walked toward him, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. He held out his arms, and without warning they began to flow, breaking through her carefully laid barriers.
“Hey, hey,” he said, lifting her face. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know where to start,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.
He wiped away her tears, and with his arms around her, turned her toward his house. “Let’s get you inside. I’ve got beer, and pretty much nothing else, but you can tell me everything when you’re good and ready.”
Augusta nodded, allowing someone else to direct for once.
“I’ve got good news,” he offered, squeezing her gently. “Maybe it’ll help to hear that first?”
With watery eyes, Augusta peered up at him, and she knew before he said it. “Oh Ian! They dropped the charges?”
His grin widened, and he nodded, and she felt suddenly more lighthearted—even more so once the door closed behind them, shutting out the rest of the world.
According to experts there were three types of anger: the first, a low-grade temper that manifested itself in a person’s character, like grumpy old men; the second, a slow, simmering reaction to perceived wrongs; and the third, a fight-or-flight mechanism. As a motive for murder, it could mean the difference between manslaughter and premeditated murder.
Anger was not his friend, so he stilled his heartbeat, cleared his mind.
She was a bitch and a whore, but that wasn’t why he wanted her out of the way. He wanted her out of the way because he thought it was smart.
Augusta ran her fingers along the fireplace mantle.
It appeared not to have been dusted in a decade. Clean spots, where knickknacks had once resided, stood out against the ivory paint, conspicuous without the usual baubles to hide them. Behind the grate, though the bricks were stained with soot, there wasn’t an ember to be found. It was as clean as a dog’s bone. “So you must be renting?”
Ian returned to the living room with a glass of water, no beer. “What makes you say that?”
Augusta gave him a lopsided grin. “Oh, I don’t know . . . maybe the simple fact that your rooms are all empty and it seems they’ve been that way for quite a while.”
He winked at her. “Not all my rooms are empty. In fact . . .” He wiggled a brow at her as he set the water glass down on the mantle beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Maybe later I’ll give you a tour of my postmodern-style boudoir, as well as a demonstration of how the single-purpose minimalistic bed works. You’ll be so impressed,” he assured.
Augusta laughed, but a thrill raced down her spine at the thought of being naked with him again. Her body responded to his touch. “Single purpose?”
He nodded slowly, grinning. “Sleep is overrated,” he said, his lips curving a little mischievously. “Of course, all this happens only after we’ve had a chance to talk.”
Augusta’s heart beat faster. “Taking is overrated,” she said, and her nipples pebbled against her blouse, drawing his gaze.
“Damn,” he whispered, and she knew the instant he put the joking aside. His gaze became hooded, moving from her breasts to her mouth.
The mood shifted suddenly and his voice grew sober now. “This time I don’t want alcohol on my breath or sand up my ass. I just want you in my nice, clean, soft bed and I want to show you exactly how I feel about you, Augusta.”
Augusta slid her arms around his waist, leaning back to gauge his expression. “Yeah? How is that?” He had never really seemed like the priestly type, but gone was the ex-priest entirely and in his place stood a bad boy she had never met before this moment. His eyes glittered with the intensity of blue flames.
He reached between them, lifting her chin, and seemed to need to ask. “Why don’t you tell me what upset you first?”
Suddenly, nothing seemed as important as hearing how he felt about her. She slid her arms up along his back, reveling in the sinewy strength along his lats. “Later,” she promised. “Right now we’re celebrating.”
He lifted a brow. “Are you celebrating with me?”
Augusta nodded slowly and held her breath. There was no music to move their hips to, no smoky lights to hide behind, no champagne in her veins . . . but the moment was as sexy as any Augusta had ever experienced. She moved against him, shifting her weight with a lover’s instinct, melting into his embrace, daring to tease him.
“Augusta,” he said, his voice gruff. It sounded every bit like a warning.
He caught her hand about his neck, but instead of pulling it away he leaned to kiss her gently on the lips. Augusta responded by deepening the kiss, offering her tongue. He kissed her deeply, his body tense and trembling and after a moment, he tore himself away, leaning his forehead against hers, staring down into her face.
“Turns out I’m not enough of a gentleman to resist a beautiful woman alone in my bed.” He moved to kiss her neck.
“I’m not in your bed yet,” she pointed out.
“Yet being the operative word.” His fingers curved around her throat, holding her still for his exploration.
His body hardened against her and he pressed his arousal into her, letting her feel him through his jeans. She held her breath, her skin tingling with anticipation.
His fingers moved to her blouse, popping the top button, looking her in the eye. Augusta’s breath left her in a rush at the gentleness with which he unbuttoned her buttons, one by one, exposing her, the look on his face hungry and purposeful as he worked his way down her blouse.
Unblinking, Ian watched her expression, afraid to miss a flicker of emotion.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
He was only halfway joking about the bed, though he’d be lying if he told himself he hadn’t purposely set the beers back in the fridge, not wanting anything to numb his senses . . . or hers. Just in case. But he’d meant to give her a chance to breathe . . . to lean on him if she needed to, and even then, if she hadn’t wished to make love tonight, he would have simply held her and told her he loved her.
Because he did.
He knew that now.
The feel of her in his arms was like manna for his soul. He wasn’t sure how she’d gotten through his armored shell, but she had. Slowly, reveling in the satiny feel of her skin, he turned her so that the lamplight illuminated her fully for his eyes. The last time he’d held her in his arms, and the time before that, it had been on a dark beach. He wanted to make love to her in the light, so he could see every lovely inch of her body . . . every goose bump . . . every blush.
He pressed his erection more firmly against her, wan
ting her to feel it, wanting her to know the dangers of tempting the lusty beast inside him.
She was the first woman he’d wanted this badly in more than six years . . . the first woman who’d made him forget his past . . . the first who made him yearn to spend every day for the rest of his life lolling in a bed.
Desire thrummed through his veins.
“Say the word and we’ll stop,” he suggested, and sent a little prayer heavenward that she wouldn’t ask him to. Prayers generally failed him, but today he hoped the man upstairs was firmly on his side. He didn’t want to have to relieve himself in the shower, with just the memory of her taste lingering in his mouth. His body ached for release. But he wanted her willing and on the same page.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, and Ian groaned deep in the back of his throat, taking her by the hand. He led her into his room, flipping on the light, and pulling her gently toward the bed.
Augusta swallowed, unable to speak a word. She let him guide her into the room and resisted the urge to ask him to turn off the light.
She knew why he’d turned it on . . . could see it in his eyes—that barely restrained hunger that made her panties wet with just a glance. And deep in her heart she knew she wasn’t going to stop him. What she wanted most in this instant was to have him inside her. Something about him emboldened her; that was the only explanation for this fevered desire she felt every time she was in his presence. Her mouth suddenly felt like cotton. Her tears were completely forgotten. Her palms grew damp and her skin prickled with anticipation—all with merely a look.
Without a word, she backed up toward the bed, and he followed, his blue eyes brilliant and full of purpose. Swallowing the knot that rose in her throat, Augusta sat on the bed and he knelt in front her, pushing her legs apart without a word, sliding her skirt up.
A whimper caught in her throat as she fell back against the bed, clutching the hem of her skirt and pulling it the rest of the way up. “Yes,” she said with a sigh, even before his lips touched her.
He settled his nose against her panties, breathing deeply and then pressing his tongue against the soft cotton before taking the damp material into his mouth and pulling the panties off with his teeth. Augusta swallowed convulsively.
After being so long without a woman in his life, Ian might have thought that all he’d want to do was to bury himself inside her sweet body, but he longed for more than that. He wanted to savor each and every moment. He wanted to taste every inch of her body. He lingered on the tiny bud that tempted him beyond reason, teasing her with a finger, and he didn’t stop until her body shuddered beneath his lips and she moaned with unrestrained pleasure.
He wanted her to feel appreciated and adored. He made love to her first with his mouth, drinking up the nectar of her body with complete abandon. And then when he was done, he kissed her thoroughly, wanting her to know that there was no part of her that wasn’t divine.
“I play for keeps,” he whispered against her temple, and then pressed his weight down upon her, pulling her blouse off a little feverishly.
Augusta welcomed his weight, drawing him down atop her, but words failed her.
Eagerly, she unbuttoned his white shirt, and tugged it off, throwing it behind her on the floor. He unzipped his jeans, and stood a moment to shrug out of them. “I want to see all of you,” he said, his eyes never leaving her.
Augusta shimmied out of her skirt, and before it hit the floor, he was kneeling over her once more, his body hard and ready.
There was no shame in his actions. He peered down at her, looking primal and ready to take what he wanted. His hand moved to his shaft and he stroked himself while she watched, completely uninhibited. The sight of him touching himself, pulling his thumb over the bead of moisture at the tip, turned her on like nothing else ever had. God help her, she thought she would have another orgasm simply watching, and then he brought his hand to her lips, painting her mouth with the silky moisture, giving her the tiniest hint of the taste of him. His fingers shook with barely restrained passion, and he looked at her pointedly.
“I want you in my life until we both take our last breaths, Augusta. You’re the last thing I want to see at night before I go to bed. If you don’t want that, too, say no and I’ll get up right now, put my pants on and see you to the door.”
Wide-eyed, Augusta stared at him. Naked and unashamed, he rested his hand once again on his erection, stroking it seductively, waiting for her answer. His hair fell back behind his shoulders, and the earring in his ear gleamed wickedly. A day’s worth of golden whiskers glittered on his face. He was easily the most beautiful man she had ever known.
Augusta couldn’t have walked away from this moment if her life had depended upon it.
She was lost—body and soul.
With Ian she felt no inhibition, or shyness. She felt only a primal desire to claim him for her own. She threw her head back in blatant invitation, smiling slightly as she demanded, “Make love to me, Ian.”
Chapter 16
12:02 A.M.
It took every ounce of willpower Augusta had to get up and go home.
Ian begged her to stay, but she knew she couldn’t—not with the realization that Caroline was likely to be home alone. Until the wedding, Caroline and Jack had agreed it was entirely too weird to have him stay at the house, and she rarely spent the night with him at his beach house—never without telling her and Savannah. Augusta couldn’t take Ian home either—not until she had a long talk with her sisters.
“Stay,” he begged, and despite her halfhearted protests, he coaxed her back into bed. They made love once more before she managed to get up and get her blouse and skirt back on.
“You’re such a bad boy for an ex-priest!” Augusta told him, loving that it was true. There was a fine line between sexy and dirty. For her, crossing it wasn’t an option, but pushing the boundary was a turn-on. She and Ian had the same sensibilities, she realized. She trusted him implicitly.
He threw his hands up into the air and grinned unrepentantly. “I wasn’t always a priest,” he reminded with a wink. “In fact, if you come back to bed I’ll show you how unpriestly I can be.” Snagging her hand, he dragged her down atop him, but Augusta resisted, kissing him firmly upon the lips and tearing herself away.
“I really, really have to go,” she insisted.
“Then I’ll see you home,” he said, and his tone brooked no argument. He got up and dressed without complaint and Augusta watched, for the first time in her life truly appreciating a man’s solicitous nature. Usually, it made her feel like running as fast as she could in the opposite direction. But somehow Ian made her feel at ease, despite the fact that he had clearly stated his intentions—maybe even because of it.
But there was something that was hovering at the back of her head—a feeling that she couldn’t quite shake, though she was pretty sure it had nothing to do with Ian.
With everything going on, Sadie’s confession, knowing she still had to talk to Caroline, there was a heaviness in the air—a grim feeling she couldn’t escape. It elbowed its way into her joy, but she pasted a smile on her face as Ian saw her to her car door.
“Want me to drive you home? I can pick you up in the morning.”
“Nah . . . I’d better take the car.”
Accepting her answer, he let her lead the way, following behind her down the isolated road.
The night was clear but balmy. Augusta drove home with her windows only partway down, rolling slowly through stop signs rather than coming to a complete halt. Her doors were locked, but the silence was unnerving. As beautiful as the overlying oaks were, with their mossy curtains spilling down over the blacktop, she couldn’t shake the overall feeling of gloom. It was like a black cloud pressing down over her.
Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who felt that sense of gloom. After Amy Jones’s murder on Backcreek Road, a few more houses had popped up for sale. Realtor signs loomed out at her through the darkness.
It was strange how
the murders were so concentrated in this area.
She had once read that serial killers lived and worked in areas they were stalking—they got jobs in positions where vulnerable people sought help. It was sinister, but not surprising. The simple fact that people lived and worked around such monsters and couldn’t recognize them for who they were was a little frightening.
Augusta liked to think her instincts were better than that.
She had never once gotten a bad feeling about Ian, even though her sister had pegged him as a murderer from the moment she set eyes on him. But his character had never raised a single red flag, as far as Augusta was concerned.
Maybe serial killers had multiple personalities? It seemed the only plausible explanation for how folks could miss what seemed to be right there in front of their faces.
Back in the early nineties, when the state executed Donald Pee Wee Gaskins, reviving the horrors he had committed upon the Lowcountry, she remembered reading that the guy claimed to have bought a hearse to haul his victims to his “own private cemetery.” Still no one believed his boasts. All his drinking buddies thought he was joking. But he wasn’t. By his own admission, Gaskins had murdered more than one hundred men and women, including the daughter of a state senator. Whether that was true or not, no one knew. He never shared the locations of their bodies and there were millions of acres of wetlands—impossible to search every inch.
After Gaskins, it literally took decades for Charleston to shrug off the cloak of fear thrown over the city—especially considering the public’s reawakening to his crimes after his execution. And now, like then, there was an aura of fear surrounding the community . . . except these killings were concentrated right here around Oyster Point Plantation . . . around the places Augusta had played as a child. That cemetery Cody had disappeared from was a frequent stop on their hikes.
She watched Ian in the rearview mirror with a smile.
Tell No Lies Page 18
