The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2)

by Colleen Gleason

  “Nice?” he repeated. “I don’t think that was the word you used before. Mind-blowing comes to mind.”

  She kept her expression bland, her voice even. “Mind-blowing? Is that what I said? I’d forgotten.”

  “You’ve forgotten?” His voice became smooth and silky, and dark challenge came into his eyes.

  Suddenly, she was afraid … and more alive than she’d ever felt. Her skin prickled and her chest squeezed and she felt light-headed, trapped by his eyes like a doe in a pair of headlights.

  Her mouth turned to cotton as he closed his fingers around one of her narrow wrists, drawing it behind him so that she was forced to step up to him, just a hairs-breadth away from his solidness. Diana’s breath caught and she couldn’t breathe for a moment as she struggled to regain her senses.

  “Perhaps I should remind you how good it was,” he murmured, his voice thick, his eyes hooding as he continued to look down at her. “How … mind-blowing. Toe-curling.”

  “Ethan ….” She meant to stop him, but her voice sounded like it was begging, as it came out breathy and husky. She pushed at him, in her last vestige of sensibility, and he deftly caught her fingers, transferring them to join the others in the bondage of his left hand.

  He traced a light forefinger over her jaw and chin, down the length of her neck and along the unbuttoned neckline of her blouse. She struggled to breathe, and her chest rose as if to meet the tip of his finger. His hand slid further, just brushing into the warmth of her cleavage, and back over the swell of the top of one breast. Her skin leapt and danced beneath his touch, and she had to close her eyes for a moment to remind herself where she was. Who he was.

  “Ethan,” she said in a voice that was meant to be strong, but wavered. She tried again to step away, to free her wrists, but he kept her imprisoned. “Don’t … .”

  He stilled, and there was only the rasping, rhythmic sound of their breathing for a long moment; then suddenly he released her hands and stepped away. “I haven’t forgotten about it, Diana, and neither have you.”

  Then, as if annoyed with himself, he spun and walked into the kitchen. She heard him open the refrigerator, and rummage around in there.

  “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, trying to instill a bit of humor into the tense moment. Then she went into her bedroom to change out of her suit.

  By the time Diana reappeared from the bedroom, Ethan had managed to gain control of himself and his rashness, and was seated on the living room sofa, drinking a glass of wine. There hadn’t been any beer in the refrigerator so he’d resorted to a Pouilly-Fuissé.

  He should have left, he told himself when Diana walked hesitantly into the room … but there were a few things he wanted to talk with her about. He had his hormones under control now, but there had been a moment there, where he could see a glimpse of her bedroom from the hallway, that he’d almost tossed her on the bed to really tear up the sheets. Probably’d be the first time they’d really be mussed up, he thought to himself with a complacent grin. Unless she’s been sleeping with someone else now that she dumped the douchebag doctor.

  His grin disappeared and anger sliced through him at the thought. Then he forced himself to do a mental shrug. She did it with you, why wouldn’t she do it with someone else?

  He looked up and realized she was still standing in the doorway, watching him as though she feared he would leap across the room at her. The vulnerable look on her face struck him, blasting some sense into his sex-crazed brain, as he remembered all that was going on in her life right now.

  His irritation with her evaporated.

  He stood, facing her, and said, “If you want me to leave, I will. But I’d like to stay and … be here for awhile. I know you’re going through a lot, and it might help to have someone to listen if you want to talk. That’s all.” He spread his hands, holding the wine glass out over the coffee table.

  She was silent, measuring him with her eyes as if to see what trick he intended this time. But Ethan’s motives were, probably for the first time since he’d met her, purely unselfish in that he wanted nothing from her: not to observe her, not to judge her, not to sleep with her.

  “Thank you,” she said at last. She didn’t directly accept his offer, but instead, said, “Would you like something to drink other than wine? No beer, but I have Scotch and gin.”

  “Thank God.” He set the wine glass down on the table and gave her a genuine smile. “Scotch would be appreciated.”

  “There’s a good pizza place around the corner that delivers, and also a Thai place up the street, if you’re still hungry.” She seemed to be trying to smooth the awkwardness between them, and he was glad to let her. He believed she didn’t want to be alone anymore than he thought she did—even though she might not admit it.

  They ate on a small patio in the back of the brownstone, sharing a pizza and antipasto salad. Diana drank red wine, and instead of the offered whiskey, Ethan had dashed to the store for a six-pack of beer, which he drank right from the bottle.

  She’d told him as much as she dared about the Merkovitz situation, and how Jonathan’s dire prediction was coming true: that the orthopedic surgeon, who wielded an inordinate amount of influence in Boston’s medical community, was obviously blackballing her name so that her clients would withdraw. Today when he called her office, Jonathan had told her if she’d reconsider, he was certain he could get Merkovitz to stop sabotaging her … but she would not.

  Now, they sat in companionable silence as the orange ball of the sun finished dipping behind the rooflines of the houses in the distance. It was still early—just past nine o’clock—but Diana wondered whether Ethan planned to drive back to Damariscotta that night, or to take a room somewhere in the area. No matter what happened, he wasn’t staying there, she promised herself.

  “So, Diana,” his smooth voice rumbled, interrupting her thoughts, “have you given anymore thought to who might have had a reason to murder Belinda?”

  She stiffened as the reality of it all came back. “I’ve tried not to think about it too hard, but I know I should.” She looked at him in the lowering light. “You probably have as good an idea—or better—as I do.” She said it without rancor, just regret, that it should be true.

  His smile flashed for a moment, then he sobered. “I don’t know. Let’s talk about motive, first. The classic motives are money, passion, revenge, and fear. I’d say money is the most obvious in this situation, since Bee was loaded.”

  Diana nodded. “She didn’t live like she was as wealthy as she was, though—did the people in town know?”

  “Did they know? Does Helen Galliday live in Damariscotta? Hell, yeah, they knew.” He finished off his beer, and Diana caught herself being distracted by the long, sinewy cords in his neck as he tilted his head back. “So who would gain by Belinda’s death?”

  “I would.”

  He nodded. “I know. You’d be the most obvious suspect, in a classic case, especially since you only got back in contact with her a year ago. How did that happen, by the way, if you thought she was dead?”

  She looked at him, wondering if he was making an implication, or if he was just curious. “It was odd, but I got a letter from her—out of the blue. I suppose she must have either kept track of me, or found a way to track me down. Or maybe she saw something in the paper about me and a case I was working on.”

  Ethan was nodding. “I do remember that. She was very excited to have located you.”

  Diana felt the old guilt creep up, followed by the continuing anger toward her mother for keeping her apart from her great-aunt. “I called her right away, but I never got a chance to see her.” I never made the chance to see her.

  “So, other than you, who else would benefit from her death?”

  “The only other beneficiary is the town animal shelter—I guess that would be Doug Horner, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him for a moment, then a thought struck her. “It was at his office that my tires were slashed … and he was at lunch when we
went to the quilt shop. It could have been him who broke into the house.”

  “Hm. Yes, he’s a possibility.” He didn’t sound convinced. Ethan was quiet for a long moment, drumming his long fingers on the tile-topped table in front of him. “Diana, what would happen to Belinda’s money if anything happened to you?”

  “I don’t have any family, so I guess—” She stopped. “Jonathan.” She said it aloud without thinking as her stomach curled in upon itself tightly, hurting her. “It would have been Jonathan, if we’d gotten married.”

  “But you didn’t,” Ethan said softly. “You aren’t.”

  “No. But ….” Her arms prickled. Could that be why he was so insistent that they work things out? Then she shook her head violently. “Absolutely not, Ethan. That’s absurd. He doesn’t even need the money—he has a thriving practice. And aside from that, he seems to have accepted that it’s over.”

  He just looked at her. “It’s usually the one closest to the victim ….”

  “But I’m not the victim!” she returned, her eyes burning with tears. No, not this… not this on top of everything else.

  Then, she remembered, and light-headed relief swept over her. “It can’t be Jonathan—he has an alibi.”

  “An alibi?”

  “Yes. Several of them, in fact. He was at a conference on the day the tires were slashed, I know that for sure, because it was in North Carolina and he had to speak. And, he called me from his office on my cell—Caller ID—after the first break-in. That night, that night I came home and someone was in my house.”

  “And you thought it was me.” His voice was flat. “Well, I guess that leaves out Jonathan.”

  “Yes, I did think it was you. You’d been in there uninvited once before—what was I to think?”

  “Someone was searching for something,” Ethan said, ignoring her question. “Money, perhaps—if it’s someone who thought they were going to inherit but didn’t.”

  “That could make you a suspect.” Diana looked at him closely, no longer believing it, but playing devil’s advocate. “After all, you did enter the house at least once without being invited.”

  “Yeah, right. And I slashed your tires while we were at the quilt shop. And I murdered Belinda while I was in Princeton. Fat chance.” His voice was easy, as if he, too, knew she was just making an argument. He had an almost-smile on his lips.

  How far they’d come from suspicion and judgment to casual discussion. No accusations.

  The sun was gone, and the last light faded from the sky. The far-off rumbling of traffic reminded Diana that she was in Boston, not in Maine, looking into someone else’s back yard, not over Lake Damariscotta … and all of a sudden, she missed it. She missed the peace and the quiet and the slow hum of living … not the day-to-day race to work.

  She smelled that someone was barbequing—it was nearly ten, but that wasn’t an uncommon time for the workaholic professionals who lived in the Back Bay to eat a Friday night meal—and it smelled artificial, like the gas grill on which it was cooked.

  “Diana.” Ethan’s voice came to her, bringing her back to the tiny porch where they sat. “So you have no other family? You have no other relatives?”

  “No. My father died when I was very young, and Mother never remarried or had any other children. Aunt Bee and Uncle Tracer were the only family I ever knew. Until I met Tommy and Bella. I guess they’re family now.” She stood abruptly, batting her hand in the air. “Bugs are getting bad.”

  Despite the fact that he hadn’t seen one mosquito or even a no-see-um, he stood, helping to gather their dishes.

  In the kitchen, he looked at her, allowing his emotions—the attraction, the need—to leak forward into his consciousness. He’d been trying to keep them at bay all evening, focusing on their conversation and not the way he felt, being here with her in a casual, informal, domestic sort of way. So comfortable. So right.

  But now desire pushed inside him, struggling to have its way. A vision of Diana, sprawled among the mussed sheets of the four-poster mahogany bed that was just down the hall, formed, caught, and would not be dislodged.

  And, almost as though she’d been waiting for it—maybe she had, maybe all she’d wanted was for the suspense to end as much as he did—she turned away from the counter and faced him. Their gazes caught across the kitchen, and her mouth opened in a soft little O.

  In two strides, he was there next to her, his hands curving under and around her bent elbows, pulling her body to his. Where it fitted. Where it belonged.

  He felt rather than heard her small gasp of pleasure and protest, and ignored the insistent pressure of her hands molded to his chest as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  “No,” she whispered, even as she raised her chin to bare the softness of her neck to his lips. “God, Ethan, don’t tempt ….” Desperation swathed her voice, and he heard the unmistakable soft sigh of pleasure that faded into a groan when he finally captured her lips with his.

  “Oh, yes,” he murmured, and a scorching heat flashed through him when she moved, pressing her hips into his, welcoming the swell of his pounding erection against her belly. “Jesus, Diana.”

  He lost all but three points of coherent thought: the direction of the bedroom, the swell of breasts against him and the warm juncture of her thighs parting as he hoisted her against him.

  Moments later, they were on the bed—he had no recollection of getting there—and he’d pinned her wrists into the feather pillows with one hand while the other tore off her clothes. He had no memory of what she was wearing, nor how he got it off, he just knew the taste of her mouth, sweet with wine and Diana, and the trembling of her body as he touched her.

  Ethan was heavy and warm and solid, and Diana arched into him, reveling in the feel of strength and his pleasing, masculine scent. His mouth kissed and coaxed, slid and sucked, demanding her response, and all the while she kissed him back, she fought back the despair of knowing she would regret this moment of abject pleasure. But she needed it—Lord, she needed it. She needed him.

  When he closed his mouth over one breast, Diana jolted in surprise from the change of smooth, sensual kissing to deep, driving passion. He sucked, pulled, hard, as though trying to take everything from her, trying to gain her satisfaction there, and she shuddered and trembled as pleasure rolled through her. It was good … so good.

  Ethan’s breath came heavy and fast, fanning heat over her skin, and he released her wrists, pulling up and away to yank off his shirt. Diana couldn’t just lie there—she had to touch him, to slide her splayed hands through the hair on his chest, over the smooth sinews of his shoulders and along his ribs. His hair, as thick and dark as her own, curled wildly in all directions, giving him a darkly angelic look as he stared down at her with deep, burning eyes. The sight of his mouth, his glistening lower lip, firm and sensual, sent that driving lust through her again and she reached for his belt.

  He groaned with relief when she yanked open the zipper and pulled him free, to hold his heavy erection in her hands, to stroke the throbbing length of him and to close her fingers around it.

  And then, before she could catch her breath, he caught her hands again, taking them from their torture, and kicked off the rest of his clothes with a fierce, determined look on his face. She pulled free and slid her arms around him as he came up to kiss her, opening her legs and easing him in … slowly, tortuously, endlessly slowly, keeping him from slamming into her as she knew he needed to do.

  It was exquisite torment, teasing him, teasing her, as she guided him, holding him back with her hand, sliding in … then out, then in a bit more, until they were both breathing like they’d just broken the surface of water. She wanted to scream with frustration and smile with control.

  He trembled—his arms, his legs, his shuddering mouth as he tried to taste her everywhere at once. “Diana,” he murmured, desperation coloring his voice as his fingers slid between them. He found her hot and ready, and he brought her to the edge, teasing her just as she�
��d been teasing him.

  And then, knowing she was ready for it all, she moved her hand, and with a shift of her hips he filled her. Completely.

  She cried out, sobbing, shaking, climaxing. He followed, groaning her name in release.

  And then … they slept.

  ~*~

  “Toe-curling.”

  The soft murmur in her ear awakened Diana and for a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to bask. Ethan was next to her, warm and solid, his body textured with rough hair and soft skin and firm muscle. Oh, and naked.

  Completely naked.

  She couldn’t help a smile as he nuzzled her neck, softly and lightly, gentling her awake. “Mm-hm. I’d say that was toe-curling, mind-blowing sex,” he said, his words hot against her skin. His hand slid around to cup her breast, lightly stroking her responsive nipple as she felt herself begin to tighten and swell elsewhere.