She placed the tray on a table between their chairs. “If you need anything else, my name’s Kyra, and I’m happy to serve you.
“Thanks.” Dylan slipped her a tip.
“Have you worked here long?” Jennifer asked before Kyra reached the door.
“Over a year, ma’am.”
“Good, then maybe you can help us.”
The girl nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”
Jennifer smiled. “I meant you can help us to remember. We saw a couple downstairs a few minutes ago that I know we’re supposed to know, but I can’t remember their names.”
Dylan jumped in. “The man is tall and blond, and the woman with him is slender with dark hair.”
Kyra thought for a moment. “That would be Mr. and Mrs. O’Riley.”
“O’Riley?” Jennifer jerked in surprise and spilled the tea she was attempting to pour. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. They’re regulars. They’ve been coming here since before Thanksgiving last year, about the same time I started working here. They’re friends of yours?”
“No,” Dylan broke in. “If they’re the O’Rileys, they’re not who we thought they were.”
“Funny how people often aren’t who you think they are. Enjoy your tea.” Kyra went out and closed the door.
Dylan selected a dainty chicken salad sandwich from the plate. “The O’Rileys? You sure you recognized Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne?”
She clutched the teapot to stop her hands from shaking and poured him a cup of tea. “I’m absolutely positive. If Crutchfield was seeing Mrs. Thorne on the sly, he wouldn’t register under his real name. Besides, O’Riley was the name of one of his secretaries, so it’s a logical alias.”
Lost in thought, Dylan chewed his sandwich. Jennifer’s own hunger had disappeared. Events were moving too fast for her. She would have to tell Dylan the truth—and soon—or he would find out on his own. If the latter happened, he might never speak to her again.
She picked up her cup and saucer. “When I was flipping through the register downstairs, I didn’t see Crutchfield’s name, but O’Riley popped up several times.”
Sinking into a chair, Dylan nodded. “Then we’ve got our motive. All we need now is physical evidence to link Crutchfield to the crime.”
“All you need now is some sleep.” Her heart ached at the sight of his exhaustion. “The circles under your eyes have circles of their own.”
“You’re as sleep-deprived as I am.” He glanced around the cozy room as if taking it in for the first time. “Looks like we have a problem. One bed, no sofa.”
“No problem. Since I doubt any cops will be breaking into our room, you can sleep next to me without fear of attack.” She forced an easy smile to hide emotions running rampant at the thought of spending the night beside him.
He hesitated, and she wondered if he was having the same thoughts. “I could sleep on the window seat,” he offered.
“And end up knotted like a pretzel? The bed’s big enough for both of us.”
Swallowing the last bite of a piece of cake, he stood and stretched. “For once, I’m not going to argue with you. I’m dead on my feet.”
He went into the adjoining bathroom and closed the door. Knowing they wouldn’t be going out for dinner, Jennifer picked up a sandwich. The delicious chicken salad restored her appetite, and she was munching happily on spice cake when Dylan came out of the bath.
“At least they include all the amenities,” he observed. “Toothbrushes, toothpaste, shampoo, disposable razors.”
“Wonder how many guests arrive as we did, without baggage?” She dusted crumbs from her hands and tried to keep from staring. He’d stripped to his jeans with bare feet and a provocatively bare chest. Well-muscled and tanned, except for the circles under his eyes he looked even better than he had the first day she’d met him.
“At least Putnam was polite enough not to comment on our lack of luggage.” Dylan walked to the right side of the bed, removed his gun and holster, and laid them on the bedside table. He sat on the bed and bounced gingerly a few times.
“Comfy?” Jennifer asked.
He tossed aside the bedspread, lay back on the pile of pillows edged with Battenburg lace, and clasped his hands behind his head. “As tired as I am, it could be a bed of nails, and I wouldn’t even notice.”
“Would you like something else to eat?”
He didn’t answer. Jennifer saw that his eyes were closed. Mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of his magnificent chest muscles, she tiptoed to his side of the bed. He was sound asleep.
She returned to her chair before the fire and poured herself another cup of tea. When he awoke, she would tell him the truth. The whole truth. She’d lied to him in the beginning to protect herself, but ever since confessing to Dylan about Crutchfield, she’d been lying to protect Dylan’s opinion of her. If she continued her deception much longer, he’d learn the truth from someone else. She didn’t hold out much hope of his forgiving her lies, but she stood a better chance at forgiveness if she told him the facts herself.
Sipping the strong, sweet tea, she thought back over the past five months of flight and fear. Now that they had a motive, if she and Dylan could find evidence to convict Crutchfield, her running and her terror would end.
But where could they find the proof they needed?
She walked to the window. The sun had set almost an hour earlier, and colonial lampposts scattered through the grounds cast a soft glow over the garden. Brighter lights illuminated the parking lot, and she caught sight of Crutchfield’s midnight-blue Mercedes in a far corner of the lot, barely visible beneath the overhanging branches of a gigantic walnut tree. Except for Dylan’s truck and one other car, the rest of the lot was empty. She assumed the other guests had gone into town for dinner. Maybe Crutchfield and Mrs. Thorne had done as she and Dylan had and made a meal of afternoon tea. After all, if the guilty couple had come all this way to be together, why embark back into public again just for a meal?
She glanced over her shoulder at Dylan, so fast asleep a jumbo jet could fly through the room without waking him. As quietly as possible, she dug into her purse for a dark scarf and tied it over her blond curls. Her light-colored sweater would stand out in the darkness, so she slipped into Dylan’s dark jacket. After a final check to make certain he was still sleeping, she opened the door slowly, assured herself that the upstairs hall was empty and stepped out.
Wanting to remain unseen on her clandestine foray, she avoided the main stairs. At the opposite end of the hall, she discovered a stairway that led to the rear door of the house. Within minutes, she was out the door and in the garden.
Glancing up, she could see faint light from the dim lamp she’d left burning gleaming through the uncovered windows of the room where Dylan slept. At the far end of the house, lights glowed behind drawn curtains, and she wondered if that was Crutchfield’s room.
She hurried along the garden path to the edge of the parking lot and sprinted across to the Mercedes. First she tried the driver’s door. It was locked. The same with the passenger door on the driver’s side. Although she knew Crutchfield had probably secured all the doors at once with the car’s electric locking system, she refused to give up. She circled the car and was tugging at the passenger door when the sound of footsteps made her pause. Peering around the car, she spotted a man crossing the parking lot toward her.
It was Crutchfield.
She had nowhere to run without being seen. Praying he hadn’t already sighted her, she scurried through a thorny hedge that scratched her face and hands, then hid behind the massive trunk of a walnut tree. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she feared Crutchfield would hear it, even if he couldn’t see her.
Pressing her face against the tree’s rough bark, she prayed for him to go away. Over the thunder of her own heart, she heard the thunk of the electronic locks disengaging on his car, heard a door open, the rustle of a package and then the door slam. The locks engaged again
. With any luck, he’d return to his room without discovering her.
“Hey,” he suddenly shouted, “you, behind the tree. What are you doing?”
Panic overwhelmed her. Without thinking where she was going, she bolted from behind the tree and headed into the adjoining woods.
Pounding footsteps followed her.
She ran as if her life depended on it. If Crutchfield caught her, he’d kill her—or hold her until Michael Johnson could do his dirty work for him. Running blindly in the darkness, she stumbled over a tree root and fell to her hands and knees. Crutchfield was close behind. She could hear him thrashing through the underbrush.
She shoved to her feet. In the shadows, she could barely make out a thicket of vines on her right. Without hesitation, she plunged into the clump of vegetation, pulled herself into a tight ball, hid her face in her hands and waited.
Breathing heavily, her pursuer raced past.
Jennifer waited and tried to ignore the vine scraping the back of her neck and the faint rustle in the leaves at her feet. If she thought too long about bugs, snakes and other critters that might be sharing the thicket with her, she’d scream.
A few minutes later, she heard Crutchfield backtrack on the trail, muttering to himself. The sound of his footsteps disappeared in the distance. Again, she waited, hoping he had returned to the inn, praying he hadn’t recognized her.
After several long minutes, she lifted her head and listened. The surrounding woods were absolutely still. Convinced that Crutchfield had deserted the chase, she crawled from her hiding place, dusted leaves from her clothing and stood upright.
Out of nowhere, a figure loomed behind her and a strong hand closed over her mouth. Crutchfield had her. She almost fainted with fear.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” a familiar voice hissed in her ear.
Her knees buckled, and she would have fallen if Dylan hadn’t caught her. He released her mouth, grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and turned her to face him.
“Well?” he demanded.
She raised her fist and pounded angrily on his chest. “You’re doing it again!”
“Doing what?”
“Scaring me to death!”
“You deserve to be scared. Don’t you have better sense that to crawl through a strange woods alone?”
“I wasn’t alone. Crutchfield was after me.”
“Not any more. I watched him go inside several minutes ago.”
“How did you sneak up on me?” she demanded. “I didn’t hear a thing.”
“I grew up in the woods, remember? I learned how to move without tipping off my prey.”
She realized then that she was wearing his jacket, and he was out in the frigid air in only his shirtsleeves. She shrugged out of the jacket and handed it to him. “I was trying to search Crutchfield’s car.”
“For what?” He took the jacket without comment and pulled it on.
“For the gun that killed Max Thorne, for starters. I was hoping to find it in the glove compartment.”
“And?”
“The car was locked. Then Crutchfield came outside to get something from the car and saw me. I ran.”
“Did he recognize you?” He held her arm and led her along the path toward the parking lot.
“I doubt it. Not in the dark. Guess he thought I was just a common thief.”
“Which is what you would have been if you’d taken anything from his vehicle.”
“Now you’re talking like a cop.”
“I am a cop.”
“And I’m just trying to save my life.”
Dylan stopped on the path. “What do you think I’m trying to do, you little idiot?”
“Idiot?” She started to express her outrage at the term, but before she could say more, Dylan swept her into his arms and covered her mouth with his own. She forgot her anger, the seeping cold and Crutchfield. Her world contracted to one tiny spot of earth in a small woods, a world of warmth, safety and love. Returning his kiss, she stood on tiptoe and draped her arms around his neck. Nothing had ever felt so right as Dylan’s arms, Dylan’s lips, and this time, he had kissed her, of his own free will.
He lifted his head suddenly, and his breath came in short white puffs, visible in the cold night air. His eyes blazed dark, passion-filled. “What are we standing out here for? We have a perfectly good bed in that ridiculously overpriced room upstairs.”
Her heart hammered against her chest. Had he meant what she thought he did, or was he still suffering from exhaustion and longing only for sleep?
He laid his arm across her shoulders, and together they worked their way back along the woodsy path to the edge of the garden. As they stepped onto the brick walk that led to the rear entrance, Tom Putnam charged out the back door and approached them.
“Did you see him?” their host asked.
“Who?” Dylan said.
“The stranger Mr. O’Riley saw hanging around the parking lot. He chased the man into the woods, but couldn’t catch him.”
“We haven’t seen anyone,” Jennifer said, “and we even walked a ways into the woods. It’s a beautiful night.”
Putnam stood beneath a lamppost, his usually genial expression replaced by concern. “Maybe I should call the sheriff.”
“Was anything taken?” Dylan asked.
Putnam shook his head. “O’Riley thinks he ran the thief off before he could steal anything.”
“I’m a police officer,” Dylan explained. “I suggest you report what happened and ask the sheriff to have a deputy cruise the parking area a couple times tonight, just in case the thief returns.”
Putnam look relieved. “Good idea. I’ll give the sheriff a call right away. Thanks.”
He turned and hurried inside.
Jennifer nudged Dylan with her elbow. “There was no thief. Are you bending the truth again?”
Dylan was unapologetic. “Putnam will rest easier if he follows my suggestion. That’s the least I can do after the worry you’ve caused him.”
“I caused him? What about Crutchfield?”
Dylan fixed her with a look that made her insides melt. “Crutchfield isn’t going anywhere tonight, and neither are we. Why don’t we forget him until morning?”
She nodded, not daring to speak. Her heart was beating in her throat, and all she could think of was kissing Dylan again and how her body ached for him.
And of the big canopied bed awaiting them upstairs.
A few minutes later, Jennifer drew the curtains across the exposed bay window of their room, sealing them in an intimate cocoon of soft light, sweet fragrance and undisturbed quiet. Without speaking, Dylan pulled her into his arms and held her, cradling her against the wide expanse of his chest as if she were the most precious woman on earth.
Now was the time for confession. She had to let him know the truth before he made love to her, because, knowing Dylan and his strict moral code, that lovemaking would be a commitment, a solemn pledge between a man and a woman. No one-night stands for a man of Dylan’s principles.
But the words caught in her throat, froze on her lips. How could she tell him now and break the spell that encircled them? She wanted to shut out the world, close out reality, deny what she’d done.
All she wanted was to love him.
Slowly, and with a reverence that brought tears to her eyes, he tugged her sweater over her head and undid the buttons of her blouse. With deft fingers, he finished undressing her, then scooped her in his arms and carried her to the wide bed. Giddiness enfolded her, watching him enjoying the sight of her. All her self-consciousness was lost in the love reflected in his eyes.
Without breaking the hold of his gaze, he kicked off his shoes, shed his clothes and lay beside her. He pulled her along the length of him, and she reveled in the sensation of her bare flesh against his. She surrendered with a sigh when he lowered his head and pressed his lips against her heart. His mouth caressed her breasts, and when he slid his fingers between her legs, agonizing pleasur
e detonated in every cell of her being.
He smiled at her delight, a slow, sexy smile that took away what little breath she had left. He kissed her again, a probing, demanding kiss that made her want him as she’d never wanted anything else in her life.
“Now,” she begged.
Positioning himself above her, he tipped her hips to meet his thrust and pleasure cascaded through her until she gasped with excitement. She gripped his shoulders and gave herself to the primal rhythm that joined them into one inseparable being. With her gaze locked to his, she whirled into dizzying heights, until she plunged over the edge of reality into a glorious, star-studded oblivion, where nothing existed but the two of them.
“Jennifer,” he cried at climax.
Like a frigid cascade, the name snapped her back to reality, and she feared what she had done.
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER, she sat in one end of an enormous claw-footed bathtub, up to her chin in hot water and bubbles. Dylan faced her at the other end of the tub.
“I could get used to this,” he said.
“Bathing?” she teased.
“Making love with a beautiful woman and then sharing my bath with her.” His eyes burned hot with desire and a deeper, purer emotion.
Her conscience pricked her and she changed the subject.
“Well, Dick Tracy, what do you suggest we do tomorrow?”
He flashed her a randy grin. “Stay in that big bed until checkout time.”
She splashed water at him. “I mean what do we do about Crutchfield? We still need physical evidence before we go to the police.”
Dylan picked up a fluffy washcloth and plunged it beneath the water. Picking up one of her feet, he began to scrub her toes. The sensation of his fingers kneading her foot made concentration difficult.
“Too bad the man is such a stickler for locks,” Dylan said. “If we could search his house and office, I’m sure we’d find something to incriminate him.”
“No lock is perfect,” she hinted.
“I’m not breaking in,” Dylan said. “We don’t want to hamper anything we find with legal restrictions.”
She smiled smugly. “You won’t have to break in to his office. When I left his employment, I took my key. If he hasn’t changed the locks—and he’s too miserly to do that—we can just walk in and find what we need.”
Stranger In His Arms Page 14
