And then she didn’t think at all, because the kiss deepened, intensified, and everything in Emily’s head flew out the window.
Matthew groaned—it was a low, intimate sound of need—as he pulled Emily into his arms. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the tension inside him heightened. God, how he wanted her, he thought. She was so soft. So incredibly feminine.
And she could be his. He knew that. Sensed it in the way she sighed against his mouth, in the way her body strained against his. He could go on kissing her until this heat, this fierce, melting hunger, made them both desperately ready.
Without breaking the kiss, Matthew traced his hand up the front of her blouse, unfastened the top two buttons and slipped his hand inside. He found her breast, stroked, and her body instantly responded. She moaned into his mouth, and Matthew thought that nothing had ever excited him as much.
She was incredible, so sexy and sweet. It was all Matthew could do not to sweep her up into his arms and carry her off to the bedroom, strip off their clothes and make savage love to her all night long.
But Emily deserved more than that. She deserved more than a dishonest, dangerous man who could give her nothing more than a night or two of ecstasy.
Oh, but what ecstasy it would be, he thought, shuddering with regret as he moved his hands upward to wind through her hair. He lifted his lips from hers to skim kisses along the smooth, delectable line of her jaw.
Emily pulled back, thoroughly shaken. She gazed at him in rapture. “Matthew,” she whispered, lifting her hand to touch his. “What was that for?”
“That one…” he said, in a deep, husky drawl that thrilled her all the way to her toes. “That one, my sweet Emily, was just for me.”
“Oh,” she said, and after that singularly expressive comment could think of nothing else to say.
“There you are!” said a voice from the kitchen doorway. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
Like guilty conspirators, Matthew and Emily jumped apart as Mrs. DeVere sailed into the kitchen. In her purple chenille bathrobe and green hair curlers, she reminded Emily of some weird eggplant experiment gone awry. Emily had to control an almost hysterical urge to laugh. Or cry.
As unobtrusively as she could, Emily reached up to fasten her blouse. If Mrs. DeVere noticed, she gave no indication. She planted herself beside the table and stared down at Emily, seemingly oblivious of the mess on the table and the telltale blush on Emily’s cheeks.
Emily said weakly, “My goodness, you’re up late.”
“My dear, I never doze more than two or three hours a night. The spirits are most active while the rest of us sleep, and so I’ve made it a point to adapt my schedule to theirs. But that’s not why I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “I’ve had the most wonderful idea, and I’m sure you will concur. We simply must hold a séance, here in this very house, to try and summon that poor murdered girl’s lost spirit.”
“A séance?” Emily repeated. “I don’t know—”
“We simply must. There is no question about it.”
“Well…” Emily glanced at Matthew, expecting to find him amused and perhaps a little annoyed at the interruption, but what she saw on his face made her catch her breath. It was as if, in the space of seconds, he had donned a mask—a cold, hard, fearsome-looking mask.
He pushed back his chair and stood.
“Matthew?”
“I’ll say good-night,” he said. “It appears you two ladies have something to discuss.”
“But—” He had already disappeared through the swinging door of the kitchen before Emily could voice her protest.
She shrugged and smiled lamely at Mrs. DeVere, but Emily couldn’t help feeling that something precious had just been lost to her. Something precious and wonderful and all too elusive.
MATTHEW OPENED the throttle on his motorcycle, letting the wind tear through his hair and sting his face into numbness. He only wished the rest of him was numb, but the adrenaline pumping through him brought his every nerve ending vitally alive.
Emily had done that to him.
With just one kiss, she’d made him realize how vulnerable he was. How weak he was. How very much he wanted her.
It was dangerous to want a woman that badly.
Matthew opened the throttle wider, sending the bike plunging through the darkness. He wanted the speed and the noise and the danger to drive the images of Emily Townsend from his mind, but her scent was all over him. The subtle fragrance seemed to embody her sweetness, her sexy innocence, reminding him all too vividly of what he might have been doing with her at this very instant if he hadn’t stopped them.
What a mess, he thought grimly, barely slowing for a curve. The tires screamed in protest as Matthew leaned into the turn. Wind roared past his ears.
When he first came to Paradise and sought out Emily Townsend and her inn, he’d been perfectly willing to use her. Gaining her trust had been part of the plan. He’d had no idea he’d end up desiring more than just a room. More than just her help.
Everything had changed. Their relationship had been elevated to a new level. Deeper emotions were coming into play, and Matthew hated to think how hurt Emily would be when she learned the truth about him. There was still so much she didn’t know.
But it couldn’t be allowed to matter, Matthew resolved. He couldn’t let anything get in his way. He’d come to Paradise for justice. For revenge. Emily was a means to that end.
Nothing more.
He didn’t know how long he’d been on the road when he discovered he had been driving steadily eastward. The foothills of the Ozarks were giving way to flat, monotonous bottomland. Soon he would be crossing the Memphis-Arkansas bridge.
There was someone he had to see in the city.
Someone from his past.
Someone who would remind him why he couldn’t get involved with Emily Townsend.
Chapter Nine
“Is Earl Grey okay?”
“Perfect,” Emily said, accepting the cup of tea Nella handed her. The library had just opened the following morning, and they were sitting in Nella’s office. Emily gazed around curiously, noting how neat and orderly everything seemed. Just like Nella herself.
Nella took a seat behind her desk and smiled. “I’m so glad you came back. I did so enjoy our talk.”
“I did, too. I don’t know why I haven’t made it a point to become acquainted with you sooner.” Emily sipped her tea, then set the cup aside. She looked at Nella, taking in the trim gray wool skirt and sweater, the dainty pearl earrings—the librarian’s only adornment—and wondered how to tell Nella about her aunt.
Finally Emily took a deep breath and said, “Have you been in contact with your Aunt Rosabel’s nursing home lately?”
Nella’s blue eyes clouded. A look of distress passed across her delicate features. She tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind one ear. “No, I’m sorry to say I haven’t. Aunt Rosabel and I had a…well, a disagreement…a few years ago. It was a silly thing, really, but it just seemed to escalate, and before I knew it, we were Completely…estranged. You don’t know how badly I’ve felt about the situation all these years, Emily, but I simply have not known how to fix it.” She paused for a moment, then said, “That must seem strange to you. I know how close you are to your brother.”
If you only knew, Emily thought. She understood exactly how fragile familial relationships could be. The animosity between her and Stuart had grown all out of proportion over the years, but neither of them seemed willing to meet the other halfway.
She said sympathetically, “It doesn’t seem strange at all. I know how easy it is to drift apart from someone you care about. But I’m afraid it doesn’t make what I have to tell you any easier.” She hesitated for a moment, then said in a rush, “Nella, someone from Shady Oaks called me last evening. Your aunt Rosabel died the night before last.”
Nella stared at her in shock. “Died? Aunt Rosabel’s dead?”
Emily nodded. “They think
it was a heart attack. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. I tried to reach you last night, right after I found out, but you were out.”
“I had a meeting,” Nella murmured. Her cup clattered against her saucer as she set her tea down. The liquid sloshed over the rim, onto her hand, but she seemed not to notice. “I…don’t understand. Why did the nursing home call you?”
“Evidently I was the last one who had been in to see Miss Rosabel. And…well, they didn’t seem to have your name and number.”
Nella put trembling fingers to her lips, seemingly trying to quell her emotions. After a moment, she said, “Did…Aunt Rosabel say anything about me when you last saw her? Did she mention me at all?”
Nella was obviously stricken with guilt and needed something, anything, for reassurance that her aunt had forgiven her. Emily’s heart went out to her. She said softly, “Miss Rosabel mentioned you once or twice. I…never got the impression she harbored any ill feelings toward you.”
Relief flooded Nella’s eyes. “I suppose…there are arrangements to be made. And I’ll need to pick up her personal belongings from the nursing home.”
“Actually,” Emily said, “that was another thing I wanted to tell you. Miss Rosabel left a box for me. I picked it up last night, after I got the news. It’s just a bunch of old letters and newspaper clippings, some books, that sort of thing, but if you’d like to come by and look through the stuff yourself, you’re welcome to.”
Nella was gazing at her in surprise. “I didn’t know you and my aunt were that close.”
“We weren’t. But, as I said, I’d been to see her recently, and I think she thought there might be some things among those letters and clippings that might help me with the investigation.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Not really. There were some newspaper clippings about Jenny’s murder, about you and Miss Rosabel being questioned by the police.” Emily took a sip of her tea, then said tentatively, “This is probably not the right time to ask you, and if you don’t want to answer, just say so. But you know how involved I am in the investigation of the murder and all, and I’ve been wondering something—just how well did you know Wade Drury?”
Nella picked up her teacup, but didn’t drink. Her hand trembled slightly. “We were friends,” she said.
“You weren’t…in love with him?”
Nella’s eyes, behind her glasses, rounded in shock. “In love with him? Wherever did you get that idea? I hardly knew him, and what I did know—” She broke off, shuddering delicately.
Emily said quickly, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but your aunt said something that lead me to believe you might have…had feelings for Wade.”
“I had feelings, but not the kind you mean,” Nella said. “Wade Drury frightened me. I never said anything to Aunt Rosabel, because she was so obviously taken with him, but there was a darkness inside that man. He had secrets—” Again she stopped short, her gaze meeting Emily’s meaningfully. “He had secrets, and a man with secrets can be a dangerous thing, Emily.”
A chill raced up Emily’s spine. Just what was Nella trying to tell her? Was she talking about Wade Drury or Matthew Steele? Was she referring to her own past experiences or warning Emily?
Uncomfortable with her thoughts, Emily stood. “Well, thanks for the tea. I have to be going. If there’s anything I can do…”
Nella waved aside her offer. “Thank you, but you’ve done enough already. Your kindness to my aunt in her last days…well, that means everything to me.” She walked Emily to the door, then said, “There is just one more thing.”
Emily turned expectantly. “Name it.”
“You mentioned something about some books. My aunt had a family Bible in her possession. It was mine, actually, left to me by my mother. It was the only thing I had of hers, and somehow, when Aunt Rosabel and I…went our separate ways, the Bible got misplaced. If you run across it—”
“Say no more,” Emily said. “It’s yours.”
Gratitude filled Nella’s eyes. She clutched Emily’s hand. “Thank you, Emily. You’ve been such a good friend. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“DO YOU KNOW what this has cost me?” Stuart threw the latest edition of the Herald across his desk. Emily winced. She’d already seen the headline: Innkeeper brings in psychic to help solve murder. Mike Durbin had really outdone himself this time, though how he’d found out about Grace DeVere, Emily had no idea.
Mike was no longer asking for Emily’s help with his articles. He now seemed to have his own agenda. Emily shuddered to think what that agenda entailed. Or what Mike might be willing to do to achieve it.
Jumping up, Stuart began to pace his office. “Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done?”
Emily brushed her fingers through her short hair as she watched her brother’s distraught movements. “You’re making too much of this, Stuart. No one takes this kind of thing seriously.”
“A psychic, for God’s sake. What are you going to do, set up a fortune-telling booth at your grand opening?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm as he spun around to face her. “Just what the hell were you thinking, Emily?”
“I didn’t invite her here,” Emily said, annoyed with herself for sounding so defensive. “She just showed up. And I didn’t tell Mike Durbin about her, either. I don’t know how he got the information.” It made her a little uneasy to think of Mike—as unscrupulous as she knew he could be—skulking about the inn without her knowledge.
“That man is a menace,” Stuart muttered. “Someone ought to put a stop to this kind of garbage.”
“Look,” Emily said, trying to soothe him, “I’m as upset by this as you are. I’m hardly presented in a favorable light in that article. I sound like some kind of New Age nut, which is not at all the type of publicity I’d originally envisioned for the Other Side of Paradise Inn. But there is such a thing as freedom of the press, Stuart, like it or not. There’s nothing you can do to stop Mike Durbin, so I don’t see the point in getting yourself so worked up by all this.”
“Don’t you?” Stuart glared at her. “Well, I don’t see the point of your running around town with that stranger, making a spectacle of yourself on the back of his motorcycle.”
Emily just shook her head. “Why do I even bother?”
“Because you know your brother is right,” said a voice from Stuart’s doorway. Emily froze at those smooth, liquid tones. The skin at the back of her neck crawled. “And I’d like to know, too—just what are you doing with that stranger, Emily?”
There was a nasty insinuation in Trey Huntington’s voice that Emily didn’t like. He walked across the room to her, then bent and brushed his cool lips against her cheek.
It was all Emily could do not to jerk away from him. Sensing her distress, he laughed—it was a low, ugly sound—and straightened. “Is our girl here giving you a hard time again, Stu?”
Stuart looked uncomfortable with the exchange that had just taken place. He glanced from Emily to Trey, and for a moment, it seemed to Emily that he was about to spring to her defense. Then he muttered, “Some things never change,” as he sat down in his chair. Trey rested one hip on the corner of Stuart’s desk, folding his arms, and they both stared at Emily.
“I should have smelled an ambush when you called me down here,” she said. “What’s this all about, Stuart?”
“Your brother and I feel you’ve gotten way out of line with this murder thing, Emily. All the area papers, not to mention the local radio stations, are in a feeding frenzy, and there are bound to be repercussions, come election day. For everyone’s sake, we want you to back off.”
In spite of Trey’s easy tone, Emily knew the statement wasn’t a request, but a command. She lifted her chin. “I have no intention of backing off. Matthew and I—”
“Matthew?” Trey’s elegant brows rose, and he managed to imply a slyness with that one word that irritated Emily no end.
She snapped, “Matthew and I have come up with
some very promising leads. I expect we’re very close to solving this whole thing.”
Stuart yanked at his tie. “Why do you insist on wasting your time with this nonsense? Everyone knows Wade Drury killed Jenny.”
“Maybe because that’s what everyone was led to believe.” Emily paused for a moment, then said, “I understand you both got to know Jenny pretty well.”
Stuart gaped at her. “Who told you that?”
“Miss Rosabel, who, by the way, died night before last. I thought you might like to know.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Stuart murmured, but Trey said nothing at all. After all the years she’d known him, his coldness still astounded Emily.
“Miss Rosabel told me that you two used to come by the inn to see Jenny until Tony Vincent laid his claim on her. Then you backed off.”
Trey said in a bored tone, “Jenny Wilcox was a schoolteacher. What possible interest could either of us have had in her?”
Emily didn’t want to point out that she’d been a college dropout when Trey asked her to marry him. Instead, she said, “From what I understand, she was a strikingly beautiful woman who could have had her choice of suitors. Did either of you ever ask her out?”
Stuart looked decidedly uncomfortable. He said irritably, “Where’s this all leading, Emily?”
“I just want to make sure I understand the situation back then correctly.”
“There was no situation,” Trey said calmly. “Obviously, someone’s been telling tales out of school.”
“Okay,” Emily said. “So neither of you had a thing for Jenny Wilcox. Let me ask you this. Have either of you ever heard of a group who called themselves the Avengers?”
The Mont Blanc pen Stuart had been holding fell to the floor and landed silently on the plush carpet. He bent to retrieve it as Trey said, “‘The Avengers’? I believe that was an old TV show, wasn’t it, Emily? I forget who the stars were.”
Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry Page 12
