He rose, opened the wine with quick efficiency, and poured me a glass. Our fingers brushed as I took the glass—and why the hell I would even notice beat me. I took a sip. A very nice pinot noir. I took another sip, set the glass down and placed the chops in the heated pan.
The room began to feel very warm—the effect of wine and the stove.
"What do you want with the chops?” I asked, squatting down to look for a sauce pan.
He cleared his throat. “Whatever you..."
I glanced around. His gaze appeared to be pinned on my ass. He took a gulp of wine and said, “I think there's some canned corn in the cupboard."
"Okay. Toss me a can."
He got up, opened the cupboard, and tossed me the can of corn—across the table. I almost suspected he didn't want to get too close to me. Studying the can of creamed corn—I considered the peculiar likeness of the Jolly Green Giant to present company.
I studied Devlin under my lashes. He was a big man, no question. It was probably handy in his line of work. He looked intimidating, and he had the voice and manner to back it up. I wondered what kind of social life he had, being a cop and looking the way he did. It couldn't be much of one since he was spending his vacation all by himself at his uncle's isolated retreat. Maybe he'd be in a better temper once he was fed and watered. Granted it would take a lot of feeding and watering...
"I could make stuffing,” I offered.
His face changed. He looked at me with something close to respect. “Could you?"
I nodded. Maybe when he was in a better mood I could work on him again about Berkeley House. Considering the house's state of disrepair it would be safer to have someone aware of where I was all the time; I didn't want to have to lie and sneak around, but no way was Sam Devlin getting in the way of this book.
Searching the refrigerator I came up with limp celery, a loaf of stale nut bread and half an onion. I set about making stuffing. Sam Devlin watched me all the time, and unwillingly I watched him back, uncomfortably aware of long legs, wide shoulders, powerful arms.
"So why did you become a cop?” I asked into what began to feel like a very long silence.
"I wanted to make a difference,” he said sardonically.
I sighed. It really was pointless trying to talk to him, but I like talking to people. Generally the wrong people, according to C.K. “And have you?” I asked.
He was silent. Gee, what a change. I glanced at him and once again he was observing me in that assessing way.
"Maybe."
It took him so long to answer that I'd forgotten I'd even asked a question. I didn't pursue it.
Dinner was ready in just under an hour, and by then I was feeling the effects of two glasses of wine on an empty stomach. When Devlin came over to the stove to inspect the results of my efforts, I felt awareness of him in every pore.
"You really can cook,” he said, as though he hadn't believed it until all the evidence was presented.
"My dad's a chef. Or was. He's retired now.” I was proud of my impromptu efforts: home-style pork chops and stuffing. It smelled great if I did say so myself.
Devlin made an uninterested noise. “I'm going to build a fire and eat in the study,” he said, serving himself out of the pan.
For the life of me I couldn't understand why I felt hurt. He had asked me to cook dinner, not dine with him. And I didn't want to dine with him anyway, right? Because what could be more uncomfortable than trying to choke down food in his silent and disapproving presence. Too much wine, I decided. I was just feeling a little blue, missing C.K.
"Sure,” I said. I set my plate on the table and pulled out the chair.
He eyed me for a moment. “It's warmer in the study, but suit yourself.” He turned on heel and vanished from the doorway.
I stared after him.
Oh. Okay.
I picked up my plate and trailed down the hall to Oliver's study.
It was easy to picture Oliver in this room—urbane and easy in a silk smoking jacket, pouring cognac from a decanter, and chatting amusingly about art or whatever caught his fancy. If Oliver had ever been a starving hard-scrabble artist, I didn't know about it; this room provided the perfect setting for him. The walls were a deep green, the trim and molding white, the furniture leather and masculine. Paintings covered the walls, mostly oils, but a few watercolors—one or two of them looked like Thaddeus Sterne's work. Not that I was an expert, but you pick up a few things dating an art dealer.
Devlin sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. His powerful body was relaxed and graceful, one arm resting on an upraised knee, the other leg stretched out before him. In the muted light he looked almost attractive, I thought, and then had to bite back a laugh.
"Something funny?” he asked, catching me by surprise.
"Uh, no.” I sat down across from him. Avoiding his eyes, I stared up at the paintings—a small fortune in artwork. I couldn't believe there wasn't a state of the art security system to protect it. Maybe Devlin was the state of the art security system.
"He's amazing, isn't he?” I said, meaning Oliver. I thought of his kindness that day at the art gallery, and felt an unexpected lump in my throat. Oliver had most certainly been on the prowl that afternoon, but the minute he'd figured out what was up with me, he'd been absurdly kind.
"Every day in every way,” Sam returned. An unemotional tone but I realized that there was a sense of humor in there—a sarcastic sense, which appealed to me, since I was a little on the sarcastic side myself, according to C.K.
I really didn't want to think about C.K. tonight.
We chewed for a while, and he said, “This isn't bad."
"Thanks."
"In fact,” he said grudgingly, “it's pretty good."
I nodded, biting back another laugh.
Silence but for the scrape of forks on plates, the crackle of the fireplace and the howl of the wind.
"It doesn't stop, does it?” I said, lifting my head to listen.
"What's that?"
"The wind."
"No. It doesn't stop.” His head lifted and there was a gleam in his eyes.
I felt my mouth tugging into a smile. I said, “No, I am not spooked by it. I'm not afraid of the dark, either. Or ghosts."
He actually grinned. He had one hell of smile—when he let himself smile for real instead of that usual sardonic twist.
"Or lions or tigers or bears,” I added.
"Oh my,” he murmured right on cue.
And we both laughed. For real. A shared moment, and a genuine laugh.
After that it was a little easier—another bottle of wine helped. Sam asked about the other ghost houses I was writing about, and I told him about some of the things that had happened during my research of other houses. He listened politely—unimpressed, I think, but polite—which was an improvement in diplomatic relations.
I was telling him about the elderly owner of a Monterey B&B who had invested quite a bit of money in her resident “ghost,” when he startled me by bursting out laughing.
"I'm serious,” I said. “She had to be in her seventies and she was climbing along the outside railing of this giant staircase with a long pole and a makeshift rubber foot attached—all covered in phosphorous paint."
"What size foot?"
That struck me as hysterically funny. He watched me, smiling, but his eyes were dark and serious. I eventually got control of myself and said, “I forgot to ask. Anyway, she may have been a fraud, but she made the best oatmeal raisin cookies I ever ate in my life, no lie. The best."
His smile widened. He said, “So the fact is, you're actually trying to disprove these ghosts, aren't you?"
That sobered me fast. “Not at all."
"No? Seven haunted houses and every one of them a fake?"
I shook my head. “It's not my fault they're all a bunch of frauds. I'm trying to find proof that these ghosts really exist."
He looked unconvinced, and for some reason it see
med important that he be convinced.
I said, “I want to believe. I really do."
"Then maybe you shouldn't ask too many questions."
I frowned. “That seems like an odd philosophy for a cop."
"You're not a cop. I didn't say it was my philosophy."
Maybe he didn't mean to sound as brusque as he did. Maybe he was just too used to talking to bad guys. I changed the subject. “If you spent summers here as a kid, did you ever go inside Berkeley House?"
"Yeah, and it wasn't safe back then,” he said.
"Okay, okay. I get it,” I said. “Did you ever see anything...?"
He shook his head like I was confirming his suspicions.
"What's the big secret? Did you see something?"
His mouth did the sardonic thing. “Not really."
"So there was something?"
Amused, he said, “How do you work that out?"
"Well, if there was nothing, you'd have said nothing, but you said, not really, so there is something."
He studied my face for a moment. I'd had a lot to drink, and I wondered if it showed. I wasn't slurring or anything but I felt very ... relaxed.
He said slowly, “Yeah, there is something...” And he leaned across and kissed me on my open and astonished mouth.
Since Devlin seemed a little on the socially inept side I was taken aback by the skill of that kiss. He didn't look like an expert in seduction, but that mouth—pressing coolly and firmly against mine—had had a lot of practice. I found myself wondering hazily who would have dared kiss him ... and what I was doing kissing him when I wasn't sure I even liked him.
"Uh..."
He reached over and carefully removed my glasses. I blinked at him uncertainly. The muted firelight turned him into a fuzzy shadow. I had the impression of gleaming eyes and five o'clock shadow, and then he found my mouth again, parting my lips with gentle insistence. It was the gentleness that undid me.
That, and way too much wine, and not enough sleep, and missing C.K. and...
A lot of excuses for giving into what simply felt ... great.
I found myself tipping back, big hands cradling me as I landed on the rug, His kiss deepened, heated. Still gentle, but now exploring...
I lay in his arms responding without hesitation, my hunger surprising even me. I pushed up his T-shirt, ran my hands down his sides. His body was warm and brown and lean; muscles rippled beneath my fingers as he shifted position. It felt good to hold onto someone, to feel bare skin. I wanted more. Needed more. His fingers worked the button of my shirt, his mouth still on mine, his knee insinuating itself between my legs.
He finished unbuttoning my shirt and I half-raised to shrug out of it; he pulled his T-shirt up over his head and tossed it away. His hands went to the button fly of my jeans and I thrust up at him, already so hard the stiff denim was torture. My hands fastened on his belt and I worked it like I had seconds to disarm a bomb—which is what it was starting to feel like. Sweat broke out on my forehead, my breath came fast. I felt wild, out of control with wanting him. Wanting him now.
He had me free of the constriction of briefs and jeans, yanking them down where they hung up on my tennis shoes, and I didn't give a damn because by then I had got him free as well, and his dick, hard and thick, was giving the high five to my own.
"Oh, God,” I groaned.
He didn't say a word, his breath fast and rough and scented not unpleasantly of the spices and wine. Usually I'm a little more vocal, but his silent intensity shut me up.
I bit my lip as we humped and ground against each other, fast and frantic like this had been on our minds from the first meeting—which was crazy. The slide and slap of feverish bodies. It didn't take long at all before I was coming. I yelled and bumped my head into his shoulder, pressing my mouth to the hollow there, somewhere between nipping and nuzzling.
Sam came a couple of heartbeats later in hard economical thrusts, and I felt that blood-hot spill between us.
A shudder rippled through him and then another exquisite little aftershock of pleasure, but he still didn't say anything. Just expelled a long heated sigh against my ear, stirring my hair.
* * * *
We lay there for a few moments, recovering our breath. Sam's powerful arms felt good about me, comfortable. Right. I like to be held; C.K. hated it, wanted—needed—his space immediately after sex.
And about the last person I wanted to think about right now was C.K.
Not that thinking about Sam Devlin was an improvement because I felt a little stunned at what I'd—we'd—done.
On Oliver's Aubusson carpet no less.
"Wow,” I said finally.
He gave a short laugh and let me go. I was sorry about that. Sorry as he lifted off me and moved away. Dazedly, I felt around for my glasses.
"I begin to see the attraction,” he said.
"What's that?"
He said clearly and calmly, “Now I understand why Oliver's developed a sudden interest in psychic phenomenon."
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in.
I stared at the dark blur with the even voice. That's what comes of having sex with people who you don't like—and who don't like you. And how stupid was I that I felt like he'd slapped me?
I slipped my glasses on and got up in one quick movement. I thought he tensed—it was hard to tell in the dim light, but maybe he'd had a lot of experience with people wanting to hit him after sex. He stared up at me, apparently waiting for some reaction.
"Yeah, well there's no accounting for taste,” I said. “Mine in particular.” It wasn't a bad exit line, and I took advantage of it, heading for the door.
He didn't say a word and I left him there in the shadows.
* * * *
I opened my eyes and groaned.
It was morning. I'd slept through the entire fucking—no pun intended—night. Instead of getting my ass over to Berkeley House and doing what I'd come here for, I'd gone upstairs and, feeling stupidly, illogically sorry for myself, given into the urge to lie down for a couple minutes rest. Only my quick nap had turned into the entire night and now it was ... I checked my wristwatch ... ten o'clock.
I'd lost an entire night. Totally wasted it conked out in Oliver's guest room. The entire night and a good portion of the morning as well.
In a very bad temper I rose, showered and went downstairs. No homely scent of witch's brew coffee this morning, which gave me hope that Prince Charming had taken himself off somewhere—like the cliff behind Berkeley House—but no such luck. There he sat reading the local paper.
He looked up and nodded briefly as I entered the kitchen.
I nodded even more briefly back, felt him watching me as I opened the fridge and scanned the contents. I ignored him.
"I thought you might prefer to make the coffee this morning,” he informed me, like this was a concession on his part.
I snorted. “Thanks. I'll just get something in town.” I removed a carton of orange juice, poured myself a glass and drank it standing at the sink staring out across the woods at the rooftop of Berkeley House.
He shrugged and went back to his paper. I glanced to see what was so fascinating but the local headlines seemed to consist of a couple of burglaries, the results of the annual garden show, and a successful library fundraiser.
I finished my OJ, rinsed the glass out and left the kitchen.
* * * *
Ventisca was one of those quaint little seaside villages, though not so quaint that it didn't have a Starbucks, of course, and I headed there post haste to up my caffeine intake to appropriate levels. I ate a pumpkin cream cheese muffin while I got directions to the Historical Society.
I found the Historical Society nestled in between two calculatedly adorable bed and breakfasts. It was the only building on the street that didn't have flower boxes in the windows or a brightly painted entrance. Corwin Mason was unlocking the black front door when I pulled up. I got out of the car, waved, and he waved back
, his expression lightening.
"Well, hi there! I was hoping you'd turn up today.” He looked relaxed and approachable in a blue striped polo shirt and jeans, and his obvious pleasure was balm to my ego after Sam Devlin.
"If this is a busy time, I can look around on my own."
He chuckled, gesturing me inside. “We're not exactly on the Must See list for most tourists."
I looked around while Mason went about the ritual of opening the museum. There were the usual displays of Indian life and Spanish influence. I skipped over the collection of arrowheads and beads, ignored the sepia photographs of the town's early history, and by-passed the local arts and crafts section. There were a couple of very nice watercolors by local artists—nothing by Oliver or Thaddeus Stern—and a lot of battered antique furniture.
And then I saw the guillotine.
It was roughly twelve feet tall and painted in some kind of shiny black lacquer. Golden sphinxes formed the feet of either side of the two tall guides; tiny jeweled eyes winked at me from the bird-like faces. Egyptian gods and goddesses ambled their way down the sides of the “bed,” and the circular collar that held the victim's head in place was covered in crimson velvet. The morning sunshine glinted cheerfully off the sharp angled blade hanging above my head.
"Christ, is that real?” I asked Mason. “Is that the guillotine he used to kill himself?"
He joined me, smiling faintly. “No. This was a second guillotine Berkeley designed to use in his show. See, his asistant's head would fit down here.” He leaned across and pressed a small lever. “A dummy head would fall into the basket. The assistant would never be in any actual danger, although it looks pretty realistic from where the audience was sitting."
"It looks pretty realistic from where I'm standing.” I added slowly, “It's huge. I don't know why that never occurred to me."
"That's show biz.” Mason pointed to the far wall where a large oil portrait hung. “And that's David Berkeley."
I'd seen photographs of this portrait, but the real thing was startlingly vivid. Somber eyes stared out of a long, pale, intense face. Flat black hair and a dapper mustache and beard. The background was green like the sea beneath the cliffs at Berkeley House. I couldn't think how I'd missed it earlier, because once I'd noticed the painting, it was hard to ignore it. I could feel the gaze of those black eyes as though a real person were watching me.
Scared Stiff Page 10
