New Title 1

by Carol Davis Luce

  The vibrating ripples within her became a swirling, dizzying whirlpool. She had the perception of being sucked downward into the depths of a vortex until there was nowhere to go, and then the whirlpool reversed its savage course and exploded up and out like a geyser. Justin slid into her at that moment and filled the throbbing void. She clung to him, pressing eagerly up to meet him. He paused, waiting until the violent contractions eased, and then he began to move his hips slowly, rhythmically. She returned his kisses with a smoldering passion and moved with him, trying to concentrate on bringing pleasure to him, but once again she found herself responding to his lovemaking, his sweltering eagerness, his whispered words of encouragement.

  Their bodies, slick, feverish, came together again and again, faster now as he began to thrust with more urgency. His breathing hoarse and ragged in her ear. Her nails digging into his back. Her own breath came in rapid pants as she felt herself drawing nearer and nearer to yet another orgasm. A frenzied wildness swept her along. She wanted to hold back, to luxuriate until Justin was ready to share it with her. The last vestiges of pent-up desire burst forth as he thrust deep into her. She felt him shudder, heard the low moan in his throat as his throbbing combined with her own.

  Minutes later, crushing his body deliciously to hers, he kissed her temple, her eyelids, her throat. The rippling waves slowly diminished with the beating of her heart. She smiled as the inner muscles -surrounding him involuntarily flexed for the umpteenth time.

  "Ummm," he said, "do that again.”

  Her throat was dry as a new sponge. With her eyes closed, she whispered, "I'm too weak to move.”

  Justin stirred. She tightened her arms and legs around him.

  He settled back down. "I don't want to crush you.”

  She kissed the corner of his mouth and lightly ran the tip of her tongue along the separation of his moist lips.

  "Mrs. Carlson, you are one carnivorous femme fatale. But you already know that.” He turned on his side, raised up on an elbow, then allowed his eyes to travel the length of her. Their skin, from the red light, glowed rosy, warm and flushed. With the back of his fingers he lightly stroked down her body to her stomach. He traced along a thin blue line just above the pubic hair.

  "That's a stretch mark," she said quietly.

  "Yes. And this and this." He tenderly touched several others.

  Alex placed a hand over his.

  "Alex, you shouldn't be ashamed of them. It's the mark of a mother. Bearing a child has to be the ultimate achievement."

  After staring at her for a long moment, he let his fingers continue to rove over her body.

  She closed her eyes. There was something about his touch, something different from the touches of the few other men she had known. He was experienced, no doubt about it. But it was more than that.

  She relaxed, feeling light, tingly. In her semidozing state Alex heard a heavy creaking sound, then a scratching. An overwhelming sensation of malevolence thundered through her. Her eyes flew open, looking upward to the black eye of the skylight.

  She shivered.

  "Alex," he asked softly. "What is it?"

  Exhaling, she threw her arms around his neck, clinging tightly. She buried her face in his warm throat, the pulse in his neck throbbing against her lips.

  The convex skylight reflected the red glowing lamp. If there was something up there, seeing it would be impossible. With her eyes closed, she began to chant silently: There are no monsters .. . there are no monsters.

  He raised his head and stared at her. "Tell me what you were thinking?"

  She opened her eyes, looked upward. "No. It's crazy."

  "Tell me."

  "I . . . I had this overpowering sensation of malevolence—deadliness," she said quietly. "Jesus, did that come out of my mouth?"

  Justin lifted, his head, looked up at the skylight. His brow creased. When he looked back at her, she averted her eyes. He kissed her mouth lightly and started to get out of bed.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I thought you might want me to leave now." Staring silently at the starry sky, she shook her head.

  He lay back down.

  "Are you married?" Fine time to ask him that, she thought, after inviting him to spend the night.

  "I was married. For five years. She found monogamy a bore."

  "I see." She sensed he was staring at her. Studying her. Turning to look into his eyes, she asked, "What is it?"

  "Your husband was jealous, wasn't he?"

  "Very. What did he say about me?"

  He was silent.

  "What did David Sloane say about me?"

  He waited a moment before saying, "Sloane said that you weren't always truthful. That you went through men — I think the expression was—like a person with a head cold goes through Kleenex."

  Alex laughed lightly. She wanted to cry. He didn't have to tell her what Joe had said, she knew it couldn't be good. Justin had believed Sloane. Was that why he was here with her now? The easy mark. All the guys were getting it, so why not him? And as long as he was assigned to her case, he might as well have some fun. The nights were beginning to get cold.

  She was beginning to get cold.

  A good time? Was that all she was to him, Alex wondered with a sinking feeling in her stomach, just a good time?

  "That friend of yours, Ott, what if he finds me here with you?" Justin asked, not looking at her now

  "What if he does?"

  "He's in love with you."

  "That's between Greg and me."

  "Oh? Then I take it you have no qualms about sleeping with him one night and me the next?"

  Alex scooted up to sit with her back against the headboard. She pulled the sheet above her breasts.

  "You know where I went last night?"

  He nodded.

  "I was alone."

  It was Justin's turn to laugh. "All night?"

  "Yes—no, but—"

  "Was he there with you last night or not?"

  "Yes, but only —"

  "Then why did you say you were alone?"

  "Damn it, I don't have to explain myself to you."

  "No, you don't. If you want to sleep with Ott . . . or Sloane, or your ex or . . . or the seven dwarfs for that matter, it's your business and your business only. Just don't lie to me. That's the one thing I cannot tolerate."

  "I went there. I was alone until around eleven. That's when Greg came in. I left immediately.

  "I don't think so," he said quietly.

  She got colder. She began to shiver. He was calling her a liar. Was that how he made his exit from a woman's bed? "Maybe you'd better leave after all.”

  "Fine. Great." He climbed out of bed. As he put on his clothes, he silently stared at her. Alex had pulled the quilt over her naked body, denying him any part of it. She stared at the wall opposite her. With his shirt gaping open to the waist, his jacket and shoes in hand, he crossed the room, then stopped.

  "Alex . . . ?"

  She continued to stare straight ahead.

  He stood there a moment longer. Then he strode quickly out of the room, taking an extra second to punch his fist into the open door.

  The front door slammed shut. A minute later Alex heard the engine of his car roar, and tires peeled rubber as he screeched down the driveway.

  Well, Alex, how's it feel to be a one-night stand . . . a piece of ass . . . a good time? Not very good. Don't say you didn't ask for it. I won't.

  From the top of the bluff Justin had a clear view of Alex's house through the trees. He'd much rather protect her from her bed, with her warm body alongside his, than up here in his usual spot, in the dark, the cold.

  Justin slammed his fist against the steering wheel. He winced. It was the same hand he'd used to punch her bedroom door.

  Women.

  Good riddance, he thought angrily, she was a goddamn cop's nightmare. It was impossible to know if, and when, she was lying. Klump, Sloane, and Alex's ex had implied she went through men
like locusts through Brigham Young's crops. Why would she lie about being with Ott last night? At ten o'clock he had seen both their cars there. And he had seen Ott having a cigarette—a postorgasrnic smoke? — in an upstairs bedroom.

  He knew better than to get involved with women on his cases. Business and pleasure don't mix. He could learn from the TV detective shows. As soon, as the hero fell hard for that certain woman, then bam —it was all over— the kiss of death. Everyone knew that. To top it off, he had committed the cardinal sin. He had asked her about her relationship with another man. No, two men—Ott and her ex. And hadn't he tossed in Sloane for good measure? God, nothing like showing he was jealous and insecure.

  Why was it that everything he did where this woman was concerned was wrong? He had enough women to screw around with, he didn't need this one—this walking calamity. The woman had hang-up upon hang-up. Sensitive, cynical, possibly neurotic, definitely a liar.

  She had told him she was no good at casual affairs. Yet earlier, when he had come to her door she had been ready and eager for him. Ready and eager for someone. In bed she had been wonderfully wanton. And then, when they had finished, she had seemed to turn . . . well, sexually shy. The woman was a network of complexity.

  Thoughts of them together, their naked bodies pressed against each other, had him stiffening, growing erect inside his jockey shorts. With a grunt he shifted his position on the seat. Christ, he was behaving like some horny teenager. His heavy breathing was fogging up the inside of the Corvette. He rolled down the window.

  A movement, about a hundred yards to Justin's right, caught his eye. The rays of the full moon glinted off silver hair. Was that Klump moving up toward her house? What had she been doing out in the dark by the edge of the embankment? Looking down on the house below? Klump's preoccupation with her neighbor, Justin decided, stretched beyond the considerate duties of Neighborhood Watch. It was little wonder that Alex had felt she was being spied upon. Tonight, two people, he and Klump, had been looking down on her.

  Had there been a third?

  Chapter 15

  The temperature hovered at the freezing mark at eight o'clock the following morning. Light flurries swirled through the frigid air, announcing the first snow of the season.

  From the living-room windows, Alex watched Hawkins's old truck chug up the driveway. The snow, beginning to stick to the icy pavement, made his progress slow and nerve-racking.

  By the time his battered pickup slid to a stop near the garage, she had stepped out on the porch. Briskly rubbing her arms to keep the blood circulating, she walked out to meet him.

  "I won't be needing you anymore, Mr. Hawkins," she said as he climbed out of the truck.

  He cocked his head to one side. Glared at her. "You firin' me?"

  "I don't need you anymore. May I have the keys to the garage and shed, please."

  "That cop — he's been telling you things about me, ain't that right?"

  She held out her hand. "The keys."

  He nodded, his eyes mere slits. Then, reaching into his pocket, he brought out a cluster of keys. Slowly slipping two off the ring he held them up, inches from her fingers. Alex reached for them. He pulled them back. She moved for them again, and he pulled back farther. With lightning speed she closed her hand around the keys, but Hawkins caught her wrist with his other hand before she could pull away. He squeezed.

  Fear gripped her. This man is a murderer, she thought. Women are sublife to him. Why was she doing this alone? She should have asked Greg to fire Hawkins.

  Hawkins glared at her. She glared back unflinchingly. He suddenly released her wrist. Without another word, he got into his truck and slammed the door. The engine sputtered, caught, and then revved. Yanking the steering wheel sharply and pressing down hard on the gas pedal, he whipped the truck rapidly around in reverse. The pickup backed off the pavement, jounced over the rocks that lined the edge of the driveway, and in one thumping motion shot forward, clearing the rocks and showering a spray of debris in its wake. It fishtailed for approximately fifteen feet before Hawkins got it under control. He descended the slippery driveway, exhaust pipe belching black oily smoke.

  Alex returned to the house. Taking her time, shivering, she went upstairs to the living room. She picked up the phone and dialed.

  "Margie?"

  "Oh, honey, I'm glad you called. Bob wants to leave a day early for the islands. Business first, then ten days of fun and sun. Are you going to be all right? I hate to leave you right now with all that crap going on in your life."

  Alex sighed deeply. “When?"

  "Two this afternoon. Alex, are you okay?"

  "I . . . Oh, Margie."

  "Hon? I'll be right there.”

  Thirty minutes later, after Alex had told Margie about her evening with Justin, Margie reached across the dining-room table and patted Alex's hand. "You love this cop, don't you?"

  Alex shook her head. "I'm only human. I have desires and needs like everyone else. Look, he was a diversion—someone who was there when I needed someone. So, please, don't try to make more out of it, okay?"

  "Damn it, why don't you admit you love him?"

  "Because I don't.”

  "Bullshit. I've never seen you this torn up over a man.”

  "And what if I were in love with him? Margie, he's a playboy, a jock, a stud. The kind of guy who screws you and then says 'screw you. And the really funny part is, he thinks I'm just like him."

  "Alex, call him. Swallow your insufferable pride and tell him you're sorry."

  "Sorry for what? For being upset because he used me?"

  "You don't know that. Honey, you have an uncanny knack of alienating the men in your life. I've seen you do it so many times.”

  "I can't pretend to like someone when I don't."

  "You don't like Holmes?"

  "He's all right.” She pinched off a piece of donut and rolled it into a small ball of dough. "I guess I like him as well as he likes me. He's not bad in the sack." She squashed the dough ball between her fingers.

  "Alex, look, most of us are insecure in some way. But not everyone takes his insecurities out on others the way you do — with the force of a jackhammer, ramming it down their throats."

  Alex was silent.

  “Why?"

  “Why what?"

  "Why do you push men away?"

  "You think I have some deep-rooted problem?" Alex tried to keep her voice light. "Something from the past, perhaps, hindering my chances of ever finding happiness with a man?"

  "Yes, I do. Alex, you're smart and pretty and personable. You shouldn't be alone. You should be sharing your life with someone you love. For God's sake, don't destroy your own chance for happiness."

  "Love makes the world go round," Alex said, and drained her cup of coffee.

  "Oh, that sounded so cynical."

  "Well, maybe that's how I feel."

  "You're afraid to fall in love. That's it, isn't it? Someone broke your heart and—"

  "No one broke my heart," Alex cut in. "If you never love, you never hurt."

  Margie looked up. "Joe? What about Joe?"

  "Joe asked me to marry him. He was the first man I'd ever been alone with."

  Margie opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She shook her head, incredulous.

  "It's obvious you want to play Freud, so okay, let's psychoanalyze Alex. Let's see now, when I was in kindergarten —"

  "Stop it. That's not fair. I don't want to know anything you don't want to tell me. Let's drop it, okay?"

  Alex disliked herself then. Her best friend only wanted to help, and she was acting like a bitch. She hesitated, then said quietly, "My father adored my mother, and when she left him he went to pieces. You wouldn't believe what Lora and I had to go through to prove we weren't like her. Joe was to have been my salvation."

  "Your father didn't want you to marry Joe?"

  "He didn't want me to marry anyone. He wanted me to stay with him forever. Be his baby always." Alex laug
hed lightly. "I married Joe to spite my father. And I divorced Joe because he turned out to be just like my father. Possessive. Jealous. Insecure.

  The snow was coming down hard. Not the fluffy light flakes of a few hours before, but coarser, icier granules. Alex watched those falling white bits through misty eyes. "Allie," her father had said just before he'd disappeared that fateful day, "You're just like your mother. Your eyes. Your hair. Everything" And she had answered "No. Honest, Daddy, I'm not."

  Just like your mother.

  At nine-fifteen Justin walked into the forensic lab to find Tad Bernsway sitting on a stool, eating sardines from the can. When he spotted Justin he held out the can.

  "Yummm," Justin said, waving it away.

  "Great for the ticker. Lowers the cholesterol."

  "I'll take my chances. What did you find, Tad?"

  Bernsway's brow furrowed; he feigned ignorance.

  "The hairs?"

  "Oh. Did I say I'd have something for you this morning?"

  Justin walked to a microscope and, with his hands clasped behind his back, bent and peered through the lens. "Did I tell you I'm getting another mare? A real sweet, gentle gal. Loves kids, I'm told. Horses should be ridden often. Keeps them young and healthy."

  "You've a nasty mean streak, Sergeant.”

  "Yeah, I know."

  "The two samples— those from the pillowcase, and the ones from that lacy thing—are close enough in color, length, and diameter to suggest they came from the same source."

  Justin turned to face Bernsway. "Human hair?"

  "Synthetic. A cheap wig. Probably thousands of them like it out there. Sorry, Jus, wish I could give you something conclusive, but no can do."

  "You've given me plenty, Tad. Thanks. Bring the family over next weekend. I'll put on a pot of chili if Sarah will bring her home-baked bread and a couple of her rhubarb pies."

  "Deal."

  Outside, as he headed for his car, Justin thought about the lab results. A wig. Klump wore a wig. It was doubtful he could prove that the hairs had come from her wig, but there was one positive aspect. The gray hairs on Alex's pillowcase had not come from the head of Gregory Ott.