“You haven’t what?” she wondered aloud through her pounding heartbeat and the whirl of confusion in her head. What did he mean?
Then she got it.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh.” Her hand went to her throat. “Oh,” she said again, “I see.”
So, some of her reaction had been spot on—his need for her hadn’t really been about her, only that he hadn’t been with a woman in a long time.
He hung his head, his entire posture reflecting the fact that he was totally and thoroughly disgusted with himself. “Look, I didn’t mean to let it get out of hand like that. It won’t happen again, okay?”
Touched in some deep place within her, Kayla reached out a hand, then clenched her fist before she could make contact with him. “Paul.”
He lifted his head, his gaze both miserable and defiant. “I’ll tell Hank to get you someone else.”
“What?” She was taken aback. Did he think she was firing him? As she asked herself the question, she wondered if maybe she should. The man was obviously a loose cannon, and he had overstepped the line.
But deep down, at the very core of who she was, Kayla had to admit that if Paul had overstepped the line, she’d been equally responsible. She’d welcomed the kiss, been yearning for it for days.
Just not the raw terror that had followed.
“Don’t worry,” she said, not sure she was doing the right thing. “You still have your job.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Absolutely. We’ll forget this happened, okay? Take the car and go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Paul wanted to refuse the offer of transportation, to walk away from Kayla with some pride left. He was deeply, monumentally pissed off at himself. He’d never lost control like that; he’d nearly taken the woman standing up, for God’s sake!
It had been four years and ten months since he’d had a woman, since before his wife left him. And in the pen, he’d had to make do with the proverbial fallback position of men left alone for too long: his imagination and his own hand.
Which made him what he was today—a supremely frustrated, raging hormonal nightmare, crude and thoughtless, operating on pure animal instinct to mate with the woman whose scent got him where he lived.
Wordlessly, he took the keys, got in the car and drove off.
If Kayla’s panicked response to Paul’s kiss took a while to completely fade away, her body’s chemical arousal caused by the same act took even longer to recede. Despite the way it had ended, with that deep, primal instinct to fight for her life, the sheer sensuality of the event had left an indelible impression. Even now, as she got ready for bed, humming mindlessly, the memory made her blood heat up. Skin and nerve endings tingled, there was a lingering ache between her legs and at the tips of her breasts.
So then, the truth had to be faced: if one part of her had been repelled by the force of Paul’s need, another, purely lustful and womanly part had been most thoroughly turned on by it.
She wanted him. Still.
Whew, she thought, mixed messages, mixed reactions. Settling into bed, she shook her head in remembered wonder. Never had she had such a strong, elemental, thoroughly sexual reaction. She didn’t have strong sexual reactions.
They’d been shut down on that night nearly thirteen years ago when she’d gone out to the senior dance with Jerry Donley and had come back bruised and battered, her virginity and her trust in men—never high to begin with—a thing of the past. She’d been willing to kiss, even to neck with the boy she’d had a crush on for months. But he’d wanted more, and when she’d fought him, he’d taken what he wanted, anyway.
Sociologists called it date rape; for Kayla it had been more than a cultural definition, it had been the end of a dream.
She’d gotten through the aftermath. Alone, of course. Eventually, she’d even gotten past it. Or so she’d told herself. But subsequently she’d chosen men who didn’t set off any fear response in her. There hadn’t been many lovers, but all of them had been gentle and nonaggressive.
Passive men, to be honest. It was easier for her that way; she kept control of the situation. Walter, although a successful man and never a passive one, had a low-key personality. And his age had made their lovemaking only occasional and always gentle.
Now this…this rutting bull, at the height of his sexual powers, had stormed into her life. And, predictably, his presence brought up some of her old victim fears. But, on top of that, it also made her face the truth, to admit what she’d been hiding from herself all these years.
She was a woman. A sexual woman.
A sexual woman with needs, needs that during her life had been only mildly satisfied.
One savage kiss from Paul Fitzgerald had opened up a whole new world to her, a world of intense passions, intense feelings, both physical and mental. She’d shied away from this part of her all her adult life, told herself she was all right just the way she was.
But now she had to admit it had been a lie, a life half lived, as a woman, anyway.
Yet, even now, lying in bed with the mere memory of sensuality arousing her, she was of two minds about how to live the rest of her life. Opening up the door to the Pandora’s box of her own sexuality—how would that affect her? Would she have to relinquish control, be at the mercy of her body’s needs?
On a more practical level, unless she was willing to plunge into an affair with Paul—not a good idea, as he came with so much baggage, so much anger, and was in every sense of the word, way too much for her to take on—his living on the premises was no longer an option.
No, he would not be occupying the “grandpa” cabin. In fact, she would need to step back from all but the most necessary dealings with him. No more lunches on the porch, no more lending her car, no more friendliness. Look what it had led to.
Decision made, she pounded her pillow into shape, running through a mental checklist as she did: all doors were locked, the exterior lights blazed, Bailey and she were tucked in for the night. She closed her eyes and prepared to sleep.
Which was when the silence descended all around her, like a cloak. It had a personality of its own—dark and heavy and mysterious. Her eyes popped open, and she stared out at the blackness in her bedroom, edgy and wide awake all of a sudden. What would happen on this night? Would she be allowed to sleep? Or would she be woken by more noises, whispers, receive more dead animals…or worse?
Shivering, she had to admit it—if Paul were here, she’d feel a lot better.
If not necessarily safer.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Thorne. I’m just so backed up, my crew won’t be able to get up here for at least two weeks.” The restoration contractor smiled apologetically, his perfect white teeth in his perfectly tanned face sparkling in the bright, warm, Indian summer sun.
Frowning, she was about to reply when Hank said, “Hell, man, two weeks may be too late. We’re heading into the rainy season.”
Hank had appeared about ten o’clock on this Friday morning, Paul’s fifth day on the job, just to “see how things’re going,” as he’d put it, concerning his latest protégé. When he’d learned that the “expert” from New York City was due at eleven, he’d offered to stay. At first, Kayla had been grateful for his input, but now his obvious resentment at not being trusted with the job was affecting the atmosphere.
She put a hand on his arm, squeezed gently, then removed it. “Hank, Mr. Abbott is doing his best, I’m sure.”
She turned back to the contractor, surprisingly effeminate, considering the fact that he was in the construction business, which she usually associated with burly men with crude mouths. Old stereotype, she’d chided herself upon meeting him.
“Is there nothing you can do to speed it up?” she asked him. “My late husband spoke so highly of you and your work, I wouldn’t want to have to go someplace else.”
“I could do the work myself,” Hank muttered.
The contractor slanted an exasperated look at the older man a
nd tried to be gracious. “I’m sure you could, Mr. Boland. It’s just that Mr. Thorne wanted my firm to do it.”
“But if it rains soon,” Hank went on doggedly, “the church may be in danger of flooding.”
“Unless we temporarily shore up the leak.” This came from Paul, who had kept his mouth shut the entire meeting.
As he had all morning, he avoided meeting Kayla’s gaze, and she had done the same. Neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge what had happened between them the night before.
They stood now on the north side of the Old Stone Church, the three men and Kayla. The sun was bright, the air moist, and the humidity had brought out swarms of gnats, attracted to skin moisture. Kayla swiped at several as she waited to hear what Abbott would say.
The contractor slanted a look at Paul, subtly sized him up and down, then retreated as Paul stared back, his face set in that scary, don’t-mess-with-me manner, the one he’d been wearing when she’d first met him.
“Of course,” Abbott said, all business again. “Good idea. I can get a man up here to do that, something sturdy but temporary.” He spoke to Kayla again. “We’re going to have to dig up the whole foundation, you understand, to block off that underground stream that’s seeping through the cracks. That’s extremely sensitive work, to make sure we don’t harm the rest of the building. We have special machines that have less than normal vibration to them. These old buildings, sometimes all you need is one big oscillation and the walls begin to crack.”
“Not these walls,” Hank said. “They’re solid. I’ve checked them out. And you don’t have to bring up one of your ‘men’ to do the temporary work. I can do it. Been in business twenty years, no complaints yet.”
Abbott glanced at him, gave a slight shrug, meaning he wasn’t going to engage in a discussion. “As you say.”
He turned his attention once again to Kayla. “It’s fine with me if Mr. Boland wants to temporarily plug up the leak, lay some scrap lumber in the basement and a tarp on top of it. Just so there’s nothing that will prevent us from getting to the foundation easily when we actually do begin. I’ll try for ten days from now, all right? We’ll start by shoring up the floor from beneath before we start digging. It will take at least a week, a week and a half, to finish.”
“You mustn’t dig up the bones. No. You mustn’t.”
Startled, all four turned in the direction of the voice.
Melinda came around from the side of the church, dressed again in black, one scrawny arm reaching out toward Kayla. Following behind her was a sturdy, middle-aged woman with a faded gray-blond braid slung over her shoulder.
She tugged at the older woman. “Aunt,” she pleaded in a surprisingly musical voice. “Come on.”
“Mustn’t dig up the bones, isn’t that so? Promise me.” Quickly, furtively the old woman glanced at the three men, then darted her terrifying gaze back to Kayla. “Mustn’t.”
Kayla, tamping down the same reaction she’d had to Melinda the first time—that of feeling creepy-crawly all over—walked over to the anxious woman. “Hello, Melinda.”
When she didn’t answer, Kayla turned to her companion, whom she assumed was the niece. She was dressed in a wrinkled sleeveless blouse, tucked into faded capri pants. On her feet she wore scuffed and dirty tennis shoes. “Hi,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Kayla Thorne.”
The woman nodded, but used both hands to clutch her aunt’s arm. “Grace Thomas. I hope my aunt hasn’t bothered you.”
Kayla smiled. “She just surprised me, that’s all.”
“Mustn’t dig up the bones,” Melinda said again, and she stared right into Kayla’s eyes with that same mad intensity that felt as though what she was saying was extremely, profoundly, earth-shakingly urgent.
“Bones?” the contractor said.
Kayla glanced over her shoulder to where the three men stood, witnessing the exchange. “Apparently we’re on Native American burial ground up here.”
“Come on, Aunt,” Grace said, sounding as if she were singing to a child. She tugged again on Melinda’s arm and led her away. “We’re just out for a walk, aren’t we? It’s such a lovely day. Goodbye,” she said to Kayla, then nodded briefly to the men.
As they headed off, Melinda stopped in her tracks one more time, looked back, focused her glare on Kayla. “The bones of the dead will rise up,” she intoned, then nodded once more and walked away.
The old woman’s agitation made her uneasy. Melinda was mentally unbalanced, Kayla told herself, so nothing she said could be given any credence. Still…
“Them two gals give me the willies,” Hank said, giving voice to Kayla’s exact reaction.
She rejoined the group, chiding herself for not asking Melinda if she knew anything about the rat. She might not have gotten an answer, anyway; the old woman seemed to be obsessed with bones, not rodents.
Abbott wasn’t finished with his concerns. “Are we going to find bones down there? Native American bones?”
“Surely,” Kayla said, looking to Hank, “when they originally built the church, they would have handled that.”
“Not in those days,” Hank said with a sorry shake of the head. “They might have tossed ’em away. Or given ’em to some professor-type for a museum.”
Abbott frowned, brushed at the lapel of his soft tweed sports jacket. “Well, we don’t want to get into that kind of thing. Have the Native American rights folks down on us.”
“How can they?” Kayla asked. “The building is already here, it’s a landmark. It’s been here for more than a century.”
“But the Native Americans have been here longer, and they’ve gotten a lot more vocal in the last twenty-thirty years. I’ll have to check it out, do some research.” Abbott smiled that extremely white smile of his. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “I’ll take care of the whole thing. That’s what you pay me for.
“Well,” he said, tucking his pad into a slim leather folder and putting it under his arm, “I’m off now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Thorne. I’ll call you later.”
After shaking hands with everyone, Abbott walked over to his hunter-green BMW, slid in, waved and took off.
Hank spit on the ground. “Damned pansy.”
Kayla shot him a disapproving look. “Now, Hank.”
He had the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry, Miz Thorne. I know. Old habits die hard. I can be a real pain in the butt sometimes.”
Paul spoke up. “Hey, Hank, we can shore up that main leak, if you’d like to do it today.”
“Why don’t I take care of it? Got everything I need in the truck. You’re busy here.”
Paul shrugged. “Whatever.”
The men walked off back to the house, leaving Kayla to stare after them, and wondering if she and Paul would ever exchange a civil word again.
Kayla sat on the couch, slippered feet propped on the coffee table, a cup of hot tea in her hand, an old Boz Scaggs album playing in the background, a song about being all alone.
It was Friday night. She’d spent one full week at the cabin. A pretty full week, adjusting to being here without Walter.
However, in the past couple of days, she’d barely thought of Walter at all; instead, she’d been preoccupied with fantasies of Paul.
Closing her eyes, she pictured him as he worked around the property all day, his shirt off, his muscles gleaming with sweat. His thick, hard body, his massive shoulders, his huge hands. His tattoos; she’d seen another, this one a zigzagging line on the back of his neck.
Br-r-r-r-ing.
The sound of her cell phone made her jump, and she stared at the instrument lying on the side table before picking it up. Hardly anyone ever called her. “Hello?”
“Hey, sis, how’s it going?”
At the sound of his voice, her stomach knotted up. It was Jay. All her brothers had been monsters, but Jay had been the worst. Teasing her, bullying her, ripping apart her dolls, putting bugs and snakes in her bed. Smacking her sometimes, especiall
y when he’d had too much to drink, which he had started doing pretty regularly by age eleven.
“Fine.” Anger filled her, anger at herself as old reactions to him invaded her. She hadn’t seen him in years. Nevertheless she was filled with feelings of being helpless, a victim, a little girl unable to defend herself, having nowhere to turn.
“Fine?” he repeated in that slightly nasal tone she’d learned to hate. “Oh, yeah, my sister is so fine. Fine is the word.” She caught the careless lilt in his voice, the small chuckle. He was high.
“How did you get my number?”
“Hey, sis. I got resources.”
“What do you want, Jay?”
“Now, is that any way to talk to your big bro?”
She made herself sit up straighter, told herself that this visceral reaction to the brother who was one year her senior was old stuff, and she didn’t have to give in to it anymore. She was an adult now. She had her own resources. Jay could no longer affect her life.
She considered hanging up on him, but he would just call back. Jay never let go when you could be of some use to him. “Tell me why you’re calling.”
“Glad you asked,” he said with another chuckle. “See, I’ve been…away. Out of the country, actually.”
“And?”
“And not really up on the news, you know. Not really interested in the news.”
“Get to it, Jay.” Her voice was strong, letting him know he was no longer dealing with a cowering child.
“And so I get back and, well, imagine my surprise when I find out that my sister, my dear, darling sister, is a widow. A widow with big bucks. The old guy croaked and you’re fixed for life. Just imagine my surprise.”
“Again, Jay, what do you want?”
She could almost see him grinning. “You know what I want, Kayla. Just a little taste of all that money you’re rolling in. You can afford to be generous.”
“Maybe I can,” she said evenly, “but not to you. We have nothing to say to each other. Goodbye.” She hung up.
Whispers in the Night Page 10
