LOW PRESSURE

by BROWN SANDRA

  After a time, he turned his head back to her and looked into her eyes. Then he sniffed with disdain, brushed past her, and entered the bar through the terrace door. He shot a glance toward the table where Steven was sitting with William. They were absorbed in conversation.

  Olivia was standing with a group of well-dressed men and women of her ilk. She appeared to be listening to what one of the silver-haired gentlemen was saying, but there was an absent look in her eyes.

  Dent thought about staying and ordering a drink for himself. His presence would spoil their party, make the situation awkward, and he was feeling just ornery enough to do it. He even checked to see if there were any vacant stools at the bar. And that was when he saw him.

  Jerry.

  He was seated at the bar, hunched over a beer. But his gaze was fixed on Bellamy as she entered through the terrace door, looking upset, blotting her eyes with a tissue.

  Jerry quickly reached for something beneath the bar.

  All this registered with Dent in a nanosecond. He processed the potentially dangerous situation and reacted with immediacy, only one thought in mind: Protect Bellamy.

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  Jerry did as everyone in the bar did. His surprised gaze swung to Dent and, seeing that he was the person being addressed, he froze. But for less than a heartbeat. Then he bolted.

  Dent charged after him. Jerry ran like the devil was after him. In his haste, he didn’t see his way completely clear of the double doorway. He crashed into one panel of it, breaking several panes of glass and splintering the wood frame.

  Women screamed. Men scurried aside.

  Jerry, in a stumbling run, tried to get away, but Dent caught him by the collar, dragged him back into the bar, and slammed him face first against the wall. The man cried out in fear and pain as Dent crowded in behind him.

  “What’s your story, Jerry?”

  “Let him go!”

  Dent paid no heed to the shout coming from someone in the room. He wanted an explanation from the man who’d tracked Bellamy from New York to Texas. “What were you reaching for under the bar?”

  “A b-b-book,” Jerry stuttered.

  “Dent.” Bellamy was at his elbow, trying to pull him off the man. “It’s nothing. He did have a book. See, it’s right here. It was under his barstool.”

  Dent blinked the copy of Low Pressure into focus. Gradually, he backed away from the man. Jerry turned in the narrow space. He was bleeding from several cuts from the broken door panes. His nose was also dripping blood from being smashed into the wall.

  Dent placed the heel of his hand over Jerry’s sternum, keeping him pinned to the wall by stiff-arming. “Why have you been following her?”

  Jerry’s eyes bulged with fear. His lips were moving but he couldn’t articulate a word.

  “Let him go.”

  Dent recognized the voice as the one who’d spoken before. He turned his head in the direction from which it had come, and there stood Steven.

  He motioned for Dent to remove his hand from the man’s chest. “He’s been following Bellamy because I paid him to.”

  Dent looked at Steven with disbelief. Then he turned to Bellamy, who stood there beside her stepmother, both of them frozen and mute and staring at him with horror.

  He dropped his hand, and Jerry slumped to the floor. Dent made a gesture of supreme disgust that encompassed everyone in the room. “You people suck.”

  Then he stepped over Jerry and stalked out, crunching shards of glass beneath his boots.

  The ten-minute drive in the limousine was made in absolute silence.

  Bellamy was first inside the house. Helena approached, but Bellamy shook her head, and the housekeeper tactfully withdrew. Bellamy went into the living room, slung her handbag onto an ottoman, and turned to confront the other three as they filed in behind her.

  “His name is Simon Dowd,” Steven said even before she could demand an explanation. “He’s a private investigator.”

  “Oh my God,” Olivia groaned. “Steven, what in the world—”

  Bellamy sliced the air, cutting off anything else her stepmother might say. She wanted only to hear what Steven had to say in his defense. “Why, in the name of God, did you hire a private investigator to follow me? I thought he was a stalker!”

  “The whole business was distasteful, I assure you,” he said. “His office is a third-floor walk-up. His desk is a card table. The morning I went to see him, there was a partially eaten bagel—”

  “I don’t give a damn about that! Why did you hire him to follow me?”

  “For your protection.” His voice had taken on an angry edge that matched hers. “You wrote a book about a true crime but left the ending open to interpretation. Then you started publicizing it, making you a target for anyone involved who had a problem with that.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like Dent Carter. Who proved less that an hour ago that he’s a thug. Not that that comes as any surprise.”

  “Scandalous behavior,” Olivia said in an undertone. “I’ll never be able to hold my head up in the club again.”

  Bellamy cried out, “He thought he was protecting me.”

  “Naturally you jump to his defense,” Steven said. “He’s acquired those cuts and bruises on his face since I saw you in Atlanta. Who beat him up?”

  “Don’t try and change the subject. Tell me why you sicced this . . . this Simon Dowd on me.”

  “In your book you all but came out and accused Dale Moody of being a crooked cop. An incompetent one at best. He could have wanted retribution. Even Rupe Collier. Anyway, I became worried for your safety. William will tell you.”

  She glanced over at him. He nodded. “His motive was noble. He was terribly concerned about you.”

  “So I retained Dowd,” Steven said, bringing her back to him. “His first love is the theater. He fancies himself an actor. He assured me that he would be perfect, that he could play the avid fan. That way, he could stay close to you when you appeared in public. And before you launch into a tirade, let me point out that my hiring him was validated when you told me about the rat, the vandalism done to your house, to Dent’s airplane.”

  Olivia looked between the two of them with bewilderment. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” Wearily, Bellamy sat down on the arm of a chair and rubbed her forehead. As she thought back over the last several days, she now understood why Steven hadn’t been all that surprised to see her and Dent when they appeared at Maxey’s. Jerry—Dowd, whatever—had followed them from the park in Georgetown to the Austin airport. He’d given Steven advance warning of their trip to Atlanta.

  “Which brings us up to today,” he was saying. “I knew there would be a crowd at the funeral, and that made me nervous for your safety. For the safety of all of us. So I asked Dowd to be there, to watch our backs, and, again, I was justified in doing so. The funeral brought them all out. Moody. Rupe Collier.”

  “He was there?” Bellamy asked, raising her head. “I didn’t see him.”

  “Seated two rows behind us in the church.”

  “And holding court in the country club’s dining room,” Olivia said. “Like he’s a dear friend of our family.”

  “Let’s not forget Dent,” Steven said. “You and he are practically joined at the hip these days. I’m surprised you didn’t go charging after him like you were twelve again, pining over your first major crush.”

  Bellamy’s cheeks burned as though he’d slapped her. She left her perch on the arm of the chair and walked toward him. “Why do you say things like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Hurtful things. Hateful things.”

  “Bellamy”—Olivia sighed—“please don’t start something. Not today.”

  Ignoring her stepmother’s plea, she kept her gaze fixed on Steven. “What’s wrong with you? When you were younger, you were sensitive to other people’s feelings.”

  “I grew u
p.”

  “No, you grew mean. Snide and scornful and mean-spirited like the people you once despised.” She shook her head with perplexity. “I don’t understand you. I truly don’t.”

  “I never asked you to.”

  “But I want to.” She reached for his hand. “Steven,” she said with appeal, “I’ve always thought of you as a blood brother. I love you. I want you to love me.”

  “We’re no longer children.” He pulled his hand away from hers. “It’s time you grew up, too, and realized that life rarely gives us what we want.”

  She searched his eyes, saw how untouchable his heart seemed, and in that moment, she pitied him. Physically he was beautiful, but he was emotionally deformed. The effects of Susan’s abuse had taken a tragic toll on his life.

  But by refusing to let it go, he had prevented himself from healing. He’d let his hatred and resentment fester until he’d become critical, cynical, and slow to forgive. He had a mother who loved him with all her heart. He was adored by a patient and devoted partner whose love was visible in every gesture, grand or small. But Steven kept a part of himself separate even from them. He refused to wholly accept their love and to give his in return.

  That, Bellamy realized, was the real tragedy.

  Chapter 27

  The sun had set and dusk had settled in. The Corvette’s headlights were on when Dent steered it into a parking space, but Bellamy remained unseen until he started up the metal staircase. When he saw her sitting on the landing, he paused for several seconds, then continued climbing the stairs in a steady tread.

  He’d hooked his suit jacket on his index finger and was carrying it slung over his shoulder. His necktie had been undone and was lying flat against his chest.

  She stood, dusted off her seat, and retrieved her high heels, which had become so uncomfortable she’d taken them off. He didn’t say anything as he stepped around her and continued down the breezeway toward his apartment.

  She fell into step behind him. “I hope you don’t mind that I waited for you to get home. I didn’t know when you’d show up. Or if you would come home at all tonight.”

  He unlocked the door and went into the apartment. She hesitated on the threshold. “May I come in?”

  “Door’s open.” He pitched his key ring onto the coffee table, tossed his jacket over the back of a chair, and followed that with his necktie.

  She stepped inside and closed the door. “I don’t think you’re in the mood for anything elaborate, so I’ll keep it simple. I’m sorry.”

  He went into the kitchen and took a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “Sorry for what?”

  “For not calling you about Daddy. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how you’d react to a call from me about anything. I’d said some harsh things to you.” When he didn’t say anything, she forged ahead. “I also apologize for not standing up for you at the club. I was . . . My only defense is that I was in shock.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m not.” He twisted the cap off the water bottle and took a drink. “That it?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You were awfully angry when you left the country club.”

  “Not for long. I blew off some steam.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Went flying.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it.”

  The rebuke was succinct, but well aimed. She lowered her head and looked at the pair of designer pumps she was holding in her hands. She studied the black grosgrain ribbon across the toe. They were beautiful shoes, but they pinched. Why was it that she was drawn to things that were bad for her or that hurt?

  “Moody showed up,” she said. “I spoke to him just before I saw you. He said—”

  He interrupted her. “I don’t want to know what he said. I don’t care what he said. I’m done talking about him or anything related to that subject.” He looked her over from the top of her head to her bare feet. “If you want to take off your clothes and give me a lap dance, you can stay. If not, go back to the bosom of your rotten family and leave me the hell alone.” He gave her about half a second to make up her mind, and when she didn’t move, he snuffled. “I didn’t think so. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

  Moving back into the living area, he picked up the TV remote. “Maybe I can catch the last few innings of the double-header I missed by going to your old man’s send-off.”

  His rejection, coming so closely on the heels of Steven’s, was crushing. A sob erupted from her as she turned and walked toward the door.

  But before she could get it open, he was there, cursing under his breath, turning her to face him. He flattened his hands on the door, caging her between it and him, and pressed his forehead against hers. “That was a terrible thing to say.”

  “I guess I had it coming.”

  “No, it was a low blow. It was cruel. Because I know how much you loved him, how sad you are.”

  “When we’re angry, we say things we don’t mean. You’re angry.”

  “As hell.” He released a long breath and rolled his forehead from side to side over hers. “I don’t know how you do it, Bellamy Lyston Price.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make me so damn mad.” He moved in closer. “And still keep me wanting you.”

  “Do you?”

  “It’s killing me.”

  He pulled away a few inches. She looked up into his eyes. He couldn’t have mistaken her yearning when she focused on his mouth. But after having been turned down so many times, he wasn’t going to initiate anything. What happened next would be up to her.

  She whispered, “I’m afraid.”

  “Of disappointing me?”

  She nodded.

  “Not gonna happen.”

  This was what she’d come here for. Yes, she’d wanted to apologize, but what she wanted most was to be with Dent. While pitying Steven for refusing the love that was readily, unselfishly given to him, it had occurred to her that she had done the same. She hadn’t allowed herself to love or to be loved.

  Safe was a terribly lonely way to live.

  She dropped her shoes to the floor and gingerly placed her hands on his chest. For a long time, they stood like that, neither moving. Then she undid a button on his shirt. After the first one, the others weren’t quite so intimidating.

  When she spread his shirt open, her desire was greater than her apprehension. She leaned in. His chest hair was soft against her face. It tickled her nose. She pressed a dry kiss on him, then opened her mouth. His skin was warm and slightly salty tasting.

  He made a low sound, curved his hand beneath her jaw, and tilted her face up to his. His mouth was possessive and hungry, and the longer they kissed the more urgent the kisses became. His arms closed around her, bringing her up against him, and when she answered the pressure he applied with a corresponding grinding motion, he swore softly and broke the kiss to turn her to face away from him.

  After gathering her hair in his hand and draping it over her shoulder, he unhooked the clasp at the top of her dress, then slowly pulled the zipper down past her waist. He slid his hands inside and settled them on her hips, pulling her back against him, and situating her bottom firmly against his erection.

  Her breath soughed out as she weakly propped herself against the door.

  He planted a tender kiss on the nape of her neck then sucked the skin against his teeth. Slowly his hands scaled up over her ribs to her bra strap. He undid it, then for agonizing seconds did nothing more.

  She wondered later if perhaps he had been giving her a chance to stop there. If so, he had wasted a few precious seconds of lovemaking, because she wanted him, wanted this more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

  His hands moved around to her front, up under the cups of her bra, and over her breasts. He angled her away from the door and back against his chest. She sighed and let herself be supported as he caressed her breasts, sweetly at first, and
then erotically until she was restless and hot with wanting more. He knew it.

  “Come here.”

  Turning her, he pushed her dress off her shoulders, and it dropped to the floor. Her bra followed. He slung off his shirt, then reached for her hand and drew her along with him as he backed up toward the bed. By the time they got there, he had his belt and trousers undone. A few seconds later, he was free of everything. Bellamy took him in, and she stared at his sex for so long that he said uneasily, “Okay?”

  She laughed lightly, like If only you knew how okay, and he smiled. “Look at you,” he murmured. His large hands reshaped her breasts. His fingertips played lightly over her nipples. After teasing them with his lips, he pulled back and smiled at her again.

  Then his eyes turned dark. Because she had touched him. At first just a few tentative brushes with her fingers, to indulge her curiosity about the various textures, but, encouraged by his unsteady breathing and that smokiness in his eyes, she took him in her hand. Guided by his gruff whispers, and instinct, she pumped him until he grew incredibly tight. Hot breaths struck her hair as he bent his head over hers and groaned her name.

  A drop of moisture leaked from the tip. She took it on her thumb, sucked it off, and pressed her thumb against the center of her lower lip, which he’d told her was sexy. Raspily, he said, “Disappointed, my ass,” then covered her mouth in a fierce kiss that left her mindless. She was on her back on the bed before she realized how she’d got there. He bent over her and kissed her belly as he peeled off her panties.

  She didn’t know until later what had happened to them. They disappeared while she was held in thrall of the trail of kisses that brought his mouth to where she pulsed with need, in thrall of his stubbled cheeks against her thighs, in thrall of what he was doing with his lips, his tongue, with his gliding fingers, with his rumbled words of adoration and coarse carnality that she’d never found to be a turn-on until now.

  In thrall of Denton Carter loving her.

  “Are you back?” he whispered.

  Her eyes opened partially. “Hmm.”

  “You sure?” It took all his willpower only to nudge her, not penetrate. But, damn, it was tough to hold back.