Til Death Do Us Part

by Beverly Barton

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. Her body throbbed with anticipation.

  “I want dessert, too,” he told her as his lips moved down her neck and his hands unbuckled his belt and unzipped his slacks. “And I want mine before we eat our corned beef sandwiches.”

  “Am I your dessert, Mr. Roarke?” She draped her arms around his neck when he spread her legs apart and situated himself between them.

  “Yes, Mrs. Roarke, you most definitely are.” He cupped her hips and brought her forward, then thrust into her, bouncing her hips off the desk.

  They made love with wild abandon, oblivious to the outside world. Later they ate their corned beef sandwiches, and when Cleo started to eat her pie, Roarke took it from her and fed it to her. In the middle of the sensual feeding, Cleo gasped.

  “Oh, my God, Simon, we didn’t lock the door. Anyone could have walked in on us.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened,” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t it have happened?”

  “Because when I came in, I told Tom Brown that no one was to enter this office until I told him otherwise.”

  “You’re a wicked, wicked man, Simon Roarke.” Cleo smiled, then opened her mouth, asking for another bite.

  “And you’re glad that I am, aren’t you, my Cleo Belle?” Roarke cut off a piece of the pie with the plastic fork and put it in Cleo’s mouth.

  THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY NIGHT, Hugh Winfield dined with the family. During after-dinner drinks in the front parlor, Oralie Sutton announced that Daphne and Hugh were engaged. Hugh made a big production of placing a rather large diamond on Daphne’s finger. Cleo congratulated them and wished them well, and considered herself lucky not to have married Hugh.

  While Oralie discussed plans for a huge engagement party at the country club, Daphne gloated, smiling cattily at Cleo. But when Roarke nuzzled Cleo’s neck and she giggled, the glint of triumph died in Daphne’s green eyes.

  That night Roarke gave Kane orders to have Ellen Denby ready the following Monday night to spring the trap that would hopefully catch the McNamara Industries saboteur. The odds were even. Fifty-fifty. Especially now that Winfield had officially cast his lot with the Suttons.

  Which would the trap ensnare? Roarke wondered. A hotheaded, angry young cousin or a money-hungry, disloyal old friend?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CLEO TOSSED BACK her head and laughed. Despite the over-cast sky and the prediction of isolated showers, the day was perfect. Perfect because she was going to spend it with Simon, just the two of them alone together. Riding Sweet Justice and Valentino out to the Great Mississippi and into Sherwood Forest again this Saturday. Pearl had prepared them a picnic lunch that Cleo planned for them to spread out beneath the two willows. But what if it rains? she thought, then smiled secretly to herself. She’d never made love outside in the rain.

  “What’s that impish smile all about?” Roarke squeezed her hand as they walked down the path leading to the stables. “You worry me, woman, when you get that wicked look on your face.”

  “Wicked?” Pulling on his hand, she urged him to run with her. “Come on, and I’ll show you wicked.”

  Releasing her hand, he grinned and checked his small backpack. “That’s an invitation I can’t refuse.” Roarke raced with her, reaching the stables first. Not even winded from his run, he leaned against the fence and waited for her to catch up.

  Breathing hard, but not out of breath, Cleo slowed her pace as she neared him. “No fair. Your legs are longer.” She glanced at him, surveying him from the tip of his boots to his silver belt buckle, then moving her gaze down again to focus on where his jeans formed a triangle. “Much longer.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her up against him. “You are wicked, Cleo Belle. Wonderfully wicked.”

  Reaching up on tiptoe, she circled his neck with her arms and gave him a quick kiss. Thunder rumbled off in the distance. She tilted her head to listen. “It might rain.”

  “It might,” he agreed.

  “I’ve never made love outside in the rain,” she said. “You haven’t?”

  “If it turns out to be only a light summer shower, we could stay under the willows.”

  Lifting her off her feet, Roarke took her mouth hungrily. She clung to him, responding fervently.

  Willie cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Cleo.” He led Sweet Justice out of the stables. “Got Sweetie all saddled up and ready for you.” He held out the reins to her.

  Roarke set Cleo back on her feet. She eased out of his arms and took the reins from Willie. “Thank you.” She smiled at Willie, who beamed with pleasure.

  “I’ll go get Valentino for you, Mr. Roarke.”

  Roarke threw up his hand in greeting. “Okay. Thanks.”

  When Willie returned to the stables, Cleo whirled around and faced Roarke. “How would you like to race over to the Great Mississippi? The winner gets to name his or her prize.”

  “I think this race just might be rigged,” Roarke said. “Considering the fact that you’ll be riding a young filly and I’ll be riding a much older horse.”

  “What if I give you a head start?”

  “How much of a head start?”

  “Two minutes.”

  Willie led Valentino out of the stables. “Here he is, all ready for a good gallop this morning.”

  “Here are the rules,” Roarke told her. “We mount at the same time, then you time yourself two minutes after I start off, and whoever gets to the Great Mississippi first gets to throw the other one in before he gets to name his prize.”

  Cleo clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, rolled her eyes heavenward, then pursed her lips. “Sounds fair enough, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes,” Roarke said. “There’s just one more thing.” He removed the backpack and held it out to her. “You have to carry our lunch with you.”

  Cleo groaned. “That won’t be a disadvantage.” She took the backpack and strapped it on, then lifted her foot into the stirrup and swung her leg over Sweet Justice’s back.

  Following Cleo’s lead, Roarke mounted his horse. He glanced over at his wife, who smiled at him, then puckered her lips and blew him a kiss. He loved her smile—beautiful, joyous and genuine, like the woman herself.

  Sunlight reflected off the decorative silver trim on Cleo’s hand-tooled, leather saddle. The minute Cleo eased her bottom into the saddle, Sweet Justice whinnied loudly and reared her front legs into the air.

  Roarke’s heartbeat accelerated. What the hell had happened? Something had spooked Sweet Justice. But what? He hadn’t heard or seen a thing. He sat in the saddle, watching helplessly while the skittish filly bucked Cleo off and onto the ground.

  Dear God, it had all happened so quickly that Cleo must not have had a chance even to try to calm the panicked animal.

  “Cleo!” Roarke heard the sound of his own voice as if coming from a great distance.

  Willie rushed over to Cleo, who lay unmoving on her side. Roarke dismounted hurriedly.

  “Don’t touch her, Willie,” he shouted. “Just get hold of Sweet Justice’s reins and keep her away from Cleo.” When the stable hand jerked around and looked at him with fear in his eyes, Roarke cursed under his breath. “I know you want to help her, but if she’s injured, you would hurt her more if you try to move her.”

  Nodding his understanding, Willie grabbed the filly, who’d stopped prancing and casually kicked at the earth near Cleo’s head. While Willie spoke softly to the horse, Roarke bent down and ran his hands over Cleo’s prone body. She didn’t move or speak.

  He didn’t think she’d broken any bones, but there was no way to be certain without X-rays. He stroked her cheek tenderly with the back of his hand.

  “Cleo? Honey?” She didn’t respond. “Cleo Belle, can you hear me?” She lay deadly still.

  Roarke unzipped the backpack Cleo wore and removed his cellular phone. His hands trembled as he dialed 911. He told the operator what had ha
ppened. She warned him not to move Cleo and assured him that an ambulance was on its way.

  “What—what can I do, Mr. Roarke?” Willie asked.

  “Tie Sweet Justice to the fence over there,” Roarke said. “Then go up to the house and tell Miss Beatrice what’s happened. Tell her to call Sheriff Bacon. And Willie—” Roarke hesitated while his mind tried to absorb the implications “—don’t let anyone get near Sweet Justice except the sheriff himself. Do you understand? Something caused Sweetie to throw Cleo off and I want the sheriff to examine the horse, her saddle and her food.”

  “I got all that.” Willie kept nodding repeatedly. “I’ll go tell Miss Bea to call the sheriff.”

  Roarke sat down on the ground beside Cleo, wanting more than anything to lift her into his arms and see her open her eyes and smile at him. God, please, don’t let her be seriously injured. Maybe she’d just gotten the breath knocked out of her. No, if that was all it was, she’d be coming around by now and gasping for air.

  He looked at her pale face, wishing that her long, dark auburn lashes would flutter. They didn’t. Suddenly, he noticed fresh blood ooze out from underneath Cleo’s head.

  Closing his eyes against the sight, Roarke clenched his teeth and screamed silently. His hot anger raged, boiling inside him, threatening to explode. How could he have let this happen? Why hadn’t he seen it coming? He should have done something to prevent this. Dammit, if anything happened to Cleo…

  “Cleo Belle.” He caressed her cheek, then checked the pulse beating in her neck. “You’re going to be all right. The medics are on their way.”

  When Beatrice and Pearl reached the stables, Roarke sat beside Cleo, stroking her hand and speaking softly to her.

  “God in heaven, she’s not moving,” Pearl said. “She’s not—”

  “Hush up, you silly goose,” Beatrice scolded the other woman. “Of course she’s not.”

  “I’ll take care of Sweetie until the sheriff gets here.” Willie untied the filly and led her toward the stables, stopping just before entering. “You’ll take care of Cleo, won’t you, Mr. Roarke? You’re her husband and you love her.”

  Roarke swallowed hard, downing the pain and anger and regret. “Yeah, Willie. I’ll take care of Cleo.”

  Beatrice rushed over to Cleo, Pearl on her heels. “Willie said Cleo fell off Sweetie. How could that have happened? She’s a good horsewoman. She’s been riding since she was a girl.”

  “Something frightened the filly,” Roarke said. “Sweetie was fine until— Oh, God!”

  “What is it?” Beatrice asked.

  “Sit down here beside her.” Roarke shot to his feet. “I don’t want her to be alone. If she wakes, I want her to see a familiar face.”

  He helped Beatrice sit down, then called out to Willie. “Hold up there.”

  “Where are you going?” Beatrice asked.

  “Sweet Justice was fine until Cleo sat in the saddle. The minute her back end pressed down, Sweetie reared up as if she’d been shocked.” Roarke clamped his big hand down on Willie’s shoulder. “Keep her still while I check out something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Beatrice and Pearl watched while Roarke ran his hand over every inch of the hand-finished, floral-leaf-patterned saddle. He tugged on the silver swell plates and did the same with the full cantle plates and the corner plates. He inspected the skirts, the stirrups, the fenders and the horn. Then he lifted the saddle and turned it upside down, running his hand over the leather belly.

  His fingers encountered four small, circular objects about the size of quarters. He flung the saddle on the ground, kicked it and cursed loudly. “Dammit to hell!” He stomped the ground.

  “What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?” Pearl asked. “Must be something mighty bad for you to be cussing a blue streak.”

  “Did you find something on Cleo’s saddle?” Beatrice looked up at him, her eyes misty with tears.

  “Yeah, I found something, all right. Four small buzzers. The kind you can buy at any party store. A practical joker can put them in his palm and shock somebody when he shakes hands with them.”

  “Someone put them under Cleo’s saddle deliberately,” Pearl said. “Someone wanted Sweetie to buck Cleo off and kill her, yes?” The housekeeper’s cheeks flared scarlet. Her wide, fleshy jaw clenched. “You’ve got to find out who’s doing these things, Mr. Roarke, and put a stop to this person!”

  “I’ve done a poor job so far.” He blamed himself for this. Why hadn’t he checked out Cleo’s horse and saddle before she’d mounted? He should have realized that everyone in the family knew that he and Cleo were going riding this morning. Any one of them could have attached the buzzers. But he hadn’t been thinking about the possibility that someone would tamper with the horses. All he’d been thinking about was spending the day making love to his wife.

  He was too damn close, too personally involved, to do his job right. And if Cleo died—dammit, no! He wouldn’t let himself think about losing her.

  Roarke lifted Beatrice to her feet and resumed his place at Cleo’s side. Beatrice and Pearl hovered over them, and Willie stood beside Sweet Justice, guarding Cleo’s filly and her dust-covered saddle.

  ROARKE PACED THE floor in the waiting room. No amount of reasoning from Beatrice or finger-shaking from Pearl stopped his relentless prowl. What the hell was taking those damn doctors so long? Didn’t they have any idea what he was going through, not knowing if Cleo was alive or dead?

  When the medics had moved her, Roarke saw blood on the hand-size rock that was three-fourths embedded in the ground. The side of Cleo’s head had hit the rock when she’d fallen.

  Please, God, don’t let there be any internal bleeding. Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Roarke hadn’t prayed in fifteen years. Not since the night he’d been notified that his ex-wife and daughter had been in a serious automobile accident. In those few moments between being given the information and being told that Laurie had died on impact, Roarke had prayed more fervently than he’d ever prayed in his life. He’d said one final prayer at his little girl’s funeral, begging God to forgive him for not taking better care of the precious life that had been entrusted to him. After that Roarke had never prayed again. Not until tonight.

  He’d never cared enough about anything to seek divine intervention again. His life hadn’t been worth a prayer, and praying for Hope was useless. But Cleo was worth a thousand prayers, a thousand promises to God.

  Tilting his head, Roarke lifted his eyes heavenward as he stood at the far end of the waiting room, his back to Beatrice and Pearl. What do you want? he prayed silently. Whatever it is, I’ll give it. Just let Cleo be all right.

  “Oh, Dr. Iverson,” Beatrice cried out.

  Roarke spun around just as Pearl and Beatrice rushed toward the doctor, who walked out of the E.R. examining room.

  “How is Cleo?” Beatrice asked. “May we see her?”

  “It’s certainly taken you long enough,” Pearl said. “We’ve been out here for hours.”

  “Mr. Roarke,” Dr. Iverson said.

  The sound of his blood rushing through his body momentarily deafened Roarke. His heartbeat accelerated. Sweat coated his palms. He moved forward, every step an effort.

  “Cleo?” Roarke asked.

  “Her vital signs are good,” Dr. Iverson said. “We’ve done a series of tests and X-rays. There are no broken bones and no internal injuries, but…”

  Roarke let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “But what?”

  “She suffered a concussion and she’s still unconscious. I think that’s only temporary. I expect her to come around soon. She’ll have a headache and probably be nauseated.”

  “What if she doesn’t regain consciousness?” Beatrice asked.

  Dr. Iverson patted Beatrice on the shoulder. “Now, Miss Bea, let’s not borrow trouble.” He looked at Roarke. “There’s something else, though.”

  “What?” Roarke asked.

  “Did you know tha
t Cleo is pregnant?”

  Roarke felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Shivers raced along his nerve endings. “Pregnant?”

  “Oh, isn’t this wonderful.” Beatrice giggled. “A baby. My little Cleo is going to be a mother.”

  “Well, not for about eight more months,” Dr. Iverson said. “I doubt Cleo realized she was pregnant.”

  “Did her fall jeopardize the pregnancy?” Cleo is pregnant, Roarke thought. Already.

  “It doesn’t seem to have caused any problems, but we’ll keep her monitored,” the doctor told Roarke. “You can go in and see her for just a few minutes before we transfer her upstairs to a room.”

  “Go on, dear,” Beatrice said. “You’re her husband. Pearl and I will wait here for you, and we can all go upstairs together.”

  Roarke followed Dr. Iverson into the E.R. cubicle where Cleo lay, her auburn hair gleaming red against the pristine whiteness of the sheet beneath her. She looked so small and helpless lying there with her eyes closed. Roarke neared the bedside, hesitating as he gazed down at her.

  She was going to be all right. No internal injuries. Only a concussion.

  He wanted to lift her into his arms and hold her. He wanted to kiss her awake and hear her sweet laughter. But he didn’t even take her hand in his. He just stood there staring at her.

  Did you know that Cleo is pregnant?

  She was pregnant. Pregnant with his child. No! Not his child. Her child. Hers and hers alone.

  “Talk to her,” Dr. Iverson said. “It’s possible that she’ll be able to hear you. It might even help her come around sooner.” The doctor put his hand on Roarke’s back. “She should be all right. And there’s no need to worry about the baby. Your son or daughter is safe.”

  No, my daughter isn’t safe, Roarke wanted to shout. She’s dead. She died fifteen years ago, and I wasn’t even there to say goodbye.

  Swallowing the emotions that threatened his sanity, Roarke took a deep breath. “Cleo. You’re going to be just fine. You took a bad spill off Sweet Justice, but that hard little head of yours didn’t get much more than a scratch.”