Til Death Do Us Part

by Beverly Barton

  But Cleo had.

  “Is it over, Simon? I mean really over?” Lifting her head off his shoulder, she looked at him, her eyes pleading for reassurance. “Now that Trey is in jail, am I safe?”

  He wished he could tell her that it was over, that she was safe. But he couldn’t. His gut instincts told him that Trey Sutton was telling the truth, that he had been responsible for shooting at Cleo right after George McNamara’s death, but not for any of the other attempts on her life. If Trey had been honest with them, that meant the greater danger to Cleo still existed. Whoever wanted her dead was still free to try again.

  Holding her securely in his embrace, Roarke stroked her arm tenderly. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I’d like to think that we don’t have anything else to worry about, but I tend to think Trey was telling us the truth last night.”

  “If he was, that means Daphne or Hugh or Uncle Perry or maybe even Aunt Oralie or Marla was the one behind the other three attempts on my life.” Cleo shuddered, then draped her arms around Roarke’s waist and buried her face against his chest. “Don’t leave me.” She whispered the plea, her lips brushing his collarbone. “I need you. The baby and I need you. Just for a little longer.”

  He grasped her chin with one hand. She gazed up at him. “I’m not going to leave you, honey. I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re safe. You and the baby.”

  The baby. His baby. God help him, he’d tried so hard not to think of the child as his, but it was his. Nothing could ever change that fact.

  He saw the need in her eyes, felt the hunger in her quivering body, and knew that Cleo could no more resist him than he could her. An overwhelming passion existed between them, a desire so strong that it overrode their common sense.

  Lowering his mouth to hers, he consumed her with a kiss that combined tenderness with savagery, a gentle conquest, but a conquest all the same. Cleo pressed her body against his. Placing his hand in the center of her back, he shoved her harder against him, rubbing his chest over her aching nipples. Her satin-covered nipples hardened, jabbing into his chest.

  He deepened the kiss, his tongue thrusting, mimicking the most intimate invasion of all. She clung to him, urging him, encouraging him, returning in full measure the fury of his loving attack. When they were both breathless, Roarke slowed the kiss and turned his attention to her neck.

  She moaned softly, then whispered his name. He slipped his hand under the cover, up beneath her gown and between her thighs. He sought and found her hot, moist core.

  “Let me love you.” He murmured the words against her neck.

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I need you so much.”

  He tossed the covers aside, eased Cleo’s gown over her head and threw it on the floor. Lifting his hips, he eased his briefs down his legs and flung them into the air. He mounted her slowly, forcing himself not to move too quickly, not to rush this sweet, sweet moment.

  Roarke tormented her breasts with his lips and tongue, creating an unbearable urgency within her. Grasping his buttocks, Cleo urged him to take her. He cupped her hips, lifting her to meet his forceful plunge. Her body welcomed his entrance, claiming him completely.

  They made love in quiet, hurried desperation. Each in such urgent need of the other. Each aware on some level that this might be their last time. Their fulfillment came too quickly. White-hot. Rocking them to the depths of their souls.

  She would never know this ecstasy with anyone else. Only with Simon. Only with the man she loved with all her heart. Only with the father of her child.

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER when Cleo and Roarke came downstairs for breakfast, they found the house unnaturally quiet. On their way to the dining room, they encountered Pearl pushing a serving cart toward the open French doors leading to the patio.

  “Good morning, Pearl,” Cleo said. “Are you serving breakfast outside today?”

  Pearl continued pushing the cart, laden with a coffeepot and a pitcher of orange juice, toward the patio. “Perry called down an hour ago and said Oralie wanted me to set things up outside. He said the sunshine and fresh air might do her some good.”

  Cleo tensed at the mention of her aunt and uncle. Last night she had given them their walking papers, ordering them out of the house within the month. But this morning, it was business as usual, Oralie presiding over the household as if she were the queen bee.

  “Has anyone come down yet?” Roarke asked.

  Pearl stopped in the doorway. “I haven’t seen anyone except Daphne. She was asking about you, Mr. Roarke. Wanted me to let her know the minute you and Cleo came down for breakfast. She’s on the phone in the study.”

  “You might as well find out what she wants,” Cleo said. “I’ll walk on outside with Pearl and pour us both a cup of coffee.”

  “No,” Roarke said. “I’ll go on outside with you. Pearl can tell Daphne where we are.”

  Pearl pushed the cart over the threshold and out onto the patio. “I know the sheriff arrested Trey last night. Hugh Winfield came by and told the family that Mr. Kane had caught Trey up to no good at the plant.” She paused momentarily, turned her head around and looked directly at Cleo, who stood in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you and Mr. Roarke come in last night, but when the rest of them returned, Oralie was making enough noise to wake the dead. She was crying and screaming and carrying on like you wouldn’t believe. I heard her say that you was kicking them all out of the house. Is that true, Cleo Belle—are you getting rid of that bad rubbish once and for all?”

  “Yes, Pearl, she is.” The feminine voice came from behind Roarke, who had stopped just inside the house, a couple of feet away from Cleo.

  They all glanced back at Daphne. She ran the tip of her index finger up Roarke’s arm, but she gazed past him at Cleo. “She’s given us a month to get out. Generous of her to give us that much time, don’t you think?” She looked at Roarke then, her full, red lips curving into a forced smile. “I’d like to ask a favor of you, Mr. Roarke.” She emphasized the word mister when she spoke. “You’re the only one I know who might possibly help me.”

  Pearl turned back around and went about setting up the coffee and juice for the family’s breakfast. Cleo followed Pearl.

  “Wait, Cleo,” Roarke called after her.

  “No. It’s all right. Find out what you can do to help Daphne. I’ll fix us some coffee.”

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” Roarke said.

  Cleo nodded and waved at him, then headed straight for the silver coffee server that Pearl had just filled. The housekeeper handed Cleo a china cup, then waddled off toward the house.

  “I’ll be back directly, as soon as I take my apple cinnamon rolls out of the oven,” Pearl said, disappearing inside the house.

  As Pearl passed them in the dining room, Roarke noticed her disapproving glare aimed directly at Daphne. He grinned at Pearl. Her lips twitched, but she didn’t return his smile. She just stared at him briefly, shook her head and headed toward the kitchen.

  He glanced outside, watching Cleo as she poured one cup of coffee, set it down on the table, then repeated the process.

  “What can I help you with, Daphne?” Roarke asked.

  Daphne walked around Roarke and closed the French doors. He glanced outside, checking once again on Cleo, who he knew was deliberately ignoring him and her cousin.

  Daphne danced the tips of her long red nails up the front of his shirt. “You can intercede with Cleo for us. You’re the only one she seems to listen to these days. The only one who has any influence over her.”

  “Why would I intercede for your family? I hardly know any of you, and what I do know, I don’t like.”

  Laying her hand flat on Roarke’s chest, she rubbed her palm around and around. Roarke grabbed her wrist. They glared at each other.

  “If you got to know me, you’d like me. I promise.” She licked her moist red lips. “If you’ll help us, I’ll be very grateful.”

  “Exactly what do you think I can do?”

  �
��You can persuade Cleo not to kick us out. After all, we are family. And you could ask her to help Trey. He didn’t actually try to kill her. He told you himself that he only wanted to frighten her, scare her into selling the damn company.”

  When Daphne wiggled her fingers, trying to caress Roarke, he tightened his hold on her wrist. “The only person who can help Trey now is Drennan Norcross. A good lawyer might get him a reduced sentence since he has cooperated and confessed.”

  “Cleo cares more about McNamara Industries than she does her own family.” Daphne twisted her arm, trying to pull free of Roarke’s tenacious grip. “She’d rather save the jobs of a few hundred people than do what’s best for us.”

  “Cleo has done more for your family than most people would have under similar circumstances. She’s had to put up with your jealousy and greed all her life, and since her uncle’s death, someone in this family, if not Trey, has attempted to kill her more than once.”

  Glowering at Roarke, Daphne tugged on her wrist. Releasing his hold on her, he shoved her hand toward her. “I can’t help you, Daffie. Not you or Trey or your mother or father. For once, y’all are going to have to help yourselves.”

  CLEO KNEW THAT Roarke wasn’t going to fall for any of Daphne’s persuasive promises, but years of losing boyfriends and even a fiancé to Daphne made Cleo uneasy. What could Daphne possible want from Roarke? Why had she waylaid him in the dining room? Probably for no other reason than to aggravate her.

  Nervous and restless, Cleo shoved back her chair, lifted her cup and saucer and stood. She looked up at the clear, blue sky, at the beautiful morning sun shimmering an orange gold on the eastern horizon. The day was Southern summertime beautiful.

  She walked around the pool, careful not to get too close to the edge. She didn’t want to accidentally slip in and have to change clothes before she went into the office for a few hours this morning.

  Sipping her coffee, occasionally glancing toward the dining room, where she could see Daphne and Roarke, and enjoying the fresh, morning air, Cleo continued her stroll around the pool.

  She heard a noise from behind her. Thinking Pearl had returned with warm apple cinnamon rolls, Cleo started to turn around. Something hard and heavy hit her across the side of her head. A hand reached out and shoved her into the pool. Cleo opened her mouth to scream. A thick, heavy darkness surrounded her, silencing her cry for help.

  OPENING THE FRENCH DOORS, Roarke looked outside. Cleo wasn’t walking around the pool as she’d been doing only minutes ago. He glanced around the patio area. Cleo wasn’t there. Where was she? His heartbeat accelerated, the thunderous roar deafening him to any other sound. He ran outside, his gaze searching. Suddenly he saw her—in the pool. God, no!

  Fully clothed, Roarke jumped into the pool and lifted Cleo’s head out of the water. She lay lifeless and unbreathing in his arms. He swam with her to the pool’s edge, hauled her up onto the patio and laid her down on the stone floor. He straddled her hips.

  Daphne hovered over him. “What happened? Is she all right?”

  “Call 911! Get an ambulance here on the double!” Roarke shouted.

  Daphne ran into Pearl when she rushed toward the house. “Call 911,” Daphne said. “Something’s happened to Cleo. I’ll go get Mother and Father and Aunt Beatrice.”

  Roarke had performed resuscitation techniques before. He knew the drill. But this wasn’t just anybody lying beneath him. This was Cleo. His wife. The mother of his child.

  Forcing himself not to think, not to feel, only to perform, to do what he had to do, Roarke opened Cleo’s mouth and positioned her tongue. Pinching her nose shut, he breathed into her mouth. He removed his mouth, allowing time for her lungs to empty. He repeated the process quickly, again and again.

  While he gave Cleo artificial respiration, he concentrated fully on the task at hand. But while his mind focused on what he could do to save her, his heart prayed for divine assistance.

  “I called 911.” Pearl scurried out onto the patio, halting at Roarke’s side. “The ambulance is on its way.”

  On some level he heard her, but didn’t take time to acknowledge her presence.

  Beatrice rushed outside, followed by Oralie and Perry. Daphne waited in the doorway.

  “Come on, honey,” Roarke said, then breathed into Cleo’s mouth again.

  She choked, then spit up mouthfuls of water. She gasped for air. Relief relaxed Roarke’s tense body. He laughed as he ran his hands up and down her arms. She coughed repeatedly. When she tried to sit up, he put his arm around her shoulder and lifted her.

  “You scared the hell out of me, honey.” He grasped her shoulders, bunching the sleeves of her jacket. The light pressure of his fingers drew droplets of chlorinated water out of the linen material.

  Cleo reached out and touched Roarke’s cheek. “What—what happened?”

  “I found you in the pool, unconscious.”

  “Someone hit me.” She coughed again and again, then breathed deeply. Her lungs ached as the air entered them. “They hit me over the head and—” she coughed once more “—they pushed me into the pool. I tried to call out, but everything went black.”

  Roarke ran his hand over her head gently, threading his fingers through her wet hair. Lifting his hand, he looked at his palm and saw fresh, bright red blood. Maneuvering himself around without moving Cleo, he inspected her head, and discovered a small tear in the skin an inch or so above her right ear. A thin, water-mixed rivulet of blood seeped down the side of her neck.

  “Did you see anything?” Roarke asked. “Do you have any idea who hit you?” Where the hell was that ambulance? Despite the fact that Cleo seemed all right, he couldn’t help but wonder if this second blow to her head in such a short period of time might not have done some unseen damage. And what about the baby? Would those few minutes Cleo’s body was without oxygen have harmed their child in any way?

  “I heard something behind me.” Cleo tried to get up. Roarke held her, forcing her to stay seated on the stone floor. “I want to get up. I’m wet and soggy. My head hurts. Take me upstairs and let me change clothes.”

  “No, no, you must stay still, dear,” Beatrice said, moving closer to Cleo. “An ambulance is on the way. You need to go to the hospital and let Dr. Iverson make sure you’re really all right.”

  “I am all right.” Cleo crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, I don’t want to waste time on an unnecessary trip to the hospital. Someone just tried to kill me.” She turned her head, then cried out in pain. When Roarke reached for her, she brushed his hand aside. “One of you—” Cleo pointed to Perry Sutton, then to her aunt Oralie and finally to Daphne “—tried to kill me.”

  “Nonsense,” Oralie said. “You must have slipped, hit your head and fallen into the pool. It had to have been an accident.”

  “It was no accident!” Cleo grabbed Roarke’s hand. “And you were in the dining room with Daphne, so…that leaves only Aunt Oralie or Uncle Perry.”

  “Honey, I want you to stay calm and take it easy until Dr. Iverson checks you over,” Roarke said. “Think about the baby, if not yourself.”

  “I am thinking about my baby,” Cleo told him. “I’m thinking about what would have happened if you hadn’t found me so soon.”

  “Good thing he was close by, like he always is,” Pearl said. “You was keeping an eye on her through them doors.” Pearl pointed to the open French doors, where Daphne stood. “Didn’t you see anybody?”

  “Daphne!” Roarke bellowed her name. Releasing Cleo, Roarke stood and glanced at Beatrice. “Aunt Beatrice? Please?”

  He nodded toward Cleo, and her aunt immediately understood that he was turning his wife over into her care. Roarke glared at Daphne. “Come here,” he said. She took several hesitant steps toward him, then when she looked into his angry eyes, she hurried to him.

  “Don’t harass my poor baby,” Oralie said. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve put one of my children in jail? Must you persecute Daphne?”

  “Yo
u stopped me from going out on the patio with Cleo. You closed the doors and tried to divert my attention. You knew I wouldn’t help you, knew talking to me would be useless,” Roarke said.

  Daphne turned to flee, but Roarke caught her wrist. “Let me go. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Oh, but you have. You helped someone scheming to harm Cleo. You tried to separate me from Cleo just long enough for your partner to make another attempt on Cleo’s life.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Daphne’s eyes widened. Her chin quivered. She tugged on her wrist, trying to free herself from Roarke’s grasp. “All I did was ask you to help Trey and help us. Mother insisted I talk to you as soon as possible this morning. She believed that I could convince you to use your influence with Cleo.”

  “Your mother?” Roarke jerked Daphne by the wrist, pulling her around to face Oralie. “Is that right Mrs. Sutton? Were you the one who sent Daphne to divert my attention?”

  “I most certainly did not!”

  “Mother?” Daphne stared questioningly at Oralie.

  “Where were you five minutes ago, Mrs. Sutton?” Roarke glanced at Perry Sutton. “Was she with you?”

  “No,” Beatrice answered for him. “Perry was with me. We had—” she lowered her voice, as if what she was about to say was a secret “—we went for a walk together this morning, as we often do. We had just returned, when we ran into Daphne in the hall.”

  “When you went upstairs to get your parents and your aunt, did you find them?” Roarke asked Daphne.

  “You don’t have to answer him!” Oralie backed slowly toward the house, all the while glaring daggers through Roarke.

  “Mother?” Daphne asked. “Please, Mother!”

  Oralie turned quickly and ran from the patio, brushing past her daughter as she fled inside the house.

  “Oralie!” Perry called to his wife as he rushed after her, following her inside the house.

  “Your mother wasn’t upstairs, was she, Daphne?” Roarke asked. “She was already downstairs somewhere, waiting and hoping for another chance to kill Cleo.”