Under the cover of night, the killer stalked, his movements swift and sure. There was no hesitation in his steps, no hint of caution. Detection was unthinkable, capture impossible. He was invincible.
The anticipation had started building the moment he’d chosen his next victim. He’d learned to savor that anticipation, to stoke it for days, weeks, until the timing was right. It made the final moments razor sharp, the culmination almost unbearably sweet. That first rush of power when he seized his prey, that pure, godlike feeling when he held the decision on her life and death in his hands. But there was really no decision to be made. He chose death, every time. Her death.
She walked by him, unsuspecting, as blind as all the others. He drew in a deep, soundless breath, letting the dizzying rush of his own power roar through him like an out-of-control locomotive. One step. And then his hands reached for her….
Zoey’s fingers stilled on the keyboard for a moment, and she raised her unseeing gaze as she considered what came next. Like a movie playing in slow motion, the next scene unfurled in her head and she automatically translated it into words. Her fingers poised again, then faltered.
It took long moments for reality to break through the self-induced world she was lost in. One instant bled into the next, as she stared through the window at the stranger’s face; saw the sun glinting brightly off the lethally sharp blades in his hand.
She stood abruptly, stumbling out of the chair in her haste. A scream rushed to her throat, balled there. In the next instant, even while panic was pounding through her veins, she felt the first thread of comprehension, swiftly followed by a sense of foolishness.
She watched as the stranger crossed her yard a few feet, bent over a bush, and brought up those shiny blades again. Pruning shears. She expected they came in handy when trimming bushes.
The breath streamed out of her and she propped one hip against the desk. There could be few things more humiliating than overreacting to a scene of her own making. The only thing that saved her from complete mortification was that there were no witnesses to her momentary flight from her senses.
There was a slight sound at her feet, and she dropped her gaze to where Oxy watched her hopefully, his new black collar lending him a dapper air.
“Some watchdog you turned out to be,” she scolded. “Shouldn’t you at least bark or something when someone is outside?”
The pup cocked its head and looked at her quizzically.
“It’s just the man Cage arranged to have do the lawn, but that’s no excuse. I don’t know who looks more stupid over this scene, you or me.” Oxy gave a doggy grin, his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. “Yeah, you’re right. I do know.”
There was a sound of a motor starting up outside, and she went back to the window for a look. The man had climbed on a riding lawn mower and was proceeding to cut her grass, which was long overdue for a trim. She looked from her computer to the window again, and then gave a sigh. The mood was definitely broken. She wasn’t going to get any more writing done until her lawn was finished, that was clear.
She pressed the Save command on the computer and turned back toward the room, nearly tripping over the dog, which had tangled itself in her feet. “You’re getting close, real close, to earning the second half of your name. And wouldn’t Cage just get a kick out of this scene,” she muttered, stepping around Oxy.
It would be satisfying to blame her stupidity on that infuriating man. Although he’d promised to have her lawn taken care of, he’d never given her a hint of when it would be done. But she knew she had only herself, and her sometimes-overactive imagination, to blame. Admittedly, it wasn’t the first time it had gotten the best of her. What, besides pure inventiveness, could ever have blinded her to Alan’s deviousness for so long? Others might make excuses for poorly formed decisions made in the name of love. Zoey didn’t make allowances readily enough to be any less unforgiving with herself.
The puppy dashed to the front door, then turned back to her, waiting hopefully.
“Oh, all right,” she said, following him down the hallway and opening the closet for his leash. “We’ll go for a short walk. Maybe by the time we return he’ll be done.”
Oxy seemed to approve of the plan—at least until she fastened the matching leash to his collar. Then he gave a very good impression of a doorstop.
After several minutes of undignified tugging, Zoey dropped the leash and propped her hands on her hips, glaring at the dog. He remained where he was, haunches firmly planted on the floor. “You have to get used to the leash, because I’m not about to engage in a tug-of-war with an animal that seems to be losing IQ points as we speak.”
Unimpressed, Oxy gave a huge yawn and lay down. Zoey stared at the puppy from narrowed eyes. If she opened the door right now, he’d be outside in a flash. But he liked to make his visits to nature without the bothersome trappings of civilization, like leashes. And since she’d learned from experience that he had a streak of wanderlust in him, he couldn’t be trusted to stay nearby.
The answer, she decided, was in being smarter than the dog. She went back to the kitchen and opened the cupboard, taking out a box of puppy treats. The quiet clicking of toenails on linoleum told her that she had an audience. Oxy had already shown that he had disgracefully poor willpower where such treats were involved. While he watched, she took a handful, then slipped them into the pocket of her shorts. This time when she went to the front door, he was at her heels. Pausing for her sunglasses and a baseball cap, she swept all her hair up and pulled the cap over it. When she reached down to pick up the leash this time, Oxy came willingly.
She smiled smugly. She just needed to be smarter than the animal. Locking the door behind her, she led him down the porch steps.
It took a doggy treat every several yards to ensure Oxy’s continued cooperation. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to discriminate between part and whole treats, so she was able to feed him pieces each time. She knew she would have to conserve the blasted things in order to get him home again. There was no way she was going to carry him back to the house when the time came.
Right now he was expending more enthusiasm than sense running in and out between her legs, tangling her in the leash and nearly tripping her.
Muttering a few disparaging comments about the dog’s parentage, Zoey stopped and unsnarled the leash. A car slowed on the road, and its electric windows lowered.
“Where’s that dog taking you, Zoey?”
She looked up, saw Tanner Beauchamp grinning at her from the driver’s seat. Giving a mental sigh, she gave one last hard look at Oxy. “He’s practicing walking on a leash.”
Tanner guided the car over to the side of the road, parked it and got out, leaving it running so the interior wouldn’t heat up again. Propping his hands on his hips, he surveyed the two of them. “It does look like he needs a lot of practice.”
The sight of the man wearing a lightweight summer suit of a quality she recognized made her grateful for her own casual clothes. The sun hadn’t diminished in strength, though it was already past five-thirty. She mentally estimated how long it would take Tanner to melt where he stood.
Oxy made a dash to sniff out the newcomer, and when the leash jerked suddenly in her hand, Zoey barely managed to avoid landing face first on the ground.
“I think his training may be beyond me. He’s going to need some classes.” She shot the dog a dark look. “A lot of classes.”
“Hey, fella.” Tanner squatted down and gave Oxy a vigorous ear scratching. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re a little on the slow side. Is that right?”
Uninsulted, Oxy closed his eyes and enjoyed the attention.
“He’s going to be a big one. Look at the size of those feet.” Tanner lifted his gaze to hers. “Are you figuring on taking him back north with you?”
It was the second time in as many days she’d been reminded of her home in Chicago. The second time she’d found that reminder strangely unappealing.
“He’s not mine.” Surely that wasn’t a pang of emotion for the little beast who was even now shaking himself off and investigating Tanner’s shoelaces. “I’m just keeping him for Cage for a while.” Under the man’s sudden scrutiny, she added uncomfortably, “Until he has more time for him.”
Tanner rose, still staring at her. “Well, I’ll be.” His gaze went back to the dog. “You know, I think this is Cage’s first dog since Tooner. Has he told you about the dog he had when we were kids?”
For some reason, seeing the thin line of perspiration trickle down the side of Tanner’s throat made him seem more human. She nodded. “He told me it accompanied the two of you on your share of misadventures.”
Teeth flashing, he agreed, “That’s a fact. And in case that’s disapproval I detect in your voice, I’ll assure you we got our share of wallopings for the mischief we caused.”
Brows arching, she asked, “Was it worth it?”
This time his grin was wicked—a sudden, vivid reflection of Cage’s. “Every last minute of it.” He chuckled richly at the memory, one hand going to his tie to loosen it. “My daddy was a real enthusiastic disciplinarian. But Cage caught heck as often as I did, because he lacked any imagination when confronted with the evidence of our misdeeds.”
Involuntarily, a smile pulled at her lips. “Neither of you seems to have suffered overmuch for it.”
“You have no idea.” His grin was rueful as he spread his suit jacket wide. “I still can’t bring myself to wear a belt.”
“Obviously cause for years of intensive therapy.”
He shook his head in mock sorrow at her unsympathetic tone, but his eyes were gleaming. “You’re a hard woman, Zoey. Does Cage realize that?”
The question had her spine stiffening. “Why should Cage’s opinion matter to me?”
The chuckle sounded again, and his face was alight with real amusement. She wondered, fleetingly, if it had been that overdose of charm that had first bonded the two men together so many years ago, or their simple need for adventure.
“Why?” He finally addressed her question. “Maybe because you and he have been dancing around each other since the day you stepped into town. If we were still in fourth grade, we’d be saying you two were sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”
He’d managed to annoy her. “Unlike your ancestors, Beauchamp, I don’t do my kissing in trees.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, you’re a match for him—no doubt about it. You’re…perfect. I wonder if he sees it.” He looked at her, his eyes still crinkled. “Chances are, he does. Although I’ve often chastised the boy about his deplorable sense of honesty, one thing he’s never been is slow. You just might be the one to help him forget the reason he came back to this place.”
His words reignited her irritation, while at the same time lighting a spark of interest. “And what reason would that be?”
But Tanner was already looking as though he regretted his words, his gaze shifting slightly away. “Oh, just losing his daddy. And his mama was in real poor health by then.” His voice was a shade too innocent, his inching movements toward the car too furtive. “I’d ask you to Jonesy’s tonight to discuss dog training over rib eye, but I know you’re going to be busy.”
Although she was intrigued by his words about Cage, she refused to pump him for more information. There was something distasteful in the thought of gossiping about Cage at the side of the road, even if it was with his best friend. “You must be a well-rounded individual, Tanner, to add mind reading to your list of talents.”
Opening his car door, he said, “Wish I could claim psychic abilities.” He winked at her. “Fact is, before I came upon you walking your dog, I saw Cage heading up to your house with an armful of groceries.”
Whirling toward the direction of her home, she heard his parting chuckle, but never saw his car pull away. There was no sign of Cage on her front porch, but a vehicle she’d never seen before sat in the driveway. She flinched as Oxy remembered which pocket held doggy treats and jumped up for some, his nails scratching her bare legs.
She paused long enough to break off a treat and toss it to him, before starting for home. She told herself that the anticipation she felt certainly wasn’t caused by the thought of seeing Cage Gauthier again. She almost believed it.
Her kitchen was a fog of steam and there were heavenly smells coming from one of the pots on top of the stove. Although her traitorous stomach showed instant signs of interest, her mind wasn’t so easily mollified.
She leaned against the doorjamb and surveyed the man moving competently about her kitchen. As a concession to the heat generated by the boiling water, he’d unbuttoned his shirt partway down his chest, revealing a wedge of smooth golden skin. “You know, I could have sworn I locked the door when I left.”
At the sound of her voice, Cage’s head jerked around, and he didn’t quite manage to wipe the guilty expression from his face. “You thought you locked the door?”
Thinking of the start she’d gotten when she’d been scared witless by the stranger’s face at the window, she nodded slowly. “I know I did. So you have two things to explain—how you got into my house and what you’re doing in my kitchen.”
She wasn’t demanding that he leave yet, he noted, and took that as a sign of encouragement. “Actually, your front door was locked, but the back-porch door wasn’t. A woman living alone really ought to be more careful. I figured it was my duty as sheriff to watch over things until you got back.”
She frowned and tried to remember the last time she’d used the back door. She was almost certain she’d checked it before retiring last night. “Does your duty as sheriff include making supper in empty kitchens?”
He stirred the spaghetti sauce with a long-handled wooden spoon he’d found in one of her drawers. “Only pasta, and only in your kitchen.”
“And why is that?”
“Because pasta is good for the soul, and it’s impossible for you not to invite me to dinner when I’m making it.”
She should have demanded an explanation. She should have been outraged that he’d entered her house without her permission. But when he’d turned around for that brief moment, there had been a look in his eyes that had given her pause. And beneath his bantering words was a tone she hadn’t heard from him before, one she couldn’t identify. The debate about his high-handed actions could wait while she took time to discover what was bothering Cage.
“I’d think breaking and entering would hinder the digestion.”
“Now that’s a mighty harsh way to describe an unexpected guest, Zoey.” He managed a hurt tone as he opened the oven door and checked on the French bread. “Especially when he’s intent on feeding you. How do you feel about dinner?”
She pushed away from the doorway and followed Oxy into the kitchen, bending to unfasten his leash. “Interested enough to consider letting you stay.”
He sent her a quick grin. If she hadn’t been watching so closely, she might not have noticed that the usual charm of it was slightly off the mark. There was something missing, a part of him that wasn’t quite focused on her. Without a thought, she went to the cupboard and took out two wineglasses.
It wasn’t her nature to pry; she was a woman who valued her own privacy too much to feel comfortable intruding on another’s. But she recognized the air of someone troubled by more than he would say. Her recognition of it, however, didn’t explain this unnatural urge she had to soothe.
Taking a wine bottle from the refrigerator, she filled both glasses and handed him one. She pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, sipping and watching him over the rim of her glass.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He stiffened, then turned slowly and leaned against the counter, taking a reflective drink.
He didn’t evade or pretend to misunderstand her. His gaze met hers across the kitchen. “It’s the case. And it’s not something I can talk about. I don’t even have it straight in my own mind yet.”
“All right.”
And it was just that easy. He marveled at the matter-of-fact way she accepted it. Other women might have wheedled, some would have pouted. But Zoey better than anyone would allow a person a little space. He didn’t know why that trait of hers should feel so welcome right now.
He sat next to her, cradling the wineglass in his hand. “Did I ever tell you my Great-great-uncle Lamar was a celebrated chef?”
She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and forced back an unconscious sense of disappointment. Not even to herself was she willing to admit just how much she’d wanted to hear what was weighing on him. That would take a level of trust she didn’t even want to consider. Certainly it was one she was never going to return. Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t believe you did.”
“Well, he was. He had himself the best possible place to show off his talents, too, in the kitchens of the Blue Rose, the finest brothel in St. Augustine parish.”
“Really?” Recognizing the beginning of the story for the distraction it was, she settled back to enjoy the tale. “I wouldn’t think that the…ladies of the evening would have had especially hearty appetites.”
He gave her a wicked wink. “Oh, their appetites were everything you’d expect for women in their positions, but like I said, this was a real high-class place. Gentlemen callers would come for companionship, as well as for less honorable reasons, and there would be singing and dancing before everyone sat down to an elegant dinner.”
“Much like the one you’re preparing tonight?”
He waved a hand toward the stove carelessly. “Heck, spaghetti can’t hold a candle to the dinners Lamar could serve. The way I heard the story, he was torn between two loves—one for cooking and the other for Sarah May, the most beautiful and talented of the Blue Rose’s occupants.”
She wondered if it was her imagination that made him seem a little less tense, as if the act of storytelling could accomplish what she couldn’t. “Something tells me that his two loves led to his downfall.”
“There are folks who would agree with you. On the night in question, Lamar was aiming to serve his famous roast duck. The governor was passing through, you see, and it was to be a very special night at the Blue Rose. But Sarah May slipped into the kitchen while Lamar was preparing the meal. Seems she was partial to his lemon-cream tart, not to mention a few other specialties best not mentioned in polite company. Well, one thing led to another. Old Uncle Lamar didn’t have his mind on watching the duck, and by the time his attention was diverted from Sarah May, most of the kitchen was in flames. Way I heard it, the fire never did get far out into the dining room, but the governor is said to have panicked. Ran out of there, vowing never to return and the owner, Rose herself, saw the reputation of her place go out the door with him. Luckily Lamar figured he wouldn’t be too welcome around there much longer, and had already slipped away before Rose charged into his room with a Smith & Wesson in her hand and murder in her eye.” He paused to enjoy the sight of Zoey looking at him, her lips turned up, eyes alight with interest and humor.
“And what happened to him?”
“Well, being swift of foot, he’d gotten clean away and taken Sarah May with him. They knew they’d best get out of the area, so I’m told they headed for New Orleans, where Lamar opened a little café and settled down with Sarah to raise a family.”
“Is that a true story?” Zoey demanded.
He loved the way she looked, her mouth twitching between laughter and disbelief. The sight lightened something inside him. “As the saying around here goes, if it’s not, it oughta be. I do know my daddy could hold his own in the kitchen when my mama would let him try, and he’s the one who taught me a thing or two about cooking.”
She watched while he set his glass down and went to the stove, stirring the sauce and poking at the spaghetti with a long-handled fork. There was something restful about watching a man moving about her kitchen, preparing a meal for her. Something definitely odd, but homey too. She tried to imagine Alan showing up at her apartment in Chicago and cooking for her and the thought proved too elusive to contemplate.
Finally, at some good-natured grousing from him, she roused herself enough to set two places at the table, and helped him find some serving dishes for the bread and the sauce. When they settled down again to eat, each with a plate mounded with spaghetti and with Oxy parked hopefully at their feet, the atmosphere took on a cozier feel.
Determined to ignore it, Zoey focused intently on her meal. Surely it was only her imagination that the air seemed to get thicker by the second, wrapping them in a cocoon of intimacy. Cage didn’t appear to notice it.
She shot him a glance from beneath her lashes. He was eating with obvious enjoyment, sipping occasionally from his wineglass. To look at the man, one would believe he was dining with a favorite elderly aunt. The thought rankled. She tried to remember that only minutes ago her goal had been to offer him comfort. Now it was taking a masterful effort on her part to resist an equally strong urge to kick him. Hard.
Driven to move, she got up and retrieved the wine bottle from the counter and filled his glass, before tipping more wine into her own. As she slipped back into her chair, he lifted his glass in a half salute.
He watched as she reached for her glass, his eyebrows climbing when she drained half of it. Something had her nerves tightening and he wondered whether she sensed the chemistry sparking and humming between them. It pleased him to think that she did. It gave him even greater pleasure to believe it was the cause of her sudden unease. He found the thought infinitely more enjoyable to focus on than the niggling fear that had been troubling him since his conversation with Fisher.
To distract them both, he reached for her hand and sent his thumb skating across her knuckles. “I’ve been wondering about something. How come you use your initials on your books?”
“It was my agent’s idea.” She made a face, giving a discreet tug to free her hand. It was held fast. “He thought my first books would sell better if people didn’t know they were written by a woman. Sexism,” she added dryly, “is alive and well in the publishing world.”
“I’ve been giving the thought some consideration,” he said seriously. “I believe I can guess what your middle initial stands for.”
“Somehow I doubt it.” She was unable to keep the smirk from her voice.
“I’m thinking something imaginative. Not the usual ‘Linda’ or ‘Lisa’ for you.” He pretended to mull it over for a moment before guessing, “‘Lillabelle.’”
She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Not even close.” She’d never been crazy about her middle name. For the first time she reflected that it quite possibly could have been worse.
“‘Lolita.’”
She gave a shake of her head.
“‘Louisa.’”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You cheated.”
Amused, he tightened his fingers around hers, holding them as she tried to pull away. “How could I cheat?”
“I know for a fact you did some checking up on me when I first came here.” She didn’t bother to keep the annoyance from her tone. The idea still irritated. “You probably found out then.”
“Nope. That would have violated my impeccable sense of fair play. It fits, you know. It’s almost as if your parents knew you’d be a writer.”
Since she was having no success in freeing her hand from his, she let it lie limply in his grasp. “Somehow I have difficulty picturing you as a literary type.”
“You’re surprised I recognize Louisa May Alcott? I’ll have you know that when I was fourteen I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a copy of Little Women.”
“Don’t tell me. You thought the book would be about an acrobatic troupe of circus midgets.”
Her wry comment was close enough to the truth to have him grinning. “Not exactly. I might have imagined a book of memoirs written by pygmy members of the world’s oldest profession.” Though she made a rude sound, he went on, “But despite my overwhelming disappointment, I finished the book.”
She was amused despite herself. “Was that your last foray into literature?”
“Not at all. I’ve even read a novel or two by Z. L. Prescott.” He enjoyed surprising her. “I have to admit to getting a chill or two from your description, although your research on the investigation of murder scenes needs work.”
The quick bloom of pleasure caused by his first words was doused by the rest of his statement. She was certain her contact in the Chicago police homicide division would feel as offended as she did. “That’s a bit strange, coming from someone who did his damnedest to make sure I did no research concerning the murder in his parish.”
“I had my reasons,” he said equably. “Good ones. And the talk has quieted down, due to the measures my office has taken. It’s easier to run an investigation when the phone lines and officers aren’t tied up with people jumping at shadows or seeing bogeymen behind every corner. It’s also better for the town when folks can sleep at night.”
She refused to see the simple logic of his words. “Is that what brought you here today? An urge to make sure I wasn’t wreaking some kind of havoc in your parish by getting it ‘stirred up’ again?”
He smiled at that, with a rueful curve of his lips, but his eyes were alight with an emotion she was afraid to identify. “Honey, you’ve been stirring things up since you got here.”
Tearing her gaze away from his, she strove to focus on his words. The expression in his eyes, on his face, was enough to terrify her. “Well, despite your lack of cooperation, my novel is shaping up just fine.” It was, in fact, developing into what she thought would be her finest work. The murder had ignited some dormant spark in her creativity, but it was Charity itself that was breathing life into the story. The small Southern town she’d created was purely fictional, but there was no denying that it owed its origin to the homespun atmosphere she’d found here. Like the murderer responsible for Janice Reilly’s death, her own villain hadn’t identified himself to her yet. A chill crept over her arms despite the late-afternoon heat. Just as life imitated art, there were many possibilities.
He reached down to give the pup an absent pat, his gaze never faltering. She could feel it, hot and intense, compelling her to look at him. It was a compulsion she was determined to ignore.
“Well,” she said with forced brightness, “since you fixed dinner I guess I can do the cleaning up.” It would give her an excuse to escape that warm grip, that equally warm gaze. It would also give her an opportunity to get her suddenly jittery nerves calmed again.
But her plan was waylaid by Cage’s insistence on helping. It was impossible to keep her guard up while the man regaled her with imitations of just about every citizen of Charity while he dried the dishes. He was a wicked mimic, and had each individual’s mannerisms and speech patterns perfected to a T.
His nonsense soothed her earlier edginess, and when he declared it time to retire outside for the long-honored tradition of porch sitting, she could only follow bemusedly.
And so it was that she found herself sitting on the porch glider next to him with his arm stretched out behind her. The glider’s slow, rhythmic movements were a perfect metronome for the music of Cage’s drawl. His long languid tales of Charity’s history and his own childhood could make her smile in appreciation or listen with barely suspended disbelief—but always, always, with rapt attention.
And as they sat and rocked, laughing a little, talking more, darkness was slow to fall and the heat was slower to lift. His placid voice lent a dreamy sort of magic to the air. His words didn’t so much drawl as meander, strolling through story after story like a leisurely walk in the woods. The cadence was hypnotic.
Fireflies were dancing and glinting in the twilight before the first stirrings of cool air brushed their skin. Both had grown quiet, content to watch shadows gather. Mellow from the wine and the peaceful drifting of time, Zoey let her head rest against the back of the glider, felt the strength of his arm against her neck. His fingers, as harmless as the light breeze, toyed with the ends of her hair. She tilted her head to watch with heavy-eyed fascination as he absently pressed his still-cool beer bottle against the wedge of skin bared by his half-buttoned shirt.
“This is the very same brand of beer that Tanner and I favored, mostly because it was the kind my daddy filled our refrigerator with.” Because her attention was still focused on the bottle he was smoothing down his chest, she didn’t see the smile on his lips, but it sounded in his voice.
Her words, when they came, were huskier than normal. “I saw Tanner earlier this evening while I was walking Oxy. I’ve already concluded that the two of you deserved every beating you got, and then some.”
His chuckle was low and amused. “No sympathy. You know, sugar, somewhere along the line you’ve gotten the worst possible impression of me.”
She wished his words were true. They certainly had been at first. It would be comfortable if she could go back to believing that there was nothing to the man but surface charm and laziness, but she’d discovered more beneath the surface—much more. The shallow, glib picture wouldn’t fit the man who tried, repeatedly, to help a battered woman find the strength to leave her husband. It didn’t begin to describe a man who cared so deeply about his adoptive family that he worried about betraying parents already dead.
He tipped the bottle to his mouth and she was close enough to see the moist path it had left on his skin; close enough to wonder if the spot would be cool to her lips, to her tongue. Dimly, a warning bell rang in her mind. Whether the wine or the close-wrapped intimacy was to blame for it, she ignored it.
“It’s true that Tanner and I were the curious sort. And any trouble that came along, we got into together.” His fingers moved against her neck, not quite casually, and a delicious shiver slid down her spine. “His mother left when he was young and his daddy was a hard man. Tanner spent more time at my house than he did at his own. My mama always said it was like raising twins.”
Cage set the bottle on the porch floor and reached for her chin, sliding his fingers along her jawline. His voice was low and as smooth as velvet. “I guess some things haven’t changed much. I’m still curious. And I still have the damnedest time avoiding trouble.”
His thumb gently skated across her lips, following their contours. She registered the need to move away—a need born of self-preservation and logic. She didn’t move. For once, Zoey Prescott wasn’t going to listen to that sneaky little voice that warned of lies, distrust and betrayal. Her lips parted and she tasted the rough pad of his thumb, heard the uneven breath he drew in. She tipped her head up to meet his descending mouth with her own.
For once, just this once, she was going to let herself feel.
Emotion drenched her the moment his lips met hers. She’d forgotten just how quickly his touch could mist her mind with emotion. How sweet that descent was as they drifted into sensation. She raised a hand, speared her fingers into his hair. When he shifted her onto his lap without releasing her mouth, she gave a gentle sigh and sank into the kiss.
Cage drank in the release of her breath and gathered her closer. He lingered over her mouth, taking his time with her to draw out the moment. The smooth glide of tongues mating, teeth scraping, were sensations to be savored. The velvet skin beneath her jaw begged to be investigated, and the soft secret place behind her ear smelled of her perfume. He inhaled deeply, then grazed his teeth over her earlobe, pleased by her quick shudder.
There was something about his mouth, she thought dreamily, that was tormentingly languid, as if time were inconsequential. He could take her by surprise, alternating the soft lazy pleasure with unexpected darts of pure fire that caused her nerve endings to flash and sizzle. She guided his lips back to hers, eager to swamp herself in his taste and texture.
His hand slid under her T-shirt and splayed against her back. She had no choice but to feel. He was nudging her emotions to the surface with each velvet stroke, each leisurely glide. Somehow she’d known from the first that he was a dangerous man; one who could effortlessly summon all kinds of sensations that she normally kept tightly guarded—emotions that, once released, couldn’t be so easily contained again.
He released the snap on her bra and then his warm fingers were closing around her bare breast. She arched into his touch in helpless response. Her nipple tautened against his palm and she wanted him—fiercely, with a pure, reckless need that was as exhilarating as it was foreign. She slid her hand to the strong column of his throat, then lower, to the smooth skin bared by his half-buttoned shirt. There was just a hint of moisture there, and she pressed forward blindly, seeking it with her tongue.
His breath sawed out of him, his heartbeat sounding raggedly in her ear. “You told me once you didn’t take this casually.” His voice was a low rumble in the shadows. “There’s nothing casual about this, Zoey.” He cupped and shaped her breast with clever, knowing fingers. His kiss held the merest edge of desperation. “I’ve never been more wrapped up in a woman. I guess I’m asking you to trust me on that.”
Trust. The word triggered a response she was helpless to prevent. Ice shot through her veins and her body stiffened against his. Desire and longing battled against defenses long relied upon. She knew there was no hiding her reaction from him. And she knew he’d guess at the cause.
His hand stilled against her skin and for an infinite moment they sat, gazes locked. She would have understood anger, expected frustration. But she wanted to cry out at the glimpse of utter desolation she caught in his eyes.
Then he was smoothing her clothing into place and shifting her away from him. “I rushed you.” The words were even.
“No,” she denied. She wouldn’t take the easy out he offered. Wouldn’t let him make it simple for her. “I wanted you.” Her hand lifted, touched his jaw. “I still do.”
He caught her hand, pressed a soft kiss in the palm and brought it down to her side. The gesture might have seemed loverlike. She wondered achingly why it appeared more as if he couldn’t bear her touch.
“A woman has a right to make up her own mind.” He stood, looped an easy arm across her shoulders, walked with her toward the steps.
“Are you sure—” her voice quavered and she felt like a fool “—you won’t come inside?”
He ran his knuckles gently under her chin, pent-up desire churning and frothing in his gut. It joined another emotion—one that came from a bleak and barren place deep inside him, one that could spring forth without warning. “I don’t think so.” The kiss he pressed against her lips was hard and brief. “Lock your doors. Both of them.”
He turned before he could change his mind. The familiar despair was coupled with a heavy dose of sexual frustration. Something told him he’d better get used to both feelings.
In the deepest part of the night, the darkness was absolute. Naked, Cage trod lightly across his porch floor, the aged boards murmuring beneath his feet. The front door stood open behind him, the interior of the house as full of shadows as the secluded yard. One shoulder propped against a sturdy column, he drank from a beer he didn’t want, to quench a thirst he didn’t have.
Sleep refused to beckon. It was just as well. This was the kind of night that summoned unwanted memories, Technicolor reruns of nightmares that refused to fade. At least in the balmy night air his clogged lungs eased a bit. But the ghosts had followed him outdoors. He’d brought them with him.
Already drops of condensation were forming on the bottle in his hand. He raised it to his lips, swallowed the cool liquid. He didn’t know how long he’d spent sitting in the den staring blindly into the darkness. He hadn’t needed a light. The display on the wall behind his daddy’s antique desk was branded into his mind.
In the distance a night creature wailed a long, mournful note. He remembered when Nadine and his mama had proudly shown him what they’d done with the commendations and letters buried deep in cardboard boxes. Each had been matted and framed, arranged carefully above the desk that now belonged to him.
And in the center of the arrangement hung that polished medal, suspended patriotically from a red, white and blue ribbon. He could still remember its weight as the New Orleans Chief of Police had placed it around his neck, still feel the wash of self-doubt and guilt that had accompanied the award.
He drank, wishing the effects of the beer would summon sleep, knowing it would fail. A citation for bravery in the line of duty. Would the phrase never lose its mockery? Certainly the four survivors had agreed he was deserving. They’d even attended the award ceremony with their families.
But he’d known the truth. The truth had been in the woman who was absent. The woman whose crumpled, lifeless body had lain with that of her killer.
Cage squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Then, in a sudden burst of violence, he hurled the beer bottle as far as he could. The sound it made when it smashed among the shadows in the yard failed to satisfy the savage rage that still lingered. Rage born from a sense of failure that refused to fade. He leaned his head against the forearm he’d braced against the porch pillar.
One instant. Just one split second of indecision could result in ghosts that haunted for a lifetime. He’d never forgive himself for his millisecond’s hesitation that had cost Amy Lou Travers her life.
It was the most bitter of ironies that Zoey had frozen the way she had tonight. Lips twisted, he stared blindly into the darkness. He’d had some nerve, asking her to trust him.
It had been over two years since he’d been able to trust himself.