Heart of Evil
Page 31

“Will you really solve this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re so certain.”
“We have to be.”
She pushed away from the balcony and looked at him. “Oh, come on, Jake! I’m not walking to you again. I already made the play, and I fumbled badly.”
For half a heartbeat, he was still. Then he moved. He covered the distance between them and pulled her to him. He didn’t believe he was being used; he wasn’t sure he cared. Something, whatever lay between them, surfaced with the music, in the woods, even as they argued. He’d been looking for it without even being aware ever since he had lost her.
Feeling her in his arms, he found it.
He lifted her chin and touched her lips with his, and when he kissed her, she returned it with a passion and hunger that made his knees weak. He had to pick her up and sweep her off her feet quickly—while he still could.
He did so.
“Your room or mine?” he whispered against her lips.
“Either!”
He chose his own. He was certain that Emma Donegal knew all about this desperate kind of love and would leave them in peace.
He lay down with her on the bed, falling into the cool, clean touch of the sheets and the gossamer mist that surrounded her. He smoothed down the white flurry of the gown and met the crystal beauty of her eyes. She stared up at him with complete openness and trust, and he longed to ask her why she had turned from him so completely, but he didn’t dare take a chance with the moment, because it was fragile. He found her mouth again, rubbing his thumb gently over the dampness of her lower lip, cherishing the contours of her face. Then his mouth found hers, and again their kiss was instantly hot and wet and filled with passion and hunger. As they kissed, they fumbled with one another’s clothing, his easy since he was wearing nothing but briefs, hers a bit more complicated since she wore the light robe and a sheath of silk beneath. But making love had always been easy and natural for them, and in seconds he was feeling hunger and awe that he should be lying here with her once again. She was as smooth to his touch as the silk of her gown, and he swept his hands over her shoulders, cradled her breasts, pressed his lips to her collarbone and shuddered with the pleasure of simply touching her, feeling the pressure of her body, the tug of her fingers in his hair.
“Jake,” she whispered.
It was as if there should have been more, but it didn’t need to be said.
“Ashley.” He murmured her name in return, his lips against the taut sleekness of her abdomen.
Her fingertips played over his shoulders and teased down his spine. He tried to hold on tightly to every moment, knowing moments could become nothing more painful or sweet than memories.
His thought eclipsed to the back of his mind as he rose against her again, found her lips and felt her tear away then to press her mouth against his chest, to press more fully against him. She was a naturally exotic lover, sensually seductive, writhing or undulating just to cast the ultimate moment of arousal in any given place upon his body. He made love to her torso, breathing in the scent of her, tasting the erotic aroma of her soap and essence with his kiss. Her breasts were beautiful and perfectly formed, her waist winnowed away to nothing and her hips were pure fascination. He couldn’t touch them enough with his caress, with his lips, with his hungry kiss. As he moved against her body, he felt her breath, felt her body giving, yearning. He moved lower against her form, kissed her thighs, caressed her sexuality and grew ever more urgently in need as he felt her response to his touch. At last he rose above her, hungrily capturing her mouth once again. So entwined, he sank between her thighs and entered her. Sinking slowly into a state that was sure heaven, only to be followed by the blinding light of movement, urgent and passionate, and the explosive feel of her beneath him, undulating, tightening, wrapping around him and giving to him.
Her fingers gripped his shoulder, his back, his buttocks. She wound her thighs around him, and they seemed to rocket with the need and energy of lightning. Thunder tore into his heart, and storm winds created by their mingled breath. The world was still, nonexistent, and everything. And then he felt her gasp, felt the give of her body against his, and he allowed himself to climax, feeling as if he had emptied his body and soul. Giant shudders ripped through him in aftermath; he held her closely against him, and they eased back into the night, back into the bed, back into each other.
I think that I have loved you all my life.
The words didn’t escape him; he somehow held on to that modicum of control. Instead, he just held her. Yes, he had loved her. Yes, she had turned away from him. And no, he had never really understood. Maybe she hadn’t herself.
He hadn’t allowed himself to become a pitiable hermit; he had lived life, and he had enjoyed it. He had even had other lovers.
Never like this.
And it was frightening to be with her again. He’d gotten his soul back once. He didn’t know if he’d ever be so lucky again.
So he didn’t speak. He just felt their breathing subside together. He listened to her heartbeat, and to his own, and it almost seemed that they there were in a harmony of motion.
“Jake,” she said softly.
“Ashley,” he murmured.
She was silent for a minute, and he wondered what she had really wanted to say. Was it possible that it would have resembled his own thoughts?
“I’m—I’m so glad that you’re here,” she said.
“So am I,” he told her. “So am I.”
He didn’t ask her questions; she didn’t try to explain. They lay together and drifted, and awoke, and made love again.
And in the end, he slept with her in his arms.
Slept deeply, plagued by no nightmares.
He had been adrift in a boat, knowing that there were those who had to be found. He had seen Ashley, and he had reached for her, and her fingers had slipped through his again and again.
But now he had caught her.
And he could dare pray that the nightmares had really ended.
Interlude
Tonight…
Tonight had been exhilarating!
There had been those moments of stark fear; fear that he would be discovered and caught in the act, that he would be captured.
There had been those terrible moments of indecision.
And yet there had been Ashley.
Ah, Ashley! If she’d been alone, and come upon him, he could have handled her, of course. Not that she was easy—no, not Ashley. She always had been a fighter.
Difficult to think of her in a coffin, set in a vault and left to disintegrate into dust and bone fragments.
He didn’t like to think about Ashley dead, not really.
But the aspect of killing her was suddenly…so seductive.
Charles was a big old ugly lug; he hadn’t felt much of anything. Marty Dean was a bitch, pure and simple, fake breasts, fake hair, fake smile. He’d felt a pleasure in killing her that he hadn’t felt with old Charles.
If he had to kill Ashley…
He would definitely want her drugged. He would want to see her die without a crease in her beautiful face, without a cry of pain. She would be his then, if just briefly.
Ashley was special. She would fit the bill as no other could, and she would also fulfill something in him, some need he hadn’t known he had….
Well, not really.
He broke out suddenly in a cold sweat.
Tonight…
Tonight he had almost been caught.
No.
He was getting better and better at what he did.
And they never would catch him.
10
Ashley awoke alone.
She was in the Jeb Stuart room, so she hadn’t imagined a wild and passionate sexual experience.
In her mind, she had to admit, the fear had existed that she had dreamed the whole thing.
But, no, she had been with Jake through the night, and that made her wake with a smile. She rose, found her clothing, slipped into it and nearly opened the door to the hall. Remembering that her house was now riddled with cameras, she decided to reach her own room through the wraparound porch.
She showered quickly and headed downstairs. It was late; it seemed that breakfast was long over; there was no one in the kitchen or dining room, but Beth always had coffee on, so she quickly poured herself a cup and decided to start looking for the others.
Walking into the roadside parlor, she discovered that Whitney was in front of the bank of screens, comfortably curled into one of the wingback chairs.
The coffee cup nearly fell from her hands as she realized that one of the screens showed the back of the house—and the wraparound porch.
Whitney heard her there and turned around. Ashley’s horror must have been clear on her face, because Whitney smiled. “Hey, don’t worry! I’m the only one on now. And if there’s anyone in this world who can’t look at the two of you and know that something is going on, that person is certainly blind.”
“I—I—I just—”
“Quit stuttering!” Whitney said, laughing. “Sit—join me.”
Ashley sat in the chair next to her. It was amazing—the young woman, and Will, she presumed, had managed to place the cameras so strategically that the whole of the house was covered.
The outside and the public rooms.
There were no screens that covered the bedrooms, just as Whitney had said.
“So…”
“Jackson and Jake have gone to the sugar mill, and then they’re going to stop in on Hank Trebly,” Whitney said. “Angela is upstairs with a few folks from the police forensics team—they’re trying to discover anything they can about who might have stolen the Enfield. Will has gone to get Jenna. You haven’t met her yet, but you’ll love her!”
“Beth? My grandfather?” Ashley asked.
“Jackson and Jake are dropping them off at a diner down the street—they needed to get out for a bit,” Whitney explained. “Don’t worry—they’ll get them on the way back. Beth suggested that they wait for you, but your grandfather was insistent that you get some sleep.”
“It was good to sleep,” Ashley admitted. “So, what have you seen on the screens? Anything—besides me sneaking back into my own bedroom by way of the balcony?”