"Like that, do you?" he asked, his voice soft and muted in the growing darkness of the room. He did it again, and she moaned in response.
He moved back up her legs, spreading them apart and massaging the stretched, sore tendons on the upper insides of her thighs. Her moan this time was of pain, and she gripped the sides of the table. He murmured reassuringly, moving his attention to her buttocks. She relaxed again, closing her eyes. She was feeling pleasantly warm now, and not just from the oil; his stroking hands were having another effect entirely. Desire was curling lazily, heating her blood, totally without urgency.
"On your back, now," he said, and helped her to roll over. He looked with interest at her peaked nipples, and smiled. His big, oil-slick hands covered her breasts, gentle there, smoothing the oil into nipples sore from vigorous sucking and the rasp of his stubbled face. "Your skin's as delicate as a baby's," he observed. "I'll need to shave twice a day." Faith didn't reply, too caught up in what he was doing. By the time he was finished with her stomach and thighs, she was in an agony of anticipation, her body arching under his hands. The room was almost completely dark now, the lavender shadows of twilight giving way to the night. He paused to turn on the light over the sink, isolating them in a small glow.
The sore muscles on the insides of her thighs received more attention, and this time he didn't relent until her groans had turned to purrs. His oily fingers slipped higher then, gently stroking and probing, and she shook with delight.
"Gray." Her voice was smoky, drugged with desire. She reached out for him. "Please."
"No, baby, you're too sore for another round," he whispered. "I'll take care of you."
He dragged her to the end of the table, sheet and all, the fabric slipping easily over the smooth surface. "What ?" Faith began, then fell back with a moan as he draped her thighs over his shoulders. Gently he opened the swollen folds between her legs, and she felt his warm breath wash over her. She barely had time to catch her breath before his tongue delved into her painfully sensitive flesh with a lightning bolt of sheer sensation that made her cry out. He was very tender, and very thorough, reducing her to quivering, screaming ecstasy within minutes.
Afterward, he carried her into the bathroom. She stood sleepily in the shower with him, her arms around his waist and her head on his chest. A lot of the soreness was gone, but now her muscles felt like mush.
When the hot water began to go, he lifted his cheek from the top of her head. "Food," he murmured.
Reluctantly she released him and let him turn off the water. She sleeked her wet hair back from her face, and looked up at him with diamonds of water clinging to her lashes. He seemed so ruthless and strong, but he was very human, with desires and fears and quirks, and she loved him all the more deeply for those qualities. Just for a while, though, she would have wished he were more impervious, because she couldn't put off much longer telling him about his father.
The least she could do was feed him first.
He wolfed down two ham and tomato sandwiches, then took his time on the third while she polished off one. Afterward, they remade the bed with fresh sheets, and he flopped down with a sigh of exhaustion. The sprawl of his arms and legs took up most of the room, but she crawled into one of the niches and burrowed her damp head into its accustomed place on his shoulder. She put her arms around him, holding him tight as if she could shield him from the pain. "I have to tell you something," she said quietly.
Nineteen.
Monica cried for a long time after Gray hung up, her arms folded on top of his desk and her head resting on them. Hot, salty tears dripped onto the polished surface and she rubbed them away with her sleeve, not wanting to mar the finish of his desk. She had never felt more lost and confused, even when Daddy had left.
Nothing was working out right. She hadn't managed to tell Alex she wouldn't let him screw her anymore; when he had come down from Mama's room the other night and stood in the doorway, staring at her, her heart had stopped. She had tried to get the words out, but her throat had been too dry, and then he had been bending over her and it was too late. She squirmed with shame every time she thought about it. How could she have let him touch her? She was going to marry Michael. She felt dirty, felt as if she were dirtying him by going into his arms after having been with Alex. And she still hadn't told Gray that Michael had asked her to marry him, much less telling Mama that she was even dating him. She had been so careful to keep her life under control after the stupid stunt with her wrists, but now it all seemed to be spiraling away again.
Gray was with Faith Devlin. Another man she loved and depended on had been seduced away by one of those whores. How could he do that, Gray, of all people? Monica rocked back and forth, hugging herself and moaning with pain as tears streamed down her cheeks. He was spending the night with her, uncaring of what people might say, of the gossip that would eventually reach Mama no matter how hard they tried to keep it from her. Family hadn't mattered to Daddy when he was in bed with Renee Devlin, and now it looked as if Gray was following in his footsteps with Renee's daughter. Just give them sex, and they didn't care who they hurt.
Monica sobbed until her eyes were sore and almost swollen together, until her chest ached with the effort of breathing. Then, finally, a sort of terrible calm came over her.
She opened Gray's desk drawer and stared at the revolver he kept there. The Devlin bitch hadn't paid any attention to the warnings Monica had given her, so it was time to stop being subtle. In her furious hurt, it didn't matter that Gray was with Faith; it might do him good to be shaken up, she thought, reaching for the pistol. This time, she was ridding the parish of a Devlin.
"What is it?" Gray asked, stretching to turn off the lamp. In the sudden darkness, he cradled Faith against him. "You sound serious."
"I am." She blinked back the sudden burn of tears. "I've put off telling you this because I I can't bear to hurt you. And I I want you to know something else, first." She gasped for breath, and seized her courage with both hands. "I love you," she said in a low voice, aching with tenderness. "I've always loved you, even when I was a little girl. I lived for glimpses of you, and the chance to hear your voice. Nothing has ever changed that, not what happened that night, not the twelve years when I was gone."
His arms tightened and his lips parted, but she laid her fingers on his mouth, stopping the words. "No, don't say anything," she begged. "Let me finish." If she didn't get it all said in a hurry, she might lose her nerve.
"Gray, your father didn't run away with Mama." She felt his body tense, and she hugged him closer. "I know where Mama is, and he isn't with her. He never was. He's dead," she said as gently as possible. The hot tears leaked out of her eyes to slowly trickle down her cheeks. "Someone killed him that night. Mama saw who did it, and was scared he'd kill her too, so she ran."
"Stop it," Gray said harshly. He pulled her arms away from him and gave her a hard little shake. "I don't know if this is your lie or Renee's, but I got a letter from him that was postmarked the next day, in Baton Rouge. If he was killed the night before, then a dead man wrote it."
"A letter?" she asked, stunned. Of all the things she'd thought he might say, this wasn't one of the possibilities. "From your father? Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"It was in his handwriting?"
"It was typed," he said, his annoyance rapidly escalating into anger. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed. "The signature was his, though."
Faith flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to hold him, though she was well aware he could have shaken her off as if she were no more than a pesky mosquito. Desperately she said, "What did the letter say?"
"What does it matter, goddamn it?" He caught her wrists, trying to free himself without hurting her. She clung all the harder, pressing her body against him.
"It matters!" She was weeping now, her tears hot and wet on his back.
He muttered another curse, but sat still. Despite how furious he was with her for even bringing up the subject, much less trying to convince him of such a ridiculous lie, she was crying, and he had to fight the urge to drag her around onto his lap and comfort her. Roughly he said, "It was a letter of proxy. Just that, no explanation. Without it, we likely would have lost almost everything we owned."
His chest expanded as he took a deep breath. "If it hadn't been for that letter, I'd have tried to find him. But he didn't even say he was sorry, didn't say good-bye. It was as if he was taking care of a minor detail he'd forgotten."
"Maybe someone else wrote it," Faith said, aching with the pain he must have felt then. "Maybe the murderer did.
Gray, I swear, Mama said she saw him get shot! They were out at the summerhouse that night when someone drove up. She said that Guy and the other man went into the boat-house and she heard them arguing "
He erupted off the bed, breaking free of her grasp. He whirled around to catch her arms and pin her to the mattress. "That's why you were sneaking around the place," he said incredulously, and reached out to turn on the lamp so he could see her face. He glared down at her, his eyes burning like coals. He shook her again. "You little witch! That's why you've been asking all those questions about Dad! You think he was murdered and you've been trying to find out who killed him!"
He had seldom in his life been more furious; his hands shook with the effort of controlling himself. He didn't believe his father had been murdered, but it was obvious that Faith did, and the foolhardy woman had been trying to find a murderer all by herself. If there really had been a murder, she would have been putting herself at enormous risk. He was torn between snatching her up in his arms to kiss her and turning her over his knee. Both choices held enormous attraction.
While he was still trying to decide, she said, "I knew I likely wouldn't find anything, but I searched the boathouse for a shell casing "
"Wait a minute." He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to get a handle on this latest confession. "When did you search the boathouse?"
"Yesterday morning."
"It's kept padlocked. Have you added breaking and entering to your repertoire?"
"I swam underneath the door and came up in the boat slip."
Gray closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he did it again. His hands twitched, and he balled them into fists. Finally he opened his eyes, staring down at her in appalled disbelief. Foolhardy wasn't the word for her. She was too intrepid for her own safety, much less his sanity. The net beneath the boathouse, designed to keep out unwelcome guests of the reptile variety, had come loose over the years and he hadn't had it repaired, but it was still there. She could so easily have become entangled in it and drowned. He would have lost her forever. Clammy sweat formed on his brow.
"I didn't find anything," she said, eyeing him uneasily. "But I'm making someone nervous. Why do you think I got those threatening notes?"
It was like being punched in the stomach. He hung there, his mind reeling. Then his knees sagged, and he sat down heavily on the bed. "My God," he said blankly, as horrified realization began to form.
"I hired a private detective," she said, reaching for him again, desperately needing to touch him. She pressed close, and this time his arms came up to wrap around her, hauling her against his chest. "Mr. Pleasant. He searched credit card records, Social Security records, tax files there was no trace of Guy after that night. Gray, there was no reason for Guy to walk away from you and Monica, or from all that money! He wouldn't have left you for Mama; why should he? It didn't make sense that he would disappear like that, unless he was dead. Mr. Pleasant thought he must be, too, and he was going to ask some questions in town." A sob rose in her chest. "Now he's disappeared, too, and I'm afraid the same person killed him!"
"Oh, God," Gray said, his voice tight. "Faith don't say anything else. Be quiet for a minute. Please."
She pressed her face into his chest and obeyed. Despite everything, his arms were around her, and she began to hope. He rocked her gently back and forth, comforting himself as well as her.
"Alex sent the letter," he finally said, his voice muffled in her hair. "I should have guessed. He was the only other person who knew Dad hadn't left a letter of proxy, and he knew what a mess we were in without it, if Dad didn't come back, so he didn't take the chance. He was almost as upset as I was, and he said the same thing you did: What reason did Dad have for running away with Renee? He already had her, and Mother turned a blind eye to his affairs, so he wouldn't have... He's dead. He's really dead." He choked, and his chest heaved beneath her cheek.
Faith held him tight, guiding him down onto the bed. He clutched at her, his hands desperate. "Turn... turn off the light," he said, and she did, understanding how a strong man could need darkness for his tears.
He shook in her arms, his wet face buried against her breasts as harsh sobs tore up from his chest. She cried with him, stroking his head, his back and shoulders, not speaking but offering him the comfort of her body, of not being alone. Without the intimacy of the day they had just passed binding them together, she doubted he would have allowed her to see him so vulnerable. But they were linked, as he had said, their lives inextricably woven together by the past, and cemented by the long hours of intense pleasure.
Something he had said jarred, but the significance of it escaped her. She pushed it aside, for the moment intent only on holding him.
Gradually he calmed, but his desperate grip on her didn't relax. She smoothed his hair back from his damp face, her fingers gentle.
"All these years," he said in a hushed, choked voice. "I've hated him, and cursed him... and missed him... and all the time he's been dead."
Something else needed to be said, something hurtful. "Have the lake dragged," she suggested, and felt him flinch. He had swum in that lake, fished in it.
There were other things to talk about, decisions to make, but his head was heavy on her breast and she sensed his utter exhaustion. Her own fatigue, mental and physical, was dragging her down. "Go to sleep," she whispered, stroking his temple. "We'll talk in the morning."
She must have dozed, but for all her tiredness, something kept dragging her back to semiconsciousness. She shifted restlessly, feeling Gray's heavy weight against her. What was it he had said? Something about the letter of proxy...
His body was like a furnace, pouring off heat in waves. Sweat dewed her body, despite the efforts of the ceiling fan. She didn't open her eyes, but her brow furrowed as she tried to bring the thought into focus. The letter of proxy... Why would Alex have sent a bogus letter of proxy so quickly, when no reasonable person would expect Guy to completely walk away from his family and business? Surely he had expected Guy to get in touch...
Unless he had known that it was impossible.
Alex.
Her eyes flew open, and she stared in confusion at the strange red glow that suffused the room. The heat was more intense, and the air was acrid, burning her eyes and nose. Realization exploded in her head.
"Gray!" She screamed his name, shaking him hard. "Get up! The house is on fire!"
Monica stopped the car where she had both times before, pulling off the road onto a pasture access, out of sight of the house. She wore dark clothes and soft-soled dark shoes, for moving quietly without being seen. It was so easy to sneak up to the house on foot, leave her messages, and depart undetected. Leaving the package had required more planning, since it had been daylight, but Faith had simplified things by not being at home. It had just been a matter of slipping the package into the mailbox and driving away.
She got out of the car, pistol in hand, and stepped into the dark road. There wasn't much traffic on this road even during the daytime, and if a car did come along, she would be able to both see and hear it in plenty of time to hide. In the meantime, the road was the easiest walking, and left no footprints.
There was a strange reddish glow in the night sky, just visible above the trees. Monica stared at it, puzzled. It was a few seconds before she realized what it was, and her eyes widened with alarm. The house was on fire, and Gray was there! Her throat closing on a moan of terror, she began to run.
Gray rolled off the bed and dragged her with him, down onto the floor where it was easier to breathe, though the acrid smoke still burned her throat and lungs with every breath. He grabbed her robe from the chair and thrust it at her. "Crawl into the hall, then put this on," he ordered, "and some shoes." He snagged his pants and shoes, jerking them on with three fast motions. "I'll be right behind you."
She obeyed, glancing back several times to make certain he was there. Coughing violently, she pulled the robe around her.
Once in the hallway, they could see flames licking outside the bathroom window, too. Gray ignored it, crawling into the bathroom and snatching towels from the rack. By some miracle, there was still water pressure, and he soaked the towels in the sink. He was coughing and gagging as he tossed one sodden towel at her. "Put it over your face," he said hoarsely.
She did, holding the dripping material over her mouth and nose with one hand and crawling as best she could. The towel helped, and she breathed a bit easier.
The fire seemed to surround them, the wicked orange flames dancing every way they turned. The thick smoke filling the house reflected the glow, so that it seemed to come from all directions. How could it have spread so fast, so completely engulfing the house? The cackle of licking flame had become a roar as it grew stronger, consuming more and more of her home. The heat seared her skin, and sparks showered down like thousands of tiny glowing knives, pricking where they landed. The boards beneath her hands felt as if they were breathing, growing hotter and hotter, and she knew that soon the floor would combust. If they weren't out before then, they would die.
Gray could feel the same thing. Faith wasn't moving fast enough; her robe tangled around her legs, slowing her. Roughly he shouldered her aside so he could move in front of her. He gripped the collar of her robe and used it to pull her along, all but dragging her, forcing her to a faster pace. He could feel the floor getting hotter and hotter beneath them, and knew they had only a minute at most to get out, or it would be too late. He strained his eyes to see through the swirling smoke, and the relative darkness at the front of the house gave him a glimmer of hope. "The front door!" he roared, trying to make himself heard above the din of the inferno. "It isn't burning yet!"
Her house was so small, but the front door seemed so far away. Faith's lungs ached and burned, desperately pumping for air, but the fire was consuming all of the precious oxygen. Her sight dimmed, and she felt the world sliding sideways. The wood floor scraped her knees as Gray dragged her, and the pain roused her to greater effort. Gathering herself, she forced her muscles to keep moving as she silently repeated a litany of desperation: Don't stop, don't stop, if you stop Gray will too, don't stop. Terror for his safety, above all, kept her moving.
Abruptly he staggered to his feet and hauled her upright, holding her clasped tightly to him. She stared dimly up at his beloved, smoke-blackened face. "Get ready!" he bellowed, and used his towel to cover the heated doorknob as he jerked the door open.
He ducked as flames licked in with a deep, whooshing sound, then just as quickly subsided. Picking Faith up, he tucked her under his arm as if she were a football, and ran through the burning portal.
His speed carried them off the porch, and they pitched into the empty darkness. Gray twisted in midair, trying to put his body between Faith and the ground, but he only partially succeeded and they sprawled on the grass with a bone-jarring impact. He heard her soft, gasping cry, but they were still dangerously close to the house and he couldn't take the time to see if she was injured. He caught her under the arms and began pulling her. "Move! Get away from the house!"
"No," someone said hoarsely, with horror in the tone. The crackle and roar of the flames almost drowned out the words. "Gray, what are you doing here?"
Gray straightened slowly, pulling Faith up with him and automatically tucking her behind him. They were caught between two dangers, the fire at the back and the rifle in the hands of the man who had been his honorary uncle, and lifelong friend and advisor.
"No," Alex moaned, his eyes white-edged with panic. He shook his head in denial of Gray's presence. "I thought she was alone! I swear, Gray, I would never have put you in danger "
The heat on Gray's naked back was intense, scorching his skin. Deliberately he moved forward, never taking his eyes away from Alex but desperate to get Faith away from that heat. He stopped as fits of coughing racked him. He could hear Faith coughing and gasping, and he kept a hard grasp on her arm, forcing her to stay shielded behind him.
Several ugly suspicions were crowding his mind, and all of them made him sick. When he could talk, he straightened and wiped his streaming eyes with a grimy hand. "You're the one who's been sending those notes, aren't you?" he rasped, his voice so raw as to be almost unrecognizable. "And the cat "
"No," Alex denied, his voice filled with ludicrous indignation, under the circumstances. "I wouldn't do something like that."
"But you would set fire to a house and try to kill an innocent woman?" Gray asked coldly, the harshness of his voice making the words even more jarring.
"I hoped she would leave," Alex replied in a frighteningly reasonable tone. "But nothing you did made her leave, and neither did the notes. I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't let her keep asking questions, and upsetting Noelle."
Gray gave a rasping crack of laughter. "You didn't care whether or not Mother was upset," he snapped. "You were afraid she'd find out what happened to Dad!"
"That's not true!" Alex said furiously. "I've always loved her! You know that!"
"Did you love her so much that you shot my father so you could have her?"
Gray bellowed the accusation at him, so infuriated by the danger to Faith and the realization that Alex had killed his father that it was all he could do to keep from leaping at Alex and strangling him with his bare hands. The only thing that held him back was the knowledge that, if he failed, Faith would die.
They still stood dangerously close to the burning house, the hellish light enveloping them in a red circle beyond which nothing else existed. Alex's face twisted with pain. "I didn't mean to!" he screamed. "I just wanted to stop him he was going to divorce Noelle! The humiliation would have killed her! I tried to make him see reason, but he was determined. My God, how could any man prefer that slut over your mother? I think he was crazy, he had to be."
The irony of Alex calling Guy crazy wasn't lost on Gray. Then, to his horror, Faith wrenched loose from his grasp and stepped out from the protection of his body. "So you shot him," she said, her own voice so raspy, he could barely hear her over the roar of the hungry flames. "And told my mother that you'd say she'd done it if she ever said anything. There wasn't any doubt who would be believed in this town, was there?"
Alex glared at her with such hatred and fury that the rifle trembled in his hands, and Gray reached out to pull her close. He wasn't afraid for himself; Alex's horror at having endangered him had been genuine. But Faith oh, God, even now, Alex still intended to kill her. Gray could see it written plainly in his eyes.
"I didn't mind your moving back," Alex told her. "You didn't have anything to do with what happened. But you wouldn't keep your mouth shut, you kept asking questions, and you hired that old bastard to stick his nose into things "
"Did you kill him, too?" she interrupted, her face twisting with rage. "Did you?"
"I had to, you stupid bitch!" Alex howled, beside himself with fury. "He got too close... he asked me if Noelle had had any affairs... She wasn't like that "
"Did you dump his body in the lake, the way you did Guy's?" Faith spat, her entire body quivering. But it wasn't fear Gray felt running through her, it was absolute fury, a mirror of his own, and he had a sudden nightmare vision of her going for Alex herself. There wasn't much Faith wouldn't dare, when she had made up her mind to do it. She had deliberately tried to stir up a killer and bring him out into the open, even though she'd known she was putting herself at risk.
Her plan had worked like a dream, he thought viciously. Now if he could just keep her from getting killed. Holding her with bruising force, he jerked her behind him again, trusting that Alex wouldn't shoot through him to get to her.
She immediately began twisting, fighting to get away from him.
Alex stared at them as they struggled, Faith trying to get away from Gray so he wouldn't be hurt, and Gray desperately trying to hold her close for the same reason. Alex's handsome face twisted. "Let her go! She isn't worth it, Gray. I'll take care of her, and everything can go on the way it was. She's only a Devlin; no one will care. She's ruined everything! Guy was my best friend, damn it! I loved him! But he was dead... I had to do something."