Picture Me Dead (27 page)

He smiled, a little ruefully, and said, “No, I'm not paranoid, though I may be a little obsessive/compulsive. I live alone. I know where things are. And I know when they've shifted…just a little. You know, things have moved. The papers on my desk are at more of an angle. The rug at the bottom of the stairs is off a fraction of an inch. Stuff like that.”

“But why?”

“I don't know. Someone must think I have something. But I don't have the least idea what.”

He turned and started back inside the houseboat. She frowned, watching him. He paused and turned back. “Are you coming?”

“I, well, I just came because—”

He'd already gone back into the cabin. She slowly followed him.

“Are you staying?” he asked her.

She was startled by the bluntness of the question. She didn't know whether to be indignant that he had tackled her, concerned that he seemed so convinced his living space had been invaded, or simply angry that they could be so intimate that they should, at the very least, be friends—and that he had treated her like garbage at the morgue.

“Why did you want to talk to me?” she asked, forcing a certain sharpness into her voice.

He arched a brow. “To apologize, of course.”

Her outrage melted like ice on a summer's day. She shouldn't have been so quick to forgive.

“Are you staying?” he repeated.

She found herself nodding.

J
ake stepped toward her, and she found herself in his arms. His lips were almost bruising, lava wet and hot, and his tongue did things to the inside of her mouth that seemed to lick into her insides. He made love with a kiss in a way that touched her where he did not, made her ache inside, wanting, longing, hoping to prolong, desperate to have everything,
him, inside her,
instantly. She struggled to put some distance between them. The hardness of his erection was instantly evident beneath the thin fabric of the bathing trunks he wore. Her fingers rimmed the elastic band, lowering it, eliciting a low groan like a growl from the back of his throat, even as his tongue thrust more deeply into her mouth. He continued to kiss her, his own hands moving beneath the fabric of her knit blouse, beneath the lace of her bra, fingers moving against her flesh, finding the nipple, rotating with an erotic pressure over and around it. She somewhat fought the sensations, intent on her own quest, until her hands closed around him. Stroked. He was smooth, pulsing like thunder.

Their kiss broke; her blouse wound up over her head, tossed somewhere within the cabin. Then his lips were at her throat. She clung to his shoulders, aware she was off the ground, then sitting on the kitchen counter as the clasp of her bra was set free with a deft movement. She struggled to kick off her shoes, aware of his hands on the button of her jeans. She was suddenly sliding against him as he dipped both his hands beneath the denim of her pants, cupping her buttocks as he slid the jeans from her body. His trunks were already on the floor. She was lifted high again, his arms locked around her, then lowered onto the pulsing heat of his erection and held there against him for several long seconds before she found herself seated on the counter again, the world spinning around, aware of nothing but the insanity of needing him there, part of her, hard and vibrant within her. Tears sprang to her eyes as she gave herself up to the urgency of wanting him. Her arms were so tightly wrapped around his shoulders that he had to strain to set her away far enough that he could press his lips to her shoulders, seize her breath, tempt her with the hotness of lips, teeth and tongue, devour her with hands and mouth, even as the erotic tempo maddened to insanity.

A bomb could have exploded outside and she wouldn't have known. The sound and pulse of her heart eclipsed reality. She was only vaguely aware of their damp flesh, the ripple and stretch of his muscle and form against her, the reality of the counter on which she sat. She was locked around him, tense, desperate, sounds escaping her, no words. She strived and arched, pressed, writhed, with ever greater insanity, touching sweetness, reaching higher until she tightened around him in a vise, spiraling into a climax so volatile, she was amazed not to feel herself fly apart. As he shuddered into climactic expulsion himself, his grip upon her was a powerful force that locked them together in a seizure of shattering ecstasy that seemed to rip through them both like violent waves of aftershock.

Her head fell against his shoulder. She couldn't be sorry she had forgiven so easily, fallen so quickly, for she didn't think that she'd ever been touched so tenderly as when he lifted her against him and held her like a cocoon of silk, maneuvering the few steps to his cabin as if he held the most precious cargo. She landed on his bed, which was still disheveled from the night before, and a second later he was lying beside her. His arms curled around her, and she smiled. After several moments, she turned back to him.

His eyes were hard and serious, and for a moment she was caught in whatever deeper emotion darkened his stare, but she found she had to ask softly, “I forgot to ask whether you were apologizing for tackling me when I came aboard or for being such a jerk when I saw you at the morgue.”

A bit alarmed by her own statement, she held her breath, uncomfortably aware of everything physical around them, the feel of the bed and the sheets, the damp power of his arms around her, the planes of his face, the fall of his hair, the darkness of his eyes.

“Both,” he said after a moment. He reached over, moving a damp lock of hair that had glued itself to her cheek. “Both. You took me by surprise this afternoon. I didn't even know you owned a pencil, much less had such an incredible talent. I guess I was angry because I should have known. Come to think of it, you owe me an apology.”

“
I
owe you an apology?”

“You could have told me that you were considering a move from the academy into the civilian force.”

“Well…” Her voice sounded scratchy. “It's not like we've been best friends for years or anything. As if I really know you…or you know me.”

She was surprised by the ruefulness of the smile that touched his lips.

“Maybe I felt I did know you a bit. I mean, think about it. How many guys in the force know you have a tiny flower tattoo at the base of your spine? Or about that little scar on the inside of your upper thigh?”

She flushed, wishing she didn't do so with such embarrassing speed.

“Actually, I wasn't certain you even liked me.”

He laughed, pulling her closer. “You do have one hell of a temper on you, Ms. Montague.” His laughter faded; his eyes were serious. “And the tenacity of a bull terrier.”

“And you're pure walking tact and charm?”

He shrugged. “You scalded me, you know.”

“I see no scars. Nothing permanent.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said quietly, “More permanent than you know.” The simple statement left her with a strange feeling of euphoria. And his lips brushing against hers were more intimate, it seemed, than anything they had previously shared.

The kiss deepened. He pulled away, leaned on an elbow, studying her.

“I didn't know that's what I was going to do. I hadn't even decided to take the position when we…when I saw you. I had a meeting this morning to find out more about it. I couldn't have said anything, because I didn't know anything.” He remained silent, watching her. She was talking too much, she knew, as if she had to keep going. “I know seeing me there, doing something so important for your investigation…I'm sure it was surprising. But I didn't know a thing about it until we were on the way to the morgue. I was an art major for a long time. And…well, usually people have a relationship first and then sex, rather than sex and then…”

Her voice trailed off. She still wasn't sure they had a relationship.

“Ms. Montague?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up,” he commanded before his lips touched hers again. The tenderness was still there, along with a raw edge of urgency. And with that one touch, she was electrified. She turned into his arms, pressed her lips to his flesh. And felt his tongue moving into her mouth with that intimacy that seemed to suggest the most carnal acts to follow. She was bathed in the warmth of his body, the extraordinary expertise of his lightest touch, and the greater force of the urgency replaced sensual finesse. She lost all concept of time, place or reality. Later, as she lay quietly at his side once again, she drifted to sleep, awakened, knew that he, too, was awake.

“Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“How come you came to the hospital tonight? Have you learned anything?”

“No, I'm sorry.” He didn't turn toward her.

“But you believe me? That there's got to be more behind what happened to Stuart?”

He was silent for a few moments, then turned toward her. “Ashley…I don't know what to believe. I do know that Carnegie is a good cop. I can do some investigating on my own, especially where that paper he'd been freelancing for is concerned, but…you have to think long and hard about whether what you're feeling is absolutely solid, or if…”

“If what?”

He rose on one elbow as he spoke seriously. “If maybe you just feel a certain guilt or something because you slept with him and then lost touch.”

She felt as if she'd been drenched with a bucket of ice water. She stiffened, coming up one elbow so she was face to face with him. She was
not
going to dignify his incorrect assumption by even responding to it. “Oh, really? The way you think there are people breaking into your boat but really it's all tied up with the fact that you were sleeping with your partner?”

She was startled by the violence of his reaction. Not that he touched her. But he withdrew with such force that it felt as if a whirlwind had gone through the bedroom. Up and on his feet, he padded out of the cabin naked, presumably in search of his swim trunks.

Ashley lay there for several seconds, feeling the sudden chill in the air. She bit her lip, sat up and decided that their insane, instantaneous, affair—was over. As to what emotion that evoked in her heart…she couldn't even fathom it. She just knew that she had to get out.

She reached for her clothing and realized that it, too, was all over the living room. Summoning what dignity she could, she walked out of the bedroom, taking the two steps down to the living area. The door to the deck was open. A soft breeze was drifting in, touched with the scent of the salt and the sea. As she searched frantically for her things, she was startled when she heard him speak.

“Don't go.”

She'd just found her bra. She turned and stood at the sound of his voice and cracked her temple against the counter. He reentered the cabin, closing the door behind him. He walked straight to her, heedless of the scrap of clothing she was clutching over her chest. His palms cupped her skull, and he looked into her eyes. “Don't go. I'd like you to listen to me, if you're willing.” She nodded as best she could with his fingers threaded so tensely through her hair. He wasn't hurting her; she didn't want him to think that he was.

“I'm listening,” she said softly.

“I never slept with Nancy. Never. I don't know who told you I did, but it doesn't matter—a lot of people thought we were an item But it never happened. She was married. I was in love with her, yes, but we never slept together. We came close a few times, but one or the other of us always withdrew. She, because she still believed in her vows. Me, because I loved her. And she had to either make it with Brian or decide on a divorce without me being involved. She really was one of my best friends. I knew her like I've seldom known anyone in my life. I stick like glue to my conviction that something's going on because I knew her—not because I slept with her. She didn't commit suicide. And she didn't decide to go out for a wild night of drinking and drugs because she was depressed. I don't care what the police psychologist considers a plausible scenario. That's not what happened.”

He stopped speaking. His eyes had such an intense quality. They could give away nothing, or, like now, they could blaze with vehemence and conviction.

“Do you know what?” she said.

He started, frowning slightly, expecting a different reaction.

“What?”

“I never slept with Stuart. He was my friend, my best friend.”

The fingers knotting in her hair eased. And he smiled slowly. “Hmm. I guess that means I'm supposed to be sorry again.”

“Yeah, you should be.”

“I
am
sorry. You were so passionate in his defense, but I should have realized that could have been because of friendship. We're more alike than I'd ever begun to realize,” he said. She found herself released. “I'm going to lock up and set the timer on the coffee for the morning.”

“Okay.”

She stood still, letting the bra she had retrieved drop back to the floor.

A moment later, the houseboat was secured and the coffee had been set for the following morning. In the bedroom, Ashley found herself telling Jake about her friendship with Stuart, how she had adored his parents.

“So you two were that close but never high school sweeties?” he queried.

She laughed. “It was a big public school,” she reminded him. “We all hung in the same crowd. We weren't the wild crowd, we weren't quite nerds. I had a thing for a football player, though. Stu made this announcement about it. I was totally humiliated, but the guy liked it, and we went together for several years. I guess that was my big high school romance.”

“But it ended?”

“Oh, you bet. He wound up being the biggest, most insufferable jerk I'd ever met.”

“Including me?”

She smiled ruefully. “Well, you did remind me of him a bit. He wanted to get married right after school. Live at Nick's with me, and let me work to put him through college. He had a football scholarship, but it didn't pay for everything. He thought art was a hobby, not a career. And he thought he should be able to go to bars, hang out with the guys—and the college girls, of course—because he was a guy. I should have been grateful just to have a guy like him and turn a blind eye to whatever he did. Luckily for me, in those insane moments when I was ready to buy into his line, Stuart was there, telling me I was an idiot if I didn't see my own value, that I'd be insane not to pursue art. So I did. But then…I don't know. I really did feel the urge to become a cop. Because of my dad, I guess. Maybe I thought I could get closer to him, somehow. And I still want to go through and finish the academy, but I know the on-the-job training I can get from this position is going to be incredible.”