Still Lake (10 page)

She closed her eyes. She told herself it was because there was nothing else she could do, no way to escape, and she didn't want to look at him. He pulled her arms around his waist and she held on, absorbing the feel of his body pressed up against hers. Hard, strong body, wet mouth, hands that held her and wouldn't let her go.

And she didn't want to escape. She wanted to be kissed in the sunlight by a gorgeous man. She just wanted some other man, not this complicated creature who had more secrets than she could even begin to imagine.

But it didn't matter what her brain wanted. Her body, her mouth, her soul wanted him, and she heard a quiet little sound of desire and knew that it had come from her.

He stopped kissing her, but he didn't move away, his hips pinning her against the car, his hands still cradling her face. She opened her eyes, dazed, to look up into his unreadable face, shielded by the dark glasses, and she wondered if he made love with his glasses on. And then she realized she was cling
ing to him, her arms tight around his lean waist, and she slid them up to push him away.

He didn't budge, just looked down at her. “So that's not it,” he said obscurely.

“Let go of me.”

“In a minute.” His voice was lazy, provocative, and he kissed her again. And this time she kissed him back.

He slid his hands behind her, pulling her up against him, and she could feel his erection. It should have startled, even disgusted her. Instead she arched her hips against his, rubbing, needing. He reached behind her, fumbling for the car door. “Get in the back seat,” he said in a husky voice, his other hand starting to pull her skirt up her leg.

Reality came crashing down. He wasn't expecting her to shove, and it took him off balance, so that he fell back from her. She sprinted around to the passenger side before he could grab her again, jumped in the car and quickly locked all the doors. Then she sat there, panting, staring out at him in grim triumph.

He wasn't even breathing heavily. She couldn't help it, her eyes went to his crotch, now at eye level, wondering if she'd imagined his erection. She hadn't.

She waited for him to demand that she open the door, and then she could tell him to go to hell. Instead he calmly reached in his pocket, stretching his
jeans even tighter across the telltale bulge, and pulled out the keys.

She leaped over to slam down the lock again, but he was too fast for her. He opened the door and slid into the front seat, catching her wrists in one hand and forcing her back into her own seat. “All you had to do was say no,” he said mildly enough.

“I did.”

“I didn't hear you.”

“No,” she said, furious. “Keep your goddamned hands off me.”

“Yes, ma'am. Hands off your mother, hands off your sister, hands off you. Any other orders while we're at it?” He started the car, and it was all Sophie could do to resist the hypnotic rumble beneath her.

“Leave town.”

“I don't think so. I'm here for a vacation and I intend to take it.”

“I'll make your life a living hell,” she said furiously.

“Stronger men than you have tried,” he muttered beneath his breath. He pulled out onto the narrow dirt road, making a U-turn that almost sent them careening over the hillside.

He drove like a bat out of hell down the narrow dirt road, but Sophie was beyond panic, still too profoundly shaken. She didn't say a word until he pulled up in front of the inn. Gracey was sitting in
one of the rocking chairs, with Doc beside her, and they both stared at the ancient Jaguar with unabashed curiosity.

She started to get out of the car, then stopped, unable to help herself. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what? Drive too fast?”

“Kiss me.”

No expression on his face at all. “Curiosity, I suppose.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from exploding. “And was your curiosity satisfied?” she asked in her iciest voice.

“For the time being.”

She slammed the car door behind her, hoping the window would shatter. But Jaguar XJ6s were too well made for such indignities. Even with all her force, the door closed with an elegant little thump as she stalked up to the porch.

 

Griffin was humming softly beneath his breath as he drove back down the narrow drive to the Whitten cottage. In fact, it had been a very productive day. He'd learned three things of monumental importance.

One, that there might very well be a murder victim from 1973. He'd been eleven years old in 1973, and living with his father in California. And if he didn't kill one victim, he probably hadn't killed anyone.

Two, Sophie Davis was as innocent as he'd suspected, or else she knew damned little about kissing. He probably shouldn't have given in to temptation, but it had been irresistible, and he'd wanted to find out what her luscious mouth tasted like.

Her mouth had tasted like honeyed ginger, and longing, and fear. And he still couldn't be sure why she was so afraid of him.

And three—and what should have been the least important discovery, but for some reason it was making him uncharacteristically cheerful—the virginal Miss Sophie Davis wanted him. And she didn't know what to do about it.

In another time, another place he'd show her. She wasn't his type—innocence and ruffles and soft curves weren't his style. But in Sophie's case he would be more than willing to make an exception, if it weren't for the fact that he was here to find out what had happened twenty years ago, not to get laid.

He was a fool to let her distract him. He'd been here two days already, and he wasn't any closer to getting inside the abandoned hospital wing. Or to remembering what happened that night.

No, Sophie Davis was the very least of his problems, an annoying, irresistible attraction that he had every intention of resisting.

At least for now.

“W
as that your beau, darling?” Grace asked in a cheerful voice. “Who is he? I've never seen him before.”

Sophie mounted the wide front steps to the porch, suppressing a sigh. “He's not my beau, Mama,” she said. “Far from it. He's just a neighbor. He's renting the Whitten place. You remember.”

“I don't remember anything,” Grace said sweetly. “But if he's not your beau, why do you look like you've been necking?”

So much for Spacey Gracey, Sophie thought. She could feel the color rise in her face. Grace would see that as well, or at least Doc would. He was watching them both with benign fascination—she wouldn't get any help from that quarter.

“I haven't been necking with anyone,” she said calmly. It was technically true. Two thorough kisses didn't quite constitute necking. “You're imagining things.”

“It's my memory that's shot, not my powers of observation,” Grace said with one of those lightning
shifts of rationality that always threw Sophie for a loop. “Is he nice?”

“Who?”

“Don't try that with me, Sophie Marlborough Davis! I'm talking about your young man. Is he nice?”

Escape would be lovely, Sophie thought, eyeing the kitchen door longingly. In a few minutes Grace wouldn't even remember that Sophie had been gone for a while, much less think to ask questions about her companion. “I really need to go inside and wash up…” she began, but Doc, the traitor, forestalled her.

“Oh, sit down and tell us about it,” he said with a mischievous look in his faded blue eyes. “It's not often your mother shows an interest in her daughter's romances.”

Caught, Sophie thought. Hooked and landed, and if she didn't face the music she'd end up gutted. She plastered a phony smile on her face and dropped into one of the Maine rockers that overlooked the quiet lake.

“It's not a romance, he's not a young man, he's not my beau,” she said patiently.

“Then why were you kissing him?” Grace asked.

“I wasn't!”

“You shouldn't lie to your mother, Sophie,” Doc said with gentle reproof.

Sophie glanced at him. The old codger was enjoying this, she thought, annoyed. Maybe her own
discomfort was a small sacrifice for her mother's temporary interest in the real world.

“I didn't kiss him,” she said patiently. “He kissed me.”

Her mother's hoot of triumph almost sounded like the old Grace. “I knew it! Was it love at first sight?”

“It's not love, and it certainly wasn't first sight. I have no idea why he kissed me, but I doubt he'll want to do it again.”

“I wouldn't doubt it at all, Sophie,” Doc said gallantly. “If the man has eyes in his head and half a brain he'd be smitten.”

Sophie repressed a sigh. Smitten, eh? She could just imagine Mr. Smith's reaction when he heard the old folks were calling him a smitten beau, and
her
young man. It might almost be enough to drive him away.

“I wouldn't get your hopes up, Mama,” she said wryly. “Mr. Smith isn't my type, and the last thing he's looking for is true love. I have no idea why he kissed me, but it had nothing to do with being attracted to me.” Belatedly she remembered the unmistakable bulge of his erection, and she could feel the color rise in her face again. Well, maybe he was attracted to her, or maybe he just got hard every time he kissed a woman, whether he liked her or not. She'd managed to avoid that kind of information, and she'd just as soon never learn about such things.

No, that wasn't strictly true. She simply hadn't been sufficiently tempted before. And wasn't now, she reminded herself sharply, the moment the thought drifted into her unruly consciousness.

“My Sophie's still a virgin,” Grace said with the air of someone announcing a terminal illness. “I don't know what I'm going to do about her.”

It could have been worse, Sophie thought bleakly. She could have announced it in front of someone other than Doc. She could have announced it in front of Mr. Smith.

“Good for you,” Doc said approvingly. “It's refreshing to find a girl who's saving herself for marriage.”

Sophie shuddered at the thought. It sounded old-fashioned and priggish, when she was afraid it was simply a matter of her being cold-blooded. “It's not that,” she said frankly. “I just haven't found anyone who interests me enough. God knows I don't plan to die a virgin, and I doubt I'll be waiting for my wedding night. I'm just a little…picky.”

“It's a good way to be,” Doc said fondly. “Don't listen to your mother, Sophie. Virtue is a highly underrated commodity nowadays. Treasure yours.”

Sophie resisted the impulse to make a moue. She'd started to think of her relatively untouched state as more of a liability than a selling point, and there had been a number of times when she'd been determined to get rid of it with the next available
man. Unfortunately the next available man had always proved unacceptable for one reason or another, and she was now the oldest living virgin in the Northeast Kingdom. Maybe in the entire United States.

“Speaking of random sex, where's Marty?” she asked, changing the subject. Grace laughed, but Doc's sweet face drooped in sorrow.

“Last we saw she was chasing around after the Laflamme boy,” he said. “Whatever made you decide to hire him to do the yard work? There's no denying he's a hard worker, but I would have thought you'd try to avoid temptation as far as your wanton younger sister was concerned.”

That was going a bit too far. Sophie was allowed to criticize Marty and her flagrant habits—Doc had no right to disapprove.

“She's not wanton,” Sophie protested. “Just…young. As for Patrick Laflamme, he seems like a levelheaded young man, and Marge Averill assured me he wouldn't be interested in Marty.”

“He's a man,” Doc pronounced. “The worst kind—halfway between being a kid and being grown up. He may mean well, but his hormones will make him crazy, and practically unable to resist any kind of temptation. I know his family, and he's a good, smart boy, but your little sister could tempt a saint.” His genial tone took the sting out of the words.

“I'll keep an eye on them. As a matter of fact, I'd better look for her right now. Make sure she hasn't dragged young Patrick into the toolshed,” she said cheerfully.

“Oh, she wouldn't do that, Sophie,” Grace said with all seriousness. “There are too many spiders in there. Ghosts, as well.”

Doc's teacup dropped to the porch floor, smashing. “I'm so sorry!” he said, leaping up. “I've broken your pretty dish.”

“Don't worry,” Sophie said, already picking up the bigger pieces. “All the china is mismatched—I just bought anything that took my fancy.” In fact that had been one of her favorites, but she wasn't about to tell Doc that when he was looking so mortified. She turned back to her mother. “What were you saying, Mama?”

Grace just gave her a vague smile. “I don't remember.”

“I'm trying to talk your mother into coming to town to have dinner with us. Rima hasn't seen her for a week now, and she gets a little isolated.”

“You should go, Mama. You know how you enjoy your little outings,” Sophie said, heading for the door, the broken cup in her hand. “If Doc can't pick you up I can drive you.”

“I'll come fetch her at five,” Doc said. “If that's all right with you, Grace?”

Grace waved an airy hand of acceptance, looking
rather like a youthful Queen Elizabeth for a moment, and Sophie disappeared into the kitchen before another awkward question surfaced.

 

His face was as good as his body, Marty thought, breathing a sigh of relief. She'd put her contacts in, showered and was wearing a halter top and the shortest shorts she owned, the ones that showed off her long, tanned legs to perfection. She knew she looked gorgeous, but Sophie's new gardener was looking at her out of the most beautiful, liquid eyes she had ever seen in her life, and he actually didn't seem interested.

“Hey,” Marty said. She'd wanted to wear her high-heeled sandals, the ones that made her legs look even better, but she figured that would have been a bit much. Subtlety had its uses.

“Hey,” he said, unpromisingly. He had a gorgeous chest, but to her dismay he quickly pulled a T-shirt on. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Marty Davis. My sister's your boss.”

“Yeah,” he said, again not very enthusiastic. “I've cut up the three poplars that came down in the last storm, and I was going to start in weeding the flower bed on the east side of the house. Did she have something else she'd rather have me do?” He didn't have a Vermont accent, thank God. Not that she actually minded the Yankee twang of the North
east Kingdom, but she preferred not hearing it in someone she was trying to seduce.

“I haven't the faintest idea,” Marty said. “Isn't it time you took a break? You've been working nonstop for hours.”

“I took a break at eleven. I'll stop for lunch at one.”

“How do you know which side of the house is east?” she asked, suddenly curious.

“Any fool knows what's east and what's west,” he said with barely disguised impatience. “Is there anything I can help you with? Otherwise I need to get back to work.”

She'd been told she had a very sexy pout, so she tried it on him. “Don't you like me?” she asked plaintively.

He looked her up and down, slowly, from her toes with their blue polish and three toe rings, up her admirably long legs, over her bare stomach and all the way up to her fuchsia-tinted hair. And then he shrugged, clearly unimpressed. “I don't even know you. Should I?”

Marty's sexy pout turned into a frown. “You tell me.”

“I've been trying to tell you I have work to do. So if you haven't got a message from your sister or something you need me to do, I'd appreciate it if you let me get on with it.”

“Oh, I have something I want you to do,” Marty said in a soft, cooing voice.

“What is it?”

“Go to hell.”

She stalked away, majorly pissed. Trust Sophie to find the best-looking homosexual she could find in the area, just to make Marty's life miserable. Well, there were other boys around, men as well. Marty just hadn't made the effort. Maybe she'd hitch a ride with Doc when he went back into town. Of course, Doc gave her the creeps, but then, most old people did. Maybe she could…

“Hey.”

She was just about to turn the corner by the inn when she heard his voice. She was half tempted to keep on stalking, but curiosity got the better of her. She turned to glare at him. He was as unmoved by her anger as he'd been by her sexy pout.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

“I'll be eating my lunch down by the lake,” he said. “At one.”

“And I care because…?”

He grinned then. Big mistake—he had the most delectable smile she'd ever seen in her entire almost eighteen years. “You tell me,” he said. And then he turned his back on her, and she could hear him whistling under his breath.

She stomped around the front of the building, in
time to see Doc rise and pat Grace's hand. “I'll be back at five,” he was saying.

Perfect opportunity. She could get a ride into Colby with Doc, and even get a ride back out if she ever felt like returning to this epitome of boredom. It should have been an easy decision. Doc and freedom, at least for a few hours. Or meeting that smartass down by the lake where anyone could see them.

It was a no-brainer. Sophie's new handyman was the best-looking thing she'd seen since she arrived in Colby—she doubted she'd find anyone nearly as interesting at Audley's. If fate had decided to deliver such a hunk to her own backyard, then he was probably worth the effort.

Besides, she didn't like Doc. It was one thing for her sister and Grace to worry about her, another to have a stranger doing it. She wasn't part of Doc's clientele, and what she did with her time, what she smoked, who she saw, was her business, not his. And if she rode into town with him he'd probably cross-examine her.

No, she was better off staying behind. Seeing if she could make the sourpuss smile again. And seeing if there was any way she could lure him out of sight of the big house.

 

The book was gone.

One of the odd twists that Grace's illness had brought was a sudden concern with neatness. Grace
had always been someone who left her clothes scattered on the floor, who had papers and scarves and paraphernalia trailing after her, who believed making a bed was a waste of time when you were just going to sleep in it again that night. In fact, Sophie hadn't even learned to make a bed until she had gone to live with her father and Eloise in their neat home in Michigan while Grace traveled the world. There were times she thought her almost obsessive fascination with all things housewifely was simply a reaction against her globe-trotting mother, but that seemed too obvious an answer. All she knew was she found safety and comfort in making jars of apple butter and raspberry jam, and old china soothed her soul.