With Her Last Breath (11 page)

Maggie found Nick on a backyard wooden deck, at work over an oversize smoking barbecue grill. His glance at her wasn’t friendly. “I’m grilling chicken and having baked potatoes. Yes, I get tired of Italian food. There’s enough for you, if you’re hungry. If not, fine. I can take you home, or you can drive my pickup. I’ll get it in the morning.”

He closed the lid to the grill, sprawled in a redwood deck lounger, and sat. He ignored her and surveyed his kingdom while Scout sniffed around the weathered picnic table, making herself at home.

Maggie decided that if he wanted to brood, he could do it alone. “I’m doing this laundry. And then I’m walking home and taking my dog.”

“You just do whatever your little heart desires.”
Just leave me the hell alone.

“Fine.” Maggie left Scout with Nick and went back into the house. She jammed sheets into the washer, added detergent, and watched the tub fill and agitate. She decided to use the bathroom meanwhile and turned off the washer, leaving the sheets to soak.

In the bathroom, a heap of towels lay in one corner, layered with jeans and T-shirts and shorts.

Nick stood at the door, barbecue sauce bottle in hand, just as she stood in front of the sink, washing one foot in it with men’s heavy-duty hand soap. He frowned at her. “I said you can take a shower if you want.”

He left for a minute and came back to toss a towel, a man’s clean shirt, and a pair of jeans onto her head. She pushed them aside and they fell to the floor. “You’d better save these. From the looks of this place, you might need them. And maybe if you asked Lorna real nice, she’d come out here and do your laundry. It looks like someone needs to. You apparently didn’t do everything.”

“Have it your way,” he said. “I’ve been looking after myself for a long time.”

“So have I. And if you don’t watch it, these clothes will mildew. You should hang your bath towels to dry when you’re finished.”

Nick’s unshaven jaw hardened. “It’s my house. I do what I want.”

Maggie reached to close the door in his face. She finished washing her other foot and decided since they were on such good terms anyway, she might as well take advantage of that king-size shower. She’d stay just to irritate him and then she’d walk home when she was ready and…

Her dark mood gave way under the shower’s luxurious spray. A big serviceable bar of men’s soap wasn’t up to Ce
leste’s fragrant, bubbly soap, but right then it was heaven. Maggie heard herself crooning in the shower as she used Nick’s masculine shampoo, lathering it into her hair.

She tried finger-combing her hair, and when that didn’t work, used Nick’s brush. She could have stayed in the bathroom forever, pampering herself, but keeping in mind Nick’s bad mood, she decided to finish the laundry quickly.

As she sorted the clothing from the towels and washcloths, Maggie decided she missed having her own home with her own washer and dryer and the things other women took for granted. The chug of the washer, the whir of the dryer, the warm, soapy scents were relaxing. Once started, she gathered the laundry from all over the house, stripping the two bedrooms.

Cleaning was automatic, and maybe it came from inside herself, to wash away—Maggie shook her head, forcing the past away. It was Nick’s house, and he’d disappeared—probably to sulk upstairs with the Frenchman’s ghost. She hesitated, weighed the right and wrong of her actions, and didn’t care. It wasn’t a crime to clean, and Maggie dismissed her doubts as she whipped through the rooms.

The larger bedroom hadn’t been used, and Maggie automatically opened the windows to the fresh cold air. Beneath the layers of dust, the room held a woman’s touch, softer shades of mauve and tans, the layers of pillows with shams on the bed. A tumble of women’s clothing lay on the bed, next to an opened box, as though someone had tried to put them away and couldn’t.

The shadows seemed to stir quietly as if dreams had died there…

A picture had been turned facedown, and when Maggie righted it, she saw it was of Nick seated on a motorcycle, dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, grinning at the camera, a young girl holding tight behind him. The frame’s glass had been shattered.

Maggie ached for Nick’s wife, for the children she would never have, for the dreams torn away.

Glenda’s two children, Seth and Cody, were two sweet little boys that Maggie ached to hold. They would soon be playing summer ball and soccer and diving into swimming pools, and she missed them desperately. But one look at Maggie and they would remember their mother, and probably not the pleasant things either.

The smaller room was where Nick slept—if not on the well-used couch. Maggie stripped the bed and gathered the clothing on the floor, dumping it in front of the washer as Nick passed, carrying a platter of barbecued chicken and foil-wrapped potatoes in one hand and a barbecue fork in the other.

He stood, boots on a towel, and stared at the mountain of laundry she had collected. “You’re on a cleaning bender,” he said with the doomed air of a man who had lived with women.

She poured stain remover onto the knees of his jeans, rubbing the cloth together. “That master bedroom smelled of must. I opened the windows. Don’t forget to close them—”

Nick’s dark eyes were taking in her damp hair, the way his overlarge shirt hung on her, the rolled up cuffs above her bare feet. Still holding the platter and the fork, he leaned toward her. “Hi, Maggie,” he whispered softly.

Maggie knew he was going to kiss her, and she leaned back against the chugging washer, the heavy beat matching that of her heart. Nick’s eyes closed, and his lips fitted gently over hers. She couldn’t move as a current of sweet hunger danced through her, and then his lips slanted to the other side. He moved closer, his body pressing against hers. “Nick?”

He didn’t move, watching her. She could refuse or she could take.

Nick placed the platter and fork down, and then his hands were braced beside her hips, the washer chugging behind her. “You smell like bleach,” he said huskily.

There was so much of him, dark and sensual, and Maggie’s senses started to quiver and warm. “Your sheets and towels really needed it. You’ll need to get more fabric softener.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, as Nick slowly lowered his head for another kiss. “Okay. Anything else?”

This time her lips were parted and she needed more than a taste of him. “I can’t think of anything now—”

He kissed her again, this time slow and thoroughly, as if he were learning the shape of her mouth. “That’s good. Neither can I.”

He was tasting her, she thought distantly, as his lips brushed and teased and floated over hers. When she wanted more, just that nip of hunger, yet of beckoning gentleness, turning toward his lips, he’d move again.

Nick nuzzled her cheek, an erotic male brush of rough skin against her own. His face rested in the cove of her shoulder and throat and the gentle flicking of his tongue surprised her, sending a chill up her nape.

She turned to meet his kiss, and he moved to the other side of her throat, tantalizing her with his lips and tongue. Maggie had to have just one firm, long satisfying kiss, and the gentle pressure of Nick’s aroused body between her legs had set her body aching.

His light kisses trailed across her lips, ever avoiding full contact. “You’re really warm…really warm,” he said as his lips started to tempt her earlobe. “And you’re shaking. Why?”

She trembled, fighting the need to capture him, and the need to escape to safety.

“If you’re going to kiss me, do it,” she stated finally.

“I’m getting all the good flavor, the bouquet, that balance of aroma and taste and—”

She reached for his head, framed his jaw with her hands, and kissed him hard, finding the essence of his hunger and heat and danger. His arms went around her, lifting her up against him, pressing her close, one hand open on her bottom, cupping her tight against him.

He dived in for more, and she met him, arching against him, her fingers digging into his hair, then those taut hard shoulders.

Nick lifted back, just that fraction, and she came after him,
pressing his head toward hers, and the low, ragged sound in his throat said he approved.

Not that she cared. Maggie was too busy taking, feeling like a woman, feeling soft and feminine and desired. It had been so long—

She broke away, leaning back, and Nick’s dark intent look traveled across her lips and slowly, slowly downward to where her breasts pressed against him. He moved his hand on her back up and down in a caress, and then ever so slowly, meeting her eyes, he unbuttoned the shirt, revealing the tops of her breasts.

He breathed raggedly as he looked downward, and his body trembled, a dark flush running beneath his tan. Nick eased back from her, and this time, Maggie trembled as she gripped the washer behind her. She wanted more, wanted to take and satisfy and be free once again.

Nick slowly reached for a sweatshirt and drew it on. Still looking at her, he lifted the platter beside her. “Dinner is ready. Sorry, no salad.”

No sex.
Maggie held very still, her heart racing. She realized that her face was flushed, and when Nick’s gaze touched her lips, her tongue tasted him again. She felt as if her skin were shimmering, alive with sensation, needing more of—

His big hands hadn’t touched her skin and she needed that, his hands on her flesh, stroking her…

“I’ve been married,” she said suddenly, surprising herself. “It didn’t work.”

What was she doing? She didn’t need to explain anything to Nick.

“Okay,” he said softly, watching her. “Do you want to eat at the kitchen table or outside?”

“Outside.” The night air would cool her cheeks.
I can manage this, a little flirtation, a free meal, a little relaxation. No strings attached.
“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Bring plates and silverware, and don’t forget the butter and sour cream from the refrigerator.”

She turned back to empty the dryer, dumping the clothes into a laundry basket. When she stood, preparing to transfer a load from the washer, Nick’s lips were at her nape, his breath warm against her skin.

Electrified, Maggie held very still. It was a playful kiss, soon ended, with just that nip at her earlobe, and enough to make her senses quiver and heat.

Her hands shook as she removed the plates from the shelves, and when she went outside, Nick was sprawled in his lawn chair again. “You forgot the tea. Sun tea, on the counter, and don’t tell anyone that I like iced tea and barbecue. It’s not good for a vintner’s image.”

“I brought the plates and silverware. I don’t drink caffeinated tea.”

“Drink water. I cooked.”

“I’m doing your laundry.”

The lines beside Nick’s eyes deepened with humor. “My soap, my electricity.”

She fought the smile inside her; the argument was friendly, easy. “I’ll tell everyone you drink iced tea, probably beer, too, right? There’s a six-pack in the refrigerator.”

“Okay, you have me there.” He rose and stretched, and Maggie’s senses leaped again. She looked away into the marsh, the sun setting over it just as peace had somehow settled for a moment within Maggie.

It was gentle toss-and-toss-back play, not an argument. She could handle this—an easy evening, sharing a few hours.

When Nick came back, he carried a tray of glasses, bottled water, and a pitcher of iced tea. “Here,” he said, tossing a light jacket to her.

It was just that simple. No questions, no responsibility, just companionship. After dinner, Maggie leaned back in her lawn chair, snuggled down in Nick’s coat, and closed her eyes, inhaling the fresh, damp night.

She’d come so far, fought so hard, and now, totally relaxed, she dozed.

In the chill of the night, Celeste sat on her porch. She rocked within the warmth of her shawl, holding Earth’s warm body close to her. The cat purred loudly, boldly pushing against Celeste for more. The rest meant little, but her cats had given her comfort. She should make arrangements for someone to take them after she died.

Celeste inhaled the fresh scents of her herbs and thought of her family’s farm in Iowa, the rev of the big John Deere tractor coming out of the massive barn, the corn stalks in the field growing high over her head. Strange how approaching the end of her life, she remembered the beginning so clearly. Every breath meant more, the colors more intense, the smiles more welcome, a child’s laughter more delightful.

No matter how she laid her tarot cards and ignored her inner senses, the answer was always the same. She would die soon. But Celeste depended more on those flashing images in her mind, including the shadowy figure of a man reaching for her throat.

The cat’s warmth and purr relaxed Celeste as she settled deeper into her thoughts. She had accepted her own death; what would come, would come. But perhaps by knowing more, she could save her friends.

In the scheduled walks she took with Maggie, Celeste had hoped to learn more. She kept the conversation light and flowing, adding personal tidbits about her life, hoping to find an opening to talk about Maggie’s life. A loner, Maggie was holding her past, fighting it. The shadows beneath her eyes said she had sleepless nights, perhaps nightmares.

If only Celeste could hold something of Maggie’s, something from the past, then she might have the answer to her own death…

She eased her cats inside and gave herself to the night, walking toward the call of the harbor, the river walk, now quiet. No one questioned her now, the odd times that she strolled through town.

But tonight, the answers did not come—only the sense that her time was short.

I
f he found Maggie Chantel, he would kill her.

He’d had everything and she’d ruined his life. No one respected him now, his power was gone, and he would make her pay.

A foghorn sounded in San Francisco Bay, its cry punctuated by the loud jukebox music in the small tavern. Brent Templeton circled the glass rim of his drink, the neon light advertising beer over the bar flashing on a face that had once been handsome. Facials and manicures were in his past; he could no longer afford pampering.

He sneered at the waitress and with the arrogance of a lord, he lifted his empty glass for a refill.

He sank back into his brooding silence, and the side long look he gave the waitress caused her to pale and shrivel back into safety. In the short tight skirt, her legs weren’t as nice as Maggie’s, the barbed wire ankle tatoo not to his taste.

The man hunched over his drink and raked the men at the bar with one narrow-eyed glance. His mouth curled bitterly
as he let his hatred for one woman churn and fester and grow.

Once he lived for his power, for what it could bring him, and now he lived to kill Maggie Chantel.

Not too quickly, taking days perhaps. Perhaps he would destroy those she loved first, making her watch and beg for mercy.

He’d practiced with the pretty young hitchhiker along the Interstate.

Then because he couldn’t stand the nagging slanted picture on the wall any longer, he stood to straighten it. He ignored the people watching him as he rounded the room, straightening the other pictures.

Everything had an order, he decided, as he straightened the stack of menus on the counter. He understood the rules of that order, and soon Maggie would, too.

She was on the move, and not in the vicinity. The message service she’d used had been closed for a year.

Maybe one of the men she’d confronted about using Glenda had already taken care of Maggie—Brent pushed away the thought. He could feel her out there, waiting to be punished for ruining his life.

Where was she?

“Tell me you love me,” he whispered as he walked out into the night. “Where are you, Maggie, dear?”

In the alley, he found someone to make him feel strong and in command again. The sleeping drunk huddled beneath newspapers died beneath the savage beating.

Maggie awoke to Nick crouching at her side and gently shaking her. She was tucked beneath a blanket, the pillow under her head resting on the lawn chair. The night was cold and damp, stars sprinkling the sky.

“Hey. Sleepyhead. Wake up. Time to go home.”

“Hi,” she said as Nick brushed her hair back from her face. Whatever had nagged her in her sleep slid into the night as Scout nuzzled her hand. Maggie could feel the remnants of stark fear, and yet she hadn’t dreamed…She petted the dog,
and rested momentarily beneath the familiar safe weight of Scout’s head.

Nick seemed so familiar, and she remembered how gently he had first kissed her, and then how hungrily. She could still feel him hard against her, the press of his hand on her bottom, urging her closer.

There was tenderness in him, and so much sadness, and now something else bothered him. “Your hair is still wet. You’ll catch cold.”

She lay looking at him, snuggled beneath the warmth of the blanket. He seemed so safe. “Hi,” she said again and smiled sleepily.

Nick frowned and stood suddenly, his hands in his back pockets. The moonlight painted his hair silver and outlined the taut, edgy look of his body. “Do you want my pickup, or do you want me to drive you home?”

She wanted him to carry her into his house, to…Maggie stretched and squirmed beneath the blanket. She felt so good and warm and safe. Most of all, with Nick, she felt safe.

All angles and broad shoulders, his face in shadow, he watched her. “I’ll drive you home,” he said unevenly, his voice raspy and deep.

“Well, that was fast,” Maggie said when Nick bundled her in the blanket and carried her to his pickup. “I left my shoes.”

“I’m in a hurry. I’ll bring them by,” Nick stated roughly. It was a wonder he could talk. Ever since he’d heard her in the shower, her sounds of pleasure like those of a woman having a long, slow orgasm, Nick’s body had been humming. Those kisses at the washer, the way she responded, arching up to him bowstring-tight, hadn’t helped.

If he’d taken more than a taste, they’d be in bed right now.

Or not. Maggie was independent, the kind of woman who moved on when she decided.

Nick preferred to take it slow and let the flavor ripen between them. She didn’t trust him yet, and he wasn’t too cer
tain about himself. Quick sex could only complicate both their lives.

On the other hand, his body protested the lengthy abstinence, needing relief.

Then Scout, lying on the deck, had come to lay her head on Maggie as she slept. The dog’s senses were right, because Maggie had started to squirm beneath the blanket he had placed around her.

Her face had been so vulnerable, soft and open, all the usual defenses wiped away. And then she’d frowned, her expression sad, then angry, then fearful. Her hands clawed at the blanket, fighting—and he couldn’t bear to see her locked in a nightmare.

When she awoke, all sleepy and snugly, he’d started thinking about how she kissed, hungry and hot and sweet, and how he wanted to wake up to her in the morning. But he suspected Maggie was like fine wine, better when understood and given time to ripen, and to come to her own rich flavor.

“I’m wearing socks,” Maggie stated in surprise as Nick opened the pickup’s passenger door.

“Your feet were cold.” He slid her onto the seat and motioned for Scout to leap up beside her.

When he slammed the door on the driver’s side and revved the pickup, Maggie studied him. “You’re mad. Why?”

“Just leave it, okay?” She wasn’t ready to trust him, and that nettled. Or did it hurt?

“If it’s because of the laundry, just stop the pickup and I’ll finish it.”

Nick shifted and drove toward her camper. He wasn’t ready to talk, and he knew Maggie wasn’t answering questions. “You’re not wearing shoes. I’ll carry you—”

Maggie opened the passenger door, and Scout hopped out. “What’s with you?”

What’s with you? Who hurt you?
he wanted to ask. But instead Nick said, “Look, we’re both tired. Let’s call it a night, okay?”

Then, because he had to, he gripped the blanket at her throat, tugged her to him, and kissed her before she could say anything else. There was lots of soft, curved, fragrant woman beneath that heavy blanket, and he wanted her. But it wasn’t that easy, not for him, and he suspected not for her. He placed her away before his hands started wandering and filling and taking. “You need to trust someone, Maggie. Whatever is eating you isn’t going away.”

“And you would know so much, would you?” Her tone was bitter and frustrated.

“Yes, I do.” Nick’s guilt wasn’t going away; he never should have let Alyssa ride without a helmet.

Maggie shrugged free of the blanket and scooted out of the cab. She hopped on one foot while she took off one sock, and then the other, tossing them in his face. “I don’t think I like you very much.”

Her borrowed shirt had come unbuttoned and the curve of her breast quivered as she moved. Nick’s body locked in a painful knot, and before he knew it, he was out lifting the truck’s bumper to ease the throbbing lodged low in his body.

Taking a deep breath, he stood upright and frowned at her. At first her expression was blank, and then she began to smile, and then she was laughing. If the sound hadn’t been so good and honest, he might have been angry. Instead, he smiled at her. “Good night, Maggie. I’ll bring by your shoes in the morning. Eugene said you’d be good for the part-time job, working for me. Think about it.”

“I really did need this exercise program. Just walking to the shop and back home and a few times between wasn’t really stretching my legs—or my walks at night. That’s what walking should be, easy, slow, thoughtful. Not the pushing the limits hurrying you make me do. Hills are made to walk down, not up, Maggie. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that? I appreciate you taking me as a client, Maggie, but my rear end and legs hurt like heck,” Celeste said.

“I like to hear you complain. That says I’m doing my job. Did you do those stretches before we started? It’s really important to lengthen your back and legs, Celeste.”

“I’m lengthened, I’m lengthened.” It was Celeste’s right to gripe, she thought moodily. Clearly she wasn’t a morning person, yet here she was amid the disgusting morning people, actually smiling and enjoying themselves—their minds had to be numb or maybe they were daylight zombies.

She breathed in the fresh cold air and wished she were still in bed amid her cats. The morning fog layered over the concrete walk down to water, softening the hard red of the lighthouse at the end of the pier. The tall clumps of grass stood eerily in the sand dunes.

She wanted to know all about Maggie, but the young woman was a loner, used to keeping her life private, and she didn’t talk about herself. Celeste had worked with several law officers, and she could have tracked Maggie’s life by using those resources. But the past could muddle her inner mind with too many facts, and she preferred using her senses to feel through the danger Maggie carried with her.

The flashes that ripped across Celeste’s mind came more frequently when she was with Maggie; so did that tight feeling in her neck as if it were being squeezed. Celeste didn’t dismiss these sensations; she clung to them, trying to arrange the puzzle into a meaningful picture of how and why she would die.

This morning Maggie was walking very fast, as if she were trying to work free of a problem.

Nick and Dante Alessandro would be enough problems for any woman to handle, Celeste thought as she tried to match Maggie’s stride. Scout moved between the women, big and definitely protective.

The dog and the locket…

Celeste panted, her pulse racing, her mind churning. If only she could hold something of Maggie’s past…“Maggie, I hear you moved into George Wilson’s camper. I’ve
never been in it, but I’d love to see it. I hear it’s so cute and compact.”

“It’s nice.” But there was no warm invitation to visit Maggie’s home.

On their usual path, Celeste worked to keep up with Maggie, the street’s incline steep and layered with modern multicolored executive-style houses on either side. They usually belonged to “snowbirds,” those going South to avoid Michigan’s harsh winters.

“What do you know about a girl named Beth?” Maggie asked suddenly as a paper boy surged past them on his bicycle, tossing rolled papers onto lawns of the vacant houses.

The question surprised Celeste. Maggie didn’t ask questions about other people, and Celeste suspected her trust was low; keeping to herself was Maggie’s protection. “She comes into the shop once in a while. She works at the bar, waitresses at summer parties sometimes. Sometimes she lives with the bar’s owner, Ed. She’s in her early twenties and has had to make her own way. People have tried to help her, but she’s determined to be independent.”

“Or kill herself. She was using when I saw her,” Maggie stated abruptly, and in profile, her expression was fierce. The shields were gone, her eyes flashing with anger. “Where does she live?”

“Where she wants. I asked her if she wanted to stay with me, just to help her get on her feet. She did, worked a few days in the shop, and then was gone when summer came and she had more money. I tried to help her. She has a hard life, but she’s not dependent on drugs. I’m certain of that. She comes for dinner once in a while and stays overnight, but she’s like my cats, very independent, choosing her own way. I like her.”

Maggie smiled automatically at Dante’s broad grin as he jogged down the opposite side of the street. “It won’t be long before she loses all respect and then it gets worse.”

Just that bitter edge of her voice told Celeste that Maggie
grieved for someone like Beth. Was it a younger Maggie? Or someone else?

“Beautiful morning,” Celeste said, forcing herself to go slow when there were so many questions leaping to her mind. Maggie was interested in Beth, a tough young girl scarred by life. There was strength in Beth, though, if she’d use it and her sharp mind. Someone had damaged her a long time ago, and Celeste suspected it happened early in life. Beth had said little about her mother, and said she didn’t know her father. “You’ll be having more clients than you can handle later on.”

Maggie wasn’t distracted from her dark mood. “Maybe. It’s sure not too busy now. Try to lengthen your stride, swing your arms.”

Celeste had to play for time. “Maggie, would you mind checking my pulse, please? I feel like my heart is racing right out of my chest.”

She had fifteen seconds to reach gently for Maggie’s ever-present gold locket; Maggie would be multiplying that quarter minute by four. When Maggie held Celeste’s wrist and studied her wristwatch, Celeste slowly touched Maggie’s locket. It wasn’t expensive or special in any way, and yet Maggie was never without it.

“This is lovely,” Celeste said to cover her need to search for answers, to see the pictures. Under the cover of inspecting it closely, she held the locket in her hand, felt the white-hot burn of anger, rich and boiling. She sensed grief so deep that it chilled her, taking away her breath. There was more lurking behind those emotions, so much more, a tangle of happiness and pain.

The clear sunny morning started to fade, and in her mind, Celeste heard children laughing, two happy little girls with coppery hair having a tea party. They looked alike—sisters!

Maggie frowned slightly and moved away, studying Celeste. “Your pulse just leaped and you’re pale. We discussed your medical history before we started. Are you certain you don’t have a heart problem?”

Celeste forced herself not to look at the locket. It still burned her hand, and it was the link to Maggie and the man in the shadows. “I had my checkup and I’m okay. I’m just feeling a little off today. Sometimes when I’m making candles, the scents are too strong in my house overnight, and morning’s fresh air hits me like this.”