Vision of Darkness (10 page)

Yes. This was what she wanted. She parted her legs, and his hips settled between them as if they had done this a thousand times, no awkward jostling or rearranging. Her bare legs curled around his. The bulge of his erection probed the wet strip of cotton covering her, and she twisted against him, wanting to be closer, wanting more. He forgot about the sports bra and delved his hands underneath her, gripping her bottom, pushing into her heat. His jeans scraped her bare thighs but—oh, did it feel delicious. She rubbed herself on him, no doubt soaking the front of his jeans with her lube.

With a growl that sounded primal to her fevered brain, Alex shoved himself up and reached for the fly of his pants. He froze midway through undoing the button and looked over the back of the couch toward the foyer.

And, damn him, his control rebounded as if it never slipped—she could almost see the links she’d broken reform and lock tight again. His muscles tensed, coiled like a spring trap. She had a feeling he’d jump into action if she said “boo!”.

She ran a hand down the taut muscles in his thigh. The man looked fine in blue jeans, but she wanted them off. Now. She reached to finish undoing his fly herself. “Don’t stop.”

He shifted his weight backward enough to avoid her hands. “Are you cooking something?”

She blinked. Wow, talk about a subject change. Her mind raced to catch up to the non sequitur, but her body was a little slower to respond. Her panties were soaked through and the spot where his hands had pressed against her butt zinged with erotic heat. Small, excited tremors worked up her legs. Her womb clenched in anticipation of a joining that didn’t look like it was going to happen now.

Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he got enough of a look at her naked body and decided he wasn’t interested in pear-shaped women, turned off by her lumps and bumps and cellulite thighs. The flood of mortified disappointment shook her to her core.

God, how many more times can she make a fool of herself tonight?

“Um, no, I’m not cooking anything.” She tried to keep her voice light despite the lump rising in her throat. Self-conscious, she struggled to sit up and straighten her shirt, but his heavy weight looming over her held her pinned to the couch. “Are you, uh, hungry?”

Duh, she told herself, of course he was hungry. He passed out before dinner, so he probably hadn’t eaten since lunch or before.

“No,” he said and gazed down at her still sprawled underneath him with her nightshirt all twisted around and pulled up to her chin. Heat—embarrassment, not arousal—flushed her skin from her face down and she knew she had to be turning pink. All over. She tried to squirm away.

“At least, not for food,” he added. He let out a vicious curse and got to his feet, adjusting his erection to fit more comfortably in his jeans. “I smell something burning in the kitchen.”

“Fire?” She sat up and caught the faint scent he’d noticed, like a pork roast but with a slight rancid undertone. It was a smell she recognized, one that hung in the air at least once a week.

“Oh.” She huffed out a breath in relief and pressed a hand over her heart before it jumped out of her chest. “That’s Lovie making her dinner. You’ll smell it once in a while. See, it’s already fading.”

Alex stared at her, mouth-hanging open, brows drawn low in such a comical expression that she had to smother a giggle behind her hand.

“Lovie?” he echoed. “Uh, wait.” He closed his eyes, shook his head, opened his eyes and squinted at her like she was a foreign recipe he couldn’t figure out. “Lemme get this straight. Your…ghost…cooks dinner?”

Pru grinned. “Don’t believe me?”

“Ghosts don’t exist.”

She shrugged and pushed to her feet, smoothing her nightshirt into place. She ignored the dampness between her legs and his scent, a dark spice laced with clean soap, clinging to her body. The moment was ruined and now that she thought about it, that was probably a good thing.

“Then c’mon,” she said and crooked a finger at him. “I’ll prove to you I have nothing cooking.” She crossed to the foyer. He still stood by the couch, the button of his jeans undone, his hair mussed, his expression one of disbelief with a hint of annoyance. He was still hard, his jeans ridged from the erection. She pretended not to notice. “Coming?”

“Uh-uh,” he said. “Why don’t you save your parlor tricks for your tourists in the spring and come back in here? Or better yet, we can go to bed.”

Not a good idea. If it wasn’t for The Green Lady, he’d be inside her right now. Most likely, without a condom. She certainly didn’t have any in the house and unless he made a habit of carrying around a just-in-case stash, she doubted he had any either.

How much more reckless could she be? He could have a STD or something and the timing was perfect for her to get pregnant. For the love of God, she didn’t even know his last name.

Thank you, Lovie.  

“Afraid I’ll prove you wrong?”

Alex scowled. “Hell no. I’m not scared.”

“Then come here.” She continued into the dining room and heard the rustle of his jeans, the wood floor creaking under his feet as he followed.

“Pru.” He caught her hand before she entered the kitchen through the swinging door. “Let’s say you really do have a ghost. How about you don’t disturb her? Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping ghosts lie.”

“Ah. Well, the expression is ‘dogs’, Alex. It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, so let’s not disturb Triton, okay?”

“It works for ghosts too,” he muttered.

“You are scared.” She laughed and poked a finger at his chest. The big bad-ass warrior was afraid of Casper. Too cute.

As if he needed to be any more appealing.

“Relax.” She patted his cheek. “Lovie’s harmless. She pulls pranks, that’s all. Here, I’ll show you.” Before he could protest, she folded her fingers around his and shouldered through the kitchen door. “See? Nothing. I told you—”

The room exploded with flames.

CHAPTER 8

Kevin Mallory slipped through the door of Buzzy’s Tavern and frowned at the line of full tables along the back wall.

Seriously? It wasn’t as if Buzzy’s served anything remotely considered edible when sober. Or when drunk, for that matter. Even frying up some halfway decent potatoes was more of a chore than Frank Garrett wanted to deal with. The only thing Buzzy’s owner knew was beer and everything he served was homemade in the microbrewery out behind the building. So why did the handful of tables always fill up first?

Stupid question, Kevin thought and loitered by the busted jukebox, hoping for a table to open up. He didn’t want to sit at the bar for the same reason nobody else sat there. Nosy, meddling women. His mother was sure to come looking when he didn’t return home and the deep shadows shrouding the tables made for a perfect hiding spot.

He was a grown man, for fuck’s sake. If he wanted a drink, he’d drink until he was good and ready to stop. So he’d made that one stupid mistake last year. Ancient history. No reason to ride his ass about it. Let the shit go already.

Grumbling under his breath, Kevin decided on a seat at the far end of the bar, as much in the shadows as he could manage, and ordered a mug of amber ale. He finished off his first glass in three long gulps. With a mother like Helen, a man had to drink to stay sane.

As he set down his mug with a hollow thunk, he caught the stare of a man seated three stools away. Clean-shaven with his hair pulled back in a slick tail, the guy rang a bell of familiarity in Kevin’s brain, but his clothes shouted city. Slacks, a button-up shirt, denim jacket—all stiff and new. Tourist.   

“Hey,” the man said. Even his voice sounded familiar.         

Kevin gave him a cool nod and held up a hand, signaling Frank he was ready for his second round. The man didn’t take the hint. He walked over, slapped a twenty on the bar, and sat beside Kevin.

“This one’s on me.”

Kevin knew better than to protest when someone wanted to buy his alcohol for him, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He took his refilled mug, downed half of it, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Thanks, but this is a townie bar. Most of us don’t take well to outsiders.”

“I know.” And if he didn’t look as pleased as punch by it. “Actually, I’m looking for someone. A man.”

Kevin choked on his next mouthful and nearly spit the ale out. “Whoa, can’t help ya. I’m not a fucking homo.” He started to stand, but the stranger put a hand on his arm and squeezed. Hard.

“I know you can help me.” He pushed aside his coat just enough to show the gun in a shoulder holster underneath.

Kevin swallowed and dropped back to his stool. “I-I can try.”

“Good man.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket. Kevin gulped more ale as he unfolded a photo and placed it on the bar. “Do you know this guy?”

The photo looked military, the man in it young and unsmiling. Marine, judging by the dress uniform. Recognition chimed in Kevin’s mind, but he said, “Nope,” and took another deep swig from his mug. It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t personally know the man who had popped up in town a couple days ago, the one Pru was now involved with.

The stranger cleared his throat. A subtle sound, but a definite warning. “Now, Kevin, I think you’re lying to me. Not a good thing to do, considering what I know about you.”

This crazy mother knew his name? Kevin went cold down to the bone as beer swirled around in his stomach, threatening to come back up. Droplets of sweat rolled down his spine. Oh, shit. What else did he know?

“I’m not lying. I swear, I don’t know him.” He licked his dry lips. “But I’ve seen him. He’s older now than in that picture. Mid-thirties. Hair’s longer too. I know his first name’s Alex, but that’s it. I swear.”

The stranger gave a slow smile and folded the picture in half once, then again. “So he’s definitely here in town?”

“Yes. Showed up yesterday, I think.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No.” 

“Tsk. Not the answer I wanted to hear, Kev.” The stranger pulled out a cell phone and thumbed the power button. Reception was spotty in Three Churches, but Buzzy’s was one place in town where the signal was good. “Maybe I should just call the state troopers. I’m sure they’d love to know all about—”

“Wait, please.”

The stranger paused with his thumb poised over the buttons.

Kevin drew in a deep breath to keep his stomach from revolting. “I-I really don’t know where that guy’s staying. Honest. But I know how you can find him.”

The stranger nodded and slid the phone back into his pocket. “Good.” He slung his arm over Kevin’s shoulders as if they were old pals. “Let’s go have a chat, hmm?”

CHAPTER 9

“So you didn’t see or hear anything beforehand?”

Seething with frustration, Alex wanted to punch out Sheriff Bernard Forbes, find Pru in the chaos of cops and volunteer firemen swarming her front yard, and make sure she was okay.

Instead, he reined it all in and rubbed his hands over his head. He sat on the hood of the sheriff’s cruiser, his feet balanced on the front bumper, and suspected he was lucky not to be in the backseat. He was trying to be cooperative, but dammit, why wouldn’t the sheriff let him see Pru?

“Lookit, sheriff,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “I already told you a hundred times. I heard footsteps running down the stairs and the front door slammed shut about an hour before the fire started. It must have been on a timing mechanism to go off when Pru opened the kitchen door.”

“But you don’t recall seein’ anyone?”

“I don’t.”

A man in a turnout coat walked out of the house with a helmet tucked under one arm. He motioned to Forbes. They moved away from the police car and spoke in undertones for several moments. Forbes jerked in surprise. The fireman shrugged.

The sheriff finally nodded and returned to Alex. “Firemen have been through the place top to bottom. There’s no timing mechanism, no accelerant, no burn marks. No fire.” He spit a wad of tobacco on the ground and his eyes narrowed. “So who did you say you are again?”

Alex ignored the question. “That’s not possible. I saw a fire. I felt the heat.” He rubbed the back of his neck where the fire had scorched his hair. He’d thought for sure he’d have a good burn there, but the paramedics gave him a clean bill of health.

“And yet neither of you are burned,” Forbes pointed out. “I’d really like to see some ID now.”

Alex reached for his wallet, remembered it wasn’t in his pocket. “It’s in my room.”

A deputy called Forbes’s name. He held up a finger, classic give-me-a-sec gesture. “Go get it. But don’t think about sneaking away.”

Yeah, right. Like he would take off and leave Pru to deal with this alone.

On his way upstairs, Alex took a side-trip to the kitchen to see it for himself. He steeled his nerves before shoving through the door, half-expecting another explosion, but the kitchen was quiet and empty. He studied the doorframe and ceiling, both of which should be a burned out shell now. Not even a speck of dust on them.

How was that possible?

Alex ran his palm over the frame and pain cleaved through his left side as if someone had jabbed a knife into his kidney. The room tilted and shifted before his eyes, reality softening into something like a dream. A man lay face down on the kitchen floor, blood pooling under him, a knife protruding from his side. Flames leapt up the wall over the stove and licked the ceiling.

Alex could feel the heat on his face and arms, felt blood leaking through his hand from a wound he didn’t have. He gasped and scrambled backwards, banging into the door, nearly falling on his ass in the dining room.

The door swung shut and everything popped into sharp focus. The pain in his side ebbed, replaced with a pounding inside his skull. The heat of the flames faded.

Panting, Alex straightened and looked around the dark dining room. A plastic sheet covered the table. Half the floor was torn up and slats of wood flooring sat in a neat stack along the back wall. Looked normal, smelled normal, felt normal—except for his heart thudding in his ears. He gave the door to the kitchen a nudge with his palm. It swung open.

No man bleeding out on the floor. No flames. No burn marks.

Not possible. Not possible. Not possible.

Shaking his head, he backed away until he reached the foyer and then bolted upstairs for his wallet.

***

Pru wrapped her hands around the thermos of coffee one of the firemen had given her and huddled under a thin blanket. She didn’t know who gave her the blanket, having still been in a state of shock when it was draped over her shoulders, but she was grateful for it. The cold nipped at her bare arms and legs and she wasn’t crazy about the idea of half the town seeing her in her nightshirt. She curled her knees up to her chest and hugged the cover more securely around herself.

Triton sat next her, pressing against her leg. As she moved, he whimpered and scooted closer, snuggling under the blanket with her. She patted his head, reassuring him and herself they were both okay.

“I really think you need to leave this lighthouse.” Rhett paced in front of her, his tan deputy sheriff uniform looking as if he’d slept in it. She wondered if he was at Miranda’s before the call came in or if he’d warmed someone else’s sheets tonight. Probably someone else. If he was at Miranda’s, she would be here right now wrapping Pru up in one of her big hugs.

Tears blurred Pru’s vision and she swiped at them before they leaked out. God, she wished Miranda was here. She could really use one of those hugs and Miranda would know just what to say to make her feel better.

“Rhett, please. Don’t start this again. Not tonight.” 

“I’m not saying the ghost story’s true,” Rhett continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “But I do know it’s not good for you, not good for anybody to live here. It sucks the sanity out of people. Look what happened to Cappy Putnam.”

“Cappy was old. He had Alzheimer’s. He lived here for years and nothing happened to him.” She was tired of defending her decision to live at the lighthouse. Even Grandma Mae disapproved and she was sick to death of it. “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a house. I’m staying.”

He paced away from her, gave a growl of frustration, and circled back. “I don’t like this.”

Oh, the nerve of this man! Did he seriously think that his opinion still mattered to her?

“I don’t care,” she said. “You have no say over what I do. You never did. That’s why we broke up. You wanted a pregnant and barefoot wifey waiting at home for you and I wanted to go to Le Cordon Bleu in Boston.”

His face reddened. A vein throbbed in his temple. “Yeah, and that was a huge waste of time and money. Look where you ended up, waitressing at Mae’s where you started.”

The barb stung. She sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut, shuddering at the pain it caused.

“Go away.” She hated herself for the wobble in her voice, but a lump had lodged in her throat and talking around it was almost impossible. It was all she could do not to burst into tears in front of him. “Just leave me alone.” 

“I can’t. I have to get your statement.” Rhett took off his hat, ran a hand through his blond hair. He looked at the front of the house as the screen door banged. Alex disappeared inside and the sheriff strode toward the backyard with another deputy.

“What do you know about this guy staying with you?” Rhett said and replaced his hat.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead with her fingers. “I know what your problem is. You’re jealous of him.”

“Damn right I’m jealous!” He leaned into her space and trapped her on the bumper of the ambulance with his hands on her thighs. “I sit by your bedside and take care of you every time you have one of your mental breakdowns and I barely get a peck on the cheek for it.”

She stared at him, appalled. The man was a jackass, but this was even lower than she thought he’d stoop. “Did you expect payment?”

“Nobody else wanted to take care of poor, unstable Pru.”

She flinched. Another stinging blow. He knew right where to aim them. “Fine. I’ll get my checkbook.”

His hands tightened, fingers digging into her bare flesh as he dragged her closer. Triton growled. Such a good boy, but completely ineffective. Everyone knew Triton was about as much of a threat as a bunny.

Rhett ignored the dog. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” she snapped. “And I may be unstable but I’m not a whore so get your hands off me.”

He removed his hands, but didn’t back up. The look in his eyes made her shiver. Cold. So very cold. And—hurt? No. He couldn’t really care enough to be hurt by her rejection. Most likely, his ego had taken the brunt of the blow.

“Oh, you’re not a whore,” he said, skepticism rich in his voice. “Then explain to me why you’re cozying up to a guy you just met.”

“God.” She shoved him and stood, pacing away just to put some distance between them. “Get it through your head, Rhett. Who I cozy up to is none of your concern.”

Rhett surged toward her. She shrank back. Triton, the dear thing, barked a warning then cowered inside the ambulance.

“Swithin,” Sheriff Forbes called from the side of the house. “Over here. Now.”

“Yeah. Coming.” Rhett looked at her for several long seconds, his jaw tight. “I don’t trust this Alex guy.” 

He walked away. She exhaled and grabbed her dog around the neck in a tight hug. Triton licked the tears off her cheek.

***

Had to be a logical explanation for what happened here tonight, Alex thought and grabbed his ID from his wallet on the nightstand.

Yeah, man, there is,
his inner cynic taunted.
You’re going bat-shit crazy just like Theo, just like Mom, just like Granddad. Crazy runs thick in your blood, pal. Doesn’t get much more logical than that.

No. He banished the idea from his thoughts. He’d find Pru as soon as he got the sheriff off his back and she’d confirm that the first fire was not a figment of his imagination. He couldn’t figure out how to explain away the second fire he’d seen or the man bleeding out in the middle of the kitchen yet, but he would.

He was not crazy.

Maybe a stress-induced hallucination? He’d seen it happen to friends in combat.

As Alex headed for the hallway, uneasiness stole over his skin, raising the hairs on his forearms. He stopped moving.

God, something was wrong in this place. Not just the in lighthouse, which was creepy as all hell, but in the entire damn town. He’d had the feeling since he rolled to a stop at that red light by the diner. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his instincts were rarely wrong and every alarm bell in his mind clanged in warning.

Alex hesitated, glanced back at his wallet, lying open on the bed where it had landed when he tossed it. He looked at his license. Real name. Real address. His DOB. A quick background check with that info would reveal his connection to the DEA, as well as some—not all, thank God—of his military background. That, he decided, was not something he wanted floating around town.

He strode to the bed and slid his other ID out of one of the credit card slots of his wallet. Alexander Locke. Security consultant with a specialization in knocking heads, money launderer, recreational cocaine user, and all-around jackass.

Goddammit. When he left Boston, he thought that guy was gone for good. He’d enjoyed being himself for the first time in a long time and dreaded slipping back into Locke’s slimy skin, but it felt safer than revealing his law enforcement background.   

Using the Locke ID was a risk, no doubt about it. It’d be smarter to get in touch with some of his shadier buddies from the military—Kai or Malcolm—and have one of them get him a new, squeaky-clean ID, but he didn’t have time for that. He had to work with what he had, and he had either his real name or his UC name.

He grabbed his duffle, yanked out his clothes and the fabric-covered cardboard bottom. He’d had a thin pocket sewn into the lining of this bag long ago, perfect for concealing multiple IDs. He slipped his license into the pocket, followed by anything in his wallet with his real name or address on it, and then replaced the bottom and his clothes in the bag. Ran his hand around the bag, checking to be sure none of the cards stood out in the lining. Perfect.

One last thing. Alex sprinted downstairs to grab his gun. He had to root around before finding it between the table and the couch—he and Pru must have knocked it off when things got hot-and-heavy. It was registered to him, not Locke, so he couldn’t have anyone running the serial number. He took it and his back-up piece into the unfinished bathroom off his room and wedged them into a crevasse where the tile of the corner shower stall met the bare wall studs. He moved some insulation over them with his foot. Good enough. It’d do until he could find a more secure, better accessible place to stash them.

Satisfied, Alex snapped up his wallet and headed downstairs to find Pru.

She sat on the bumper of an ambulance hugging her dog, a blanket draped over her shoulders to fend off the chill of the October night. Alex was still only in jeans, though he did think enough to pull on his boots. Cold didn’t bother him. The military had hardened him to the elements a long time ago.

“Pru.”

She jumped and lifted her head from Triton’s neck, stared at him with dazed eyes. There was a small cut above her eyebrow, the skin around it inflamed and starting to bruise. His heart constricted.

“Oh, hey.” He dropped to his knees in front of her. To his surprise, his hand shook as he raised it to her cheek. His hand—that had ended more lives than he cared to count, that had stitched together his own flesh as well as a couple of Nick’s wounds, that had coolly traded drugs with Boston’s most notorious and dangerous criminals during the last two years of living undercover—was
quivering.