Did You Miss Me? (49 page)

Even as her words made him smile, he felt curiously like weeping. He didn’t think he would have cared if they hadn’t been perky or the shape hadn’t been so nice. But she did.
She would have wanted to spare me the loss of
 . . . 
perfection
. Because that’s who she was.
Thank God she doesn’t have to spare me anything
.

It might be a while before she trusted him enough to take off her top. He’d have to show her that the scars didn’t matter. And he had time for that. For now, he was all about making her feel so good that the only anxiety she’d feel was over when they got to do this again.

He reached up, running his finger along one of the places he’d explored while she slept before, lightly caressing her left breast. Now, she froze, her back arched.

Her breath shuddered out. ‘Do that again. Please.’

He complied, gently taking a breast in each hand, tracing his finger across them lightly. Then he pulled her clit into his mouth and sucked as hard as he could and she came apart. Crying out, she jerked against him and he could hear the headboard creak behind him.

She hung there for a minute, breathing hard, trembling. Then she eased back until she straddled his pecs and looked down at his face. She didn’t say anything, just sat there, staring.

‘Daphne?’ he whispered.

Her eyes closed. ‘I thought I’d lost it all. All the feeling.’

‘You didn’t try to see for yourself?’

‘I was too afraid to. All these years and I was afraid to know.’

‘Now you do.’

She opened her eyes and he saw contentment and relief. ‘Thank you, Joseph.’

He grinned despite the throbbing in his groin. ‘You’re welcome.’

She looked back over her shoulder. ‘Wow. All for me?’

‘Yeah, all for you. But you don’t have to feel—’

She cut him off with a look. ‘You aren’t about to say “obligated”, are you? ’Cause that would make me damn mad.’

He had been, but he shook his head. ‘I was going to say “intimidated”.’

She shook her head, a smile on her face. ‘Can we say full of himself?’

He opened his mouth to return the volley, but she was sliding down his body. Then it was his turn to glaze over when she took him in.

All in one stroke, so smooth. Deep. He groaned and lifted his hips, unable to control their movement. Her breathing shattered and she began to move, fluidly, like she’d done this a million times. She fell forward to grip his shoulders and . . . rode him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he told himself to thank Maggie, the next time he saw her, for teaching Daphne to ride. And then he didn’t think at all, giving himself over to the friction, the tightness of her body gripping him, the pleasure of it all.

‘Feels so good,’ he groaned. ‘Don’t stop.’

‘I won’t. I can’t.’

I can’t
. He liked that. He tried to make it last, but even though he’d had her once that night, he was starved. He gripped her hips and pulled her down on him, harder and faster until he bowed, his heels digging into the mattress, his head flung back. She came this time on a quiet moan that was all he needed to hear.

He closed his eyes and followed, letting himself fall.

She melted onto his chest, one hand cupping the back of his neck, the other right over his heart. He wrapped his arms around her, unwilling to let her go.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured into her hair.

She patted his heart. ‘You’re very, very welcome.’

Seconds stretched into minutes. He knew she wasn’t asleep because her forefinger traced lazy circles around his nipple and lightly fussed with the hair on his chest. He had enough energy to press a kiss to the top of her head.

‘Daphne, why the wigs? There’s nothing wrong with your hair.’

‘I hate it,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘Too wild. Won’t behave. Stupid chemo.’

Like waves on a wind-tossed sea. He ran his fingers through the misbehaving locks, enjoying the haphazard way they winged this way and that, as well as the knowledge that he was seeing a Daphne that no one else got to see.
Mine alone
.
‘
What was it like before?’

She was quiet for a moment. ‘Smooth and pretty,’ she said, awake now. ‘But I lost it all. I hated the surgeries, the reconstruction. I hated losing my breasts, but to look in the mirror and be bald . . . I think I hated that more.’

‘So you started wearing the wigs then.’

‘Yes. And I found they did more than hide my bald head. They let me be someone else. For twelve years I’d had Nadine saying an Elkhart does not do this or that. Elkharts don’t swear, they are not loud, they wear respectable clothing. I wanted to do the opposite, so I looked for the biggest, Dolly Parton-est wig I could find and wore it to every single divorce settlement meeting. Nadine was appalled. Ap
palled
, I tell you. It was worth every penny.’

He smiled at the smug satisfaction in her voice. ‘I bet it was. But why did you keep wearing them? Once your hair grew back, I mean.’

‘At first, because I hated the new color.’

‘It changed?’

‘Did it ever. Before the chemo my hair was like cornsilk, white blonde and smooth. When it came back in, it was reddish-brown, this really ugly, muddy color, and really curly. Much curlier than this. And coarse. I’d read about the possibility of color changes so I expected it to be different, but not like that. I cried all the time. Finally Mama and Maggie told me to just keep wearing the wigs. So I did. Eventually it lightened a little, enough to color it blonde. Over time, it got better, softer. Like it is now.’

‘Then why keep wearing the wigs?’

‘Some of it’s convenience. It takes a lot of work to get this hair the way I want it to look for court, and sometimes it doesn’t behave at all. The wigs are a lot faster and that gives me more time for riding in the morning.’

His brows lifted. ‘I like riding in the morning.’

She frowned, then snickered when she caught his innuendo. ‘I bet you do.’

‘If convenience is some of it, what’s the rest?’

She lifted one shoulder in a self-conscious shrug. ‘By the time it started to come back in, I was in law school and people were used to seeing me in the wigs. If I took them off, they would know I’d been wearing one all along. I didn’t want the questions. I didn’t want to call any attention to myself.’

He blinked in disbelief. ‘Daphne, you wore a neon green miniskirt and Dolly Parton hair the day I met you. You
love
calling attention to yourself. But maybe you just like to control the kind of attention you draw.’

Her eyes widened, startled. ‘I hadn’t thought about it that way. I guess that’s true. But it still looks like I stuck my finger into a light socket.’

‘It does not. In fact, the curls are gone now that it’s dry, which is too bad because I liked them. I guess I’ll just have to think of ways to keep you all wet.’

She smiled. ‘I have every confidence in your creativity.’

‘Daphne, your hair is beautiful because it’s yours. It wouldn’t matter to me how it looked. You might wish it looked different, more like it did before, and I understand that. But to me, every misbehaving wave is proof that you’re still here. Same goes for the scars. You fought cancer and you won. They’re like . . . badges of courage.’

She pushed up on her elbow to study his face, her eyes soft. ‘You’re a sentimental fool, aren’t you?’

‘Just telling the truth.’

‘We’ll see how you feel come summer,’ she said with a yawn. ‘The humidity makes these “badges of courage” so damn frizzy, I turn into Bozo the Clown.’

She was already thinking about summer. His heart squeezed hard. The last time he’d planned more than a few weeks out with any woman had been Jo.

I’m happy
. How long had it been since he’d thought those two words? Same answer. Not since Jo.
I’m holding on to this one
.
Nobody will take her away from me
. Not Beckett, not Doug, not Millhouse. Nobody.

He stroked her back until her breathing evened out and she fell asleep. Then he slid out from underneath her, covering her up. He pulled on his jeans and plucked his laptop from the floor.

On his screen were the results of the search he’d started for Wilson Beckett’s death certificate before he and Daphne had gotten so pleasantly distracted.

But what the results said was that there was no death certificate for Wilson Beckett in the county or state records. He ran the search again, with the same result.

On one hand, this was no surprise because Beckett wasn’t dead. Any certificate in the system would have been a fake. But the lack of its existence in the official system raised a different set of questions – where had FBI Agent Claudia Baker obtained the proof of Beckett’s death? And who’d created it to begin with? And if the death certificate didn’t exist, did Agent Claudia Baker?

With a sigh, Joseph typed a quick email to Bo asking him to request the service record of Special Agent Claudia Baker, calling in favors if he had to. Joseph had requested it himself, but he didn’t expect an answer till morning. Bo should have connections that could access personnel records 24/7. Crossing his fingers, he hit send.

I sure as hell hope Baker’s real
. Because if she wasn’t . . . it was going to get very hairy. Because they’d be right back to the question of motive again. Beckett faking his own death had a clear payoff. But who would have motive to fake a federal agent? And what the hell could that motive be?

Wheeling, West Virginia, Thursday, December 5, 12.30
A.M.

Joseph took his laptop into his own hotel room and quietly closed the adjoining door before dialing Grayson on his cell phone. It was answered on the first ring.

‘Joseph,’ Grayson said. ‘What’s happened? How are Daphne and Ford?’

‘Daphne’s okay. Finally went to sleep. Ford’s okay, physically. Deacon’s with him. Daphne told Ford about Kim and he was about like you’d expect. He shut down. Shut her out.’

‘Poor kid. What’s happening with the search for the girl and the cabin?’

‘Called off for the night. It’s snowing here.’

‘Here, too. I could give you a full weather report, but I don’t think that’s why you called,’ Grayson said dryly.

‘No. Where are you?’

‘Just leaving the hospital. I went to see Stevie.’

Something in his brother’s voice gave him pause. ‘I thought she was improving.’

‘She is. They took out the breathing tube. But she’s not talking. She’s not
not
talking, but she’s not complaining or giving orders or anything. She seems depressed, which I guess can be normal after an injury like this, but it’s not like her.’

‘Maynard wasn’t there?’

‘No, he’s with Paige at the wake for Zacharias. I’m on my way over there now to pick her up. Why?’ Suspicion had sharpened Grayson’s voice. ‘Why did you ask . . . No way. Maynard and Stevie? No. Way. Really?’

‘He’s got it bad, but it doesn’t sound like she does. I’m sure Paige can fill you in.’

‘Paige is a bit too discreet, I think. Luckily for me, JD’s a gossip.’

Grayson’s words were pointed and Joseph thought of the lipstick on his face before the video call. ‘If you wanted to know, you could have just asked.’

‘Fine. What’s going on between you and Daphne?’

Joseph was suddenly glad this was not a video call because the stupidest grin had just overtaken his face. ‘It’s good. Really good.’

‘Then I’m glad. I’m really glad. I’ve worried about you for too long.’

‘You can stop, because I’ve got more pressing things for you to help me think through.’ He filled Grayson in on Daphne’s story and how Beckett had terrorized her by ‘popping up’ from time to time.

Grayson had grown very quiet, and when he spoke it was with deadly calm. ‘I hope that when you catch him, he tries to resist.’

So that I can kill him
. ‘I hear you. The bigger problem at the moment, though, is that there is at least one more victim and probably more in the almost thirty years between. I don’t think their suffering has completely filtered through her mind yet.’ And when it did, it would devastate her beyond what Joseph was able to imagine. ‘For twenty years she’s believed Beckett was dead on the say-so of the FBI.’

‘Obviously somebody erred. But Daphne can’t be held responsible for anything he’s done. She tried to turn him in, and believed he was dead.’

‘She’s more concerned with having to explain why she didn’t say anything before she thought Beckett was dead.’

Grayson’s sigh was weary. ‘I wish I could say she’s worried about nothing. I don’t think anyone rational would blame her for what happened, but just having her name in the headlines could hamper her effectiveness in the courtroom. Instead of being the voice of the victims she represents, she’ll become the story. It’ll die down after a while, but it won’t be easy while she’s going through it.’

‘It gets worse,’ Joseph said, looking at his computer screen. ‘I can’t find any death certificate on file for Wilson Beckett in West Virginia, yet Daphne says she’s got a copy in her safety deposit box.’

‘That’s not good.’

‘I know. That’s why I called you. I need help in thinking this through before I tell Daphne. She’s been through enough. I’m certain she didn’t lie about having the copy of the death cert. We have two options.’

‘Clerical error or somebody’s fucking with her,’ Grayson said harshly.

‘That sums it up pretty well. If it’s a clerical error, it could just not be entered into the online system. Still, there would have had to have been a body or a complicit coroner to provide the certificate. I talked with the woman who works in the police archives tonight and she seems to know her stuff. I’m hoping she’ll know if one might have existed twenty years ago when Daphne requested it.’

‘Do you think it’s a clerical error?’

‘No. I think somebody wanted her to believe Beckett was dead.’

‘Who would want that? Beckett himself?’

‘Maybe. She was getting older. By then she was living with the Elkharts. He didn’t have proximity to “pop up” and scare her. He might have thought she’d get brave and report him. But if he falsified the death certificate, it means he knew she’d requested it.’