High Noon (30 page)

Energized silk, he thought. Everything about her was smooth, soft, everything inside her so avid with purpose.

She let out a gasping laugh when he flipped her onto her back. Then a low purr of pleasure as his hands, his lips began to roam over her. Slowly now, he slid the skirt down her hips, her legs, following the movement with his mouth. The inside of her thigh, so firm and warm. The back of her knee, sensitive enough to cause quivers.

And when he retraced the route, and found her center, she went from quiver to quake.

Pleasure, dark and deep, swamped her. Sensation powered into sensation in a roaring, raging river. She tumbled into it, drowned in it until he dragged her gasping to the surface only to plunge her down again.

She rolled with him, hands slipping, sliding over flesh damp with sweat; her mouth, frantic, greedy, seeking his. Until at last, at last, she straddled him again, took him in. Deep, deep as hearts thundered. Their bodies locked.

She rode him hard and long. His hands gripped her hips as she bowed forward or back. The sheer beauty of that shape, that silhouette, shimmered in his mind while the stunning drive of need ruled his body.

And all of it was her. There was nothing but her when he shot blindly over that last jagged edge.

When she collapsed on him, simply fell limb by limb, he managed one final groan.

“I forgot—” She had to stop to wheeze in another breath.

“I didn't—I remembered that time. One suit off, another suit on.”

She let out a weak laugh. “No, not that—good memory, by the way. I was going to say I forgot how much I like sex.”

He rested his forehead on her shoulder and hoped that, eventually, his brain would find its way back home. “Happy to remind you, as often as possible.”

“Oh God, Duncan, I'd give almost anything for a glass of water. A half glass. One swallow.”

“Okay, okay, don't beg. It's embarrassing.” He rolled her over, and she kept going until she was splayed on her belly.

“You're my hero,” she mumbled into the pillow, and drifted off. A faint smile curved her lips as she heard him walking back into the bedroom.

Then she leaped in shock as the ice water hit the center of her back.
“Duncan!”

“What?” He stood, an innocent smile on his face, the glass in his hand. “You said you wanted water. You didn't say where you wanted it.”

Eyes narrowed, she got to her knees, held out a hand. She took a long sip. Then, with a half laugh, reached out to tug his hair. “Very funny.” She tugged him again until his lips met hers.

Then poured the rest of the water over his head.

Phoebe leaned over
after Duncan stopped the car. “Thank you for going with me.” She kissed him lightly. “Thank you for the sex. And thank you for the ride home.”

“You're welcome. And on the second part? Pretty much anytime.”

“An additional thank-you.” She brushed his lips one more time. “For understanding I have to get myself home earlier than Cinderella most of the time.”

He trailed a finger around her ear. “If I buy you some glass slippers, do you think we could arrange a sleepover?”

With a laugh, she got out of the car. “You know, I was talking myself into backing off this—whatever this is—with you.”

“Oh?” He got out so they stood for a moment, studying each other on opposite sides of the car. “Why is that?”

“I'm trying to remember. I had my reasons. Duncan, I'm resistant to being swept away.”

“I'll leave the broom in the closet.”

Too late, she thought. Much too late. “You're better at this than I am.”

“At what?”

“At whatever this is.”

Lights sparkled over in Forsythe Park, and there were soft pools of shadows along the street. Ava's flowers perfumed the air that threatened to turn sultry. Through the open windows of a passing car Delta Blues throbbed like a broken heart.

Here she stood, Phoebe thought, looking over at a man who excited her so she noticed those small details she often overlooked. So that those details were like colorful backdrops in Act Three of her personal play.

And she was fretting over it because she wasn't absolutely certain how the play would end.

“Did you ever get your heart broken? No, don't answer that now,” she said quickly. “That may be one of those long stories, and I have to get inside.”

“Go out with me tomorrow night, and I'll tell you all about the many shattered pieces of my abused heart.”

“How much of it will you be making up?”

“You'll have to go out with me to find out.”

“You're just a little too appealing for my own good.” She let out a sigh, glanced back at the house. “I can't tomorrow—shouldn't. I don't like to spend too many evenings away.”

“Pick a night.”

“Don't you know about playing hard to get?”

He walked around to her. “I'm not playing.”

Her heart took a hard bump. “No, you're not. I…well.” Flustered, she glanced back at the house again. “This week is a little difficult. Carly's school play is Thursday night, and there's a school holiday on Friday, so—”

“Can I go?” He eased a little closer and touched her. Just fingertips sliding down her arms until she wanted to shiver and sigh. “To the play.”

She managed a laugh. “Oh, trust me, you don't want to sacrifice yourself on the altar of an elementary school play.”

“Sounds like fun.” Sensing nerves, he smiled. Wasn't she the most
interesting,
contradictory woman? “
Cinderella,
right? Wicked stepsister.”

“How do you know that?”

“Essie told me. Thursday night. What time?”

“Seven, but—”

“Seven's curtain? Should I meet you there, or come by and pick y'all up? Plenty of room for you and Carly, Ava and…Essie can't go,” he realized, and his easy humor faded. “That must be hard, must be hard for her.”

“Yes, it is. Very hard. We're getting it videotaped, but it's not the same. Duncan, if you really want to go—and that's very sweet—you should just meet us. I have to get Carly there an hour ahead, for costumes and such. I'll get you a ticket, leave it out front for you. But you don't have to feel obligated.”

Don't feel obligated, he thought, intrigued when she backed up a step. He decided on the spot that wild horses wouldn't keep him from a Thursday night date with Cinderella. “I don't think I've ever been to a kiddie school play.”

“You must've been in one.”

“I was once a belching frog. And I have a vague recollection of being a turnip once, or maybe it was a radish. But it was so traumatic, I've blocked it out. Y'all got any plans for the weekend?”

“Ah, we're working out a Saturday playdate with Carly's current best friend. Details are not finalized.”

“Great. Maybe they can do me a favor. Family fun center. Play-world? Heard of it?”

“Been there, yes.”

“Did Carly like it? Hate it? See I'm thinking about investing, but I haven't decided whether to go into an established place like that or maybe do something new. Fresh. We could go on Saturday. Kid-test it.”

She stared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. “You want to spend your Saturday in an amusement center with a couple of little girls?”

“You make that sound just a little perverted. Actually, more than a couple of little girls would be better. I've been tugging on Phin to bring Livvy into it, and maybe some of the others. You up for that?”

“I imagine Carly would be delighted. Why an amusement center?” she asked as she turned toward the house.

“Ah, well, fun would be the primary factor. If you're going to—Hold it.” He grabbed her arm, pulled her back.

Over the top step in the wash of the house light, the carcass of a dead rabbit drooped. The ruff around its neck was matted with dried blood that shone black against the brown fur.

“Oh, God, not again. I need to—Don't just
touch
it,” Phoebe snapped out, “with your hands.”

“I use my hands instead of my feet for touching. Just a quirk.” He lifted it by its hind legs. “What do you mean, not again?”

Because her stomach pitched, Phoebe gave herself permission to look away. “Let me get something. A bag, a box. Jesus. Take it around to the courtyard, would you? I'll be right there.”

She dashed into the house while Duncan frowned at the rabbit. Wasn't mauled, he mused as he studied it. It sure as hell didn't strike him as roadkill. He'd given up hunting after his first and only foray into that area on a trip with a couple of friends as a teenager.

He'd liked the gun—the feel, the sound, even the jolt—but he hadn't much cared for what it could do when the target was flesh and blood.

If he had to guess, the rabbit had been shot, small caliber. But why anyone would shoot a rabbit and toss it on Phoebe's steps was a mystery.

He carried it through the courtyard gate just as she rushed out with a plastic grocery bag. “We need to put it in here.”

“You want to tell me why Bugs ended up dead on your steps?”

“I don't know, but I'm going to have to build a damn graveyard if this keeps up. This is joining the rat I found out here a couple weeks ago, and the snake on the steps a few days ago.”

“You had any altercations with any of the neighborhood boys?”

“No. I ran that one down already. I don't think the local hellions are responsible. Put that thing down, will you?”

As he heard distress as well as disgust, Duncan eased the corpse into the bag. “I think you're going to want to take this one in—to forensics or whatever. I'm pretty sure it's got a bullet in it.”

She let out a long breath. “I'll deal with it in the morning. Come inside, wash your hands.”

He'd go inside, Duncan thought, but washing a little dead rabbit off his fingers wasn't primary.

He followed her in, stepped to the kitchen sink. “Got any beer?” he asked.

“No. Yes. I don't know.”

After drying his hands, he simply walked to the refrigerator, opened it. Mostly girl food, as he thought of it. Lots of fruit, fresh vegetables, cartons of yogurt, skim milk. Why did anyone want to skim milk? A question for another time.

He didn't find any beer, but pulled out an open bottle of California chardonnay. “Glasses?”

“Oh.” She pushed at her hair as she turned to a cabinet. It was manners that had her reaching for glasses, he thought. She'd have been happier if he'd dried his hands and said good night. So she could think, and so she could handle whatever was going on herself.

Tough for her, he decided. He wasn't built that way.

He poured the wine himself, sat at the little table. Which, he knew, left her trapped by those manners into sitting down with him.

“I appreciate you dealing with that,” she began. “I hate knowing I'm squeamish enough to balk at doing it myself.”

“Who dealt with the rat?”

“Well, I did—with a lot of embarrassing squealing and shuddering. I called Carter about the snake. That, apparently, went over my level.”

“Have you reported this?”

She puffed out her cheeks. “I assumed that some cat dumped the rodent out in the courtyard. I didn't think about it. I initially thought the same about the snake, until Carter said its head was crushed, which is when I had a talk with the mother of the leader of the neighborhood hellions. But it wasn't him. Neither was this. So, yes, I'll take that thing in tomorrow, and I'll report it and have it checked out.”

“Anyone got any reason to hassle you other than Meeks?”

She took a sip of wine. “You're quick.”

“Not a big leap, Phoebe. Sounds like this Arnie needs a talking-to.”

Not just quick, she realized. Furious. Quietly, coldly and absolutely furious. “A talking-to isn't what you mean, and it isn't for you. It isn't,” she said firmly. “I find the sentiment…Well, to be honest, I don't quite know how I find the sentiment, but we'll come back to that sometime. The point is, if indeed Arnie Meeks needs a talking-to, it's best done in an unofficially official way. If you go getting in his face asmy…”

“We're going to have to come up with a term,” Duncan said dryly, “as you object to ‘boyfriend.'”

“Anyway, it'd put his back up and it makes me look weak. If he's doing this, I can't afford to look weak, I can't give him the satisfaction of believing it's given me any particular bad moments.”

“But it has.”

“I wish I could say otherwise. I think…”

“Think what?”

She drank again. She wasn't used to talking to anyone about her own business. Not difficult business. The priority was to keep the house a safe zone. “I think there might've been someone watching the house. I caught a glimpse a couple of times, or more heard. He whistles.”

“Sorry? He whistles?”

“I know, it sounds odd and off. But I think someone's been around the neighborhood a few times, walking by the house, whistling this same tune. If it's Meeks—and I didn't get a close enough look to say, either way—he's taking a huge chance for more payback. He might've put a friend up to it, or paid someone. But it's a big and foolish risk.”

“He got a big kick in the ass. Could be worth it to him. These things can escalate, can't they?”

“They can, of course.” She glanced up, seeing in her mind's eye her family tucked safe away for the night. “I'm not discounting the possibility. I'll talk to the people I need to, first thing in the morning.”

“I can bunk here. Spare room, spare couch.”

“That's a nice offer. But if you do, I'd have to explain it in the morning. At this point, I don't want to give anyone, especially my mother, something more to worry about. She's holding. My getting hurt, and then the shooting, those were hard knocks for her. I don't think she's been out in the courtyard for the last few days. I can't stand to think she'll lose that, too.”

Duncan studied his glass, had another long sip of wine. “I believe I've had too much to drink. I don't think I should drive. As a duly authorized officer of the law, and as my current hostess, you should discourage me from doing so.”

Those soft blue eyes, those clear and sober eyes, met hers. “It's as simple as that, Phoebe, if you let it be.”

“I don't know why men think women can't defend themselves or their home.”

He only smiled. “Do I need to explain the power of the penis to you—so soon after you've experienced its wonder?”

She tapped her fingers on the table. “You can have Steve's—Ava's son's—room for the night. But if it's all the same to you, we won't use your drunken behavior as the reason. It just got late, and seemed easier for you to stay than to drive all the way back to the island.”

“Fine. We'll save my drunken behavior for another occasion. Can I ask something that's none of my business?”

“As long as the answer can be that's none of your business, sure you can.”

“Is Essie getting any therapy?”

“She was,” Phoebe said on a long sigh. “As it's difficult, even with agoraphobia, to get a therapist who'll make house calls, most of it was by phone. There were regular weekly phone sessions for a while, and she tried medications. We thought she was making progress.”

“But?”

“Her therapist encouraged her to go out. Just ten minutes, outside the house, to somewhere familiar. They picked Forsythe Park. She'd just walk over to the fountain and back home. She made it over, she got over, and then had a major panic attack. One of the fears is being caught in public, or embarrassed in public, or trapped. She couldn't get her breath, couldn't find her way back. I'd gone after her. I watched her walk over, and went out behind her when she was nearly out of sight. So it took me a while to get to her once she panicked.”

She could see it, still see it perfectly. Her mother terrified and disoriented, and her own heart banging in her chest as she sprinted over pavement and grass, pushed aside stunned tourists to reach her.

“She was gasping for air, and running. She fell. It was terrible for her. People were trying to help her, but it scared her so much, humiliated her so much.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I got her back. Held on tight, had her close her eyes, and I walked her back. She hasn't been beyond the courtyard since. That was four years ago. She wouldn't go back into therapy afterward. Gets testy about it,” Phoebe added with a little smile. “She's fine in the house. She's happy in the house. Why can't we leave her alone? So we do. I don't know if it's the right thing, but we do.”