Still Lake (13 page)

Well, it was more than a moment, she thought fairly. And
pleasure
was a pretty tame word for what she'd just experienced. If he just said something sweet to her. Something gentle, something even mildly flattering.

“Shit,” he said, and pushed away from her, rising from the floor.

She could feel the scratch of the rug beneath her back. She could feel the chill returning to her overheated skin. She could feel the worst shame she'd ever felt in her life. Not shame that she'd finally done this. But that he'd walked away from her, cursing.

She heard a door close in the darkness, heard the water running. She didn't hesitate. She practically
sprang to her feet and had to steady herself on a nearby piece of furniture as her legs wobbled beneath her.

She had to get out of there, fast. She didn't know which of them would be more embarrassed, and she wasn't about to find out. All she knew was that she had to escape before he said “shit” one more time.

It was getting light outside. She didn't let the screen door slam. Her nightgown was on the floor of the porch, and she grabbed it and ran into the murky, predawn light, pulling it on as she went.

She half expected to hear him calling after her, but no sound emanated from the old cottage. She'd escaped, and he could only be grateful. No morning-after recriminations or difficult small talk. Hell, with luck he'd leave town after that debacle.

Maybe
debacle
was the wrong word for it. He certainly hadn't been happy to find out that she was still technically a virgin, but it hadn't seemed to slow him down any. Still, it must be embarrassing to face someone you unwittingly deflowered. He'd probably rather leave town. Or at least she could hope so.

She felt close to tears by the time she reached the open expanse of lawn in front of the inn. The day was getting brighter—it must be after five. Not that anyone in the house would be waking to ask her embarrassing questions. Both Grace and Marty liked their beauty sleep.

Sophie walked down to the water's edge, stepping out onto the dock. It was too early even for the most devoted of fishermen, and if they came by she didn't care. She dropped her unbuttoned nightgown onto the dock, looking down at her body.

There was blood between her thighs. Well and truly de-virginized, she thought, and she dove into the lake, a neat, clean surface dive that barely made a ripple in the still, cool water.

 

She was gone, of course. He should have known she'd run like a scared rabbit, Griffin thought, cursing. Hell and damnation, he couldn't even have two minutes in the bathroom without her taking off into the woods like a ravished virgin.

Which, in fact, was exactly what she was. How in the world did someone with a body like hers make it into her twenties without ever getting laid? Had she spent years in a convent or on some deserted island? What was wrong with the men she'd met, that no one had taken advantage of that sweet mouth and delectably lush body?

It wasn't as if she'd put up a hell of a fight. He liked women, liked sex, and he knew perfectly well when a woman was attracted to him, even if she didn't want to be. Sophie Davis couldn't keep her eyes off him, in between snapping at him, and all he'd had to do was taste her mouth this afternoon to know he could have her.

He hadn't been in any particular rush to do anything about it, but she'd shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, dressed in that ridiculous nightgown, and he was hardly a man to refuse such an unexpected gift. So he'd taken her, she'd been willing, and he had no reason to feel guilty. Though why in hell she was still a virgin was beyond his comprehension.

He couldn't figure out why she hadn't told him. Maybe she'd tried and he'd been too busy concentrating on getting inside her to listen. And if she had told him, what would he have done? Been noble, had second thoughts, put her away from him and forswear being a cad?

Like hell. He probably would have made it all the way up to the bed instead of taking her fast and hot on the rug like a horny teenager, but that was about the limit of his self-control. The moment she'd appeared out of the woods he'd known this was going to happen, and nothing was going to stop it.

It was a mistake, and her being a virgin had nothing to do with it. From now on she'd be so skittish around him he'd have an even harder time getting into the old inn. He'd screwed things up big time, and if he had any sense at all he'd keep his mind and his hands off his neighbor. He should be kicking himself. In fact, though, she'd almost been worth it.

Of course she'd run off, refusing to face him. She was probably crying, probably hating him. That, or
even worse, she'd decided she was in love with him. He shuddered at the thought. That was the last thing he needed at a time like this. Women tended to be sentimental, particularly when it was their first lover, and she'd probably convince herself it was the romance of the century that made her give up what she'd been hoarding for too damned long.

She'd be hard put to fashion a romance out of this, he thought, pulling his abandoned cutoffs back on. He stared down at the rug, trying to imagine her lying there beneath him. The early morning light was creeping in the cottage window, creating strange shadows. With his luck the lugubrious Kings would show up on his doorstep. At least they hadn't walked in on him and Sophie.

He went to the kitchen and made himself a pot of coffee. He'd actually been looking forward to stretching out in the bed upstairs with Sophie and taking his time. A virgin deserved more than a quick tumble and a good orgasm, and he'd intended to take care of her properly once he got her upstairs. He should have realized she'd run, and he now had no interest in going back to bed alone. Maybe he'd take a nap later on. Maybe Sophie would find some excuse to come back and yell at him, and they could take a nap together.

He took his coffee out to the porch and sat with his legs propped on the railing, watching the lake. He reached for his glasses. Someone was out swim
ming at that hour, someone at the beach next door. It didn't take much to figure out who it was.

He rose and strolled down to the edge of the water where he could get a better glimpse of her. She swam well, slicing through the water with an elegant economy of motion. He shivered, remembering Lorelei, dead in his arms, weighted down by the water.

Lorelei hadn't been able to swim. She'd been childishly nervous about the lake. It had always bothered him that that was where the killer had dumped her body. He only hoped she was dead before she hit the water. She wouldn't have wanted to feel the cold wet darkness closing over her….

He spun around, heading back to the porch. He didn't want to think about Lorelei and how she died. Not right now. That was what he was here to find out, to see if he'd had anything to do with it. But for just a few hours he'd rather think about Sophie. And the deliciously erotic squeaking noises she made when she came.

 

He was watching her, and in the darkness he wept. Whore of Satan, with her virgin's blood staining her thighs. The waters of Still Lake wouldn't wash the sin from her. It would take his hand to do it.

He had never shunned his duty, and he wouldn't this time. Sophie Davis had given herself over to the
wickedness of the flesh, and there was no hope for her. He would cleanse her body and her soul. And she would enter the kingdom of God, purified.

He just had to decide when.

He watched her move back up the lawn, her nightgown wrapped around her wet body. In the early morning light he could see her quite clearly, the calm determination on her pale face. If she'd shown remorse he might have hesitated. But there were no tears, no regret. She had sinned, and she must suffer the consequences.

Much as it pained his heart to do it. She would die, and be born again in rapture. He only had to decide when to act. And how much to make it hurt.

T
he buzz was insistent, ripping into Sophie's fog-shrouded sleep. It had all been a dream, she thought. An erotic, unsuitable, thoroughly enjoyable dream that she wouldn't have to give a second thought to. Her body felt lazy and luscious and utterly relaxed, and if erotic dreams did that to her every night, then she'd make a habit of fantasizing about men, even one as unsuitable as her unwelcome neighbor.

It was the phone, but she wasn't going to answer it. She was going to stay in the nice cozy afterglow of her sexy dream and enjoy herself, and someone else could either get the phone or the answering machine would take care of it.

It stopped, abruptly, and she figured the machine must have picked up. After all, she always got up hours before Grace and Marty did, and why should today be any different? Apart from the fact that she'd had a dream that had been so luscious it had been downright embarrassing….

She slid down in the bed, and then froze. She wasn't wearing a nightgown. She never slept nude—she just couldn't feel comfortable without some kind
of clothing on. Gracey had always been a bit of an exhibitionist in her own nudity, and Sophie had reacted by being prudish. Fortunately in her currently foggy state Grace had decided to stay decently clothed, but the aversion had lingered with Sophie.

But there was no doubt she was naked in bed. And her hair was damp. She turned over and squinted at the alarm clock, then let out a squeak of horror. It was after ten o'clock. She never slept that late, even when she was sick.

There was a sudden rapping on her door, and she jumped nervously as her sister's sharp voice called out to her. “Phone's for you, sleepyhead. And you've got a visitor downstairs.”

“Shit.” The reaction was instinctive, and immediately more details began to flood her mind. It
was
a dream, wasn't it? She couldn't have been so stupid. And if it wasn't, then that was probably John Smith downstairs, and how was she going to face him…?

“Phone,” Marty said irritably, then she stomped off down the corridor.

Sophie sat up, groaning. She was most definitely naked, and her hair smelled like the lake. Her hand was shaking when she picked up the phone, but she managed to keep her voice steady and businesslike.

“Yes?”

“I think you already said yes.” He sounded cool and faintly ironic.

She almost slammed down the phone, but at the last minute pride stopped her. Okay, so it wasn't an erotic dream. He must have drugged her.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said in a frosty voice. It was a weak defense, but the only one she could come up with at the last minute.

He laughed. If his reaction hadn't been so annoying it might have sounded sexy. Sophie wasn't in the mood to find anything sexy.

“If that's the way you want to play it,” he said amiably enough. “I just have one question.”

“And that is?” she said icily.

“If you were saving it for so long, why'd you give it to me?”

She slammed the phone down.

The day went from hideously awful to even worse. Marty was lying in wait for her when she dragged herself downstairs, probably wondering why John Smith was calling her, wondering why she'd slept in. Sophie ignored her, heading straight for coffee, only to come face-to-face with Doc in her kitchen, peering at her from beneath his bushy white eyebrows, his kindly eyes worried.

Grace was the worst of all, of course. “He's a very handsome young man, our neighbor,” she said artlessly as she poured more and more sugar into her coffee. Grace always drank her coffee black, without sugar. Doc finally realized what she was do
ing and he took the sugar bowl away from her, putting it out of reach and patting her hand.

“He's not that young,” Sophie said with just a trace of a snarl. Marty had made the coffee, and it was too weak, on a morning when she needed the strongest coffee known to man.

“Just right for you, darling,” Grace said with a dreamy smile. “He'd look after you, keep you safe.”

“Why would Sophie need anyone to keep her safe?” Doc asked. “She strikes me as someone who can look after herself.”

“I certainly can,” Sophie said, but the two of them didn't seem interested in her opinion.

“She needs a man, and our Mr. Smith is a perfect candidate. Sexy, ruthless, just a little bit dangerous,” Grace said. “He's got a good heart, and he'd be very loyal. He wouldn't let anyone hurt you.”

“And you can tell that on the basis of two meetings?” Sophie said.

“No one's going to hurt Sophie, Grace,” Doc said patiently.

Grace took a sip of her coffee, then pushed it away. “What did you do with the coffee?” she demanded. “It tastes like poison.”

“You put too much sugar in it, Grace,” Doc said. “Have mine.”

She cast him a suspicious glance. “You didn't poison it?”

Doc patted her hand. “No, Grace. I promise you, I didn't poison it.”

“All right then,” she said, taking a sip. “Much better, but it's too weak. Sophie, where were you last night?”

The question jarred Sophie out of her abstraction. Doc and Grace were so busy arguing that she'd hoped she'd have a chance to sneak out before she got their attention again. Obviously that was a vain hope.

“In bed, Grace,” she said, rising from the table in an attempt to forestall any more conversation.

“I imagine so. The question is, whose bed?” Grace tried to look arch, but the effect was ruined by her flyaway hair and her broken reading glasses.

Sophie had just enough time to notice Doc's stricken expression and Marty's avid interest before she rose from the table. “No bed but my own, Ma,” she said firmly. In fact, it was the truth. She'd had sex on the floor, on a scratchy rug, and she had carpet burns on her butt to prove it.

“Too bad,” Grace murmured. “But I haven't given up hope. Why don't you go see what Mr. Smith is doing today? Maybe you could seduce him.”

“That's enough, Grace,” Doc said gently. “You leave Sophie alone now.”

But he didn't follow his own advice. Sophie escaped onto the porch with a mug of weak coffee,
desperate for a few moments of peace to try to regain her usual calm, when Doc followed her out.

“Your mother's getting worse,” he said, and Sophie almost felt relief. At least he wasn't going to question her about her sex life. Now that, inexplicably, she seemed to have one.

“Yes,” Sophie said, rocking back on the padded glider. “You told me she'd deteriorate. I didn't think it would be this fast.”

“Paranoia and hostility are key aspects of this stage of Alzheimer's. She's going to start accusing people of stealing things from her. Of trying to kill her. It'll be a difficult time, and you'll need patience. I'll do all I can to help.”

She wanted to cry. “You're so good to us, Doc,” she murmured. “I don't know what we'd do without you.”

Doc sat down beside her on the glider. For all his seeming fragility he was a heavy man, but the glider was built to take it. “I just want to do what I can. Rima will help, too. She doesn't leave the house much nowadays, but she loves it when Grace comes to visit. Maybe we could make it a regular thing. Bring her in for a few hours every day. Rima would enjoy the company and you wouldn't have to worry about Grace getting into trouble.”

“I couldn't ask that…”

“You're not. I told you, Rima would love it.” He paused, as if trying to figure out how to broach a
difficult subject, and Sophie braced herself for more questions about John Smith. Part of her wanted to tell Doc what happened, take advantage of his age and wisdom and calm good sense.

Maybe if he'd been a woman. The thought of telling Doc she'd had wanton sex on the floor of the old Whitten cottage with a man she barely knew, and then seeing the disappointment in his face, was unbearable.

But Doc didn't want to talk about sex or John Smith. “Grace says someone's been going through her room,” he said. “Stealing her clothes, stealing her books, stealing all sorts of things. I'm sure it's just a fantasy on her part, but I thought I should warn you to be extra careful about her stuff. Even if you ask to borrow it she may not remember. If you take her clothes to be laundered she'll probably feel threatened. The best bet is to make sure she sees what you're doing and understands it. And if you find anything that worries you, don't hesitate to come to me. I'm here to help you, Sophie. You know that.”

“I do know that, Doc,” she said. “Thank you.”

She should tell him about the knife. The stained, rusty hunting knife she'd found in Grace's drawers, but she stopped at the last minute. She didn't want anyone jumping to the conclusion that Grace was dangerous. Her mother must have found the knife somewhere and taken it, part of her magpie tenden
cies. Sophie was always finding strange things in Grace's room—tiny rocks and dried flowers and chewing gum and odd bits of jewelry. The knife was just a piece of that fascination with garbage.

“Promise me you'll tell me if you find something that worries you,” he said.

“I promise,” Sophie said. The knife didn't worry her. Grace was harmless, and the knife meant nothing.

He rose, and the glider slid back violently. “What about your neighbor? Has he been any bother? I can go talk to him if you want. You don't need your life complicated by sex at this point.”

Her eyes flew open in shock. “Doc!” she protested.

Doc chuckled. “Yes, I know, you think I'm an old fart, but I understand human nature, and the desire for sex is very normal and natural. I just don't want to see you getting into any trouble. You like him, don't you?”

“Like him?” Sophie protested. “I can't stand him! He's a sneaky, treacherous human being who lies about everything, including who he is.”

“And who is he?” Doc asked, curious.

“Some kind of reporter or writer, I think. Something to do with the old murders. I don't know what his name is, but it sure the hell isn't John Smith.”

“Fascinating,” Doc murmured.

“So trust me, I'm not going anywhere near him if I can help it.”

“That's good,” he said. “Because Marty said you came from his place just after dawn this morning, and you looked like you had a rough night.”

“Marty must have been dreaming,” Sophie said flatly. Funny, she never lied. But she was lying now, and quite easily.

Doc smiled down at her, but there was no disguising the worry in his eyes. “I hope so,” he said. “But call me, any time of the day or night, if you need me.”

What did he expect, Sophie wondered irritably after he left. That Grace would climb onto the rooftop like Mr. Rochester's crazy wife in
Jane Eyre?
She could take care of Grace, she could take care of Marty, and she could take care of herself.

It was the element of surprise, she decided. If she'd had any inkling that John Smith was interested in sleeping with her she would have kept her distance. Of course, there was no denying he'd kissed her yesterday afternoon, which should have given her a hint, one that she had studiously ignored. And she'd had no choice but to go there last night, when she thought Grace was missing. She couldn't let her mother wander around in the night.

So instead Sophie had ended up on the floor beneath a stranger, and she couldn't stop thinking
about it. Stop thinking about him. How could her life have changed so much in one night?

It was silly to think she was somehow different. People made too much of a fuss over sex—it was a perfectly natural bodily function, and just because she'd avoided it for longer than most didn't mean it was any big deal. And it wasn't as if she were frigid. God, no. Maybe even the opposite. She shouldn't have enjoyed herself. Women weren't supposed to have orgasms the first time, were they? Especially women with underdeveloped sex drives who didn't know or trust their partner.

Well, maybe she didn't have an underdeveloped sex drive, maybe she'd just been too busy to notice. Or too picky. Or maybe, just maybe, John Smith was really good at sex.

She didn't want to think that. It would be a major problem to have started out with an expert and then have to settle for someone less competent. It would be just her luck to have him spoil her for any worthwhile man who might come her way.

There was always the remote possibility that she'd inherited the curse of the Wilsons, Grace's family. According to Grace, Wilson women loved only once, and then it lasted forever. It was no good trying to find someone else, someone more acceptable. Once they fell in love they were doomed.

Which was hogwash. Sophie was a practical
woman. She simply needed to find someone more suitable. Someone who was equally talented at sex.

If she was going to keep having sex, and eventually get married and have children, then she was going to have to find someone from the area. Doc would know of any eligible bachelors around. She couldn't very well ask him if they were any good in bed, of course, but maybe she'd be able to pick up on that before she tried them out. After all, there was no denying John Smith was a very sexy man. The way he moved, the way he touched things, the way he looked at you out of his dark eyes, the shape of his mouth…