“I’ll get the luggage,” he said, leaving me to wander about the living room. I stepped onto the thick Persian, admired the flowers, and wondered who kept the place so spotless. Two men in the stables, a housekeeper here (live-in?). People who rode the circuit might put on a show of prosperity in public, but Rafe’s was no sham.
“Mrs. Garrison usually leaves around three when I’m not home.” He pointed one suitcase toward the stairs. “C’mon, I’ll show you our room.”
There was a reassuring emphasis on “our.” Three steps led to the first, wide landing, where the steps turned at right angles for the longer portion of the rise, before branching left and right. Instinctively I turned right, toward the front of the house. The door to the master bedroom was invitingly open, and sun shone onto the dark-stained floor from the dormer windows. There was a huge, dynasty-founding bed with carved cherry posts and a hand-loomed cotton spread whose whiteness was accented by the muted tones of an old patchwork quilt. The room was masculine, from the heavy dark furniture to the comfortable leather chairs by the fireplace. Two doors in the right wall must lead to a dressing room and a bathroom, for the bedroom proper was not as long as the living room under it.
As Rafe opened the inner of the two doors, lights came up, revealing sliding closet panels, built-in cabinets, luggage racks on which he deposited the suitcases.
I was suddenly very nervous, oddly tense. I walked with stiff legs to the open window, gazing at the copper beeches, at the lawn beyond, the stable complex hidden by mature evergreens.
He was standing behind me, waiting, and I knew what he was waiting for, because I could feel myself ready. What had come over me, Nialla Donnelly, who had forsworn love? Who was this short man who, by his mere presence, could stir the juices in my loins, make rubber of my knees, and stir wanton lusts I’d never imagined I was capable of?
“Mr. Clery?”
As he unzipped my dress, he kissed the nape of my neck lightly, sensuously, and then progressed with kisses down my backbone, unfastening the bra in the journey. The dress slithered to my feet as his hands flipped the bra straps over my shoulders. As I wriggled out of them, his hands fondled my breasts, traced patterns down my hips to my belly, which drew in at the touch of his fingers. With both hands he pressed against the mound between my legs, pressed and pressed until he was against my buttocks, firm and hard. He released me to slip my pants down far enough so that they dropped the rest of the way to join my dress. As I stepped over them, I heard him undress, and turned to face him, my arms open.
He straightened up, his eyes on me with such an intense expression, hungry, lustful, possessive, and… wary… that it stopped my breath.
Then his arms closed around me, hard, and the next minute we were flat on the bed. He entered me and filled me. Incredibly, he had thrust only a few times before my body responded to his, arching against him. As we merged in a long, long, unbelievable release, I was dimly aware of two voices crying out at the same instant.
The warm blaze of the sun in my face roused me from a sleep as deep and restful as a cat’s. The quilt was tucked up under my chin, a pillow under my head, but we were lying across the width of the bed, instead of the length. Rafe’s hands were clasped behind his head, and his eyes were open, idly following the patterns of the sun-splotched leaf shadows on the white ceiling. His profile was somehow younger than full-face, the straight short nose, the sensitive lips, the sharp dip to the square chin. His beard was apparent. I could see the pulse in his throat, toc, toc, toc. The plateau of his chest with the fine edging of black hair. He smelled male, with overtones of antiperspirant and after-shave, an enticingly sensual combination. I was suddenly conscious that my breasts ached and smarted and that my nether regions were sore, but I was too languidly relaxed to care at all.
He turned his head to grin at me, his eyes warm, and so loving that I felt my body inclining eagerly toward him. He gathered me gently, not passionately, to him, and cradled my head on his chest.
“For God’s sake, I find I’m married to a sexpot.” Then deliberately he passed his hand over one breast, and I flinched at the soreness. “I didn’t intend to rough you up so much, dear heart,” he said seriously, “but you’re a powerful temptation to the beast in me, and so, so lovable.” He gave me an affectionate squeeze and then touched the tip of my nose with one finger. “But you’re not used to this sport of kings. I’m not about to override you… yet!” And his expression hinted of excesses to come, excesses I knew now I’d welcome at his hands, in his arms.
We both heard the faint engine throb and recognized the Austin-Healey’s motor.
“Can’t say I’m sorry Jerry took so long, but I was wondering what had happened to him.”
With a sigh, Rafe threw back the quilt and padded to the mound of discarded clothes.
“No need to disturb yourself, Nialla. I’ll be back.” I was only too glad to remain warm and lazy under the quilt, although I’d’ve preferred him alongside me. The Austin-Healey came throatily up the short drive from the stable, and then I heard Rafe’s steps on the porch below.
“Car give you trouble, Jerry?” Rafe asked. “Or the cops?”
“Cops, but not with the car, boss.”
“Oh?”
“That detective stopped me in Sunbury. Thought I was you.” Jerry gave a snort, and Rafe chuckled. “He was real pissed off because he’d been told you and Miss-Mrs. Clery had checked out of the motel Monday morning. And he had some questions.”
At the tone of Jerry’s voice, I sat bolt upright, clutching the quilt around me.
“What sort of questions?”
“Seems like they found Pete Sankey-dead!”
“Dead?”
“Head bashed in, lying in a culvert the other side of the parking lot.”
I didn’t want to listen, but I had to. I huddled under the quilt, trying to pretend the voices were from a radio program or something else absolutely unconnected with me and a Pete Sankey with his head bashed in.
“Poor old Pete. Who’d want to hurt him?”
“According to Mac-I checked with him after the cop finished with me-Pete was very upset about that fire. You know how he was about horses, boss. And Mac got the impression that Pete knew something about how that fire started. Last thing he said to Mac was he wanted to talk to someone about a horse. No one saw him after that on Monday.”
“You got this last from Mac? Or did Michaels tell you?”
Jerry made a noise. “That Michaels doesn’t say much, but he can ask some real sharp questions.”
“For instance?”
“Oh, take it easy, boss,” Jerry said, for Rafe’s question had been sharp. “Nothing about you.”
A phone rang, the echoing jangle startlingly close to me. I hadn’t noticed that there was an extension by the bed.
“Yes?” Rafe answered it downstairs. “Oh. No, madam, I didn’t sneak in.” The coldness in his voice was so marked that he was almost a different person. “I’ve been here several hours. No. MacCrate was driving the Austin. Yes, I was in Sunbury over the weekend. No. I understood you were in the Laurentians.” His tone, if possible, got colder and… not insolently polite… but that terribly precise courtesy that’s accorded someone hated and unavoidable. “What’s his number? Thank you. I’ll call immediately. No, Mother, sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t murder anyone.”
Yet. The word hung unsaid in the silence. Then the extension beside the bed gave a startled “twing” as the downstairs receiver was slammed into its cradle.