“Honey, you sure as hell could have fooled me. I think you’ve been playing a game with me for weeks now.”
“No, I haven’t. Really. I-I-” She turned and walked toward the door. “This was a mistake, wasn’t it? I thought you wanted me, maybe even needed me tonight. I guess you should just take me home.”
Before she knew what was happening, Dean came up behind her, whirled her around, and shoved her up against the wall. He lowered his head and brought his mouth down on hers, taking her in an all-consuming, conquering kiss that both startled and excited her. With his big, hard body pressing against her, she felt his arousal and knew without a doubt that he wanted her.
And she wanted him. God, how she wanted him!
Rachel pushed against his chest until he ended the kiss. They stared at each other, their lips parted, their breathing ragged.
“We don’t have to talk,” she said breathlessly. “We don’t need to analyze this.”
“No, honey, we don’t.”
He swept her up into his arms, kicked his half-closed bedroom door wide open, and carried her to his unmade bed. They tore at each other’s clothes until within minutes they were both naked. Shoes, belts, his slacks, her blouse, and various other items lay scattered on the floor and foot of the bed.
Dean stared at her, visually eating her up as if she were his favorite food. She looked right back at him, appreciating his lean, hard body.
“I knew you’d be perfect,” Dean said as he cupped each of her breasts. “I’ve wanted to see these beauties since I was fourteen.”
She smiled. “Better late than never.”
He released her abruptly. “Wait right here. I’ve got a box of condoms in the bathroom.”
“Do you think we’ll need a whole box?” she asked teasingly.
“Honey, the way I feel about you, we may need more than one box.”
Hours later, as dawn light seeped through his apartment windows, Dean rested on one elbow and stared at the woman asleep beside him. Rachel. His Rachel.
Had she meant it when she’d told him that she loved him? Or had she spoken the words in the heat of the moment? Three times! He hadn’t thought he still had it in him to go three times, not at the ripe old age of thirty-eight. But by God, he had. And he was hard again. Wanted her again.
He kissed her navel. She stirred. He kissed the musky triangle of blond curls between her thighs. Her eyelids popped open.
“Liked that, did you?” he teased.
She ruffled his hair. “I like everything you do to me. Everything.”
“Are you too sore for a little more everything?” he asked as he came up and over her, straddling her hips.
“You know, I could get used to being the object of your desire.”
“Permanently?” he asked, but kept his tone light.
She lifted her arms up and around his neck, drawing him down to her. She kissed him. He rubbed his sex against hers. She sighed into his open mouth.
“What would permanently entail?” she inquired.
Should he tell her that he’d meant it when he had repeatedly told her that he loved her and find out if she really did love him? Should he risk her rejection and ask her to marry him?
“I was thinking-after a proper courtship-we might get engaged and then eventually married and in a year or two after that have a couple of kids and-”
“Why wait?” She spread her legs and lifted her hips, inviting him in, as she pressed her lips against his neck. “I don’t need a proper courtship. A few more dates and then you can buy me a traditional diamond ring.”
“A diamond ring, huh? How big?” He thrust deeply inside her.
She gasped with pleasure. “Really big,” she sighed.
He laughed. “I was talking about the ring.”
Smiling, she said, “So was I, you arrogant, conceited-”
She gasped when he retreated and thrust into her again as he lifted her buttocks in his hands and claimed her completely.
“Oh, Dean…!”
An hour later, Dean’s alarm went off, waking both of them. Just as he leaned over and kissed her, his phone rang.
“Who the hell?”
“You’d better get it,” she said. “It could be Phil Hughes or even Uncle Charlie.”
Dean picked up the phone on his nightstand, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello.”
“Lieutenant McMichaels?”
A woman’s voice. Dean sat up in bed. “Yeah, this is he.”
“I’m Marilyn Dewey. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No. No, ma’am, you didn’t.”
“My son has convinced me that I should talk to you.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’d certainly appreciate it if you’d let me drive up to Salem and ask you a few questions about the old Cupid Killer case.”
“I-I’m in the middle of moving from my house into a condo near my elder son and everything is a mess here.”
He heard reluctance in her voice. And something else. Trepidation?
“Mrs. Dewey, you could come here to Portland, if you prefer. Your son could come with you.”
Rachel punched Dean in the ribs and mouthed the name Marilyn Dewey.
“No, no, I’d rather not,” Mrs. Dewey said. “You come here. Next week.”
“Why wait?”
“Why hurry? Jake Marcott was killed twenty years ago.”
“The Portland P.D. believes there is a possibility that Jake’s killer has resurfaced and recently killed three of Jake’s old friends, three girls Jake once knew quite well.”
“That’s not possible,” Marilyn said.
“What do you mean?”
“Jake Marcott’s killer is dead.”
Chapter 32
The Dewey home, in a suburb of Salem, was in an older neighborhood with well-kept lawns and neat houses, most built in the sixties. A robust, auburn-haired Pat Dewey Jr. met Rachel and Dean at the door and invited them into his mother’s living room.
“Mom,” he said to the plump, rosy-cheeked lady with sad brown eyes and gray-streaked auburn hair, “Lieutenant McMichaels and Sergeant Alsace are here.”
Marilyn Dewey looked up at them from her wheelchair and motioned to the nearby plaid sofa. “Please, have a seat.” She glanced around at the numerous stacked boxes that littered the room. “And excuse this mess. You know I’m in the middle of moving.”
Putting a pleasant expression on her face, Rachel shook hands with Marilyn. “Thank you so much for seeing us.”
Dean nodded. “We really appreciate this.”
He and Rachel sat on the sofa facing Marilyn. Her son stood behind her wheelchair, one hand on her shoulder. “Go ahead, Mom. Tell them what you know.”
Marilyn Dewey looked down into her lap where she held her clasped hands, her fingers knotted and swollen. “If Patrick were alive, I’d never…I’ve kept his secret all these years.”
Rachel scooted to the edge of the sofa. What secret?
“Patrick was a good man,” Marilyn said. “A good husband and father.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dean glanced up at Pat Jr. before focusing on Mrs. Dewey. “Just take your time in telling us what you know.”
“Patrick wasn’t with me the night that Marcott boy was killed.” The words rushed out of her in one long, run-together sentence.
Rachel and Dean exchanged questioning glances.
Silence hung over the room like a heavy fog.
“Are you saying that when the police questioned you twenty years ago, you lied?” Rachel asked.
“Yes, I lied for my husband. Patrick told me that if I didn’t give him an alibi, the police would dig deeper and he’d be in big trouble,” Marilyn explained. “I asked him why he needed an alibi, and he said I was better off not knowing, to just do as he asked and everything would be all right.” Tears welled up in her eyes.
Pat Jr. squeezed his mother’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s all right. You’re doing just fine. Tell them the rest of it.”
Marilyn swallowed hard. “I was a young woman with two children and no job. I didn’t even graduate from high school. I needed Patrick.” She paused, sighed heavily and looked pleadingly at Rachel. “And I loved him.”