She managed a smile. "Fainted."
"Bullshit. You didn't faint when you practically fell on top of it last night when you were alone."
"Let's say this is the scenario that I both wanted and dreaded-that the police didn't find anything. It means I get to look like a nitwit, but it also means whatever I saw last night isn't there anymore." She took a swallow of her beer and got to her feet, steadier if not any less on edge. "I should get going."
"I don't think so." Andrew pointed to her beer. "I'll put a call in and have you picked up for driving under the influence."
"I've had two sips!"
"Take a look."
She held up her bottle and seemed surprised when she saw it was almost empty. Under ordinary circumstances, one beer wouldn't be a problem, but tonight wasn't ordinary-she was beyond the point of no return, and she knew it. "Damn. Your cat's still occupying my bed. I suppose I could borrow a couple of blankets and sleep in my car."
"I told you, I have a guest room."
Her eyes were steady on him, almost cool. "I'm still invited?"
He remembered the feel of her body against his and wondered if that was what she was thinking about, more than her nonexistent-or missing- skeleton. "Yes, but no more lies."
"If you didn't believe my snake story, what makes you think you'd have believed I saw a skull in the dirt?"
"Tess."
She breathed in, no hint she was the slightest bit afraid of him, how he'd react to her-or even particularly wracked with guilt over withholding what she'd seen last night. "I did the best I could under rotten circumstances. Look, I know you're ticked off because of the kiss, because it seems to you I should have come clean before we went that far-well, let's just chalk it up as one of those things. It happened. We don't need to make anything of it."
That was not the right response. She saw her mistake instantly, but she was too late. He caught an arm around her, pulled her to him. "It wasn't just one of those things, not for me." His voice was low and deadly, barely under control, and his mouth found hers again, a fierceness in him he couldn't explain, couldn't deny. His mouth opened, his tongue sliding between her teeth, his body pulsing, throbbing. He was in a dangerous mood. The taste of her, the feel of her, only inflamed him more. He slipped his hands under her shirt, eased his palms over her hot, smooth skin. "I could take you now. Here. Do you understand?"
She nodded, her eyes gleaming with passion. "Yes."
She put her hands on his forearms at her sides, but instead of pushing him away, she urged them slowly up inside her shirt, until his thumbs were under her breasts. He eased them over her bra, brushing her nipples.
"You don't know what you're doing," he said, his voice raw, his body on fire.
"I do know."
This time, her mouth found his, her lips already parted. He pushed his hands back down her sides, wanted to scoop her up and carry her inside, but fought back the need. He made himself draw away. "I'll make up the guest room."
She tugged her shirt back down and pushed a slender, strong hand through her short curls. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
He smiled ever so slightly. "I think the guest room's an excellent idea."
For the love of Christ.
Lauren staggered into Richard's study and poured herself a scotch. No water, no ice. She didn't want to bother with a glass, just drink straight from the decanter, but knew her husband could wander in at any moment. He was due back from dinner with friends. She'd left early, pleading a headache. Since they'd arrived in separate cars, it wasn't a problem.
She'd planned everything so carefully, just not Tess returning to the carriage house that way.
The whiskey splashed over her hand. She was shaking uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered against the glass as she gulped, the scotch burning on its way down.
Ike.
She wanted to scream his name. She wanted to sob and beat her fists against the wall, smash glasses, throw over furniture. Her brother was dead. She'd hoped, prayed, pleaded with God that she wasn't right.
He was in the trunk of her car in a black plastic trash bag.
Her brother.
Dead.
Just as she'd known he was since that day he'd told her he was off to the carriage house and would see her later.
She sank onto the leather chair, spilling scotch on the arm. It beaded, and she flicked it off with her fingertips then licked them. They still tasted of her surgical gloves.
Her brother, dead in the carriage house cellar.
She hadn't been sure until tonight. She'd guessed…known. But this was different. Now it was real.
"Lauren?"
Richard's voice penetrated her like a hot, sharp knife. She fell back against the chair, wanting to slip down to the floor, through the rug, between the cracks in the cherry floorboards, all the way down to the basement, where she could lie in the dark stillness until death claimed her. Who would know? Who would care?
"Lauren, are you still up?"
She could hear his footsteps out in the hall. She straightened, wondering if he'd smell the dank carriage house cellar on her, if he'd smell death.
He stood in the doorway. "There you are. Darling, have you heard? I didn't want you to hear it without me here-"
"Hear what?" She rallied, noticed her hands weren't shaking as she drank more scotch.
Richard came toward her, his expression filled with concern and compassion. He took her glass away, as if she might not handle what he had to tell her. "The police called on my way home. Lauren, they've been out to the carriage house."
"Wh-what?"
"Tess Haviland's claimed she found a human skeleton buried in the cellar."
Blood pounded in her head. The room spun. Richard, more gentle than she'd ever seen him, took both her hands. She thought she might vomit. "What are you talking about?"
"It's ridiculous. Paul Alvarez said so himself. They didn't find anything, but he wanted you to know, in case this woman is up to something."
"What could she be up to?"
"Nothing, I'm sure. That's how the police think, that's all."
"Ike thought the world of her-"
"I know, I know. It all must have been her imagination. Let's go to bed, shall we? Get rid of that headache of yours, once and for all?"
"Oh, Richard. I love you, do you know that? You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." Her eyes filled with tears, and she felt drunk, stupid, even after a few sips of scotch. "Will you make love to me tonight?"
"Of course, darling."
She giggled. "'Darling.' That's so retro."
But he took her by both hands, lifted her to her feet and led her upstairs.
After he made love to his wife, Richard put on his bathrobe and stood in the shaft of moonlight slanting in the windows overlooking her gardens. The poodles were asleep on the white chaise longue. He could have opened a window screen and pitched them out, one by one.
Sex had steadied him. Centered him. He could think now.
Lauren had fallen asleep. She'd clawed at him, almost drawing blood. They'd never had such raw, unrestrained sex. She'd been uninhibited, almost wanton. He'd responded in kind, exulting in the effect he was having on her. Instead of her usual ladylike shudder when she came, she'd screamed and thrashed.
He could handle Lauren.
It was Tess Haviland who worried him.
Fourteen
Tess sensed someone was watching her. She rolled over in the twin bed in the guest room and came eye-to-eye with a stuffed black-and-white cat in the hands of Dolly Thorne. The little girl giggled. "Her name's Kitty. I've had her since I was three years old." She was wide-awake, still in her pink pajamas with kittens all over them, her coppery hair tangled. No crown. "Daddy said not to wake you up."
"I'm awake," Tess croaked, squinting at the bedside clock. Seven. Not bad, but she was exhausted. Too much tossing and turning, thinking about kisses and skeletons, kittens in her bed, men and intruders. She struggled not to seem grumpy. "Well. Good morning."