Night's Landing Page 21

  No response.

  “And I’m sorry I almost ripped your arm off.”

  “My arm’s fine.”

  He was behind her. She turned around so fast she almost lost her balance. Her heart was pounding—it was as if all her nerve endings were raw, exposed, responding to him in a thousand different ways. She pushed her hair back with one hand and gave a self-conscious laugh. “I think Wyatt Earp could do that, couldn’t he? Materialize out of thin air.”

  “I think that was Captain Kirk.”

  “I’ll cooperate,” she blurted. “So will my mother. You know that, don’t you? It’s just unnerving to think that we might have any connection to a shooting that almost killed Rob—you—”

  “Later.”

  “But if you’ve got a bee up your nose—”

  He wrapped both arms around her and lifted her off the floor, kissing her, tasting of bourbon and a kind of intensity she’d never known. He carried her back into her room. “I want to feel the breeze off the river while we make love.”

  “Nate—”

  “You and I both have a million things to think about. Let’s think about all of them later.”

  He laid her down on her bed. She could, indeed, feel the breeze off the river. “I’ve neglected this part of my life,” she whispered.

  “You don’t have to anymore. Neither do I.”

  “But you—”

  “There’s sex,” he said, “and there’s lovemaking. I want to make love to you.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled. “No more questions.”

  He stripped off his shirt—she could see that his arm had bled slightly through the bandage, but he didn’t seem to notice. His pants came next, and it was obvious he’d been anticipating this moment for at least a few minutes. But, instead of rushing, he said, “I want to take my time with you.” And he slid in next to her, taking her hands when she started to lift her shirt. “Allow me.”

  “As you wish.”

  “And you?” he asked, raising her shirt. “What do you wish?”

  He touched his thumbs to her nipples through her bra, and she couldn’t answer. Slowly, without any obvious sense of urgency, he lifted her bra and exposed her breasts to the cold breeze and the wet heat of his tongue. He took his time easing off her top, smoothing his hands and tongue over her throat, between her breasts, down her abdomen. He caught his fingers in the waistband of her pants and took them and her underpants off at the same time, exposing her to the same slow, erotic play of hands, teeth and tongue.

  “I wish…” She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. “I wish this could go on forever.”

  With his fingers still on her, inside her, he took her hand and placed it on him. He was hot, throbbing. He thrust himself against her palm, a promise of what was to come. But she couldn’t last another second and moved under him, and he pulled back his hand, then entered her, pushing in hard and deep, his eyes locking with hers. “How long do you mean by forever?”

  He took her to the precipice, then fell back again, over and over, until she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could only feel her own blinding need for release. When it came, he stayed with her, spun into a freefall with her, tumbling, picking up speed, but she kept pace with him until his own release overcame him. Afterward, completely spent, she wrapped herself around him so that she could feel the entire length of his body, the taut muscles, the hot skin as the chilly wind blew across them. He was real. So very real. She hadn’t imagined one second of what had just happened.

  “A Yankee marshal,” she whispered, not sure if he could hear her, and smiled. “Dear God.”

  She could easily fall in love with him.

  She might have already.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it, any more than she could stop the river outside her doors from flowing—not that she would if she could.

  Finally he stirred. “What’s in squash casserole?”

  “Summer squash, Ritz crackers, onions, cheese and butter.” She sat up, untangling her hair with her fingers. “Lots of butter.”

  He threw his legs over the edge of her bed. “Another of Granny Dunnemore’s recipes?”

  Sarah nodded. “One of my favorites.”

  He grinned at her. “They’re all your favorites.”

  He pulled on his pants and stood up, and when he turned to her, he winced and gave a mock shudder. “I wish I’d seen that before I carried you in here.”

  She followed his gaze and realized that it was fixed on the picture of her and John Wesley Poe at her college graduation, in front of a table of strawberries and champagne. “He was running for governor then. My parents were out of the country—my father was serving as a special envoy to Indonesia during hard times.”

  “There are always hard times somewhere.”

  “I told them it was okay for them not to come.”

  “You had Wes Poe,” Nate said.

  “Yes.” She pretended not to hear the note of criticism in his voice. “And Rob. He came, too.”

  “Did your parents make it to his graduation?”

  She shook her head. “We had a grand party afterward here at Night’s Landing. We’ve learned to seize the moment, make up for lost time when we’re together.” She collected her clothes and held them close to her. “Why don’t I get dressed and make us some homemade biscuits to go with the squash casserole?”

  He pulled on his shirt. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”

  She threw a pillow at him and remembered his injured arm too damn late again, but he caught the pillow with his right hand and tossed it back at her. And in another minute, they were making love again, all thought of biscuits and squash casserole, of loving but neglectful parents—of the family friend who was now in the White House—vanished, which was, Sarah thought, just what Nate had intended.

  “Leola and Violet used to tell a story about a Huck-Finn-type boy who lived on the river,” Sarah said as she led the way to the Poe house, the river on one side of the narrow trail, the thick woods on the other. It was after dinner, the sun low in the sky, but she had a restless energy that Nate, as tired as he was, understood. “They said he camped in the caves. I’m not sure when it was. I never asked. It’s one of a thousand questions I wish I could go back and ask them.”

  They were on a section of trail that wound over the top of a near-vertical limestone bluff. One wrong step, and he’d be in the water. The river was quiet, no waves, no boats. “What’d he do, live off the land?”

  “They claimed he’d fish, catch frogs and snakes. They liked frog’s legs themselves. I think Wes did, too.” Sarah paused atop the bluff and caught her breath. “I never developed a taste for them.”

  Nate smiled next to her. “I’ve never eaten frog and have no plans to start. What about snake?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not eating snake. Leola and Violet claimed they tried it once, when they were little girls.” She breathed out. “Hard to believe that was before World War One.”

  Nate saw that talking about the Poe sisters and her friendship with the president relaxed her. He regretted having pushed hard earlier with his questions, but he’d never been a patient man. A patient lover, sometimes. This afternoon. His doctor probably wouldn’t be pleased with him, but, on the other hand, he felt fine. “Isn’t there a story about the president and a snake? I don’t remember the details. It came out during the campaign.”

  She shuddered. “I don’t know how anyone stands a political campaign. I really don’t.”

  “Do you know the story?”

  She glanced at him, her eyes cool, their color matching the churning gray sky. “I was there.”

  In spite of her seriousness, he smiled. “After this morning, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You and your snakes.”

  “Wes—President Poe—came to Night’s Landing not long after he and his wife had lost their fourth and last baby. A little girl, stillborn. They knew there wouldn’t be more. I was still in high school. Almost sevente
en.”

  Nate tried to picture her at almost seventeen. Pretty, intense, dragging her video camera down the river to interview her two elderly neighbors. And direct. She’d have been direct, too.

  “I was walking back from the Poe house along this same path, not that far from here. It was a sticky summer day, oppressively hot.” Her accent seemed more pronounced. “Wes was standing below me on a narrow, treacherous ledge that leads to a cave just above the water.”

  “He was there alone?”

  “Ev stayed in Nashville. She was out of the hospital—her mother was with her. I’ve always thought Wes just needed some time to himself. He was grief-stricken—”

  “Do you think he meant to jump that day?”

  She shook her head but didn’t seem shocked by the question. “It was just such a hard time. Wes prides himself on getting things done, making things happen. But some things you just can’t control. I just think he wanted to be here, on the river.”

  “Who saw the snake first?”

  “He did. It must have come from the cave. I’ve seen them out on the ledge, sunning themselves.”

  “Water moccasins?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Nate remembered some of the story now. “He saved someone’s life, didn’t he? Yours? Isn’t that the story?”

  “That’s the story.”

  She continued along the trail. When they reached the Poe house, she led the way through the tall grass to the road, then down to the fishing camp and the cabin Conroy Fontaine had rented.

  He was sitting out on a rusted lawn chair, chatting with an old man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he squinted up at Sarah, then at Nate. “Evening. Sarah, your prune cake was fantastic. I almost sneaked into your house in the middle of the night to steal me another piece, but then I decided that probably wasn’t such a good idea.” He grinned lazily. “You did your granny proud.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Let me introduce you to my friend Hiram Jones. Hiram, this here is Sarah Dunnemore and her friend, Deputy U.S. Marshal Nate Winter.”

  Sarah mumbled something about being pleased to meet him. Nate just nodded, and the old guy rolled back in his lawn chair and blew out a lungful of smoke. “I knew Leola and Violet back in the war. Used to come out here to fish. They was real ladies.”

  Conroy gave Sarah a pointed look. “Hiram was here not long after they found President Poe on the doorstep.”

  “He wasn’t president then,” Sarah said, a little sharply. “He was just a baby.”

  “Cute little fella,” the old man said.

  Sarah sighed. “You don’t let up, do you, Conroy?”

  “No, ma’am. I don’t give up, either. Anything I can do for you? How’s your brother today?”

  “He’s doing well, thanks. I wanted you to know I spoke to Ethan, and he apologizes. He said he stopped by earlier to apologize to you in person, but you weren’t around.”

  “Out for my run, probably. Water over the dam.” He laid on the charm. “Tell him apology accepted.”

  Sarah thanked him, but he didn’t invite her in—and she didn’t invite him back to her place to eat the last of the fried apricot pies. The old man puffed on his cigarette.

  “It’s not a serious interview,” Sarah said to Nate on the way back out to the road. “Conroy doesn’t have a notepad or a tape recorder.”

  Nate made a face. “I think you’d have to be a serious journalist to have a serious interview.”

  “At least he’s pleasant.”

  “Too bad he didn’t invite you in for a little nip of something. I’d love to see his notes for his book.”

  She cut a look at him. “You don’t think he’s legitimate?”

  “I don’t think anything one way or the other.”

  “My opinion? Ethan’s right. Much as I hate to say it, Conroy’s a bottom-feeder, positioning himself to be in the right place at the right time for a bombshell.” She squared her shoulders and picked up her pace. “But my family doesn’t have anything to hide, about ourselves or anyone else.”

  Nate hung back, watching her walk down the road with sudden energy. Caves, snakes, frogs, a baby on a doorstep, an historic house, an old fishing camp, a well-respected diplomat, the president of the United States—if he wanted secrets and lies to drop into his lap, Nate thought, he’d park himself in Night’s Landing, just as Conroy Fontaine had done.

  Twenty-Six

  Juliet changed into her running clothes for her regular five-thirty-in-the-morning, three-mile run. Some days she did five or six miles, but at least five days a week, she did her minimum of three miles. Today was not a strength-training day. No sweating it out in the weight room later.

  Thank God.

  She stooped in front of her tropical fish tank and said goodbye to a rainbow-colored fish staring at her. Her brothers in Vermont had threatened to fry her fish. They thought she needed to do something about her social life, like get out of law enforcement. It was fine for them to be cops, but not her. And not a fed.

  Cops and landscapers—an odd combination, but that was her family.

  She took the stairs down to the lobby and said a cheerful hello to the doorman. In her next life, she wanted her own Upper West Side apartment in a building that had a doorman.

  In this life, she couldn’t even afford an Upper West Side apartment with no doorman.

  Her family didn’t have money. That was for damn sure.

  She pushed open the glass front door and trotted down the steps to the street.

  Crap.

  She’d missed the part about rain in the forecast. She’d let herself get too preoccupied with Rob and with what Collins and his team of investigators weren’t telling her about the shooting. Were they going down blind alleys, barking up the wrong trees, going off on wild tangents? Hell if she knew. No question about it, it’d be easier for everyone if Hector Sanchez was their guy and he’d acted alone. She’d warned Collins not to go off half-cocked because the Dunnemores had missed their plane. Drama tended to follow them around. It would have been surprising, maybe, if they hadn’t missed their plane. Not that Collins had appreciated her advice.

  And Nate. What was going on with him and the twin sister in Tennessee? There’d been nothing more on the anonymous letter.

  At least nothing anyone had mentioned to Juliet. She was not assisting in the investigation. She was not doing anything anymore. Well, the parents would be arriving later today. That should take her off the hook. Time to get on with her own life.

  She glanced up at the overcast sky. It was more of a misting rain than a real downpour. She sighed and jumped off the curb, heading across the street toward Riverside Drive and her regular route along the Hudson. She went at a light jog, warming up her muscles, letting her body get in sync with the idea that, yes, it was a running day, not a rest day. Once she reached Riverside, she’d stop and stretch a couple minutes before her three-mile run.

  “Gotta keep up with the big boys,” she said half-aloud.

  Rob was a triathlete; Nate was a mountainman. They both could run forever and kick ass with the best of them. They worked at it and so did she. Running, weights, boxing, tai chi, yoga, karate. She wasn’t an expert at any of them, but she figured they all helped.

  A black car pulled off the curb and just missed running over her toes.

  Irritated, Juliet resisted smacking its passenger window.

  It came to an abrupt stop, the back door opening. Instinctively she jumped back—but she was too late. A dark-haired man shot out of the door, shoved a gun in her solar plexus and, using his free hand, jerked her into the back seat. She went sprawling over the smooth black leather and almost hit her head on the opposite door.

  “Good,” the man said, settling in next to her. “You didn’t scream. You’d be dead now if you had.”

  “I had that feeling.” Juliet sat up, her knee already swelling from where she’d banged it getting thrown into the car. It looked like one of
the thousands of black Lincoln Town Cars the rich and the super-busy almost-rich hired to drive them around the city. “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  The man had a slight, indefinable accent and sharp features. Juliet examined her knee. No blood. “What kind of information?”

  “The Rob Dunnemore investigation.”

  “Come on. I’m a lowly deputy marshal. Nobody tells me anything.”

  He slapped her across the face. Hard. She had to stiffen her neck muscles to keep him from knocking her damn head off.

  Her lip swelled almost immediately, and she tasted blood.

  She didn’t say a word.

  The man was going to get his information from her. Then he was going to kill her. The scenario was crystal clear to her.

  “The other marshal,” he said. “Winter. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He popped her another one on the mouth. “You will tell me what I want to know.”

  His accent took some of the menace out of his words—she decided they’d have scared the hell out of her in his native language. But Juliet recognized her reaction for what it was. Bravado.

  Let your fear work for you.

  Who’d told her that? Her instructors at the academy? Her father?

  The car had pulled into the morning rush-hour traffic. The driver was blond, older than the guy beside her in back. There was no one in the front passenger seat. Neither man wore a mask or a disguise. More bad news, since they obviously weren’t worried about her providing the police with their description.

  Her door was unlocked.

  This fact registered almost automatically—she wasn’t sure she’d even looked at the locks. It was as if she knew. This is your escape. This is what you have to do.

  American car. These guys were foreign. Maybe they didn’t know how to lock up?

  Just then the guy next to her realized his mistake. “The locks! Idiot!”

  But Juliet was already making her move. In one swift, well-practiced maneuver, she pushed open the door of the moving car and hurled herself out.