Endless Night (9 page)

“Insight,” he said.

“Insight, hmm? I told you this one was going to be interesting, Rena.”

Serena held a hand to her back and maneuvered herself atop a stool, satisfied that all patrons were served for the moment. “That you did, Harriet.”

“You went to see that old bat today, didn’t you?” Harriet dipped her face into the mug.

Jake winced at the reference and nodded. “Yes, we went to see Estelle. You said she still has a sharp mind, but we sure couldn’t tell that today.”

Megan offered a swift nod in agreement, and then added, “Harriet, have you ever heard Estelle refer to someone as
Crow?
”

Gray-blue eyes sharpened with interest. Suspended in midswing, the beer mug settled with a thud on the lacquered surface.

“Crow, you say?” A faraway gaze made the woman’s weathered face nearly seem youthful. “Now there was a fine member of the male species.”

Jake and Megan exchanged incredulous glances. “Crow was a
man?
” he prompted.

“Oh,
indeed he was.
George ‘Crow’ Musgrave.” The spell lifted from Harriet’s face as reddened cheeks and aged grooves returned.

“So, she’s still prattling on about him, is she?” She grinned. “That man really got under her thick blue skin.”

“Who was Crow Musgrave?” Megan leaned around Jake’s body for a better view of Harriet. The motion distracted Jake because he caught a tiny hint of her scent in between the stale aroma of beer and lobster bisque. He inhaled and awaited Harriet’s information like a soldier anticipating the transport that would bring him home.

“Crow worked a lobster boat here. He was from one of the local tribes.” Harriet read their quizzical glances and added, “Native American. As gorgeous a man as I can remember in these parts. Kept to himself, but boy did he have an eye for Gabby Wakefield.”

Alert bells rang a riotous peal in Jake’s head. “Did they become a couple?”

Harriet smiled, one of those hypnotic smiles full of knowledge only permitted to women. “He watched her, day in, day out, but never spoke to her that I know of. Crow was tall, dark—he had eyes like the sun.” Harriet looked at Jake with renewed interest. “Hmm, that old bat saw you and said the word
Crow?
Now don’t you find that interesting?”

“Do you think Jake looks like this Crow?” Megan injected.

Harriet’s gaze scaled Jake’s body, but lingered when she reached his eyes. “Yeah, there’s definitely a resemblance there.”

“Now just hold on. Don’t get carried away here.” Jake needed to back off and gain some equilibrium. He reached for his beer and tipped it back with gusto. “You’re telling me they were never even a couple, right?”

“Like I said, he used to watch her when she came into town in her mother’s fancy car. Two different cultures they were. Crow was a lobsterman. Blue collar. Gabrielle was blue blood. Crow knew his place—so he just watched.”

“But maybe at some point they got together?” Familiar with the cultural and ethnic diversity of a large city such as Boston, Jake acknowledged that no matter what the geographical location was, the rich remained in a class among themselves. He would like to hope that people in general had evolved, that such separation between the wealthy and the working class was an archaic concept, but his gut told him better.

“If it happened.” Harriet tipped the mug back to her face. “I never knew about it.”

That declaration meant the likelihood was nil. “The only time Gabby was gone from here for any length of time after college was when Estelle sent her to New York to visit relatives.”

Harriet sipped at her beer and continued, “Estelle didn’t miss a trick, though. She saw the way that man looked at her daughter. All I know is that one day Crow Musgrave left Victory Cove and he never came back.”

You spoiled her.
Estelle’s condemning words rang in Jake’s ears.

Jake was deep in thought, but not deep enough to miss Megan’s stiffening spine. A cool breeze invaded the inn, rippling the stack of napkins on the bar. He followed the source to the front door, where a lanky man filled the frame. Jet-black hair billowed in the last throes of wind to settle like lifeless vines atop wide shoulders as the door slammed shut. Black eyes skimmed disinterestedly over the crowd, and long jeans-clad legs propelled the intense figure toward the bar.

Megan instinctively shrank back into Jake. The gesture was so unconscious he felt a soft tug in the pit of his stomach. She leaned back even farther, trying to sink into him just as she had tried to merge into the car seat. He slipped an arm around her and was wholly aware of her—aware of her slim back against his chest, her scent, her fear, which enveloped her like a shroud—a cloak that he wanted to understand and eliminate.

“Easy, Meg,” he whispered into her hair for only her to hear, while his eyes traced the moves of the swarthy stranger who elbowed up against the bar. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Jake felt her head shake in denial. Instinctively, his arm tightened around her waist. “It’s okay.” He sensed her need to feel protected. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

A tiny tremor shook her slender frame.

“Who is that?” He turned his head to ask of Harriet, never relinquishing his protective hold of the woman draped against him.

“John Morse.” Harriet tipped her head at the bronzed man. “Morse, how ya doing?”

A raised black eyebrow and a brief grunt were the only offers of salutation before the man’s sinewy hand hefted the glass of whisky and downed it in one shot.

“Rena,” Harriet bellowed, “how long you gonna keep giving this guy free whisky?”

Serena returned a placid smile. “The man helped us, Harriet. Brett and I are indebted to him.”

Harriet snorted. “True, but I think he’s taking advantage.”

John Morse slammed down his shot glass and tipped his head at Serena. He skewed a dark glance at Harriet and nearly disclosed a thin grin. With nothing more than a pound of his fist on the rim of the bar as a farewell, he turned and stalked back into the night.

“Charming, isn’t he?” Harriet smirked.

Jake felt Megan’s posture relax. It was like a curtain falling still after a window is closed. He heard her soft plea. “Jake, can we go?”

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Morgan.” He placed a few bills under his half-f mug.

“Serena, thank you.” With his hand still on Megan’s hip, he helped her off the stool.

But she didn’t need any help from him. She felt like a finely honed bow, ready to snap.

“Oh, Mrs. Morgan.” Jake hesitated before drawing away from the bar. “Do you know if this Crow Musgrave has any relatives still in Victory Cove?”

Harriet grinned. It was a beefy smile that obscured her eyes with puffed-up flesh. “Yes, sir.” She pitched her head toward the door. “You just met him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Harriet grinned again. “That was Crow’s nephew.”

Rain misted the windshield, but not with the unmanageable deluge of yesterday. The wipers cast their sweeping arcs as the Jeep’s high beams cut through a fog that hugged the twisting roadway like angel hair in a Christmas manger, making the trek to Wakefield House a slow one.

“Do you want to tell me what happened in there?” Jake asked softly.

Silence prevailed from the passenger seat. Megan’s head was turned away from him.

“You were afraid of that guy,” he observed, “that Morse. Why? Did you recognize him?”

She shrugged and then shook her head no.

Reining in his impatience, Jake was frustrated only because he was growing more and more concerned about his mystery woman
.
She was no longer a stranger who lived in the house his biological mother lived in. She was Megan, a woman who had tucked her body in tight against him for protection, a woman who had connected with him in the dark.

“Megan, dammit. Talk to me.”

Her head whipped his way, her eyes smoldering for a moment before she replied,

“No, I didn’t recognize him. Yes, maybe for a second I was afraid. He looked intimidating.” She added, “It was a silly reaction. Just forget about it.” Her voice took on an edge as the barricades rose.

He wished he could forget about it. He wished he could find out who Crow Musgrave was, what his association was to Gabrielle Wakefield and identify whether or not they were his parents. As soon as he did that, he wanted to get back to Boston and immerse himself in his job and forget about Victory Cove completely.

Forget about the beautiful, mysterious ghost of Wakefield House.

Oh, that testimony sounded downright admirable, but he knew he was not ready to leave Megan. Physically, his attraction to her was undeniable, but what was so painfully apparent and so disturbingly foreign, was this overwhelming need to protect her. To ease whatever horror caused the raw desperation in her eyes.

“I can’t forget it, Megan.”

Maybe his voice was unnaturally husky when he said that. Megan watched him, gauging him before a soft sigh escaped her lips.

“I have barriers, Jake. Big ones. And you’re getting past them,” she whispered. “That makes me nervous.”

He let go of the steering wheel. The tip of his thumb brushed her flushed cheek, lingering just below her ear. With one simple surge, he could immerse his hand in that luxurious hair and draw her face to his.

The tug of the uneven gravel forced Jake to return his grip to the wheel. “You’re slipping past
my
barriers,” he uttered. “That makes
me
uneasy.”

Megan smiled. It was beautiful and haunting, and evoked images of mythological goddesses in flowing white gowns, like clouds themselves.

“The weather has let up,” he observed. “I’ll drop you off at home and head back to O’Flanagan’s.”

In the green glow of the dashboard he saw the intensity in her expression. Her slim hands clenched the folded newspaper till her knuckles turned white with effort.

“Jake?” It was the softest whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Stay with me tonight.”

He felt the cadence of his heart falter and drum back into rhythm. Any sort of reaction was a luxury he could not afford because the bridge was before them. He clenched the steering wheel and prepared to negotiate it.

Having mistaken his silence as indecision, Megan turned sideways in her seat and squeezed the newspaper with inhuman strength. “I’m not—I’m not looking for—I mean—I wasn’t inviting you to stay for…” She glanced helplessly down at her hands. “I’m not going to sleep with you, if that’s what you think.”

He didn’t know what to think. It had been his intention all along to try to convince her that he needed to spend the night. Now Megan was asking him to stay in a soft, husky voice that ripped his insides out.

Oh hell yeah, he would stay. And funny enough, sex wasn’t the first thing on his mind—well, that might not be totally accurate. But the notion wasn’t as strong as was the urge to simply be with her. One look in her eyes and he knew she needed him, even if it was just for one night, she wanted to feel safe.

He would give her that.

“Well that’s a relief.” Forced humor laced his gruff voice. “Here I thought you were after my body.”

All thoughts of chivalry spilled into the Atlantic when Jake saw those smoldering blue eyes trace down his chest and hover lower, on the spot that was giving him discomfort now.

“Why would you think that?” Megan asked with dramatic innocence.

“Megan, dammit, I told you not to look at me like that.”

Dilated pupils jerked up and she released the newspaper long enough to lodge shaky fingers into her hair. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

The Jeep mastered the bridge, enabling him to release the steering wheel with one hand and reach over to free the hair she had secured behind her ear. Silky tresses tumbled forward and he couldn’t resist the temptation. He stroked them, committing that satin texture to memory.

“You’ve been a real trouper today,” he began. “The truth of the matter is that we’re still strangers, and I’m not blind—I can see that trust doesn’t come easily to you.” He took a deep breath. “Yet today you supported me on something that had absolutely nothing to do with you.”

The recollection of Megan at his side during his visit with Estelle moved Jake. Maybe it wasn’t a monumental event—just a trip to meet an elderly woman he had no knowledge of. But Megan’s presence made an awkward situation bearable. “To say that I’m grateful would be an
understatement.”

“Look—” Megan squirmed again as she dipped her head forward, her hair falling down to cloak her eyes, “—maybe you’re right. Maybe you should just drop me off.”

“Alright,” he conceded, thinking that it was time to play hardball. “I don’t know about you though, but I’m exhausted, and the rain is picking up again. It’s such a long ride back—”

Her laugh cut in over the drone of the wipers. “Oh right, play it up a little bit more. Would you like some cheese with your
whine?
”

“I’m a grown man. I don’t whine.”

Jake didn’t look, but he could feel her eyes on him. The course of that gaze left a blazing trek down his body like he had been lanced by a blowtorch, a heat that offset the effect of the ominous dwelling before him.

The sinister shadow of Wakefield House loomed before them like a colossal gargoyle perched on the cliff, ready to launch at the Jeep with its talons extended and soar off with them clutched in its grasp.

Too proud to use the nightstand lantern to fend off the darkness, Jake immersed himself in it. If the mistress of Wakefield House could stalk the murky corridors fearlessly, he refused to be intimidated by these shadows. Stretched across the bed, he tried to locate the recessed ceiling in the shadows, but his mind was distracted by the questions that besieged him in agonizing frequency.

Who was Crow Musgrave?

Was the mysterious lobsterman his father?

And what terrified Megan so much that every stranger harbored a threat?

The subject of his thoughts let loose a high-pitched scream. It was a primal sound that pierced the sinister stillness—the cry of a banshee signaling imminent peril. Jake jumped up, disoriented. He fumbled for the nightstand lantern but cursed when the brass base tumbled to the floor.

“Jake!” Panic laced the wild plea.

Jake could tell the sound was coming closer, moving toward him. He hurled toward the spot where he expected to find the door and, after only a few fumbling sweeps of his hand, located the knob and wrenched it open.

“Megan!” he shouted into the black hall.

He saw nothing, absolutely zilch. He couldn’t possibly feel more helpless at that moment. Still, he inched forward, knowing that if he wasn’t careful he could tumble over the banister.

Tiny whimpers called to him from obscurity. Jake moved blindly toward that sound. In a shock to his senses, he connected with Megan in the dark. It was a rush of tangled limbs and breathless fear. He tasted her horror as if it were an animal wrapped around her in a predatory embrace, trying to wrestle her into submission.

“Jake,” she gasped.

In Megan’s haste to flee her demons, she latched on to him. Sinuous arms wound around his neck, while she all but climbed up his body, determined to get closer.

“Megan, what is it?”

His intention was to ask her what was wrong. His intention was to put to rest her worries, to tackle her fears and battle her demons. But in this obscure hall, the mouth that descended, the mouth that opened to assure, connected with Megan’s, and all lucid thoughts faded. All that mattered to him was that Megan’s lips had parted and he was now inside her warmth, feasting with a ferocity that was staggering.

The kiss was surreal. It took on a transcendental and sinful feel as Jake became a victim to his senses. He felt the supple curves of Megan’s body beneath his hands, hands that roamed shamelessly, hands that took and molded. In the dark, Megan gave herself to him. Her kisses were hungry. She bit his bottom lip and then licked it with a strangled murmur of pleasure.

Some remote part of Jake’s brain counseled him that her reaction was a byproduct of fear, nothing more than adrenaline seeking an outlet.

And
he
was it.

It was hard to listen to his nagging conscious when she was coveting his mouth in a way that defied anything he had ever experienced before. He answered the volley of her tongue and heard her throaty moan.

Jake’s hands climbed blindly, committing Megan’s form to memory. His palm brushed the cotton tank top and felt her full breast beneath his touch. Her slim spine arched into him, grinding her hips against his, and instinctively his hands dropped to her bottom, hauling that
connection feverishly closer.

Oh God.

Every impression was made particularly erotic by the forbidden allure of the dark. Only through the senses of touch and smell could he discern her. Sensory perception took on a whole new meaning under this unearthly veil.

“Megan.” He rushed against her mouth, tasting her swollen lips. “Baby, I want to
see
you.”

In the dark he moved with remarkable agility and reached to scoop her up in his arms. He lost his bearings in the chaotic cloud of passion and didn’t know which way to step.

“Turn to your right.” Megan’s soft breath tickled his ear. “Five steps will put you in front of my door.”

Her lips toyed with the lobe and her tongue tortured him with promise. “Three more steps.” Her voice was husky. “And you’ll be in my bed.”

Megan’s tone was bold and tempting, but he could feel her tremble. The quivers were of passion. She was responsive to his touch in a totally candid way that made him feel like the most virile man on earth.

But something had frightened her earlier.

“What scared you?” he whispered, hoarse, starting blindly toward her room. “What brought you out here into the hall?”

Her arms slipped tighter around his neck. “Nightmares,” she replied bleakly.

In five steps Jake reached the door. He used the tip of his toe to nudge it forward. “And you came to me—you thought I would keep you safe?”

Just the notion made his chest restrict and his lungs compress as newfound emotions clutched them in a merciless vise, forcing him to choke down a breath.

“I thought…” Megan faltered. “At first when I woke—” she tensed in his arms, “—I thought that I had imagined you. I thought maybe you were in my dreams too.”

Jake dragged in another breath and felt that tightness again.

“Does this taste like imagination?” he whispered before his mouth found hers and branded it.

If her nightmares had undergone a metamorphosis, her nightly torture revealing itself in this new manifestation, God help her, Megan never wanted to wake up. She could see nothing, but she felt. Oh, how she felt. Jake was making love to her mouth with some of the slowest, deepest kisses, that for a moment she felt a sense of vertigo, as if the floor had opened into a gaping gorge and she was falling. But Jake was there to support her in the form of strapping arms that held her suspended with such ease. She breathed in his scent—soap, the pub, rain—and felt heat curl low in her stomach.

Jake’s head lifted just enough that he could rub her sensitive lips with an erotic sweep of his own. It was such exquisite torture, she thought. A few more of those phantom sweeps and he withdrew.

Megan panted against his chest. Her free hand touched the sculpted muscles and felt the ferocious beat of his heart. Inquisitive fingers traced the rugged arc of his shoulder and toyed with the curling hairline at the top of his neck.

“I want to see
you,
” she whispered with urgency.

A satisfied male chuckle rumbled beneath her hand. “Still not certain I’m real?”

Megan was sure he was real all right
.
She could feel every real inch of him. Solid. Strong.
They were sensations she lost herself to. It was like diving into a warm lagoon and being caressed in every secreted place with balmy water.

“Mmm.” She stood up on her toes and her lips reached for his ear. Her nose brushed against his hair, imagining its rich black shine, smelling the scent of the storm there. “I think I need a little more convincing.”

The comment was intended to lure him into kissing her again, but Megan let loose a startled cry when she found herself on her feet with open air around her.

“Jake?”

“It’s okay.”

Silence
.
The keen awareness that his body had shifted. And then light.

Megan blinked like an owl in the amber glow of her nightstand lamp. Focus returned and brought Jake into clarity. It staggered her, the sight of this man. He was so tall and brawny he should have carried an axe and had an ox as a sidekick. In the radiance of the kerosene lamp, his eyes smoldered as they roved over her.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered with husky reverence.

At that moment, Megan felt beautiful. There was no mistaking the desire in his stare or his gravelly voice. Jake made her feel like something to be cherished. He made her feel like Margaret Simmons, and that was perhaps the biggest turn-on of all.

“So are you.” Drawn to him on buoyant feet, she stretched out and touched his chest. His shirt was unbuttoned. Eager fingers brushed the cotton material aside and reached for warm skin dusted with dark hair. Megan felt the accelerated beat of his heart beneath muscles that twitched with reserved strength. One shift of his body and he could overpower her. “Come here,” he whispered again, raising a black eyebrow in sinful invitation.

Megan took two steps and was in his arms, her lips opening to welcome his kiss. Jake’s embrace tightened and he drew her hard and fast against his body.

On her nightstand, the telephone rang.

One shrill sound and her fantasy shattered.

Megan gaped at the nightstand. The blaring device might as well have been an amplifier from hell, a portal through which to communicate with the Devil. Jake moved to pick up the receiver, but her sudden cry froze him.

“No!”

If it was Gordon, the last thing she wanted was for him to realize that she was not alone. This was her battle to wage. She would not allow anything to happen to Jake.

Maybe Jake was a stranger. Maybe it was too fast—too strong, but there was no denying the effect he had on her. There was no denying the feelings she had for him. They were undeveloped, yet still wonderful feelings, which her cruel circumstance would have to nip before they ever developed.

All these thoughts raged in her mind before the third shrill ring of the phone. Uncooperative fingers launched for the receiver and hefted it to her ear. Megan did not offer a salutation, she just listened.

Silence.

Not the stagnant silence of a severed connection, nor the monotonous vacuum of being placed on hold. This was a heavy stillness that spoke to her in evil whispers, wicked hints that someone was on the other end—
listening.

Both hands gripped the receiver and Megan shook so much now that her legs failed her and she sank to the edge of the bed. There was no heavy breathing or anything so sinister and
obvious, but she knew he was there. Also gone was the electrical hum she had distinguished on the past call. Did this mean he had altered his location? Was he closer? Was he outside?

Vaguely, she was aware that Jake crouched before her, his dark eyes intense and concerned. Warm hands gripped her arms in an effort to support her, though she was inconsolable. Every one of her senses was honed in on the stillness at the other end of the receiver.

And then she heard it.

“I know where you are, Margaret.”

The voice was formal and collected. It rang slightly deep, yet with a polish that resisted true masculinity.

It was a voice Megan knew well.

I know where you are, Margaret.

Only one time had Gordon ever crossed the line with Margaret professionally. In retrospect, she wondered why it had only been once. His prowess was well known throughout the office as was revealed by their high turnover of paralegals. Perhaps Gordon actually respected her enough not to touch her.

Except for that one night—the one night they were stuck together in the office, working late over a trial that would commence shortly after sunrise.

Margaret was in one of the old meeting rooms that still housed filing cabinets. Stooped over a pullout drawer, thumbing through manila files not yet chronicled in the computer database, she felt hands on her hips and an insistent male pressure behind her. She gasped and clasped the cabinet to try to shove backward, attempting to push off the invasion. Determined hands clenched around her midsection and she sensed a warm breath tinged with mint on her ear.

“I thought you’d never ask, Margaret,” Gordon whispered in a gruff tone, his hand boldly sculpting her hip and following the curve of her thigh.

Margaret struggled, but she was boxed in against the cabinet. The drawer was shoved shut by the pressure of their bodies.

“Ask? Ask for
what?
” she nearly shrieked.

“You knew I was sitting here staring at you, fantasizing—” he continued against her hair,

“—and you bent over and offered me that gorgeous ass.” His hips nudged hers and Margaret jerked in denial. “What is a man supposed to do?”

Gordon’s hands were moving in between her thighs and Margaret’s strangled cry pitched into a scream.

“Shhh.” Long fingers pinched the flesh of her thigh through the twill skirt. “You don’t have to play hard-to-get anymore. I mean, I appreciate us keeping this strictly business and all. I have plenty of women. I was content to just watch you and nurture the torture.”

One hand left her thigh to surge up into her hair. Its insistent grip was used to haul her upright and back against him. Margaret’s body shuddered in revulsion.

“Let go of me,” she ordered through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t want you—I don’t want this.”

“Margaret, really,” Gordon chided, “please don’t play coy, it truly doesn’t suit you.”

The only part of her body that was free of his tenacious grip was her leg, and Margaret immediately put it into action. She lifted at the knee as far as her tapered skirt would allow and slammed down her two-inch heel on Gordon’s instep. Thick polished leather threw off the brunt of her assault, but the impact was enough to make him howl in anger and release his grip.

Margaret wasted no time. In three unstable strides she was out the door, though she never
sensed that he gave chase. She did not call the police, but neither did she return to work the next morning.

The trial Margaret had worked so hard to prepare for was not even a consideration the following morning. Perhaps her reaction was pure cowardice, but she was still young and naïve enough to handle the situation the only way she knew how.

Run from it.

In a week Margaret was sitting in the lobby of the Richard A. Manfredi Law Firm, her resume tucked in her leather portfolio. Her cell phone vibrated inside the case and she retrieved it to see the caller ID. It was Gordon. It was his first contact since the incident in the conference room. She had no intention of answering and reached for the power button, her palms sweating as she turned it off.

“Ms. Simmons?” The blond receptionist with exorbitant eyeliner looked at her expectantly from behind her glass-plated desk.

“Yes.” Margaret gathered her purse and gave herself a mental pep talk as she rose.