Authors: Carolyn Haines
"Say it," he demanded in a harsh whisper. He sat up straighter and bored into me with that cold green stare.
"Be the one person in this town who'll actually say it to my face."
He leaned forward, and we were only inches apart. I realized how foolish it was of me to have this man in my bedroom, or any room of the house. No one knew he was here. He could kill me, and unless Tinkie came to see if I'd learned anything new, my body might lie around for days. And what would become of Jitty? I didn't want to find out if she really could follow me into eternity.
But as I looked into his eyes and caught the rhythm of his breathing, none of it mattered. Or not as much as it should have.
"Say it, Sarah Booth," he demanded, this time with a roughness to his voice that made my skin flush.
"I can't," I admitted.
"Everyone in this town wants to believe that I killed my mother. It's the perfect bone of gossip, the ideal story to gnaw and chew over a glass of wine or a lunch with friends. I've walked into restaurants and heard conversations grind to a halt. I've heard the whispers as I turned to leave a room. I know what people say, but if you're going to be the one to put all of this in print, then at least be strong enough to say out loud what everyone whispers." He reached across the short distance and caught my hand firmly in his. "Say it!"
I felt my jaw tightening. "Maybe if you'd defend yourself, people would quit talking. You're not above giving an explanation. You left the country, and you left your sister in a mental institution." I tried to remove my hand, but he tightened his grip.
"People want
proof
that I didn't kill my own mother. And I don't have any for them. I gave up a long time ago caring what people said." His voice softened, and his thumb made a slow, circular motion on the back of my hand. "But I do care what you think. Right at this moment, I care a lot. What would it take to convince you, Sarah Booth?"
He brought his other hand up to enfold mine in both of his. "Tell me what you need to believe I'm innocent." He sighed. "Or tell me that you believe I'm a murderer. Say it, and I'll walk out the door."
My brain had fallen silent. Only my heart had something to say, and there was a strange murmuring from behind my navel, something like a Gregorian chant. "I can't say it," I answered.
"Why not?" His gaze held mine and demanded an answer.
"There's no real evidence." I could have lied and said that I didn't think he was capable of murder, but I'd already accepted that everyone is capable of almost anything.
"Would you believe me if I told you I had nothing to do with my mother's death?"
"I don't know," I answered. "I can't say you're innocent, either. There's no proof either way. That's the problem."
I was surprised at his smile. "Who taught you to speak the truth?" he asked. "You've managed to escape the Delta training of your peers."
"My mother was a socialist," I replied and was rewarded with his laugh.
"I always heard the Delaneys were peculiar." He seemed to search my face. "Why did you visit my sister?"
"I need to find out the truth about the past."
"Why? Can't you simply leave it alone? What could it possibly matter to you?"
Desperation was creeping back into his tone, but he held my hand gently, his strong fingers beginning to knead the tender flesh between my thumb and fingers. He moved on to the firm base of my thumb, and his touch became increasingly erotic. My thumb gave one weak pulse in memory of Harold, which I squashed.
I could not tell him about Tinkie. She was my client, and I had an obligation to protect her. I captured his massaging hand with my free one and slowly turned it over. I bent to examine the palm. Tammy had said he was marked with trouble. He held his hand open, fingers slightly curled, like a trusting child. I brushed my fingertips across his palm and was surprised when I felt him tremble. I knew then that swooning was not something Margaret Mitchell had invented for her feckless Southern women. That I had the power to make him tremble was almost my undoing.
I focused on his palm. The base of his thumb was full and developed, and in the center of his palm, an unusual pattern of lines created an M. I could not see the tragedy that Tammy read, but I could feel his tension and pain. "I wish I could read the future here," I said.
"I wish I could change the past," he said.
I suppose that what happened next was inevitable. His hand moved around my head and then drew me gently toward him. My arms went to his shoulders and then slid around his neck. We rose together and stepped into an embrace.
With the first kiss, I was lost.
Hamilton practiced no restraint. His kiss was consuming and alive with lust and pleasure and the strong, deep river of passion that is not a place for wading. We dove into that desire and swam straight for the bottom.
Silk is not an easy fabric to tear, but my blouse parted and fell. There was no time for buttons, no time for talk. He pushed me back onto the bed, and as he leaned over me, I remembered Jitty's description of
Hamilton as the "dark master." She had been righter than she knew. In that secret core of myself that I had always guarded, I felt myself yielding to him in a way I had fought against my entire life.
Even as I caught his thick, heavy hair in both of my hands and pulled his face down to me, I realized how extreme my danger was. And I didn't care.
22
I wish I could report that my madness was fleeting, but it wasn't. Lying tangled in the sheets with
Hamilton 's head cradled on my breast, I thought about the bad choices I'd made in the past. I allowed myself to visualize their faces, and then to bid them good-bye. I forgave myself for being foolish and naive and needy and, sometimes, giving and strong. Though I hadn't honestly known what I was searching for, I accepted that I had found it.
I wasn't projecting a future for me and Hamilton-- no fantasies of weddings and growing old together--but for the first time in my life, I was willing to consider that there might be a future with one particular man. Yes, it was hormones and chemistry and my age. Perhaps Harold had softened the ground, and Jitty had certainly prodded me to think about children and a family. It was all of those things, and so much more. Hamilton Garrett the Fifth had touched me in a place that no one had been able to penetrate. My heart and womb recognized him as "the one."
I was not allowing my brain to cast a vote. Not yet.
Hamilton breathed deeply and stirred, shifting so that his breath teased my nipple. Perhaps among my other vices, I was greedy. I whispered my fingertips along the sensitive skin of his waist and hip, and was rewarded with the feel of his eyelashes blinking open against my breast.
His lips began to do the job they were created to perform, dropping kisses as he moved, in tiny, teasing increments, down my body. Yes, I was greedy, and I reveled in my lust.
I was surprised to look out the window and see that the sun was coming up. The hours of the night had passed like moments, and I wondered if the morning light would end the fantasy.
Hamilton was as uninhibited when he was visible as he was in the dark. It was only the need for food that finally made us take notice of our surroundings.
"I'll make some eggs and toast," I offered, not believing that he was actually leaning back against the cherry headboard of my bed. It occurred to me that, though I'd tumbled in the cotton and the soft grass by the river, in the hayloft of the barn, the tack room and the spring house, the old slave quarters that were used as storage, and the front porch swing, I'd never actually made love under the roof of Dahlia House. It was fitting that it should be
Hamilton .
"I have to go home," he said, swinging his legs off the bed. And what legs they were. Strong, muscled, a manly amount of dark hair. I decided food wasn't important.
I stood beside him, delighting once again in how my head tucked beneath his chin. "I'm not that bad a cook," I said, not wanting to let him leave. Once he donned his clothes and walked out, I would be left with the repercussions of my actions. This was the part of a new romance that I hated the most. There were other egregious stages, but this was the worst. I had a rush of queasiness as my brain began to demand a hearing on the matter.
Once
Hamilton left, the bogeyman of what-ifs would begin to climb on my back, and there was one granddaddy bogeyman I didn't want to confront.
What if the man I'd just made love with had killed his mother?
The ordinary old what-if's--what if he doesn't call, what if he was only pretending, what if he's married-- those wouldn't hold a candle to the big one.
He pulled me against his chest and looked down with speculative eyes. "I'll take a shower, okay?"
"Then I'll make some breakfast." It was an excellent compromise.
Wearing sweatpants, socks, and my old flannel shirt, I hurried down to the kitchen and began rummaging around the refrigerator. Over breakfast, I would raise some of the issues I should have asked about last night. I would do it in a chatty way, some morning conversation as we sipped our coffee and smiled at each other. I'd shown the man I trusted him enough to let him in my bed. It was only rational that he might consider putting his touchy pride aside and answering a few questions.
Cracking the eggs into a bowl, I realized that he had never actually stated that he didn't kill his mother. He asked me what I believed. It was a technicality worthy of a lawyer. Once he had a few bites of my famous omelet, he'd tell me anything I wanted to know. I realized that it was borderline lunacy to bask in my culinary skills. Next I'd be wearing flip-flops and polyester. But I couldn't help myself. I wanted to feed the man who'd expended so much energy taking my womb from singing Gregorian chants to crooning "Wonderful Tonight."
I also wanted to ask him about the magazine clipping I'd found in his coat pocket the night of Harold's party, and about his strange conversation with the man behind the hedge. The catch was I didn't want him to know I'd been spying. I put on a pot of coffee and checked to make sure the juice was fresh. As I turned the heat up on the sausage in the pan, I thought I heard the sound of the shower running. I began crumbling Parmesan cheese into the eggs.
Outside it was bright and sunny, a perfect December day. I caught a glimpse of the bumper of
Hamilton 's car, parked out behind the old barn, that sly devil. I considered pulling a spark plug wire to detain him for a bit longer. That was just my greed and insecurity acting up. Perhaps I'd do a little Christmas shopping instead. For the first time in years, I liked the idea of the approaching season. The knock at the back door almost made me drop the bowl of eggs.
"Sarah Booth!" Tinkie called out. "Are you busy?"
I thought of hiding, but I saw her face at the window, and she saw me. She held Chablis up and waved a little paw at me. "Let us in, it's cold out here."
I opened the door, realizing it wasn't locked.
Hamilton 's entry, at least, wasn't a mystery. "Tinkie," I said, trying to come up with an excuse to make her leave before she saw
Hamilton 's car.
"Kincaid has decided--at the very last minute--to make this a costume luncheon," she said, her voice filled with wrath. "That's just like her. Get the drop on everyone with a beautiful costume while we're cutting up paper sacks and trying to be inventive."
I had to laugh. I'd completely forgotten Kincaid's party. But I had not forgotten
Hamilton upstairs, and I wanted Tinkie gone. "Wear some overalls and a kerchief," I suggested.
"You think it's funny because you don't care. That coffee sure smells good." She opened the cupboard and got a cup. In a moment she was installed at the kitchen table, eyeing the bowl of eggs. "My Lord, Sarah Booth, how many eggs are you going to eat? Do you know the fat grams? And cheese?" She sniffed. "And sausage? Maybe I wouldn't mind a bite or two. You've got plenty here for both of us, if I do say so myself."
I desperately tried to think of a way to get rid of her. Where was Jitty when I needed her to rattle a chain or moan?
Tinkie eased Chablis to the floor. "She'll be fine," she assured me. "She's perfectly trained."
Perfectly trained for destruction. I could have told her about a pillow and a pair of heels. "What's on your mind?" I drained the sausage and put the eggs on to cook. The sooner I fed her, the sooner she would leave.
"I read your report," she said.
"It's a little early for conclusions," I said, hoping that the evidence of my nocturnal appetites didn't show. I sidled over to the toaster and tried to check my lobes and neck to make sure there were no marks of passion. When I caught a distorted image of Tinkie, slumped at the table, it dawned on me that she might be about to fire me.
She waved her hand at my look of concern. "Something's bothering me."
I slipped into a chair. "What?"
"Why did
Hamilton come home now? I mean why now, after all this time? He's been gone for years, and now he's out there in that big old house all alone. Maybe you should back off this case. What with Delo getting killed and Sylvia Garrett's night out from the institution, maybe it would be best if we dropped this whole thing." Her manicured nails twisted the tablecloth into tiny little knots.
"What's really wrong, Tinkie?" I picked up my mug.
"I've been thinking. Maybe I'd rather keep
Hamilton as a fantasy. You know, the dangerous man that I dallied with . . . and escaped without injury. I had a talk with
Hamilton at Harold's party. He said Oscar was a good man. He made me feel okay about marrying him." She bit down on her lip, but this time it was not a sensual effect, it was to stop her tears. "Maybe it would be better for everyone if you quit asking questions."
I was relieved to see that Tinkie's interest in
Hamilton had waned. That somewhat redeemed the fact that I'd just crawled out of bed with him. But something else was going on here. "I can't stop right in the middle of everything."
Tinkie's hand on my arm was so sudden I almost knocked over her coffee. "You have to stop," she said, eyes wide and lashes spiky from unshed tears. "You have to stop this instant, Sarah Booth."