Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (18 page)

She wanted to remember everything, too: his breath stirring her hair, the faint scratch of his chest hair on her breasts, the pressure of his hands on her waist. He tugged at the delicate lace and pulled it down over her hip bones. He kissed her midriff, then his mouth moved to her other hip while his fingers slowly edged down the lace, down her legs, removing the thong completely and laying her bare before him.

Cool air broke over her skin. She shivered. Her breath came in quick pants as his hands caressed her and shudders rippled through her.

No sooner had the climax ended than another swept forward, great swells that left her weak and trembly. He didn't seem to be in a hurry. He continued caressing her until another peak began to rise. His finger flicked over her most tender spot, sending her into another deep wave of blinding-white pleasure. Her breath came in ragged bursts as the orgasm rose to a crescendo and receded, moving further and further away.

More
, she thought.
I want more. I want him with every ounce of my being.

He moved on top of her, nudging her legs apart. He bit his lip and sheathed himself deep within her. He moved with unbearable slowness, until a shivery warmth ran through her like water, pouring from the deepest part of herself into him.

He made an incoherent sound, then cupped her bottom and lifted her hips toward him. She surged forward, meeting each thrust eagerly, her fingers gripping his tight buttocks. He was pumping so hard, beads of perspiration dropped from the loose strands of his hair. She shut her eyes and floated toward a whirlpool, into a shadowy cone where pleasure spun in an unbroken circle. Her arms tightened around his neck, and she felt him move with her into the swirling dark.

 

Wilkerson stood on the lawn outside Ashton House, listening to his tutor explain the procedure of clay shooting—only this was laser shooting. Not the same thing at all. Wilkerson tapped his boot furiously and waited for the teacher to get on with it so he could have lunch in the Oak Room.

“Pull!” the tutor called.

A beat late, Wilkerson lifted the disabled shotgun and squeezed the trigger. A pop sounded. But nothing happened. Either the infrared beam had missed the clay or it wasn't functioning. Wilkerson had been missing them all morning, and he was ready to throw down the gun and walk away. But he couldn't. He needed proper lessons, because next weekend he was going to a clay shoot in Yorkshire; one of Cynthia's friends from the horsey-foxy set was hosting the event, and he wanted to seem knowledgeable, clued-up about the sport. At least he was dressed for the occasion: a green waistcoat, corduroy trousers, thick ear mufflers, orange safety glasses, and Wellingtons.

“Don't watch the clay,” said the tutor, “or it will beat you.”

“I wasn't looking,” Wilkerson insisted.

“Put your left foot forward a bit. Now, look over to the old skeet house. Find an imaginary pickup point.”

“Pickup point?” Wilkerson asked.

“The place where you first see the whole clay,” the tutor said, and went on to explain the muzzle hold point, stance, and break point. Wilkerson tugged at his tweed cap. The sun hit the front of the white mansion and glinted on the bay windows. Yok-Seng stood off to the side, talking on his mobile phone in hushed tones.

“Let's try again, shall we?” the tutor said, but Wilkerson turned to stare at the bodyguard.

Yok-Seng held the phone aloft. The high, nasal voice of Mr. Underwood streamed out.

“Underwood is calling,” Yok-Seng said. “He says it is urgent.”

Wilkerson sighed and heaved the gun into the tutor's hands; he walked over to Yok-Seng and snatched the phone. “I'm in the middle of a shooting lesson. It better be important, Mr. Underwood.”

“Miss Clifford has gone missing, sir.”

Wilkerson cursed.

“I'm afraid that's not all, sir. She's killed Teo.”

“How can one little girl cause so much trouble?” Wilkerson stared toward the Chiltern Hills. “Shall I call in the Zubas? Is that what you want? Because you've left me no choice. How am I supposed to find her now?”

“If I might make a suggestion, sir. Miss Clifford is being sought by the Kardzhali police. A witness claims she killed Teo. He took photographs.”

“Get to the point, Mr. Underwood,” Wilkerson snapped.

“The point is, sir, she's a murder suspect in Bulgaria. I could make a few phone calls, and she'd be a suspect in the Dowell girl's death.”

“That's ludicrous,” Wilkerson said. “She's not a suspect.”

“Not yet. A contact at the
Observer
has unearthed articles about the murder of Miss Clifford's mother. The reporter plans to write a feature article, revealing how Miss Clifford went to live with a hotshot archaeologist in Oxford. Now he's been murdered. The article will suggest that Miss Clifford went temporarily insane and murdered her flatmate.”

“It won't work. She wasn't even there when the girl was killed.”

“The time of death is questionable, sir. It wouldn't be a stretch to say that Miss Clifford killed the flatmate and staged it to look like a break-in.”

“The Yard will never believe that.” Wilkerson stared up into the trees. “Besides, Moose left God knows how much evidence.”

“Not to worry, sir. Moose will never be implicated. He's too slippery.”

“Caroline doesn't have a criminal record. Perhaps if she had a history of violence. Women don't kill each other unless a man is involved.”

“I could find a man, sir.”

“And leave another dangling thread?” Wilkerson scowled.

“I'm merely thinking of options,” Mr. Underwood said.

“Do you still have contacts at MI5?”

“Yes, sir. I've spoken to them. Their agents are in Sofia.”

“All right, go ahead,” said Wilkerson. “It better work or I'll know who to blame.”

 

Morning sunshine zigzagged into the room, stinging Caro's eyes. She pulled the sheet over her head, stirring up the salty musk of last night's lovemaking. As she bent her toes, a delicious tingle floated up her legs into the center of her chest. Just thinking about Jude sent jolts of pure pleasure through her body. A powerful current had run between them, a pitch-perfect balance of positive and negative charges, pulling her into a place where thoughts were vanquished. All her life she'd waited for the perfect lover, someone who would take her beyond the moves of ordinary sex and sweep her into a pulse-pounding dance. Had she found him? Or was she projecting her strong feelings?

She shivered and lowered the sheet. What was the point of fantasizing when the object of her lust was just across the room, sleeping in the other twin bed? Her smile dimmed as she sat up and blinked in the harsh light.

Jude's bed was empty. Not a trace of him remained in the hotel room. His keys, leather coat, and backpack were missing. Her pulse sped up, thumping painfully against her ribs. He hadn't seemed the type to run away. Maybe he'd panicked and left her alone in this dying town. If so, she'd have to solve the remaining anagrams and try to interpret them and continue on by herself. In the old days, her uncle had left clues in order, creating a logical pattern for her treasure hunts. Until proven otherwise, she assumed that Meteora was the first stop on her journey.

Her pulse throbbed in her neck, and she gingerly touched the bite marks. Her skin blazed as if she was running a fever, but she couldn't worry about that. She didn't want to be caught in Momchilgrad after dark. She'd wait an hour. If Jude didn't return, she'd leave the hotel, buy a map, and study the terrain between southern Bulgaria and Greece. Then she'd hire a car to take her near the border, hike to the nearest town, and make her way to Meteora.

No matter what happened between her and Jude, she'd have to decode those anagrams. She scooted to the edge of the bed and reached into her duffel bag for Uncle Nigel's passport. The room brightened as a wedge of sunlight blasted through the curtain and washed over her arm. Her skin tingled and reddened. She scooted away from the light, and the prickling faded.

She took a deep breath and opened the passport, but she couldn't stop looking at the window. All around her dust motes rose from the sheets, churning in dizzy patterns within the light. It seemed threatening somehow.

According to lore, sunlight made vampires spontaneously combust—and she'd been bitten. But that was silly, wasn't it? She didn't have the luxury of being silly or afraid. She forced herself to stare at her uncle's handwriting.

The door creaked open and Jude stepped into the room, his arms loaded with paper bags. His ponytail swung forward as he set the bags on the desk. She hastily rolled across the bed, stuffed the passport into her bag, and moved out of the dappled light.

“You're awake.” He smiled, and his upper lips widened into a plush, kissable M.

“Come back to bed.” She bent her toes, and a warm sensation rushed down her thighs.

“Don't tempt me.” He gave her a lingering glance and opened the large bag.

“What did you buy?” she asked.

“Hair coloring. I'm not sure you'll approve. The selection was grim.” He held up a rectangular box that featured a smiling woman with straight, luxurious hair the exact shade of a double espresso.

He reached for the small bag. “Would you like to go first—or shall I?”

“Go ahead. I need a moment to work up my courage.”

“I shan't be long.”

After he walked into the bathroom, Caro slid off the bed, grabbed her bloody sweater from last night, and shoved it into the trash. If only it were that easy to discard her lingering anxieties over her kidnapping and its connection to her uncle's murder. Her heart bumped against her chest as she recounted the events of the past few days. Had it really been just days? It felt like weeks, months maybe.

Rousing herself, she started to unzip her duffel bag. Did she have enough time to decipher the rest of the anagrams? Before she could grab the passport, the bathroom door opened and steam curled into the room. Jude walked out, tucking a towel around his waist. A smaller towel was draped over his shoulders. But it was his hair that caught her attention. It was wet, short, and brutally dark, the bangs rumpled over his forehead, which showed a ragged line of black dye.

“You cut your ponytail,” she said.

“It's ruddy awful, isn't it?” He blotted his neck with the small towel, dabbing at the inky stains. “I can't rinse for twenty minutes. Let's get started with you.”

The muscles in his back rippled as he opened the large paper bag. “Hair color, madam. And curl relaxer. I bought two boxes of each. You've got quite a bit of hair. The scissors are in the bathroom.”

“But if I dye my hair, I won't look like my passport photo,” she said.

“You'll need a new one. I've already made arrangements. I'd like to leave Momchilgrad before dark. I'd hate to stay another night.”

“Anything but that,” she said, thinking of those zombie-like people. She lifted a box. “I thought it was dangerous to straighten and color hair on the same day.”

“Isn't it more dangerous if the police are chasing a curly-headed blonde?”

While he mixed the bottles, Caro found the scissors and leaned over the trash bin, forcing herself to cut an inch from her hair. When she finished, the blunt ends were still well below her shoulders. She ran her fingers through the curls.

“Cut more, lass,” Jude said.

“How much?”

“To your chin.”

“That's too short. I won't do it. I'll wear it up, in a bun or a twist.”

He grabbed the scissors. Before she could move, he lopped off several inches—on one side. The blunt hair just hit her shoulders.

“Damn you,” Caro said. She was ready to let loose with a string of harsher curses, but he'd turned away to finish mixing the relaxer and hair dye. She didn't want to distract him, so she sat on the counter and cut the rest of her hair. She looked in the mirror, tugging the frizzy ends, and sighed.

“I look like Little Orphan Annie,” she said.

Jude lifted her wrist and glanced at her watch. “It's nine fifteen, Annie. Do get a move on unless you want to stay in Momchilgrad another night.”