After the Night (43 page)

Her legs were next. He kneaded her hamstring muscles, her calves, her Achilles tendons, the bottoms of her feet. He rotated her ankles back and forth, pressing his thumbs hard into her arches, and a startlingly sexual pleasure made her toes curl.

"Oh!" she said involuntarily.

"Like that, do you?" he asked, his voice soft and muted in the growing darkness of the room. He did it again, and she moaned in response.

He moved back up her legs, spreading them apart and massaging the stretched, sore tendons on the upper insides of her thighs. Her moan this time was of pain, and she gripped the sides of the table. He murmured reassuringly, moving his attention to her buttocks. She relaxed again, closing her eyes. She was feeling pleasantly warm now, and not just from the oil; his stroking hands were having another effect entirely. Desire was curling lazily, heating her blood, totally without urgency.

"On your back, now," he said, and helped her to roll over. He looked with interest at her peaked nipples, and smiled. His big, oil-slick hands covered her breasts, gentle there, smoothing the oil into nipples sore from vigorous sucking and the rasp of his stubbled face. "Your skin’s as delicate as a baby’s," he observed. "I’ll need to shave twice a day." Faith didn’t reply, too caught up in what he was doing. By the time he was finished with her stomach and thighs, she was in an agony of anticipation, her body arching under
his hands. The room was almost completely dark now, the lavender shadows of twilight giving way to the night. He paused to turn on the light over the sink, isolating them in a small glow.

The sore muscles on the insides of her thighs received more attention, and this time he didn’t relent until her groans had turned to purrs. His oily fingers slipped higher then, gently stroking and probing, and she shook with delight.

"Gray." Her voice was smoky, drugged with desire. She reached out for him. "Please."

"No, baby, you’re too sore for another round," he whispered. "I’ll take care of you."

He dragged her to the end of the table, sheet and all, the fabric slipping easily over the smooth surface. "What –?" Faith began, then fell back with a moan as he draped her thighs over his shoulders. Gently he opened the swollen folds between her legs, and she felt his warm breath wash over her. She barely had time to catch her breath before his tongue delved into her painfully sensitive flesh with a lightning bolt of sheer sensation that made her cry out. He was very tender, and very thorough, reducing her to quivering, screaming ecstasy within minutes.

Afterward, he carried her into the bathroom. She stood sleepily in the shower with him, her arms around his waist and her head on his chest. A lot of the soreness was gone, but now her muscles felt like mush.

When the hot water began to go, he lifted his cheek from the top of her head. "Food," he murmured.

Reluctantly she released him and let him turn off the water. She sleeked her wet hair back from her face, and looked up at him with diamonds of water clinging to her lashes. He seemed so ruthless and strong, but he was very human, with desires and fears and quirks, and she loved him all the more deeply for those qualities. Just for a while, though, she would have wished he were more impervious, because she couldn’t put off much longer telling him about his father.

The least she could do was feed him first.

He wolfed down two ham and tomato sandwiches, then
took his time on the third while she polished off one. Afterward, they remade the bed with fresh sheets, and he flopped down with a sigh of exhaustion. The sprawl of his arms and legs took up most of the room, but she crawled into one of the niches and burrowed her damp head into its accustomed place on his shoulder. She put her arms around him, holding him tight as if she could shield him from the pain. "I have to tell you something," she said quietly.

Monica cried for a long time after Gray hung up, her arms folded on top of his desk and her head resting on them. Hot, salty tears dripped onto the polished surface and she rubbed them away with her sleeve, not wanting to mar the finish of his desk. She had never felt more lost and confused, even when Daddy had left.

Nothing was working out right. She hadn’t managed to tell Alex she wouldn’t let him screw her anymore; when he had come down from Mama’s room the other night and stood in the doorway, staring at her, her heart had stopped. She had tried to get the words out, but her throat had been too dry, and then he had been bending over her and it was too late. She squirmed with shame every time she thought about it. How
could
she have let him touch her? She was going to marry Michael. She felt dirty, felt as if she were dirtying
him
by going into his arms after having been with Alex. And she still hadn’t told Gray that Michael had asked her to marry him, much less telling Mama that she was even dating him. She had been so careful to keep her life under control after the stupid stunt with her wrists, but now it all seemed to be spiraling away again.

Gray was with Faith Devlin. Another man she loved and depended on had been seduced away by one of those
whores. How could he do that, Gray, of all people? Monica rocked back and forth, hugging herself and moaning with pain as tears streamed down her cheeks. He was spending the night with her, uncaring of what people might say, of the gossip that would eventually reach Mama no matter how hard they tried to keep it from her. Family hadn’t mattered to Daddy when he was in bed with Renee Devlin, and now it looked as if Gray was following in his footsteps with Renee’s daughter. Just give them sex, and they didn’t care who they hurt.

Monica sobbed until her eyes were sore and almost swollen together, until her chest ached with the effort of breathing. Then, finally, a sort of terrible calm came over her.

She opened Gray’s desk drawer and stared at the revolver he kept there. The Devlin bitch hadn’t paid any attention to the warnings Monica had given her, so it was time to stop being subtle. In her furious hurt, it didn’t matter that Gray was with Faith; it might do him good to be shaken up, she thought, reaching for the pistol. This time,
she
was ridding the parish of a Devlin.

"What is it?" Gray asked, stretching to turn off the lamp. In the sudden darkness, he cradled Faith against him. "You sound serious."

"I am." She blinked back the sudden burn of tears. "I’ve put off telling you this because I – I can’t bear to hurt you. And I – I want you to know something else, first." She gasped for breath, and seized her courage with both hands. "I love you," she said in a low voice, aching with tenderness. "I’ve always loved you, even when I was a little girl. I lived for glimpses of you, and the chance to hear your voice. Nothing has ever changed that, not what happened that night, not the twelve years when I was gone."

His arms tightened and his lips parted, but she laid her fingers on his mouth, stopping the words. "No, don’t say anything," she begged. "Let me finish." If she didn’t get it all said in a hurry, she might lose her nerve.

"Gray, your father didn’t run away with Mama." She felt his body tense, and she hugged him closer. "I know where
Mama is, and he isn’t with her. He never was. He’s dead," she said as gently as possible. The hot tears leaked out of her eyes to slowly trickle down her cheeks. "Someone killed him that night. Mama saw who did it, and was scared he’d kill her too, so she ran."

"Stop it," Gray said harshly. He pulled her arms away from him and gave her a hard little shake. "I don’t know if this is your lie or Renee’s, but I got a letter from him that was postmarked the next day, in Baton Rouge. If he was killed the night before, then a dead man wrote it."

"A letter?" she asked, stunned. Of all the things she’d thought he might say, this wasn’t one of the possibilities. "From your father? Are you sure?"

"Of course I’m sure."

"It was in his handwriting?"

"It was typed," he said, his annoyance rapidly escalating into anger. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed. "The signature was his, though."

Faith flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to hold him, though she was well aware he could have shaken her off as if she were no more than a pesky mosquito. Desperately she said, "What did the letter say?"

"What does it matter, goddamn it?" He caught her wrists, trying to free himself without hurting her. She clung all the harder, pressing her body against him.

"It matters!" She was weeping now, her tears hot and wet on his back.

He muttered another curse, but sat still. Despite how furious he was with her for even bringing up the subject, much less trying to convince him of such a ridiculous lie, she was crying, and he had to fight the urge to drag her around onto his lap and comfort her. Roughly he said, "It was a letter of proxy. Just that, no explanation. Without it, we likely would have lost almost everything we owned."

His chest expanded as he took a deep breath. "If it hadn’t been for that letter, I’d have tried to find him. But he didn’t even say he was sorry, didn’t say good-bye. It was as if he was taking care of a minor detail he’d forgotten."

"Maybe someone else wrote it," Faith said, aching with the pain he must have felt then. "Maybe the murderer did.

Gray, I swear, Mama said she saw him get shot! They were out at the summerhouse that night when someone drove up. She said that Guy and the other man went into the boat-house and she heard them arguing – "

He erupted off the bed, breaking free of her grasp. He whirled around to catch her arms and pin her to the mattress. "That’s why you were sneaking around the place," he said incredulously, and reached out to turn on the lamp so he could see her face. He glared down at her, his eyes burning like coals. He shook her again. "You little witch! That’s why you’ve been asking all those questions about Dad! You think he was murdered and
you’ve been trying to find out who killed him!"

He had seldom in his life been more furious; his hands shook with the effort of controlling himself. He didn’t believe his father had been murdered, but it was obvious that Faith did, and the foolhardy woman had been trying to find a murderer all by herself. If there really had been a murder, she would have been putting herself at enormous risk. He was torn between snatching her up in his arms to kiss her and turning her over his knee. Both choices held enormous attraction.

While he was still trying to decide, she said, "I knew I likely wouldn’t find anything, but I searched the boathouse for a shell casing – "

"Wait a minute." He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to get a handle on this latest confession. "When did you search the boathouse?"

"Yesterday morning."

"It’s kept padlocked. Have you added breaking and entering to your repertoire?"

"I swam underneath the door and came up in the boat slip."

Gray closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then he did it again. His hands twitched, and he balled them into fists. Finally he opened his eyes, staring down at her in appalled disbelief. Foolhardy wasn’t the word for her. She was too intrepid for her own safety, much less his sanity. The net beneath the boathouse, designed to keep out unwelcome guests of the reptile variety, had come loose over the years
and he hadn’t had it repaired, but it was still there. She could so easily have become entangled in it and drowned. He would have lost her forever. Clammy sweat formed on his brow.

"I didn’t find anything," she said, eyeing him uneasily. "But I’m making someone nervous. Why do you think I got those threatening notes?"

It was like being punched in the stomach. He hung there, his mind reeling. Then his knees sagged, and he sat down heavily on the bed. "My God," he said blankly, as horrified realization began to form.

"I hired a private detective," she said, reaching for him again, desperately needing to touch him. She pressed close, and this time his arms came up to wrap around her, hauling her against his chest. "Mr. Pleasant. He searched credit card records, Social Security records, tax files – there was no trace of Guy after that night. Gray, there was no reason for Guy to walk away from you and Monica, or from all that money! He wouldn’t have left you for Mama; why should he? It didn’t make sense that he would disappear like that, unless he was dead. Mr. Pleasant thought he must be, too, and he was going to ask some questions in town." A sob rose in her chest. "Now he’s disappeared, too, and I’m afraid the same person killed him!"

"Oh, God," Gray said, his voice tight. "Faith – don’t say anything else. Be quiet for a minute. Please."

She pressed her face into his chest and obeyed. Despite everything, his arms were around her, and she began to hope. He rocked her gently back and forth, comforting himself as well as her.

"Alex sent the letter," he finally said, his voice muffled in her hair. "I should have guessed. He was the only other person who knew Dad hadn’t left a letter of proxy, and he knew what a mess we were in without it, if Dad didn’t come back, so he didn’t take the chance. He was almost as upset as I was, and he said the same thing you did: What
reason
did Dad have for running away with Renee? He already had her, and Mother turned a blind eye to his affairs, so he wouldn’t have… He’s dead. He’s really dead." He choked, and his chest heaved beneath her cheek.

Faith held him tight, guiding him down onto the bed. He clutched at her, his hands desperate. "Turn… turn off the light," he said, and she did, understanding how a strong man could need darkness for his tears.