Captive Kisses (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (15 page)

“I did apologize for this morning,” he pointed out, his tone
rasping.

She was prevented from replying by the arrival of the
waitress with their first course, a steaming bowl of gumbo served with rice,
French bread, and pats of butter in the shape of seashells. They ate in
silence, though Kelly’s appetite was not as sharp as it had been earlier.

While they waited for the entrée, they made stiff
conversation about the decor of the restaurant, moving from there to a
discussion of eating places in general. A chance remark drew a description of
famous New Orleans restaurants and their specialties from Charles, which led to
French cooking and its emphasis on the preparation of fresh, natural foods in
season. Out of sheer contrariness, Kelly pretended to be skeptical that the
last had anything to do with the cuisine of France. She had to be impressed,
however, with the arguments Charles marshaled to convince her.

Their main course was a seafood platter featuring catfish,
oysters, and butterfly shrimp fried in a batter delicately flavored with herbs,
and with side dishes of french fries, hush puppies, and slaw. It wasn’t fancy,
but it was delicious, exactly what Kelly had craved. At last she leaned back
with a replete sigh.

“Dessert?” Charles asked.

She shook her head regretfully. “I don’t think I could.”

“Shall we have coffee and liqueurs back at the house, then?”

She nodded, then gave him a veiled look. “I’ll just go to
the rest room before we leave.”

He shook his head. “I can’t let you do that,” he said
softly.

“What?” She looked at him with wide-eyed incredulity.

“You didn’t really expect me to let you slip out the back,
or take the time to write dramatic S.O.S. messages on the mirrors in blood-red
lipstick.”

“I wear lip gloss,” she said, her voice even, “and I’m not
even carrying an evening bag.”

“I noticed. Where do you have the pencil hidden?”

“In my shoe,” she quipped. The short stub was actually in
her bodice, held by her bra in the best tradition of a movie heroine. She had
come very near to secreting the sleeping pills there also, but decided the
problem of removing them without being noticed was too great to be overcome
while he sat across the table from her. With great regret that poison rings
were out of fashion, she had left them behind. It was odd how little
disappointment she felt at being prevented from using the pencil she had so
carefully provided for herself. That may have been because she had not truly
expected Charles to let her get away with it, or because her greatest hopes
rested with the sedative she planned to administer.

“That must be uncomfortable,” he commented, though his gaze
alighted briefly on the neckline of her sundress. His lips curved into a grin
as Kelly could not prevent herself from flicking a downward glance at her
bodice to be certain the pencil was hidden from view.

Realizing what she had done, Kelly looked at him with pure
dislike. “Shall we go, then?”

“By all means,” he answered, and signaled for the check.

The moon was just rising above the tree tops as they left
the restaurant. Bright and golden, one-quarter full, it sent a path of yellow
light along the lake channel. Charles turned the speedboat into it, plowing the
gilded water. As they gathered speed, the boat seemed to rise up out of it,
skimming swiftly over the surface like a low-gliding night bird. In a few short
minutes, they were slowing again, settling back into the water, sweeping in a
wide circle that would take them into the dark interior of the boathouse. The
noise of the inboard motor was suddenly louder, echoing off the metal walls, as
they eased inside. Then abruptly everything was quiet as Charles turned the
key. Kelly stirred, gathering her shawl around her, preparing to get out.

“Wait,” Charles said, putting out his hand to touch her arm.

She opened her mouth to question him, then went still, held
by the listening intentness that gripped him. She stopped breathing for a long
moment, but could hear nothing.

“All right,” he said, his voice low. He rose, stepping from
the boat to the platform that circled the inside walls of the boathouse. With
an outstretched hand, he helped Kelly from the boat, then left her while he
moved to the rear, pulling down the wide entry-port door and snapping the
padlock that safeguarded it. Returning, he took Kelly’s arm, and they walked
quickly to the front entrance that opened onto the short pier connecting the
boathouse to the shore. This he locked behind them before he joined her once
more.

He did not start immediately for the house, but stood in the
deep shade of the trees, slowly quartering the darkness with his eyes. Whether
it was his tense alertness, or something in the soft and waiting silence of the
night, Kelly did not know, but she felt her own heartbeat quicken. She turned
her head this way and that, straining to see.

Suddenly a swath of light swept through the trees. At the
same moment she heard a quiet hum that it took her a long instant to recognize
as the sound of a trolling motor. A low-slung craft, painted a dark color that
allowed it to blend with the night blackness of the lake, was ghosting toward
them. On its bow was a spotlight that illuminated the shoreline, sending out a
bold shaft of brightness that effaced the glow of the moon.

A quiet French expletive came from the man beside her. Then
suddenly he reached out to encircle her waist with his arm. She stiffened,
trying to draw away.

“For God’s sake, not now,” he said in a fierce undertone. “You
can slap my face later.”

Kelly allowed herself to be led from among the trees at a
slow, lover’s stroll. At his soft command, she allowed a musical chuckle to
float on the gentle night air, joining his own laughter as if they shared a
joke delicious in its intimacy. He kept his head close to hers, bending over
her with tender attention as they moved up the path toward the house,
apparently oblivious to the stabbing search of the white light. They were both
aware of it, however, watching from the corners of their eyes as it traveled over
the catwalk and past them along the water’s edge, returning to play over the
white walls of the dark and silent cottage. Then it came toward them; fast,
noiseless, steady in its menace.

As they were snared in the brilliant glare, Charles swung
her into his arms and kissed her. Kelly endured the searing pressure of his
lips with her breath pent up in her chest. Unwilling, unable to resist, she
clung to him in fear and impotent anger, and in a passionate despair that came
from nowhere to curl around the edges of her mind and spread, achingly, to the
region of her heart.

On a ragged, indrawn breath, Charles lifted his head. He
stared down at her a long moment, then schooling his features to an expression
of indignant wrath, turned to stare directly into the spotlight. Swinging back,
shielding Kelly with the broad width of his shoulders, he moved on along the
worn walkway to the sidewalk. He opened the screen door, urging her onto the
veranda. For long seconds he stood watching the boat as it slid silently away,
its light sweeping over the wire screen before it continued along the shore.
Certain the boat did not intend to stop, he followed her into the house.

Kelly moved to the living-room window, holding the drape to
one side while she peered out. She was in time to see the spotlight
extinguished as the boat was lost to sight among the trees. Dropping the drape
into place once more, she removed her shawl. With her hands clenched on the
silken mesh, she turned to face Charles.

“What,” she said distinctly, “was that all about?”

He sent her a smile that was a shade too casual. “I expect
it was a couple of boys out frog-gigging. The light blinds the big bullfrogs so
they aren’t so quick to jump. A homemade gig, made of a bent steel rod with the
end bent into a hook, then filed to a point, gets them nearly every time. It’s
illegal because it’s a cruel sport, but I used to do the same when I was
growing up. There’s quite a bit of white meat on a frog leg, a little like
chicken.”

“I know about frog-gigging: Peter and Mark used to go now
and then. But I never saw them use such a powerful spotlight for it.”

“Boats are equipped with all sorts of fancy extras like that
these days.” His tone was evasive and he did not meet her eye.

“Another thing, if you really thought that was all it was,
what was the point of that charade out there?”

“Which charade was this?”

“You know very well. All that pretending to be my — that we
were lovers!”

He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes, I did promise to give you
a chance to be avenged. Are you ready to hit me?”

The palm of her hand itched to do just that, but she
controlled the urge. “I am trying to find out what is going on here, not play
some kind of game!”

“But I’ve already told you.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that’s all it was, a frog
hunt?”

His gaze moved over her face, resting on the flush of anger
that burned on her cheekbones. “It would help matters if you would.”

“Well, I don’t!”

“I told you earlier, Kelly,” his voice with its trace of an
accent dropping to a low note that sent a shiver along her nerves, “that it
would be better for you not to know.”

“I am, of course, supposed to accept your word without
question?”

“I accepted yours.”

“That’s different,” she cried. “You know who and what I am.”

Pain flashed across his face so quickly she could not be
certain she had seen it. An instant later, all expression had vanished. “I also
said that I had to take what entertainment I could from the situation.”

She did slap him then, a hard, open-handed blow that made
her fingers ache, and left the side of his face red.

A muscle corded in his cheek. His voice soft, he asked, “Do
you feel better now?”

She didn’t. She wanted nothing so much as to cry, to scream,
anything to relieve the painful pressure inside her chest. She clenched her
hands into fists, incapable of making a coherent answer.

“I believe,” he said slowly, “that we were going to have
coffee and liqueurs before the excitement came up.”

Coffee. Her brain fastened on the thought with calming
desperation. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. It was here.
Now was the time.

“Yes,” she said, taking a deep breath, her gray eyes never
leaving his dark gaze. “If you will pour the drinks, I will put the coffee on
to perk.”

In the kitchen, Kelly got out the coffee pot and ran water
into it. Setting the basket in place, she spooned ground coffee from the can,
filling it to the level Charles usually used, then adding two more table-spoons
for good measure. It would be strong, but it would need to be. She put on the
strainer and glass-topped lid, then plugged the pot into the electric outlet
near the sink. That done, she took down a pair of cups and their saucers,
placing them on a small tray along with spoons, the sugar bowl, and a small jar
of non-dairy creamer. Satisfied that everything was in readiness, she left the
kitchen and went along the hall to her bathroom.

When she returned to the kitchen, the coffee was perking
nicely, sending out its familiar aroma. From the living room came the strains
of Haydn’s Farewell Symphony, and she allowed herself a tight smile at the
appropriateness of the choice. She leaned against the island cabinet, staring
at nothing, waiting, aware of the four yellow tablets in the palm of her left
hand.

The perking stopped. Kelly unplugged the pot, and lifting it
with a steady hand, poured coffee into both cups on the tray, then set the pot
back down. Taking an extra spoon from the drawer, she dropped the tablets she
held into the cup on the right and gave it a brisk stir. She leaned over the
sink to rinse the spoon under the running tap.

“What’s taking so long?”

Kelly dropped the spoon with a clatter, jerking around.
Realizing at once that he could not have seen what she was doing because her
back was turned to the opening between the kitchen and dining room, she forced
a smile. “It’s ready now.”

“Let me carry the tray for you,” Charles said, coming
forward.

“No! No, I can carry it,” she said.

“I insist.” He reached around her to put his hands on the
handles of the tray.

To make an issue out of it might arouse his suspicions.
Kelly moved aside with as much grace as she could muster, then preceded him
into the living room. He placed the tray on an end table. Without too much
haste, Kelly took her seat on the couch beside the table, picked up a spoon,
and dipped creamer into the cup on the left. That took care of which cup was
which well enough, since Charles used none in his coffee.

As she had expected, he picked up the cup containing the
sleeping pills and, adding sugar, carried it to the easy chair across from the
couch. There was a dark gold liquid in a thimble-sized glass on the table at
his elbow, and another of the same for her on the table beside the coffee tray.
Unable, suddenly, to bear watching him drink his coffee, Kelly reached and
picked up the liqueur.

It was strong and fiery, and she grimaced as she swallowed.
Setting the glass down, she sipped her coffee. The taste of the liqueur
lingering on her tongue gave the coffee an added bite and it was all she could
do to force it down her throat.

“What is this?” she said when she could speak, indicating
her glass.

“Drambuie. Like it?”

“Not particularly.”

“It’s a little strong until you get used to it,” he said.

“So is the coffee,” she offered, glad to be able to slip in
a word of warning in case he noticed the bitterness.

He drank from his cup, then sent her a smile. “Reminds me of
the brew they serve up in New Orleans. The bon vivants of the French Quarter
used to say that for perfection it needed to be ‘Hot as hell, black as the
devil, strong as love, and as pure as an angel.’ “