Crash Into Me (44 page)

After
she was finished, she lay back on the blanket, eyes closed, murmuring something
unintelligible. She was dewy with perspiration, languid with release, holding a
hand over her quivering belly.

James
lifted his head, very proud of himself.

“Do
it again,” she said, raising herself up on her elbows.

“Again?
I don’t think you can. Give yourself a chance to rest.”

She
laughed. “No, I mean, come inside me again. For you.”

He
was still aching with need, but he felt strangely satisfied, to have fulfilled
her so thoroughly. “You don’t have to.”

“I
want to.” She pulled him back on top of her. “Tell me what to do.”

He
was reluctant to hurt her again, to ruin everything pleasurable she’d just
experienced, but he couldn’t make himself say no. “Put your knees up.”

“Like
this?”

“Yeah.
Oh, God, yeah. Tell me if it hurts,” he grated, going slower this time, sliding
in inch by inch.

“Ooh,”
she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Does
it hurt?”

“Not
as much as before.”

He
made himself say it. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,”
she said, taking a calming breath. “Keep going.”

He
held himself very still. “Are you sure?”

She
nodded, smiling hesitantly. Placing a soft kiss on his lips, she tilted her
hips up, encouraging him.

He
groaned, surging forward, trying not to go too fast or too hard or too deep.
Despite his preoccupation, it took only a few shallow strokes before he was
gasping, shuddering, collapsing, and burying his head in the wild tangle of
black hair at the curve of her neck.

After
it was over, he lay sprawled on top of her, sweating like crazy and panting
like a dog, too wrecked to move.

“If
I’d known it was going to be over that fast I might have let you finish the
first time,” she teased, running her fingers through his damp hair.

“Sorry,”
he said, smiling back at her shyly.

“Don’t
be,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Tears
came to his eyes, so he buried his face in her hair again. “I love you, too,
Carly,” he replied, shifting his weight to one side and wrapping his arms
around her, never wanting to let her go. “God, I love you, too.”

Sonny should have asked one of DeGrassi’s
staff members, or even Special Agent Mitchell, to accompany her on the return
trip to the Bruebaker residence.

Instead,
she went alone. She’d always preferred flying solo. She was good at watching
her own back, being responsible for only herself, and taking calculated risks
without having to worry about endangering someone else.

She
didn’t need any more liabilities.

A
uniformed servant led the way to Tom Bruebaker’s home office. He did a
double-take when he saw her standing in the doorway.

The
maid frowned. “Is everything all right, señor?”

“Of
course,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

After
offering them both coffee, and showing Sonny to her seat, the maid quietly
departed.

Tom
Bruebaker wasn’t a fool. He set aside his discomfort at having an undercover
agent posing as a guest at his daughter’s funeral and processed the
ramifications of her presence. “Does Ben know who you are?” he asked, reading
her card.

She
gave him a tight smile. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the
case.”

“What’s
to stop me from picking up the phone and calling him?”

“Nothing.”
She folded her hands across her lap, confident he wouldn’t.

His
eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“I
want to know about your relationship with Olivia Fortune.”

He
looked away, stalling for time, his fingertips drumming a nervous rhythm across
the surface of his desk.

“Did
you sleep with her?” she persisted.

He
met her gaze. “No.”

Sonny
arched a brow. He appeared to be telling the truth. “Why does Ben think you
did?”

“I
have no idea,” he replied flatly. An obvious lie.

“Mr.
Bruebaker,” she chided, “I’m investigating the death of your daughter—”

“Really?
It looked to me like you were investigating Ben Fortune’s tonsils.”

“Tell
me what you know about his wife,” she offered, ignoring the insolence, “and
I’ll tell you what I know about yours.”

It
was a good bluff, and he bought it. She’d known he would be weak where Sheila
was concerned, and felt a twinge of shame, to have obtained that information so
amorally. “Olivia and I were friends,” he began. “Nothing more. She visited me
one morning while Ben was out of town. In tears. Inconsolable.” He paused for a
moment, as if disturbed by the memory of her distress. “She’d been angry with
him, and gone with another man to get even. She regretted acting so
impetuously, and wanted my advice.”

“Why
yours?”

His
mouth twisted with bitterness. “Sheila has…betrayed me a number of times, and
I’ve always taken her back. Olivia wanted to know how to make it right. What to
tell him.”

“What
did you recommend?”

“I
told her to confess to the affair,” he admitted. “Ben was a terrible husband
and he needed a wakeup call.”

“Why
did she say it was you she’d been with?”

He
shrugged, not because he didn’t know, but because he was uncomfortable with the
answer. “I’m…older. Not a match for him physically.”

“And
the other man was?”

“I
suppose so. Olivia was certain there would be bloodshed if she told Ben the
truth.”

Sonny
felt her stomach clench with apprehension. Ben wasn’t a fighter by nature, but
neither was he a good candidate for the cuckold. She pictured his fierce
expression this afternoon as he said he wanted to kill the man who’d hurt
Olivia.

She
didn’t doubt he would try, if given half a chance.

“You
don’t know his name?” she asked.

“No.
It was someone close to him, that’s all I know. She said Ben could never find
out because it would destroy both relationships. Their marriage, and—”

“It
couldn’t have been Nathan,” she thought aloud.

“Nathan?”
Tom let out a humorless chuckle. “No. I believe it was a friend of Ben’s. A
surfing buddy, if you will.”

Sonny’s
blood ran cold. Sheila had used those exact same words this afternoon, after Tom
had accused her of picking up a stranger on the beach. She’d said she could
sleep with anyone she pleased, including Ben’s surfing buddies.

And
who else could she have meant but his freewheeling, soul-surfing, lady-loving
friend, JT Carver?

There was a noisy little dive within
walking distance of America’s Cup Harbor, a popular local joint by the name of
Fishbone.

Although
he rarely ventured into the bar scene on his own, Stephen went there to waste a
few hours of his time. The place was rustic, the mugs were frosty, and the
microbrew was expensive. Fishermen were always welcome, even penny-ante dope
dealers like him.

Stephen
generally stayed away because of the women.

Not
that he didn’t like them. He did, from a safe distance. In San Diego, a guy
couldn’t turn around in a crowded place without bumping into some damned pretty
ones. There were a couple of good-looking girls sitting next to him at the bar
right now.

They
scared the hell out of him.

He
wasn’t sure why, but women tended to approach him when he went out. Maybe
because he kept to himself and didn’t try to hit on them or act clever. He knew
better than to think he could impress anyone.

There
was a guy across the bar who had been employing the opposite tactic. He was
witty and charming in that modest way everyone liked.
Self-effacing,
he
thought the term was. Bullshit, Stephen called it.

The
guy must have said something funny, because the small crowd of ladies he’d been
chatting up burst into another round of giggles.

Stephen
didn’t understand how the guy did it; but then, he didn’t know much about
women. He’d lived with Rhoda for the past three years and never come close to
solving any of her screwed-up emotional equations. This morning, when he’d gone
to retrieve his belongings at the duplex, she’d been totally off the wall. He
told her he’d paid the rent for January but wouldn’t be back, and she’d come at
him with teeth and claws.

Christ,
it had ended badly. Had he expected it to go any other way?

Now
he was a free agent, alone in a bar for the first time since turning twenty-one
a year and a half ago. Any red-blooded man in his situation would be interested
in talking to either of the two girls next to him. They had already introduced
themselves and seemed…friendly.

He
stifled the urge to flee.

Instead,
he lifted his mug and drank deep. He wished he could think about his mom
without being blindsided by guilt and shame and sadness, but he couldn’t. The
beer helped. A little dope would have done better.

Stephen
knew he was weak. James had always been the strong one. And the smart one, and
the handsome one. His little brother was going to be somebody. Now that their
parents were gone, Stephen’s sole purpose in life was to make sure James succeeded.

So
while he waited for
Destiny
to come back to the mainland, he sipped his
beer, responding only when asked a question and paying more attention to the
guy across the bar than the girls who were right beside him.

Then
it finally hit him. He knew the guy. Damn, drugs had messed up his head.
Sometimes he felt as though he’d been walking around in a fog for the past few
years.

The
guy across the bar was JT Carver. Stephen didn’t remember meeting him, and
wasn’t sure how he knew his name. Maybe he’d sold pot to him a couple of times.
By the looks of the dancing bears on the front of his T-shirt, he was still a
stoner.

What
Stephen did recall, very clearly, was that JT was a surfer. And a john.

Unless
he was mistaken, at one time or another, he’d seen JT Carver out on the beach
at night, trolling for whores.

Stephen
hunched over a little more, not wishing to be recognized. He didn’t know why,
but JT struck him as a cagey bastard. Stephen had grown up cautious, always
hiding out and dodging blows, so it was second nature for him to avoid shady
characters.

After
spending his formative years under the rule of Arlen Matthews, Stephen knew a
dangerous man when he saw one.

“We’re
staying at the Sheraton,” the girl sitting next to him said. She was blond and
petite and a lot curvier than Rhoda, which he liked.

“That’s
nice,” he said. He’d never been in a motel room in his life.

A
crease formed between her brows, and he realized that he was supposed to read
something more into her comment.

“Do
you have any friends around here?” she asked.

“No.”

She
giggled, exchanging a glace with the other girl, who wasn’t quite as pretty as
the first one was, and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, if you
want to come along with us, we’re heading over there.”

He
looked back and forth between them. “To do what?”

She
giggled again, whispered something in her friend’s ear, and they both dissolved
in laughter. “To hang out,” she explained. “You know. Party.”

“I
don’t have any pot,” he said, figuring that was what they were after.

“We
do,” she replied with a smile.

A
shiver of awareness passed through his body. Were they inviting him back to
their motel room for…? Good God.

Across
the bar, JT Carver was paying his tab, preparing to leave.

“Sorry,”
he muttered, rising to his feet. “I have something else to do.”

Sonny sent Grant a quick text as she drove
down to America’s Cup Harbor. JT rented a slip on Shelter Island, and she
wanted to get there before anyone else did.

She
hadn’t told Tom Bruebaker she suspected JT of sleeping with Olivia—or with
Sheila, for that matter—but he might put two and two together. God forbid he
bury the hatchet and call Ben. She’d never be able to question JT if the
disgruntled husbands showed up.

When
she arrived, it was just past sunset and the sidewalk traffic along the marina
was steady. Shelter Island was a patrolled, gated community, and it cost a lot
of money to tenant here. Gleaming yachts sat alongside smaller, more modest
recreational crafts and sport fishers.

Most
of the owners didn’t live aboard.

JT’s
houseboat,
Captain Trips,
floated quietly in a far corner, windows dark.
The slap of water against the hull and the faint cacophony of distant voices
were the only sounds.