Dangerous Secrets (19 page)

Nick placed his non-Unit-issued cell phone in the guy’s pocket, on the off chance the SIM card would survive the fire. No one would be contacting Nicholas Ames ever again, anyway.

Working fast, Nick grabbed the jerry can, poured some gas into the driver’s footwell, and in the trunk, close to the gas tank. He checked the level. Thank God it was full. He figured there were over eighteen gallons of fuel in that sucker. Basically a rolling bomb.

Buckling the seat belt over the guy slumped in the driver’s seat, Nick checked everything and was about ready to drive the SUV over the cliff when he stopped and picked up the dead man’s left hand and removed the glove. He worked the claddagh ring off his finger and put it on the dead man’s left
hand ring finger. It had been tight on him but fit this fucker perfectly.

Time was tight, but he took a moment to look down at his wedding ring on the man’s hand.

Always knew I wasn’t made for marriage,
he thought.

Reaching in and igniting the Lexus’s engine, he put it in gear, placed the dead man’s foot on the gas pedal, and pressed down on his knee. The Lexus rolled forward. Perfect. In the last possible second before the car drove off the cliff, Nick threw an open match into the footwell, slammed the door closed, and ran back to the other side of the road.

The Lexus caught fire in midair. Nick watched the fiery ball in its long descent down into the valley below, lighting up the dark afternoon sky.

It took several seconds for the Lexus to hit the bottom. When it did, it exploded, the sound echoing through the valley.

Someone was going to come check out that explosion soon. Nick had to get out of here, fast.

Nicholas Ames, stockbroker, was gone now, forever.

He strapped on his shoulder rig, tossed the guy’s Sig Sauer into the glove compartment, threw his suitcase and emergency kit into the back of the now-battered SUV, and pulled out, heading for the van.

Not only was he now going to have to tell Di Stefano, Alexei, and the boss that he was married. He was also going to have to break the news that he was dead.

Parker’s Ridge
November 25

Charity raised her left hand and admired her wedding ring for the bazillionth time. The first thing she’d done when she got home was to switch on her computer and research claddagh rings on the Internet. She was a librarian, after all. Getting information was her specialty. Inside an hour, she knew everything there was to know about the claddagh symbol.

The story Nick had told her was there, together with others, each more charming and more romantic than the last. It was the perfect wedding ring.

It was the perfect wedding.

Over the years, Charity had been to a lot of weddings—of high school friends and college chums and colleagues. It seemed everyone was gripped with wedding fever. Not marriage fever—a lot of the marriages were already over—but
some insane compulsion to turn the wedding ceremony into a ridiculously expensive and overblown spectacle.

She’d accompanied friends to fittings of $50,000 gowns they’d never wear again and helped choose $10,000 bridesmaid’s outfits. Agonized with them over outrageously extravagant floral arrangements and debated the virtues of ten tiers of vanilla meringue buttercream cake as opposed to eight tiers of chocolate truffle ganache. With the solid-gold monogram cake topper.

Leafing madly through bridal magazines as thick as
War and Peace.

And the orchestra and the favors and the wedding meal menu—one friend had had over twenty-two courses—and the going-away outfit. With the special lingerie and the stockings and the shoes. Oh, and the beautician and the hairdresser on call…the details were never ending.

During the course of the average planning sessions, her friends would fight with their mothers, their fiancées, the bridesmaids, then make up in tears. Some lost ten pounds. Some gained twenty from anxiety. She’d laughed and planned with them and let them vent their nerves and all the time thought how foolish all this fluffy fuss was for an event that was supposed to be the most solemn event of one’s life. A private act of love between two people. An avowal of lifelong fidelity.

The end of one life as a single and the beginning of another as a couple. Except for parenthood, the most sacred bond of all.

Her marriage today was one she’d never have dared planned on her own—one lived in society after all—but it had been perfect for her. Especially after Nick had said that they would have a reception at Da Emilio’s afterward. Her aunt
and uncle were too wrapped up in their problems to feel left out. Her friends would be happy with the party later. The wedding itself—that had been between just her and her husband-to-be. Husband, now.

Perfect.

She so wanted the rest of the day—and night—to be as perfect as the ceremony itself. Nick said he wouldn’t be back until after five or six, so that should give her plenty of time to prepare things.

Bless Mrs. Marino, her aunt and uncle’s housekeeper, who was on a crusade to fatten her up. Charity didn’t have to make a mess or smell up the house cooking a wedding feast. It was as if Mrs. Marino had known and had cooked a feast just for her.

In the freezer was exquisite finger food, platters of lasagna, veal in Marsala sauce, gratinéed vegetables, and even a wedding cake in the form of the best tiramisú this side of Rome. She had smoked salmon and caviar in the fridge and two bottles of superb Chilean champagne in the cellar, courtesy of Mr. Hernandez, owner of the only landscape gardening business in Parker’s Ridge, whose son she’d coached in English.

They could have their honeymoon right here. A week in the house without ever coming up for air.

And…she had the perfect outfit. A heavy silk peach-colored low-cut full-length nightgown with matching negligee, still in its wrapping paper. She’d never worn it. It had been the fruit of a hunting trip in Filene’s Basement while visiting a friend in Boston. She’d been looking for serviceable work sweaters and had stopped, awestruck, when she’d seen the beautiful outfit.

Mary, her friend, had urged her to buy it. Even discounted
from $700 to $300 it was outrageously expensive, and for what? There wasn’t a man in her life at the time and hadn’t been for years. Who would she wear it for?

She’d been about to say no when Mary had taken her hand and curled it around the bias-cut skirt. The silk felt like cool water beneath her fingers. It felt sexy and classy, like an artifact from another life. One more exciting than hers.

When she tried it on, it was as if it had been tailor-made for her. So she’d caved in and bought it, feeling guilty, and placed it in the bottom of her dresser drawer, thinking she’d never wear it.

And now she was wearing it for her wedding night! The thought was so enticing she shivered.

She set the table carefully, bringing out the heavy white Flanders tablecloth, Grandmother Prentiss’s Limoges service, and her parent’s Waterford crystal glasses. The family silver. The big, heavy silver candelabra family legend had it that her great-grandmother had used to break the skull of an intruder during the Depression.

She filled the candelabra with candles and then continued around the room. She loved candles and had them in every shape and size, most vanilla-scented. She covered the sideboard, the mantelpiece, and the coffee table with candles and stood back, pleased.

Around five, she’d switch off all the lights and light the candles. Nick would come back to a candlelit home. It would be so beautiful.

In the bedroom, she placed candles on her dresser, nightstand, and the windowsills. The small cozy room looked like a bower, ready for a night of love. Between husband and wife.

What a delicious thought.

She changed the sheets on the bed, choosing her finest set—300-thread count flowered Egyptian cotton sheets, thick, starched and smelling of lavender.

Charity pulled out the nightgown and negligee. They were as gorgeous as in her memory. She fingered the heavy, beautiful silk, imagining Nick’s face when he saw her in it. No princess on earth would have a finer outfit for her wedding night.

Everything was more or less ready, except for herself.

She ran a rose-scented bubble bath, a little too hot, piled her hair on top of her head with two picks and eased into the water with a contented sigh. The hot water sank deep fingers of heat into her, loosened her muscles. Charity tipped her head back against the rim of the bathtub and closed her eyes, inhaling the scented steam and thinking of nothing at all, completely happy.

When she opened her eyes, the bubbles had dissipated and she could see herself in the water. She took in a deep breath and watched her breasts rise. Her breasts. Nick had made love to her breasts so intently, so single-mindedly, you’d think they were a source of pleasure for him, too. If she concentrated, she could feel his mouth right now, tugging gently at her nipple.

At the thought, she could actually see her nipples swell and turn deep pink.

Every inch of her skin was sensitized by Nick. She tried to think of a part of her body he hadn’t touched, but couldn’t, unless you count internal organs. Toes, the backs of her knees, elbows, belly button, the skin behind her ears. Memories, images flooded her mind and she felt a now-familiar tingle between her thighs. That tingle would be connected to thoughts of Nick until the end of time.

Her body. It amazed her that it could harbor these sensa
tions. Where had her body
been
all these years? With hindsight, she realized that all her life, she’d essentially thought of her body as a carrying case for her head. It required rest, good nutrition, and regular exercise, but that was about it.

Who knew that there was this amazing world inside her, a world of unimagined pleasure? And it was Nick’s for the asking.

She had so many images in her head. Nick’s face as he thrust in and out of her slowly. He’d sometimes push himself up on his arms, biceps bulging, big veins standing out, and look down between them. She’d look too, watching as his big penis pulled slowly out, wet with her juices, thick and ropy. She could feel him every inch of the way, leaving emptiness when he withdrew. He’d pull out until they could see the big plum-colored head which turned a deep red while they were making love and wait until her eyes met his and she whimpered. Then and only then would he push back into her.

Once, Charity had curled her nails into his hard buttocks and lifted herself in frustration because he was taking it so
slowly
.

Her nails didn’t even dent his skin. No matter how hard she dug into him, she knew she wasn’t hurting him, couldn’t hurt him. He was amazingly hard, all over. He said he took martial arts lessons to destress and they had created a remarkable male body.

The lips of her vagina were clasped around the big head but the rest of her was so empty….

Enough Nick
, she’d whispered and the small half smile he’d worn disappeared. His eyes turned a deep hot blue and he’d whispered back
yes, enough,
and had slammed into her so hard it took her breath away. He’d begun making love in ear
nest, hard, long, deep strokes that made her old bed creak, so fast she thought she’d burn up with the friction….

With a cry, Charity climaxed in the water—hard, fast contractions that went on and on, almost as long as they did while Nick was making love to her.

She lost herself, as she always did, heat flowing throughout her body, a small sun of it concentrated between her thighs. When she came to, she unclenched her fists and relaxed her muscles again. She had a deep flush on her chest, down to her breasts. The effect of the hot water but also the climax.

Amazing.

It wasn’t the first time she’d climaxed on her own, of course. After all, she hadn’t had a lover for many years. But it was certainly the first time she’d climaxed without touching herself. And it wasn’t her usual tight, almost painful self-induced orgasm that was over almost before it began and left her feeling depleted, restless, and lonely. No, it was one of those majestic, pulsing orgasms that left her feeling like the queen of the world. A very relaxed queen of the world.

Amazing. Nick was with her even when he wasn’t. He was in her heart, now, never to depart.

On that happy thought, her happy body climbed out of the bathtub and she began preparations worthy of a geisha. Scented moisturizer everywhere, rubbed in deeply until her very cells were fragrant. Pedicure, manicure, masque.

She pinned her hair up again, more carefully this time, letting a few tendrils fall artfully on her shoulders and began making up. Light makeup because the instant Nick began kissing her, it would all disappear immediately. No mascara. Who wanted to be the Raccoon Bride?

She slid the nightgown over her head with all the care and
solemnity of a medieval knight donning armor, then slid her arms into the negligee.

She had a pair of mules, a gift from a friend, and wondered whether it would be overkill, then decided that overkill was just fine for a wedding night. Her first and only wedding night. This night would never come again. Any extravagance was justified.

She twirled in front of the mirror, delighted with what she saw. She was flushed pink, eyes bright. For tonight, she was beautiful, as all brides must be on their wedding day.

It was five and completely dark by the time she finished her preparations. The table was set, the dishes ready to be nuked, and she set about the house slowly, ceremoniously lighting all the candles in her bedroom and in the living room.

She made a little wish with each candle. For so many things. For a long, happy life with Nick. For healthy children and the grace and wisdom to teach them to grow up to be honorable human beings. For the courage to face life’s vicissitudes. And at the last candle, she wished for serenity for Aunt Vera.

There. Everything was perfect. The house glowed. She glowed. Now all she had to do was wait. It was so hard to be patient, though. She’d sit down, then jump back up as if the chair had lifted up to eject her.

After an hour of pacing, she finally sat down with a glass of white wine to calm her nerves. She sipped slowly, enjoying the cool fruity liquid as it slid down her throat. A second glass would be welcome, but she didn’t want Nick to come home to a soused bride.

Another hour went by. The fire in the hearth needed feeding. She knelt to put twigs and a small log in the embers, and heard a car on her street.

Heart pounding, she jumped up and rushed to the door but the car passed on by. It wasn’t Nick. Disappointment pounded through her body.

Her heart had started pounding at the thought of Nick coming up the walk and she had to wait for it to slow down. It was so
hard
to be patient! So hard to be alone.

Wow.

She had to sit down for that thought. Not being able to entertain herself, being dependent on someone else for her emotional equilibrium, was entirely new. An only child, she was accustomed from birth to being on her own. Solitude had never weighed on her. If anything, she enjoyed being on her own, never thinking of it as loneliness.

If Charity had had to describe herself to someone who didn’t know her, one of the first attributes she’d mention would be her emotional and intellectual self-sufficiency.

One week of Nick and that was all blown out of the water. New lover, new life, new her.

She gave a brief glance at her bookshelves, completely indifferent to what was on them. There were two new books by favorite authors, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel any spark of excitement. There were CDs galore along one wall but the thought of listening to anything alone, without being in Nick’s arms, was almost painful to contemplate.

No books, no music, no movies could begin to compare with Nick. In a week, he’d become her touchstone. Her reason for living. It was a scary and exhilarating thought. Scary because she realized she was now dependent on someone else. Exhilarating because Nick loved her and she’d never be alone again.

Another car drove past slowly, but it wasn’t Nick.

She wore no watch—who wanted a watch on her wedding night?—but the grandfather clock against the wall ticked
away the minutes as she watched the hands make their rounds. Eight o’clock. Nine o’clock.