Deadly Fall (16 page)

He could feel her hesitation, but he wasn’t giving up. He freed her left hand so he could spread open the lips of her sex, revealing the dewy pinkness surrounding the clitoris that was all but throbbing for the release of a rough caress. Nick skimmed it with the callused pad of his large forefinger, barely making contact, but Augusta shuddered as if an electric shock had zipped through her. He muffled the rough sound that came from deep within him against a creamy shoulder, letting her feel the edge of his teeth. If at all possible, his erection became even harder, pushed more insistently against her buttocks, and he heard her draw a sharp breath.

“Touch yourself,” he repeated, voice ragged. “I’ll guide you.”

And this time, when he applied a restrained pressure on her captive hand, she gave in.

It was so easy to give in.

He made her skirt the stiff bud that seemed to contain all her nerve endings. Just the thought of capturing it between her thumb and finger made heat ripple through Augusta. Suddenly, that was what she wanted to do, what she needed to do. But Nick had a sadistic streak.

She allowed him to slide the tips of her forefinger and middle finger along the inner lips. Her sex was wet, she discovered. Very wet and hot—steaming, almost—and soft and smooth, like satin. He guided her around the entrance to her body, and her thighs fell completely open, as if boneless, and her head rolled restlessly from side to side on his shoulder. Need hummed along her body. It was torture, deliciously so.

He pulled her hand away from her sex. The noise of protest she made became strangled when he closed his lips over her fingers and sucked. His tongue licked between her fingers, along them.

The breath he released was too harsh to be a sigh. “You taste good,” he murmured hoarsely, and Augusta didn’t understand why she didn’t melt into a puddle of lust before him. Her insides felt like hot, flowing lava. Feeling the roughness of his tongue, the strong, wet suction of his mouth on her fingers, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have his mouth worshipping her breasts, on her navel, buried between her legs.

That nudged her over the edge as the world around her crumbled and rapture streaked through her taut body. The vivid imagination that had stolen her sleep now stole her breath as erotic images and sensations battered her. She didn’t need Nick’s mouth on her—she only needed to picture it.

Feeling her slender body go rigid in his arms and hearing her small cry fill the room had shudders racking Nick’s frame and fresh sweating popping on his damp brow. God, he wanted to feel her inner muscle contractions around his cock, he wanted to feel it squeezing him, grasping him, milking him.

Even though his hands were not quite steady, Nick managed to arrange her so she was sprawled on her front, her face buried in her arms, along the length of the sofa. He shucked his boxers and lifted her hips slightly off the cushions in mere seconds. He guided himself to the opening of her body, brushed her clitoris. Her body jerked and the sound she made could’ve been a plea or a curse. He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping her hips tightly, he surged into her with enough force to shake her body. The fit was snug, but he entered her easily, she was so damp. She arched her back, and his choked groan joined her muffled cries.

Nick slowly pulled out of her body, burning her channel as he did so. She writhed beneath him, then pushed her buttocks up against him when only the head remained enveloped inside her. He rammed back into her, she pushed up to meet him, he withdrew, and they repeated the cycle. Once, twice, three times, and he felt her vaginal muscles spasm around him. One more thrust and his own pleasure peaked with a force equal to hers. He shouted his release as he went as deep inside her as he could and remained there, spewing wet heat inside her belly.

He was careful not to collapse on her. Even in his mentally and physically exhausted state, he was very aware of how small and delicate she was in comparison to him. As if in slow motion, he rolled onto the thick area rug and tugged Augusta off the sofa. He arranged her limp body on his, letting her use his body as a mattress as she had in his bed just the night before. Arms wrapped heavily around her waist, one of her slender legs between both of his, he succumbed to sleep.

She knew before she opened her eyes that she was alone. Augusta blinked against the bright sunlight streaming through the pale, gauzy curtains in the spare bedroom. She pulled the cool, cotton sheet up to her naked breasts, tucking it under her arms. Sometime during the night—or perhaps the early hours of the morning—Nick had carried her upstairs. The last thing she recalled was slowly floating up to semi-consciousness, to the warm, languid feel of him heavy on top of her, the rug slightly scratchy against the skin of her back, and Nick pumping in and out of her, rocking them both to a slow, easy climax.

A soft sigh filled the room as she rolled to her side and closed her eyes, savoring the remembered passion that even now had her center pulsing. She inhaled deeply and the lingering scent that was Nick Markov filled her nostrils. She stretched on the bed and yawned widely, and yawned again. This was the first good morning since Drew’s death. It took her a moment to realize the warm feeling inside her was a rare combination of contentment and satiation.

She indulged herself for a few precious moments. Then she considered her agenda for the day. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what to do with her time this morning. Jana Westenberg. She needed to go see Jana today. The chances of her getting to the art gallery before Nick and his partner were slim to none, but Augusta still needed to speak to her. Until Nick had dragged Jana’s name from her last night, she hadn’t thought of approaching the other woman. Or, rather, to be brutally honest, she hadn’t wanted to.

Augusta rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. When she could leave the townhouse was another matter. Nick had mentioned last night that he had someone coming over to install a security system for her. She hoped the man would stop by before noon.

As she mulled over what she would ask Jana Westenberg and how she would go about doing it, Augusta pushed back the covers, got up and hit the shower. Twenty minutes later, she was in the process of picking up the discarded terry cloth robe in the library when the answering machine on her desk switched on and her voice asked the caller to leave a message.

“Hi, Dr. Langan. This is Joe Doyle. Nick asked me last night to come over and put in a security system for you. I’m running a little late this morning, so I won’t be able to make it over until eleven. Ten-thirty at the earliest. My apologies. Bye.”

Augusta glanced at her wristwatch and decided it was fate. With the robe in hand, she hurried upstairs, threw it on the unmade bed in her room and grabbed her shoulder bag and car keys.

* * * * *

The section of Broadway the Westenberg Gallery faced had a trickle of cars. The sidewalk, in comparison, was crowded with pedestrians strolling along, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. The glass-fronted gallery itself was flanked by two brick buildings, contrasting nicely to draw the eye. The perfectly centered glass double doors were edged in brass that matched the gleaming vertical handles and the bold yet elegant sign above it, which bore the gallery’s name. That was Jana Westenberg. Classy, discreet, old New England money. Augusta knew the oils sitting side by side with the watercolors of New York City in the display areas either side of the entrance were carefully chosen by the proprietress herself. That was also essential Jana Westenberg. Sharp contrasts, yet it all balanced. It was not always conventionally beautiful, but it snagged one’s attention and stubbornly held on to it.

Pausing outside the doors, Augusta took a few breaths and mentally girded herself to face the woman her deceased husband’s family had hand-picked to be Mrs. Drew Langan long before Augusta Sutherland was even on the horizon.

She gripped one of the door handles and pulled the door open. There was a low and oddly comforting hum in the gallery that went with the atmosphere. Augusta stepped further inside the gallery, her heels sinking into the plush carpet, and spotted Jana Westenberg. It was hard to miss the flaming red hair that many refused to believe didn’t come from a bottle. Like everything else about her appearance, Jana had tried to subdue it. The thick mass was twisted into a knot at the nape of her slender neck.

Augusta saw those startlingly green eyes widen when they alighted on her. With a small flick of her wrist, Jana had one of her trendy assistants hurrying over to take care of the patrician couple with her. Augusta met the woman halfway, taking in the fact that Jana was just as striking now as she had been almost ten years ago. She didn’t have the freckles that normally go with red hair and green eyes, and the generous curves Augusta had hoped would turn to fat when she had first laid eyes on the redhead were still in all the right places. Augusta supposed it was a sign of maturity that she no longer cared that when standing next to Jana Westenberg her own figure went from delicate and slender to ridiculously boyish.

“Hello, Augusta.”

Augusta tipped her chin up a bit. Even in low-heeled shoes, the other woman was a head taller. “Hi, Jana. May we talk in private?” She was never good at small talk.

“My office?”

Augusta nodded. Jana’s office was in the far corner on the second floor. It was brightly lit, adding to the feel of airy spaciousness, despite the number of objects, large and small, in the room. Delicate Queen Anne-style furniture polished to a lustrous shine sat upon Oriental rugs. Exotic plants stood in the corners and trailed down from the ceiling. Augusta felt a twinge of envy over the thriving plants. Nothing green lasted more than a week with her.

Jana took a seat on the vintage sofa and Augusta hesitated. She would’ve preferred talking across the cherry desk on the other side of the room. She didn’t think she could handle cozy and intimate with Drew’s lover.

“You’re the second visit today about Drew,” Jana said after Augusta seated herself on the matching armchair.

“Second?”

“Two detectives—”

“Nick Markov and Ethan Murtagh?”

Jana didn’t look the least bit surprised that Augusta would know their names. “Yes.”

“I didn’t want to mention the…affair between you and Drew.”

The green eyes darkened, but Jana only said, “It was bound to come out sooner or later. I was expecting it to be sooner.”

Augusta’s expression was faintly—unreasonably—apologetic. “Detective Markov was…relentless.”

“I take it you want to know what I told them.”

“Yes. I thought I could just sit at home and wait while the professionals go about doing their thing, but…” Her voice trailed, ending with a rise and fall of her shoulders.

A faint smile curved Jana’s perfectly delineated lips. “No, you’re definitely not the type to sit back and twiddle her thumbs.”

An answering smile touched Augusta’s lips, and the look that passed between them held none of the distrust or anger or betrayal that kept them apart for so long. Then they blinked and it was gone.

Jana cleared her throat. “I couldn’t tell the detectives anything they didn’t already know.”

Augusta’s brows drew together. “Drew didn’t mention anything to you? Nothing at all?”

“He and I didn’t talk much after…well, after what happened. We saw each other even less. If he was in trouble, I didn’t have a clue.”

“Did you see him at all in the last two weeks?”

The other woman shook her head. “No.”

Augusta swore softly.

“If Drew didn’t mention anything to you, do you think he would’ve mentioned something to me?”

Augusta sighed. “I don’t know. I was hoping for something. Anything.” Her lips twisted wryly. “As it is, I’m the best suspect the police department has.”

Jana absently nodded, understanding. “For what it’s worth, I told the detectives I don’t think there’s any way you could’ve killed Drew. Not for love or money.”

Augusta couldn’t hide her reaction.

“Don’t look so shocked. I know you, Augusta. You didn’t love Drew enough to get that pissed off.”

For once, Augusta didn’t remark on Jana’s choice of words, which was incongruous with her elegant appearance. Frankly, it was like the Queen of England cursing.

“You were using him,” Jana continued, her tone almost pitying this time. Augusta felt the flush of anger, her throat tighten, constricting the passage of air. “You weren’t using him for his money, but you were using him just the same.”

Augusta was silent as she waited for the weight on her chest to dissipate. Jana was right. She had been using Drew. Drew had been safe.

It was a couple of moments before she could breathe normally again.

“Let’s not talk about this.”

“No, let’s,” Jana said, the steely determination she rarely revealed glinting in her eyes. “I answered your questions, now you can do me the courtesy of listening to what I have to say.”

Augusta rose. “I’m not comfortable with the role of father confessor, so drop it.”

Pain flashed in the green eyes, but the voice didn’t soften. “Augusta, sit down. You’re going to hear what I have to say. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for Drew. I owe it to him.”