Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) (16 page)

“Seems like a cop-out,” he said softly.

“It’s better than beating your head against a
wall you can’t break through.”

Light sparkled in her eyes. With no moon, he
couldn’t figure out where it came from. Maybe from within her, like
a creature of the light, not one of the dark in which he usually
dwelled. In her view of life, there would be no murderers, no drug
addicts, no wife beaters, no child abusers.

“Make me feel good,” he whispered, his lips
inches from hers.

“But you’re still mad about my email to
Carl.”

“Let’s pretend that email doesn’t exist.
Let’s pretend Carl and Maggie are inside making love and
everything’s perfect and right with the world.” He wanted only the
scent of Simone filling his head, the taste of her in his mouth,
the feel of her skin beneath his fingers. “Kiss me and screw the
rest of it for now.”

Her gaze searched his as her fingers stroked
his cheek. Then she touched her lips to his, lightly brushing,
before she retreated. He exhaled with a sigh.

“More,” he murmured.

She gave him her lips once more, then her
tongue. Warm, wet, delicious. The taste of cherry lip gloss burst
in his mouth, filling him up. She rose to her tiptoes, wrapped her
arms around his neck, her breasts pressed against him. His hands on
her hips, he gathered her closer still, diving into the moment and
forgetting everything but this, everything but her.

She moaned, the sound vibrating through him.
He wanted skin. Slipping beneath the hem of her shirt, he savored
her soft flesh. He kneaded muscle, stroked high to the edge of her
shoulder blades, then angled his head for a deeper, finer taste of
her mouth. He took her with his tongue, relishing her as he would
her deepest, most intimate parts.

When he couldn’t breathe for want of her, he
backed off, nibbled her lips, then trailed kisses along her jaw to
her throat. He sucked, nipped, licked, and lifting her off her
feet, crushed her against him a moment before letting her slide
down his body until her feet were once again firmly planted on the
ground.

Her peaked nipples rubbed his ribs. His cock
pushed insistently at her belly. He wanted to bury himself inside
her, and he wanted to hold her just this way with the promise of
nothing more. Anticipation trapped his breath in his throat, and
tension tightened every muscle. His pulse drummed at his temple,
and his heart pounded against his breastbone. The night breeze
across his hair felt like the caress of her fingers, and the chirp
of the crickets were like sweet nothings murmured in his ear.

He felt alive and drowning in sensation,
drowning in the feel of her body and the roar of his blood through
his veins.

“Christ, I needed that.” He slipped his hands
down to skim the waistband of her leggings.

She rubbed her nose along his collarbone, her
hair tickling his chin.

Damn, she felt good. “You were right.”

“About what?” she muttered into his chest,
her breath hot against his nipple despite his shirt.

“That definitely qualified as first base. I
must have been insane when I said kissing wasn’t important.”

“I told you anticipation was everything.”

He ran his hands up her sides, rested them at
her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts.

If they could stay, like this, forever.

He’d promised Maggie he would find Carl.
Forever with Simone in his arms wasn’t an option. He’d had a taste,
like a drug addict’s fix, and it would have to sustain him. She’d
calmed him. She’d thrown his doubts to the wind. Now he had his
duty to perform.

“If you see Carl, tell him I’m looking for
him,” he said.

She pulled away at his words, though he
hadn’t meant them as either criticism or censure. She tugged the
bottom of her shirt back into place, then drew both hands through
her hair and flipped the ends into order.

She looked at her toes as she spoke. “I’d
tell you if I could, Brax. But I can’t betray Carl.”

He knew. The email. They were back to it.
This time his blood didn’t threaten to boil over. In an odd way, he
commended her stoic support, support Carl most likely didn’t
deserve. She’d written a sex fantasy. Of that much he was sure, all
doubts erased. She’d probably intended for Carl to read it with
Maggie. But Carl hadn’t.

That was the disturbing part. Carl had kept
it to himself. Younger woman. Midlife crisis. A man like Carl might
let himself believe that something existed between him and Simone.
After all, a woman didn’t share her most secret intimate fantasies
with a man unless...

He was losing that feeling, that calm, almost
mellow memory of her in his arms.

He backed away because he wanted to stay and
reignite the glow. Pretty damn badly. “You still gonna talk to
Della?”

“I promised I would. We’re meeting at the
Flood’s End.”

“And you never break a promise.”

She stared at him, as if she were trying to
figure out if that was sarcasm in his voice.

He should have told her it wasn’t. A man
who’d spent his career cleaning up after other people’s lies and
broken promises, he actually admired her commitment.

Even if it was misguided and added to his
sister’s misery.

* * * * *

Simone was ten minutes late for her drink
date with Della at Flood’s End.

It was that kiss, that lovely, toe-tapping,
bone-melting, butterfly-inducing kiss. It muddled her brain. With
her fingers idiotically caressing her lips in a tactile reminder,
she’d stood at the top of Maggie and Carl’s driveway long after
Brax’s taillights disappeared into the dark. She’d closed her eyes
and relived every glorious moment of it. This was bad, very bad.
She was headed toward excessive and exuberant emotions.

He’d done an about-face after his outburst
and apologized. She might have been able to stay mad at him if he
hadn’t done that. Then he’d kissed her. She didn’t know what to
think. Except that he was probably as mixed-up as she was.

But gosh, she’d felt bad for him. Agony had
ridden the stark lines of his face. He’d set out to solve Maggie
and Carl’s problems, but he’d set himself up for failure. Simone
knew, since she was intimately familiar with failure.

Maggie and Carl needed more than a shared
fantasy, if Maggie’s pale drawn face at the tea party meant
anything. Not to mention Brax’s obvious concern. More than concern.
He’d worked himself into a tizzy, spouting bad language, his fists
bunched. Signs of a worried brother.

She couldn’t find Carl, Maggie had cried
herself silly, and despite that devastating kiss, Simone was sure
Brax blamed her for the trouble. Della was her last hope when all
else had failed.

Seated at the bar next to Whitey, Della was
drinking one of Mr. Doodle’s strawberry daiquiris. Doodle was a
daiquiri master, perhaps because that had become Mrs. Doodle’s
favorite libation since they’d visited Hawaii last year.

“You’re late.” Clad in a Western-style shirt
and a pair of jeans that looked as if they were straight off the
store shelf, Della appeared freshly pressed and smelled freshly
perfumed. Simone felt underdressed in her black outfit.

Della pushed a second fruity concoction
across the table. Topped with whipped cream, a souvenir umbrella,
and a hot pink swizzle stick, the offering resembled a creation
straight from a posh Hawaiian hotel.

“I’m sorry about being late.” Her mother said
one should never breeze through an apology lest the receiver finds
it insincere. “I mean, I’m really sorry. I don’t even have a decent
excuse.” Kissing Brax wasn’t an excuse; it was a revelation, one
she didn’t want to share with anyone.

“You’re forgiven.” Della licked away her
whipped cream mustache.

Thank goodness. Simone waved at the line of
friendly faces along the bar, with a special wink for Whitey. She
loved everyone in Goldstone, but Whitey, for some reason, held a
special spot in her heart. He claimed he’d name a character after
her in his next book. Whitey was always writing a new book. The man
had a prolific mind.

“Mr. Doodle, you’ve outdone yourself yet
again.” Simone sipped the delicious drink and smacked her lips
appreciatively.

Brax’s kiss had tasted better, true, but
there was no point in giving the comparison to Doodle.

A smile split the seams of the elderly man’s
dear face. “Next I’ll try my hand at a Lava Flow. The wife was
especially delightful after that Lava Flow she had in Hawaii.”

She tried not to think about the Doodles’
delight. “I can’t wait.” She turned to Della. “Let’s get a
table.”

Mr. Doodle made excellent drinks as well as
perfecting the art of eavesdropping. He’d probably manage to
overhear every word they said even if they did move, but Simone
wanted to present at least some challenge.

Tuesday was as good a drinking night as
Friday, and Flood’s End had only two empty bar stools, including
the one Della had vacated. Simone followed her friend to a table by
the wall.

The TV over the bar blasted some all-sports
channel, and a slot machine belled-and-whistled in the back room
while coins clanked into its metal tray. Horten had hit another
jackpot of one degree or another. In her three years in Goldstone,
Simone had yet to see anything but the back of Horten’s head. He
was a slot machine addict, and he always seemed to break even.
Simone had heard on the grapevine that just as he was about to lose
his last quarter, miraculously he’d win a jackpot that would keep
him playing—and losing again—the rest of the night.

She’d long suspected Doodle had rigged the
machine to keep Horten away from the real casinos where he’d
assuredly lose every quarter he had, plus the shirt off his back,
the trailer off his lot, and the rusted cars out of his front
yard.

Simone let Della settle in, took two more
heavenly sips of daiquiri, then went to work. “All right, give me
the scoop, poop. What’s going on with Maggie and Carl?”

Della perused her drink, twizzled her
swizzle, then took a leisurely sip, holding the stick aside with
her forefinger. “Haven’t you ever heard of the subtle
approach?”

“My mother says I don’t have a subtle bone in
my body. I’d hate to prove her wrong.” Actually, Ariana
was
wrong. Simone had learned subtlety at a young age. In the Chandler
household, subtlety was the
only
way Simone got what she
wanted.

“Your mother is the one without a subtle
bone.”

“You don’t even know my mother.”

“You draw such good word pictures, I don’t
have to.”

She steered Della back to the most important
topic of the evening. “I’m worried about them. Tell me
everything.”

“I’m not sure how much I should say. If
Maggie hasn’t told you herself.” Della spread her hands for
emphasis.

“All right, so you want me to drag it out of
you.”

Della raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Another strawberry daiquiri might help.”

Simone fluttered her hand. “Oh Mr. Doodle,
could we have another round?”

He whisked a pitcher from beneath the
counter, filled two glasses, shot them both with whipped cream, and
shoved in the umbrellas and swizzle sticks.

“My tab, this time,” Simone said as he set
down the new and gathered the almost empties. She always paid her
miniscule bar tab at the beginning of the month, when she usually
found that Mr. Doodle had undercharged her.

Alone again, she simply stared at Della.

She didn’t know the mayor as well as Maggie
did. They were friends, true, but she’d never felt the urge to bare
her soul to Della. She liked her, respected her, admired the
wonderful job she did, but Della had always seemed a tad
removed.

That’s why Della’s vehement flare-up over tea
had seemed so odd. There was more to it than Maggie and Carl having
a fight. Or two. “Now, spill, Della.”

“I want you to know that I’ve really been
trying to convince Maggie that everything’s going to be all
right.”

“Could have fooled me at the tea party.”

“That was a culmination.” With her thumbnail,
Della picked at a knot on the table. “After seeing Maggie in that
terrible state, I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Maggie had been a fright, that was true, but
Brax was right. Her friends should be talking her down off the
ledge, not climbing up there with her. “I understand how you feel.
But we’ll help Maggie more if we remain calm. She needs a shoulder
to cry on.”

“I’m really trying not to cast judgment. But
Simone, even I don’t hold out much hope.”

“It can’t be that bad.” Carl had asked for a
sex fantasy to rekindle Maggie’s fire. That meant something. Simone
tried to squash the fear that it wasn’t Maggie’s fire Carl wanted
to light.

Della shook her head, pursed her lips, and
stared down as the dollop of whipped cream on her daiquiri sank
below the surface. “I think Maggie’s right. Carl’s planning on
leaving her.”

Della’s words hit her like a blast of icy
arctic air. “No. That’s not possible.”

Della stirred, then stirred some more until
the scoop of whipped cream melted into the mix. “She told me he’s
been taking money out of their bank account. When a man starts
sneaking money out of the joint checking, it means he’s
leaving.”

“Maybe he needed the money to start his
outhouse business.”

Della snickered. “Right. I think he invented
outhouse excavating and bat caving to cover his
disappearances.”

“What about the ring he found? The diamond
ring?”

“He probably got it out of a gumball machine
at The Stockyard.” Della dropped her chin and peered at Simone
through her lashes. “He could have gotten the ring anywhere.”

But...but... Simone glanced at the bar to
make sure Whitey was engrossed in the TV, then lowered her voice.
“What about Carl and Whitey’s four outhouses?”