Slow Burn (9 page)

His flesh was against hers. Warm, wonderful. He was touching her all over. It was so intimate it was almost unbearable, and so wonderful, because it was him. She could accutely register each and every different sensation, the rough hair of his legs against her own, the warmth of his breath touching her, the texture of the hair at his nape, where her fingers raked it. He'd been chewing gum; he tasted of spearmint. His weight was settled between her thighs, and she was so keenly aware of his sex that it was a form of anguish.

He went slowly. Kissing her lips. Making her feel the longing again, the excitement, the explosiveness.

“You've done this,” she whispered.

He hesitated for a minute. “Yes.”

She hoped it wasn't with Terry-Sue.

“Want to stop?” he asked.

“No!”

A minute later she almost wished she'd said yes. Sex had been made out to be such an incredible, ecstatic thing. She was supposed to be in paradise. She wanted to be shot.

“Spencer?”

She couldn't speak; she simply clung to him as things became bearable. Because it was David. When it was all over it was wonderful in a different way. Wonderful because he had become so impassioned, so excited, because she had felt him reach some incredible plateau. He was drenched; he had come into her like liquid fire, and then held her as if she were the most precious thing in the entire world. And they had lain there together while the night fell and the shadows deepened. She thought he'd fallen asleep, but she didn't dare. She had to be in her own house before eleven.

But he hadn't fallen asleep. He was suddenly leaning over her, a slight smile curving his lips. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What was it like?” he asked.

“It was…”

“Awful?” he suggested.

“No!” She felt his amused stare; he knew.

“It was…” she tried again, but he laughed.

“Well, I don't suppose the first time has to actually be awful, but it's usually not great. Now the second time is supposed to be great,” he said.

Just his voice, that husky tone, made excitement stir inside her once again. She felt breathless even before his lips touched hers, before his fingers played over her breasts, roamed downward, teased where both the fire and the pain had burned. He kissed her lips, then moved down her throat. He took the tip of her breast in his mouth, teasing it with his teeth and tongue. The excitement lapped higher and higher. He kissed her belly, her inner thigh. Higher. She almost screamed in protest, but then he was hovering over her. She didn't quite have the nerve to touch him
there
yet, but it didn't matter. He was lowering himself over her, into her. Kissing her mouth again, his tongue playing with hers while his body penetrated hers a second time. It was every incredible, sensual, erotic, forbidden wonder she had ever heard that it could be, the magic shared by those who knew. She climaxed with a surge of passion that amazed her, and even then she thought she'd never known such happiness. Such intimate, binding pleasure. She'd shared it with David, found it with him. And still she lay in his arms, bathed in a soft sheen of perspiration, feeling the crisp hair on his legs brush against the softness of her own, the sheets a tangle around them….

 

She bolted awake, feeling as if she almost reached the ceiling above her head as the alarm let out a shattering screech. The sheets were in a tangle, as if she had tossed and turned through the night. Her pillow lay on the floor.

It was morning. Six o'clock. Time to get ready for another workday.

She stared across the bed, to where Danny should have been lying. Except that Danny had been dead for more than a year now. A long time.

Not nearly long enough for her to be dreaming about her first encounter with his best friend. Even if it
had
occurred long, long before her marriage.

She stood up, stripping off her nightgown, heading for the shower and swearing beneath her breath.

“Damn you, David Delgado. Damn you. And damn you, too, Sly, you old fox!”

The water was pouring down on her. She could dimly hear the phone ringing and decided to let the machine pick it up.

It did. She heard her own voice, then the voice that had plagued her sleep, her dreams, her nightmares. David.

“Trey Delia is in the county jail, being questioned. He asked to see me. If you promise to be a good girl, you can come with me. But, hell, if you're not there—”

She didn't bother with a towel. She simply came flying out of the shower, heedless of what she was doing to her hardwood floor and carpets. She wrenched the receiver from the cradle. “What time are you going?”

“I can be by for you at eight-thirty. If—”

“Yeah, yeah, I plan on being an angel.”

She thought she heard a doubtful chuckle. “I mean it, Spencer. You have to keep quiet and let me do the talking.”

“You really are a chauvinist.”

“Call it chauvinism, Cuban machismo, anything you want. Just keep quiet. Got it?”

She hesitated for a second. Her “Got it!” was only a little bit stiff.

“And Spencer?”

“What?”

“Have some decent coffee ready, huh?”

“Coffee? Decent coffee?” she sputtered.

But he had already hung up. And she didn't know whether he had spoken in jest or out of his Cuban machismo, or maybe with just a little bit of both.

It didn't matter. He was gone. She had no recourse left but to slam the receiver down. It didn't do much good, but it did make her feel a little better.

Trey Delia. So last night
had
done something. A suspect was in jail, maybe not for Danny's death, but they still might be able to learn something.

She finished showering and got dressed, and she was humming with pleasure when she went downstairs. She was halfway through making morning coffee when she stopped suddenly, her tone stopping just as if the power had gone dry. She always made morning coffee.

But, she realized, she had made a full pot. Without even thinking about it. And she hadn't done that since…

In well over a year.

She plugged the pot in.

“And it's damned decent coffee at that!” she said aloud, then turned away.

The doorbell was already ringing.

S
ly Montgomery read about the vandalism in the cemetery that morning.

He was in the courtyard by the pool, at a old tile table beneath the palms, sipping his coffee—decaf, these days—and looking at the front page.

Cult leader Trey Delia hadn't been among the grave robbers, but one of the men who'd been caught—an illegal alien from Port au Prince—became hysterical under interogation and implicated Delia in just about everything from robbery to murder to vampirism. The story about the man's capture was an unusual one. A private investigator had happened to be in the cemetery, along with an unknown female assistant.

Unknown, my royal rump! Sly thought, shaking his head.

He set the paper down and stared at the pool. He still loved to see the sun hovering over water. He liked it at the pool at his house, and he liked it by the bay, watching the deeper colors there, the cobalts, the greens, the deep, deep azures. Maybe that was partially what had kept him here all these years, when some said the city was going to trash. It was evolving, that was all. When you got to be over ninety, you knew a lot. You'd seen a lot. Too much, most of the time. He'd seen this place go from being just about nothing but swamp to a city capable of eclipsing many others the world over.

He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Well, they had a right to shake. They were ninety-something years old. Ninety-four this year, wasn't it? It seemed incredible the way he went on, and bless God, stayed healthy, his mind intact. But ninety-four years was a long time to live. He'd lost Lucy long ago. But before that they'd built their dreams together. Just like he'd helped build some of the great old houses here, right out of the swamp and coral and muck. He'd always wanted kids. He would have had ten if he could have, but there had just been Joe. Well, that was God's will. Then Joe had married his little posh prom queen out of Newport, and one baby had been more than Mary Louise Tierney Montgomery could handle.

But Spencer was worth a million grandkids. From the start, she had belonged more to him than she'd ever belonged to either Mary Louise or Joe. She loved the old, cherished it. She liked to work with her hands, to build. She liked history—young as it might be here—and when she was just five, she could rattle off the names of most of the major architects and builders who had put South Florida together. She was blessed with intelligence and a nature that was both sweet and aggressive. Usually, when she wanted something, she went for it with a smile on her face and both hands open. Danny Huntington had been a fine husband for her, too, though Sly hadn't imagined the two of them together when they'd been kids.

Sly had been watching them all for years now; other than his work, the kids had been his life. He'd watched them struggle to learn their values, struggle to grow. He'd seen them mature from stumbling adolescents into assured adults.

He'd seen Danny die, and it had been one hell of a tragedy, but that was the past.

Spencer was the present. And the future. She was all that really mattered in life to him, after all these years of learning just what counted and what didn't.

“And I wish you were still little enough to take a switch to, young lady!” he muttered aloud.

Well, that was the hell of it. Spencer was a grown-up. He couldn't take a switch to her. He couldn't insist that she move in with him for a while. He couldn't force sense into her, couldn't tell her that it would be better for her to live a full life rather than discover who had killed Danny if it meant dying herself.

He read the article again. He would talk to David Delgado later, but for the moment, he wanted to read between the lines again. He did. And decided maybe it wouldn't matter if he talked to David later or not. He could pretty much tell the story.

Spencer had somehow gotten wind that the grave-robbing ghouls might be coming to Danny's cemetery. She'd gone, and David had been on the job. Just like he'd promised, however grudgingly. He hadn't wanted to follow Spencer, and Sly was no fool; he knew why. Some things just didn't go away when you grew up. You could get old, you could think yourself past the hurts and the desires that had plagued you when you were young, but they were still there, lurking in the heart. No, you just didn't get past some things, no matter what.

Maybe that was bad. And maybe that was good. Maybe it meant that whether he liked it or not, David would stick to Spencer like glue.

The phone started ringing. Sly rose to answer it, certain that he knew who was calling.

Jerry Fried, Danny Huntington's last partner in the homicide division, sat down at his desk and stared at the memo in front of him. At fifty-five, he was getting too old for this shit. He ran his fingers through his cap of snow-white hair and hunched over, thinking he needed to exercise more. Walk, at least. He still cut a fairly decent figure in and out of uniform, but it seemed to get harder and harder. His paunch was threatening to protrude over his belt.

He hadn't been on duty last night; he hadn't heard a thing about the graveyard arrest until he'd come in this morning. Now everyone was talking about it. And there was this damned memo on his desk from the lieutenant.

So they had Delia in custody now. And Danny's widow had something to do with it. Tall, slim, elegant, Mrs. Huntington had managed to get herself into the right cemetery when the police hadn't been able to add up two and two and get four. Why couldn't she believe that the police always took care of their own? And why couldn't she just stay out of all this? Keep out of harm's way? If she kept messing where she shouldn't be, there was going to be trouble. Big trouble. And she was going to be in danger.

Danny Huntington…He'd been dead more than a year now, but he still seemed to haunt Jerry's every waking moment. Danny had been so damned popular. The rich boy, playing cop. Because he wanted to know the streets, real life. Everyone had liked Danny. Everyone. The politicians. The police brass. The guys on the force. The frigging crooks had even liked Danny. And Danny had known things he hadn't thought to share with his own partner!

Jerry groaned and put his head down on his desk, spilling his morning coffee as he did.

He sat up, swearing at Danny's widow once again. Danny Huntington just couldn't seem to stay buried.

 

Cecily Monteith lounged in the sitting room adjacent to her bedroom, sipping the coffee that Maria, her maid, had just set on the table along with her toast—done well, but not burned, just touched with margarine, not butter, the crusts carefully trimmed off—and read the paper with a growing sense of dread and unease.

Jared, in a tailored shirt, stood in the doorway, slipping a tie around his neck, struggling with the knot, then scowling and swearing profusely. “You'd think Sly Montgomery would come to terms with the modern world. It's hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk today. Everyone has gone casual, but that old man still dresses up for meetings as if he were going to a presidential dinner.”

Cecily waved a hand in the air, dismissing his complaint. “You've got to read this.”

Jared stepped forward, sweeping the paper from her lap. He arched a brow at her, scowling again as he read the headline.

“How long has your cousin been back in town? A few months?” Cecily said consideringly. “Let's see, in that time she's managed to completely turn the old man around to her way of seeing things, even though you were his number-one idea man all that time she was up in Newport. The second she walks in, you're second fiddle. And now this!” Cecily stood, snatching the paper out of his hands. “You didn't know what she was up to? Hanging on to David like a leech? She won't stop, Jared. She'll be into everything.”

Jared snatched the paper back, staring at her. “You more worried about Spencer delving into things—or the fact that she's running around with David Delgado?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Cecily said coolly.

Jared shrugged, looking her up and down, then smiled slowly, just the slightest hint of malice in his gaze. “Let's see, way back when, you and Terry-Sue and all the sweet young things just coming to life were all after David. Maybe he had balls of gold or something, I don't know, and I came in second fiddle. Then—thank the Lord!—he up and joined the army, then went to school in England. Not that I ever had anything personal against David. It just seemed that whenever he was around, the rest of us paled in comparison. We didn't have that forbidden allure, that color, something. Even Danny, Mr. Save-the-World Huntington. Well, Cecily, I know you've been to David's office several times since he left the force and opened up on his own. I know you've made damned sure his name was on every invitation list you've had a say in, and I watched you trying to console him—and begging to be consoled in turn—at Danny's funeral.” He hesitated a second while she stared at him in shock. “Stupid idiot,” he continued softly. “He'll never have an affair with you.”

“Jared, how dare you imply that I'm trying to have an affair with him?” She pouted at him angrily.

Jared shrugged. Maybe she was right. They'd had their ups and downs. Sometimes they argued like kids, but then, they'd dated since they were kids and had really still been kids when they'd gotten married. Now they had two kids of their own. A boy and a girl. They had a great house in Cocoplum; he drove a Ferrari, and she carted the kids around in a brand new Mercedes-Benz. It was a good life. He liked living it.

He felt a trickle of sweat forming beneath his collar. Yeah, he liked living it. And he was scared. Spencer had a bee in her bonnet over Danny. And Spencer wouldn't stop until she got what she wanted.

“What makes you think David would never have an affair with me?” Cecily suddenly demanded, her eyes darting over his shoulder to the mirror behind him. No matter what else she was worried about, Cecily was always concerned about her appearance, as well. He grinned again. She was always worried about weight and wrinkles. She moaned constantly about the time she'd spent in the sun as a stupid kid. But her obsession did have its merits. Two kids and thirteen years of marriage, and Cecily still looked great. She dieted like a maniac, went on a binge now and then, and did penance for it with sorrow and fervor at a very expensive spa.

All thanks to Spencer.

Cecily seemed to forget on occasion that Sly wasn't Jared's grandfather. She forgot that Jared's now long-deceased mother had been Spencer's mother's sister, and though his father was still alive and kicking and sometimes worked for Sly, it was Spencer's determination to make Jared a part of things that kept them in cars and not just comfortable but lush housing. It was also true, though, that Jared had worked for Sly since he'd finished the Harvard education that Sly had helped him get. And it was also true that he'd thought he deserved more than he got at times. And now Spencer was making him nervous as hell.

Cecily had forgotten their conversation for the moment. As she gazed over his shoulder, she drew her hands down over the satin nightgown she was wearing, trying to see whether there might be a bit of a bulge. “Jared, why wouldn't someone want to have an affair with me?”

He sighed, feeling a sudden surge of affection for her. “I didn't say
someone,
Cecily. I said
David
wouldn't have an affair with you. I don't know whether he'd want to or not. I just know he
wouldn't.
You're married to me. Things like that matter to David.”

“Well, Spencer was married to Danny!” Cecily said, almost belligerently.

“Yeah, and he wouldn't have slept with Spencer, either,” Jared said. He'd picked up the paper again and was studying the article once more.

“I just can't believe she was running around a stupid cemetery. At night!” Cecily shuddered. “Gruesome. And it was Spencer. It had to have been. She's not going to let this go.”

“Damn it, Cecily, quit worrying about Spencer.”

“Someone has to worry about her!”

“I can take care of business—and Spencer—myself, Cecily.”

It wasn't true, Cecily thought. No one could take care of Spencer. Not when she was determined on a course of action. Cecily staightened the half-knotted tie around his neck. Jared could be such a fool at times. She wondered now if she didn't love him the same way she loved William and Ashley. As if he were a child. He looked the part of an entrepreneur just fine, she thought with a certain satisfaction. He had all his hair, without a wisp of gray setting in. He had a home gym and stayed in shape. And though he played Mr. Executive at the office, he would be a liar if he said that he didn't like the actual work itself. The happiest any of those three fools—Sly, Spencer and Jared—seemed to be was when they were in the midst of a cloud of sawdust, restoring some old place by hand, or poring over old books and records, trying to discover just when and where some fabulous architectural piece had been made. It was good for Jared, though. Kept him fit.

“Don't look at me like that!” he snapped suddenly. “I
can
deal with Spencer. She's my cousin.”

“Your blood,” Cecily agreed with a smile. She made a face at him. “Don't forget. She's always been my best friend. Auntie Spence to the kids.”