When Night Falls (17 page)

Dani pushed on. “If Mitchell is my uncle, he might have a different take on you, so I’m going to talk with him. Better let him know. And if I’ve got another grandmother, she has to be better than the one in the rest home, that icy old bag. I want to know everything about your mother, and I want to meet her, too. It’s my right, get it?”

“Hell, no. I’m not having anything to do with that woman.”

Dani met his scowl with her own. “That ‘woman’ is my grandmother, and I want to meet her. Then I’ll figure it out for myself.”

“Get your butt back in school and we’ll talk,” Roman seemed to growl.

“Don’t I have anything to say about all this?” Shelly asked, frustrated with the easy back-and-forth bargaining Roman could manage with Dani, when she couldn’t. Dani kept her word.

“No,” they both said in unison and looked at her with that same frown that changed to surprise. Father and daughter stared at each other.

“Maybe,” Roman said finally.

“Sure. Maybe she has something to say, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to agree. She’s got this—”

“Upright soft streak?”

“Yeah. Always believes the best of people. Probably no one but her would have anything to do with an old has-been like you.” But Dani’s look at her mother was that of love and tenderness and of understanding, the first in a long time.

Roman waggled Dani’s head. “A has-been, am I? Gee, not too long ago I was a ‘stud.’ We’ll see about ‘has-been’ when we get the bikes up and running. I’m expecting you to do your share—if you want it—and to help your mother, too.”

“Oh my, no. Dani can’t—” Shelly stopped when Roman and Dani both frowned at her again. She tried for as much dignity as she could manage while standing there in her nightgown and Roman’s shirt. She wanted home and safety and no Roman while she worked through what had just happened. “I think we’d better just have a good night’s rest before this goes any further. The storm is letting up now and Dani and I can walk home.”

She resented Dani’s questioning look at Roman, who nodded. “Later.”

Mitchell leaned back into the shadows of Uma’s bedroom, studying the woman curled on the bed. Through the soft rain at the window, predawn crept softly into the room, fingering over the curves of her body in tempered, blended hues of pink and yellow. Her arm was still curved in the position in which he had left it after easing from her. He could still feel her softness against him, hear those little hungry sighs, feel the shudder of pleasure deep within her. Her hair spread
across the pillow in waving strands, rich, mink-brown hair that he had plunged his fingers into, holding her desperately when he couldn’t get enough.

Couldn’t get enough
…of what? Of sex? Or of the woman, Uma, that excitement, the challenge, the magic?

His body told him he’d definitely had the sex, but his mind was as troubled as last night’s storm.

She wasn’t a woman to leave.

He wasn’t a man to stay.

Mitchell rammed his hand through his hair and caught her scent upon his skin. His body reacted instantly—hardening, wanting. If he went back to bed, he wasn’t certain he could leave. If he stayed, he wasn’t certain what he could say.

She was a woman who deserved commitment from the man who wanted her body. Okay, just maybe he wanted more.

That wasn’t on his life-menu, and neither was running out on Uma just after they’d made love. He wanted to reassure her that—what? What safety could he give her?

Uma was unraveling him in ways he didn’t understand. Sex—sure. Sex with Uma—not sure, because it was more than that. It was magic and fascination and tenderness. He wasn’t certain that he wanted tenderness.

Mitchell decided the safest thing was to make coffee and then clean up the dinner they had forgotten. He picked up his jeans and eased quietly down the hallway. The slight draft from her office suggested that she might not have closed the window against the storm.

He frowned; a thorough woman, Uma would be careful of her equipment. A ripple in the shadows drew his attention to the lacy curtain at the window. Drawing the curtain aside revealed a perfect round bullethole.

On the opposite side of the cozy room, a vase had tumbled from a shelf onto the overstuffed armchair, the roses that had been in it spread onto the floor, water dampening the chair
fabric. Realizing how much Uma cared for her family’s treasures, Mitchell automatically picked up the vase and lifted it—

The bullethole in the bookshelf was fresh, and the angle from the window sighted down to the sidewalk across the street. Mitchell replaced the vase; he took a large cardboard poster featuring the Cayman Islands and placed it over the window.

Downstairs, dressed in his jeans, he sipped coffee and studied the homey kitchen. Maybe he should make toast and cut some flowers and take her a breakfast tray—to see if she was okay after the lovemaking that just might be branded in his mind forever.
Uma. Flowing, soft, hot, hungry
.

The thought of a bullet tearing through her sickened him.

He turned to see her wrapped in a short pink cotton robe sprigged with delicate rosebuds that came just to her knees.

They were beautiful knees, and he wondered about kissing the backs of them and working his way upward over those slender-strong muscles and higher—

Mitchell couldn’t move as her hand slid through her long hair, easing it back, her gray eyes locked with his. “These rainy mornings aren’t for running, but more for relaxing, don’t you think?”

He couldn’t think, his senses humming. He’d caused those shadows beneath her eyes, that sultry darkness in her eyes, the swollen fullness of her lips. He’d tasted those peaked breasts, felt the riveting response that ran the length of her body.

He didn’t like the burn of jealousy over knowing that another man had seen her like this, soft and warm and sleepy…and sated.

Still walking toward him, Uma came to ease her body against his, laying her head on his shoulder, her lips against his throat. Mitchell placed aside the coffee cup and eased his arms around her carefully. He closed his eyes as her scent caught him, wrapped magically, tantalizingly around him,
and her breasts nudged him gently. Her hand stroked his hair, and something dark and tremulous settled within him.

“You’re a cuddler,” she whispered against his throat. “You like to snuggle. I hadn’t expected that.”

Mitchell straightened and frowned down at her. “Huh?”

She grinned up at him. “You like to cuddle. I thought you might be someone who likes his space on the bed. Oh, you’re blushing. I didn’t mean to embarrass you!”

Mitchell eased away from her. He’d never blushed in his life. Embarrassment was something he hadn’t ever been able to afford. He felt as if his whole life had just flipped over.

Uma drew back, studying him. “I’m not going to hide this, Mitchell, unless you want me to. You don’t know what to do, do you?”

“I’m not into chit-chat.” He didn’t know how he felt and Uma was far too close, those solemn gray eyes filled with his reflection. He wasn’t certain how he liked that “cuddler” remark; it sounded a little feminine.

Uma was opening the refrigerator, taking out a carton of eggs. She began cooking breakfast as if they had shared it every morning. Mitchell held very still, dealing with the “cuddler” remark and the enormous normality of her beginning the day calmly—dealing with his newly discovered possessive streak made him uneasy. He tried to sound casual, though every sense centered on Uma’s answer to his question: “Do you still cook breakfast for Everett?”

She turned slightly, one delicate eyebrow questioning him. She plopped a thick slice of ham into the skillet, then began to crack eggs on the rim of a bowl, emptying them into it. Each movement was deliberate, as if she were carefully placing her thoughts in order. She began to whip the eggs, then placed the bowl aside and looked directly at him. “We didn’t eat last night and I’m sorry your lovely dinner was ruined…. yes. We’re friends, and he’s often over here in the morning, chatting with Dad.”

“And?” He hated pushing, needing to know.

Uma removed the ham and slid the eggs into the drippings. “And I love him. He’s my best friend. What was that conversation about at the ice cream shop? The one between you and Everett?”

While the eggs sizzled and the toast popped, Mitchell wasn’t certain he wanted to answer. “It was a man-to-man thing. You wouldn’t understand,” he began evasively.

“Try me. And if this is a bet between you, I’ll kill you both.”

“He doesn’t want you hurt,” Mitchell answered slowly. “He knows I want you.”

“That would be nice to hear. You didn’t talk last night.”

“I was busy.”

“Mmm.”

That slight sound dug into his nerves. “What do you mean, ‘mmm’?”

“Just that. Set the table, please.”

Her control and that “mmm” irritated him while he was awash with uncertainties. As soon as he could get his hands on the book she’d written, he might understand. He’d never tried to understand women before. He decided that “mmm” was a silky-soft weapon that could disarm and confuse him.

And he had to warn her, to protect her. “I came here last night with a purpose.”

He stopped, enjoying Uma’s brief knowing, sweet smirk before she pushed it away and asked coolly, “Which was?”

He hated to disarm that intriguing little smirk, but—“I think you’re in danger, and Shelly definitely is.”

Uma frowned and the telephone rang. She took it from the wall. “Hi, Dad…oh, hi, Pearl.”

As Mitchell cleared away the dishes, he heard Pearl’s shrill voice, noting the way Uma held the telephone away from her ear. “I know, the garden party is essential, everything has to be just right, your annual late July dinner and dance party is
the prime event of the better people in Madrid…the storm felled a tree on your English garden maze? That’s awful.”

Uma looked at Mitchell. “Yes, I know that Walter isn’t meant to do manual labor. Uh-huh. An investment banker can’t spend his energies dealing with storm damage. Yes, I’m planning to help you serve tonight. Shelly said she would help, too. Dozer is in Florida, Pearl. He sold his business to Mitchell, remember?”

She held the phone farther from her ear. “You can’t find anyone else? Mitchell is the only one I know. I hear he’s good with shrubs and flower beds…yes, he has all Dozer’s equipment, including a chain saw. You might try him.”

Mitchell couldn’t help grinning. Whenever Pearl passed him on the street or in her car, she turned away immediately, a definite snub.

“No, I’m not going to do this for you, Pearl, and don’t ask Shelly to, either. You’ll just have to ask him yourself.”

After replacing the telephone, Uma turned to Mitchell. “You will be nice to her, Mitchell. Pearl is a bit high strung, but if you knew how badly she was treated when she was younger, you’d understand.”

“Maybe. I’m not promising anything. Come here.” When Uma walked to him, Mitchell tugged her onto his lap. He eased her against him and rubbed his chest against her breasts, gazing down at them with that dark look that could cause her to heat—as if he had been starved and she was everything he wanted. Just that look was enough to make her want him equally. “I’m a cuddler, huh?”

“First class.” She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes when Mitchell nuzzled the crevice of her breasts.

Then he leaned back, watching her face flush. “You’re not so cool and untouchable, you know.”

There was that boyish victory grin that sent her senses tumbling. She struggled to focus as his hand closed over her breast, framing and testing it gently. “You’re so perfect,” he
whispered unsteadily. “How do you feel this morning? I’m a lot bigger and stronger and I…I didn’t mean to touch you like that. I wanted…I wanted to be very gentle—I wasn’t.”

“I think I managed to hold my own,” she whispered against his lips. “What was that you were saying about danger to Shelly?”

Mitchell frowned and leaned back. “And to
you
. I think the broken windows here were threats, somehow. You’ve stepped on someone’s toes. And the bullets in Shelly’s house and that scar she’s wearing say someone doesn’t like her.”

“Bullets in Shelly’s house?’ Her scar? The one she got the night Lauren died?”

Mitchell spoke carefully. “Roman says it looks like a bullet grazed her. He dug slugs out of her house, beneath the ivy at the back. Lonny had a ballistics check on the windmill, then compared the damage to Pete’s skull, and the ones found in Shelly’s house. They’re all a match. Whoever killed Lauren might have wanted all of you—”

“But no one said anything—that there was any trouble. It’s been over a year since Lauren’s death.”

“Shelly has been having a lot of accidents since then. There’s a black spot on her driveway where her car ignited and burned. She was lucky to get out of that one. She told Roman that her ladder broke while she was cleaning windows. He dug it out of that shed in her backyard. It had been sawed just enough to break with her weight.”

“I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt Shelly. She’s always the first to help those in need.”

“What about Pearl? She was there the night Lauren was killed.”

Uma circled through the past year, itemizing Pearl’s catastrophes. “Her car’s brakeline leaked and she nearly ran into a building. She almost had two car wrecks while traveling and couldn’t recognize the other car. Her dog ate something and died…they thought it might be the poison put out to kill
moles. Walter and the girls were devastated and Pearl had an elaborate pet funeral. Oh, my, Mitchell…this is awful—if someone is trying to—”

He ran a finger over the roses she had placed on the table. Mitchell suddenly looked too dangerous. “All in this year, since Lauren’s death?”

She shook her head, aligning the incidents that all spelled calculated harm to her friends. She began to chill and shake and Mitchell drew her close, nestling her head against his shoulder. “Anything else?”

“I don’t want to think about this—that we could have someone here who is so evil—”

He rocked her gently. “Tell me.”

“Several cows were shot—wounded. Opal Udell’s favorite little Guernsey cow, more of a pet, really. Lilly Belle was shot with an arrow. The vet who took care of the cows thought maybe it was hunters again, but it was a practice arrow—you know, with a metal-pointed tip and not the arrowhead type. Gerald Van Dyke’s tractor ran over him, crushing him while he was in front of it. His sight and hearing aren’t good at eighty, but—oh, Mitchell, no one would want to hurt Gerald. But you can’t just take ordinary farm accidents and careless hunters and kids with air guns and put them all into a package with a label that says ‘murder.’”