Vulnerable (Morgans of Nashville 4)

He unfastened his pants and pulled his shirt free. Her hands, desperate and needy, slid up his torso as he unbuttoned his shirt. She pushed it off his shoulders and kissed him. He cupped her breast. Squeezed until she moaned.

He shed the rest of his clothes and ran his hand up her flat belly over the curve of her breast. She closed her mouth and swallowed. “Bedroom, now.”

Taking her by the hand, he pulled her to his bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed. She lowered to her knees in front of him and smoothed her hand up his muscled legs. When she leaned over and put her mouth on him, he arched back, moaning her name. She seemed to crave anything at this moment that would bring her pleasure and erase the murder scene.

He cupped her shoulders and guided her onto the bed. She scooted up on the pillows and laid back as he straddled her. She reached for him.

“No,” he said.

Frustration darkened her gaze. “No?”

“Slow and easy, baby. We’re gonna enjoy this.” He would touch and kiss every part of her body and chase away, at least for a little while, all the evil she’d witnessed today.

“I can enjoy fast.”

He shook his head. “You’ll like slow better.”

“But—”

“Do you want me to stop?” He kissed the hollow between her breasts.

“No.” The word escaped on a growl.

“Then, slow it is.”

She moved her hand down his body, but he captured and kissed it before lowering his mouth to her neck. He pulsed hard against her and she wiggled as if the emotions were so powerful that they scraped against the underside of her skin.

“You’re a sadist,” she said.

He laughed. “Yes, I am.”

“Don’t men want it fast?”

“Sometimes.” He kissed her neck. “Sometimes, not.”

He moved his hand over her flat belly and she sucked in a breath. He circled his fingers over her belly button and then deliberately moved his hand lower. When he pushed his hand into her folds, she whimpered. “I’m not going to make it much longer.”

He chuckled. “We’ll find out.”

* * *

Tim parked almost a half mile away from Dalton Marlowe’s house to ensure that no one saw him on the property. With darkness around him, he worked his way through the wooded backyards until he reached the fence circling the large green backyard.

In the far back right corner there was a gap in the fence that offered just enough space between two iron slats through which his body could squeeze. He and Mike had used it too many times to count when they snuck in and out of the house. That dumbass Mike was always in some kind of trouble with his old man and grounded so they’d resorted to sneaking. Mike had never cared about rules or restrictions. He came and went as he pleased.

Sucking in a breath, he wedged through the iron rods. In the last five years, his body had thickened with muscle, forcing him to push harder. Iron scraped over the buttons of his shirt.

Once inside the fence, he tugged his shirt back into place, taking time to make sure it was neatly tucked into his pants. He jogged across the manicured lawn to the back door. It was five minutes after midnight.

Now standing on the back porch, he stared at the brick mansion that had been such a big part of his teen years. Five years had passed since he’d last stood here. So much had changed since then. Mike and Bethany were dead. He’d followed Amber to Texas and now back to Nashville. He’d grown up. Gotten smarter. And yet this place was exactly as he remembered it. The gardener still trimmed the hedges in a straight line, flower boxes remained filled with the same kind of red flowers, and the grass was as thick and lush as a flawless green carpet.

Everything changed and yet nothing changed.

He considered testing the basement window with the faulty latch. Had his old man fixed it? Mike used that window often to sneak out of the house. His mother and father’s excessive restrictions and her unending pressure for him to be perfect always sent him running.

Mike really had been a pussy. He’d been a spoiled brat who had it all handed to him on a silver platter, but he’d never been satisfied. Always wanted more.

A week after Mike’s mom died, they lifted a few bottles of bourbon from Marlowe’s study and snuck through the fence. They ended up along the banks of the Cumberland River, sitting on the riverbank and tossing stones into the rushing waters. Amber had joined them. She’d hugged him and then kissed Mike on the lips. While Mike’s eyes were closed, she looked at him, staring, teasing. He was jealous, angry that such a great girl wasted her time on a moron like Mike. His family didn’t have the Marlowes’ wealth, but his prospects were so much brighter.

As they drank more and more, Mike started to talk about his mom. She forbade him ever to see Amber again. She called her white trash. Mike’s eyes went vacant as he said with no hint of emotion, “I shoved her hard and she crumbled like a rag doll.” He explained with cold precision how she staggered back and lost her footing at the top of the stairs and fell down the entire staircase. The three of them sat in silence, digesting the weight of his words.

Later, the doctors would say Mrs. Marlowe’s advanced stage of cancer killed her, but it was the fall that shattered her remaining strength and ended her life. Both Mike and his father mourned her passing in public. They wept openly at the funeral. They made donations in her name. They kept her portrait hanging in the study. And both were glad she was gone.

He pressed his finger on the back doorbell. As bell chimes echoed in the house, he pulled a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the doorbell button clean. Lights clicked on inside. Fast, determined footsteps approached. By the sound of it, the old man wasn’t happy about the interruption.

Good.

A small flutter of doubt dug into his gut as the latch on the other side scraped free and passcode numbers dinged as they were punched into the pad.

He straightened just a fraction as the door jerked open to Dalton Marlowe’s frowning face. An instant passed as the old man stood and stared. Like the house, he was the same. The hair was still black but streaked with gray, the frown lines still bracketed his mouth, and his dark eyes were always searching for the next threat. Fit, he still favored nice clothes and even wore his wedding band. Mr. Marlowe understood the importance of appearances.

Tim grinned. “Mr. M. How’s it going?”

Mr. Marlowe blinked. The anger that always buzzed behind his gaze softened. “Tim. What are you doing here?”

He removed a silver flask from his pocket. “I thought we could drink a toast to Mike.”

Mr. Marlowe stepped aside, a sad smile easing the lines in his face. “Come on in, son. It’s good to see you.”

The door closed behind Tim. Mr. Marlowe clamped a hand on Tim’s shoulder and then pulled him into a hug. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Sure thing, Mr. M. The funeral was nice.”

“Mrs. Reed planned it. She’s good at that kind of thing, and I knew she’d do a fine job so I let her.”

“I’m surprised you joined forces with her. I didn’t think you were friends.”

“I didn’t want to, but the cops convinced me. They were hoping Mike’s killer might have shown.”

Cops by nature were slow moving, but even the dull witted got it right occasionally. “I bet they’re watching the house now.”

“They are. A patrol car drives by every fifteen minutes. I’m not sure what good it will do, but that’s what I pay taxes for.”

They moved down a carpeted hallway into the brightly lit kitchen. Smooth gray granite countertops glistened beneath custom-made cherry cabinets. Stainless-steel appliances glistened in the glow of pendant lights over a wide island sporting a large handblown glass bowl filled with oranges. “Can I get you something to eat?”

Tim twisted off the top of his flask. “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’d like to. You and Mike were best friends and

having you here is a little like having him at home.” Marlowe hugged Tim again, holding him close as if the old man actually meant it, which of course, he didn’t. The old man might be hugging him now, but he was an evil son of a bitch. He used everyone. Mike said so, but more importantly, Amber said so.

Tim patted Mr. Marlowe on the back, willing to play the surrogate son. A sigh shuddered from Mr. Marlowe as he stepped back and tugged the cuffs of his hand-tailored shirt.

Tim drank from the flask and then handed it to Marlowe who also took a pull. “To Mike.”

“To Mike.”

Tim supposed this would be the time he felt a twinge of guilt, but there was none. “Weird to see you sitting next to Amber at the funeral.”

Mr. Marlowe stepped back as if stung, the hard lines of his face deepening. “That woman is poison. She’s a liar.”

Tim bristled as anger stirred and burned under his skin. How dare this animal speak about Amber? “I talked to her briefly at the funeral. She sounds like she’s doing well. She likes Texas.”

He folded his arms. “Don’t believe it for a minute. She’s back here for a reason.”

“She was kind to me.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” Marlowe seemed to catch himself and shook off the rising tide of fury. “Look, I don’t want to talk about her. I want to visit with you. It’s been too long. Let me make you a sandwich.”

“I’d like that.”

As Marlowe turned to the refrigerator to dig out deli meats, bread, and condiments, Tim’s gaze roamed the kitchen, letting it settle on the framed pictures of Mike on the wall behind a long farmhouse table. All were black and white and framed in sleek mahogany frames. “What’s with the pictures? They’re new.”

“I had them done about two years after Mike . . . left. A reminder, I guess. I wanted to remember that times were once good between us.”

Mr. Marlowe retrieved a plate from the cabinet and laid two slices of bread on it. “You still like spicy mustard?”

Tim took another drink from the flask, replaced the cap, and stuck it back in his pocket. He settled on a bar stool in front of the large island. He was careful not to touch anything. “Yeah, you have a good memory.”

Mr. Marlowe carefully made the sandwich, set it on a plate, and pushed it toward him before turning back to the refrigerator to dig out a couple of beers.