“What’s that?”
“Don’t laugh. I can’t help feeling that there’s some connection between the untimely deaths of the previous mistresses of the hacienda and the attacks on Cameron and me.”
“Why would you think that?” Sloan asked as he stripped off his shirt.
“Because if I were plotting this as a story line there would have to be a connection. Plus, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the mistresses of this house have all…I…”
It gave Sloan a great deal of satisfaction to note the way her sentence trailed off when he stepped out of his jeans.
“You’re stripping.”
“James is right. You are a bright gal.” He kept his eyes on hers as he hooked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his briefs and eased them slowly down over his hips. When they dropped to the floor, he stepped out of them. Her eyes had lowered to his erection, and though he hadn’t thought it possible, he grew even harder.
“I want you, Brooke.”
Not raising her eyes, she lifted a hand out of the water and beckoned him to join her. “Come in. The water’s fine.”
He lowered himself into the frothy bubbles so that he was sitting opposite her, his legs tangled with hers. “Close quarters.”
“Very observant.”
Sloan scooped up bubbles and tossed them at her. She grinned as she brushed them off her cheek, and he had the satisfaction of seeing that worry line fade from her forehead.
“Would you like some soap?” Without waiting for his answer, she blew a wad of bubbles into his face.
In retaliation, he lifted one of her feet and began to massage the instep.
He heard her breath shudder out. “I’m thinking of a plot line myself.” He continued to massage her foot. “But I’m not sure of the technical terms. This is what you might call an opening encounter.” He slipped one finger in and out between each of her toes. “Right?”
“Right.” Her voice had become breathy, the way it always did when she was aroused. And her eyes—those fascinating green eyes—had darkened.
Slowly, he ran his hand up her calf and traced a pattern on the back of her knee.
She trembled.
“A complication,” he said and watched her tremble again. Leaning forward, his gaze never leaving her face, he danced his fingers up her inner thigh. “The tension builds.” He could feel it building within himself.
“Sloan, I—” Her voice was a whisper.
“What comes next, Brooke? Tell me.” But he didn’t wait for her answer before he traced one finger down the slick softness of her fold. “This?”
“Mmmmm.” She arched toward where his finger lingered at the entrance to her heat.
“And then?”
“Crisis,” she murmured.
He pushed his finger into her, just a little.
“More,” she whispered.
“Tell me what comes next?”
“Climax.”
He pushed two fingers into her. She arched upward. “Yes.”
Water sloshed over the edges of the tub and two candles sputtered as Sloan moved to cover her body with his. He urged her legs apart and entered her.
“We’re going to drown,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him.
“Practice holding your breath,” he said and took her.
IN THE DARKNESS of the gardens, a shadow paced—forward and back, forward and back. She should be dead. She should be dead. She should be dead.
The chant grew louder and louder as the pacing picked up speed. Three times she’d escaped. Three times. It couldn’t be tolerated. It wouldn’t be tolerated.
Fury boiled up with such force that it seemed to become a separate entity in the surrounding air. The shadow stopped pacing abruptly and turned to face the hacienda.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Control. It had to be regained. It was all-important. Nothing could be accomplished without it.
She should be dead. And she would be dead. Tomorrow. Moonlight fell in a silvery blanket over the sleeping ranch and the shadow’s gaze swept the gardens, the land and the hills beyond, gathering in the strength that came from knowing this would never belong to Cameron McKenzie.
When the pacing began again it was slower, more purposeful. Gradually, a plan took root and began to grow.
20
THE SKY WAS STILL the color of pewter when something—a ringing sound—pulled me out of sleep. I managed to get one of my eyes open and discovered I was lying with my head on Sloan’s shoulder. He stirred, removing one of the arms he’d wrapped around me, and groped on the bedside table until he located his cell. The ringing stopped.
“Yeah.” There was silence for a while. A phone call at this hour couldn’t be good. I opened my other eye, but when I tried to pull away, Sloan’s other arm, which was still around me, tightened.
“Thanks.” He ended the call and turned to me. I didn’t like the frown on his face. “That was the state police. They found a vehicle whose tires match the tracks at the cliff.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“Doc Carter.”
I stared at him trying to process the information. Doc Carter was the last person I would have suspected of shooting down Sloan’s plane. I was about to say so when Sloan continued. “The caliber of the bullet they recovered from the plane matches the Winchester rifle they found in the trunk of his car.”
“But why? You don’t suppose my Snow Queen—Santa Claus theory is for real?”
“They’ve taken him in for questioning. As soon as they get some answers, we’ll know.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“He had the opportunity to cut the saddle girth,” Sloan pointed out.
“And he didn’t have a solid alibi for the day that Cameron disappeared,” I recalled. “He thought maybe playing golf.”
“The state police may be able to refresh his memory,” Sloan said.
But it still didn’t make sense to me. Why would Doc Carter want to kill Cameron?
Reading my mind again, Sloan drew me closer and kissed my forehead. “I can’t think of a reason why he’d want to harm Cameron, either, but we should have some answers soon.”
Sloan’s phone rang again. “It’s the stables,” he said as he took the call.
I could tell from the expression on his face that the news wasn’t good. It just never is when someone calls you in the middle of the night. I glanced out the balcony window to see pink streaks in the lightening sky. Or at the crack of dawn.
Sloan got out of bed and walked into the bathroom to gather up his clothes. “That was Gus. He was making his morning rounds and he says there’s something wrong with Saturn. He can’t wake him up.”
I threw back the covers. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.” He’d already dragged on jeans when he came back to the bed. “The threat to you may be over, but we’re not taking any chances. You’ll stay here. Give me your cell phone.”
When he handed it to me, he picked up my cell and started pressing in numbers. “I’m going to put my cell number on speed dial. If you need me, if anything at all happens, just press one.”
He passed me back the phone and then met my eyes directly. “You’re not to leave this room. Give me your word.”
“Okay.”
By the time he’d finished dressing, I’d pulled on my own jeans and a T-shirt and fastened my cell to my belt. My masquerade was about to end, and when it did, I wanted to be in my own clothes.
I followed Sloan to the door. As he stepped outside, he said, “Lock it and don’t leave here until I come back.”
“I gave you my word.”
He leaned down to kiss me once—hard. I closed the door, locked it and then went to the window. In less than a minute, I saw him going down the path to the stable at a run. If Doc Carter confessed, this might be the last time I stood here looking out at the ranch from Cameron’s point of view.
But it wasn’t going to be the last night I spent with Sloan. The one thing that we hadn’t done during the night was talk about what was going to happen once we figured out who was trying to kill Cameron and she was able to return. Lots of things were still up in the air. But I was not going to let Sloan Campbell walk out of my life. Walking around in my sister’s clothes and living her life for a few days had at least done that much for me. I was going to fight for what I wanted.
I frowned. Right now, I needed to think. I just wasn’t convinced that Doc Carter was the villain of this particular scenario. Turning around, I began to pace the length of the room. I couldn’t get it out of my mind that the attempts on Cameron’s life and mine were somehow connected to the deaths or disappearances of the other mistresses of the Montega Hacienda. But if I couldn’t come up with a reason for Doc Carter wanting Cameron dead, how was I going to come up with one for him wanting my mother dead?
Even if he had a partner, who would it be? What was the motive? With a sigh, I sank down on the foot of the bed. I wasn’t accomplishing anything except making my headache come back. Maybe the problem was that I was a writer. If this were a story line on Secrets, of course I’d want to connect my sister’s disappearance to the other mysteries of the hacienda. But real life was never as neat as fiction.