Best Kept Secrets (31 page)

That she responded to him out of a sense of obligation rather than passion didn't stop him from wanting her; it might even have enhanced his desire. Angus enjoyed a challenge.

He undressed quickly and lowered himself on top of her.

He fumbled with the buttons on her gown and finally managed, with no assistance from her, to get it open. Her breasts were as pert and shapely as they had been on their wedding night, when he had first beheld and touched them.

He kissed them now with polite restraint. Her nipples were small. His stroking tongue was rarely successful in coaxing them erect. He doubted she knew they were supposed to get erect, unless some of those novels she read were more sexually explicit than he suspected.

She winced slightly when he entered her. He pretended not to see her grimace. He tried not to sweat or make a sound or do anything that she would consider nasty and unpleasant.

He saved all his raunchiness for the widow lady he supported in the neighboring county. She didn't mind his crude language. In fact, she hooted with laughter over some of his more colorful expressions.

She was as lusty a lover as he. She had large, dark, milky-tasting nipples that she would let him diddle with for hours if he wanted to. She even went down on him and let him go down on her. Each time he mounted her, her round thighs gripped his ass like a vise. She was a noisy comer, and the only woman he'd ever met who could laugh in downright joy while she was screwing.

They'd been together for over twenty years. She never asked for more of a commitment; she didn't expect one. They had a damn good time together, and he didn't know what he would do without her in his life, but he didn't love her.

He loved Sarah Jo. Or, at least, he loved what she was: dainty and pure and refined and beautiful. He loved her as an art collector would love a sculpture of priceless alabaster that was to be touched only on special occasions, and then with the utmost care.

Because she demanded it, he always wore a condom, and when he was done, he removed it carefully so her silk sheets wouldn't get soiled. While he was doing so tonight, he watched Sarah Jo fold down the hem of her nightgown, re-button the buttons, and straighten the covers.

Angus got back in bed, kissed her cheek, and put his arms around her. He loved holding her tiny body against his, loved touching her smooth, fragrant skin. He wanted to cherish her.

To his disappointment, she removed his arm and said, "Go on to sleep now, Angus. I want to finish this chapter."

She reopened her novel, which was no doubt as dry and lifeless as her lovemaking. Angus was ashamed of the disloyal thought as he rolled to his other side, away from the light of her reading lamp.

It never occurred to him to be ashamed of making the thirty-mile trip to his mistress's house, which he planned to do tomorrow night.

Stacey dropped the ceramic mug. It crashed and broke on the tile kitchen floor. "Good Lord," she breathed, clutching together the lapels of her velour robe.

"Stacey, it's me."

The first knock on the back door had startled her so badly the mug had slipped from her hand. The voice speaking her name did nothing to restore her heart to its proper beat. For several moments she stood staring at the door, then rushed across the kitchen and pushed back the stiff, starched curtain.

"Junior?!"

She didn't have sufficient air to say his name aloud. Her lips formed it soundlessly. Fumbling with the lock, she hastily unlatched the door and pulled it open, as though afraid he would vanish before she could do it.

"Hi." His smile was uncomplicated and open, as if he knocked on her back door every night about this time. "Did I hear something break?"

She reached up to touch his face and reassure herself he was really there, then shyly dropped her hand. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

She glanced past him, searching her backyard for a plausible reason for her ex-husband to be standing on the steps.

He laughed. "I've come alone. I just didn't want to ring the bell, in case the judge had already gone to bed."

"He has. He ... uh, come in." Remembering her manners, she moved aside. Junior stepped in. They stood facing each other in the harsh kitchen light, which wasn't very flattering to Stacy, who had already cleaned her face and prepared for bed.

She had fantasized about him coming to her one night, but now that it had happened, she was immobilized and rendered mute by disbelief. Myriad professions of love and devotion rushed through her mind, but she knew he wouldn't welcome hearing them. She resorted to safe subjects.

"Dad went to bed early. His stomach was upset. I made him some warm milk. I decided to make cocoa out of what I had left over.'' Unable to take her eyes off him, she gestured nervously toward the stove, where the milk was about to scorch in the pan.

Junior went to the range and turned off the burner.' 'Cocoa, huh? Your cocoa? There's none better. Got enough for two cups?"

"Of ... of course. You mean you're staying?"

"For a while. If you'll have me."

"Yes," she said with a rash of air. "Yes."

Usually adept in the kitchen, Stacey clumsily prepared two cups of cocoa. She couldn't imagine why he'd chosen tonight to come see her. She didn't care. It was enough that he was here.

When she handed him his cocoa, he smiled disarmingly and asked, "Do you have any spirits in the house?"

He followed her into the living room, where several bottles of liquor were stored in a cabinet, to be taken out only on the most special occasions.

"This isn't your first drink of the night, is it?" she asked as she tilted the spout of the brandy bottle against his mug of chocolate.

"No, it isn't." Lowering his voice, he whispered, "I smoked a joint, too."

Her lips pursed with stern disapproval. "You know how I feel about dope, Junior."

"Marijuana isn't dope."

"It is so."

"Ah, Stacey," he whined, bending down to kiss her ear.

"An ex-wife has no right to scold."

The touch of his lips made her insides flutter. Her censure melted as quickly as ice cream in August. "I didn't mean to scold. I just wondered why, after all this time, you came to me tonight."

"I wanted to." She knew that to Junior's mind, that was reason enough. He sprawled on the sofa and pulled her down beside him. "No, leave the lamp off," he told her when she reached for the switch. "Let's just sit here and drink our cocoa together."

"I heard about the trouble out at the ranch," she said after a quiet moment.

"It's all cleaned up now. Can't tell it ever happened. It could have been a lot worse."

She touched him hesitantly. "You could have been hurt."

He set his empty cup on the coffee table and sighed.

"You're still concerned for my safety?"

"Always."

"No one's ever been as sweet to me as you, Stacey. I've missed you.'' He reached for her hand and pressed it between his.

"You look worn out and troubled."

"lam."

"Over the vandalism?"

"No." He slumped deeper into the cushions of the couch and rested his head on the back of it. "This mess we're in about Celina's murder. It's depressing as hell." He tilted his head until it was lying on her shoulder. "Hmm, you smell good. It's a smell I've missed. So clean." He nuzzled her neck.

"What bothers you so much about this investigation?"

"Nothing specific. It's Alex. She and Mother had a row today. Mother let it slip that Celina got knocked up and had to get married to her soldier. It wasn't a pretty scene."

His arm slid around her waist. Automatically, Stacey lifted her hand to cradle his cheek and pressed his head against her breasts.

"I lied to her," she confessed in a small voice. "A lie of omission."

Junior mumbled with disinterest.

"I never told her I was in the barn the day Celina was killed."

"How come you did that?"

"I didn't want her hounding me with questions. I hate her for causing you trouble again, Junior."

"Alex can't help it. It's not her fault."

It was a familiar refrain, one that set Stacey's teeth on edge. Junior had often said the same thing about Celina. No matter how shabbily she treated him, he had never spoken a harsh, critical word against her.

"I hate this girl of Celina's as much as I did her," Stacey whispered.

The alcohol and strong Mexican grass had dulled Junior's thinking. "Never mind all that now. This feels good, doesn't it?" he murmured as his lips followed his hand inside her robe to her breast. His damp tongue glanced her nipple. ' 'You always liked for me to do that."

"I still do."

"Really? And this? Do you still like this?" he asked, sucking her nipple into his mouth and pushing his hand into the furry, damp warmth between her thighs.

She groaned his name.

"I'll understand if you don't want me to." He pulled away slightly.

"No," she said quickly, guiding his head back down and clenching her thighs closed around his hand. "I do want you to. Please."

"Stacey, Stacey, your tender loving care is just what I need tonight. I could always count on you to make me feel better."

He raised his head from her breast and gave her mouth a long, slow, thorough kiss. "Remember what always made me feel better than anything?'' he asked, his lips resting on hers.

"Yes." She looked up at him solemnly. He smiled as beatifically as an angel. When he looked at her that way, she couldn't deny him anything--not when they were teenagers, not when they were married, not now, not ever.

Stacey Wallace Minton, the judge's proper, straitlaced daughter, immediately dropped to her knees in front of him, hastily opened his fly, and took him into her hungry mouth.

"Miz Gaither, ma'am? Miz Gaither? You in there?"

Alex had been dozing. Roused by the knocking on her door, which had been repaired, she woke up to find that she was sprawled on top of the bedspread, stiff and cold. Her eyes were swollen from crying.

"What do you want?" Her voice amounted to little more than a croak. "Go away."

"Is your phone off the hook, ma'am?"

"Damn." She swung her feet to the side of the bed. Her clothes were wrinkled and bunched around her. She shook them back into place as she walked to the window and pulled aside the drape. The motel's night clerk was standing at the door.

"I took the phone off the hook so I wouldn't be disturbed,''

she told him through the window.

He peered in at her, obviously glad to see that she was still alive. "Sorry to bother you then, ma'am, but there's this guy trying to get in touch with you. He's been arguin' with me, saying you couldn't be talking on your phone for this long.''

"What guy?"

"Happer or Harris or something,'' he mumbled, consulting the slip of paper he'd brought with him. He held it closer to the light over her door. "Can't quite make out my writin'

here . . . spellin' ain't so good."

"Harper? Greg Harper?"

"I reckon that's it, yes, ma'am."

Alex dropped the drape back into place, slid the chain lock free, and opened the door. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"Sure did. Said for me to tell you that you was to be in Austin tomorrow morning for a ten o'clock meeting."

Alex stared at the clerk, stupefied. "You must have gotten the message wrong. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning?"

"That's what he said, and I didn't git it wrong, 'cause I wrote it down right here." He showed her the slip of paper with the message scrawled in pencil. "The man's been callin'

you all afternoon and was p.o.'d 'cause he couldn't git you.

Finally, he said he was goin' out for the evenin' and for me to come to your room and hand-deliver the message, which I done. So, good night."

"Wait!"

"Look, I'm s'posed to be tending the switchboard."

"Did he say what kind of meeting this was, why it was so urgent?"

"Naw, only that you're s'posed to be there."

He stood mere expectantly. With mumbled thanks, she pressed a dollar bill into his hand, and he loped off in the direction of the lobby.

Thoughtfully, Alex closed her door and reread the message.

It made no sense. It wasn't like Greg to be so cryptic. It wasn't like him to call meetings that were virtually impossible to make, either.

When the bafflement began to wear off, the enormity of her dilemma set in. She had to be in Austin by ten o'clock in the morning. It was already dark. If she left now, she would have to drive most of the night, and would arrive in Austin in the wee hours.

If she waited until morning, she would have to leave dreadfully early and then be on a deadline to get there in time.

Either choice was wretched, and she wasn't mentally or emotionally fit to make a decision.

Then, an idea occurred to her. Before she could talk herself out of it, she placed a telephone call.

"Sheriffs department."

"Sheriff Lambert, please."

"He's not here. Can anybody else help?"

"No, thank you. I need to speak with him personally."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but is this Ms. Gaither?"

"Yes, it is."

"Where are you?"

"In my motel room. Why?"

"That's where Reede's headed. He should be there by now." Then he paused and asked, "Say, are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right. I think I hear the sheriff pulling up now. Thank you." Alex hung up and moved to the window in time to see Reede get out of his truck and rush toward her door.

She flung it open. He drew up abruptly, almost losing his balance. "Please don't kick it in again."

"Don't be cute with me," he said, glowering darkly.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing."

"Like hell." He gestured toward the bedside telephone.

Its innocence seemed to provoke him further. He pointed toward it accusingly. "I've been calling for hours, and all I got is a busy signal."

"I took it off the hook. What was so important?"

"I heard what happened this afternoon between you and Sarah Jo."

Her shoulders dropped dejectedly and she released a long breath. She had almost forgotten about that in her perplexity