Murder on Edisto (The Edisto Island Mysteries) (43 page)

She made her way to his side, under the auspices of his possessive embrace. For that, she earned the first kiss of the night.The gentlemen chuckled. “Detective,” exclaimed one of the men. “I’m Edisto PD. Dickens spoke of you.”

She greeted him with a nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“Boy, Boston has some sweet detectives,” said the other. “I work at the fire department, by the way.”

She nodded. Mason blatantly had the beach wrapped around his finger. Even if she pulled these guys aside to help her, she’d have to undo her reputation to diminish Mason’s. A move difficult to accomplish with the players laced with booze and beholden for free, expensive food.

Hell, how was this going to work?

With people arriving, they moved inside. Mason introduced Callie to everyone as his love of the moment. She met town councilwomen, Wyndham executives, several attorneys, and a slew of local businesspeople.

“When did you make your move on this devil, Callie?” asked a flamboyant real estate agent whose name Callie had seen on three dozen signs along the beach.

“I wooed
her
, actually.” Mason ran a finger along the nape of Callie’s neck. She tried to smile at him as expected. But as she turned her head up, Mason planted his mouth on hers. She resisted. He backed away and whispered, “With tongue, Callie.”

His hand behind her head, he kissed her again, his tongue thrusting deep, owning her. She couldn’t swallow. Her stomach lurched in disgust, but she needed to hold strong. Then with a swift wrap around her waist, he bellied up against her. Horrified, she froze, but his fingertips embedded suddenly in her derriere, reminding her to reciprocate. She envisioned where this evening would end and almost vomited.

“Damn, Mason,” yelled a rotund resident from across the room. “That made me horny all the way over here!”

The room clapped, and a few catcalls bounced off the twenty-foot walls.

Callie drew back and feigned a coy reaction. Women, however, raised brows and frowned around the room.

This escapade was not about sex, but Mason still enjoyed the charade. Who the hell was he, or who did he represent? If she were still on the job, she’d mentally rifle her Rolodex of arrests hunting for a disgruntled perp. But this was tiny Edisto. And she hadn’t been a cop for over two years.

Psychopath, mob, mafia, any of a dozen ethnic and terrorist groups flashed in her mind. Any of those would have made more sense, if she’d been in Boston.

Or . . . could he be a political enemy of Lawton?

What was his weakness? He was a murderer. Slick. He couldn’t afford not to kill her.

No doubt about it . . . she’d just have to kill him first.

Her eyes darted back to the water that served as backdrop to the house. Night had fallen, and surprisingly, her concern for Jeb had overwhelmed her fear of dusk.

No lights shined on the horizon. But the boat holding Jeb hostage could float dark, or be so far out, north or south along the coast, that he was out of view. Or there wasn’t a boat at all. She really needed to search the house.

“Bathroom break, Mason.”

He shoved another drink at her. The third. Each more potent than the one before. “Drink this before you go.”

She chugged it down and returned the glass, like a mental patient required to take her meds.

“Now I can spare you a minute,” he replied, then turned to a new guest carrying a plate loaded with prosciutto-wrapped figs, endive boats of crabmeat, and sea bass wraps. As the food passed by her, she held her breath against the smells that suddenly disagreed with her.

The bathroom in the hallway was occupied. She ran down the hall to another door. Locked. Then further, until she found herself in the master suite. After securing the master bath door behind her, she stooped over the commode, rammed fingers down her throat, and vomited every drop of gin she could muster.

She had to keep sober, or the night was for naught.

After washing her mouth, she turned and rested her forehead against the cool marble wall. Nausea subsided, she snatched open drawers and searched the cabinets for anything to use against the man. With the place being a rental and a cleaning service at Mason’s disposal, the cabinets were bare. She pulled out the last. Shaving supplies. She stole the manicure scissors and buried them into the backside of her woven belt. One weapon in her purse, another on her. Too much time was passing. She could feel herself becoming desperate.

She exited into the bedroom, a colorful composite of harsh reds and golds and bold lines of black, with an ornate folk art tapestry of horses on the high wall at the head of the bed. Very masculine with an exotic flavor. Gold braid and tassels.

Hearing nobody coming, she turned back the deep, plush red comforter and searched under the mattress then the pillows for a weapon. He’d stolen two of her guns and probably hoarded a couple of his own. Anyone armed kept a gun near the bed. But she found nothing.

“Callie?”

Mason’s voice came from down the hall at the other bathroom door. He probably thought she’d locked herself in.

She smoothed the rumpled comforter. Then she peered in his mirror to put the proper expression on her face.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked in the doorway.

She rubbed her lips together and closed her lipstick tube. “Someone else was in the bathroom. I came back here to use yours.”

He strode over, lifted her purse, and extracted the knife as if sure of its existence. “Guess the kitchen’s off limits for you.” Passing the purse to her, he palmed the knife and escorted her back to the party. Leaning over, he whispered, “You’re too cool, my dear. Who puts on lipstick while wondering if her son is alive? I assume you found no weapons?”

With that jolt of reality, she slowed. He grinned, excellent at reading her. Was she too aloof? Not scared enough? How the hell was she supposed to act?

They reentered the throng in the living room, winding amongst Edisto’s finest who’d taken over this home. Two waiters could barely keep up with the refills. Mason passed the knife to one of them and took Callie to the porch where at least twenty people draped in the dark across banisters, railings, and chairs, the food and drink having lightened everyone’s spirits. Her nerves hummed just under the skin. She fought the urge to scratch the scar on her arm.

“Drink,” Mason said, with another full glass.

She took a sip, then under his piercing stare, drank a third of the contents. His face softened, then as he carried on a conversation about politics, she snagged three hors d’oeuvres from a waiter who glided by. She wolfed them down before Mason could notice, to soak up the booze.

Anything for Jeb.

TWO IN THE MORNING. With most of the guests gone, Mason rounded up the inebriated stragglers and had one of his hired assistants take them home. As he aided one guest down the stairs along with a dramatic dose of thanks for attending the event, Sophie scooted over to Callie in the foyer. “Mike called. Asked why you weren’t answering your phone. I told him I didn’t know. Was that okay?”

Seabrook was double-checking his messsage, wanting to make a connection even if she had returned to Middleton. But Callie still couldn’t afford for him to interfere. Not yet.

“That was fine, Sophie. There’s no need for him to come here and make a scene. I’m with Mason. What about that can’t Mike understand?”

“Oh, honey, I get it. Wish I had your problem, though.” She rolled her eyes, then cupped Callie’s chin. “I knew your life would turn around. I’m so happy for you.”

Goddammit, get this woman out of here!

Mason returned, a slight hesitation in his step when he saw the two women engrossed in chat. “Now, Sophie, are you in the proper shape to drive home?”

“Oh, Mason. I nursed one drink all night. My body is my temple, as I tell my yoga students. Your party was divine, by the way.”

His charm shined from behind his flawless smile. “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll see to Callie’s return, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind at all.” She fumbled through her clutch and retrieved keys. “Oh, I snitched a few of the canapés.” She held up a napkin-wrapped snack. “Well, you kids have fun. Call me tomorrow, Callie.” Then she twittered in song the whole way out.

The door shut as if sealing a tomb.

Mason strolled past her to the vast sweep of windows facing the water.

Callie followed, holding her posture strong, her voice steady, while her heartbeat fought to tear out of her chest at what had to be a pivotal moment. “I’ve performed at your party and become the latest rumor.”

“Well played, too,” he said, staring out to sea.

“Where’s Jeb?”

“In due time,” he said, his back to her. “The party isn’t quite over.”

“Of course it’s not,” she said, shoulders slumped.

He turned and approached her, at the same time waving for her to meet him halfway, still able to show warmth in his eyes. Any normal woman would melt under that gaze. His long tanned body, alluring with those runner’s thighs, flat abs, and dark hair to get lost in. Add the money, and what woman wouldn’t see packaged perfection.

But perfection never proved perfect.

“I need proof of life,” she said. “If he’s dead, then I might as well be, too.”

He brushed her cheek, letting his touch fall along her neck, his thumb moving her scarf to caress her collarbone. “Callie, such drama.”

She stepped back against the wall. A row of light switches dug into her back, and a few toggled up under her painful reaction to push off them. A set of sconces came on to her left. The porch lit up.

Mason smiled as if empathetic. Then he reached around her and shut off the porch lights. “Can’t have the police knocking on my door telling me to keep it dark for those damn turtles, now, can we?” He dimmed the living room lights to a dramatic low, the cloudless night making it seem darker still.

Oh, damn.

His hand stayed behind her, his thumb rubbing up and down her waist.

Would it matter if she let him have her? If it saved Jeb . . . even if Jeb was dead already and she was left alone, it was just a physical act. The man could not possess her mind. In the grand scheme of life, what damn difference did it make?

Unless he was perverted, kinky, sick. Still, for Jeb . . .

His hand regained its position on her collarbone and rubbed. A finger crawled under her necklaces. Like a snake, the scarf seemed to glide from around her on its own, and soon his other hand rested on the opposite side of her neck, operating in tandem.

In a swoop, he shoved the thin straps of her dress bodice off her shoulders. Her arms crossed to cover her bared breasts, her fingers searching for edges of the material to help her recover as icy fear conflicted with her bravado.

Mason let her replace the straps.

This was a game. To her it could be leverage. Assuming she could keep the dreaded sense of foreboding from overwhelming her focus.

“Proof of life, Mason,” she reminded him. Even in the immense living room with its floor to ceiling glass and echo, claustrophobia smothered her as he leered only two feet away.

He hissed in a tone he’d never used with her before. “If he’s alive, then show me you wish him to remain so.”

Her ear picked up on the wording. She didn’t discern why, but like a current coming into the line, she felt something familiar spark. “This is a vendetta, not sex. What do you think I did? What did I do?”

“Soon enough. Over our post-coital cigarette, hmm?” His gaze trailed over her, lingering on places. “I could forcefully take you.”

“You’d come away scarred.”

He brushed her arm. “Like you?”

“Worse.”

Mason scoffed. His patience intact.

“I must see my son. He’s everything to me,” she said. “Maybe you don’t fully comprehend the meaning of family.”

Darkness flew across his face, wild, a stark contrast to the man’s normal demeanor.

Shit, what had she said?

He looked away, then snapped back to stare at her, as if correcting himself. She could see him wrestling with what to say next. Heaven help her, she needed to know what button she’d pushed, because therein lay his weakness . . . and her strength.

Chapter 33

MASON PAUSED off-balance in the wake of her remark. He hesitated, clenching his jaw, then released it as if catching himself.

Fueled by this challenge of discovery, where each word and glance could drop a hint, Callie sought to maintain the conversation and bait him. At least until she could put the pieces together.

“So, you
do
know something about family,” she said. “Does that upset you for some reason?”

This ladies’ man was a cliché she’d identified the moment she’d met him. His manners enticed people, but he ran shallow quickly. She didn’t want to think about how many women had fallen for his suave comportment in hopes of enjoying that red master suite in reward. The lush gold carpet. The opulent red bed. The ornate mixture of colors in the folk art tapestry: the black horses with yellow saddles and red reins. Not standard rental decor. Those were his things he’d added to reinforce his macho, virile environment.

Oh my gosh
.

She pushed down a reaction. She expected the danger of rape or the chance of murder, but suddenly she almost audibly heard a clue fall into place.

A sneer lifted the ends of his lips, as if energized by her change, and he wrapped his arms around her. “Oh, Callie, nothing upsets me. You’re all I need right now.” He shifted and squeezed her tighter, as if making a point. “I assure you I’m quite good. New experiences for you, maybe. Some rather unique, but exhilarating. I promise.” He reached down and stroked her damaged forearm. “No scars at all.”

A lightning jolt of terror shot from head to toe. In Boston she’d seen the results of fetishes and the stomach-churning methods of sadomasochism. Strangulation taken too far by one particular member of the Russian family.

“Afterwards, I may let you walk away. Maybe even with your son,” he said, seating her on the sofa.