Undying (11 page)

He knew he should send her away. He knew all the reasons why, but he couldn’t do it. He covered her mouth with his.
He just couldn’t.

She tasted of the beer they shared, but something more. Something deeper. Darker.

Macy slid her hand over Arlan’s amazing shoulder, allowing her fingertips to explore the firmness of his sculpted muscles. She opened her mouth to his. She didn’t know what she was doing in his house. She wasn’t even entirely sure how she had gotten here. Yes, she had asked the night clerk where he lived, but she didn’t remember walking here. She didn’t remember how long she sat on his porch steps before he opened the door. It was as if she’d, again, been inexorably drawn to him.

There was something strange about this town. Something strange about Arlan. He was dangerous; she knew it in every fiber of her being. But she couldn’t stay away from him. Moth to a flame?

Arlan shifted beneath her and she felt his erection between her legs. Desire. It was something she could always count on. The one thing that would carry her away, up and out of the darkness in which she existed. If only for a while.

Just a quickie,
she told herself.
Then back to the hotel.

If she had any sense, that’s where she’d be right now.

But she was tired of lonely hotel rooms. Tired of her empty bed in her empty cottage. She wanted this darkness to be over. One way or another. So what if Arlan was a crazy ax murderer, a monster just like the man she’d been running from all these years? So what if she was murdered in a stranger’s bed, midcoitus? At least it would be over.

Arlan ran his fingers through her hair and her scalp tingled pleasantly. He kissed her mouth, her cheek. He was a gentle, attentive lover. He knew how to make her feel alive, if only for a few fleeting minutes.

She lifted her chin, encouraging him to kiss the sensitive place on her neck just below her earlobe.

He was a great kisser. An amazing neck-nuzzler.

He took the beer bottle from her and finished off the last of it before rolling it across the carpet. Then he enveloped her in his arms again and she moved rhythmically on his lap, grinding hip to hip as his kiss deepened again.

Macy threaded her fingers through his and leaned back so that he could take one of her nipples between his lips. He licked, teasing her until she laughed and then groaned with pleasure. Then he took it between his teeth and tugged ever so gently.

Her groan grew huskier.

She was already wet and soft for him. She could smell the heat of their desire wafting upward between them. She lifted up, pushing her toes into the soft carpet, grasped his phallus in her hand, and slid down over it.

His heavy lidded eyes opened and she smiled up at him sadly. She liked this man. She liked how he talked. How he made love. How gentle a soul he seemed to be.

Even if he was an ax murderer.

She groaned inwardly. What was she doing here, not just in Arlan’s bed but in Clare Point? She didn’t really think Arlan could offer her any comfort, did she? She didn’t think she could help Fia find the killer. She didn’t really think the waking nightmare of her life would be over. Not really. Did she?

Macy closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift out of her head to linger somewhere above where she couldn’t reach them. She wrapped her arms around his neck, savoring the weight of his male hands on her waist. She lifted upward and he moaned. She hesitated and then lowered herself over him and was rewarded with another moan.

She could feel her own pleasure building. First it was just a spark in the pit of her stomach…the smallest sensation of pleasure. But it quickly blossomed. Ripples of pleasure grew from the epicenter outward until every nerve in her body was alive with sensation.

Perspiration beaded above her upper lip. It was warm in the room despite the turn of the ceiling fan whirling overhead.

“Maggie,” he whispered in her ear. “Sweet Maggie.”

Remorse swelled in her chest and she lifted herself up again, coming down hard on his lap to chase away the guilt. She’d lied about her name too many times to too many men. Sometimes she couldn’t remember who she was pretending to be.

But this was Arlan.

She panted. She knew this one. The guilt that plagued her faded.

She remembered him. She had thought about him after he was gone from her bed. The fear that seemed to be her constant companion ebbed when she was with him.

Arlan began to move faster beneath her. Her breath came in short little gasps. She tried to hold back. She tried to make the ripples of pleasure that had become rivers last a little longer, last into forever.

But she couldn’t stop it. She never could. She tipped her head back and cried out as every muscle in her body tensed, released and tensed again. He got up off the bed, lifting her with him, pushing hard into her as his fingers sank into the soft flesh of her buttocks. She clung to him.

“Arlan,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Maggie.”

And then it was over. One more groan and he climaxed. He collapsed backward onto his bed, taking her with him. She rolled off him, onto her back, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed. She looked up, watching the fan blade turn, listening to the low hum of the motor as she caught her breath. Orgasms always made her light-headed, made her feel as if she were floating. Better than any drug on the market.

“I have to go,” she said softly.

“Now, Maggie?” he panted.

She made herself get up. She picked up her shirt in the doorway and pulled it over her head, over the thin sheen of perspiration covering her body. “It’s Macy,” she said as she walked down the hall in the dark. “My name is Macy Smith.”

“H
ey, where are you?” Arlan said into his cell. “Getting coffee at the Starbucks near my office, as if it’s any of your business.”

Fia was her old self, as self-assured and haughty as ever. Her dark moment had passed.

“Ah, so that’s how we’re going to play it this morning, are we?”

“That’s how we’re going to play it. Vente latte light,” she quipped.

“Coming right up, ma’am.” Arlan stepped off the sidewalk to get around a family headed for the beach. The father was pulling a wagon filled with a cooler, chairs, and half a metric ton of plastic beach toys. A boy and girl trotted behind the wagon. Mom, in a too-tight tube top and terry cloth shorts, trailed after them. “So, you okay this morning?” he asked Fia, his appreciative gaze locked on the young mother’s jiggling ass as he passed. “Cops didn’t come for you?”

“Thanks. Have a good day.”

He guessed that was addressed to the barista rather than him.

“No one came for me. I apologize for calling you. It was foolish. End of discussion. More discussion than necessary.”

“What was foolish was what you did, Fee.” He stepped back onto the sidewalk in front of the wagon train.

“You going to chew me out? Because if you are, I haven’t the time right now. I’ve got a stack of case files on my desk and a conference call with the agents on the Buried Alive Killings in two hours. If I want in on this, I have to have my shit together.”

He softened his tone. “I didn’t call you to chew you out. I plan to do that in person next time I see you. I called about Maggie.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, don’t tell me she’s left town already.”

“No. Well, I don’t think so. I’m on my way to the hotel now, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. She’s lying about her name. It’s Macy, not Maggie.”

Fia didn’t answer right away. He heard the blast of a car horn. Traffic sounds. Voices. She was apparently on the street and headed toward her office now.

“You hear what I said? She lied to us.”

“Not that big a deal,” she said into the phone.

“No?”

“No, actually that might be a good thing. She must really somehow be involved with this bastard.”

“You think so?” Bonnie Hill drove by in her new blue Miata and waved. He lifted his hand in greeting.

“Sure. This is getting way too complicated to be some kind of sicko hoax. She’s not getting her rocks off leading me along. She knows something and she wants to tell us.”

“You think she’s in on it?” he asked.

“What do you think?”

Arlan hesitated. He wanted to say that of course she wasn’t involved. Not sweet Maggie.
Macy,
he mentally corrected himself.

But she
had
lied to him. And she
was
practically a stalker.

“I’m at the hotel. If I can find her, I’ll tell her she needs to call you. I’ll see what her plans are as far as staying in town. If she intends on being here a few days, I’ll get her moved over to the B and B.”

“Great. Sounds like a plan. Hey, how did you know she lied about her name?”

“Mrs. Cahall, good morning. How are you?” Arlan spoke loudly.

“Arlan?” Fia said on the other end of the line. “How did you—”

“Gotta go. Talk to you later.” Arlan slid his phone into one of the pockets of his cargo shorts. “I said,
how are you
this morning?” he repeated even louder.

“Alive, I am. That’s always a good thing.” The elderly woman rubbed a bony elbow. “But my tennis elbow’s acting up. Must be gonna rain.” She was wearing a short, white, pleated skirt, sneakers, and a sleeveless blue polo with a tennis racket embroidered over one saggy breast. To Arlan’s knowledge, she had never played tennis a day in the last seventy-some years, but she did read
The Great Gatsby
annually. Gin rummy was her game. And gin, oddly enough, was her drink. She could beat the pants off anyone Arlan knew playing gin rummy or drinking gin and tonics.

“I was wondering if you could tell me the number of Maggie Smith’s room.”

“Who’s coming soon?”

“No. No,
room,
” he said patiently. “One of your guests. I need to know where Maggie Smith is staying.”

“You know we don’t give out information like that.” Mrs. Cahall sipped coffee from a cup, leaving a pink lip imprint on the rim. “You going to Rob Hill’s wake tomorrow night? Mary Kay is making blueberry cobbler for after.” She smacked her lips together. “I love a blueberry cobbler, don’t you?”

“Mrs. Cahall, I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important. Actually, it was Fia who asked that I contact Miss Smith on her behalf. I think it’s FBI business.” He looked across the Formica counter at her meaningfully.

“Why didn’t you speak up, then, son?” She practically shouted at him. “Room twenty-two.”

He turned away. “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Be sure Mary Kay saves me some of that cobbler.”

“You can go up if you like. She’s in twenty-two, but she’s not there,” the old lady called after him.

“She checked out?” He turned back.

“Too early for stout.” She frowned as she rubbed her elbow, looking as if he had lost his mind. “Pub’s not open yet. She walked over to the diner for some breakfast. I told her Mary Ann had a mean buttermilk pancake. I like the strawberry syrup myself.”

“She say how long she was staying?”

The woman cast him an odd look. “No, she wasn’t swaying.” She drew herself up indignantly. “Not that drinking is a crime.”

“How long’s she
staying
?” He had changed directions and was now headed for the opposite lobby door.

“A few days. She writes for magazines, you know.
House and Garden. Southern Living
. She couldn’t keep a job like that if she was a drinker. She makes a very good living. She’s going to feature some of the cottages here in Clare Point,” she said proudly.

“Is she now?” Arlan muttered under his breath. He waved as he went out the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Cahall.”

“You let that girl have a beer if she wants one,” the old woman shouted after him.

At the diner, Arlan walked past the
PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED
sign. He found Macy all the way in the back, in the corner booth, facing the doorway. Arlan always picked the same table in public places. It was the best way to keep an eye on who was coming and going. The best way to stay alive.

He slid in beside her on the Naugahyde bench.

“You thinking pancakes or waffles?” she said, not even looking up, as if she had been expecting him to join her at any minute. “Mrs. Cahall recommends the pancakes, but I’m feeling like a waffle this morning.”

Arlan leaned back as Mary Ann, head waitress and owner of the diner, held a stainless steel coffee pot over his cup, waiting for the go-ahead. Vampires weren’t big on stimulants, but he was feeling the need this morning. He nodded.

“Back to get your order shortly, cutie pie,” she said.

“Why did you lie to me about your name?” Arlan asked the minute Mary Ann was out of earshot.

“Why do you think? You always tell your one-night stands your real name?” She set down her menu. “I doubt it.”

He met her gaze. Her green eyes were the most incredible shade, somewhere between moss and falling autumn leaves at that point when they were no longer green, but not yet brown. Even when he closed his eyes, he saw hers. “That’s not a very good answer. You lied to Fia. Why are you lying to FBI agents, Macy? If that’s even your name.”

“It’s what my parents called me,” she said, suddenly going from cynical to sad in a single heartbeat.

And here it was again, the guilt. Thick, heavy. Encumbering. He’d been unkind and there was no reason for unkindness. The world generated too much of that on its own for him to add to it.

“You lied to protect yourself? From what?”

She frowned. She was drinking orange juice. Her coffee cup was turned upside down on the table. Apparently his Macy didn’t need any additional stimulants, either.

“Why do you think? Don’t you get it? He buries them up to their necks, waits for them to wake up and then he suffocates them,” she whispered harshly under her breath. “He gets off by watching the fear in their eyes. Their fear not just for themselves, but for each other when they realize what’s happening. When they realize they can’t do a damned thing about it.”

“You seem to understand a lot about the way the man ticks.”

She frowned, not biting on his insinuation. “Pretty simple psychoanalysis, don’t you think?”

He changed his tactics, knowing the bad guy wasn’t going to work in the good guy/bad guy game. “Has he threatened to do the same to you, Macy? Because if he has, the FBI can protect you.”

“Yeah, right.” She laughed, but her tone was without humor.

“Mrs. Cahall said you were staying a few days. That you were doing research for your job. Fia’s mom has a B and B here in town. We think you should move over there where we know you’ll be safe.”

“You mean where you can keep an eye on me.”

“I’m just passing on a message from Fia.” He hesitated. “You can talk to me. You can trust me, Macy.”

She sipped her orange juice, staring straight ahead at the ball cap on the man’s head in the next booth. “It’s not about trust. It’s about wanting to speak up, finally.” She exhaled. “I tell you anything and you’re at risk, too.”

“What about Fia? You think giving her information won’t put her at risk?”

“I thought about that, but she’s a cop. She does this sort of thing all the time. She caught those kids who were beheading people, didn’t she?” A hint of a smile turned the corner of her sensual lips. “She’s kind of a superhero, in my book.”

Superhero?
Arlan wondered what Macy would think of Fia if she knew what Fia really was, if she knew of Fia’s constant hunger for human blood. Then he couldn’t help but wonder what Macy would think of him if she knew what he did for a living when he wasn’t installing gutters. He wondered what she would think if she saw the centuries of human blood on his hands.

“No,” Macy said firmly. “I want to talk to Fia. I just want to sleep with you.”

He ignored the sex part and tried to concentrate on what Fia needed from him. “So call her.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Call her now.”

“Breakfast, now. Call later.” She looked up at Mary Ann, who had reappeared at the tableside in the magical, perfectly timed way only seasoned waitresses could. “We’ll have the Belgian waffles.”

“At least tell me you’ll think about moving over to the B and B,” Arlan said. They were standing on the sidewalk outside the diner. It was a beautiful, sunny day and Macy was sure the temperature had already hit eighty degrees.

“I have thought about it. I like the Lighthouse Inn. I like Mrs. Cahall. I like her tennis skirt and her bony knees. I like her cheesy bedspreads and the ceramic seagulls on the wall.”

He frowned, adjusting his wraparound surfer sunglasses. “Look, I have to get to work.”

She wondered what he did, but she didn’t ask. She rarely asked questions. It made it easier not to answer any. Subsequently, she had become good at deduction. Good at reading people.

He worked for himself the way he came and went freely on a weekday morning. Something with his hands, she guessed. An artist? Did he make ceramic flowerpots and vases to sell to tourists in this obviously touristy town? Or did he do something more manly like sculpt bronze statues? He’d look hot in a leather apron and goggles in more ways than one. She imagined sweat trickling down his pecs, down the flat of his belly, and she smiled.

“What?” he asked, suspicion tingeing his tone.

“Nothing. Thanks for breakfast,” she said, looking up at him. “And last night,” she offered more softly. “I didn’t mean to creep you out. I just didn’t…” Her gaze searched his but she couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

Silence stretched a moment or two longer than was comfortable.

“Okay, well…” He started to back away from her, sliding a hand into his pocket.

Obviously he didn’t quite know what to make of the fact that she made no attempt to avoid the subject of their physical intimacy. Most men were that way. They were all about getting in your panties so long as you didn’t mention it later.

“I’m going to get to work and you’re good with Fia, right?” he asked, giving her a thumbs-up.

“I’ll call her.”

“You need anything else? I mean, what are you going to do the rest of the day?”

She slid her sunglasses on. “Not everything is about you, Arlan Kahill. I really am researching a piece. Victorian beach cottages.” She smiled at him, thinking that there was something about this man that genuinely made her smile. It wasn’t forced or fake as it was so often. “See you around.”

Leaving Arlan standing on the sidewalk in front of the diner, Macy walked east, toward the ocean. In the hotel lobby, she’d picked up one of those tourist maps with colorful parking signs and ice cream cones printed on it, but she preferred to get a feel for a new town on her own. She’d been through Delaware numerous times, staying in Rehoboth Beach and in the New Castle area, but she’d never been to Clare Point. Mrs. Cahall had suggested that she go east and then north. That’s where the prettiest cottages were, the old woman had insisted.