Darkling I Listen (20 page)

A sudden rush of heat through her body turned the air uncomfortably hot, and Alyson sank back against the bar, her gaze fixed on the blur of bodies on the dance floor. There was no denying the hurt she heard in Carlyle's voice, not to mention the bitterness. Disgust over the actress's betrayal made the beer in her system turn sour. But more disturbing and disgusting was the realization that she was just as guilty as that actress who took advantage of Carlyle's name and reputation, not to mention his trust, to gain publicity.

Catching her arm, he backed toward the dance floor, pulling her with him, though she was reluctant to follow. Her legs didn't want to work. Her eyes stung with tears she tried to blink back. Throughout her life she had desperately fought to like herself, yet here she stood with the first strains of Trisha Yearwood's "Without You" wrapping around her, looking up into the eyes of a man she had every intention of destroying for her own gain. She had to get away from Ticky Creek before she hurt him again. Before she hurt herself. Loving a man like Carlyle would be emotional suicide.

Brandon
slid one arm around the small of her back, pulled her close against his body that was hard and hot, and already moving to the slow, sensual rhythm of the love song that felt as erotic as his hips swaying against hers. With one hand curling around hers, he rested his cheek against hers and sang softly in her ear.

Her eyes drifted closed as he rocked her, as his warm breath fell softly against her ear, as the touch of his hand on hers felt like slow, liquid fire oozing down her arm and wrapping around her heart.

He lowered his mouth to hers, teased her lips apart with a tentative nudge of his tongue.

The breath left her in a rush; she surrendered, welcoming the invasion of his tongue that slid like warm silk against her own. She became mindless of the people watching them as the floor dizzily tipped and swayed as gently as his body against hers. Whatever resistance might have remained, dissolved in a rush of desire that made her melt into his arms, lift her arms around his neck, and shamelessly draw him more deeply into the kiss. The music faded. The dancing stopped. His arms closed around her, almost crushing, pinning her against his aroused body in so blatant a manner that she would have, at any other time and with any other man, felt shocked and outraged. But not now. Such electric desire vibrated inside her that control felt as impossible to contain as a windstorm.

How long they stood there, embracing and kissing, she couldn't guess. Didn't care. Nor, apparently, did
he
. But suddenly, at the same moment, they noticed that the music had stopped and the normal ear-shattering din of conversation was silent. With extreme effort, Carlyle lifted his head, reluctant to take his eyes from hers. They each blinked drowsily, shook free of the spell, and looked around them. They were alone on the dance floor. Spectators stood beyond the lights, shadowed faces smiling as they enjoyed the show.

As they burst into applause,
Brandon
stepped away, leaving Alyson to stand alone under the overhead spotlight, her face burning with embarrassment that mounted as Carlyle, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary, applauded as well. If she hadn't been so shaken by what had passed between them, she might have formed some saucy retort, but her entire body, including her brain, had become as diffused as fog. Instead, she took a bow, turned on her heel, and returned to the bar, where a smiling
Clyde
had replaced her empty beer bottle with a fresh one.

As the jukebox blasted again and the crowd surged back onto the dance floor, Carlyle eased up beside her. If she believed the current of desire that had rocketed through her on the dance floor had subsided, she was wrong. One brush of his body against hers cut through her like a raw bolt of electricity. Sweeping the bits of melting ice from the bottle, she pressed them to her forehead and did her best to stabilize her thinking before she embarrassed herself again.

"And here I thought you were shy," he said with amusement. "You've got a lot of nerve calling me an exhibitionist."

She refused to look at him, just took a deep swig of her beer and closed her eyes as it hit her stomach. "Maybe we should make our own video. Might help me pay for that room at the Taj Mahal where I'm staying. Did I happen to mention that I'm burning up my life savings while waiting for you to confide the dark secrets of your life?"

"I'd be happy to move in with you. Share the cost. I might even, buy you Twinkies for breakfast." He took the bottle from her and set it aside, caught her chin gently with his fingers and tipped her face toward his, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. "I'd like to spend the night with you, Aly."

She smiled nervously. "You cut right to the chase, don't you, Carlyle?"

"Flirtation has never been my strong point."

"Neither is abstinence, from what I hear."

"Hey, I've been 'abstinent' for four years."

"You mean from the booze, of course, because there's no way this side of heaven that you're going to make me believe you've gone four years without…" Her words trailed off as she searched his eyes, which were unnervingly intense. Realization drove sharp emotion into her chest, and she forced herself to step away, withdrawing from his touch. "I don't believe you," she declared.

"Corcoran didn't provide us women—"

"You've been out eight months." She moved farther away, dragging her bottle with her. "I'm supposed to believe that until now you've had no desire—" She shook her head and drank. "Don't do this to me, Carlyle. Don't take advantage of my stupid weakness to martyr myself for idiotic causes."

Frowning, he leaned against the bar and crossed his arms over his chest. "I think I'm offended. I've been called a lot of things, but never an 'idiotic cause.'"

"Why me?" she demanded, pressing the cold bottle to her hot cheek. "Why not one of them?" She swept her hand toward the dance floor. "They'd take numbers and line up for a chance at you."

"Exactly."

Lifting one eyebrow, she cut him an askance look. "What happens if I give in? Then I'm no better than they are, am I? I'd be nothing more than another notch on your bell." She turned away from his gaze. Forcing
herself
to smile, she said, "I suspect you want somebody you can pat on the head when it's all over, and wave goodbye and good riddance when I drive out of town. I doubt you want many more like Dillman's sister hanging around to remind you of your past indiscretions."

"I think you need to stop analyzing my motives, Alyson, and just accept the fact that I'm attracted as hell to you and I want to spend the next"—he checked his watch—"eight hours making love to you. I'd be happy to make it longer, but Henry and I have a date to go fishing at five-thirty in the morning."

Her mouth dropped open and her eyebrows shot up. Shaking her head and laughing, Alyson propped one elbow on the bar and tapped Carlyle on the chest with the lip of her beer bottle. "I can see that you're a real sweet talker. And I'm flattered as hell that you want to sandwich me in between a bit of boot scooting and fishing with your uncle, but I like to think that when I cozy up to a man, he's got something on his mind besides dipping his hook in a catfish hole."

His lips curved and his eyes narrowed. He reached for her, slid one hand around the back of her neck and drew her close, lowered his head and whispered in her ear, "Honey, when I'm between your legs, you'll have no doubts where my mind is, and my hands, and my mouth. In fact, for the next few days you won't walk without a reminder of exactly where my attentions have been focused." To punctuate his meaning, he dipped his tongue in her ear. A sudden surge of longing rose like a tide inside her, flushing her skin with such heat that the room and everything in it turned red. "Please," he implored softly, deeply, and with a desperation that vibrated straight to her heart. "I promise you won't hate yourself in the morning."

The ability to reason vanished in a haze of aching need that she had tried desperately to ignore
the hast
days. As if her bones had turned to rubber, she felt herself sink against him, felt his arms slide around her as she nestled her face in the curve of his throat. Her eyes drifted closed as her every nerve absorbed the touch and smell of him, as his hands rubbed her back and slid down to gently cup her buttocks and tilt her body into his, which was shockingly aroused.

He brushed her cheek with a kiss. Held her close. Breathed in her ear, and repeated, "Please."

She needed air. And space.

Pulling away, planting one hand on his chest, she did her best to collect her scattered senses, knowing even as she looked up into his waiting, wanting eyes that her heart and body had surrendered, regardless of what her mind told her. "I need a few minutes," she said, aware her voice sounded revealingly husky. Plunking her bottle onto the bar, she grabbed up her purse and, without looking at Carlyle, headed for the ladies' room down a long, dim corridor lined with framed yellowing newspaper photos depicting the winners of dance and fishing contests.

Several laughing, chattering women crowded before the line of minors on the bathroom wall. They fell silent as she plowed into the room,
then
stopped short as she was confronted by the intensity of their interest. Then they shuffled out of the room, and the door bumped closed behind them. Silence rang in her ears while the strong scent of perfume lingered in the air so thickly her eyes burned.

Alyson entered the farthest stall, locked it, and dropped onto the toilet seat. Elbows on her knees, she buried her face in her hands and did her best to will the Budweiser out of her system so she could know for certain that the decision she was about to make had nothing to do with inebriation and everything to do with pure, unmitigated lust. No, not lust. At least not for her. God help her, there was more going on here, and she was just too damn proud and frightened to admit it.

A phone rang. A moment passed before she realized the whirring was coming from her purse.

Alan's voice crackled over the line. "Am I catching you at a bad time, A.J.
?"

Laughing to herself and rolling her eyes, Alyson leaned back against the exposed plumbing pipes and crossed her legs. Scrawled in Magic Marker across the door in front of her was
FUCK A DUCK IN A DODGE PICKUP TRUCK
.
"Just catching up on my reading," she replied. "What's up?"

"Just got back from a symposium on schizophrenics with borderline and schizotypal personality disorders."

"Bet that kept you on the edge of your chair."

"No, but the conversation I shared with one Ronald Peterson did. Name
ring
a bell?"

"No."

"He was the chief investigator for the D.A.'s office. He worked on the Carlyle case."

Alyson sat up straight, and waited.

"Peterson left the D.A.'s office two years ago. He's started his own security business. Specializes in troubleshooting for celebrities, politicians, and high-powered executives. His expertise is stalking the stalker. Say a celebrity or politician gets harassed, Ron tracks the stalker down, checks them out to determine just what kind of threat they pose. His investigators try to nip the problem in the bud before it gets out of hand. A.J., it seems there was a great deal going on behind the scenes of the Carlyle-Marcella case that we never heard about. Are you sitting down?"

Swallowing, she closed her eyes. The beer climbed up her throat, rancid as bile. "I don't think I want to hear this, Alan."

"Oh, yes, you do. The couple who found Carlyle by the road was ready to testify that as they approached, they saw a car leaving the scene. They couldn't give a description. It was after
midnight
, black as pitch, and raining. Only one taillight was working. They found Carlyle on the shoulder of the road, lying on his back, legs together and arms crossed over his chest—as if he were laid out in a coffin."

"Someone in the car that drove away must have—"

"Might explain how Carlyle got out of that car before it went through the guardrail. Somebody removed him from the car."

"Why would someone go to the trouble to remove him from the car, then simply drive away and leave him? It doesn't make sense. How and why did that car go through the guardrail if the momentum of the crash didn't do it?"

Alan remained silent, then, "Perhaps our mystery car shoved the Ferrari and its occupant over the ledge."

A sudden beep warned that the battery was going. Frowning, Alyson clutched the phone harder against her ear. "Alan, is that your hypothesis or Peterson's?"

"Peterson's. But he couldn't prove it to the D.A. any more than the D.A. could prove that Carlyle did a number on Marcella and killed her to shut her up."

"Were these possibilities ever discussed with
Brandon
?"

"Never. No point. Carlyle rolled over by pleading guilty to manslaughter—which, I learned, went against his attorney's advice. Seems Carlyle didn't want to put his family through the ordeal of a trial."

"But if someone else sent the Ferrari through the guardrail
…
that means Carlyle spent three years in prison for something he didn't do. And if he didn't do it
…
who did? And why?"