Dead Man's Rules (32 page)

“I wish my Spanish was better,” he admitted.

Taking hold of his hand she pulled the page closer to her. “The loose translation goes something like: ‘My life doesn’t exist except for you, moments stolen in the night, wanting something that isn’t right.’ And this one says, ‘life isn’t worth living without you, but loving you is like reaching for the sun, brightness I can’t hold for long.’ Very sweet, don’t you think?”

Cere dropped his hand, and picked up another page. Rafe attempted to ignore the light that came into her eyes as she read the page in silence. Marco’s words seemed to thrill her.

“This is beautiful.” She began reading in hushed voice. “‘Life has no meaning without love. My love has no meaning without you, my sole reason for living.’ He was a poet in a lot of ways.”

Her eyes met his, and the night stood still. Marco’s tender, soulful words hung between them—lacy, fragile lines. Cere jerked her eyes away. She too seemed to feel the spark.

“There are musical notes here,” she added in a high voice that sounded unnatural. “Like he tried to put them to music.”

Rafe couldn’t stop himself. He leaned down, catching her chin with his hand. Her pink tongue shot out, licking her lips, as his body grew heated and hard. Her eyes closed, and a quickened breath exhaled through parted lips. He leaned toward her. He had to kiss her or explode. Her lips were warm under his. They tasted sweet, like hot chocolate. Images returned of her glistening body in a narrow bikini, and he pulled her into his arms, enjoying the softness of her skin.

His lips gently coaxed hers open until he fully claimed her mouth as her arms wrapped around his neck. His tongue explored her lips then slid inside to touch the hot, moist inner areas. His heart pounded, and hot desire raced through him. He had not wanted anyone this badly in years. No, he wasn’t certain he had ever wanted someone so badly.

Her breast filled his hand, and she moaned. Rafe wanted to possess her but he stopped. He’d never been the type to take sex lightly. This wasn’t going anywhere, and it was wrong to act as though it might.

With a groan he pulled his hand from her breast and took hold of her shoulders, breaking the kiss. “Cere, wait.”

Her eyes were liquid with desire as she opened them. He drew back, dropping his hands from her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Her eyes examined his as though searching for something. She seemed to find the answer and turned away, picking up the pages. “Marco’s love songs were too much for you to handle.” Her tone was light, but the pages rustled. Her hands were shaking.

What would she do if he kissed her again? Took her to bed like his body wanted? Willie had a sofa in the backroom for late nights. No, he couldn’t. Instead he drew back and adopted a sarcastic attitude.

“Yeah, he was quite a guy. Hell, look at the time. I need to pick up Ginny. Want a ride?”

“I can walk home.” She squeezed his arm and reached for her bag.

Rafe hesitated. “That may not be a good idea. Remember those…”

A finger touched his lips, cutting off his protest as an impish smile crossed her face. “No one’s going to hurt me. I have a can of mace in my purse. I dare Diaz to show his face again.”

He jerked his head back as though her touch scorched him. He needed to let her go before his throbbing body took control of his brain.

Cere was stricken by how alone she felt as she walked down the gloomy main street. All the stores windows were dark and even the few neon signs in town had been turned off. Her footsteps clicked hollowly on the sidewalk. Despite her bravado with Rafe, she had to remind herself that the town was safe, even at two in the morning. Behind her, a car started. As it glided around the corner she recognized it as Rafe’s.

She pressed her lips together, thinking about their kiss. What would it be like to spend the night with him? His body had been hard against her, and she could feel the desire surging through him. But she had been excited too, aroused by his hand on her breasts and by the sensual touch of his fingers on her skin. She had nearly lost control and begun whimpering with want.

Too bad he had stopped—she certainly wouldn’t have. She’d been half teasing when she said she got what she wanted. The only problem was her relationships never worked out. Like Marco?

The words of his love songs filtered through her brain. They were sweet songs of teenage angst. Who was the girl behind them? Surely she could solve that riddle. Stella had said everyone knew each other and their business. Had it always been that way?

The sidewalk gave way to gravel. Damn, she’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t paid attention to where she was going. She’d missed the turn home. A quick turn and then another pointed her back in the right direction. The street lamps were spaced farther apart in this outer part of town and there were no sidewalks, but the darkness didn’t bother her.

The sound of a car came from behind her, and she smiled, prepared to tease Rafe for his concern. The car picked up speed as it approached and she looked back over her shoulder. The headlights were blinding. That wasn’t Rafe.

Her heart pounded as she quickstepped around a corner. The car followed. Damn, what was the driver doing? If it was someone who knew her, wouldn’t the person call out the window? But if someone meant to scare her, she wasn’t going to let them intimidate her. She fumbled in her purse for the mace, drew out the can and stopped walking. She held the can out toward the lights. At least the car wasn’t a black SUV. She could make out a light colored van. Hadn’t she seen it, or one like it, parked outside the Matador? Who did it belong to?

She walked toward it, wielding her can, and it shifted into reverse, wheels screeching. Its headlights pointed at her, and the van moved again—this time straight at her. It picked up speed, forcing her to frantically seek refuge. She managed to duck behind a thick tree trunk as the van barreled by.

It roared down the street as her heart thumped loudly. What was the driver trying to do? Frighten her? Hurt her? She turned down a nearby alley and jogged the remaining two blocks to her mother’s house, a fearful eye constantly glancing over her shoulder.

To her surprise, lights blazed in the house as it came into view. Fear choked her and she sprinted the final few yards, arriving at the door breathless. First the van, now this. Her mother normally went to bed by ten.

“Mom?” she called, bursting through the door. No answer. Prickles of dread filled her as she dashed from empty room to empty room.

“Hello?”

Still no answer.

As she stepped into the kitchen she saw several boxes beside the open door to the basement. It yawned with light shining from below. She hopped down the narrow stairs, fearing what might be at the bottom. She drew a breath of relief when she saw her mother sitting between an open footlocker and a wastebasket, sifting through papers.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

Her mother looked up, surprised. “Cleaning.”

“It’s two in the morning.”

“I need to throw this away. My brothers brought it over when I came back, but it’s all junk.” Her mother appeared agitated.

“Would you like help?” Her brush with danger was forgotten as she faced her distraught mother.

“I can do this alone. You go to bed.”

“You can finish tomorrow. Let’s both go to bed.”

“I want it gone.” Lottie waved at the papers. To Cere’s surprise, her face looked tear streaked and red. “This is all your fault.”

“What do you mean? Did someone threaten you? Say something?”

“No.” Her mother sank onto an unopened box, wiping her hand across her face. “It’s this...this...hand thing. Why can’t you let it go?” Her voice rose until she was nearly shrieking. “He’s dead. Stop this before someone else gets killed!”

Cere’s heart thumped with dread. “Someone else? What do you mean? Besides Naldo? Or did you mean Marco?”

Lottie’s flushed face stiffened. She looked ready to cry and seemed to battle for composure. With a sniffle, she rose, blinking as though waking up. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Let’s go to bed.”

She started to repeat her question, but her mother brushed by her and pulled the light cord, plunging the basement into shadows.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Cere? Lottie? Are you down there?” Rafe’s voice sounded from the basement door.

“I’m down here,” Cere called and his feet clattered on the stairs.

She averted her eyes as his legs came into view, pretending his sudden appearance didn’t affect her. Her pulse had started racing the minute she heard him call her name. Memories of his kiss still haunted her.

“What are you doing?” His foot shoved a broken wooden tennis racquet and sideswiped a battered brown trunk. Piles of books, old clothes and trinkets littered the floor next to empty packing boxes.

“Spring cleaning in June. I’m helping Mom. She wanted this stuff thrown out so I’m trying to sort it for her.” She brushed a hand over her damp forehead to push her hair out of her eyes. After the uproar of the previous night, she’d been determined to get the area into some semblance of order. She still didn’t know why her mother had been so upset.

At least the physical effort kept her mind occupied—away from fears about the van that chased her and the person threatening her. The work also kept her from thinking too much about the man across the room and the tender moments they had shared.

While his presence was welcome, she was suddenly and painfully aware of her mother’s cotton boxer shorts and threadbare T-shirt she wore. And she was barefoot. Her hair was partially covered by a scarf, but some of it still managed to escape and fall in her face.

“What is that?” Rafe asked, settling onto a piano bench across from where she sat on a hassock in front of a footlocker.

“It’s my mother’s old yearbook.” Her hands brushed over the embossed silver cover. “This place is a treasure trove. It’s a whole side to my mother I’d never seen from her younger years before she went to California.”

Rafe reached into the trunk and pulled out a dried corsage. “This really says something.” It disintegrated in his hands.

“Rafe, that meant something to her,” she scolded.

“How meaningful can it be if she left it behind?” He pulled out a vibrant pink blouse dotted with purple flowers. “People wore this?”

“Look.” She held up the book and pointed at a picture on the yellowing page. A pretty blonde teenager with a bow pinned to her long hair smiled at the camera. “That’s Mom. Wow, she looked young. And check out that hairdo.”

She started to laugh but realized Rafe was frowning at the page. Her eyes focused on the book, and she saw what had caught his attention. A boy with thick black hair smirked at the camera as though he knew a secret no one else shared.

“Marco!” She jerked the yearbook toward her to see the picture better. Even without the hair, Marco would have stood out. He wore tight bell bottom jeans and his shirt was open almost to his waist. A dark choker of some sort, perhaps leather, wrapped around his neck. Like the newspaper picture, intensity burned in his dark eyes. His curled lip indicated a defiance of authority.

Excitement pulsed through her as she flipped pages, seeking more pictures of him. “I can use these pictures. I
knew
they had to be in school together. Maybe Mom knows who Marco’s girl was.”

Rafe nodded, dark eyes unreadable. He stroked his chin as though the beard remained. His fingers moved on to touch his lower lip.

She dropped her head as memories of their fevered kiss sent a shiver of awareness racing through her.

“May I look at that?” he asked.

Handing the book to him, she scrambled to her feet. The open basement area seemed to shrink as his large presence filled the restricted area where she’d been working. His tangy aftershave overshadowed the dusky sent of dampness. As he flipped through pages, she turned away searching for more material in the trunk.

“Look at this.” His call jerked her around. A long finger jabbed at a picture in the yearbook. “Is that or isn’t that your mother? And look at who she’s dancing with.”

Leaning over his arm she read the caption, “Winter Prom.” The picture showed dancers below strips of crepe paper. The photo was blurry, the figures tiny, but she could see her mother’s unmistakable blonde hair and Marco’s thick black hair.

“They’re all over the floor. It’s hard to tell who she’s dancing with,” she said, though she wondered why her mother had never told her she knew Marco well enough to dance with him.

“I’m amazed at you, or has your reporter brain stopped working? Has it occurred to you that the mystery girl might be your mother?”

She swallowed hard, shaking her head in denial. “No. According to Marco’s letters, that girl betrayed him. My mother wouldn’t do that.”

He tilted his head toward her, doubt written in his eyes, but at the same moment both seemed to notice how close they were. His gaze moved to her lips and she turned away, fighting the tremble that slithered down her spine. Was he about to kiss her again?

Attempting to put space between them, she stepped behind the footlocker. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were going to Santa Fe to deliver my watch and that envelope to the crime lab.”

“I took it but I’m afraid lots of people touched the envelope before it got delivered and we don’t know if the watch has anything to do with Marco or Naldo.”

She held up her hands. “You told me that already.” Perhaps she should tell him about the van that followed her. No, he would only criticize her for insisting on walking home alone.

“Okay, I’ll get going. I just wanted to let you know it may be a while before we get results back from Santa Fe.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

She returned to her task, but despite his comment, Rafe lingered. He wandered around the rows of unpacked boxes and covered furniture that had been too big to fit upstairs. From time to time he picked up items, examining them and putting them down. She fought to ignore him as she flipped through a scrapbook of yellowing pictures of David Cassidy and John Travolta cut from magazines. A shoe box held a neatly arranged row of envelopes, and Cere lifted out a letter. The girl’s name was unfamiliar and the postmark was Germany. A pen pal. Cere replaced the letters.