Gatekeeper (19 page)

She walked through the spacious rooms back toward the front parlor. Something about the fire-darkened brick hearth drew her attention. Heels resounding, she crossed the room. Two rusted dog irons sat in the fireplace amidst ageold ashes.

Jillian kneeled and there, scratched deep into the bricks were the initials JMS and TBS.
Thomas Benton and John Smith.

Jillian ran her fingertip across the T. She had psychically known he’d lived here. Now, her intuition had been validated.

A wistful smile claimed her lips and she stood.

Two big hands encircled her shoulders. She would have been startled had she not been expecting it.

Warm lips tasted the sensitive cool flesh of the curve of her neck. Jillian’s stomach tightened. She leaned her head to the side to give him greater access and as he kissed her, chill bumps skittered down her body.

His hands skimmed around her waist where they reached under her white jacket and glided over the blue silk to possessively cup her breasts. Jillian’s breath left her body in an audible rush. The tension melted out of her. Sudden desire slowed her pulse to a heavy throb. She needed this. She needed
him
. Once more.

Heat flooded her body. Her pussy grew wet and ready. She slid her own hand downward and cupped herself through her clothes. She was steamy hot. Her panties were wet and sticky. She wanted out of these clothes. Now.

His mouth nibbled insistently at her neck, moving slightly upward until he found a spot that made her squirm in his arms.

An earthy groan escaped her lips and when he pulled her back against him, she felt his rockhard arousal press into the small of her back. One of his hands moved down to cover hers and he guided them both to cup her pussy tightly. His other hand slid around the front of her neck and he drew her back so the shell of her ear pressed against his hot mouth. “I’m going to fuck you, Jillian.”

Whitehot desire flooded her abdomen. She gasped. “Yes.” Her voice was but a silken breath. She felt as if she were melting in his arms and suddenly, he was walking her toward the single chair. She could feel his hand between them undoing his trousers.

Jillian furiously unhooked, unbuttoned and unzipped her own before Benton pushed her slacks and panties down to her knees and bent her over the chair. Wildly aroused, she clung to the rickety spindles and propped one knee on the seat as she felt his fingers slide along her cleft, finding her wet and so, so ready for him. She wanted him inside her. She wanted his cock in her cunt so badly she ached.

Her pants prevented her from spreading her legs wider. She whimpered her frustration but it was shortlived. Benton’s other hand drifted around the sensitive skin of her tummy and he braced her while his exploring fingers delved inside her drenched pussy.

Jillian shook with need. She thought she’d die if he didn’t fuck her now. Her forehead dropped to the chair back and she clung, pressing her bottom back against his hand, shifting her heels on the floor for stability. Somehow, she knew he wasn’t intent on making her come this way. He was only checking to see if she was ready.

And she was.

His fingers withdrew and she sucked in a breath as she felt the head of his cock slip through her slick cleft and then push through her opening, thrusting inside her. He had his hands on her hips now, his thumbs and fingers digging into her soft flesh, holding her tightly as he began to furiously rock himself against her, intent on mutual satisfaction.

Jillian delighted in the sound and feel of his body slapping against hers. In this position, she could feel every inch of him recede and thrust over and over, faster and faster. She gripped the chair hard but the legs slid inch by inch, grating on the wooden floor and pulling her along with it.

“Fuck me…
hard
.” Her voice echoed through the empty house, her words sounding wanton to her own ears. At Jillian’s blatant encouragement, Benton hung onto her hips and continued his ruthless assault. She arched her back and pressed against him, working the angle so that his balls slapped hard against her clit.

She tightened. She couldn’t be coming yet. Not yet. She wanted this to last longer. Forever.

But her body had a mind of its own. The sensations surged and, like a current, coursed through her body. “Goddamn…” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m coming!” Her knees would have buckled and she would have wilted against the chair but Benton’s hold on her hips tightened and as the waves receded in her body, she felt him pulsing deep inside her, his groin pressed so snugly against her, she could actually feel the spasms of his cock.

His breath left his body in a ragged rush. His grip on her hips tightened and then released.

And then he vanished.

Trembling, Jillian twisted and sank onto the chair. The seat was cool to her bare bottom and her trousers were pooled around her ankles but she didn’t care. She was mindless and sated and filled with such lust and love for Benton she only wanted to sit and bask in the joy she knew was only temporary.

Why did it feel as if every time they made love might be the
last
time?

A lump welled in her throat but she refused to think about the fact he’d be leaving her. She couldn’t think about it now. Not after that damn good fucking he’d just given her.

After a few minutes, her body chilled and she reached down to hike up her slacks before she stood. Her hands shook as she zipped and fastened. Her gaze darted around the empty room. “Benton?” He was nowhere to be seen but she knew he was near.

A little laugh bubbled up out of her chest and she bit her bottom lip. She couldn’t believe what they’d just done. A rush of wetness drenched her panties and she rubbed her hand over her still quivering pussy, delighting in the feel of wetness between her legs.

Still shaking, she took one staggering step toward the door. She’d come so hard she could hardly walk. Another laugh erupted from her chest but once again, a dark thought rose in her thoughts.

She would soon have to give the button to Amy and Benton would be forever gone.

There was one more place she wanted to go—one more place where there was something tangible that had belonged to Benton.

Chapter Thirteen

Jillian sat in the turn lane and stared at the little green sign with an arrow pointing to the Sam Davis Museum. Matt Gregory had told her Benton’s sword was there. At the time, it seemed like a piece of interesting information. But now…

Now with Benton’s departure to the Other Side imminent, Jillian wanted to see the physical things that belonged to him.

Her mind raced over their clandestine encounter at his home. Her body tightened with memory. Her cheeks warmed with a blush when she recalled how willingly she’d bent herself over that chair.

Wistful, she turned onto the long gravel drive that led up to the Sam Davis home and museum. Everyone in this area knew the legend well. Young Sam had been hanged as a spy by the Federals during the Civil War. No doubt, Benton had known him.

A single Ford pickup was parked outside the nicely kept museum building. Jillian parked the Jag, got out and went inside.

A man sporting a long, wooly brown beard sat behind the desk. Dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt, suspenders and wearing wire-framed round glasses, he had the look of a weekend reenactor about him.

“Good afternoon,” Jillian greeted. “Would you by any chance be the curator?”

He stood. “Yes, ma’am, I would. Name’s Andrew Jackson.”

Jillian tried in vain to suppress a smile. “Andrew Jackson?”

“Yep. Just like the president. My momma had a weird sense of humor.” He gave her a broad grin.

She extended her hand. “I’m Jillian Drew. I’m a profiler for the Nashville PD.”

His grin faded. “This about Matt?”

“Yes,” Jillian said hesitantly. She had not intended to use her position as leverage to see the sword but Matt had offered…

“That was a terrible thing. Matt was a good ol’ fella, despite his shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans?”

“Oh yeah,” Andrew said. “He was banned from practically every historic site in the area.”

“Banned? Why?” Jillian recalled Matt’s black eye.

“A long list of stuff. He turned one historic site in for not cataloging their museum pieces properly. And at another one, he threatened a guy.” He stopped and scratched his goatee. “Oh, and there was all that stuff about saving the Franklin battlefield. He knew more about the Army of Tennessee than anybody I ever saw, but he was militant about preserving that land. I think he even did some time for setting the Pizza Hut on fire they built on the site where Pat Cleburne was killed.” He shook his head. “Nice fella most of the time…but I’m not surprised somebody did him in.”

“I’m not sure any of that had anything to do with why he was killed.”

“Really?”

“I think it had something to do with a Civil War officer named Thomas Benton Smith.” Even uttering his name sent a warm tingle down Jillian’s spine—and a sharp pain straight to her heart.

Andrew rocked back on his heels proudly and hooked his thumbs under his red suspenders. “We have Benton Smith’s sword on display here.”

Jillian drew in a sharp breath. “May…may I see it?”

“Of course. It’s back here in the museum.”

Her knees went weak as she followed Andrew into the museum. Various muskets, rifles and swords gleamed behind acrylic cases illuminated by strategically placed spotlights. Beige plaques identified each item and, in most cases, to whom it had belonged. Jillian craned her neck to see if she could tell which sword was Benton’s without reading the marker.

But it was glaringly obvious which one was his.

The same three-by-five photograph of him Jillian had seen in the book peered at her from behind the glass. Her mouth went dry. Her lips resisted drawing into a smile. Staring back at her from the sepia-toned photograph was the man who’d just fucked the hell out of her.

“This is it, right here,” Andrew said and stepped back. “Tragic story. Tragic.” He shook his head. “But I can’t figure why he has anything to do with Matt being murdered.”

“I believe it had to do with B— With Smith’s…death.” She stopped herself just short of calling him Benton.

“Yes,” Andrew said and stroked his beard in thought. “You know he was killed with this sword.”

Jillian stared at it. The point was fractured, just as she’d seen in her vision. A violent shudder swept through her. The handle was rough, worn. Jillian brushed her fingertips across the slick acrylic. This had been his. He had carried it in battle. She’d even seen the
ghost
of it suspended from his belt.

But Andrew Jackson was wrong about how Benton had died.

The awful nightmare memory of looking through Bruce Bowers’ eyes assailed her. Jillian flinched. “I think Matt may have believed there was something more to Smith’s murder than was recorded in history.”

Andrew gave a derisive chuckle. “Ol’ Matt was always one to have some addlebrained theory about this or that soldier.” His gaze went from the sword to Jillian. “These things are heavy. Have you ever handled one?”

She shook her head.

Producing a funny-looking key from his pocket, he opened the case. Jillian’s heart soared. Was he actually going to let her hold it? Her breath froze in her chest. She felt like a child at Christmas. She stopped herself short of bouncing up and down. She didn’t want to appear too eager.

Andrew reached into a nearby box and withdrew two pairs of white gloves. “Put these on, if you don’t mind.” He pulled a pair of the gloves over his big hands.

Jillian watched in anticipation as he lifted the sword. She set her purse on the floor and hurriedly slipped on her pair of gloves.

“This sword was made right here in Nashville. See the maker’s mark?” He pointed to where the letters were faintly etched in the steel. “But this one doesn’t have CSA on it. He most likely got it when he was in military school. That would have been an expensive gift for a young man from his station in life. Here, try it out.”

With that, he dumped it into her hands.

Jillian took it by the hilt. It was heavy. Very heavy. She couldn’t imagine walking around with it attached to her, much less possessing the strength it took to wield it in battle.

“Run your finger along the blade.”

She did.

“Notice it’s not sharp? Back then, it was considered dishonorable to sharpen your sword. They used these things more for skewering and holding a piece of meat over a fire than anything else.”

Jillian couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Benton sitting around a campfire chatting with his men. Briefly, she shut her eyes. Her hair retained the scent of wood fires and that heady masculinity which belonged only to Benton. She inhaled.

A bell sounded and Andrew looked up. “That’ll be someone at the door. Take your time. I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared around the corner.

Gratitude welled inside Jillian. She could scarcely believe she was holding Benton’s sword. This had belonged to him. He had carried it. She brought the hilt up to her nose and breathed in the scent as if some essence of him lingered after all these years. It smelled of a curious mixture of old leather and steel and the scent left a metallic taste on Jillian’s tongue.