Killing Her Softly (11 page)

Briefly he entertained the thought that Harlan Gage was behind the harassment. Or maybe Jason himself, in hiding somewhere close by after faking his death. One thing was certain, Gage hadn't gone to the police with his questions. A word with Jimmy had told Simon that much.

"What happened tonight?” he asked, sinking down onto a chair. “You'd better sit, too, before you fall down."

She moved to another chair across the room, letting herself collapse onto the dusty upholstery as if she'd been cut off at the knees. “Someone was in the house,” she said, twisting her fingers together.

The cat sniffed at Simon's ankles. He scooped him up, strode over to Leslie, and dropped him on her lap. “Here, you'll feel better. Since you won't let me touch you."

Leslie stared at him, piqued by the sardonic note in his voice. But he was right; the soft texture of the cat's fur, lying flat now, comforted her. Especially when the creature began to purr.

She wrinkled her brow. Didn't that indicate that Simon wasn't her assailant? The cat had growled at the footprints. He had welcomed Simon.

She almost groaned aloud. She was really going crazy, using a cat's judgment to decide whether she could trust someone.

"Tell me what happened,” he said, his voice so gentle her heart flipped in her chest. He couldn't be the person who was trying to drive her away from this place. Haltingly, she told him everything that had happened since she'd returned from Eugenia's.

"You didn't call Jimmy,” Simon said when she'd finished.

"No. I wasn't sure he'd believe me.” Her voice rose. “But I saw the black glove. And the wet footprints. And the cat acted strange, too. He knew someone had been here."

"You couldn't see how he got out by following the footprints?"

Leslie shook her head. “No. By the time I noticed them, they were almost dry. There were some in the kitchen and in here and, of course, on the stairs. Besides, it had been raining so it would've been hard to tell if he'd made them coming or going. There were no tread marks, that's all I could see."

He sat with one ankle resting on the opposite knee. The soles of his gray leather loafers were smooth, but the heels showed a pattern of small circles around the edge. He followed her gaze to his feet. “Yeah, I know what you're thinking,” he said, smiling thinly. “They could have been mine. They also could have been any of several hundred shoes in the village."

He dropped the foot to the floor and leaned forward, clasping his hands loosely between his knees. “Leslie, why did you come here?"

"I had to find out about Jason. When I got the lawyer's letter saying he was dead, I knew he'd lied to me. About a lot of things. And the lawyer indicated I may be Jason's only heir."

"How convenient,” Simon said.

"What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously, although she couldn't tell whether his tone was sarcastic or not. “I didn't know about any of this, and I didn't ask for it. For all I know, he owes everybody in the country and the house is mortgaged to the hilt and I'll be stuck with it all."

"That's possible, knowing Jason."

Leslie eyed him sharply. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Simon stood up and walked to the window, twitching back the curtain to look out for an instant. He exhaled forcefully. “No, it's supposed to make you feel like going home."

Leslie groaned. “Not you, too. I was hoping you could help me. To be honest, I don't know if I can trust you, but I'm sure I can't trust anyone else."

"No high recommendation, I see.” He came over and crouched before her, covering her hands with his own. Under them, the cat flexed and stretched, then slid off Leslie's lap and sat in the middle of the floor. “Leslie, I believe someone is trying to scare you, maybe even kill you. It's not safe. Go back to Athens. I'll see if I can find out what's going on with this house and what Harlan Gage wants. I'll let you know."

"Harlan who?"

"The man I mentioned yesterday. He stayed at the inn a couple of nights ago. He was around again today. By this time he must know about this house and that you're here. And he hasn't been to the police, so I suspect he's probably either an old friend of Jason's, or an old enemy."

Leslie pulled her hands free, liking his touch far too much. She couldn't think when he was so close, his dark chocolate eyes opaque with worry. She got up and paced to the fireplace, laying her arm along the mantle. She had to get away from his potent presence for a moment. Not that she was complaining—he'd managed to distract her from her earlier panic.

Simon regarded her thoughtfully. What was he going to do about her? She was in danger and he didn't know who was behind it. She certainly wasn't going to invite him to move in so that he could keep an eye on her.

"I'd like to check your bathroom, and the other rooms upstairs.” At least he could reassure himself that there was no one still in the house.

She nodded, climbing the stairs ahead of him. “I haven't heard anything up here since it happened. I'm sure he's gone."

Simon looked in the bathroom. The air smelled faintly of gardenias. No one lurked behind the shower curtain. The tub was empty, the floor still wet where water had splashed out of it.

He went back into the hall. Leslie stood in the doorway of her room. At the sight of her, his stomach lurched. She had an odd, newly distraught look on her face, and her mouth trembled. “My room—someone's been there."

To his horror, her face crumpled, and tears filled her eyes. Leaning against the door frame, she buried her face in her hands. “Someone searched my room,” she wailed between sobs.

Simon wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. Her body felt slight and fragile against his. An unexpected tenderness tightened his throat. Even through the terry robe he could feel the delicate bones of her spine. Her breasts pressed against his chest, small, soft mounds.

Sucking in a breath, he realized her hands were no longer clenched in front of her. She clung to his waist with a strength that astonished him, as if she were drowning. As perhaps she was, reliving the episode in the bath.

He balled one hand into a fist. If he caught the person terrorizing her...

She stiffened as if she'd just realized where she was. Peeling one arm away from his waist, she pressed her hand against his chest, as if to push away.

"Don't,” he whispered. “Stay. I won't let anyone hurt you."

She gave a shaky laugh. “What about you, Simon? Will you hurt me?"

He closed his eyes, swallowing painfully. “No promises. But I haven't been in the house except by your invitation."

Abruptly she moved away. To his surprise, her eyes flashed angrily as she paced around the room. “I'm not going to let anyone drive me out. Jimmy said he'll keep an eye on the house, but obviously this person knows how to avoid the police. So I'm going to have to take my own precautions."

"Move out,” Simon suggested. “You can stay with me."

"I need to be here,” she said stubbornly. “I need to check out all of the house, find out what else Jason was hiding."

"Leslie, come here,” Simon said softly.

Her eyes met his, saw the gentleness there. Unable to help herself, she stepped forward into his arms. Against his chest, she allowed herself to relax, rubbing her fingers back and forth on his shirt. Through the thin cotton she could feel the roughness of his chest hair, the hard curve of the underlying muscle, the heat of his skin. She also felt him stiffen, felt the comfort he'd offered change to a darker, more elemental emotion .

Simon took her hand in his. She thought he was about to push her away, but he merely held it. His palm was hard and callused. Absently she rubbed her thumb over the raised scar of some old injury.

"Leslie.” His voice was low, a whisper that seemed one with the night.

Leslie looked up into his face, saw the dark heat in his eyes. She knew what he wanted without his asking, and was torn between anticipation and terror.

He lowered his head, and she held her breath as his mouth covered hers. His kiss was seduction itself. His mouth was firm, neither reticent nor predatory. She parted her lips, her hands clutching his shirt. He explored her teeth with his tongue, gently requesting entrance. “Leslie, open your mouth.” His breath feathered her skin, the sensitive inner lining of her mouth.

This couldn't go on. Her heartbeat hammering in her ears, Leslie shook her head and unclenched her hands, taking a step back. “No. Don't."

Her skin felt hot, too tight for her body, and her nipples stung as though burned. She was grateful for his hands on her shoulders, afraid her trembling knees would collapse and drop her ignominiously at his feet.

"Why not?” he said, so calmly he might have been discussing the weather.

"Because I don't play games."

His hands tensed. “It's not a game. I wanted to kiss you, and I did."

"We hardly know each other.” Her voice was ragged, her breathing rapid and shallow. And she knew she lied.

"You wanted it, too,” he added.

Her nostrils flared with temper, an anger ignited by her confusion. “Did I? If I did, it was because I'd had a scare. Don't take advantage of that."

Abruptly he released her, so quickly she lost her balance and almost fell. He steadied her with one hand, then let go as if he'd scorched his fingers. Raking his hair back from his face, he turned away. “Hell!"

Grinding his teeth, he fought for control, not even sure why he was angry. Maybe because she was right. He
had
taken advantage of her momentary weakness.

"It worked, didn't it?” he said tightly. “You forgot you were scared. You don't seem to realize that you're an attractive woman."

He turned abruptly away. “Go downstairs while I check your room."

In her room, he found the sheets lying in a heap beside the bed. Clothes still hung in the wardrobe, but her suitcase was upside down next to it. The dresser drawers all hung open, and the garments they had once held were strewn on the floor. He picked up a lacy bikini. The silk clung to his hand. Was this what she wore under her conservative clothes?

He rebuked the desire that coiled in his stomach. This wasn't the time to indulge it. Or to admit to the need that shook him when he was close to her.

Shaking his head, he checked the French doors. Closed and locked. Just to be safe, he looked in all the upstairs rooms, with their empty cupboards and stripped beds. Nothing. Not a trace of an intruder.

Leslie sat huddled on the sofa, her eyes red and swollen. Her fingers twitched nervously, shredding a damp tissue. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

"No, there's no one there. And everything's locked."

She nodded. “I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I think I gave you the wrong impression.” The words spilled out in a rush.

He walked over to her and drew her to her feet, lifting her chin with his forefinger. “I'm not sorry I kissed you. And I don't play games, either. But I'm not going to deny that I'm attracted to you."

He pulled her against him. Sliding one hand down her back, he pressed her hips close to his. “You've been married. You understand when a man wants you. I want you.” The cool green-apple scent of her hair filled his nostrils, his being.

"Yes, Leslie, I want you,” he repeated when she remained silent. “And now, what the hell are we going to do about it?"

When Leslie woke the next morning, the episode with Simon seemed like a dream. She remembered giving him a look that she'd hoped was quelling but that probably had conveyed only her uncertainty. She'd pushed him out the door as quickly as possible, brushing off his offers to spend the night, or to send a policeman to guard the house. “The intruder won't come back,” she said, hoping she wasn't just trying to reassure herself. “And if he does, I'll be ready for him."

She'd double-checked the locks on all the doors and windows, left a light on downstairs, and gone up to bed. As an added precaution, she had wedged a chair under the doorknob in her bedroom and locked the French doors leading to the balcony.

To her surprise, she'd slept well, long and dreamlessly.

The rising sun slanted into the room, illuminating one of the ornate plaster cherubs that graced the corners of the ceiling. Leslie licked her lips, tasting Simon on them, which was absurd since she had thoroughly brushed her teeth before going to bed. The cherub smirked, the tiny arrow in the bow he held pointed directly at her.

"Oh, go away,” she muttered. She hated the four plump creatures, with their knowing smiles and their bright blue eyes that seemed to follow every move she made.

The faint scent of wood smoke drifted past her nostrils. She glanced at the door. The chair still stood braced against it. She buried her face in the pillow, wishing she could stay in bed instead of facing Simon, who would undoubtedly show up right after breakfast. When he'd left last night, he'd promised to come back to check her cellar again.

What could she say to him? She'd acted like an affronted virgin, while he'd treated the episode with mature honesty. He didn't play games, he'd said. Which meant he truly was attracted to her.

What was wrong with that? Plenty, she thought savagely. She'd just recently ended a relationship that hadn't left her eager for another. She was doing just fine on her own.

A pair of mourning doves cooed in the huge fig tree outside her window, their gentle hoo-hoo mocking her. Knowing she wouldn't sleep any longer, she pushed aside the light blanket and sat up. She didn't have time for Simon's flirtation, no matter how good it felt to be held tightly to that hard, lean, male body. Her eyes softened briefly as she straightened the bed. He had the ability to make her feel like a desirable woman, and that was what made him dangerous.

The smell of smoke was stronger. Turning her head, she looked at the French doors. They were closed but the lace curtain stirred faintly and she remembered a small crack in the glass. Someone must be burning brush outside.

Outside?

Fireplace. The image of kindling on the hearth leaped into her head. Had someone started the fire? And if the chimney was blocked, the house could be filled with smoke.