Last Seen Alive (36 page)

The glow from the outside carriage light beside the front door shone on his black hair, the finely chiseled features of his face with its two healing scars, one on the right cheek, one on the left jawline, leftovers from the crash that had almost claimed his life. Finally, she looked into his eyes— deep, dark, soulful eyes, still holding the horror and sadness of watching the fiery remains of the jet he’d piloted destroy seventy-two lives.

She’d had romantic feelings for this man since she was twelve—feelings she’d later dismissed as a teenage crush. At this moment, though, she knew that what she’d felt at twelve was just a younger version of what she felt for him now—love.

Chyna leaned forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed Scott tenderly on the lips and the neck. Then she whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”

His right arm circled her waist, drawing her even closer to his tall, lean frame. “Is this because you don’t want to be alone after finding Deirdre?”

“The way we found Deirdre was scary, but she’s alive.” Chyna had always been shy around men, always letting them make the first move, usually stopping them before things went too far. But now, almost against her will, her lips trailed down Scott’s warm neck.

Scott drew a deep breath, wrapped his other arm around her, and pulled her so close she could feel his heart beating. His lips touched hers lightly at first, then pressed against them passionately, his right hand tangling in her long hair as they seemed to melt into each other as time stopped for Chyna. His tongue barely touched hers—warm, soft, almost teasing.

At last, he pulled away a fraction, his breath coming fast and hot against her face cooled by the evening air. His gaze held hers, his dark, penetrating eyes seeming to see all the way through to her soul. Chyna felt as if she’d never been kissed in her life, and she never wanted Scott’s kisses to end. After what seemed like an endless moment, he asked softly, “Want me to stay awhile?”

“Oh yes, I want you to stay,” Chyna said huskily, her face drawing nearer to his. “I want you to stay the night.”

Their lips met again and Chyna gently pushed the door shut behind him.

Irma Vogel sneezed violently and wiped her nose on an already damp tissue as she looked in disgust at the screaming headline of the morning paper:

Irma knew calling Ben and pretending to be elated would be useless. He’d be at the hospital with Deirdre. Irma had no intention of walking into that lion’s den full of Ben’s friends and policemen and reporters. Besides, she’d called Ben on his cell phone around one in the morning, telling him she hadn’t been able to sleep so she’d sat up, listening to her police scanner, and heard about the finding of Deirdre. “It was Chyna Greer!” he’d boomed at Irma in ecstasy. “Chyna Greer had a vision or something—I never understood what people said she could do, but she knew where to find Deirdre!” Then he’d told Irma that Deirdre was still unconscious, they didn’t know a thing about who’d taken her, and now he needed to get back to his daughter and slammed the phone in her ear.

Irma now let the paper slide to the floor and walked over to a wall mirror. God, she looked awful, she thought. Her bulgy eyes were red, her nose was swollen, and her face bore a gloss of perspiration from a fever she knew was rising. Too much time out in the cold, she thought, often without a coat. She’d always been careful about keeping herself warm in the past. Lately, though, she’d been distracted, trying to do too much. Now, on top of all of her efforts, she was getting sick. Irma felt like crying for herself.

She shuffled to her chair and retrieved the newspaper. The

rescue of Deirdre Mayhew had been Irma’s first concern, but she also wanted to read the piece on Rusty Burtram, who had apparently fallen through his sliding glass doors. One of the shards of glass had sliced his carotid artery and he’d died from blood loss. Irma lowered the newspaper and thought deeply. A person wasn’t likely to just “fall” through his glass doors unless he was drunk or stoned, a conclusion Irma was sure most Black Willow residents would make. She had barely known Rusty, but she knew Owen and she could imagine the man writhing in embarrassment over this story on the front page of the paper. His son falling through glass doors because he was drunk? God, old Owen might have a heart attack from humiliation rather than grief, because it was plain to anyone who’d had more than the slightest contact with Rusty and Owen that Owen felt no love for his son. “Well, Mr. Owen Burtram, you won’t have to put up with the big disappointment of your life anymore,” she said, full of scathing disdain she’d never manage if Owen stood in front of her. Liking the sound of her voice, she spoke even louder to the nonexistent Owen. “You simply have to pretend you believe Rusty tripped and crashed through those doors and then act like you care that he’s dead. Really what you’ll be feeling is relieved that he’s blessedly gone from your life forever, just like your slut of a wife.”

If Irma hadn’t felt so bad, she would have laughed at her own macabre assessment of the situation. She hadn’t liked either one of the Burtram men, especially Owen. Smug, that was what he was. He’d always looked her up and down like she was a piece of garbage, and Rusty had acted half-afraid of her, like he sensed something was wrong with her and he should steer clear.

But
sensing
things was Chyna Greer’s specialty. When Irma had talked to Ben, he’d said they hadn’t a clue about who’d abducted Deirdre. She was unconscious and couldn’t tell them anything. So because they didn’t know who’d kidnapped Deirdre, Chyna obviously hadn’t been able to
sense
that important information.

Irma went to the phone, looked up the number of the hospital, and put in a call to the third floor, asking for Nurse Tally Jones. When she heard Tally’s familiar loud twang, she hissed, “It’s Irma. I need information, but I don’t want anyone to know I’m asking, so keep your voice down.”

“Oh, okay, Irma,” Tally hissed.

“And don’t say my name! Has the Mayhew girl regained consciousness?”

“No, Deirdre’s still—”

“Tally, keep your voice down!”

“Oh yeah.” Tally went back to her hissing whisper. “No, she hasn’t. Word is that she’s in a coma.”

“A coma!”

“Yeah. She knocked the dickens out of her head. She fell into an open grave! I think that is
so
yucky! Seems the grave had been dug for a service this morning and covered with a piece of plywood, but someone—probably some teenagers who were out tearin’ around last night—moved the plywood. I think the cops found tire tracks and a beer bottle near the grave and—”

“Tally, I don’t care about any of that!” Irma snapped. “Is there a chance Deirdre could die?”

“I dunno. I’m still in trainin’. The doctors don’t consult with me. They think all I’m good for is emptying bedpans.” Tally sounded deeply offended and her voice rose. “They think they’re God Almighty. They’ll go nuts if Deirdre dies and proves they can’t really save anybody.” She paused. “What do you want to know all of this for?”

“Her father and I are… involved.”

Tally gasped.
“Really?
Are you sure? I heard he didn’t even
look
at anyone since his wife died.”

“Tally, lower that voice! And yes, Ben and I are
deeply
involved. We’re simply keeping our relationship quiet for now.” Mentally, Irma dared Tally to challenge her again. “I just didn’t want to keep calling him because he’s so busy with Deirdre.”

“Doin’ what? She’s out like a light.”

“I needed the information, Tally. I’m concerned, that’s all.”

“Well, if you two are an item, why don’t you come and be with Mr. Mayhew? He’d probably appreciate it.”

“I told you we’re keeping our affair a secret. Besides, I have a terrible cold. I wouldn’t want to give it to Deirdre or anyone else.” Irma coughed and blew her nose to give her story credence. “Thanks for telling me about Deirdre and don’t tell anyone I called.”

“Why can’t I tell anyone you called?” Tally twanged, but Irma had already hung up.

Irma slogged back into the living room and picked up the paper again, her gaze moving back to the story about Deirdre. Chyna wasn’t mentioned, but the way news traveled around here, half of the people in Black Willow already knew she’d been the one to find Deirdre. They’d be thankful. They’d respect her. Hell, Chyna might even become some sort of hero.

Irma raised her head and smiled slowly. Yes, Chyna might be a hero
unless
people got the impression she’d found Deirdre because she’d already known exactly where to look for her. And how would she know that if she wasn’t responsible for Deirdre’s abduction and near death?

Chyna sighed and rolled over in bed, reaching for Scott as if he’d slept beside her for years. But the other side of the bed was empty. She glanced at the bedside clock. Four-fifteen. He couldn’t be gone, she thought with a mixture of disappointment and embarrassment. He wouldn’t have just had sex with her, waited until she drifted off to sleep, then left.
Left,
how about
escaped
before anyone saw his car in her driveway? Oh God, he wouldn’t have, not after the things he’d said to her. Not after the tender yet passionate way he’d made love to her. Or would he? She’d cared about him for so long, had she been imagining he actually felt something for her other than momentary lust?

At that moment, Scott opened her bedroom door and walked softly to the bed. He was barefoot and wearing only jeans. In the dim light of first dawn, she could see his soft smile. He slipped off the jeans, then crawled into bed next to her and took her into his arms.

“Where have you been?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“I had a nightmare,” he said quietly. “They’re frequent these days. I went downstairs, tossed cold water all over my face, and had a glass of warm milk.”

“Warm milk? You wild man.”

“I know.” He made a face. “I hope that piece of information doesn’t get loose at the Whippoorwill. I’ll never be able to set foot in there again.”

Chyna reached out and touched his moist, flushed face and his damp hair. “I thought you were gone.”

He frowned. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Oh no!” She’d sounded frantic. “Of course not,” she said in a more normal tone.

He smiled again, drawing her closer against him. “Good. Because at this moment, I’m happier than I’ve been for years.”

“You are?”

“I am. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Don’t say that!” Chyna snapped.

Scott pulled back, looking deep into her eyes. “It’s just a phrase.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?”

Chyna buried her left hand in his thick, black hair, placing her cheek next to his. “I just don’t want to think about dying right now.”

Scott laughed softly. “Neither of us is going to die, Chyna. Maybe I’m the one with second sight today, because I’m certain we’re going to be together for a long, long time. At least, if I get my way, we are.”

Chyna relaxed, feeling as if her warm, naked body were sinking into his. “Then I hope you get your way, because I

believe it’s what I want more than anything,” Chyna murmured as his lips closed over hers.

“Satisfaction … oh no, no, no! I can’t get no …”

Chyna jerked awake, the words drumming in her head. The song by the Rolling Stones. The off-key voice. The good-looking man on the ladder. Gage Ridgeway!

Scott lay deep asleep beside her. His black hair had tumbled over his forehead, and one of his arms lay across her waist. His mouth was open slightly. The creases she’d noticed in his forehead and around his eyes seemed almost invisible in the morning sunshine. Except for the narrow, healing scars on his cheek and jaw, he looked the way she remembered him almost ten years ago—handsome, calm, at peace. She hated to wake him, but they needed to go someplace.
Now.

“Scott,” she whispered, not wanting to startle him. He remained motionless. “Scott,” she murmured. Nothing. Finally, she said, “Scott,” aloud while gently shaking his shoulder.

“Sleepy,” he mumbled. “Ten more minutes, Mom.”

“I am not your mother,” Chyna said, a bit louder this time. “It’s Chyna.”

“Chyna,” he slurred. Then his eyes flew open and he looked at her in shock. “Chyna Greer!”

“Yes, it is Chyna Greer. So glad you remembered who you slept with last night.”

He was fully awake now and blushing slightly. “I didn’t mean I didn’t remember; it’s just…” Scott blinked a couple of times, looked at her closely, then said, “Thank God. For a minute I thought you were still a teenager.”

“Well, I’m not. Everything’s perfectly legal, although I think Michelle is a bit put out with you for taking her side of the bed.”

“Sorry, Michelle,” Scott called to the dog who lay on the floor. Then he leaned over and kissed Chyna. “Did last night really happen or did I just have the best dream of my life?”

“It really happened and it was wonderful.”

“We should have done this sooner.”

“Oh, I agree. I’ve only been fantasizing about it for around sixteen years.”

“That long, eh?” Scott grinned. “I made myself wait until you were legal before I started fantasizing.”

“And then did nothing about it.”

“I move slowly. Slowly and deliberately. And then … I pounce!” Scott did indeed pounce on her, tangling her in sheets and his arms, kissing her cheeks, her neck, her lips. “You beautiful, fantastic woman. Girl of my dreams.”

“O Man of mine.”

They were giggling at their own absurdity when Scott suddenly turned serious and shushed her. “Rex is in the house,” he hissed. “I heard him when I got up earlier.”

“For your milk, I remember.” Scott blushed. “And you think Rex, the Playboy of the Western World, would be shocked that you spent the night with me?” Chyna grinned. “He’s probably relieved. I believe he thinks I’m some strange creature who has no interest in sex, only books and hard work.”

“Well, you certainly aren’t the latter, I’m thrilled to say. Wait until I tell my mother!”

“Scott Kendrick, don’t you dare!” Chyna laughed, then grew solemn. “My mother wouldn’t have minded, as long as I wasn’t a passing fling….”