Perfect Timing (10 page)

“Isabel,” he cautioned, “wait.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know if this is right. If after what happened with Stanton we should—”

Her fingertips pressed to his lips. “Aidan, it’s the only thing I want . . . I swear.”

He kissed her fingers, Isabel’s hand cupping his face as his mouth curved gently over hers. The trembling stopped and he felt a terrific surrender. Isabel’s body eased calmly into his, telling Aidan that this was where she wanted to be. She tasted of salty tears and a trace of lipstick, which so wasn’t Isabel. Aidan dared himself to open his eyes, making sure it was really her. Tears stained her face, but she was smiling. With fists full of her hair, that beautiful hair, his body leaned into hers, laying them down on the sofa. Silky lavender fabric rustled beneath his chest, Aidan’s mouth tracing the line of her throat, needing more as it met with the edge of the gown. But he hesitated.

“It’s on the side,” she said, “the zipper.”

His mind wasn’t on a zipper. “Isabel, are you sure? Maybe we should talk about it . . . I don’t want either of us to make a mistake here.”

“You . . .
this
, it’s the only thing I can imagine erasing Rick Stanton’s touch. Please, Aidan,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “I just want you to make it go away. Would you do that for me?”

The gown was quick to comply, the ruined thing slipping to her waist. Isabel kissed him again, less gently than he had kissed her moments before.

Between dim candles and moonlight he saw how beautiful she was, his gaze flowing over every curve. “Jesus . . .” he mumbled, unable to get enough air in to get the rest of his reaction out.
You are so incredibly beautiful . . .
Wicked emotions collided, words derailed by the reality of seeing every part of her. The moon, while mood setting, was reduced to nothing more than a teasing glow. He cupped one breast in his hand, taking the other in his mouth. There was a hint of submission, Isabel’s body arching against his. Giving in to things was not her usual behavior. He backed away and she stood, the gown falling to the floor. As it hit the dirty hardwood Aidan fought a flash of anger, Isabel tugging at his hand. But he was fixated, thinking he’d really like to set the damn thing on fire, knowing whose money had paid for it. Maybe she’d lend him the lighter.

“Aidan,” she said, hearing his thoughts. “Just don’t go there.” Nimbly, anxiously, her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt. He undid the last one, sending the white dress shirt sailing across the room. Aidan watched her hands, flush to his skin. Those beautiful delicate hands. For a while, he’d convinced himself he was only in love with her hands, the way they moved, calculating math equations, cradling worn paperbacks, penning smart essays. It was safe and respectful and an epic fail. While he’d never admit it to a breathing soul, Aidan often woke from this exact moment satisfied by some damn wet dream. Her mouth mimicked her touch, gliding over his chest with an ease that felt natural and right. Aidan responded in sequential reply, his hand slipping inside her panties. He corralled a grin as his mouth met with hers again and again. The panties were lace. Even his dreams had never been so bold as to conjure up lace. And Aidan wondered what else he didn’t know about Isabel. She kissed him harder, the hum from her throat intensifying. Aidan had never worried about a girl wanting him, and he sunk into a wave of relief finding her more than ready. Her legs moved apart as he stroked her, Isabel’s delicate fingers transformed, digging decisively into his back.

Having fed a rush of hunger, kissing could only do so much and suddenly she stopped. Isabel’s mouth turned away from his, her head resting on his shoulder. It was another unimagined act when her teeth nipped at him—so spontaneous it caused Aidan to gasp out loud. He kept the rhythm steady as even the air around them changed. The simple space that buffered their adolescence filled with sensual aromas, two adults repurposing this room. At the last second, her hand pushed between them, crushing hard into his. “Oh . . . Oh, Aidan . . . I . . .” It was an idyllic breath that gushed forward, consuming her. He didn’t want it to end, but after a few moments the wave crashed, Isabel’s body washing into his. Through locks of tousled hair, his gaze caught on the shadowed wall, which mirrored the moment. He thought he’d like to paint a mural of the whole damn scene. Looking back, he saw the expression on Isabel’s face. It was intense, truly awed. And Aidan got the distinct impression that, perhaps, this had never happened before. Apparently, the same thought was on her mind.

“Aidan, is, um . . . Is the rest going to be like that? Because if it is, I’m not sure I’m going to survive it.”

“Yeah, Isabel,” he said, his voice wavering. “It’s going to be just like that.”

There was a small nod, a glance briefly connecting with his. “Okay,” she said. “As long as I know.”

There was no further discussion, nothing about intent or tomorrow, Isabel reaching for the zipper on his pants. He didn’t want to know if this was once or forever. Either way, caution edged into Aidan’s conscious and he reached for his wallet, retrieving a foil wrapper. The wallet dropped with a thud to the floor as her hand wrapped around the aching length of him. Aidan closed his eyes, nearly giving in to her touch. And this, he knew, did not happen with other girls. He grappled for composure, guessing it was the risk of a fantasy coming to life. Aidan kissed her once more, the lacy underwear shuffling from her body. Slow had never been party to these actions, but now it was all he wanted, resting at her feet. He needed it to last, absorbing every barely lit line. The images in his head, they dulled in comparison and he tried to tell her as much. But he couldn’t find the sentences, words wedging between this moment and the one that nearly happened at the trailer. While it was enough to throw his romantic senses off balance there was also a swell of remorse, Aidan regretting every other girl he’d touched. Two incongruent things clicked into a perfect union, like the solid sky-blue pieces of a complicated puzzle: the respect Aidan had and wanting Isabel like this. In return, a smoky gaze wrapped around him, making him feel as if he was the only man she’d ever want to do this with. The thought was powerful and sublime—and something he thought impossible. Intuitively, his hands caressed her body, from her ankles, between her legs, across her stomach. He wanted to touch every part of her. He wanted to erase the night, just like she’d asked. Each time he touched her, even if it wasn’t a place synonymous with arousal, Isabel responded with sounds—emotions he’d never before heard. She pulled forward, the two of them knee to knee on the old sofa. He understood this. Intentional and direct, it was the way Isabel did things—even, apparently, things that were uncharted.

Her mouth grazed hotly over his, kissing his neck, avoiding the bruise on his face. Aidan reached to the crate where the condom had landed and Isabel tugged at his trousers. He stood, kicking off the cowboy boots, dropping his pants to the floor. He needed it to happen before Isabel considered other things, saying that doing this broke the rules by which they lived in this house. But as he tossed the pants aside, underwear fast to follow, a siren wailed. Streaks of red invaded the room, popping passion as if it were a delicate bubble. A whirl of angry lights flashed across the candlelit walls of the farmhouse, across Isabel’s beautiful face and his naked body. And instead of Isabel calling his name, instead of this poignant moment coming to fruition, it was a bullhorn announcing the arrival of the Catswallow Sheriff’s Department demanding that Aidan come outside.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Catswallow, Alabama

H
OURS
HAD
PASSED
SINCE
THE
HOLDING
ROOM
DOOR
SHUT
,
AND ISABEL WAS
no closer to getting Aidan out of there. Two sheriff’s deputies had slammed him face-first into the hood of a cruiser, handcuffed him, and shoved him into the backseat. After the car sped away, they told Isabel to get in a different one. She did get a glimpse of him when they arrived at the Catswallow sheriff’s station. He was on the opposite side of a glass wall with his back to her. That was all she saw, eight solid seconds of Aidan’s backside, hands cuffed, bloody and swollen from the beating he gave Stanton. A female officer hustled her away, locking Isabel in the holding room before she could call out to him.

Officer Denton said she’d be back, only sharing that Stanton identified Aidan as the person who beat him. She refused to answer Isabel’s questions. Watching the last fifteen minutes tick by, Isabel wished she’d paid better attention in high school history. Wasn’t there a law about detaining a person without charging them? On the other hand, Isabel suspected that if you were being held in the Catswallow, Alabama, sheriff’s station, civil rights weren’t a given. In between worrying about Aidan, Isabel relived what was about to happen before the sheriff showed up. Her eyes closed, arms wrapping tight, amazed by how apprehensions had melted away. Even in the quiet chaos of that barren room, she could feel his touch, the way he tasted. Only in a small corner of her mind did she wonder if she’d dreamed it. Silky fabric scratched against the chair, Isabel thinking that Cinderella didn’t have a damn thing on her. Since putting the dress on, the night had segued from one mind-boggling moment to another. Isabel’s gaze drifted onto the locked steel door. Fairy-tale endings, though, those she wasn’t so sure about.

The lock tumbled. Officer Denton, a beefy woman who appeared primed for a jailhouse reality series, came inside. Isabel wrenched her neck looking past the officer, surprised that her mother wasn’t there. Her gaze jerked back as the officer pulled out the metal chair opposite hers. As the feet scraped along the cement floor, Isabel assuring herself that it was only the noise sending a shiver up her spine.

“Isabel,” she said, placing a small tape recorder on the table. “It’s time to talk about what happened. Start from the beginning, the moment you arrived back at your trailer.”

She nodded, anxious to set things straight and to get Aidan out of there. Rick Stanton was the one who belonged in a jail cell. Methodically, she took the officer through the events of the evening, her voice deliberate and rational, as if it had happened to someone else. Calm had always driven Isabel’s comfort zone, serving her well as she relayed the details. She told the officer that Stanton was on his way to raping her, and that Aidan arrived just in time. Isabel spoke about the gun and how Rick Stanton was going to shoot Aidan. Purposefully, she used her steadiest tone, explaining how they wrestled for it and how it fired into the wall. She insisted it was an accident, but that was a small lie and the only part she stumbled through. For a split second, Aidan did have the gun in his hand. She saw it. Anger, frustration, an accident, one of them made him squeeze the trigger. “After it fired, Aidan threw the gun across the room. He, um, he hit Stanton . . . again,” she admitted, acknowledging Aidan’s bloodied hands, which she could not hide.

As she came to the last sentence, Officer Denton kept up, jotting notes on a clipboard that Isabel couldn’t see. She took a long breath, staring across the table. Her doughy face and a mouth that was bordered by several chins were expressionless; tiny blue eyes scanned hers. “You tell that story very calmly. Most young women allegedly attacked by their mother’s boyfriend aren’t as poised.” A fervent nod stopped, Isabel realizing that composure was working against her. Eyes on the running recorder, she wanted to ask if they could start again. Perhaps a hysterical state of mind wouldn’t have led to the word
allegedly
. “I’ll be honest with you, Isabel. With the exception of Aidan’s physical attack, your story doesn’t square with Mr. Stanton’s version.”

“His version?”

“Yes, the moment Rick Stanton regained consciousness he told us what happened. In fact, he’s already made a statement to the district attorney. Isabel, it’s imperative that you tell the truth.”

“But I just told you . . . Wait. What, exactly, did Rick Stanton say?”

She flipped up a page from her clipboard, paraphrasing, “Rick Stanton states that he’d gone out to run an errand at one of his dealerships. He returned a short while later and found Aidan Roycroft attacking you.” Isabel’s body stiffened against the chair as
allegedly
came clear. “Mr. Stanton said that when he came to your aid, Aidan turned on him.”

Her head shook rapidly, faster than she could get the words out of her mouth. “That’s not what happened! Not at all. He’s lying! I told you what happened. Aidan will tell you the same thing!”

“Isabel, please, we are professionals. We’re trained to see through situations like this. The fact is that the two of you were found together at the old Kessler farm, a place where Aidan had ample time to coerce you into cooperating.” Her robust shoulders shrugged. “It’s a classic scenario, a girl who’ll do anything because she’s obsessed with a guy—even after he attacks her. I’ve seen it a hundred times. Consider this an early intervention. Usually, I conduct this interview from the ICU ward when the victim has finally, mercifully, wised up to the abuse. Don’t be one of them, Isabel.”

And she couldn’t calculate the number of stings associated with that. “I am
not
one of them.”

“If you say so,” Denton said, her patronizing tone based on what she perceived as impaired judgment. “But it doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to grasp that you’d lie for Aidan.”

“Okay, how about you grasp some common sense.”

“A smart mouth won’t get you anywhere,” she snapped. “If this were a simple assault charge, our conversation might not be so serious. But we’re talking about attempted murder here, a felony offense in the first degree. It’s a very serious charge. Get your mind around it, girlfriend. We’re talking about one of Catswallow’s most prominent citizens, a man running for public office, possibly paralyzed for the rest of his life.”

Isabel rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? You want me to believe that a wicked right cross left Rick Stanton paralyzed?”

She plunked the clipboard onto the table, her stubby fingers folding. “No, of course not. The beating only left him bloodied and bruised . . . toothless. It’s the bullet Aidan Roycroft put in his spine that will be responsible for that—as if you didn’t know.”

Isabel’s body jerked into the metal edge of the table. “A bullet? How did a bullet . . . What are you talking about?”

“Ah, so now you’re going to play dumb. Isabel, we know that Aidan shot Rick Stanton point-blank.”

“Aidan did what?” Isabel’s mouth dropped open as the accusation rang in her head. “They wrestled for the gun and it fired—into the wall! I told you that!” she said, pointing to the tape recorder. “Okay, maybe Aidan had the gun for a second, but he—”

“Ah, the story shifts again.” She picked up the clipboard, making a fresh note. “At least we’re making progress. Interestingly, not even Roycroft has denied shooting Mr. Stanton.” Her voice was calm while Isabel’s skipped toward hysteria.

“Aidan confessed to shooting Rick?” And suddenly Isabel wondered if any of them were in the same room.

“No, currently he’s exercising his Miranda warning,” she said, sounding sure a confession was forthcoming. “But he hasn’t denied it. Aidan Roycroft is not putting up the vigilant protest you are.”

Her eyes closed, thinking back.
Yes, Aidan had the gun. It was in his hand. I admit that. He fired it . . . Into the wall!
They opened, focusing on the tabletop.
Maybe I only thought the bullet hit the wall . . . maybe . . .
Isabel’s gaze shifted onto the officer.
I know what I saw . . .
Aidan shot faux-wood paneling, not Rick Stanton. So why wasn’t Aidan screaming as much from his jail cell? “Aidan hasn’t denied it?” she repeated, utter confusion settling over her.

“No, he hasn’t. Think it through, Isabel. You might want to get your story straight before your mother arrives. She was at the hospital when they brought Mr. Stanton in, but I understand she’s on her way here.”

“My mother . . .” It explained her absence, also telling Isabel what version she’d already heard.
Isabel was unsure if she’d convince Rick’s girlfriend of hers.

“Be reasonable. Let’s do this the easy way. You haven’t been charged with a crime. Not yet.” She shut off the tape recorder. “Wasn’t it more like this: Rick returned from his errand to find Aidan assaulting you. Fill in the backstory, Isabel. Perhaps it began friendly enough between you and Aidan. Then you changed your mind. You told him no. But Aidan didn’t take kindly to your rejection. Mr. Stanton attempted to intervene, and in that effort drew his weapon. Then,” she stated with a certainty that said she
was
in the room, “Aidan went berserk and attacked him. In his frenzy, he managed to get the gun away from Mr. Stanton and . . .” Her burly arms rose upward. “The rest seems clear to me. In addition to beating him senseless, Aidan Roycroft shot a defenseless man.”

“Listen to me,” Isabel said, palms pressing down on the table. “I know what happened in that trailer. The bullet in the wall will prove it.”

“We found the bullet in the wall.
After
finding the one in Mr. Stanton. The first shot hit the wall, the second hit Stanton. Isn’t that what happened, Isabel?”

“That’s not what happened. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Aidan is being charged with attempted murder. As soon as you decide to wise up and cooperate, we’ll be adding attempted rape to those charges, maybe kidnapping.”

“Attempted rape? Kidnapping? That’s insane! Aidan didn’t—”

“Isabel, don’t make false statements to protect him. You can go to jail for that. You will go to jail for it. Girls like you . . .” There was hesitation, Officer Denton looking Isabel over as if she was decidedly
one of them
. “You’re all so easily swayed. Get a clue. Don’t let him use you like this.”

“Use me—” She leapt from the chair, fingers digging through tresses of sticky hair. Isabel’s brow crinkled so tight she thought her head might turn inside out. She looked between the door and Officer Denton, unable to explain any of it. “I have no idea how Rick Stanton ended up with a bullet in him, but Aidan didn’t do it!”

From her seat at the table, the officer’s gaze settled on the torn bodice. “Okay, Isabel. We’ll go with that for the moment. Sit down here and tell me how your dress ended up in that condition.” She turned the tape recorder back on.

“Fine with me.” She sat hard in the chair, ready to drive home her point.

“Explain how Aidan isn’t responsible. Explain it to me especially after what you told the clerk in the convenience store.”

“Clerk in the conven—”

“Tell me about your conversation with him,” Officer Denton said coaxingly, her tone saying she knew the whole story.

“The clerk.”

“Yes, Isabel, the clerk.” She blinked wide, staring. “And don’t bother denying that you were there, we have it on video. Aidan concurred. The clerk described your appearance in detail. The torn dress, the red mark on your face.” Isabel’s hand rose, wondering if it had faded. “And the bruises on your wrist.”

She peered down, splotches of red that were already turning purplish black. They were definitely there, but they didn’t name her attacker. Things had spiraled so far out of control, Isabel wasn’t sure if Aidan had a prayer.

Officer Denton pushed the tape recorder closer. “What did the clerk ask you, Isabel? What did you say in return?”

Isabel closed her eyes, picturing Aidan and reaching for the safe haven that was not anywhere in the room. “First . . . first I asked if they had any ice. I couldn’t find it. Then the clerk asked if I was all right.” Deadpan, the rest of the statement was devoid of emotion and surely matched the clerk’s. “He saw my cheek; he whistled. He asked if I’d been to the gala or a boxing match. Then the clerk said that the ice machine was broken. He, um, he suggested frozen peas.”

“And?”

“He was nosy,” she said, wanting to make it clear the man’s query was about the sordid details, not her welfare. “He wanted to know if I’d been in a wreck or if somebody did this to me.”

“And your reply was what?”

“I don’t remember.” She pulled in a long breath. “I said I got into a little scuffle.”

“And what did he ask next?”

Isabel’s head tipped back as tears slid down her face. “He pointed out the window of the store wanting to know if the guy in the truck,
my boyfriend,
did it.”

“And what was your answer? What did you tell the man?”

“I wanted to get out of there! I didn’t want to have a discussion with some meaningless store clerk about how or why . . .”