Til Death Do Us Part (39 page)

“Yes, have him call her later,” Beatrice said. “Now, Simon, take her home and see that she eats and gets some rest before you let her come back to this hospital.”

Neither Simon nor Cleo said a word on the elevator ride down to the ground level of the hospital. When the doors opened, Cleo gasped. Sheriff Phil Bacon stood there, waiting for an elevator.

“I was on my way up to talk to y'all,” he said.

“Why don't we go into the coffee bar over there.” Roarke pointed to his left.

The three of them sat down at a small table in the corner. Cleo reached under the table and clutched Roarke's hand.

“Cleo, your private stock of tea was laced with a poisonous substance that your people at McNamara labs tell us was odorless and tasteless, and very deadly.”

She gripped Roarke's hand even more tightly. “How would someone get such a poison?”

“Well, that type of poison, according to your Dr. Hibbett, used to be in rodenticides and stuff like that, but the government banned it years ago.”

“Then how—” Cleo asked.

“There's still some of it around,” Phil Bacon said.

“Do you have any idea where the amount put in Cleo's tea came from?” Roarke squeezed Cleo's hand.

“As a matter of fact, we do. And that's why I needed to talk to you.”

“You found the source of the poison?” Cleo sucked in her breath. “So soon?”

“We did a search of your house and the grounds,” the sheriff told her. “I've had my men out there all night.”

“You found the poison at my house?”

“No, ma'am, we found it in your uncle's greenhouse.”

“What?” Cleo bit down on her bottom lip.

“There was about a fourth of a bag of the stuff in the bottom of the trash. It was an old bag. Someone had wrapped it in a separate plastic bag and covered it with all sorts of debris.”

“Uncle Perry's greenhouse.” Cleo spoke slowly, trying to absorb the meaning of what she'd been told and praying, for Aunt Beatrice's sake, that the most likely suspect wouldn't turn out to be guilty.

M
AY HAD EXPLODED
into fragrant bloom. Springtime flowers and shrubs littered the countryside. Nourished by several days of scattered thundershowers, the lawns were a vibrant green. Cleo hugged herself when she stepped out onto the screened back porch. “‘God's in his heaven and all's right with the world,'” she quoted Browning. A shiver of apprehension quivered along her nerve endings. Despite the fact that Aunt Beatrice was home from the hospital and recuperating nicely, and despite the fact that for the past week absolutely nothing had gone wrong, either at home or at the plant, all was most definitely not right with the world.

Despite the appearance of normalcy, her life was anything but normal. My God, her family's company had been sabotaged, her aunt had nearly died from poisoning and she was paying her hired husband a million dollars to get her pregnant.

And they still didn't know who was trying to kill her!

Regardless of the peace and tranquillity at the house and the smoothly running operations at the plant, Cleo feared that this was all simply the calm before the storm. Even with Morgan Kane and his security force monitoring McNamara Industries seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, Cleo kept waiting for another accident or another computer problem. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And Cleo couldn't remember a time when the Suttons
had been so eager to maintain family harmony. Trey had kept his temper under control and Daphne had refrained from her usual catty remarks. And even Aunt Oralie hadn't acted like a jealous harpy whenever Uncle Perry showed any kindness toward Aunt Beatrice. It seemed highly unnatural to Cleo, and she'd said so to Pearl, who had agreed with her wholeheartedly.

“There's something not right about all this sweetness and light coming from the likes of them,” Pearl had said. “It's like a pit of vipers disguising themselves as a bunch of harmless grub worms.”

Whether it was Aunt Beatrice's near death or the sheriff's questioning of Uncle Perry—which had fallen just short of his arresting him on suspicion of attempted murder—that caused the change in the Suttons, Cleo was uncertain. But one thing she knew for sure—it wouldn't last.

The Suttons were scared. The whole lot of them. And each for his or her own reason. Now that Hugh Winfield was at Daphne's side every moment he wasn't working, Cleo counted him as a Sutton, and equally suspect in the company sabotage and the failed attempts on her life. Six suspects. Three blood related, two relatives by marriage and another a family friend she'd known since childhood.

Coming up behind her, Roarke slipped his arms around his wife and drew her back up against his chest. Leaning into his body, she lapped her arms over his. He kissed the top of her head, then rested his chin in the softness of her hair.

“I'm ready for our ride,” he said. “I haven't been on a horse in years. Not much opportunity in my line of business.”

“You'll be just fine. Riding a horse is like riding a bicycle. Once you learn how, you never forget.” Cleo breathed
deeply, taking in the delicious aroma of the fresh early-morning air and the clean, manly scent of her husband.

“I still think there are better ways to spend a lazy Saturday morning than going horseback riding.” He nuzzled the side of her face.

Giggling, Cleo squirmed out of his arms and turned to face him. Simon Roarke was the only man she'd ever known who could fill her stomach with fluttering butterflies just by looking at her. But then again, she'd never known a man like her husband. Standing here before her, the morning sunshine casting a golden glow on his thick, brown hair and richly tanned skin, Simon was a magnificent sight. His faded blue jeans hugged his lean hips and long legs. She shivered, remembering the feel of wrapping herself around his hips, the pleasure of having those long, hairy legs straddling her.

Lifting her chin, she looked up into his mischievous blue eyes. “I knew you'd wake up with lascivious thoughts on your mind this morning,” she said. “That's why I got up and out of the bedroom before you awoke.”

Roarke grasped her face, cradling her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “What's the matter, honey? Are you getting tired of me already?”

Knowing that he was joking, she tried to keep the smile on her face and think of some similarly jovial response. But her thoughts turned serious. Didn't he realize that she would never grow tired of him, of his passionate lovemaking, of the blissful moments she spent in his arms, possessing him and being possessed by him? Didn't he have any idea how much he'd come to mean to her, how much she wanted him to remain a part of her life, even after she was pregnant, even after she was no longer in danger?

“You're having to think that one over way too long, Cleo Belle. Does that mean—”

Standing on tiptoe, she flung her arms up and around his neck. “It means that I was trying to think of a response as equally silly and ridiculous.” She rubbed against him like a sleek, sensuous cat. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her off her feet, pressing her into his arousal. “I might get tired of you, Mr. Roarke, in about a hundred years or so. But even then, I doubt it.”

“So why didn't we spend the morning upstairs in our bed, making love?” He took her mouth in a hot, hungry kiss and acknowledged her fervent response by lifting her body up higher onto his and deepening the kiss, devouring her with his passion.

She draped her jean-covered legs around his hips, returning his passion in full measure. Her core throbbed against his pulsating sex. She knew, as he did, that only the barrier of their clothes kept them from mating there on the back porch, in broad daylight, where they could be interrupted at any moment.

Roarke reluctantly ended the kiss, realizing full well that this either had to stop or be taken to the limit. He brushed his lips over hers, then whispered against her mouth, “Either we go back upstairs and finish this…or we go riding.”

“I want to do both,” she said tauntingly.

When he began lowering her slowly, she loosened her legs from around his body and allowed him to set her on her feet. “You want to go back upstairs and then go riding later?”

“No, I want to go riding now and finish this out there—” she gazed toward the thickly wooded area to the east of the house “—in a very beautiful, secluded spot I know.”

Roarke grinned. The bottom dropped out of Cleo's stomach.

“You, my darling wife, can be a very diabolical lady.”

“If you say so. But I prefer to think of myself as inventive and adventurous. We haven't made love anywhere except upstairs in our suite. I thought a little variety was called for today. In celebration of a noneventful week.”

“We've had variety,” he told her, his lips twitching in an almost grin. “We've made love in the bed. You on top. Me on top. Side by side. From the edge of the bed. From the front. From the rear. We've made love in the shower, in the tub, on the love seat, in the chairs and even on the desk.”

Cleo smiled broadly. Recalling each and every moment they'd shared, Cleo sighed. Her cheeks flushed a soft, delicate pink. “Yes, I know. But we've never made love outside. Hidden under the trees. With the smell of honeysuckle and wild roses all around us.”

He grabbed her hand. “Come on, woman. What are we waiting for? Let's get down to the stables and saddle up old Paint.”

Hand in hand, Cleo giggling quietly and Roarke grinning from ear to ear, they hurried off the porch, out of the backyard and down the unpaved lane leading to the stables.

“When I was a teenager, Uncle George kept over half a dozen horses stabled here,” she said. “He loved to ride and he enjoyed having mounts for visitors. Of course, I've had my own horse since I was a child, just as Aunt Beatrice has. But now there's only Valentino and Sweet Justice.”

“Let me guess. Valentino belongs to Beatrice and Sweet Justice is yours. Am I right?”

“Aunt Beatrice has had Valentino since he was two years old. He's fourteen now. You won't have any prob
lem handling him. He's a gelding and has a sweet disposition.”

“And Sweet Justice? Don't tell me he's a stallion.”

“Sweet Justice is an Arabian filly. Uncle George gave her to me for my birthday last year. She's barely two years old. She replaced Candy Man, an Arabian I'd been riding most of my life.”

The well-kept stables stood a half mile behind the main house. Willie Ross, whom Cleo had introduced to Roarke the first week of their marriage, met them just as they started to enter the enclosure. The sandy-haired man, with his wide, toothy smile, came out to meet them, walking with a slight limp. Cleo had told Roarke that as a child, Willie had been injured in an automobile accident that had left him physically and mentally impaired. But he was a gentle, loyal man, who had a knack for caring for horses as well as a deep love for animals in general. George McNamara had given him a job when he'd been a teenager and had kept him on at full salary even after he'd sold all but two of the horses. Cleo's uncle had remembered his stable hand in his will, requesting that Willie receive his wages as long as he lived.

“I was expectin' you down this morning, Cleo.”

Willie spoke with a pronounced slur. When he said her name, it came out sounding like Clay-ee-o.

“Got Sweet Justice and old Valentino all saddled up and ready for you and Mr. Roarke.”

“Thank you, Willie.” Cleo patted the thin, frail man's arm. “Mr. Roarke and I plan to be out most of the morning. I'm going to show him some of my secret places.”

“You going to take him over to the Great Mississippi?” Willie's laughter sounded like a grunting chuckle.

When Cleo smiled at him, the stable hand's face came alive with warmth and gentle affection.

“I'm going to show him the Great Mississippi and Sherwood Forest,” Cleo said.

“He'll like 'em both.” Willie looked up at Roarke. “I used to take care of Cleo, watch out for her when she was a little girl and played in Sherwood Forest and swam in the Great Mississippi.”

“Sometimes Willie would play with me,” Cleo said. “He'd be Little John and I'd be Robin Hood. And we used to sail a boat up the Great Mississippi.”

“Sometimes I was Huck and Cleo was Tom, then next time she'd be Huck and I'd be Tom.”

“Sounds like you two had quite a few adventures together,” Roarke said.

“Yes, sir. That we did. Cleo's always been my friend.”

Willie went inside and led Valentino out of his stall and into the stable yard. Roarke noticed a fine mist covering Cleo's eyes. He knew she ached inside with love for Willie and a deep sadness that a man of nearly fifty would forever have a little boy's mind.

The gray gelding Willie led had small, curved ears and large, expressive eyes. Roarke stroked the horse's long, arched neck as he accepted the reins. Valentino was a handsome fellow and obviously pampered. He nudged Roarke's hand.

“What do you want, buddy?” Roarke looked to Willie.

Willie pulled out a small apple from his baggy jacket pocket. “Old Val likes a treat. Whenever Miss Bea rides him, she always gives him an apple.”

Roarke accepted the apple and offered it to Valentino, who took it greedily. Roarke laughed.

Willie rushed back into the stables, soon emerging with Cleo's mount. Sweet Justice was a magnificent specimen, a chestnut filly with a broad, muscular chest and deep girth. With her tail set high, she pranced toward Cleo.

“Here's my girl.” Cleo hugged the beautiful Arabian. “Have you missed me, Sweetie?” The filly nuzzled Cleo's arm. “Yes, well, I've missed you, too.”

Roarke waited for Cleo to mount, watching her graceful ascent. In the morning sunlight her hair shimmered a bright, rich auburn and Sweet Justice's shining coat was almost an exact match. Woman and horse seemed made for each other. Both were noble creatures. Proud, beautiful females. Aristocratic purebreds.

Roarke mounted Valentino and motioned the gelding to follow the filly's lead. Sweet Justice broke into a trot, taking free, straight strides.

“When I called Willie yesterday and told him to have the horses ready this morning, I asked him to give you Uncle George's saddle,” Cleo said. “I thought it only fitting. Since you wouldn't be here in River Bend, wouldn't be married to me, except for Uncle George's will. In a way, as my husband, you're what Uncle George would have called the ‘head of the household' now, and my ‘lord and master.'”

Roarke laughed, trying to imagine anyone being lord and master of Cleopatra Arabelle McNamara Roarke. And the last job on earth he wanted was as head of a household that, until the past week's good behavior, thrived on jealousy, greed and hatred.

When Sweet Justice broke into a gallop, Valentino followed suit. The two Arabians struck a natural pace, floating across the ground with fast, free strides.

During the next hour, Cleo gave Roarke a grand tour of the estate then led him to what she and Willie had always referred to as the “Great Mississippi.” In reality, the body of water was a large creek that bisected the McNamara property in half. But as a child, it had seemed vast,
and had posed a challenge for her and Willie as they had ridden downstream in their old wooden canoe.

Roarke and Cleo slowed the horses. Cleo dismounted. “Well, what do you think?” she asked.

“This is the Great Mississippi?” he asked.

“To an eight-year-old it was,” she told him. “And those woods over there—” she pointed behind them “—were Sherwood Forest.”

“Why were you Robin Hood instead of Maid Marian?” Roarke dismounted.

“Because Robin Hood was the one in charge. He was the one who led the merry men. And as long as I can remember, I've always liked being the boss.”

“Yeah, I can believe that. You're a real bossy butt, Cleo Belle. A lot of men wouldn't find that trait appealing.”