With Her Last Breath (14 page)

A car slid by, hard rock blaring in the night, then dying. Maggie looked off into the night, holding her bitter suspicions away from him. “Did you have sex with her? Did you pay her?”

That she should question his motives and his honor raised Nick’s temper just that notch. He was passionate about his wines and his family and little else, except this woman. “What’s it to you?”

That locket was in her fist and shadows swept across her face. She turned to watch moths circling the back porch light, drawn irresistibly to the glass fixture’s enclosure, which would be their death. “I’ve seen it all before. Man takes a young girl, tries to mold her into something she isn’t. Painful for the girl, destructive. Sometimes he moves on. Sometimes the girl doesn’t know who she really is when it’s over.”

Nick’s head went back as if he’d been slapped. “What gives with you? What do you think I am?”

She sighed tiredly, as if she had just run through scenes that disgusted her. “I think you miss your wife. Don’t ask Beth to replace her.”

“What are you asking Beth to replace for you?” He hadn’t meant to ask the question nettling him, but there it was, stark and cutting in the air between them. “Who is it that you’re missing, that you see in Beth?”

Maggie paled, and her hand gripped that locket.

“And whatever you feel, it’s tied up with that locket. I said I’d listen and I will, but don’t start throwing accusations at me that aren’t true.”

Nick had reached his limits. He tugged Maggie into his arms and held her, despite her struggles. “Give it up, will you, Maggie? I’m not whoever you’re fighting, whatever he’s done to you.”

“You haven’t answered me,” she said breathlessly as she blew a strand of hair from her cheek.

Maggie wasn’t giving up until she had her answers, defining what ran between Nick and Beth, and he sensed that she would fight more fiercely for her friend than for herself.

“I never touched Beth, not in that way. I tried to help her. Yes, I gave her money. Beth was thinking of leaving Blanchefleur, of taking work on the docks in the city. She deserved better, but it didn’t work out. She disappeared for a few days when she tried to find her mother. She came back looking like she’d been to hell. Her mother never wanted to see her again. But Beth did what she had to do. I get the feeling she’s a lot like you in that. End of money. End of story.”

He’d given Beth a full mortgage payment, saved from money he’d earned moonlighting for another winery, and then he’d asked the bank for an extension, working until he dropped to make double payments. Because Beth was worth it. Because evidently Maggie thought so, too—enough to leave her safe, quiet, lonesome harbor and come out swinging for her friend.

Maggie was studying him again, this time intently, searching his face as her hands spread on his chest. “I never touched her, Maggie,” he repeated more softly. “Not in that way. I haven’t wanted a woman for a long time. And I’m sorry someone hurt you.”

Her expression changed, softened, and her smile was slow and shy. “Nice party.”

He could have held her like that forever, enjoying the night and the softness against him. Her scent was that of spring, when the blooms filled the vines, the promises of sweetness and depth and tomorrows—

He could have held Maggie closer, kissed her to find the hunger he knew she controlled, freeing it.

Instead, Nick savored this soft trusting from her, that rare, shy smile of the woman inside. He released her, then slowly smoothed her hair, enjoying the silky feeling against his skin,
the way it ran through his fingers. “Been working Celeste hard, have you? She was grumbling through her second helping of spaghetti, wondering how much you’d torture her.”

Maggie’s smile changed from shy to impish. “She likes to groan and whine.”

“She does a lot of walking—at odd hours in the night—a slow, thoughtful sort of walk. We’re used to it, but she’s doing it more often since you’ve come to town.”

“She doesn’t like it when I push her, trying to get her heart rate up. She prefers those slow, easy walks, stopping when she wants. They’re not exactly a cardiovascular workout. Maybe she’s just reclaiming herself from me.”

“Now why would anyone want to do that?” Nick asked softly.

She didn’t answer, but that little uneven breath said Maggie understood the sensual undertones of the question. He noted that Maggie’s fingers stayed open on his chest, the easy softness of her body against him.

Against his promises, he leaned down to kiss her, just that brush of flavor that he had to have, the smooth, soft aftertaste to remain with him—

Maggie sighed and moved closer, her lips parting slightly to allow him to taste her. Because Nick couldn’t trust his control, he drew back when he felt the gentle suckle of her mouth, the slight restless movement of her hips. “Let’s go back in, shall we?”

In the shoddy room above a bar, Brent didn’t look at the prostitute as she hurried out the door, her footsteps racing for safety.

Women, he thought, disgusted by their weakness. Automatically, he straightened the room, such as it was, placing his polished shoes neatly next to the door, smoothing the crease in his slacks as they hung over the back of a chair. And always, the pictures in the room had to be straightened.

He lifted the bottle and let the cheap whiskey burn his throat, the hatred of Maggie Chantel burn his mind.

He lined up the glasses provided by the hotel. Three matched and one didn’t. He automatically tossed the unmatched glass into the trash.

Disappear from him, would she?

“Well, Maggie, dear, you left an unpaid bill,” he crooned, licking the bottle he had thoroughly washed, as he planned to taste her skin.

In the cracked mirror, he studied his broken nose, a gift from a strong-arm collector. Of course, he couldn’t repay the loan—because Maggie’s persistent harassment had made him lose everything: money, business, friends who could send fortunes his way.

Friends. The word turned sour on his tongue. They were all gone now, fearing to associate with him, fearing to loan him money, disdainful of his poor fortune.

He hurled the whiskey bottle against the wall, scorning the cheap brew when once he’d had the best.

That’s what he was, the best. And Maggie had ruined him, running from his wrath.

Tacked to the cheap stained wallpaper were pictures of her, because he never wanted to forget. He wanted to fuel his hatred. “Selfish witch. You didn’t even come back to see your nephews. When I find you—”

He paused to draw the hunting knife’s sharp tip down Maggie’s face, glossy and smiling on a brochure. “You won’t be smiling then, will you, honey?” he crooned. “Where are you, baby? Come to Daddy…”

Then, because reality beckoned to him, Brent picked up the telephone and dialed his sister’s number. “Cheryl Ann, I need more money…I am being careful…Don’t make me tell your husband your little secrets, just send the money as usual. And I want to know if you hear anything about Maggie Chantel—What? Hurt her? No, I just want to repay her for something.”

His sister would cooperate, financing his full-time hunt for Maggie. Because Cheryl Ann knew what he was capable of doing.

The hanging line of colorful plastic lanterns someone had strung across the room swayed and Celeste felt the room turning. It was supposed to be a festive night and she tried to push away the slithering, tightening, shadowy coils that came for her. She wanted to resist them, to give herself to the music and life and joy, but the whispers that came as lightly as her cats’ paws wouldn’t release her.

As she leaned against the restaurant’s wall, the flowing purple paisley caftan slid cold as a shroud against her skin.

She took her mind to a spot above the noisy room, above the lanterns. The Alessandros were a caring family. Would they give her a wake? she wondered distantly.

Or would they be giving a wake for one of their own?

Because fainter, less certain danger also stalked the Alessandros. Celeste could feel it pulse around her.

Her fingers pried loose the scarf she’d tied at her throat, a frivolous last-minute addition. It was red paisley and silk, her favorite. She’d always loved scarves long enough to flow the length of her caftan, circle her throat, and glide down her back. Vanity, perhaps, but they seemed to make her more slender.

Now, her scarf seemed almost alive, choking her.

She watched Nick and Maggie rejoin the lively crowd, and there was a softness about Maggie that hadn’t been there, a relaxing of those taut shields. What was her past, and how did her trail lead death to Celeste?

Or to Beth? What kindled warm and sweet within Maggie as she looked at Beth? What ran between them, the bond so close to love? Would that deadly trail lead to Beth?

Or perhaps to Maggie, Celeste added sadly, as another dark wave slithered over her. She would have to wait, to know more, because tonight it seemed as if Maggie had forgotten whatever haunted her.

Outside on the street, a car prowled over the cobblestones. Lorna’s Lincoln was easily recognizable. Celeste circled the wealthy, spoiled woman, hovering uninvited outside the
restaurant. Lorna wanted Nick, and he was too smart for her games. Or did she really want someone else, someone who wouldn’t play her games?

Vinnie, Nick’s cousin, watched the car from the window and quietly lifted his glass in a mocking toast to Lorna. Framed by shadows, her face was rigid and pale, then the Lincoln shot into the night.

Celeste saw inside Lorna’s bitter, lonely anguish. She was terribly lonesome and covered her scars with brusque attacks. Her father had demanded too much from her, withholding his affection until he’d fashioned her into a seemingly emotionless female shark. Then he’d manuevered, rather sold, her into two consecutive bloodless marriages.

Lorna was doing the best she could, and beneath that brittle exterior, she was just a woman wanting someone to love. Love lay within her like a shriveled bud, waiting for sunshine and nourishment.

Celeste watched Maggie take a glass of wine from Nick, their eyes meeting over the rim. His hand reached to smooth her hair, and Maggie’s smile at him was shy.

Oh, Maggie, I want so for you to live, for you to be happy…please, please let me see…

But the images wouldn’t come, because Celeste saw flashing pictures of what happened before the victim’s death, and the only death she could predict for certain now was her own, and Maggie had brought it to her.

Did she hate Maggie for that? No, it was only as fate would have it. Celeste needed answers, and Maggie couldn’t give them to her—because Maggie didn’t know….

Nick damned himself for the need he couldn’t help, and knocked on Maggie’s camper door. He’d stayed to clean up after the aniversary party and should have gone straight home, but the ache to see Maggie again was too strong. She’d been so relaxed, laughing at Dante’s jokes.

Dante needed to lay off, Nick thought darkly, because when it came to Maggie, he was very selfish.

Inside the camper, Scout barked excitedly and Nick answered Maggie’s cautious “Who is it?”

She opened the door slightly and Nick fought reaching for her. She’d relaxed tonight, leaned slightly against him, the soft curves had stayed with him. Nick reached down to pet Scout. “I forgot something.”

The door opened wider and the light behind her created a halo of reddish soft hair, the towel she held in front of her shielding the over-large T-shirt. Her bare legs were slender and long and gleaming smooth—

Inwardly Nick groaned, because he wanted to run his hands over those legs and upward and over and in; he wanted to be the cause of those soft crooning sounds she’d made in the shower.

“What did you forget?”

“This,” he said, giving way to his need to feel her against him. Nick moved very slowly so as not to frighten her. He placed his hands on Maggie’s shoulders, sliding them down her arms, and gently enfolded her hands with his. The towel dropped to her feet, and Maggie stood still, watching him.

Nick studied the fit of their hands, the way the bones felt strong and lasting beneath the skin softer than his. They were good hands, callused and unpampered, smaller than his, the palms more square.

“Enjoyed yourself tonight, did you?” he asked as he brought her hands to his mouth, cruising his parted lips over her knuckles.

Her yes held just the right amount of breathlessness to stir him on, not too fast, he cautioned, but enough to satisfy just that bit.

Nick turned her hands, opened them, and placed his face within their cradle, wanting her to feel inside him, to trust him. “I did, too.”

“You’re not coming in,” Maggie said huskily.

He’d needed that, to know that she hungered for him and recognized his own hunger. Nick slowly looked down her
body, the curved silhouette, the flaring of her hips revealed by the light behind her. “No, I’m not.”

With a tug, he brought her out of the doorway, catching her against him, holding her feet off the ground. It was enough for now, he thought, as her eyes darkened and her arms loosely rested on his shoulders.

He closed his eyes, pleasured by her fingers slowly toying with his hair, one prowling around his ear. Her fingertips skimmed his brows, his lashes, his cheekbones, and slid down his nose. The curiosity was there, the woman testing him each step, wanting to be certain of him.

When they trailed over his lips, he kissed them and settled into a sense of well-being. The late spring night was fragrant and new, and he was with the woman he wanted.

“You’re a lonely man, Nicholas Alessandro. I can’t be her.”

“Did I ask you?”

Her lips brushed his so lightly he feared they hadn’t. “I’m not lonely. I’ve been too busy trying to survive.”

“Mmm,” his tone was all male appreciation.

Maggie smiled against his lips. “Your hands are wandering.”

He moved her slightly against his body, already hard and aching. “I’m just testing your muscle density. You’re in good shape. You feel so good. I wonder if I need a private trainer.”

“You can let me down now, and there’s not an ounce of flab on you and you know it.”