"Why didn't you just talk to me?" Dillon asked in the same quiet voice.
"Who could talk to you?" Don demanded bitterly. "Your watchdog wouldn't let anyone near you. You have him so well trained he practically has the Great Wall of China surrounding the island." He held up his hand to prevent Dillon from speaking. "You don't have to defend him, I know he's protective and even why. I needed the band back and I felt hopeless so I sent you a stupid letter and followed it with a couple of others. Obviously you weren't very worried because you didn't respond."
"I didn't give a damn," Dillon admitted.
"There's no excuse for what I've done," Don announced, "so I'm ready to go to jail. I'll confess everything to the cops."
Dillon looked so helpless, Jessica put her arms around him. "Did you talk to my mother about this?" She couldn't see Don sneaking around her mother's car, fraying the brake lines. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. If she felt so lost, with the ground shifting out from under her, how must Dillon feel?
"Hell no, she would have boxed my ears," Don said emphatically. "Why would I do a dumb thing like that?"
"You're drunker than you think you are, Don," Dillon said, "go sleep it off. We'll talk about this later." He had absolutely no idea what he was going to say when they talked. He almost felt like laughing hysterically.
Jessica pressed her hand to her stomach as Dillon closed the door. "I feel sick," she announced before he could speak and raced for the bathroom.
chapter
12
"COME ON, BRENDA, you have to come with us," Tara wheedled. "It will be fun."
"Are you certain you're feeling better? You were so sick this morning. I almost made Robert get Paul to bring in a helicopter to transport you to the hospital. And now you're jumping around like nothing happened."
Jessica looked up alertly. Everyone had gathered in the kitchen, sleeping late as usual so that it was early evening. "Tara was sick this morning? Why didn't someone come and get me?"
"Both the children were sick this morning and I handled it just fine, thank you very much," Brenda announced. "Some kind of stomach flu. You know, Jessie, you aren't the only one with maternal instinct. I was a miracle of comfort to them. Not to mention I was being wonderfully helpful and discreet to give you and Dillon time to . . . er . . . work things out."
Trevor made a rude noise, somewhere between a raspberry and a choking cough. "A miracle of comfort? Brenda, you were hanging out the window gagging and calling for smelling salts. Robert didn't know whether to run to you, Tara, or me. The poor guy was cleaning up the floor half the day."
"Robert, you are a true prince," Jessica flashed him a grateful smile. "Thank you for cleaning up after them."
"Just remember it was my good sense to notice him," Brenda took the credit.
Don made a face. "I thought we were working today. I want to finish the recording and see what we have. Do we have to do this now?"
"We're staying up all night working," Paul pointed out. "By the time we get up, most the day is gone and we lose the light we need hunting for the Christmas tree. I say we go now."
Don muttered softly beneath his breath, his gaze studiously avoiding Dillon's.
Jessica frowned, studying the twins. "You both had the stomach flu? I was feeling a bit queasy this morning myself. Did anyone else? Maybe we all ate something bad."
"Brian's pancakes," Brenda said instantly, "ghastly things designed to drive us all mad with monotony. Devoid of all nutrition and basically the worst meal on the face of the earth. And if you ask me, he's trying to poison me." She blew him a kiss, pure glee on her face. "The heinous plot won't work, genius though it might be, because I have a cast-iron stomach."
Brian leapt up out of his chair, nearly knocking it over. "I make pancakes that are works of art, Brenda," he snapped, as if goaded beyond endurance. "I don't see you slaving away in the kitchen for all of us."
"And you won't ever, darling--the very idea makes me shudder," she said complacently. "Trivial things should be left to trivial people."
"The children are fighting again," Jessica pointed out with a soft sigh, leaning into the comfort of Dillon's body. "And as usual, it isn't the twins."
"Tara, are you certain you're feeling well enough to go traipsing around in the woods? It's cold out and the wind is really blowing. There's another storm on the way. If you'd rather curl up here where it's warm, we'll go look and bring you back a tree," Dillon offered. He wrapped his arms around Jessica, uncaring that anyone saw them.
For the first time in years, he felt at peace with himself. There was hope in his life, a reason for his existence. "Jess and Trevor can stay with you, if you'd like."
"No way," Trevor objected. "I'm feeling fine. No one else can pick our tree. We know what we're looking for, don't we, Tara?"
Tara nodded solemnly, wrapping her arm around her brother's waist, her eyes on Jessica. All three smiled in perfect understanding. "We all go," she announced. "We'll know the right tree."
Dillon shrugged. "Sounds fine to me--let's do it then. Anyone who would like to find the tree with us is welcome to come. We can get the tools out of the shed and meet you on the trail." He tugged at Jessica, determined to take her with him. A few minutes alone in the shed was looking good. He hadn't had two minutes to steal a kiss from her.
"Whoa there," Trevor held up his hand. "I'm not sure how safe it is to let our Jessica go to a shed with you, Dad. You have a certain reputation as a Casanova type."
Dillon's eyebrow shot up. "And where would I get a rep like that?"
"Well, for one thing, look at this house. I've been meaning to talk to you about this place. You have weird carvings and things hanging off the eaves. What's that all about? This place looks like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe novel. The men in those books were always up to no good with the ladies." He wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Weird carvings?" Dillon was horrified. "This house is a perfect example of early Gothic and Renaissance architecture combined. You, son, are a cretin. It's a perfect house. Look at the carvings on the corners: winged gargoyles scaling the south side, lions clawing their way up the east side. The detail is fantastic. And every true Gothic and Renaissance man has his secret passageways and moving walls. Where's the fun in a stately mansion? Everyone has one."
"Dad," Tara stated firmly, "it's creepy. Have you ever looked at it at night from the outside? It looks haunted and it looks as if it's staring at you. You're a little bit out there, even if you are my father."
"Treacherous children," Dillon said. "You've been spending far too much time with your aunt. She shares your opinion of my home."
Brenda rolled her eyes heavenward. "Dillon you have things crawling up your house and watching every move one makes outside. I shudder every time I'm in the garden or walking through the grounds. I look up and there something is, staring at me."
"Technically," Brian interrupted, "they watch over the house and the people in it. If you're afraid, it's probably because you have good reason to be." He hitched closer. "Like maybe you're harboring ill will toward those inside."
Jessica crumbled a napkin and pitched it at Brian. "Back off, drummer boy, since Brenda was such a miracle of comfort to my babies, I can't very well let you spout your nonsense. I've always loved Gothic architecture, too. We used to look at all the books together and Dillon would bring home photos from Europe." She winked at Trevor. "I would think those hidden passageways would intrigue you."
Dillon captured her hand and pulled her toward the double doors leading toward the courtyard. "Dress warm you two--we'll meet you on the trail."
Jessica followed him out into the courtyard, ignoring Trevor's taunting whistle. "I don't like it that both of the kids were sick this morning, Dillon," she said. "Yesterday, Tara saw someone watching them when the landslide occurred. She couldn't tell who it was, he or she was wearing a long hooded cape. I saw the same person the night we arrived."
Dillon slowed his pace, pulling he
r closer to him so that she was beneath the protection of his shoulder. "What are you saying, Jess?" He was very careful to keep his tone without expression. "Do you think the landslide was rigged in some way? And the kids didn't have the flu, that someone somehow poisoned them?"
When he said the words, they did sound absurd. Oil on a staircase anyone could slip on. How could one rig a landslide and know the children would be in that exact spot? And she had been sick, too. People got the flu all the time. She sighed. How could she explain the uneasiness she felt? The continual worry that never went away? "Why wouldn't the person wearing the hooded cape help them? Clearly they were in trouble, Tara was screaming her head off."
"I don't know the answer to that, baby, but we'll find out," he assured. "Everyone certainly pitched in and helped to free Trevor. I didn't notice anyone holding back, not even Don."
"Don." Jessica shook her head. "It's hard to like that man. Even after last night, and I did feel sorry for him, I've been struggling to find something good about him."
"I did like him," Dillon answered, frowning slightly. "He was always reserved with me but he always worked hard. There was no looking around for him at the end of the night; he pulled his share of the work and then some. He was steady and I counted on him heavily at times. I had no idea he disliked me so intensely. And I sure didn't know Vivian was sleeping with him. She suggested I go hear him play, but I brought him into the band because he's so talented, not because she asked me." He sighed, raked his hand through his hair. "I don't know anymore, Jess. In the old days, it was all so easy. I never opened my eyes. I just lived my life in blissful ignorance until it all came crashing down." He looked at her, his fingers tightening around hers. "I was so arrogant, so sure that I could make it all work out. The truth is, how can I condemn Don when I've made so many mistakes myself?"
"Do you think it was a member of the band who killed Vivian and Phillip?" she asked carefully.
"No, of course not. They had five nutcases up there with them that night. All of them were mixing drugs and alcohol. For all I know, one of them brought a gun in. Someone shot Viv and Trent and maybe the others jumped the shooter, tried to wrestle the gun away and knocked over the drinks and candles. I hope it happened that way. I hope the fire didn't start while I was beating up Trent. It was pretty wild. We knocked tables and lamps over. Maybe a candle hit the floor and no one noticed. I'll never know. The band had no idea what was going on up there. We'd just arrived."
"Why did you come upstairs?" she asked curiously.
"I wanted to check on the kids. Tara was asleep but she didn't have her blanket. I hadn't seen you in so long and I knew you must have gone looking for the thing. I was looking for you," he admitted. "I couldn't wait until morning to see you."
Pleasure rushed through her at his words. "I'm grateful you came looking for me, Dillon," she said softly.
Dillon threw open the door to the shed, flicked on a switch to flood the room with light. "So am I, honey." He couldn't look at her, knowing the fury of that moment was etched into his face. He couldn't look back and not feel it.
Jessica laughed, the sound of her joy dispelling old memories. "I would like to have known about the lights in here yesterday."
"Really," his eyebrow shot up. His voice softened into seduction. "I was just thinking it would have been smarter to keep it dark."
Jessica quirked an eyebrow at him and took a step backward. "You have that wicked look on your face like you're up to something." His expression alone sent heat coursing through her body.
"Wicked? I like that." His hand curled around the nape of her neck, drew her to him. He bent his head to claim her mouth. His lips were firm, soft, tempting. His tongue teased her lower lip, tracing the outline, probing and dancing until she opened to him.
His hand slipped under her jacket and blouse to find bare skin. Her breast pushed into his palm. He tasted the same hunger in her mouth. "Take off your jacket, Jess," he whispered as he reached once more for the light switch, plunging the shed into a murky gray. "Hurry, baby, we don't have much time."
"You can't think we're doing anything in this little shed, outdoors where anyone could find us," she said, but she was shedding her jacket, tossing it aside, wanting the searing heat of his mouth on her breast. Wanting her hands on him. It already seemed far too long.
Dillon watched her unbutton her blouse with breathless anticipation. He watched the richness of her breasts spill into his sight and he slowly let out his breath, his lungs burning for air. She did that to him with her exquisite skin and haunting eyes. "I thought about you while I showered this evening," he confided. "You should have been there with me. I thought about how you tasted and how you feel and how you sound when I'm inside of you." He bent his head to draw her breast into his mouth.
Her body rippled with instant need, with hunger. She laughed softly. "I was with you. As I recall, you did a lot of tasting."
"Are you certain? It wasn't enough, I need more." His hands slipped over her jeans, fumbled with the zipper. "Get rid of these things, you need them off." His teeth nipped at the underside of her breast, returned to the heat of her mouth, kissing her senseless. "I need them off."
"Do you think we have time?" She was already complying, wanting him so much that the stolen moments were as precious as the long all-night session of lovemaking.
"Not for all the things I want to do with you," he whispered against her ear, his tongue probing her frantic pulse. "But enough for what I have in mind. Push my jeans off my hips." The instant his body was free of the confining cloth he breathed a sigh of relief. "Much better. I'm going to lift you up. Put your arms around my neck and wrap your legs around my waist. Are you ready for me?" His fingers were already seeking his answer, probing deep, slipping into her body to find her damp with need.
He buried his face in her neck. "You are so hot, Jess. I love how you want me the same way I want you." Just feeling her dampness hardened his body even more. He took her weight as she put her arms around his neck and lifted her legs to wrap them around his waist. The engorged head of his shaft was pressed tightly to her. Very slowly he lowered her body over his. There was the familiar resistance, her body stretching to receive his fullness. The impression of sliding a sword into a tight sheath left every nerve ending raw. The sensation was building like a firestorm, spreading wilder, hotter, more explosive than ever. It roared through his body like a freight train, through his mind, a crescendo of notes and promises, of half-formed thoughts and needs.
He loved the little anxious sounds escaping her throat, the way she moved her hips to meet his, in a perfect rhythm. Jessica, the completion of his heart.
Jessica lost herself in the hard thrusts of his body into hers, in the fiery heat and sizzling passion that rose up and engulfed her entirely. She threw her head back, riding fast, tightening her muscles around him, gripping and sliding with a friction designed to drive them both up and over the edge quickly.
She couldn't believe herself, the wild wanton ride she took, there in the shed with their disheveled clothes half on and half off. But it didn't matter, nothing mattered but the burst of light and color as she broke into fragments and dissolved, her body rippling with a life of its own. She hung on tightly to Dillon as he thrust hard, repeatedly, his hoarse cry muffled by her shoulder.
They clung, their laughter coming together, a soft, pleased melding as their heart rates slowed to normal and Dillon slowly lowered her feet to the floor. The stolen moments were as precious as gold to both of them. It took a little scrambling and fumbling to adjust their clothing. Jessica couldn't find her slip-on shoes. Dillon distracted her often while she searched, kissing her neck, her fingers, swirling his tongue in her ear. She found one shoe among the pots and the other upside down on top of a bag of potting soil. She picked it up and idly picked out the seaweed caught in the sole.
"I haven't worn these shoes anywhere near the ocean bank. Where did I pick up seaweed?" She slipped the shoes back on her feet and went ba
ck into his arms again, turning up her mouth for his kiss. There was a long silence, while they simply got lost in each other. Dillon trailed kisses down her chin to her throat.
Jessica tilted her head to give him better access and caught a movement outside the small window.
"What's wrong?" Dillon asked, lifting his head reluctantly as he felt her stiffen. "Your neck is so perfect to nibble on--soft and tempting. I could stay here forever. Are you certain we have to get the Christmas tree today?"
"Something moved out there. I think someone is watching us," Jessica whispered. A shiver crept down her spine. Looking through the small window, she strained to see but couldn't spot anyone. It didn't matter. Someone watched them.
Dillon groaned. "Not again. Don had better not make another confession or I might pitch him off the cliff." He stepped past her to the small square window, looked around carefully. "I don't see anyone, baby, maybe it's the gargoyles on the roof."
Jessica could hear the amusement in his voice. Soft, gentle, teasing. She tried to respond, going into his arms, but she couldn't shake the feeling of something sinister staring at them.
"Come on, Jessie," Trevor shouted, breaking them apart immediately. "You two better not be doing anything I don't want to know about, because I'm coming in." There was the briefest of hesitations and then the door was thrust open. Trevor glared at them. "Everyone else was too chicken to come see what you were up to."
"We're looking for the axe," Jessica improvised lamely.
"Oh, really?" Trevor's eyebrow went up, in just the same way as his father's did sometimes. He fit the role of the chastising father figure perfectly. "Do you think this might help?" He flicked the switch so that light permeated every inch of the small building. He glared at his father in disapproval. "In a tool shed?"
"Trevor!" Blushing, Jessica hurried to the back of the shed where she knew the larger tools were kept. As she reached for the axe, she knocked over the large pry bar. Muttering, she picked it up and started to replace it. The dried mud and pine needles stuck on the edge of it caught her eye. She frowned at the tool.