The Next Accident

  “Rainie, I liked waking up with you by my side.”

  Her hands finally came to rest in front of her. She gave him a sideways glance. “I kind of . . . I kind of liked it, too.”

  “I didn’t snore?” He couldn’t help himself. He took a step forward. She didn’t move back.

  “You didn’t snore,” she said.

  “No tossing and turning, stealing covers, keeping you awake all night?” He kept approaching. She still didn’t move back.

  “Actually, you were rather cuddly. For a fed.”

  He was now only an inch away from her. His nerve endings had flared to life. He could smell the faint scent of her soap, the apple-ish fragrance of her shampoo. He could see every nuance of her face, the direct line of her gaze, the firm resolve of her lips, the way her chin was up as if preparing for a fight. Now was not the time, he reminded himself. Carl Mitz could call at any moment. The world could end.

  He wanted to touch her so badly, his fingertips burned. She challenged him. She pushed him. And more than all that . . . She made him dream of white-hot sands when for so long he’d been a shell of a man, methodically analyzing humanity and sacrificing his own somewhere along the way.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.

  “Bad things happen, Quince. Someone I respect explained it to me once. We can’t stop all the bad things in the world. We can simply try to enjoy the good.”

  “If I lost you . . .”

  “You would get on with life,” she said bluntly. “So would I. We’re practical people, Quincy. And we’re tough, and we’re going to make it through this. Now stop talking. Stop thinking, stop analyzing, dammit, and kiss me.”

  He obliged.

  His first touch was light. In spite of her bold words, he knew she was nervous. He could feel the tension in her spine as his hand settled on the small of her back. He could feel the finite hesitation as she tilted back her head and offered her lips. She expected him to dive right in, and she had steeled herself for the attack. He wasn’t interested in a stoic or a martyr, however. He understood her history. Sex for Rainie had been about pain and punishment. Even if she thought it would be easier that way, he wasn’t going to rush.

  He brushed the corner of her mouth with his lips. He raised his left hand, and feathered back her hair. Her eyes were squeezed shut. He ran the ball of his thumb over her silky eyelashes.

  “That tickles,” she murmured.

  He smiled. “Open your eyes, Rainie. Look at me. Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

  She opened her eyes. The gray depths were wide, translucent. He had never seen eyes quite like hers, the color of smoky, midnight skies. He bent lower, his gaze still locked on hers, and kissed her left cheekbone.

  “Have I ever told you how much I love your profile?” he murmured. “Such a stubborn jaw and then these dramatic cheekbones . . .”

  “I look like a Picasso painting,” she said.

  “Rainie, you’re the most beautiful woman I know.” His lips came down and found her mouth. This time her gasp was unmistakable. Her spine relented. Her hands curved round his head. Her hips connected with his.

  She had full lips, he’d appreciated that the first time he’d seen her. And he’d been struck by the dichotomy of her hard-boned face coupled with an undeniably sinful mouth. Men dreamed about lips like these. Men paid money, wrote sonnets, and sold their souls for lips like these. She should never have gone thirty-two years without appreciating her own sexuality, he thought. And he was honored that she trusted him with it now.

  She shifted restlessly. He felt the faint gyration of her body through his hand on her waist. He took that as a signal to move lower, his lips feathering across her jawline, then down the long, smooth column of her throat. Her breathing quickened. He felt her pulse flutter beneath the tip of his tongue.

  “Tell me a story,” he whispered as he dipped his head into the V of her soft chambray shirt and inhaled the fragrance of her skin.

  “I can’t . . . talk.”

  “I don’t want you remembering, Rainie. I want you in this moment with me.” He picked up her left hand and placed her palm on his chest, where he knew his heart was racing. “Talk to me about anything you wish. You talk. I’ll touch.” His lips returned to her throat.

  “Mmmmm, when I was a little girl”—her voice was husky—“I was . . . going to be . . . a gymnast. An Olympic athlete. Mmmm hmmmm.”

  “You have an athlete’s body.” He ran his hand down her side, appreciating the taut feel of her form. She was a runner, like him. He had a sudden image of their long, naked limbs intertwined on white cotton sheets and had to catch himself. Breathe deep. Take it slow.

  “Did you take lessons?” he asked softly, his fingers finding the first button of her shirt and slipping it free.

  “Lessons?”

  “Gymnastics.”

  “Mmmmm . . .”

  He kissed the base of her throat.

  “No . . .”

  “Watch competitions?” His lips whispered across her collarbone while his leg slipped between hers, supporting her weight and simultaneously making her gasp.

  “I watched . . . the Olympics. . . .”

  “The Olympics are good,” he said. He undid the final button on her shirt. The sides fell open. She shivered as the cooler air hit her skin, but didn’t protest.

  “Nadia Comaneci is my favorite,” he said casually. He slid his hands inside her shirt. Her skin was warm and silky, stretched taut over her abdomen, tight around her waist. He stroked her sides, and she shifted restlessly against him.

  “Favorite what?” she mumbled.

  “Gymnast.”

  “Oh yeah . . . that. Mmmmm.”

  He didn’t take off her shirt. Instead, he resumed kissing her mouth, which was opening now, meeting his own advance, and beginning to counter. He trailed more kisses along her jaw, then nuzzled the curve of her ear. Her head turned. She drew him back to her lips, her hips moving faster against his leg, her tongue finally, tentatively, wrapping around his own.

  His hands stroked up her spine. They found the clasp of her simple white bra. He let it go, and the undergarment sagged forward.

  “I thought you were supposed to do that with one hand,” Rainie whispered against his lips.

  “I’m out of practice. Remind me next time, and I’ll show off.”

  “Quincy?” she said softly. “Maybe . . . maybe we should move to the bed.”

  He didn’t need a second invitation. He scooped her up in his arms and headed for the queen-sized bed. At the last moment, he tripped over her shoes. They went down in a tangle of limbs, but managed to land on the down-covered bed. The comforter puffed up. The pillows went poof. Rainie laughed breathlessly. And Quincy found his face between her half-covered breasts. He had to kiss one, then the other. Then his mouth was on her nipple and far from pushing him away, her hands were urging him closer.

  “Gymnastics,” she was murmuring. “In this moment. Gymnastics, floor routines, balance beams. Quincy . . .”

  Her sigh undid him all over again. He wanted bare skin against bare skin, moan meeting moan. No rush, take it slow. If he didn’t get his shirt off now, he was going to die.

  He got his shirt off. He stripped off her loose top and dangling bra, then somehow he was on his back and she was on top of him, her pale white breasts pressed against the tanned expanse of his chest.

  “I’m not thinking about the Olympics anymore,” she whispered.

  “What?” he muttered thickly.

  “Exactly.” She’d found the scar on his left shoulder. She kissed it. Then the small pucker down his arm. The other above his collarbone. “Who did this?”

  “Jim Beckett.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “His ex-wife did.”

  “I like her.” Her head trailed down. She rained tiny kisses across his rib cage, down to his abdomen, and he sucked in his breath sharply. Her hair tickled him. The good kind of tickle. God, she was killing h
im.

  “Quincy,” she said solemnly, “I don’t want to be like my mother.”

  “You’re not like your mother.”

  “Night after night. Guy after guy.”

  “If there’s a new guy tomorrow night, I’ll shoot him.”

  “All right then.”

  “Rainie?”

  She placed a finger over his lips. “Don’t say it,” she murmured. “Save something for afterwards.”

  She slid off her jeans. She helped him shimmy out of his pants. Then she was on her back and he was poised above her. Her legs parted. Her hips lifted. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face, filled with both delicate hope and grim resolution.

  “Rainie,” he whispered. “It’s all right to enjoy life.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Neither do I. We’ll learn together.”

  Her legs wrapped around his. He gritted his teeth and eased in slowly. He tried to be gentle, but immediately, her body stiffened. A spasm moved across her features. He stilled, wanting so badly for it to be good for her, trying so hard to make it good for her. Breathe deep. Don’t rush. And then a heartbeat later, her expression changed. Her body eased, adjusted. Wonder lit up her face. She shifted beneath him. Then again, then again.

  “Easy . . .”

  “Please . . . Now. Please!”

  He bowed his head. He gave himself over to her and the feel of her hands urging his body. No more control. No more thoughts in his head. Rainie’s cries. Rainie’s body. Rainie’s trusting gaze.

  She cried out. Surprised. Ecstatic. He took one moment to enjoy the expression on her face. Then it was too much; he joined her in the dark, shuddering abyss.

  Afterwards, Rainie fell asleep first. Quincy thought he would also doze, but found himself wide awake. The white down comforter was tangled around them. Sun streamed through the bank of windows. He lay on his back with Rainie’s head resting upon his shoulder and her arm across his stomach. From time to time, he trailed his fingers down the bare curve of her shoulder and enjoyed the feel of her snuggling close.

  He marveled at the sight of her sleeping. Her dark mahogany hair tousled around her pale face. Her long eyelashes like dark smudges against her cheeks. Her shell-pink lips slightly parted, as they uttered small, whispery breaths. Half woman, half child. All his.

  His fingers brushed her arm again. She murmured something softly in her sleep.

  “I’ll never hurt you, Rainie,” Quincy said quietly. Then his gaze went to the phone, which he knew would ring shortly. Back to the hunt, back to a psychopath’s killing game.

  He thought of his daughter, young and proud, sitting in a hotel room right now, diligently scouring financial records. He thought of Rainie, the tilt of her chin, the way she sparked a room just by sauntering through the door. He thought of himself, older, wiser, and determined to learn from his mistakes.

  He reached a conclusion. Time to stop mourning the things he had lost. Time to start fighting for what he had left.

  31

  The Olsen Residence, Virginia

  The chocolates arrived shortly after 3 P.M., marked for special Saturday delivery and borne up the steps by a bouncing, brown-suited UPS man with gorgeous hazel eyes. Mary signed for the chocolates, gave the man a wink, and felt even better when he blushed. She took the plain delivery box inside and eagerly opened it. A small dark green box sat nestled in a sea of gold foil paper. Not Godiva; she didn’t recognize the name on the label.

  She opened the inside box, and was immediately struck by the scent of bittersweet chocolate and almonds. Twelve truffles, she saw, four rows of three. Each one dusted in cocoa powder and topped with a candied nut. Beautiful box, beautiful truffles. She wondered if PIs got the munchies.

  She put the lid back on while consulting her reflection in the mirror. The dark shadows beneath her eyes were now coated with a heavy layer of makeup. A pink silk cardigan covered her bruised arms. Hot rollers had done wonders with her hair. She looked fine, better than fine, actually. She looked lovely. The perfect doctor’s wife, swathed in layers of Pepto-Bismol pink.

  “Here goes nothing,” she told her reflection. Then she grabbed the box of chocolates and headed out the door.

  True to her lover’s word, she found a silver hatchback two driveways down with a well-dressed black man sitting in the front. He appeared to be studying a road map. The minute he made eye contact with Mary, however, his gaze dashed frantically from side to side. She marched right up to the driver’s side and rapped on the window.

  “Howdy, darlin’,” he said immediately, rolling down the glass. “I was hoping someone like you would come along. I have no idea where I am and could sure use some help.” He held up the wrinkled map and flashed a helpless grin. She noticed, however, that his left foot was furiously kicking something beneath the driver’s seat. Probably his surveillance camera.

  “I know you’re a private investigator,” she said.

  “I’m telling you, ma’am, you get on these windy back roads and suddenly everything looks alike—”

  “Especially when you’re seeing the same road for the second day in a row. May I?”

  She gestured to the empty passenger seat. He blanched. “Now darlin’, if you could just point out the quickest way to I-95 . . .”

  “Fine, I’ll show it to you on the map.” She came around the front and climbed into the car before he could utter further protest.

  Inside, the air was stifling. The cloth-covered seat pressed her dress uncomfortably against her skin; the dash was warm to the touch. Belatedly, she realized that she should’ve brought iced tea or lemonade. God knows who’d want candy in the middle of this kind of heat. Live and learn, she thought, and resolutely held up the green-wrapped box.

  “I thought you might want a snack,” she said, “so I brought you something.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “I’m not an idiot. Please don’t treat me like one. And for God’s sake, it’s only a box of chocolates.”

  “Chocolates?” The investigator’s voice picked up in spite of himself. He shot her another wary look, then took the box from her hands. The minute he opened it, however, the odor of chocolate and almonds overwhelmed the tiny space. Too sweet, too strong for this kind of heat. He closed up the box immediately. Even she was grateful.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said politely. “I confess I have a bit of a sweet tooth, but maybe I’ll pass for now. I had a big lunch.” He stuck the green-wrapped box on the dashboard. They both stared at it.

  “I’m Mary Olsen,” she said finally, sticking out her hand, “but then, you must know that.”

  The man didn’t seem to know what to do. “Phil de Beers.”

  “You work for my husband.”

  “Darlin’, I’m just a man having a very bad day.” He sighed heavily.

  “My husband doesn’t like me much,” Mary volunteered. “When we first met, I was a lowly waitress, and boy was I flattered to meet him. He’s a world-renowned neurosurgeon, you know. He saves lives, he helps young children. I’m very proud of his job.”

  Phil de Beers nodded miserably.

  “When he asked me to marry him,” she continued, “I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. I didn’t understand then, what it was he wanted. I didn’t understand that he didn’t like the way I dressed or talked or acted. I guess I was a little naïve, Mr. de Beers. I thought my husband asked me to marry him because he loved me.”

  “I am so lost,” de Beers said, and this time, he might have been telling the truth.

  “He thinks I’m cheating on him, doesn’t he?” Mary said. She turned in her seat, looking the man in the eye. “He thinks I’m sneaking around, dating other men behind his back. Why? Because he leaves me alone all the time? Because he’s cut me off from my family and friends? I have no job, sir. No life, no hobbies, nothing to do but flit around some big ol’ empty house waitin’ for my big ol’ doctor husband to come home. Or did he tell you everything?”

 
She let the pink silk cardigan slip from her shoulder. De Beers’s gaze fell immediately to the darkening bruise. His lips tightened, a muscle twitched in his jaw. Surely he felt sorry for her now. They could be allies. She, not her husband, would win. De Beers didn’t say anything, though. The silence dragged out, then grew unbearable. Mary turned away, feeling suddenly desolate and overexposed. She pulled back up her cardigan and buttoned it around her neck.

  “Maybe . . . maybe I’ll have one of those chocolates now,” she said in a small voice.

  He handed her the box. She took it without looking at him. And then she knew she had him.

  “You must have a chocolate, too,” she said briskly. “I won’t feel so guilty if I’m sharing the box with you.” She handed him a truffle, took one for herself, and then returned the box to the dash. He couldn’t back out now. Welcome to southern courtesy. She held up her truffle. He had no choice but to do the same. “Cheers,” she told him. She popped the chocolate into her mouth. A moment later, Phil de Beers reluctantly followed suit.

  She steeled herself for the taste of chemicals or something related to laxatives. It never came. The chocolate was nice—soft and freshly made, melting on her tongue. It was definitely flavored, some kind of liquor maybe, mixed with dark chocolate and almonds. Not bad. She swallowed the candy down, feeling encouraged.

  De Beers had also eaten his, but now he was frowning. “Who makes these?”

  “They’re good, aren’t they? Want another?”

  “It’s . . . strong.”

  She nodded brightly, reaching for the box again, when she became aware of a slight burning sensation on her tongue. Her heartbeat tripled, her cheeks flushed. Suddenly, the car spun sickeningly, and she grabbed the dash for balance.

  Across from her, Phil de Beers began to pant. As she watched, sweat burst from his pores. His dark eyes dilated, grew huge.

  “Jesus, woman, what’s in these things?”

  She tried to answer, but her throat had caught on fire and she could feel moisture flecking across her face. Oh God, she was foaming at the mouth. Why? How? So dizzy. Not good. Not good.