Breanne went inside to get more bottles of water. Shelly would have gone but Breanne insisted, needing a moment alone. In the kitchen, she set the tray on the counter and loaded more water bottles onto it. As she did, her eyes strayed to the cupboard beneath the sink.
Was the towel still there?
Heart in her throat, she nudged the door open with her toe. Yep, bloody towel still in place.
Her stomach lurched sickly, and she considered staggering weakly back to a chair but heard something behind her.
She spun around fast enough to get dizzy but realized the sound had come from beneath her.
Beneath her.
Whirling back, she peeked out the kitchen window. Dante, Patrick, Cooper, and Lariana were there. Shelly, too.
Everyone was outside.
Every single person.
At least every single alive person.
Oh God, don’t go there. This wasn’t the movies. There had to be a perfectly good explanation for that noise, and she was going to find out what. Yes, she was. She grabbed a flashlight, and on second thought, another knife from the butcher block.
Just in case.
Just in case what, she had no idea.
The hallway to the servants’ quarters was going to give her nightmares for the rest of her natural-born days. Halfway down it, her heart was pounding so hard and fast she couldn’t have heard a tornado ripping through over the sound of her own pulse drumming in her ears. She actually had to stop and breathe for a moment to be able to hear at all.
Nothing but silence greeted her, and then . . . a faint thud.
It’d come from behind the one locked bedroom door, naturally. Forget evening out her pulse now—the best she could do was gulp in a breath. She knocked once. “Hello?”
Nothing, though she imagined she heard panicky breathing. On both sides of the door. “Anyone in there?” She knocked again and told herself she was fine. Nothing could happen to her; she held a butcher’s knife, for God’s sake.
No one answered. Of course not, because the only one down here was Edward, and his answering days were long over. Turning, she peeked into the room where Lariana had been sleeping. Neat and tidy as a pin.
The bedroom next to it—Dante’s, she could tell by the beanie on the foot of the bed—wasn’t nearly as neat. He hadn’t made his bed, and he had yesterday’s clothes on the floor.
But from under the bed peeked out a hand.
Oh God.
In some kind of trance, her feet took her inside the room, and then to the mattress, knowing if she found another body she was going to truly start screaming and never stop. Cringing, she bent down, then let out a short, rough breath as she realized the truth.
Not a hand, but a glove. A rubber kitchen glove stained with the same dark brown stuff that was on the towel upstairs beneath the sink. Desperately she wanted to believe what she’d told Cooper, that she was looking at dried ketchup, but she knew better, and had to shove a fist against her mouth.
And then she heard the one sound she hadn’t wanted to hear. Footsteps. Wildly, she looked around her. No time to get out; oh God, no time to do anything but flatten herself to the floor and scoot beneath the bed, which she managed just as someone came into the room.
Two black boots and two white Keds. Two someones.
“We only have a few minutes,” Dante said, sounding out of breath. “The cop is determined to get out of here.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Shelly. “Dante, I lied to you.”
Breanne, already frozen in place beneath the bed, stiffened in shock. No, Shelly.
“Tell me.” Dante’s voice was low and gruff, and yet infinitely gentle. “It’s okay, just tell me.”
“Oh no, it’s not what you think!” Shelly rushed to say. “I meant I lied just now, upstairs, about having to talk to you. Because really what I wanted was . . .”
“You wanted what?”
The two Keds shifted until they were toe-to-toe with the black boots. Breanne didn’t dare move but the gloves, the bloody gloves, were too close. They were really beginning to get to her.
“It’s all so complicated,” Shelly whispered.
Yeah, yeah, it’s complicated, Breanne thought, trying not to look at the gloves right at her cheek. Get back to shoveling!
Then the unmistakable sound of a wet kiss floated down and Breanne scrunched up her eyes. Surely they weren’t going to—No. Not here, not now—
“I know you said you wanted to wait until we got out of here,” Shelly said breathlessly. “But everyone’s outside and will be for a while. Haven’t we waited long enough?”
“Shelly—” Dante broke off with a low groan. “God, Shelly, don’t do that.”
Helluva time for Shelly to find her sexuality, thought Breanne.
The mattress sank as the two lovebirds fell upon it, and Breanne wished for a large hole to open up and swallow her.
“Oh, Dante,” Shelly whispered.
Dante whispered something back in his native tongue.
Breanne resisted thunking her head on the ground. She made the mistake of opening her eyes then, focusing in on the bloody gloves before slamming her eyes shut again and doing the only thing she could—stick her fingers in her ears and silently sing at the top of her lungs. Lalalalalalalalala.
“Oh!” Shelly cried out louder than Breanne’s silent singing. “Oh, Dante.”
Something fell to the floor. Shelly’s sweater.
Her jeans came next.
Breanne shifted from singing to pretending she was on a beach. In the Bahamas. It was hot there, and cute cabana boys were bringing her drinks. Nice, big alcoholic drinks—
Something else hit the floor. Dante’s shoes.
Then his jeans and sweatshirt. And his beanie.
Then his BVDs.
And finally, an empty condom packet.
Oh, good God.
The springs began to squeak as the mattress began moving in earnest.
“Dante—” Shelly cried. “That’s—do that again. Please do that again!”
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Breanne tried not to look at the bloody gloves. Instead she studied her fingernails. Oh, look at that. She needed a manicure.
“Yes, yes, YES!” cried Shelly.
Breanne decided she was going to need a vacation to recover from her vacation.
Scratch that.
She was never going to vacation again.
Finally the bed stopped moving, and there were more kissy-face noises and soft murmurs.
Breanne had long ago left the Bahamas and moved to the moon when four feet—bare now—hit the floor.
It took forever for them to dress—laughing and kissing—but finally, finally, they were gone. Breanne didn’t know what she’d have done if they’d stuck around for round two. One time had been bad enough—what was it with this house?
She eyed the gloves. She needed Cooper to see them, needed anyone other than her to see them. Touching evidence was bad, she knew this. But . . . what if someone moved them before she could show Cooper? Not wanting to take that chance, she slipped them beneath her top, then cringed—gross!—before sliding out from beneath the bed. She got to her feet, carefully not looking at the mattress. Sheesh. Tossing back her hair, she turned to the door.
And came face-to-face with Dante, who barely arched a brow—his only concession to his surprise at finding her here.
“I, um . . .” She hugged herself, hopefully hiding the bulge of the gloves beneath her shirt. “This is really a very funny story.”
He leaned back against the doorway, blocking her way out, waiting for her to go on.
Oh boy. He had that scary face on, the one that assured her much of the ghetto still lived within him. “I heard a noise down here, and I thought it was Shelly—”
At that, he smiled all the way to his eyes. “You just missed her. She’s back upstairs.”
Oh, my God, was it possible he hadn’t seen her coming out from beneath his bed? “Oh. Ok
ay, well, then I’ll just—”
Go tell Cooper you had bloody gloves beneath your bed.
“Sorry,” he said, still smiling. “I’m just realizing something.”
“What’s that?” she asked bravely. Please don’t say you’re wanting to kill me, too. Please—
“—I’m in love with her.” He sighed and shook his head, rubbing the spot over his heart. “Imagine that.”
Yeah, imagine that. “Well, that’s . . . sweet. But I’ve got to—” She gestured to the doorway and, miracle of all miracles, he didn’t kill her, but moved aside for her.
With a last smile that was shaky to the core, Breanne scooted past him. It took every ounce of control she had not to run, run like hell, but she controlled herself until she was out of sight. Then she couldn’t hold back any longer and she burst into a full gait, looking back over her shoulder—
Only to plow directly into someone.
Before she could open her lips to scream, a hand settled over her mouth and she was yanked into a dark room and held against a hard, warm body.
Twenty-five
The right lover is like a good bra: supportive, close to the heart, and damned hard to find.
—Breanne Mooreland’s journal entry
Cooper held a struggling Breanne against him. “Hey. Hey, it’s me,” he said in her ear as she fought him like a wildcat. “Breanne, it’s me.”
“Oh, my God.” Snaking her arms around his neck, she burrowed in close, as if she wanted to climb inside him.
He stroked his hands up and down her back, trying to soothe her. “What happened?”
When she didn’t answer, he reached into his back pocket and grabbed the flashlight, running it over her to make sure she wasn’t hurt.
“I’m okay.” But she gulped in air like water, clearly making an effort to get hold of herself. Pale, still shaking, she looked around them, saw they were in the workout room, and said, “I’m really tired of this house.”
He had a feeling that was a huge understatement.
“I want noise,” she said. “Airplanes. People yelling. I want a traffic jam on the bridge, anything but this quiet mountain, you know? Anything but more spiders and bloody gloves, and—”
“Bloody gloves?” Cupping her face, shocked at how icy cold she was, he looked into her still-glossy eyes. “What bloody gloves?”
“These.” She reached under her shirt and pulled out a pair of cotton garden gloves, light blue with white trim, and stained with what could have been blood.
She shivered wildly and thrust them at him. “I can’t believe I had those against my skin. God. I need a shower.” She pulled her shirt away from her chest. “Now.”
Gingerly holding the gloves by just his thumb and forefinger so as not to further contaminate them, he snagged her arm when she moved to the door. “Where did you get these?”
“I heard a noise that I thought came from the cellar, but you guys were all outside, so I—”
“Damn it, Breanne. Don’t tell me you went to investigate.”
“I, um . . .” She winced. “Took a knife with me.”
He groaned.
“But I left it under Dante’s bed because—”
“Dante’s bed?”
“Yeah, I was stuck there while he and Shelly were bouncing it so hard I thought I was going to be squished like a pancake, and—”
“Whoa. Wait.” He shook his head. “Start at the beginning.”
“I can’t.” She was pulling at her sweater. “I need to scrub first.” Shoving free, she ran out of the workout room and into the hallway, moving with remarkable speed through the house, up the stairs, as if she wanted to lose him.
Not going to happen.
At the honeymoon suite, she stepped inside, then tried to close the door behind her, nearly catching his nose in it.
“Maybe I wasn’t clear,” she said, her breath hitching. “I’m showering. By myself.”
She hadn’t gotten her color back, nor her breath. Her eyes sheened with emotion and much more. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was an inch from losing it completely. “Thought you might like some company,” he said.
“In the shower? Gee, what a shock.”
“Breanne.”
“So you don’t want to see me wet and naked?”
“Well, yes, but that’s because you look great wet and naked. Right now, however, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
She hadn’t taken her gaze off the evidence in his hands so he shut the suite doors, hit the lock, then very carefully set down the gloves.
She stared at them and then shivered again.
“Go shower,” he said gently. “I’ll wait in here.”
She nodded, then covered her mouth with a hand. “I think I’m going to throw up. I really, really don’t want you to see me do that.”
“You’re not going to be sick.” But just in case, he slid an arm around her waist and nudged her toward the bathroom. There, he leaned her against the counter. “Keep breathing.”
“I’m trying.”
“Good.” He opened the shower, flicking on the hot water; when he turned back to her, she was still concentrating on breathing. “Okay?” he asked.
“I’m peachy. Really. Just peachy.”
Steam was rising from the shower, fogging the mirror and glass. “Come on, get in.”
Nodding, her hands went to her sweater. She pulled on the tassel, let the material slip off her shoulders. She unzipped her jeans and shimmied out of them, doing a little dance on first one foot, then the other as she stripped down to her birthday suit.
A personal favorite of his, but he didn’t say a word, just opened the shower for her.
She stepped to the door. One of her breasts brushed the sleeve of his shirt, the nipple puckering into a hard knot. “Get in,” he said again, his voice a little thicker.
Nodding, she stepped in; then, before he could shut the door, she fisted her hand in his shirt, yanking him in with her. “I don’t want to be alone,” she said. “Distract me, Cooper, like only you can.”
Water rained down over his head, soaking into his clothes, dropping off his nose. “Breanne, I—”
His words were cut off by her mouth. Pressing him up against the wall, she tugged his shirt up, leaning in to kiss him right over his heart. “Please?”
She wanted fast, hard, casual sex. She wanted to disengage her brain, if only for a few minutes. He got that.
But he wanted more than mindless when it came to the two of them. And yet, as always when faced with her gorgeous nude body, he couldn’t hold back. He shucked out of his shirt while she tugged his jeans to his thighs. “Good enough,” she said, and hopped up.
He just managed to catch her, all slippery and wet, and when she wrapped her legs around his hips, arching the hottest, slickest