Hatfield and McCoy (14 page)

It was so good to be with him. Life, feeling, sensation, all were so wonderfully vivid.

In the shadows he rose above her for a moment. Once again, she found that even sound could be scintillating as the quick rasp of his zipper tore against the silence of the darkened night.

She stretched out her arms, and he came down with her. He came down silently, gracefully. He braced himself over her, and then she cried out softly, wanting him so badly.

And finally having him.

She could feel him entering her …

The fur touched her back. She felt the softness, and the roughness. Her hands splayed over his chest, and she felt the rigor of his muscle, the exciting, slick feel of his bronze chest. In the near darkness, she could see his eyes, nearly a pure silver now, all sizzle and passion.

She could feel …

Movement. Slow, sure, then subtle, the pace quickening. Each stroke, faster, the rhythm growing. The wonder inside of her growing as his body touched hers, and touched it … inside and out.

She watched his eyes. Watched his tension, and watched his smile.

His lips touched down on hers. Took them hungrily, passionately, while his body filled hers.

She closed her eyes, but even in the darkness it seemed that stars suddenly burst in the middle of the heavens, like the births of a thousand suns. She quivered like a bow strung too tight, and then she catapulted into a sweet recess where wonder and magic all seemed to crash down upon her.

His arms were suddenly laced around her, tight. Great shudders racked the whole of his body, and the length of him came against her tautly. Then his arms eased, and he whispered something erotic in her ear and fell by her side. He lay there a second before sweeping her into his arms, his kiss brushing her forehead.

Silently, she curled against him. She wasn't going home. Not tonight. They both knew it. She let her fingers play over the crisp hairs on his chest. A wonderful warmth came slowly sweeping over her again. It was so damned good to lie with him. There was such a sense of comfort and security here.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hmm?”

“You're falling asleep.”

“Am I? I'm just so comfortable.”

“What about the coffee?”

“Um,” she murmured. She didn't want any coffee. She didn't want to move. She didn't even want McCoy talking.

She felt too relaxed, too happy. And so wonderfully drowsy.

She didn't want to feud.

Neither did McCoy, it seemed. He wasn't moving.

“Will we burn the house down if we don't go for the coffee?” she whispered.

“No. It has an automatic turnoff.”

“Good,” Julie breathed softly. She closed her eyes. It had been a long day. Tubing … and now.

She must have drifted off to sleep, because she was quickly dreaming.

And it was so strange, for in her dream, she saw all that had just been. She saw herself coming into McCoy's house. She saw the glassed-in porch and the blue-green beauty of the mountains beyond.

She saw him open the window, and saw herself lift her face to the breeze.

And then she realized that the reality that had just passed had been her dream before. She had known that McCoy was her dream lover …

And now the lovemaking in the dream had come to pass …

Darkness seemed suddenly to descend, and with it a sense of absolute and acute terror.

Yes, the time had come.

He was out there.

The kidnapper. The murderer.

He was staring at the house. Staring, as if he could see her. As if he watched her, with McCoy.

As if he knew …

Julie awoke abruptly, a scream tearing from her lips.

He could be out there. Anywhere. Close. He could be lurking in the darkness. He could be any one of the shadows.

“Julie!”

She didn't hear McCoy call her name. She screamed again, shaking furiously, blinded by the darkness, by her fear.

“Julie!” He called her name again, pulling her into his arms, shaking her.

She didn't recognize him, McCoy thought at first. She stared straight at him, but she didn't see him. He shook her again, gently, then more fiercely. “Julie—”

“He's out there!” she cried.

“Julie, you were dreaming.”

“No, no!” She fought his hold, trying to pull away from him. “You don't understand. He's out there! He's watching us, he knows us!”

“Julie, it's all right—”

“You don't believe me!” she cried frantically.

What was he supposed to believe? McCoy wondered. Her eyes were frantic. Wide, gleaming, beautiful—but frantic. He couldn't doubt the fear within them. Nor the quivering that tore at her body.

“Julie, Julie, it's all right. I'm with you.” He pulled her into his arms. She was still trembling. No, shaking. Hard. He rocked with her.

A sharp unease snaked its way up his spine. She believed. No matter what, he knew that she believed. And try as he might to deny her, the creeping feeling sinking into his system seemed to say that what she told him was true.

She did know things. Julie Hatfield knew things. She had seen the black snake …

No, God! I do not believe in psychics! I believed once, I was willing to hope and pray and believe, and look what happened! I will not believe. I will never believe again.

But I love her, he thought.

And once I said I would never love again …

“He's there!” she cried more softly, her face buried against him. “The man with the scar on his shoulder.”

McCoy was suddenly convinced that they were being watched.

She moaned softly. He sifted his fingers through the beautiful, tousled silkiness of her hair. It was like spun gold in the night.

“Julie, I'm with you. I won't let anything happen to you,” he promised her.

She was silent. He kissed her forehead, then he rose. She started as he released her, swallowing hard, afraid for him to leave her in the darkness.

“It's all right!” he promised.

His cutoffs had dried and he slipped them on, then found the light switch. Bright light dazzled throughout the porch.

“The light!” Julie cried.

“Julie, no one can see in this room—not unless they are hovering outside in a helicopter. Look, sweetheart, you can see for yourself.”

She had pulled the comforter to her chest. Wide-eyed, incredibly feminine and vulnerable with her pool of pale hair a fascinating mane around her, she turned as he directed her. And she knew that he was right. The porch did jut out to the edge of the mountain. It was a totally private retreat.

No one could see in.

But still …

“McCoy,” she said softly, moistening her lips with her tongue, “he was out there. He was close. Watching. I know that he was watching the house.”

He didn't say anything, but looked at his toes for a moment.

“How about that Irish coffee now? It's decaf, so we won't be up the rest of the night because of it. And we're not driving anywhere for awhile, so I can pile it high with Irish whiskey.”

She almost smiled. “And add that whipped stuff, too.”

He walked across the room to a closet and found her one of his terry robes. He tossed it to her. “The fit might be a bit large, but it will do in a pinch.”

She slipped it on. The fit was huge, but she seemed warm and happier.

In the kitchen, they heated the coffee. Julie poured the coffee into cups, and McCoy added the whiskey.

As he had promised, he was generous. He was certain, though, that she was going to need help going back to sleep.

But even as they worked in the kitchen, he could see that she was beginning to relax again. He suggested raisin toast, and she agreed, glad to be doing something.

Their food all prepared, he suggested they take it to the porch. She tensed for a moment, then nodded and followed him as he carried the coffee and toast on a tray to the porch.

“Maybe there's a good movie on cable,” he said, setting down the food tray and reaching for the remote control.

He sat cross-legged beside her before turning on the TV and cable box and flicking through the channels.

“You're going awfully fast!” she said with a laugh. “How are you going to know if you find something you want to see?”

“Oh, I always know what I want right away,” he told her.

She smiled. He didn't try to pretend anymore. He took her into his arms.

“Are you okay now?”

She nodded. Then she hesitated. “He's gone.”

“What?”

Her lower lip trembled just a little. “He's gone now. He was here, but he's gone now.”

The feeling of unease went snaking through McCoy again.

Damned if he didn't believe her …

No. She couldn't really know things like that.

But Julie did.

Where others had failed …

He didn't want to think about it. He picked up his coffee cup with the whipped cream piled high. He touched it to hers. “Julie, I'm here. I'm with you.”

“I know,” she said. She leaned against him. He hadn't found a movie he wanted to see, so they watched an
I Love Lucy
rerun, an exceptionally funny one.

When they had finished the coffee and the toast, she crawled sweetly into his arms, and he made love to her again.

Afterward, he held her, smoothing her hair while she slept. No dreams marred her sleep again.

But hell, the night was shot for him.

With a sigh, he sat up and watched her. After awhile, he lay down and simply held her.

It was a long night.

In the morning, he drove her to her house before reporting in to the office.

He sat at Patty's desk, his head held morosely between his hands.

He had no leads. No damned leads at all.

“McCoy!”

He looked up. Patty gave him a friendly freckle-faced smile from over by Joe Silver's desk. She held Joe's phone receiver in her hands.

“Yeah?”

“A call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“I don't know.”

McCoy pushed the blinking button on the phone and picked up the receiver.

“McCoy here.”

“Is that you, McCoy?”

The voice was a raspy one. Faint, almost like a whisper. It sent chills up his spine, just like nails against a blackboard.

“I just said my name.” He was careful to be irritable and slow.

“She's a real looker, McCoy.”

“Who are you, and what are you talking about?”

“You took her home with you last night, McCoy. And she stayed. All night.”

The chills turned brutally icy. They stole his breath while fear and fury streaked through him.

“Who the hell are you—”

“Oh, no. I can't tell you that.”

McCoy motioned wildly to Patty to get a trace going on the call. “Well, what can you tell me at the moment?”

Soft, husky, rasping laughter came his way. His fingers tightened around the receiver.

“You're not going to trace me, McCoy. We'll talk later.”

“Wait! When? I don't know who—”

“Ah, but I know who you are. You kept my money, McCoy. Yes, I know you well. And I know her.”

“What the hell—”

The phone clicked dead.

He stared across the room at Patty. She shook her head sadly.

Not enough time for a trace.

She had known! Julie had known!

Someone had been watching them on that mountaintop!

Chapter 8

I
t was strange, but by the morning, Julie didn't find herself plagued at all by the fear that had come to her in the night.

She knew she had lived out her dream, and she and McCoy had made it through the night.

McCoy wasn't part of the danger—he was her only protection from the danger, she was certain of it. The danger came from the kidnapper, the man with the scar on his shoulder, the man who had taken Tracy Nicholson and the other two young women.

And maybe the man had been somewhere near them last night. He was certainly still in the vicinity. That was why she was so certain that she was being watched.

McCoy had been wonderful last night. He hadn't ridiculed her. But then, she had been so terrified, and he had known it.

By morning, though, he had been very quiet. Pensive. She couldn't tell if he had decided she was neurotic or that there might be something to her perceptions. He was too hard-nosed to give her a clue. And he had let her off with the usual stern warnings. Don't open the doors. Be careful. Be really careful. Use the peephole, and the latches.

After he had brought her home, she convinced herself that she was going to tackle her office—clean out all the paperwork and pay her bills before someone came after her—and then vacuum, dust, rearrange, the whole nine yards. She wanted to call Brenda Maitland; she was certain that Brenda wouldn't mind telling her all sorts of things about McCoy that Julie wanted to know.

Julie didn't want to call Brenda too early just in case she slept late, but then, halfway through what she liked to think of creative money management—making sure that she paid the bills that politely reminded her that she was late—she realized that Brenda Maitland couldn't possibly sleep late, she had two children to get off to school.

She pored through the phone books, looking for Brenda Maitland. She couldn't find the name, so she called information, only to discover that Brenda's number was unlisted. She almost called the station to see if McCoy was there and ask him for his sister's phone number, but then, she didn't want him to know that she meant to give Brenda the third degree on him.

Perplexed, Julie sat on the porch, looking out over her own mountain, wishing she had the power to foretell the future at will, and wondering if she and McCoy would ever manage to really get along.

Then she jumped up. Maybe she didn't know Brenda's number, but she did know where Brenda lived.

Within thirty minutes she was standing in front of Brenda's old farmhouse, perplexed once again. No one answered when she rang the bell. Right when she was about to give up and go away, a car pulled off the road and into the driveway. It was an old silver BMW, beautifully maintained.