Somebody Killed His Editor: Holmes & Moriarity, Book 1 (11 page)

Reaching up, he locked his hand in the back of my hair, pulling me down. Our mouths met in a warm open kiss, and he tasted cold like the outdoors and the night, and he tasted unbelievably hot.

I kissed him hard, and he smiled against my mouth, and rolled us over onto our sides. I knew I’d had way too much to drink because for once I wasn’t worrying—wasn’t thinking at all. No self-consciousness, no second thoughts…I was totally in the now, touching and tasting. I’d nearly forgotten how much fun sex was. How
good
it felt.

J.X. nibbled my earlobe, his breath gusting moistly into my ear, and I found that incredibly arousing.

In ten years David hadn’t thought to kiss that tiny hollow, or the one at the base of my throat, or my eyelids or—actually, David and I hadn’t done a lot of kissing. In fact, I didn’t care for kissing, really…

Except that J.X.’s kisses were getting me so hot and excited I wasn’t sure my skin could contain all that light and energy buzzing inside me. I wrapped my arms around him, delighted when he reciprocated, pulling me tight to him with those hard, muscular arms.

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Josh Lanyon

He thrust against me, his cock poking me painfully in my belly, leaving that streak of sticky, and I thrust back, and it was a relief to let go, to bump and grind, to hump away like a pair of landed porpoises, to rut and root in the blessing and beauty of uncomplicated and impersonal sex. The bed thumped rhythmically against the wall of the cabin. I thought it might have been bouncing off the floor—I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the cabin itself was shaking beneath those rafters of moonstruck clouds.

It felt too raw and real to compare with…any memory, but I did remember something as we rocked in each other’s arms, dicks rubbing enjoyably, skin flushing hot and moist beneath our hands, belly to belly, chest to chest, tangle of legs—I remembered the first time we had fucked he had come almost immediately.

J.X. had been…so young. So tough, but so young. And every time we had fucked that long-ago weekend, he had shot his load fast and frantically—and it had embarrassed him.

And I had told him we just needed more practice.

My chest tightened with those unexpected memories, an unforeseen sentimental ache—or more likely I was too old for this and about to have a heart attack.

The good news was his technique had improved a lot through the years, and as harried and feverish as this was, it was a good long ride before it exploded in juddering, convulsive pleasure. Pleasure being one feeble word for that blissful sensation of physical release so intense it felt catastrophic.

We lay there catching our breath, relaxed and boneless in a hot and sticky tangle of limbs.

J.X. said finally, sitting up and raking a hand through his shiny black hair, “Well, that was a mistake.”

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I sucked in a sharp breath, and then let it out. “Thank you for saying so,” I said coolly, and I sat up too.

There are few things more awkward than the moments after sex with someone you shouldn’t have had sex with. No way was I going to sit here side by side making polite—or not so very—conversation with J.X.

I got off the bed, and he had the same idea. He rose and began pulling on his Levi’s. He was still wearing one sock. One white boot sock, which seemed fascinating to me as I poured myself another couple of fingers of gin.

“You know what I mean,” he muttered.

Does anyone ever really know what anyone else means? I said, “Sure.” I unscrewed the top of the bottle of tonic water, and fizzy wet sprayed me in the face—which was really the perfect touch.

He didn’t laugh, and neither did I. Actually, I don’t think he even noticed. He buttoned up his shirt almost as quickly as he had unbuttoned it. I wiped my face on my arm, splashed tonic water in my glass and drank it down fast. The burn nearly choked me, but I kept swallowing. When I surfaced, he had the door open.

“Lock this behind me,” he ordered.

“
Oui, mon capitan.
” I came up close to him. He smelled like soap and sex, and he avoided my eyes.

“Good night,” he said.

“Night,” I returned. “Oh, and please don’t forget to fill out our customer-satisfaction survey.”

His eyes met mine. I could see he was about to say something, but then he changed his mind. He went out, and I closed the door behind him and locked it.

The rain was starting to fall again. The eye of the storm had closed.

~ * ~

I woke drenched in sweat, my heart thudding with the panicked memory of my dreams—nightmares.

Or
was
it a nightmare? I stared into the darkness, listening.

The wind howled outside the cabin. Was it my imagination or were the curtains by the window stirring?

Josh Lanyon

I sat bolt upright and reached for the bedside lamp.

Mellow light flooded the room. No one stood over my bed. No one crouched in the corners of the cabin. No one was trying to pry open a window. The curtains trembled in the draft from the leaky window casement as the wind gusted outside.

I was perfectly safe, but my heart continued to race. I had a pounding headache and a mouth like cotton. One too many nightcaps had about capped
me
. I pushed aside the blankets and staggered across the chilly floorboards to the bathroom. I relieved myself, gulped down a couple of plastic cupfuls of tap water and stumbled back to bed.

I needed Tylenol and an ice pack. I needed central heating and a stack of feather pillows. A full-time nurse wouldn’t be a bad idea—a really handsome, muscular, tender—

The windows rattled as another gust of wind shook the cabin.

“That’s it.” My voice sounded very loud in the cabin, underscoring how alone I was out here.

It would take me less than five minutes to walk back to the lodge. Given the adrenaline and alcohol coursing through my body, I could probably make it under two. There would be ice at the lodge and headache tablets, and best of all, people. Lots of people—most of them probably still drinking at the bar.

Shuddering at the thought of any more alcohol, I climbed out of bed, pulled a sweater and jeans over my pajamas, slipped on my Reeboks and coat and grabbed the poker from the fireplace.

I was slightly drunk, slightly sick and totally annoyed. God help the homicidal maniac who got in my way.

I opened the door to the cabin and the wet wind hit me with a cold slop in the face. I don’t do dark and stormy. I particularly don’t do it at three o’clock in the a.m. But what was the choice? Rose-tipped dawn was hiding out in some warmer clime. Overhead, the thunderous black cloud cover looked like upside-down mountains, like the world had flipped over—or maybe that was my stomach.

I started walking, picking my way through mud and rocks. The lights were out in all the other cabins, and it was impossible to see through the wall of dense hedges and trees whether any windows were still lit in the lodge. The barren landscape stretching before me had an otherworld, wind-scrubbed look. I dodged a tumbleweed rolling past.

Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. But the remnants of the nightmare still clung to me and I didn’t want to sit in that drafty cabin with my head killing me, afraid to fall asleep.

Anyway, I didn’t believe that I was a real target, despite J.X.’s dire warnings about keeping my mouth shut and my eyes open. It’s not like I knew anything that I hadn’t immediately spilled to everyone who would listen. What would be the motive for getting rid of me? The fact that J.X. assumed I would automatically be marked for murder probably had more to do with J.X.’s feelings than the killer’s.

But I didn’t want to think about J.X.

Screw him.

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Oh. Right.

I occupied myself by trying to walk in a straight line. Yep, I was definitely still feeling the effects of alcohol. It didn’t help that the wind was blowing against me the whole way.

Despite my earnest effort, my wilderness trek took more than five minutes.

I assumed the back door to the lodge would be locked, although it hadn’t been locked when I had slipped out a few hours earlier. I decided to go for the front entrance. I was convinced that someone was sure to still be in the bar. That was the way it worked at every other conference I’d ever attended.

The cowbell chimes were jangling as I marched up the front porch stairs.

I tried the front door. It was locked. I remembered George shoving the bolt home when we had arrived that evening, so that was no surprise. I pounded with my poker.

Waited.

Be patient
, I told myself.
Someone is bound to hear you.

I banged again. The poker dug some chunks out of the wood and I eased off.

Stepping back, I studied the long line of the building and tried to determine where the bar was in relation to the front of the building.

It occurred to me that there were no lights on. Anywhere. Not in the entire building.

They were all in bed before daybreak. And they called themselves
writers?

Amateurs.

Now what? I tried to think. Admittedly, my powers of reason seemed slightly dimmed. My head felt like it was being used for an anvil.
Boom, boom, boom
. Was that a hangover or high blood pressure reaching critical mass?

I stumbled down the porch steps and walked around to the back of the lodge. It seemed a very long way.

A dark and wet and silent long way.

Not that darkness or wetness or silence ever did anyone any harm—which is what I kept telling myself as I walked, feet pounding the pathway. The night seemed to swallow the sound of my footsteps, which is why when I heard something—a furtive noise from the patio around the corner ahead of me—I froze.

What…was…that?

Metal on cement. The scrape of a chair? Who the hell would be sitting out on the patio in this weather at this time of night?

I opened my mouth to call out—but something stopped me.

I listened.

No voices. Nothing but the lonely sound of the wind through the aspens.
And yet…

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Josh Lanyon

Something changed. The stillness took on a listening quality. I felt with uneasy certainty that my approach had been heard, that someone was standing around the corner waiting for me—even as I stood waiting, heart banging away against my ribs, sweat chilling on my skin.

I took a soft and careful step backwards.

A funny shiver ran down my spine. My bad feeling suddenly gave way to a wave of sick fear.

Instinct? Alcohol? Or sheer cowardice?

I turned and sprinted back down the path the way I had come.

Pausing at the point where the walkway branched off, I braced my hands on my thighs and gulped in air. I really needed to get back into shape—if it killed me.

I listened.

Anything?

Nothing.

I was being a total goof. And yet…the night seemed
too
quiet. There was something unnatural about the silence. Something alert. Attentive.

And standing out here on this walk I was completely exposed, completely without protection. I looked around myself, and spotted the old vine-covered arbor a yard or so down the other walk. Since it was the only real concealment in sight, it wasn’t much of a decision.

I ran down the other walkway and slipped into the pitch darkness of the arbor. I waited. The wind filtered through the vines and latticework, cold breath on the back of my neck.

Footsteps were coming down the path. Brisk steps but…quiet. Not stealthy, but not the normal beat of approaching feet.

I flattened myself against the vines, my fingers sweaty on the warm metal of the poker. Even assuming I could manage to clobber someone with this—was I ready to bash someone’s head in?

What if someone wrested it out of my hand and used it to bash
me
?

The footsteps paused. A silhouette loomed at the mouth of the tunnel. Huge, black, menacing. It seemed to block the entranceway. My heart stopped—which was all right because time stopped with it.

I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t blink.

My hand gripped the poker so hard my fingers ached.

I waited for what seemed a lifetime, and then at last the silhouette withdrew. The footsteps moved softly away.

I expelled a long shaky breath.

What the hell had that been about? Why hadn’t I spoken up? Why had I acted like a…a criminal?

Like
I
was guilty? Like
I
had something to hide? Talk about paranoid. Talk about too much imagination.

But I wasn’t talking. I was still standing there very quietly, barely breathing, waiting.

And waiting. I waited until I was damn sure he was gone. Then I gave it another five minutes.

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It began to rain again. The drops slipped through the vines and lattice and fell in wet plops on my head.

And still I waited, shivering with nerves and cold.

Finally, when I was too miserable to hold out any longer, I crept out of the arbor and took a look around.

No sign of anyone. I scanned the empty pasture.

There was nowhere to hide on that empty flat stretch of land—that was the good news. The bad news was that in seconds
I
would be crossing that empty flat stretch with nowhere to hide.

I started running, pounding across the sodden weeds, trying not to sprain an ankle or fall in the mud—

because how damsel in distress would that be? I zigzagged across the field, hopping puddles, managing not to trip in any ground squirrel holes.

There was a bright side. Assuming I lived through this weekend I was probably going to see some serious weight loss. I hadn’t had this much physical activity in years.

As I reached the cabins, I veered to the left, making a detour toward J.X.’s. Number six he’d said. It sat still and silent in the pattering rain.

I banged on the door.