Whiskey Beach Part 95

"No! You're still cold."

"Not for long."

He spun her around, plastering her against him, and grabbed a hank of her hair. And, covering her mouth with his, felt the heat rise.

He wanted to touch, everywhere, all that wet skin, those long lines, those subtle curves. He wanted to hear her throaty laugh, the catch of her sigh. When she s.h.i.+vered now, it was from arousal, antic.i.p.ation, while the flood of hot water rained over them both.

Her hands glided over him, a light sc.r.a.pe of nails, an erotic dig of fingers. She turned with him under the spray, around and around through the pulsing waterfall, with her mouth a wet, hot demand against his.

He wanted her happy, wanted to erase the trouble he'd seen in her eyes on the beach. He wanted to s.h.i.+eld her from the trouble to come, as it surely would.

Trouble, he thought, that seemed to cling to him like skin.

At least here, here and now, there was only heat and pleasure and need. Here and now, he could give her all he had.

She held on to him, even when he turned her around to slide his hands over her, she hooked an arm back, around his neck to keep him close. And lifting her face as she might to the rain, opened.

Her body yearned toward more. Touch here, taste there-and patient, relentless, he stoked the yearning to a deep, glorious ache.

When she turned, mouth to mouth again, he braced her against the wet tiles, and filled her.

Slow now, slow, rising like the steam, falling like the water, floating on thick, wet clouds of pleasure. She looked through the mists, into his eyes. There were the answers, she thought. She had only to accept what she already knew, only to hold what her heart already wanted.

You, she thought, as she let herself go. I've been waiting for you.

When she pressed her face to his shoulder, shuddering with him on that final fall, she carried love.

Lost in her, he held her another moment, just held. Then he tipped her face back, touched his lips to hers. "About that sand."

Her laugh made the moment perfect.

In the kitchen, warm and dry, she plotted out dinner while he poured wine.

"We can just throw a sandwich together," he began.

"I don't think so."

"Are you trying to guilt me again, because I missed lunch?"

"No, I think I notched that belt." She set garlic, some plum tomatoes, a chunk of Parmesan on the counter. "I'm hungry, and you should be. Thanks." She took the wine, tapped her gla.s.s to his. "But since you brought it up, you should tell me what you were so caught up in."

"I met with the investigator today."

"You said she was coming." Intrigued, Abra turned from her hunt in the refrigerator. "You said before she had something new."

"You could say that." When a thought struck, he held up a finger. "Wait. I want to try something. It'll just take a couple minutes."

He went to the library for the files, slipped out the photograph of Justin Suskind. Taking it up to his office, he made a copy. He closed his eyes, tried to see the police artist sketch in his mind.

With a pencil he tried adding longer hair, shadowing the eyes. He couldn't claim to be Rembrandt, he thought-or even Hester H. Landon-but it was worth a shot.

He took the photo and copy back downstairs, detoured back to the library for the files and his notes.

When he got back to the kitchen she had two pots on the stove. A narrow tray of olives, marinated artichokes, cherry peppers sat on the island while she minced garlic.

"How do you do that?" he wondered, and popped an olive into his mouth.

"Kitchen magic. What's all that?"

"Files the investigator left, notes I've made. She went back to the beginning."

By the time he'd wound through it, pausing before telling her of Suskind's presence in Whiskey Beach, she'd tossed a bowl of campanelle, mixed with tomatoes, basil and garlic. He watched her grate Parmesan over it.

"You did that in like a half hour. Yeah, yeah, kitchen magic," he said before she could reply. He dug into the pasta, filled her bowl, then his.

Sliding onto the stool beside his, Abra sampled the dish. "Nice. It worked. So she thinks it's all connected, too?"

"Yeah, she- Nice?" he said after his own sample. "It's great. You should write this down."

"And spoil the spontaneity? She'll talk to Vinnie, right? And Detective Corbett."

"That's the plan, and she'll have a couple of fresh items to pa.s.s along."

"Such as?"

"Let's try this first." He turned over the doctored copy, set it on the counter between them. "Does this guy look familiar?"

"I ... He looks like the man in the bar that night. A lot like the man in the bar." She lifted the photo, studied it carefully. "It looks more like him than I was able to translate to the police artist. Where did you get this?"

In answer, Eli turned over the original photo.

"Who is this?" she asked. "Shorter hair, and a cleaner, smoother look about him. How did she find the man I saw in the bar?"

"She didn't know she found him. This is Justin Suskind."

"Suskind, the man Lindsay was involved with? Of course." Annoyance flickered over her face as she tapped her fingers at her temple. "d.a.m.n it! I saw his picture in the paper last year, but I didn't remember or put it together. Didn't pay that much attention, I guess. What was he doing at the pub?"

"Staking things out. A few months ago he bought Sandcastle, a cottage on the north point."

"He bought a house in Whiskey Beach? I know that house." She jabbed a finger at Eli. "I know it. I do seasonal cleaning for one across from it. Eli, there's only one reason he would buy a house here."

"To gain access to this one."

"But it's crazy, it's crazy when you think about it. He was having an affair with your wife, and now he's ... Did he have the affair so he could get information about the house, maybe hope to get more on the treasure? Or did he learn about all that during the affair?"

"Lindsay never had much interest in Bluff House."