A Cold Day in Hell Page 8

  “Did you look at Aaron’s body?”

  “He wouldn’t let me. You know how boys are.”

  He grinned. “Only until they grow up and the women they’re with aren’t their mothers.”

  She had to smile. “I guess you’re right. I don’t suppose Aaron counts as a boy anymore, either.”

  “I’ve made more progress in the house. Let me show you.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to repeat that she ought to get back. “I’d like that.”

  Still holding her wrist, he took her to the far side of the room where an archway was framed into a wall. Once on the other side, with the unfinished conservatory to their right, he headed directly for the stairs and climbed. Eileen went behind him, every heartbeat feeling bigger and harder.

  “What do you think of Chuzah?” she asked. “I don’t know whether to accept that he was kind to the boys, or be terrified of him. That dog is strange.”

  “A shapeshifter?” Angel said, and chuckled. “That was a strange comment you made. He’s a great dog. It’s the breed. Silver ghosts.”

  “He looked like a ghost when he moved through the fog,” Eileen said.

  “Maybe he is. Maybe Chuzah is, too. He surely doesn’t fit any profile I’ve encountered before.”

  She paused, frowning.

  Angel stopped a couple of stairs above her. “Eileen, something’s going on. Something happened in that swamp. Sonny said Aaron was bleeding—a lot—and he had blood on his own clothes. But there wasn’t any coming from Aaron when we got there.”

  “Don’t. Aaron’s fine.”

  “Chuzah said he threw Aaron’s clothes away because they were such a mess. That doesn’t sound unreasonable to you?”

  Eileen thought exactly that. “The man’s unusual.”

  “That’s enough for you?” Angel said.

  “I’m trying to make it enough.”

  He produced his cell phone and pressed a button. Almost at once he said, “You guys okay? Uh-huh. No calls before this one? Good. We’re taking things a bit easy. It’s good to get away from you two now and again.”

  Eileen suppressed a smile and shook her head.

  “Okay,” Angel said. “Stick with the instructions. See you eventually.” He put the phone away and gave her all of his attention. “I want to kiss you.”

  She stood absolutely still, looking up at him in light that hadn’t been upgraded. He was in the gloom but the glint in his eyes, the sexual intensity, was clear. So was the downward tilt of his lips and the tight movement of the small muscles in his jaw.

  “That’s abrupt,” she said.

  He pulled on her arm so she had to go up another step, and another. “It wasn’t abrupt. You’ve been taking up most of my mind for months. How about you, Eileen? Have I been on your mind?”

  Without taking her eyes from his, she nodded.

  His expression turned predatory, possessive—and determined.

  If she wanted out of this, there wasn’t much time. There wasn’t any time.

  Angel spread a hand behind her head and lowered his face over hers. He kissed her and she felt instantly weak, and wet, and wanted to get closer to him.

  Eileen wanted to be naked with him.

  She started hard enough for Angel to raise his face. A new element had appeared, a feverishness. “What?” he said. “You jumped.”

  Parting her lips, Eileen stood on tiptoe and delivered her own kiss. She worked their mouths until he groaned and dragged her hard against him. She swayed a little and grabbed for him to steady herself.

  Angel put an arm around her waist and walked her up to the gallery, kissing her repeatedly as they went. Without warning, he unzipped her sweat suit jacket and slid a hand inside. She hadn’t put on another top underneath. There was no mistaking his satisfaction when he weighed a breast, hooked a thumb inside her bra.

  She pulled out his hand and moved away a little. “You believe in moving right along.”

  “And you aren’t ready for that?” Angel said.

  “You’re going to show me what else you’ve done to the house, remember?” That anxiety, that conviction that somehow she must be wanting when it came to being with men, returned. Chuck had always said she was boring in bed.

  Angel took her from the gallery into a passageway. He reached through an open door and flipped a light switch. The room they entered wasn’t large. The walls were paneled with warm cherry; a deep window seat had yet to be finished, but the floor matched the paneling and, almost in the center of the room, stood a piece of furniture that made Eileen frown. “What’s that? Are you starting an ottoman collection?”

  Walking around it, he put his fists on his hips and looked pleased with himself. “I could be. It’s a tête-à-tête.”

  “So you say. It looks like a big, square ottoman to me, with a fat post in the middle. It’s really old, isn’t it?”

  “It’s something else I salvaged from all the stuff that was here. I was told it would have been in a public room of some kind and people liked them, particularly the young and lovelorn, because it was easy to accidentally brush shoulders and arms while sitting side by side. Their legs might even have touched. Imagine that. All that pent-up desire in the heat of a Louisiana night and in a room much bigger than this one but packed with dashing young men, and girls with trembling white breasts spilling from their bodices.”

  Eileen stared at him. She swallowed. “I can imagine it. I wouldn’t have expected you to.”

  “I’m interested in the history of the area. Particularly the social history. I’ve had enough of war.”

  “You and Finn fought together, didn’t you?”

  “We met in a field hospital. We kept in touch.”

  He wasn’t inviting her to probe further.

  “I’m seeing a new side of you,” she said. “You’ll make this a fantastic house.”

  “I’ll try. But I’m only showing you and talking about it to keep you with me.” He offered her a hand and she held it. “This is going to be part of the master suite. I’ll show you the best bit to date.”

  Double doors, which he closed behind them, took her into an amazing bathroom. Tiled from floor to ceiling with large, unglazed white stone, a shower large enough for an intimate party sloped down from all sides, and had no doors. Stone benches lined the sides and several showerheads jutted from each wall.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Eileen said.

  It was too intimate, too personal—but he knew that and had brought her here deliberately.

  Angel turned a knob on the wall and she expected lights to brighten. Instead, a fan of white fabric finished like parchment swung open to reveal a skylight. Tonight she saw raindrops on the glass and heard more falling, but on a clear night it would be filled with stars.

  She lost the battle to keep her attention away from a bathtub made of heavy glass. It stood on pewter feet in the center of the room and since vertical strips of mirror were incorporated into each wall there would be no way to bathe without seeing yourself from every angle.

  And the tub was huge, curved, almost an oversize Victorian shape.

  Eileen would not keep looking at that bath. “You must have brought in a designer,” she said. “What an imagination!”

  “A guy over in Toussaint,” Angel said, “Marc Girard. Finn’s cousin Annie recommended him and he’s responsible for all the plans. He’s my architect, but someone in his firm consults on design.”

  “I know Annie. She used to live in Pointe Judah.”

  Small talk.

  Another set of double doors, also closed, stood on the other side of the bathroom. Angel caught her looking at them. “That will be the bedroom but it’s pretty basic at this point. Okay to sleep in, though. I haven’t tried out the bath yet. I’m always in a hurry so I shower—not that the bath would be much fun on my own.”

  The glow Eileen felt had to be visible. She must be luminous.

  “Don’t you think there’s something sensual ab
out water, Eileen?”

  She drew in a breath through parted lips. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”

  He turned on the bathwater and almost at once, steam rose.

  “What are you doing?” Eileen said.

  “Showing you how it looks with water in it. We could put in some soapy stuff, if you like.”

  How was she supposed to answer a comment like that? She didn’t.

  Angel stopped smiling. He pulled his dark T-shirt over his head and Eileen took a step backward. His body shouldn’t be covered, ever. Muscle and sinew, every line defined. Not a millimeter of spare flesh. His jeans settled low on his hips and she couldn’t look away from his hard belly, the bands of muscle; the start of dark hair she didn’t have to see to know how the rest of it would look.

  He walked straight at her, unsnapping his waistband as he came. When he reached her, Eileen backed up and kept backing up all the way to the wall where steam had dampened the tile. Her back hit solidly and she raised bent arms, palms out.

  “We don’t want the bath to overflow,” he said.

  “Christian?” she said. His real name came naturally. “We aren’t thinking.”

  “I always know I’m supposed to be in trouble when you call me that.” He unzipped her jacket and pushed it from her shoulders. “Sure we’re thinking. I’m thinking about what I want and what you want.” Quickly, he pulled down her pants and panties, went to his knees and freed her feet.

  He parted her thighs with inflexible hands, pressed his face low against her belly, and drove his tongue into the folds between her legs. Eileen cried out and pulled at his hair with both hands.

  If it hurt him, his shudder said he liked it. Pushing up on her buttocks, he lifted her legs over his shoulders and held her in place while he nipped and probed at her pulsing flesh. She released his hair and threw out her arms, tossed her head from side to side.

  A climax ripped through her. Eileen sobbed and heard sounds she knew she made, but hadn’t heard before.

  Moving so fast that he disoriented her, Angel tossed her over his shoulder and went to turn off the bathwater. Then, with no ceremony and her bra still on, he dumped her into the tub. It was deep and she slid, dousing her hair and face. When she sat up, she swiped the water away and slicked back her hair.

  There was nothing she could think of to say to him. She still throbbed, her heart still raced, but she wasn’t a fresh girl and she knew what he wanted.

  He stood over her, his head on one side, studying her. And he took off his jeans. His penis sprang free of his underwear and when he turned his hips to toss the clothes aside, she gasped at the sway of his flesh.

  Eileen burned inside. Her skin tingled.

  Then he was in the water, too, pushing up her knees, settling between them. With his palms, he made circles over her nipples and she shivered at the friction from her lace bra.

  “Christian,” she said. “Hurry. Please.”

  His face was dark, the veins at his temples distended. The wet bra didn’t come off easily enough to please him but he was careful with the fastening.

  With his forearms beneath her back, he stretched on his stomach over her and rubbed their bodies together, inciting her with the hair on his skin, with the sensation each time he pushed inside her a little, only to withdraw again.

  He blinked, his expression tense, then kissed her. With his hands supporting her head, he coaxed her with the tip of his tongue on the tip of hers. Eileen softened, she wrapped her arms around his neck and they kissed for a long time.

  She reached between them to touch him, to guide him, and he swept into her, huge and hard, demanding—perfect. They fought each other in the water, demanded more and more.

  Eileen’s nerves strained, rushed toward another release, and she saw when Christian’s eyes fixed and his teeth clenched.

  The skylight exploded overhead, sprayed pellets of glass in a stinging shower.

  Then a deafening crack burst like lightning.

  Gunfire. Someone had shot out the skylight and now they were firing into the bathroom.

  Christian covered Eileen, held her face against his neck. “It’s okay,” he said and she felt his body tense, as if to spring. “Hold on.” He hauled them both from the tub.

  Another shot came as they slithered, drenched, across the floor with its bruising scatter of glass pebbles.

  Christian all but threw Eileen into the shower and followed, covering her again. “The angle would be hard with us here,” he said.

  What did he mean? What was happening to them?

  The next sound was of someone scrambling from the roof. Instantly, Angel was out of the shower and rushing, naked, for the door. “Don’t go after him!” Eileen screamed.

  “If he knows what he’s doing, I’ll never catch him. But I might see his vehicle,” he yelled back at her. “And I need to look for anything he’s left behind.”

  Eileen crouched in the shower, shivering.

  Shattered beads of safety glass glinted all over the bathroom.

  A fractured mirror showed where the first bullet into the room must have ricocheted.

  Water ran from a second bullet hole in the bottom of the tub.

  11

  Eileen hobbled across the floor to rescue her sweat suit and haul it over her wet skin.

  Water pouring from the bottom of the tub ran into a drain in the floor, but not fast enough to keep the tiles dry. Angel’s discarded jeans were soaked from waist to hem on one side, but Eileen grabbed them and headed out the door. She didn’t get away without punishing her feet on the glass fragments.

  He’d turned out the lights in the next room.

  Fumbling, bumping into a wall, she made it to the gallery. The rest of the house was in darkness. So, he preferred to work in the dark. Or, more likely he was trying to make sure an intruder couldn’t pick him out—and pick him off.

  She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled forward until her hand, and her head, bumped a bannister. Then she was on her feet again, Angel’s wet jeans slung over her shoulder. She felt along the stair railing all the way down to the hall.

  Cold air blew through the open front door, bringing rain with it, and leaves. Faint light also slanted across the hall and Eileen remembered the gun in her purse—in the salon.

  Every move she made was painfully slow, but she knew better than to touch the lights. Somewhere outside, Angel…what could he be doing out there? The man who tried to shoot them should be away by now.

  Who was it? Why had he tried to kill them?

  She swallowed rasping sounds from her throat. At last she held the weapon in her hand and retraced her steps, working toward the vague glow from the open front door.

  Inside the door, she stood with her back to the wall and listened. Gusts of wind and the muted clatter of rain on windows were all she heard.

  When she had time to think, she’d consider how unreal this night had been.

  Eileen slid outside and ran to the left, for the cover of tall, thick bushes. With her arms in front of her face, she forced herself into them and paused, listening again, parting branches to peer back at the front of the house. She was even more wet than when she’d pulled her damp sweat suit on.

  Whoever had shot at them would be well away by now but she still whispered, “Angel?” and a little louder, “Angel?”

  He didn’t answer. She strained to hear any indication that he heard or was in the area. Nothing.

  Holding his jeans in front of her, she doubled over and crept along. The ground squelched, pushed mud between her toes and she grimaced.

  “Darn it all, Angel,” she muttered. “You go rushing off into the night and I’m supposed to stay hiding in a shower?” She got more furious by the second. It hadn’t been her idea to go into his house and hang around longer than was good for her.

  She wrinkled her nose. So, okay, it might not have been good for her, but it was good. It might be chilly, but she had a heat all her own. In fact she felt pink all over.

&
nbsp; Staying here was out of the question.

  Very carefully, her gun against her shoulder, Eileen eased back out of the bushes and away from the driveway. If she approached the house from the side, she could stay out of any reflection on the front windows, just in case someone was watching from the driveway.

  A hand, clamped over her mouth, and her feet being hauled from the ground, took months off her life. Her heart seared, fluttered, and didn’t seem inclined to settle in her chest.

  Twisting violently, she kicked out at the shins behind her, bit down on the fingers over her mouth. Eileen tried to scream but only managed strangled squeaks from her throat. She scissored her legs, used her heels to bombard her assailant’s shins. And she twisted her body from side to side.

  “Eileen.” It was Angel’s voice very close to her head. “For God’s sake, stop it. I thought you were the enemy.” He set her down.

  “And you scared me sick.” She went limp, put a hand behind her to touch him and quickly withdrew it.

  “The shooter’s gone,” Angel said. “When I heard you, I thought he’d come back.”

  “I’ve never been so terrified,” she said. “I brought your jeans but I’ve dropped them.” With her back to him, she peered around in the bushes and on the ground.

  “Better not look at me,” Angel whispered. “You’re too tender for what you’d see.”

  “Smart ass.” She located the jeans, deliberately faced him and slapped the pants against his chest. “Put ’em on.”

  He held them out. She could only barely make out his face. Inside, she clenched and trembled.

  “A lady would turn her back,” he said.

  Eileen crossed her arms, settled her gun in the crook of an elbow and put most of her weight on one leg.

  Angel did foot-to-foot hops to get into his jeans, sucking in a breath as the cold wet denim must have raked over his skin. He jumped some more and grasped the waistband. She watched every move and looked down when he started to close the zipper.

  “Better be careful how you do that,” she said.

  Angel adjusted himself, grinning all the time, and finally snapped the waist closed. “When did you learn to be forward?”