Page 93 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Maybe you should come by tomorrow,” he suggested. “We can discuss anything you want. And you have my home number, right?”

“On your card in my purse.”

“Good. You can call me any time.” They were standing beneath a security lamp for the small parking area. He squeezed her fingers. “Any time.”

“You might regret those words.”

“I don’t think so.” His teeth flashed white against his dark skin. His eyes found hers, and her breath stopped short in her lungs. He was going to kiss her. She was certain of it. A tingle of excitement swept up her spine, and he leaned down and brushed his lips against her forehead. “Take care.” He opened the car door for her.

“You, too.” Ignoring the open door, she stood on her tiptoes and put her face next to his. “Thanks for a lovely evening.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips and then slid into her Lexus. While he was still standing there, looking stunned, she slammed the door shut, jabbed her key into the ignition and put the car in gear. She backed up, waved, then nosed into the alley. She was grinning at her reflection in the rearview mirror when she glanced back and saw him standing just where she’d left him under the street lamp. Kissing him had been a bold move. Unlike her. But, then, she was doing a lot of things that weren’t like her these days.

And she loved it.

Berneda opened a bleary eye. For a moment she was confused by the quiet surroundings. The only light was from a few backlit fixtures in the outer hallway. Then, slowly, she remembered that she was in a hospital, sleeping on an uncomfortable bed, tubes running in and out of her body. Her mind was sluggish, her thoughts not running in any particular order, except that she wanted to go home. To the big plantation home that spoke of more genteel times, to her own room, her own bed.

She wanted Lucille to wait on her. Lucille was patient and kind, unlike some of the snippy young things that poked and prodded her all in the name of health care.

What was she doing here in this private room? Another spell? Yes . . . that was it. Or was it? Her brain was moving at far less than light speed. She reached for a tissue on the stand but couldn’t make her hand obey her mind. She realized that her vision was distorted, that the shiny fixtures in the room were out of proportion, stretched to impossible shapes. She licked her lips, and her tongue was thick. Whatever they’d given her was powerful.

She needed more sleep. That was it. She started to close her eyes when she noticed a movement near the door. Without a sound, a figure appeared as if on cat’s silent paws. A woman. Maybe another nurse. More torture. Berneda half expected some pert young thing to try and take her temperature or blood pressure, but as the silhouette of the woman loomed closer, her face in shadows, Berneda sensed something was wrong. Squinting against her blurred, distorted vision, she started to say something, but as swiftly as a cottonmouth striking, the woman pulled something from behind her back. A pillow. Berneda opened her mouth just as it was covered. She tried to scream, but only managed to flail like a marionette. The woman was strong, surprisingly so, and Berneda was weak and drugged.

Help me, she silently screamed as her lungs burned, feeling as if they would burst. Pain screamed through her body and the angina kicked in, the heavy oppressive weight on her heart reminding her of her condition. She tried to gasp for air and felt the cotton cover of the pillow pushed down her throat. No! This couldn’t be happening! Who was trying to kill her?

The edge of the pillow partially covered her eyes and her eyesight was already warped, but as her attacker pressed harder on her chest, shoving the horrid pillow over her nose, as her lungs turned to fire, Berneda caught a death’s-eye vision of her murderess. A familiar if distorted face.

“I am Atropos,” the killer whispered harshly against Berneda’s ear. “And you have met your fate.”

Twenty-Three

He woke up covered in sweat. His cock was rock-hard, his skin drenched, his breathing erratic. Adam threw off the covers and walked into the bathroom, where he found a washcloth and wiped it over his face. He’d been dreaming, and in the dream he’d been with Caitlyn, kissing her, touching her, nearly making love to her. He’d wanted her as badly as he’d ever wanted a woman.

But it was only a dream.

The vision of her lying on a chaise longue on the deck of a sleek cabin cruiser had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination. She’d been naked aside from a pair of sunglasses. Her skin had been gleaming in the hot tropical sun, and she’d looked up at him with a sly, seductive smile. He’d been walking on the oiled teak planks. He, too, was naked, ready and knowing that she wanted to make love to him.

He’d reached her and knelt, kissing her belly button as she’d moaned and arched upward. Her skin had tasted salty; her flesh had been warm. He’d slid upward and run his tongue over a hard, expectant nipple.

“Ooohh,” she’d moaned and he’d looked up to her face, watched as she’d languorously removed her sunglasses and stared at him in amusement. Except that when she’d uncovered her eyes, she was no longer Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux, but Rebecca, and the smile that had curved her lips had turned to stone, her eyes growing glassy, her features waxen, her body as cold as marble.

Now, as he stared into the mirror, he faced what he’d feared for weeks. That Rebecca wasn’t off on one of her flighty sojourns, that she hadn’t even left him to find a new lover, that, in fact, there was a very real possibility that she was dead.

And the answer was tied to Caitlyn.

From all the notes Rebecca had written, he’d pieced together t

hat Caitlyn Bandeaux was Rebecca’s most fascinating client, that she was planning to do more research on her and her twin sister Kelly, but the information was spotty. Tantalizing, but incomplete. Pages and pages were missing.

Wrapping a towel over his neck, he walked into the den. It was four in the morning, but he wasn’t tired. He pulled out his desk chair and turned on his computer. Caitlyn’s image came to his mind as the machine whirred to life. He imagined her dark hair spread upon a pillow, her face turned up to his, her skin as soft as silk . . . oh, hell, it had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Way too long. Turning his thoughts away from the provocative image, he checked his e-mail. He was hoping for word that the hard drive he’d taken to a private company could be reconstructed, that any information that had once been stored on it might be retrieved. So far his friend at the company had not responded.

So he’d have to wait.

But he was running out of time.

Soon he’d have to come clean with Caitlyn. With the police. With himself. Because he was getting in far too deep. His involvement with Caitlyn had already gone past the bounds of professionalism; he was skating on thinner and thinner ice. Soon it would break and he’d be plunged into the black oblivion, a whirlpool of emotions dragging him under.

He found her intriguing. Extremely so.

And it wasn’t just because of her circumstances.

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