The Night Before Christmas, page 9
“Don’t worry. I’m going to hold up my end of the bargain.” Her hand came to rest lightly on his left thigh for a moment, the warmth of her fingers penetrating through the thickness of denim and sending the blood pulsing through his lower extremities. Ian stilled, forgetting for a moment that this was exactly what he hoped would happen—the two of them growing closer, sharing confidences. “If Gertie May doesn’t turn up by tomorrow afternoon, I’m going to talk to the police. I—I’d do anything to help her.”
“I knew you would.” He reached out, intertwining his fingers with hers, and carried her hand back into his lap. More exquisite torture having her slender, white fingers so close to his... He drew a shaky breath. His lungs didn’t seem to be working properly for some reason. Just who was seducing whom? “Uh, I hate to bring this up again, but I don’t suppose you kept any clippings of the newspaper accounts you mentioned?” Her fingers grew frigid within his grasp. “It might help to read through them. Maybe give us a lead on the anonymous sender of the Christmas cards.”
Laurel sat up stiffly and tugged her fingers free, ostensibly to splash more wine into her glass. “Of course, I kept a file. I thought Dorie might want to see it someday. That she had a right to... But it’s not here.” She didn’t look at him, just took another swallow of wine. “I—I put it in a safety-deposit box at the bank. It wasn’t the sort of thing I wanted lying around, especially with so many strangers coming through the house. Tomorrow’s Boxing Day—the bank won’t be open until the day after.”
He cursed. Her excuse sounded far too convenient to his liking. She seemed almost relieved the bank was closed tomorrow. He wondered if whatever she was still hiding from him was in the clippings.
“I’m sorry.”
Her quietly spoken words hit him someplace just below the ribs. He looked at her rigid spine, her head bent down as though in silent prayer, her lips pressed together in firm determination. She was trying so hard to hold herself together. Not to cry.
He removed the wineglass from her hands. With a firm but gentle hold, he seized her upper arms and pulled her snugly against his side, draping one arm securely around her narrow shoulders. He could feel the strength of her body test the weight of his arm, then release. “It’s not your fault. And I didn’t mean to imply that it was,” he lied. But deep down, he wished his aunt had never laid eyes on Laurel. He caressed her shoulder. “Just tell me what happened again. Everything you can think of.”
“It was an ordinary Christmas...” Laurel began.
Ian listened intently, trying not to become too distracted by the sensations her body created as it gradually relaxed against his: the softness of her breast molding to his ribs; the length of her feminine thigh bordering his male one; her ponytail feathering his arm every time she turned her head.
“So, about all I know from the police is that Steve went home that night...and an intruder hit him over the head with something. One of Steve’s tennis trophies was missing from the living room. The police thought it could be the murder weapon.” Laurel paused, fixing him with one of her translucent gazes that reminded him of honey swirling in dark tea. “There were all those other debts. I’ve often wondered if Steve was killed because he’d borrowed some money from a loan shark and couldn’t pay it back. Do you think it’s possible the loan shark has decided killing Steve wasn’t enough? That maybe he wants to be paid—and the best way to ensure he’d get paid was by kidnapping Gertie May?”
Ian thought about the debts he’d seen in the ledger last night. Laurel’s theory seemed to fit with the facts.
“It’s possible—especially if it was a large sum of money. From what you’ve told me, you’ve done an admirable job of disappearing. It may have taken this person two years to find you so he could collect. He may be sending you the threatening cards to intimidate you. It’s not a loan shark’s usual MO—they’re usually more direct. Pay up or else.”
“So I’ve endangered Gertie May by coming here....” Her voice cracked and Ian saw the gleam of tears that she’d been struggling to hold back rim in her eyes.
He turned toward her, cupping her face in his hands, his eyes narrowing on the trembling movement of her lips. “No, that’s not true.”
He told himself that, timing-wise, he’d never get a better opportunity to kiss her. But the truth was, he couldn’t wait any longer.
He had to know what it felt like to taste her lips. He dipped his head, his lips meeting the soft, yielding warmth of hers. The shock of that first tentative touch revved his heartbeat into overdrive. Ian swallowed hard and lifted his head back slightly to stare deep into her widened eyes. Did she feel it, too?
His thoughts swirled in confusion as he reminded himself this wasn’t real.
Slowly he kissed her again, her mouth opening beneath his and granting him access to the moist touch of her tongue. She tasted of wine and warmth and fantasy. Ian felt an explosion of pure pleasure deep inside him.
With a low groan he pulled the elastic from her blasted ponytail and threaded his fingers in her hair. Her hands roughly caressed his shoulders, sliding up behind his neck, inviting him closer. He shuddered, trying to control the ache of desire that was spilling through his veins. His hands trembled as they slid up under her soft wool sweater and a lacy camisole to claim her breasts. Laurel sank back onto the sofa, moaning low in her throat. Ian could feel her warm, ultrasoft flesh swell against the callused skin of his palms.
Suddenly she gripped his arms and gasped, “Oh, Ian, I c-can’t. Not under these circumstances.”
Slowly the meaning of her words penetrated the blood pounding in his ears. With great effort he tugged her sweater down and stood. His chest was heaving like an adolescent’s. He couldn’t remember ever getting so carried away.
Laurel was looking up at him through dark and wild eyes. “I’m sorry for...leading you on like that,” she sputtered as a dark shade of crimson infused her cheeks. “I—I think I had too much to drink. I’m not... I mean, I don’t usually...”
Of course she didn’t. Ian could see it now. She was the true-blue type who’d remain loyal to a dead husband—even sell her wedding rings to pay for his funeral. She wouldn’t jump into a relationship with just anyone who came along. Especially someone like him.
Scowling, he turned away from her to collect the empty dishes and the wine bottle. Anything to keep from looking at her and remembering the heavenly taste and feel of her. It had never occurred to him that a woman who could lie to the police might possess some lofty, old-fashioned morals.
The only reason she’d sleep with him is if her feelings were real. Ian swallowed hard, remembering the unfamiliar emotions that had been surging through him just seconds ago. God help him, it just might come down to that.
* * *
LAUREL AWOKE to a ringing in her ears. She slowly opened her eyes, trying to orient herself. It was pitch-black, but the persistent peal of the telephone called out to her. Her heart started to pound as she leapt out of bed and raced into her sitting room, knocking her elbow painfully against the wall in an effort to grasp the phone. “Gertie May? Is that you?” she said breathlessly into the receiver. Who else would be calling at this hour?
Silence greeted her ears. Laurel’s stomach churned. “Who is this? Answer me, please.”
Oh, God. What if Gertie May was trying to call, reaching out for help, and she couldn’t speak?
Finally, Laurel heard a quick indrawn breath followed by a hissing screech. “Murderess.” Then the line went dead.
Laurel recoiled from the phone in horror.
Ian.
She had to tell Ian. She moved through the house with ease in the darkness, instinctively knowing the way. It seemed like only seconds had passed before she was opening the door to his room and following the moonlit path to his bed. He was asleep on his back, one arm bent across his face, his legs sprawled wide in the large bed. She shook his bare, sleep-warmed shoulders. “Ian, wake up.”
His eyes fluttered open. “Laurel?” he whispered, sounding dazed and groggy. He pushed himself upright, the blankets bunching at his waist, and reached out for her, running his hands down her flannel-clad arms. She thought she heard him mumble, “You’re real. I should have known...the nightgown was all wrong...” Or something to that effect. He was still half-asleep and she didn’t have time to make sense of his ramblings.
“Listen to me. I just got a crank phone call—”
“What?” Ian was instantly alert.
“The person didn’t say much,” Laurel babbled. “Just called me a murderess and hung up. I—I thought at first it might be Gertie May....”
“Hey, you’re trembling. It’s okay.” His arms settled around her, anchoring her, making her feel safe and secure. Laurel was suddenly aware of the burning warmth of his skin seeping through her nightgown, of the coolness of her fingers resting on the hard, muscled ridges of his chest, of the lure of starlight and shadows and warm sheets. Of the lack of clothing covering Ian’s body. “When did you say this call came through?”
Laurel gulped. “A few minutes ago.”
“I didn’t hear the phone.”
“Gertie May doesn’t have an extension up here, so as not to disturb the guests.”
Ian leaned over, revealing a goodly amount of his backside in the faint silvery light as he groped for the travel clock on the table. Laurel pressed her fingers between her knees. This was crazy. Why did Ian affect her so? Because, you’re under a great deal of emotional stress, she told herself.
“It’s a little after 1:00 a.m.,” he said briskly, turning back to her, his expression hidden by shadows. “Could you tell if the caller was male or female?”
She bit her lip, considering. “I don’t know...it happened so fast.”
“How about background noises? Anything unusual—a TV, computer, street noises, a dog barking?”
“Nothing. Just plain silence. Only...” She paused. “Don’t you think the wording is a bit odd? ‘Murderess’ is not exactly a common expression. Not like ‘murderer.’” She shivered.
“Here, you’re cold.” Ian tucked some of the blankets over her lap.
“I—I almost think the person is somewhat educated. Or has a good vocabulary anyway. Maybe a journalism background.”
“Hmm, more likely a fascination with crime stories—or personal experience.” Ian rubbed his jaw and Laurel could hear the faint scratch of stubble. What would it feel like against her cheek? Against her breasts? She shouldn’t be here with him in the same bed. It was too dangerous... She’d never had a one-night stand in her life. Steve had been her only lover. Ian was pushing aside the covers.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, thoroughly alarmed.
“I’m getting dressed. I’m coming downstairs with you. I’ll sleep on the couch so I can be near the phone if this person calls again.” His voice gentled. “Are you going to watch me put my pants on, or be a lady and turn your head?”
She turned her head, but not nearly fast enough to avoid learning that he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. She was suddenly immensely grateful for the dimness of the room that hid the wave of heat she felt rising to her face.
“I’m decent,” Ian said a few seconds later. Laurel couldn’t be certain, but as she glanced his way a faint, white flash of teeth made her suspect he was grinning as he bent his head to gather the blankets from his bed. She snatched his pillow and jumped off the bed, leading the way out into the hallway. Emotional stress, that’s all it was.
“Do you think we’ll ever get some sleep tonight?” she grumbled over her shoulder.
“I should hope not—” a feminine voice said as a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. It was Janet Smithe, still in street clothes—apparently just coming in for the night. “Surely you two can think of something more pleasurable to do than sleep.”
Laurel froze, appalled by Janet’s bluntness. But since she was a paying guest for what was left of the night, Laurel decided to simply ignore her. “Good night, Miss Smithe,” she said coldly. How could Janet even suggest such a thing when Ian’s aunt was missing? The woman seemed purposefully antagonistic. First thing in the morning, Laurel was going to have a look at the reservation book. The sooner Janet checked out, the better.
Ian, on the other hand, couldn’t resist affirming his male pride. “I assure you, Miss Smithe, that I’ve never suffered from a lack of imagination.”
Laurel didn’t doubt it. He’d probably picked up a trick or two from women all over the world. All the more reason not to get emotionally involved with him.
It wasn’t until Ian started spreading his blankets on her couch that his reason for being downstairs hit home again. The phone call. Laurel felt a chill settle along her spine. Would there be others?
* * *
IAN LAY thinking in the quiet stillness of Laurel’s basement suite. The couch was a foot too short for him, but he’d sacked out in worse places. He probably wouldn’t sleep anyway. Not that he expected another phone call—once a night was usually enough for those creeps. But he couldn’t take his mind off Laurel. He’d thought he was dreaming when he woke up and found her in his bedroom, wearing that white flannel gown primly buttoned up to her neck. The room and the hair were right, but the nightgown was all wrong. In his dream she wasn’t wearing anything. And it wasn’t a planned seduction. It was real.
Ian dropped to the floor and did sit-ups to work off the mad-at-the-world feeling gnawing at his gut until he felt tired enough to sleep.
The impact of something colliding with his stomach awakened him a few hours later. “Hey, kid! What are you doing?” he growled at Dorie, who had plunked herself on his stomach and was staring down at him with pure mischief in her eyes. She giggled and bounced as though his stomach were a mattress. “I’m hungry.”
“You are, huh?” He reached up and tickled her, amazed at how pleasant her laughter sounded. Her feet pummeled his chest as she twisted and squirmed, but he didn’t mind. He sat up, hoisting her over his shoulder. “All right, rascal, we’ll get something to eat and let your mom sleep in.”
It was relatively simple to prepare a glass of apple juice and a bowl of dry cereal to keep her happy. Dorie told him exactly what to do and where everything was kept. “You want to watch cartoons?” he asked.
“I’m not ‘lowed to. But Mommy lets me watch ‘Sesame Street,’ Barney, an’ my movies.”
Blessedly, “Sesame Street” was on. Ian left her alone long enough to splash warm water on his face and pull on a sweatshirt and socks. He could shave later. When he came back, Dorie was perfectly fine. He sat near her in the living room, with a cup of black coffee and the Yellow Pages to compile a list of private investigators. None of them would be open today on Boxing Day, a Canadian holiday. He’d have to wait until tomorrow to call.
Ian stirred restlessly. There had to be something more he could do. He stood quickly and went to the front door. A draft of cold air gripped him in an icy embrace as he yanked it open. Ian stared at the buff-colored envelope securely pinned to the doormat for a long, dread-filled moment. It wasn’t the envelope per se that caught him off guard. He’d been expecting another one. No, what really bothered him was the paring knife. It made a nasty thumbtack.
Chapter Seven
Shh!
Ian flicked his gaze from the handwritten message on the Christmas card to the black, plastic-handled paring knife he’d sealed in a plastic bag a few minutes ago. Someone was obviously trying to make a point. Ian’s interpretation: Keep silent—or else!
The card itself was similar to the others. The same style angel, this one blowing a trumpet. Finding out where the cards had originated from struck him as being impossible.
“Ah!” Laurel’s smothered cry startled Ian from his thoughts. Her translucent eyes radiated fear as she stared at the objects he’d placed on the kitchen table. “Where’s Dorie?” she demanded.
“Watching TV. I hope it’s okay I brought her upstairs. I thought you could use the sleep.”
“Thanks.” She tied her red bathrobe more securely around her slim waist and approached the table, frowning as she read the card. “‘Shh!’ What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That we wait at least another day before we talk to the police. I want to see those newspaper clippings first. They may give us a clue as to who’s sending these cards. Besides, we may yet get another one.”
He wondered again at the worried expression that crossed her face when he mentioned the newspaper clippings.
“You left out the knife, Ian. Where did it come from?”
“It arrived with the card as a sort of thumbtack.”
Laurel paled, pressing a hand between her breasts as though to protect herself from the horrifying image his explanation evoked. “Oh, Ian, this isn’t right. If someone’s holding Gertie May against her will, we’ll need the help of the police to get her back safely. We can’t take a chance with her life.”
Ian gestured toward the knife, his tone grim and intractable. “The knife seems to suggest otherwise—that Aunt Gem will be safer if we keep our mouths shut. I thought you’d be relieved to be granted this small reprieve. Don’t mistake me, Laurel. She’s my aunt and I’ll do whatever I think necessary to keep her alive—if she’s still alive. I’ve no intention of remaining passive. There are measures we can take to nail this bastard. He’s after something. And sooner or later, we’ll figure out what it is.”
He leaned back in his chair. “By the way, what do you know about this Janet Smithe creature? Why is she staying here?”
“She’s a poet, I think. She’s visiting a friend for Christmas.”
“Ever met her before?”
“No. Why do you ask? You’re frightening me.”
“Curiosity.” He told her about his Christmas Eve encounter with Janet in Gertie May’s office. “She came back late last night. Maybe she hand-delivered the note—”
“Maybe she made the phone call....” Laurel said excitedly. “I’ll get Gertie May’s registration book. It should give us her address and phone number.” She left the kitchen and came back a few minutes later, thumbing through the pages of a leather-bound book. “I’ve got it. Janet lives in White Rock. That’s one hour south, near the U.S. border. I guess her friend dropped her off or she took a bus, because she didn’t bring a vehicle. Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable driving in the snow. She’s booked her room until January second.”
