Read Online Scandal in Copper Lake by Marilyn Pappano - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marilyn Pappano
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screen door creaked, and Anamaria came down the steps, avoiding the hole in the third one. She crossed the dirt and pine needles that passed for a yard, then stopped in the street a dozen feet in front of him.
“What’s the difference between a dead rat lying in the road and a dead lawyer lying in the road?” She paused only a moment. “There are skid marks in front of the rat.”
When he didn’t smile, she did and began walking lazily toward her house. He forced his feet to move, to walk beside her rather than behind her, where he could watch the sway of her hips.
“Did you decide to take me up on my offer?”
Yes. No. Damned if I know. Silence was a good choice when you didn’t know what to say, Granddad Calloway had always advised. It was Robbie’s choice as they moved single file past her car, then climbed the steps to the porch. As he reached the top, though, his mouth opened and words came out of their own accord.
“Were you at the river the night your mother died?”
Anamaria’s fingers curled around the screen door so tightly that the nail beds turned white. She turned, forcing him to stop on the last stair, blocking his way. The extra height put her an inch or two above him and allowed her to stare down at him with all the ice she could muster. “What?”
He moved as close as the step would allow, his shirt brushing hers, his face mere inches from hers. “According to the police report, you told your babysitter that your mother was in the water hours before she was found there. Were you there?”
She never retreated. Never. But that afternoon she did, taking a step back, folding her arms protectively over her middle. She tried to look away, but his blue gaze was too intense, tried to walk away, but her body refused to obey.
He closed the distance between them again, standing much too near, intruding on every breath of her personal space. “ Were you at the river that night? Did you sneak out and follow her, or go looking for her? Were you with her when she fell? Did you know she was dying? Did you leave her there?”
Sensation threatened to overwhelm her: his heat, his scent, his arousal—oh, yes, even though he was questioning her, he was aroused. So were her own emotions. Sweat beaded on her forehead as chill bumps raised on her arms. Over the buzzing in her ears she heard whimpers coming from the front bedroom, felt her five-year-old heart breaking all over again, tasted the fear, the helplessness, the anger that Mama wasn’t there to help her deal with what she couldn’t understand.
She grabbed onto the anger, straightening her spine, wrapping it around her for warmth and strength. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming here demanding answers from me?”
He raised his hand, bringing his fingertips close to her cheek, so close she felt their warmth, so close she imagined their texture, smooth and calloused, against her skin. Every nerve ending was humming, every pleasure sensor on alert, waiting, anticipating, but he stopped before making contact. Stopped. Stared at her. Said quietly, deliberately, “I’m the man you’re going to touch.”
Her heart beat a hundred times before she managed a breath. The whimpers faded back into the dark corner of her memory, and so did the anger. A knot of fear remained, though. The unbridled passion experienced by Duquesnewomen was a powerful thing, according to Mama Odette. It would take away her breath, rip out her heart and make a different woman of her, one who understood the exquisite pleasure and pain of desire, love and loss.
It was her destiny. Since she was a little girl, she’d grown up expecting not marriage but a broken heart. She envisioned it. Was resigned to it. Had waited for it all her life.
I’m the man you’re going to touch.
She was. Maybe not this instant. Maybe not today. But soon. When the mere promise of a touch could made her tremble…definitely soon.
And then he would break her heart.
She dragged in
“What’s the difference between a dead rat lying in the road and a dead lawyer lying in the road?” She paused only a moment. “There are skid marks in front of the rat.”
When he didn’t smile, she did and began walking lazily toward her house. He forced his feet to move, to walk beside her rather than behind her, where he could watch the sway of her hips.
“Did you decide to take me up on my offer?”
Yes. No. Damned if I know. Silence was a good choice when you didn’t know what to say, Granddad Calloway had always advised. It was Robbie’s choice as they moved single file past her car, then climbed the steps to the porch. As he reached the top, though, his mouth opened and words came out of their own accord.
“Were you at the river the night your mother died?”
Anamaria’s fingers curled around the screen door so tightly that the nail beds turned white. She turned, forcing him to stop on the last stair, blocking his way. The extra height put her an inch or two above him and allowed her to stare down at him with all the ice she could muster. “What?”
He moved as close as the step would allow, his shirt brushing hers, his face mere inches from hers. “According to the police report, you told your babysitter that your mother was in the water hours before she was found there. Were you there?”
She never retreated. Never. But that afternoon she did, taking a step back, folding her arms protectively over her middle. She tried to look away, but his blue gaze was too intense, tried to walk away, but her body refused to obey.
He closed the distance between them again, standing much too near, intruding on every breath of her personal space. “ Were you at the river that night? Did you sneak out and follow her, or go looking for her? Were you with her when she fell? Did you know she was dying? Did you leave her there?”
Sensation threatened to overwhelm her: his heat, his scent, his arousal—oh, yes, even though he was questioning her, he was aroused. So were her own emotions. Sweat beaded on her forehead as chill bumps raised on her arms. Over the buzzing in her ears she heard whimpers coming from the front bedroom, felt her five-year-old heart breaking all over again, tasted the fear, the helplessness, the anger that Mama wasn’t there to help her deal with what she couldn’t understand.
She grabbed onto the anger, straightening her spine, wrapping it around her for warmth and strength. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming here demanding answers from me?”
He raised his hand, bringing his fingertips close to her cheek, so close she felt their warmth, so close she imagined their texture, smooth and calloused, against her skin. Every nerve ending was humming, every pleasure sensor on alert, waiting, anticipating, but he stopped before making contact. Stopped. Stared at her. Said quietly, deliberately, “I’m the man you’re going to touch.”
Her heart beat a hundred times before she managed a breath. The whimpers faded back into the dark corner of her memory, and so did the anger. A knot of fear remained, though. The unbridled passion experienced by Duquesnewomen was a powerful thing, according to Mama Odette. It would take away her breath, rip out her heart and make a different woman of her, one who understood the exquisite pleasure and pain of desire, love and loss.
It was her destiny. Since she was a little girl, she’d grown up expecting not marriage but a broken heart. She envisioned it. Was resigned to it. Had waited for it all her life.
I’m the man you’re going to touch.
She was. Maybe not this instant. Maybe not today. But soon. When the mere promise of a touch could made her tremble…definitely soon.
And then he would break her heart.
She dragged in
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