Upon a Mystic Tide (31 page)

Or was she?

Maybe she was the greatest kind of fool. Her heart still urged her to turn, to grab this chance with both hands and to hold on tight. Love or lust, one night or forever, she wanted him. What difference did the divorce make? The timing of it? It wasn’t as if she intended to remarry. She didn’t want any other man. She wanted this man. With her whole heart.

“And don’t forget Santos.” John’s voice dropped a decibel and went hard. “I can’t hold you in my arms and make love with you, knowing you’re thinking of him. I
 . . .
won’t.”

Jonathan jealous? Of Miguel? And sounding equally bent on convincing himself as on convincing her? Her heart gave a little lurch, and her logic popped in with a discomforting thought her heart agreed she should accept. Whether or not they physically made love didn’t really matter. Not being physical wouldn’t protect her emotions. When John Mystic again exited her life, she again would mourn him. “There’s only you and me here, Jonathan,” she whispered.

He sucked in a deep breath, and his hand on her ribs trembled. “Then come here and let me love you.”

She turned over.

He pulled her to him, aligning their bodies, his hardness pushing against her belly. “It’s powerful stuff, Doc, telling a man you once needed him.”

How she must have hurt him with that. He’d felt as much an outsider in her life as she’d felt in his. To know, yes. Yes. To know you’re not only wanted, but needed. To feel vital and important to another human being. To matter. Powerful feeling. Powerful
 . . .
and humbling.

She slipped her hand under his arm, around his waist to his broad back. “I know we should talk and settle our differences first. We should know what this means to us. Will we be together again just this once, or does this mean more?”

“I don’t know.” He kissed a trail along her jaw. “I only know I want you.”

Oh, God. He wanted her. Wanted
her.
A trickle of sheer pleasure streaked from the underside of her chin straight down her middle to her core. How many times had she lain in bed and cried because she’d never heard those words? How many times had she imagined him giving her what he now offered? And if she refused now, how many times in the years ahead would she regret it?

Still, one of them had to remain grounded. Consequences would follow. They’d both pay them. “It’ll cause problems with the divorce, Jonathan.”

“Right now, that doesn’t seem important.” He kissed the lobe of her ear, the soft spot behind it, the pulse point throbbing at her throat. “Did you mean it, Doc?”

Would it be important later? She arched her neck, let her fingertips drift over his back, delighting in the familiar and missed feeling of warm velvet over steel, the flexing of his hard-packed muscle quivering and bunching at her touch. “Did I mean what?”

“That you needed me.”

The fierce hope that she did shimmered in his voice and arrowed straight into her heart. A lump of regret that she hadn’t told him, hadn’t let him see just how much she’d needed him, settled squarely in her throat and she promised herself that, regardless of what tomorrow brought them, tonight John Mystic wouldn’t doubt anything she felt for him. “I needed you then,” she confessed, “and I need you now.”

A groan rumbled down deep in his throat. He rolled her onto her back, then hovered above her. His arms suffered a tremor and his heart pounded against her breasts like a frantic drum. “I needed you then too, Doc.”

Oh, how she wished she could see his eyes! She was a fool to ask, but she had to know. Her heart just had to know. “And
 . . .
now?”

Cupping her face in his hands, he vowed, “I need you now. I
 . . .
need.”

He covered her lips with his in a searing kiss. Breathless, Bess dragged her hand over his shoulder, along its blade, and shoved her silky robe away from his warm skin. She needed, too. To touch him, to love him. To feel the magic.

The phone rang.

Bess snapped her eyes open, but either he hadn’t heard it, or he’d chosen to ignore it. On the third ring, she broke their kiss. “Jonathan, the phone.”

“Forget it,” he murmured against her lips, sliding his hand along her thigh. “They’ll call back.”

He touched a particularly sensitive spot, and she shuddered. “It could be important.”

“Not more important than this. Not to me.”

Her woman’s heart filled and, joyful, she kissed his clavicle to let him know it. “What if it’s the man from Portland?”

John went stiff in her arms. What if it was Keith? “I’d better get it.”

John crawled out of bed. Of all the times for anyone to call. Why not when they’d been fighting? When she’d been ranting? Why
now?
He grabbed the receiver then growled into it. “Mystic.”

Bess turned on the little tulip lamp, then propped on an elbow and called out to him from the bed. “Don’t bite off anyone’s head, Jonathan.”

Rumpled and flushed and hungry-eyed, she looked good enough to devour. Whoever was calling had twenty seconds. John was a reasonable man—and a realistic one. He couldn’t wait any longer than that to get back to her.

“This is Keith, down at Dockside.”

The Portland man. The bar where John had lost Dixie’s trail six years ago. How had Bess known? Tony? John’s heart started a low, hard beat. “You have news?”

“Yeah. The man you want is back in Portland. His name’s Gregor Samuels and he’ll be here tomorrow at two.”

“I’ll be there.” John swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The line went dead.

John hung up the phone, his hand shaking, and turned to Bess.

Sitting Indian-style in the middle of the bed, her eyes blazed. “I heard. You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“Provided Tony will let me out, yes. It’s a lead on Dixie, Bess. I have to check it.”

Bess’s heart shattered. After six years, Dixie couldn’t have been kidnaped. Elise never had been contacted with a ransom demand. And after her death, if Dixie had eloped, then wouldn’t she have come home? If for no other reason, wouldn’t she have come to claim her inheritance?

That left only one explanation, and Bess couldn’t bring herself to think it, much less to say it out loud. But knowing it; knowing John had to realize Dixie’s status too; knowing that, in their own way, she and John were trying to settle their differences and, maybe—just maybe—trying to put their marriage back together, it hurt for him to again leave her to follow up on a lead. It devastated her that even now, even after all they’d been through together, she still ranked a poor second.

Isn’t it interesting?

“Tony! Good grief, would you please knock or something? You scared me out of my socks.”

“Tony, I’m glad you’re here. I need to go to Portland. It’s important. Could you please, please, let me out of here?”

Isn’t anyone going to ask me what’s interesting?

“Okay, Tony. What’s interesting?”

Thank you, Jonathan. Isn’t it interesting that you two are so very opposed to being stuck here together and yet for hours neither of you has tried to open the door?

“Jonathan, don’t do it! He’s a ghost, for God’s sake.”

Primed for a strong shout, John shut his mouth, held his tongue, and strode to the door. Though he hadn’t replaced the hinge pins, they were back in their slots. He grabbed the knob then twisted it.

The door swung open.

“You were bluffing. Damn it, Tony, why did—”

“Jonathan, darling, don’t rile him.” Bess crawled out of bed, came to John’s side, then put a restraining hand on his arm. “What will we gain?”

For the record, I wasn’t bluffing. I was proving a point.

“Lord help us, another puzzle.”

Yes, Bess. But one you’ll surely understand—if you dare.

Knowing exactly what Tony meant, she looked up at Jonathan, her chest tight with fear. Yet another monumental moment. She dredged up her courage, swallowed her pride, and then confessed the truth. “I didn’t try the door because I didn’t want to leave.”

“You didn’t?”

She’d been about to make love with him and he asks her that? Shocked herself, though, she couldn’t hold his surprise against him. She gave him a slow, negative nod.

John looked down at her, his eyes bright and tender. “Me either, Doc.”

Ah, sweet progress. I suggest you both think about that.

She sat in the gazebo,
staring out onto the moonlit pond. The gentle wind nipped at her hair, ruffled her white blouse and slacks. If she’d worn any other color, John might not have seen her; she sat so still. Deep in thought, he suspected, dragging a hand through his hair. God knew that since Tony’s last stunt and Bess’s confession, John had thought plenty.

He loved her. He always had, and he always would. But could he stay married to her without destroying them both? That, he didn’t know. Nor did he know how she felt about him. Needing him—dear God, nothing in his life ever had made him feel that good—was a far cry from still loving him. And how did Santos fit in? It didn’t seem possible Bess loved the man. It wasn’t her style to love one man and make love with another. John frowned. And they would have made love—had Keith not called from Portland.

That certainty had John’s heart racing, his stomach knotting, and all of him regretting the interruption. It beat at him like a series of potent punches. The bottom line was that, yes, they were resolving their differences. But they hadn’t resolved them yet. And exactly what that resolution entailed, they’d neither determined nor stipulated. But from John’s side of the fence, only one point of agreement couldn’t be waived. He had to settle this case. He had to find Dixie and put the case, and the guilt, behind him. After all it’d cost him, he couldn’t crawl back to Bess and their marriage a failure. He just couldn’t do it. And, by her own admission, she wouldn’t respect him if he did.

He walked on, across the rocky leaf-strewn ground, into the gazebo, then stopped beside the slatted bench. She didn’t turn around; kept staring out onto the pond. Sprinkled with moonlight, it shimmered as if star-studded with diamonds. “Bess?”

“Hmmm?”

No surprise. She’d known it was him approaching. Still acutely perceptive. So why then couldn’t she perceive all his feelings for her? Was it a blessing that she couldn’t, or a curse? “Don’t you think you should come inside? It’s late and it’s getting cold out.” She didn’t have on a sweater. She had to be chilled.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Me, too.” He stepped over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”

She looked up at him, her eyes sad, her tone resigned. “You’re leaving.”

God, how he wished he could say no. But nothing had changed and, until he settled this case, peace for him, for Elise, would remain as elusive as any hope of a reconciliation with Bess. “In the morning.” Would she miss him? Be glad to see him go? Pray he didn’t return? “But I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “That depends on what happens at Dockside, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” She knew him better than he knew himself. He lowered his hand from her shoulder, then fisted his hand and stuffed it into his slacks pocket. “I guess it does.”