Dangerous Attraction Page 15

  “No, not personally. Maybe you hired someone to do your dirty work. My son and Paul left you plenty of money.” He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. “Blood money.”

  Michael edged in front of Claire in case Farnsworth became violent. Keeping one hand on his nine millimeter, he slanted a meaningful look at Pratt.

  The detective stepped closer to the bereaved husband. “Why would Ms. Saint-Ange want to murder your wife, Mr. Farnsworth? It’s my understanding that until recently, the two cousins were close.”

  His mouth thinned, his lips white with anger. “As family must be, yes. Martine and Claire were not intimate friends.” His glare was meant to cleave Claire in two. “It had something to do with Jonathan, I believe. My wife and son were close friends, you see. Claire was very possessive of her husband. After their marriage, she hardly allowed my wife to talk to him. Jealousy is a powerful emotion.”

  So he didn’t know. The truth would eventually come out and would be just as damning as what the man believed now. Days ago, Michael told Cruz and Pratt what he and Claire suspected had happened between the stepmother and stepson. Would the detective play that trump card?

  “Your son has been dead for seven years, Mr. Farnsworth,” Pratt said quietly. “Do you have any evidence?”

  Farnsworth shook his silver-gray head slowly. “How else do you explain all the deaths around the Widow Spider? She knows how to wait. Just keep her away from my children, that’s all.” Then he turned to leave.

  “Oh, mon Dieu, the children!” Claire whispered on a ragged sob.

  Michael thought of no pacifying words. No way would she be able to comfort those motherless kids. All he could do was hold her and let her cry.

  After a uniform drove Farnsworth home, Pratt moved everyone indoors to review the details of the hit and run.

  Michael sat beside Claire on the sofa while she explained her cousin’s visit, omitting the crucial information about the illicit affair.

  Twinges of misgivings about the ethics of holding back about the affair plagued him, but he’d hold his tongue for now.

  “So, Ms. Saint-Ange, you say you didn’t expect your cousin’s visit?” Pratt said for the third time.

  “No, Lieutenant, as I explained, Martine and I had not spoken in weeks.” Her heavier Acadian accent was a measure of how tired and worn she was. Her voice was mechanically hollow and her face wan and drawn with grief, but as she spoke, her spine straightened and her eyes flashed with resentment.

  “When she came to the door then, you were surprised. Did you notice any vehicles in the vicinity then?”

  “The street was quiet.”

  Pratt proceeded methodically with his questioning, repetitive and thorough, like a videotape on endless replay. Michael gritted his teeth and let the state cop do his job. Dammit, he knew this was necessary, but all he wanted was to wrap Claire up and take her away somewhere safe.

  “Pratt,” Michael finally bit out, “don’t you think you have enough for now? My client has had a bad shock today and needs some rest.”

  The detective’s astute glance darted from one to the other of them. An avuncular twinkle in his eye, he rose. “I suppose you’re right, Quinn. I can return tomorrow if I need more information. Ms. Saint-Ange, my condolences on the loss of your cousin.”

  Once Pratt had closed the door behind him, Claire leapt to her feet like a racer ready for the gun. Black skirt flapping around her tights-clad calves, she dashed around the room. It was late afternoon, dusk, and she plucked and slapped at light switches as if enough wattage could hold off the night.

  There was no longer a holiday tree to illuminate, since she’d followed local custom and removed all decorations except the door wreath on the twenty-sixth. To Michael, the drooping poinsettia on a corner stand added to the mood of gloom and emptiness.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, circling her with his arms. Damn, but he needed her, needed to hold her, to kiss her soft lips, to be inside her.

  Bad timing.

  “Yes, I was just afraid I’d slip and tell him something about Jonathan and Martine.” On a wrenching sigh, she leaned into his embrace.

  It seemed she’d forgotten about maintaining a professional distance. He sure as hell wouldn’t remind her. “There are worse things. I’m not certain preventing a scandal is worth the damage caused by concealing information.”

  “Yes, there are worse things.” Her dark eyes shone liquid with the knowledge. “Wait until I tell you what else Martine said.”

  Without further explanation, she sprinted to the hallway, leaving him to trail in her reckless wake. More lights. Then the so-called ballroom, where a bank of switches set three brass chandeliers and several sconces ablaze.

  “Merde, I can’t stand it, Quinn!” she yelled, her voice breaking with emotion. “Every time I think we have a chance of reaching the truth, of solving this damn thing, it gets worse. And it injures more people.” She twisted her mane of copper-highlighted sable curls over her head in a familiar gesture of exhaustion and exasperation. “I’m surrounded by death and darkness, and everything I do seems to make matters worse. I need light.”

  As if in response, the telephone rang, followed by urgent barking from the kitchen, where both animals had been confined.

  “Enough!” She stomped to the kitchen to answer the jangling summons, muffled by the closed door.

  Spacious enough for a reunion of both sides of Michael’s large family, the room was sparsely furnished with a few sheet-covered love seats and one or two other pieces. Claire told him Paul had intended to rise in Weymouth society by using this room for charity events. He shook his head at Santerre’s idiosyncrasies.

  Let her have her lights, but it wasn’t smart to display their activities to the world at large. He pulled the drapes closed, then hurried to join Claire in the kitchen.

  She quieted Alley before answering the phone. “Hello,” he heard her say. Then, “Hello, dammit!” When this was apparently met with silence, she spewed out a string of what he assumed were French obscenities, then slammed down the receiver.

  After her wrath ran its course, he’d have to find out what Martine told her before she died. For now Claire needed an outlet.

  Ready for more eruptions, he waited in the kitchen doorway. Damn, but she was beautiful with fury painting her cheeks crimson and sparking umber lights in her eyes.

  “About time you let this crazy bastard know what you think of his harassment. I’d rather see you angry than frightened. Feel better now?”

  Claire stood taut and quivering, as if all her muscles and sinews were plucked violin strings. Her breasts heaved with barely controlled sobs, and her depthless eyes were wide with desperation. She shook her fists to the skies. “I feel…I feel like a tornado is spinning around inside me. I don’t know what to do.”

  Alley sat quivering at her feet, and the kitten Spook crouched in his box. His black fur bristling with anxiety, he peered big-eyed over the cardboard edge.

  With a grunt of frustration, Claire let the dog out into the backyard. Apparently anxious about her mistress, Alley returned in record time. The animal gave a sharp bark at Michael as if to pass off protection to him.

  “It’s okay, girl,” he said, bending to pat the dog.

  Seemingly satisfied, Alley trotted beneath the kitchen table to lie on her cushion.

  “You need some action. To break something.” He understood. He’d had the same churning need, twice.

  “I could chop wood, I suppose.” She looked dubious.

  He shuddered inwardly at the image of her wielding an ax. “No, in your state of mind, no. That’s not good enough for catharsis. To be really satisfying, you need something breakable, something you can smash.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. Lips pursed in a sexy pout and brown eyes gleaming with an unholy light, she said, “I know just what to break.”

  Chapter 10

  Breaking things might make her feel better, but Claire doubted it. Everyt
hing closed in on her, smothered her. How could she fight her way past the hard knot of fear and pain crippling her? Maybe Michael was right.

  “So much of what’s going on comes back to Paul. Russ still accuses me of murdering him, and all the sordid facts about Paul infuriate me so I wish I could slap him. That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

  “I understand how you feel. I’ve been there,” he said, his arched eyebrow challenging and reminding her he was no stranger to tragedy. “So what are you going to break?”

  “You see those?” Claire indicated the French dessert molds adorning the kitchen wall.

  “Those metal things?” Michael’s jaw tensed as if he thought she was crazy.

  She shook her head. “My mama inherited them from her grandmother, who inherited them from hers, who brought them from France. When I wanted to hang them, Paul wouldn’t have what he called peasant trash on the wall. You should have seen the painting he hung there instead.”

  “Bad, huh?”

  “Alley could do better with paint on her three paws. But he bought it at an estate auction, so he deemed it high class. What I have in mind to break are some other things he bought at that same auction.” Yes, the symbols of Paul’s ambitions.

  After shutting the door once again on her pets, Claire led Michael to the ballroom. She hurried across the polished parquet floor to the walnut curio cabinet.

  “This cupboard reminds me of one my family keeps my great-aunt Fiona’s Belleek china collection in,” Michael said. Arms folded, he stood expectantly nearby at the marble fireplace. “What’s in this one?”

  She huffed loudly and slammed open the glass doors. One of the panes shattered. Claire forced herself to ignore the glass fragments peppering the floor and snatched one of the delicate pieces inside. “No family mementos, I guarantee. Inside are a dozen china figurines, ladies in ball gowns, ladies in white lawn and carrying delicate porcelain parasols…ladies.”

  “Very, uh…nice. They look valuable.”

  “Hundreds of dollars each, I think, but they were purchased along with the cabinet. Paul insisted I have the kind of collection befitting a lady.” Hefting an aristocratic shepherdess wearing china lace ruffles and pink bows, she glanced at the marble hearth.

  Hard. Very hard.

  “Perfect for satisfactory smashing. Go for it.” His sardonic grin dared her. “I’ll move out of the way of flying china darts.” He sidled away a safe distance.

  Claire positioned herself before the hearth. She swung the shepherdess back and forth. The cold edges of the figure’s frock cut into her palm. Heart pounding, she eyed the adamantine surface.

  “Well?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  She heard him move closer behind her, felt his heat, like that from a furnace.

  “A few minutes ago, you were mad enough to chew up one of those trinkets and spit it out,” he hissed in her ear.

  Her reflection in the mirror over the mantel looked Medusa-haired, red-eyed and frantic. A woman on the verge of madness. “For so long I’ve taken care of this house and everything in it. I…I can’t—”

  “You can!” His voice was a rumbling growl. “You’ve been holding in all your anger and fear. You try to be Miss Perfect, to atone for the crimes you’re suspected of. Your house is perfect, immaculate, a museum. You sneak in good deeds as if they were sins. You hire a proud old man so he can feel useful. You take flowers and jigsaw puzzles to a nursing home.”

  Shocked, she pivoted to face him. “How did you know about that?”

  “Never mind how I found out. I had to know where you were the morning of the bombing.”

  “You didn’t believe me?” she accused, anger heating her cheeks once more.

  “Dammit, you needed an alibi!” He grasped her shoulders and spun her back to the hearth. “Now, heave that baby. Pretend it’s me, if you like. Wind up like Pedro Martinez and let ’er rip!”

  “Who?”

  He emitted a grunt of disgust. “A Red Sox pitcher.”

  She hesitated. Trepidation and guilt sapped her nerve.

  Clasping his big, callused hands on her shoulders, he growled in her ear, “Make it one for your friendly stalker!”

  That did it. All her crimson fury returned at the reminder of the phone calls. She swung her arm back, then forward so fast, the figurine flew to the back of the pristine marble opening.

  Crash!

  Claire gasped in horror. Edges of pink lace and shards of shepherd’s crook scattered on the marble. The figurine’s head, her dainty nose missing, rolled into a corner.

  “See, the world didn’t end.” After a warm squeeze of encouragement, he released her and backed away.

  “No,” she replied tentatively, “it felt kind of good.” It did. She’d felt a small rush of release.

  Immediately another figurine was pressed into her hand. “This one’s for Paul and the drug gang,” he said.

  “No. No, this one’s for Martine! Why did they have to kill her? Why?”

  Smash!

  A flirt in a ballgown flew into royal-blue slivers.

  She bit her lower lip. Her heart pounded faster, drummed with a new beat of excitement and passion. And release. Silent tears tracked unchecked down her cheeks.

  She slid to the cabinet and, with trembling fingers plucked out another figurine, a dark-haired beauty with Grecian curls and draped in a salmon tunic decorated with seashells. The goddess Aphrodite. “I’ve always hated her. Paul said she looked like me. She doesn’t.”

  She wound up as much like a baseball pitcher as she could. “This one’s for Paul and his drug pals and his damned ambition and greed!”

  Smash!

  Arms outstretched, she stood panting. The stony ache inside eased, replaced with a swirl of new emotion that seared her nerves.

  “Is that better? How do you feel now?”

  She’d forgotten he was so close behind her. She faced him. How did she feel? Hot. Her skin burned, every inch hypersensitive and tingly. Jittery. Her heart throbbed in every pulse point, and in reaction to his assessing gaze, veered deep into her belly. Tension translated to a need she feared couldn’t be met.

  What she really needed was Michael’s arms around her, his lips, his hands, his body intoxicating her, driving her to sweet oblivion. The way she looked, how could he want her?

  He stood in what she recognized as his protective stance, arms loose, powerful legs apart. A bull ready to charge. Unrelentingly, he stared at her, his gaze intensified to molten pewter, its heat enveloping her like liquid flame. His chest rising and falling with rapid breaths as if he’d thrown the china, he waited for her reply. The bulge testing the limits of his fly told her what she needed to know.

  “Michael, no, not better. I need…you.”

  “Claire.”

  In one swoop, he embraced her, his sinewy arms banding her to him. At his scalding kiss, her heart raced and plunged, and she clutched at him desperately. Excitement radiated to her fingertips.

  Fervently, she kissed him back, with hungry lips and tongue and teeth. Reveling in the firm resilience of his lips, the rasp of dark stubble around his mouth, his spicy scent, the taste of salty heat and hunger that was Michael, she ran her hands over his face, around his neck and down his wide back.

  His hands found her breasts, pushed aside her bra to tease the nipples. The kisses deepened, moved, pressed, shot darts of tantalizing pleasure to her loins, penetrated her very soul. She grew light-headed with desire.

  The chandeliers glittered overhead and on the mirror and on the china shards beside them, creating an incandescent aura, a surreal hollow in space and time.

  “Michael, now!” she murmured, barely able to speak.

  “Yes, Claire, now.” His arms beneath hers, he lifted her off the floor. “Put your legs around me,” he said, his voice intoxicatingly deep and rich as brandy.

  Slipping off her clogs, she complied, and was instantly backed up against the wall between the hearth and the curio cabinet. His p
owerful torso muscles flexed against her sensitive skin. She clenched her thighs to get closer to his heat. A shredding rip of her tights and panties, and his fingers found her, slid and fondled and plunged. Shuddering with pleasure, she could barely hold on.

  “Oh, Claire, you’re like hot, wet silk, so ready for me.” His lips traced a spangling path along her cheek, down her neck, over her breast. “I can’t wait.”

  A frenzied groan escaped her lips. She reached for him.

  “Hold on,” he said, fumbling with his jeans.

  As he drove deep into her aching center, raw sensation shook her. Her inner muscles clamping down on him, she rode the rolling surge of pleasure. Her body welcomed him with the same exultation as her heart, and she wanted to hold him inside forever.

  “Claire!”

  Hot and huge and hard, he lifted her, filled her with thrust after thrust of his powerful maleness. Pounding into her, he swamped her senses with his heat and strength and groans of pleasure.

  She twisted and plunged with him, forcing her body down against his, cradling him, enveloping him, and fusing their two souls into one. A fleeting awareness that he was as out of control as she drove her even higher.

  Urgent need brought spasms of heated pleasure and flooding undulations of ecstasy and sizzling, white light. Then he stiffened and contracted against her in one last powerful lunge of completion.

  His forehead pressed against the wall, Michael leaned on it with Claire still wound around him. Her legs and arms clung to him, silken vines. He wasn’t sure who held who up. He buried his nose in her tangled mane and inhaled the fresh herbal scent of her shampoo—sweet and tangy at the same time, like Claire.

  God, he’d been so out of control, he could have hurt her. When she looked at him all sad-eyed and said she needed him, she didn’t mean he should pound her with all the finesse of a sledgehammer.

  Never in his life had he felt such violent urgency, such desperation to have a woman. Never before had he so totally lost control. Never had he felt such incredible, delirious joy in lovemaking.