The Search

Given what she did for a living, and the gardening she’d be working on throughout the season, Fiona knew manicures were a waste of time and money.

But this was Indulgence Central.

Their last day, too, she reminded herself. She might as well make the most of it—and go home with pretty fingers and toes even if she’d mangle them within twenty-four hours in reality.

Besides, it felt good.

She admired the breezy, beachy pink on her short but currently well-shaped nails as she slid her feet into the warm, churning water at the base of the pedicure chair. A chair, she thought, that offered a slice of heaven as it vibrated up and down her back.

Cindy, who’d given her the pretty nails, brought her a cup of water with thin lemon slices floating in it. “Comfortable?”

“I passed comfortable and am on my way to euphoria.”

“That’s what we like to hear. Do you want the same polish on your toes?”

“You know, let’s go crazy on the toes. The Purple Passion.”

“Fun!” She lifted Fiona’s feet out, patted them dry, then brushed on a warm green clay. “We’re going to let this mask set for just a few minutes, so you just relax. Can I get you anything?”

“I’ve got it all.”

Snuggling into her chair, Fiona opened her book and let herself fall into a romantic comedy that was as much fun as her choice of toenail polish.

“Good book?” Cindy asked when she came back to sit and rinse off the clay.

“It is. Exactly perfect for my mood. I feel happy, relaxed and pretty.”

“I love to read. I like crazy horror and gruesome murder mysteries. I don’t know why they relax me, but they do.”

“Maybe because when you’re reading the book, you know you’re safe, so it’s fun to be scared.”

“Yeah.” Cindy began to smooth Fiona’s heel with a pumice stone. “I hate listening to the news because, well, it’s real, and so much of it’s just awful. Accidents, natural disasters, crime.”

“Or politics.”

“Worse yet.” Cindy laughed. “But when you’re reading about bad things happening in a book you can hope the good guys are going to win. I like when they do. Save the girl—or the guy—or the human race. Catch the killer and make him pay. It doesn’t always happen for real. I’m scared they’re never going to catch that maniac who’s killing those women. Four now. Oh! Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Fiona willed herself to relax her foot again. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Four?”

“They found her a couple of days ago. Maybe you didn’t hear. In the Cascades, in Oregon. I know it’s miles and miles away, but it really scares me. If I have late appointments, my husband comes by to pick me up. I guess it’s silly because I’m not a college girl, but it just spooks me.”

“I don’t think it’s silly.” Fiona sipped the lemon water to ease her dry throat. “What does your husband do?” she asked to change the subject so Cindy could chatter, and she could think.

A couple of days. Sylvia’s decree—no papers, no TV.

She’d known, which meant Mai knew, too. And they’d kept it from her. To give her some peace of mind, she thought. A little slice of oblivion before reality grabbed her by the throat again.

So, she’d do the same for them, she decided. She’d maintain the pretense for this last day. If death haunted her, she could, for now, keep the ghosts to herself.

IT WASN’ T LIKE HIM, Simon thought as he frowned at the flowers on Fiona’s kitchen table. He didn’t buy flowers.

Well, for his mother every now and again, sure. He wasn’t a philistine. But he didn’t buy flowers for women on impulse, or for no good reason.

Coming home after a couple days—okay, four days—away wasn’t a good reason.

He didn’t know why the hell he’d bought them, or why the hell he’d missed her so much. He’d gotten a lot of work accomplished without her taking up his space and time, hadn’t he? And he’d drafted out more designs because he’d had more time alone, working and living on his own schedule.

His and the dogs’, anyway.

He liked a quiet house. He preferred a quiet house—one without the annoying obligation of having to remember to pick up his socks or hang up wet towels, or stick dishes in the dishwasher unless he damn well felt like it.

Which, like most normal members of his species, meant when there were no more clean socks, towels or dishes.

Not that she asked him to pick up his socks or hang up his wet towels or stick his dishes in the dishwasher. That was her brilliance. She said nothing, so he felt obligated.

He was being trained, he realized. No doubt about it. She was training him as subtly and consistently and effortlessly as she did the dogs.

To please her. Not to disappoint her. To develop habits and routines.

It had to stop.

He should throw the stupid flowers out before she got home.

When the hell was she getting home?

He looked at the stove clock again, then walked outside so he’d stop looking at the clock.

He didn’t wear a watch for the very specific reason he didn’t want to be bound up in time.

He should’ve stayed home working until she called—or didn’t call. Instead he’d stopped, went into town to buy some supplies—and the christing flowers—and didn’t forget the couple bottles of the red wine she preferred, then came here to check the house.

To make sure, he was forced to admit, that James had picked up his socks and so on. Which, of course, proved unnecessary.

James was either as insanely tidy as Fiona, or well trained.

He hoped it was the latter, at least.

To get his mind off the time, he grabbed a load of tennis balls and thrilled the dogs by throwing them. And when his arm went to rubber decided she needed one of those ball shooters they used for tennis practice.

He changed it up, giving the dogs the stay command, then walking out of sight to hide the balls in various places. He went back around, sat on the porch steps.

“Find the balls!” he ordered.

He had to admit, the stampede and search had its entertainment value, and passed the time he wasn’t paying any attention to.

He ended up with a pile of dog-slobbered balls at his feet, then repeated the routine. But this time he ducked inside for a beer.

The pile of balls waited, but the dogs had gone into their sentries-on-alert stance, facing the bridge.

About damn time, he thought, then deliberately leaned against the post. Just out having a beer with the dogs, he decided. It wasn’t like he was waiting for her, watching for her.

But it wasn’t her car that bumped across the bridge.

He straightened from the post, but waited for the man and woman who got out of the car to come to him.

“Special Agents Tawney and Mantz. We’re here to speak with Ms. Bristow.”

Simon glanced at the IDs. “She’s not here.” The dogs, he noted, were looking to him for direction. “Relax,” he told them.

“We were told she was coming back today. Do you know when she’s expected?”

Simon looked back at Tawney. “No.”

“And you are?”

Simon shifted his gaze to the woman. “Simon Doyle.”

“The boyfriend.”

“Is that an official FBI term?” It stuck in his craw. “I’m helping look out for the dogs while she’s gone.”

“I thought she had three dogs.”

“The one sniffing your shoes is mine.”

“Then would you mind telling him to stop it?”

“Jaws. Back off. Fiona told me you were the agent in the Perry case,” he said to Tawney. “I’ll tell her you came by.”

“You don’t have any questions, Mr. Doyle?” Mantz wondered.

“You wouldn’t answer them, so I’m saving us all time. You want to talk to Fiona. I’ll tell her, and if she wants to talk to you, she’ll get in touch.”

“Is there any reason you’re so anxious for us to leave?”

“Anxious isn’t the word I’d use, but yeah. Unless you’re here to tell Fiona you caught the bastard who picked up where Perry left off, I don’t want you to be the first thing she sees when she gets home.”

“Why don’t we go inside?” Mantz suggested.

“Do you think I’ve got her tied up or held against her will in there? Jesus, do you see her car? Do you see her dogs?” He jerked a thumb to where Jaws was currently humping a disinterested and patient Newman while Bogart and Peck played tug with one of the ropes. “Don’t they teach basic observational skills in the FBI? And no, I’m not letting you in her house when she’s not here.”

“Are you looking out for her, Mr. Doyle?”

“What do you think?” he said to Tawney.

“I think you have no criminal record,” Tawney said easily, “you’ve never been married, have no children and make a good living, enough to own your own home—which you purchased about six months ago. The bureau also teaches basic data-gathering skills. I know Fiona trusts you, and so do her dogs. If I find out that trust is misplaced, you’ll find out what else the bureau teaches.”

“Fair enough.” He hesitated, then went with instinct. “She doesn’t know about the last murder. The friends with her kept her away from the paper and the TV the last few days. She needed a break. I don’t want her coming back and ramming face-first into it. So I want you to go.”

“That’s fair enough, too. Tell her to contact me.” With his partner, he walked back to the car. “We haven’t caught the bastard yet. But we will.”

“Hurry up,” Simon muttered as they drove away.

He waited nearly an hour more, relieved now as every passing minute decreased the chance of her passing the agents on the road home. He gave some thought to putting a meal together, then spooked himself at the image of welcoming her home with a dinner and flowers.

It was just too much.

The bark of the dogs sent him back outside moments before she drove over the bridge. Thank God, he mused, now he could stop thinking so much.

He strolled casually down the porch steps, then the damnedest thing happened. The goddamnedest thing.

When she stepped out of the car, when he saw her standing in the fading sunlight, the fragile blooms of the dogwoods behind her, his heart actually leaped.

He’d always considered that sheer bull—just an overworked phrase in poetry or romance novels. But he felt it—that surge of pleasure and emotion and recognition inside his chest.

He had to restrain himself from rushing her, as the dogs did, bumping one another in their joyful hurry for strokes and kisses.

“Hi, guys, hi! I missed you, too. Every one of you. Were you good? I bet you were.” She accepted desperately loving licks while she rubbed wiggling, furry bodies. “Look what I’ve got.”

She reached inside the car for four huge rawhide bones. “One for everybody. Sit. Now sit. There we go. Everybody gets one.”

“Where’s mine?” Simon demanded.

She smiled, and the quieting sun flared off her sunglasses. As she walked to him, she opened her arms and just took him in.

“I was hoping you’d be here.” He felt her breath—the deep in, the deep out. “You made me another chair,” she murmured.

“That’s for me. You’re not the only one who likes to sit. Not everything’s all about you.”

She laughed, hugged tighter. “Maybe not, but you’re just what I need.”

He eased back until he found her mouth with his—and found it was just what he needed.

“My turn.” He shifted to knee and nudge the dogs back, and caught it. Just an instant as the change of angle let him see through the tinted lenses and into her eyes.

He slipped them off her face. “I should’ve known women couldn’t keep it shut down.”

“You’re wrong—and sexist. They didn’t tell me, and I returned the favor by not letting them know I heard.” Her eyes changed again. “Did you tell them not to say anything to me? To make sure I didn’t read about it in the paper, catch it on the news?”

“So what?”

She nodded, laid her hands on his cheeks, kissed him lightly. “So thanks.”

“That’s just like you, slipping around the normal reaction of being pissed and telling me I didn’t have the right to butt in and decide for you.” He opened the back of her car for her suitcase. “It’s how you get around people.”

“Is it?”

“Oh yeah. What’s this other stuff ?”

“I bought some things. Here, I’ll—”

“I’ve got it.” He hauled out two shopping bags. “Why do women always come back with more than they left with? And it’s not sexist if it’s true.”

“Because we embrace and enjoy life. Keep it up and you won’t get your present.”

She led the way in, and he dumped all the bags by the base of her steps. “I’ll take them up later. How did you find out?”

She took off her shoes, pointed at her toes.

“Your purple toenails told you?”

“The technician who gave me the pedicure. She was just making conversation.”

Damn it. He hadn’t considered basic gossip.

“So that’s what you people talk about during those rituals? Murder and dead bodies?”

“Let’s put it in the category of current events. And let’s go back, get some wine. I’d really like a glass of wine.”

She saw the flowers when she stepped into the kitchen. The way she stopped cold and stared told him she was just as surprised he’d bought her flowers as he’d been.

“You made me another chair and you brought me flowers.”

“I told you, the chair’s mine. The flowers just happened to be there so I picked them up.”

“Simon.” She turned, wrapped herself around him.

Feelings winged into him, slapped against one another. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Sorry, but you’ll have to tough it out. It’s been a really long time since a man brought me flowers. I forgot what it’s like. I’ll be right back.”

The dogs followed her out—afraid, he assumed, she’d leave again. He got out a bottle of wine, pulled the cork. She came back with a small box as he poured her a glass.

“From me and the dogs. Consider it a thank-you for helping out with them.”

“Thanks.” It had weight for a small box, and, curious, he opened it. He found a slender doorknocker. The copper would verdigris over time, he thought, and add to its appeal. Raised letters ran down its length, and the knocker itself formed a Celtic knot.

“It’s Irish. I figured Doyle, there has to be Irish in there. Fáilte means—”

“Welcome. Doyle, remember?”

“Right. I thought if you put it on the door, sometimes it might even be true. The welcome, that is.”

He glanced up to see her smiling. “It might. Either way it’s nice.”

“And you could get one made—I bet Syl could find a metal artist to do it—to put up when you’re not in the mood for company. It could say ‘Go away’ in Gaelic.”

“That’s a pretty good idea. Actually, I know how to say ‘Fuck off’ in Irish, and that might be more interesting.”

“Oh, Simon. I missed you.”

She was laughing when she said it, and as she reached for her wine, he laid a hand on her arm.

“I missed you, Fiona. Damn it.”

“Oh, thank God.” She put her arms around him again, laid her head on his shoulder. “That makes it more balanced, like the two chairs on the porch, right?”

“I guess it does.”

“I have to get this out, and I don’t mean to put pressure on you. But when I dropped Mai and Sylvia off, after I did, all I could think about was that poor girl and what she went through in the last hours of her life. And when I pulled up here, home, and saw you, I was so relieved, so relieved, Simon, that I didn’t have to have all that in my head and be alone with it. I was so glad to see you on the porch, waiting for me.”

He started to say he hadn’t been waiting. Knee-jerk, he realized. But he had been waiting, and it felt good knowing she’d wanted him to be.

“You got back later than I figured, so I—Crap.”

“Last-minute shopping blitz, then the traffic—”

“No, not that.” He’d remembered the FBI and decided he should get it all over with at once. “The feds were here—Tawney and his partner. I don’t think they had anything new, but—”

“A follow-up.” She backed up, picked up her wine. “I told him before I left that I’d be home sometime today. I’m not going to get back to him tonight. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“But I need you to tell me what you know about it. There wasn’t a way for me to find out any of the details, and I want to know.”

“Okay. Sit down. I was thinking about putting something to eat together. I’ll tell you while I do.”

“I have frozen dinners in the freezer.”

He sneered. “I’m not eating those girl diet deals. And before you say ‘sexist,’ look me in the eye and tell me those Lean Cuisine numbers aren’t marketed to women.”

“Maybe they are, mostly, but that doesn’t mean they’re not good, or that guys who eat them grow br**sts.”

“I’m not taking any chances. You’ll eat what I give you.”

Amused, as he’d meant her to be, she sat. “What are you going to give me?”

“I’m working on it.” He opened her fridge, scanned, poked into compartments. “Deputy Davey came by to tell me the day you left,” he began.

As he spoke, he tossed some frozen shoestring fries onto a cookie sheet, stuck them in the oven. Bacon went into the microwave. He found a tomato James must have left behind and sliced it thin.

“She was beaten? But—”

“Yeah. It sounds like he’s trying to find his style.”

“That’s horrible,” Fiona murmured. “And it feels true. Was she . . . she was beaten and trapped and strangled. And still rape puts a clutch in the throat.”

“No, she wasn’t raped. At least that wasn’t part of what Davey told me, or in any of the news reports.” He glanced over, scanned her face. “Are you sure you want this now?”

“Yes. I need to know what might be coming.”

Simon kept his back to her, ordered himself calm as he layered cheese, bacon, tomatoes between slices of bread. “He deviated with the beating, and with keeping her longer. Otherwise, it sounds as if he followed pattern.”

“Who was she? You know,” Fiona said quietly. “You’d have made it a point to know.”

When Simon slid the sandwiches onto the frying pan, the butter he’d spread on the outside sizzled. “She was a student. She wanted to pursue a career in physical education and nutrition. She taught yoga classes and did some personal training work. She was twenty, outgoing and athletic, according to the reports. She was an only child. Her mother’s a widow.”

“God. God.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then scrubbed hard and dropped them. “It can always get worse.”

“She fits the body type. Tall, slender, long legs, toned.” He flipped the sandwiches. “If there’s any more, the press doesn’t have it.”

“Did he mark her?”

“Roman numeral four. You’re wondering what number he plans to put on you. I want you to hear me, Fiona, and to understand I don’t say what I don’t mean.”

“I already understand that.”

She waited, watched as he slid the sandwiches onto plates. Shook the fries from the pan beside them. He pulled out a jar of pickles, tossed a couple onto each plate and considered it done.

He put a plate in front of her. “He won’t mark you. He won’t be able to give you a number any more than Perry could. If the cops don’t stop him first, then we’ll stop him. And that’s it.”

She said nothing for a moment, but rose to get a knife, to retrieve the wine. She topped off the glasses, then cut her sandwich into two neat triangles before offering the knife.

“No, thanks.”

She picked up her wine, sipped, set it down. “All right,” she said, meeting his eyes. “All right.”

She lifted half of her sandwich, took a bite. And smiled. “It’s good.”

“A Doyle staple.”

She took another bite and brushed his leg under the table with her sexy purple toes. “It’s good to be home. You know, one of the things I have in those shopping bags is this incredible honey almond scrub they use at the spa. After dinner, and after I give the dogs some more play and attention, we could take a shower. I’ll exfoliate you.”

“Is that code?”

She laughed. “You’ll have to find out.”

“Do you know why I don’t cut my sandwiches into triangles?”

“Why?”

“For the same reason I don’t want to smell like honey and almonds.”

She gave him a wicked look as she picked up a french fry. “Or eat Lean Cuisine. I bet I could change your mind on the scrub. Tell you what. I’ll just do your back. Your big, strong, manly back, and we’ll see how it goes from there. They also had this shop that sold very interesting lingerie. I bought a little something. A very, very little something, which I’d be inclined to model for you, if you try the scrub.”

“How little?”

“Minuscule.”

“Just the back.”

She smiled and nibbled on a fry. “To start.”

She played with the dogs for an hour, endlessly tossing balls, letting them chase her through the obstacle course, then taking turns playing tug with each of them until he wondered that her arms didn’t pop out of their sockets.

But he could see, even when he left the games and sat on the porch to watch, she used the activities, the dogs, the connections to focus. To block out what they’d spoken of before dinner.

She’d deal, he thought, because that’s what she did. For now, she channeled her energy, and whatever nerves brewed under it, into the dogs and somehow transformed it into joy.

“Now I need that shower.” She swiped at her damp face with the back of her hands.

“You wore them out.”

“Part of the plan.” She held out a hand. “I never asked what you were up to while I was gone.”

“Work. And after work, James and I took in some strip clubs.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We took the dogs,” he said as they walked upstairs.

“Naturally.”

“Newman’s a mean drunk.”

“It’s a problem.” In the bedroom she dug the box of scrub out of the shopping bag, opened it for the jar.

“Actually, if you want some speculation and gossip, I don’t think we’re the only ones who’ll have exfoliated in the shower recently.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I came by to pick up the dogs one morning because I needed some supplies and figured I’d save James the trip. Lori’s car was in the drive.”

“Really? Well, well. She might’ve stopped by early, like you did. I hope not, but—”

“He came out when I started rounding up the dogs. He blushed.”

“Aw.” She crooned it, then laughed. “That’s so sweet.” After she set the jar down on the bathroom counter, she pulled the band from her hair—shook out all that rose gold.

He went rock hard.

“Strip it off,” she ordered. “Let’s see if I can make you blush.”

“I don’t blush, and I’m not sweet.”

“We’ll see.” She tugged off her shirt, but flicked his hand away when he reached out. “Uh-uh. A deal’s a deal. Let’s get wet.”

Maybe it was another way of focusing, channeling, blocking out. But who was he to complain? Naked, he stepped under the spray. “Your bathroom needs to be updated and redesigned.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” She made a circle with her finger, so he turned around and gave her his back. “It feels a little rough,” she told him as she scooped the scrub out of the jar. “But in a good way.”

She began to rub it over his back in slow, steady circles. “The texture, the flesh-to-flesh contact, the aroma—all add to the experience. Your skin wakes up and feels more—Uh-uh,” she said again, when he reached back. “I do the touching till we’re done. Hands on the wall, Doyle.”

“Did you get naked in the shower at the spa for this?”

“No. I’m adjusting it for home use. You smell wonderful already, and mmmm, smooth.” She leaned in, let her br**sts ride over his back before using more scrub farther down. “Is this all right?” she asked as she circled those firm hands over his ass.

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you close your eyes, relax? I’ll just keep going until you tell me to stop.”

Those hands ran down his legs, the rough texture tingling over his skin to be sluiced away by the spray, then explored by her lips, her tongue.

Need banged in his blood until his hands on the wall were fists. Rich scent curled in the steam, became erotic until even drawing a breath aroused to aching.

“Fiona.”

“Just a little more,” she murmured. “I haven’t even started on the front yet. You’ll be . . . unbalanced. Turn around, Simon.”

She knelt in front of him, water gleaming off her skin, sleeking her hair back. “I’ll just start down here, and work my way up.”

“I want you. You couldn’t need for me to want you more than this.”

“You’ll have me, as much as you want. But let’s see if you can hold out till I finish. Let me finish, and you can do whatever you want with me.”

“Jesus Christ, Fiona. You drive me insane.”

“I want to. That’s what I want tonight. But not yet.”

He reached down for her hands, let out a strained laugh. “Don’t even think about putting that stuff on my—”

“That’s not what I’m going to put there.” She skimmed her tongue over him until he bit back a moan. “Can you hold out?” she murmured, torturing him with her mouth as her hands worked up his legs, over his belly. “Can you hold out until you’re inside me? Hot and hard inside me. That’s what I want when I’m done. I want you to take me and use me until I can’t stand it, then I want you to take me and use me more. I won’t tell you to stop. I won’t tell you to stop until you’re done.”

She took him to the edge, then those tormenting lips slicked over his belly, up his chest, while her hands circled, circled.

“The water’s going cold,” she murmured against his mouth. “We should—”

He put her back to the wet wall. “You’ll have to take it, and me.”

“Deal’s a deal.” Her breath caught and shuddered out when he slid his hand between her legs.

“Wider.”

She gripped his shoulders, shuddered once as his eyes burned into hers. As he drove into her, they burned still. He took her, ruthlessly, so that her cries echoed with the slap of wet flesh, the sizzle of cold water. When her head fell on his shoulder, he continued to thrust while his hands made rough use of her body.

His own release ripped through him and left him raw.

He managed to shut off the water and pull her out. When she staggered, he half carried her to the bed. They dropped onto it wet and breathless.

“What do you—” She broke off, let out a whistling breath, cleared her throat. “What do you say about honey almond now?”

“I’ll be buying a case of it.”

She laughed, then her eyes popped open as he straddled her. His eyes, still hot, met hers as his thumbs flicked over her ni**les. “I’m not done yet.”

“But—”

“I’m not done.” Leaning over her, he took her hands, lifted them, clamped them around the iron rungs. “Leave them there. You’re going to need something to hold on to.”

“Simon.”

“What I want, as much as I want,” he reminded her, and slid down, lifted her hips. “Until I’m finished.”

The breath trembled between her lips now, but she nodded. “Yes.”