DEAD CERTAIN Page 13

  "Silver Star," she said. He frowned quizzically. "My Cherokee name is Silver Star."

  He smiled. "That would have been my next guess." His smile faded as he continued to look at her. "I'm sorry it was, uh, so fast."

  A wave of heat suffused her face. "It was fine, Riley."

  His frown deepened. "Only fine?"

  "More than fine … wonderful." She was completely embarrassed now. She sat up and reached for her panties and bra.

  "I never even gave you the whole tour of my house," he said as they dressed.

  She was grateful for the change in subject. "I'd love to see the rest of your house."

  Together they picked up the last of the picnic things and the blanket, then went back into his house. As he put on a pot of coffee, she excused herself to go to the bathroom.

  In the privacy of the guest bath, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled and her lips were slightly swollen and red.

  They'd been like two animals going at each other, she thought. It had been all about physical need, and somehow that comforted her. Her body had responded, but of course her heart hadn't been involved at all.

  When she left the bathroom and returned to the kitchen she was grateful that they suffered no apparent awkwardness between them.

  They drank coffee and he told her about building his house. "I'm grateful that my parents were here to see this completed and me living here," he said.

  "So you've been here a couple of years," she said in surprise. By the austere living room and kitchen, she would have guessed he'd moved in only a couple of months before.

  "Yeah, hard to believe, isn't it? I keep telling myself maybe I should hire an interior decorator to kind of liven up the place, but so far I haven't managed to bring myself to do it." He hesitated a beat. "Maybe you could give me some ideas for making it seem more homey."

  She laughed. "Trust me, I'm the last person to ask. My mother constantly tells me my taste is all in my mouth when it comes to decorating."

  He stood from the table where they had been sitting. "Come on, let me give you the whole tour."

  He took her upstairs first, where there was a large bath and three nice-size bedrooms. Each room had a bed and dresser, but nothing on the walls and no specific style at all.

  "You know, you might check out Tamara Greystone's work. She does wonderful paintings that would perk up your walls a bit," she offered.

  "Maybe you'd go with me to see some of her stuff … help me pick out some artwork."

  "Sure," she agreed as he led her back down the stairs. "Although her work is so good you couldn't make a mistake in choosing any of it."

  The dining room was attractive with an elegant table and chairs and a matching china cabinet. "You have wonderful taste," she said as she ran a finger across the polished wood of the table.

  "Thanks." He touched her arm. "Come on, and I'll show you the master suite."

  She wasn't sure why but the thought of seeing where Riley slept, where he dreamed, filled her with a new tension, a strange, exciting tension.

  The bedroom was huge and light and airy. The room held the essence of Riley Frazier. His scent hung in the air and photos of his parents in small gold frames stood on the top of the dresser, along with loose change and several sheets of paper containing doodles.

  The bed was king-size and covered with a dark-blue spread and burgundy throw pillows. The curtains carried out the same color scheme, looking rich and masculine. The windows offered the same view as the living room windows—that of the brook and the trees and the utter serenity of the property.

  "It's beautiful, Riley," she said. She couldn't imagine the pleasure of waking up each morning with that view in sight. How peaceful it must be.

  She walked over to the photos on the dresser, aware of him coming to stand just behind her. Funny, how quickly her senses responded to his nearness.

  She looked at a photo of him with his mother and father. He seemed to be about eighteen or nineteen and all of their faces shone with the happiness of love … of family togetherness.

  "She's probably dead."

  His words, spoken softly, shocked and horrified her. She whirled around to face him, saw the stark despair on his features.

  "Don't say that, Riley," she exclaimed: "Don't even think it."

  "I need to face reality," he replied, his beautiful eyes dark with pain. "I have to face the fact that after all this time without a word, without a trace, she surely must be dead."

  "No, you can't think that way." Savannah placed a hand on his cheek, felt the whisper of dark whiskers against her palm.

  His words frightened her. If he truly believed there was no hope for his mother, then she had to face the possibility that there was no hope for hers.

  "You have to keep the faith, Riley. Nobody has found her, there's been no body. You have to keep hoping, keep believing that eventually she'll be found alive and well."

  He placed his hand over hers and closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. "You're right. I've got to keep hoping."

  She started to remove her hand, but he kept it pressed tightly against his cheek with his own. "Savannah." His voice was just a whisper, but it sent a shiver up her spine for it was filled with desire. "I want you again … here, in my bed."

  "Riley, I…" She wasn't sure what she'd intended to say and in any case speech was impossible as his mouth crashed down on hers and all thoughts of protest were swept out of her head.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  «^»

  The first time they had made love, it had been like two animals wanting only physical release, with little emotion, little tenderness involved. What Riley wanted now was to make love to her slowly … tenderly and with every ounce of emotion he had in his heart.

  He turned off the overhead light and by the illumination of the moon drifting through the windows led her to the edge of the bed. Quickly he pulled down the bedspread, afraid that if he took too much time in preparing, she'd change her mind.

  He turned back to her and gathered her in his arms. Willingly she came to him, her lips warm and yielding as he kissed her again and again. He felt as if he would never tire of kissing her, but knew eventually he'd want more … he'd want not just her lips, but all of her.

  He cupped her face in his hands and stared deep into her eyes, seeing the glazed look of desire shining back at him. "Savannah, I want you so badly."

  He fought for control, not wanting to lose it as quickly as he had earlier when they'd made love. He'd been almost embarrassed by his lack of control earlier.

  "I want you, too," she whispered, as if the words caused her pain.

  What he wanted was to take the time to know her, to explore each and every inch of her, to discover all the secrets that led to her passion.

  Once again they undressed, then slid beneath the sheets. He was pleased to realize that long after she'd gone, his sheets would retain the scent of her, that indelible, unforgettable, delectable scent of warm sexy woman and sweet flowers.

  As he claimed her lips again, his hands stroked down to capture her breasts. She had perfect breasts, not too big but not too small. As he rubbed his thumbs across her turgid nipples a deep moan issued from her throat. The moan shot fire through his veins, and he replaced his hands with his mouth, moving from one nipple to the other. She tasted so good and he loved the feel of her against his tongue.

  Her hands clutched his shoulders and stroked his back, igniting tiny flames wherever she touched. His lips moved down her flat stomach as her fingers tangled in his hair.

  He wanted to taste every inch of her, feel her writhe against him in mindless passion. He wanted to love her as she'd never been loved before, as she'd never be loved again.

  Someplace in the back of his mind he knew he wanted to love her deeply enough, passionately enough to banish any thought, at least for the moment, of a man who could never, would never be in her life again.

  Silver
Star. Her Cherokee name sang through his head. She was like a shining silvery star in his heart, filling him with heat and light after years of darkness and despair.

  Before this moment he'd only imagined what she would look like in his bed. Her dusky skin glistened in the moonlight, stoking his need for her to a near-fever pitch.

  "Riley," she cried out as he found the center of her, stroked her with his hand, then with his mouth. It wasn't a cry of protest, but rather one of exquisite pleasure. Shudders racked her body, and only then did he move back up, raining kisses as he went.

  Then it was her turn to explore his body and he trembled beneath the heat of her hands and the warmth of her mouth. She was a bold lover, matching him caress for caress, kiss for kiss.

  "I love touching you … tasting you," he murmured into the hollow of her neck.

  She stroked her hand up the hard length of him. "I love touching you, tasting you, too."

  Once again his fingers found her warm moistness and he saw her eyes widen as her hand fell away from him. As he moved his fingers against her, she clutched at the sheets, her hips rising to meet his as her body grew taut.

  As she moaned her delight, he felt his own desire growing harder … higher … reaching heights he hadn't thought possible.

  A series of shudders swept over her and he knew she was riding the crest of a tsunami that left her weak and gasping. It was only then, when he knew she'd had complete and total pleasure, that he entered her.

  She wrapped her legs around his hips, bringing him into her completely at the same time his lips possessed hers in a fiery kiss of both dominance and submission.

  Riley felt his control slipping. He was surrounded by her warmth, imbibed with her scent, and capable of only one single thought … Savannah … Savannah.

  She sang inside him, heating his blood, permeating his veins, and filling up every corner of his heart. He loved her, and words of love begged to be released, but he had enough sense left to know it was too soon.

  And so he loved her in every other way that he could, stroking her sweet skin, whispering sweet, loving words in her ear as he moved in and out of her.

  As much as he wanted to take it slow, to make this act last forever, he couldn't. She was too much for him, too hot, too soft, too overwhelming to fight the natural impulse of his body to race to completion.

  His movements became faster, but she met him thrust for thrust. Moans filled the room and he wasn't sure if they came from her or from him. All he knew was that he was lost … lost in Savannah, and he never wanted to be found again.

  Afterward, he held her in his arms, unsure what to say. Making love to her had only confirmed what he had already known—that he loved her as he'd never loved a woman before, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  But he knew, more than anyone did, just how fragile she was, the turmoil of her life right now. Was she ready to welcome love? He wasn't sure and he was afraid of risking everything by moving too far too fast. They'd made beautiful love, but that didn't mean she was ready for a lifetime commitment.

  "I've got to go," she said, breaking the silence that had lingered between them. "I've got a lot of things to do tomorrow."

  He tightened his grip around her, reluctant to let her go. "Stay the night. I can take you home as early as you need in the morning." He'd love to wake up with her nestled in his arms. "There's nothing that can be accomplished tonight. Sleep here … with me."

  She tensed, then pushed out of his arms and sat up. "No, I really need to go home now." She raked her fingers through her short hair, her gaze not meeting his. "If you don't feel like driving me home I can call a friend or a cab. It's no big deal."

  "Don't be silly. Of course I'll take you."

  She grabbed her clothes from the floor and disappeared into the master bathroom. Riley sat up and finger combed his hair, disappointment like a stone heavy in his chest.

  He'd lost her. The closeness, the intimacy that had transcended a mere physical level had vanished. She'd distanced herself from him in the blink of an eye. He'd thought he'd known loneliness over the past two years, but in that instant he felt a loneliness he'd never experienced before.

  Reluctantly, he got out of bed and turned on the bedside lamp. He would have loved to have her in his bed all night long. He would have loved to open his eyes with the sunrise and see her next to him.

  But what he wanted didn't matter. He knew he had to be patient with her, and he had to find the patience within himself to give her time. They'd known each other for only two weeks. Although that was enough time for him to know his feelings for her, it was obviously not enough time for her.

  He had just finished dressing when she came out of the bathroom. The first thing he saw on her face was regret. "Savannah … don't," he said softly.

  "Don't what?" Still her gaze didn't quite meet his.

  "No regrets," he said. "Please don't regret what happened here tonight." He took a step toward her. He wanted to reach out to her, take her in his arms. But he could tell by her posture and the shuttered look in her eyes that she wouldn't welcome any touch from him at the moment.

  "I have no regrets," she said, but her body language said otherwise as she headed for the bedroom door. "I just have a lot on my mind."

  Riley followed behind her, wondering how something that had been so beautiful, so moving, could have been a mistake. It was odd. He felt as if he was losing her and yet wasn't sure he'd ever really had her.

  * * *

  As Riley and Savannah got into his car, Rita Birdsong James came awake once again. Her head pounded with a headache the likes of which she'd never suffered before. The dim light from her nightstand only made it worse, and she closed her eyes and fought against the pain.

  She reached out a hand to Thomas's side of the bed. "Thomas?" His side of the bed was cold. He'd always been an earlier riser than she had. Thomas loved the early mornings, and Rita didn't really come alive until midmorning.

  Wincing, she opened her eyes once again. She had no idea what time it might be, felt the grogginess of too much deep sleep. Surely it was time to get up, but where was the sun?

  Her gaze shifted toward her nightstand, searching for her clock radio, but it wasn't there. She frowned. That was odd. Why would her clock be gone? But her lamp was there, the Tiffany-style shade in reds and greens and deep blues.

  She clutched a handful of the familiar bedspread, a flutter of disquiet coursing through her as she frowned and once again squeezed her eyes tightly closed. There was something … some nebulous memory just out of reach begging to come to the surface.

  Her chest tightened and her headache intensified as she tried to think, but she felt as if her head had been stuffed with wads of cotton.

  Maybe if she got up, opened the curtains and oriented herself as to the time of day. "Thomas?" she called as she carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  Where was Thomas? The disquiet that had been with her moments before transformed into something deeper, more frightening.

  Thomas. Something had happened to Thomas—but what? She managed to stand despite the fact that she felt weak and wobbly as a baby attempting first steps.

  She clung to the nightstand for a moment, then stumbled to the curtains. Sunshine. Surely sunshine would make her feel better. Sunshine and a nice hot cup of coffee. Where was Thomas with the coffee?

  She opened the drapes, but no sunshine greeted her. She stared uncomprehending at the concrete wall behind the curtains. Where was the window?

  Jerking around, she looked at the room that she'd thought was her own. But now she saw that it wasn't really her room at all. It was a facade, like a set constructed for a play.

  The bed was like hers, the bedspread exactly like the one she had in her room. The nightstand was the same, as was the lamp that sat on it. The walls were the same beige and the pictures hanging on the walls were very similar to the ones she owned. But, this wasn't her room.

  Panic welled up i
nside her, a panic verging on sheer hysteria. As the cotton in her head fell away, she moved away from the curtains, trying to get a handle on exactly where she might be.

  It was a room made to look like hers, but there were no windows. A door led to a bathroom where there were fluffy towels on a shelf, her favorite scented powders and lotions on the countertop and her bathrobe, hung from a hook on the back of the door.

  Was this a hospital? Certainly her head hurt badly enough for her to believe she'd been hospitalized. And somewhere in the dark places of her mind, she remembered being taken to the bathroom, being helped in and out of bed.

  But what kind of a hospital provided rooms that looked almost exactly like the patient's bedroom at home?

  There was another door, a strange steel door with what appeared to be a panel that could be opened and closed in the center. She made her way over to it and gripped the handle. Locked.

  The instant she tried to turn the handle, the memory that had been niggling at her mind crashed open.

  She'd been in the kitchen preparing to cut a piece of apple pie for Thomas when she'd beard him cry out. She'd smiled, thinking he was voicing his objection to a referee's call in the baseball game he'd been watching.

  She'd just sliced the pie when she was grabbed from behind, and a large, gloved hand clamped across her nose and mouth. A strange smell burned her eyes, and she tried to hold her breath, fought desperately to get free. But darkness descended, and just before she lost total consciousness she caught a glimpse of Thomas sprawled facedown on the living room floor. Blood was everywhere … too much blood.

  She now cried out and fell weakly to her knees as she thought of her beloved husband. "Thomas … Thomas." She wept his name over and over again. He was dead. He had to be dead … there had been too much blood and he'd been so still.

  Raven Mocker. That's who had come into their home and killed Thomas. Only Raven Mocker, the most evil of Cherokee witches, could be responsible.