Something In The Water…

3

SHE DIDN’T MOVE A MUSCLE, not even to take his hand. And to be honest, Rex didn’t want her to. The way she was standing, with her back to the sun, he was enjoying how the rays shone through her skirt, illuminating a great pair of legs. Blood surged in his groin, and he could only hope she’d get him checked into his room before he started sporting a full-service erection. Maybe this trip to Bliss was going to work out better than he’d thought.

After all, this had been the longest stretch without sex he’d ever endured in his adult life. Wishing he’d grabbed a towel at poolside—less to dry than cover himself—he tried to train his mind on something other than the woman in front of him.

Not that he could. He just wished she didn’t remind him of Janet. Just like Janet, Ariel Anderson had a small-town, girl-next-door kind of appeal. She was fair, with perfect skin, and eyes as clear, big and blue as the crystal waters of the spring below. Her hair was drawn back, in a way that on another woman would have been called severe, but that didn’t mar her features in the least, but instead enhanced them. She didn’t wear much, or need, makeup. And that fresh-faced look, coupled with a tall, thin, leggy body clad in see-through clothes was doing him in.

As if coming to her senses, she took his hand, making him wonder just how long he’d been standing there with it extended. Minutes? Time seemed to have slowed. As her long, slender fingers traced the back of his hand, he offered a squeeze that sent heat dancing through him.

“Look,” she began as she abruptly headed past him and toward the house, gesturing for him to follow. “I know Elsinore called you, but we really don’t need the CDC….”

He wasn’t sure what annoyed him most—her determination to push things in an all-business direction, or the fact that the nutty old bat who’d phoned the CDC was still on their heels, which meant he wasn’t alone with Ariel.

Just looking at her, he felt all tangled up inside. Maybe he even wanted her because she was so much like Janet. As much as he hadn’t wanted to take it personally, seeing his fiancée with the chef had been a blow to his ego. As Ariel breezed through a French door, he caught the edge and held it open for her and Elsinore.

“Thanks,” both said over their shoulders.

“No problem.” It was only Ariel’s voice he’d really heard. She had a remarkable voice. Low and throaty, it was the sort that a man expected to find in bars, back alleyways and cathouses…in forbidden corners that catered to the midnight side. It sounded like she’d smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too much booze, although Rex was sure she’d never touched either.

They’d reached the staircase when an elderly woman appeared, wearing an apron over a black dress. She was short, probably just five feet, if that, and about seventy years of age. Apparently, three women lived here—he’d gleaned that much from guests at the pool—Ariel’s mother, her grandmother and her great grandmother. Thankfully, at least one of them cooked. The house had filled with the aroma of food.

“Ariel!” the elderly woman was saying as she rushed forward, spatula in hand, and encased her in a quick, tight hug. “We’ve been waiting for your arrival for hours.”

“Hi, Gran.” Ariel kissed her cheek, then glanced toward the French doors again. “Uh…what’s going on?” she continued, stepping back. “I thought I saw Mom, swimming down in the spring, and Great-gran was in town. Since both your cars are here, I couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten there—”

“It’s a long story,” her grandmother said. “Everything went haywire today! We went to talk to Sheriff Underwood about Matilda’s book. I guess you know him by the name of Studs, since you’re the same age. And you know how we hate to go to town.”

Ariel’s mind strained to keep pace with her grandmother’s monologue. With a nearly naked man beside her, especially one who’d felt so good pressed against her, it was difficult. “Are there any leads?”

“The sheriff found a red bandanna near the safe, and there were dog prints outside. I think he was going to question Pappy Pass, today, since his dog, Hammerhead, usually has a red bandanna tied around his neck.”

“Pappy would never—”

“I think his grandson, Jeb, might be the culprit. Youngsters may have wanted to take the book for a lark. You know how they do. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. We’re all beside ourselves with worry, as I’m sure you are, too. It’s one of our dearest possessions and two centuries old.”

“Surely whoever took it knows it’s valuable.”

“I hope. If anything happens to that book, it will be so upsetting. We’ve just got to find it before the Harvest Festival, otherwise we’ll have to make all our tea blends by memory, and…” Her voice trailed off and she laughed, her eyes twinkling as she patted her granddaughter’s cheek lovingly. “As old as we’re getting, I hate to think what might happen if we made up love blends from memory, then tried to sell them.”

“Lord have mercy,” whispered Elsinore, speaking for the first time. “If your potions got jumbled, that really would be terrible, wouldn’t it? All the wrong people would be falling in love, and so forth.”

“Why, Elsinore, I didn’t see you,” said Ariel’s grandmother. “Come into the kitchen with me. Let me pour you some sun tea. I made it during the day with fresh springwater. It’ll cool you off while Ariel takes this gentleman upstairs to get him settled. As soon as Ariel’s mother comes in from her dip, she can run you back down the mountain and pick up Great-gran.” Gran nodded toward the staircase. “That’s your duffel?”

Rex nodded.

She inclined her chin. “Everybody calls me Gran,” she said. “So, you can, too. All the women in the house used to use proper names, but the guests can’t remember. So we just have them call us Mom, Gran and Great-gran. It lends a homey feel, and nobody has to struggle too hard to remember things such as Samantha, Sylvia and Christina.” She chuckled. “Now, the locals know our first names,” she added. “And before anyone tells you otherwise, you should also know that some of the young kids in town believe we’re witches.”

“You certainly look like one,” he agreed.

She smiled, delighted. “Whatever the case, it’s good for business.”

“You might want to throw in a ghost.”

“I’ll consider it,” she assured. “Now, you two skedaddle. Even as it is, dinner’s going to be late. And before you ask, I don’t want help in the kitchen, Ariel. Your job is to entertain the new guest until dinner.” The elderly woman flashed him a wide smile. “Ariel will take care of your every need. I can assure you of that, sir.”

Trying not to take the words as a double entendre, Rex felt glad the sun had dried him well enough that he wasn’t dripping on the woman’s floor. “Sorry I’m not dressed,” he apologized, glancing around at the stately living room, with its hardwood floors, Chinese rugs, marble-top tables and chandelier. “But when I couldn’t check in…”

“You won’t be punished this time,” Gran assured with mock severity. “But next time, we’ll bring out nails and chains. Thumbscrews.”

“I thought that was for the people who tortured the witches.”

“Exactly. As a witch, you pick these things up.”

“Don’t feed the rumors,” Ariel said, the teasing seemingly bothering her.

Heeding the words, her grandmother continued, “Usually, you’re to change in the deck house, but Ariel will explain all house rules.” She glanced at Ariel. “He’s in the Overlook room.”

Looking startled, Ariel parted her lips in protest.

“It’s the only room available.”

Lifting his bag, he shouldered it, then picked up the rest of his belongings. He was still wondering what exactly was wrong with his accommodations as he preceded Ariel upstairs. He couldn’t help but wonder if the view of his tush affected her, too, since it clearly did the women with whom he worked. As they entered a long upstairs hallway, Ariel pointed left, and when he reached the end of the hallway, he understood her objection. The Overlook room was right next door to one with a sign affixed to the door that read Welcome Home Ariel.

“We’re neighbors,” he said as she showed him into his quarters. He could swear he saw her throat working as he took in the door between their rooms. There was a lock on his side and probably one on hers as well….

He pulled his mind to business. The room was great. He would have chosen it for a personal vacation. To be honest, he hated small towns, unless they were riddled with some contagious disease. Otherwise, he got bored in under ten minutes flat. Living someplace like Bliss was akin to slow death by torture, as far as he was concerned, but when Jessica had said this was the fanciest place in town, she hadn’t been lying.

“Nice,” he said.

She seemed to soften. “Glad you like it.”

She did, too. He could hear her love for the place in that maddeningly throaty voice. He took in the bed—a king-size, masculine affair covered with a nautically inspired duvet—facing a picture window overlooking the steep, lush-green incline to the spring. Everything reflected the sailing motif—from a shadow box illustrating boating knots, to ships-in-bottles that the women had placed on tables.

He strode to the bathroom and glanced in, feeling his heart skip a beat. The room was spacious, and mirrored, with a sunken tub of navy porcelain; the dark cabinetry, with its brass knocker-style pulls, made the place look like a captain’s quarters. With the tub full of white suds, a man would feel he was bathing in the waves of the ocean.

Her folks might be rumored to be witches, or just crazy old widows who’d killed their husbands, but they knew how to make a man feel like a man. “Spacious,” he commented, deciding not to mention the mirrors as he moved into the room again, and toward the picture window, to stare down at the spring. “Wow.”

“It’s my favorite view,” she said, coming to stand next to him. “Mine’s the same.”

Definitely, he liked the fact that she was next door.

He realized her eyes were full of questions, and he raised his eyebrow. “Hmm?”

“What exactly is the CDC doing here? I mean, I know there are stories about how Bliss is said to have had…well, strange spots of time where business seems to shut down. Such tall tales add…”

“Spice to the town?”

“Exactly. The summer people love it.”

“The source might be a bug called Romeo. Also called generis misealius,” he said. And then he plunged into an account of the history of the virus. He was more pleased than he should have been when she didn’t glaze as he spoke about the difficulties of tracing viruses.

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.” He continued, his voice quickening with excitement as he spoke about the possibility of solving the town’s long-standing mystery. At least until he mentioned the World Health Organization.

“They can’t come here!” she said, dismayed. “This is ridiculous. Really Dr. Houston—”

“Rex,” he corrected.

“This is all local myth. It really is.”

“A possibility,” he agreed, moving nearer to where she stood by the window. “You’re related to Matilda Teasdale, right?”

She lifted her gaze from the spring, her crystal eyes looking wary and startled once more. “You know about that?”

He glanced toward the file on the bed. “Your dossier.”

Now she looked mortified. “My…”

He frowned. Suddenly, she became even more interesting, if that was possible. “What could a woman like you have to hide?”

She shot him a long look. “A woman like me?”

He fought the urge to touch her—and lost. He knew better because just one touch would be enough to electrify his whole body and there would be no point to it, except to leave him craving more. Lifting a finger anyway, he glanced it off her cheek. “Proper.”

That seemed to please her. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” He knew his eyes were disrobing her.

Her expression shuttered. “You don’t even know me.”

He wanted to, at least for tonight, and he felt the urge, like a call to something wild and undeniable. “You could let me get to know you.”

Her eyes darted away. “I don’t think we’ll have time for that.”

“Really?” he returned mildly.

She wanted to back away—he was sure of it; he could feel it in his bones—yet she didn’t. “The dossier doesn’t say much about you, specifically,” he found himself admitting. Surprised at the huskiness of his own voice, he went on, “But it does talk about the history of the house. Everyone seems to think Matilda and the women who’ve inhabited the place since are witches.” His eyes locked into hers. “Are you?”

“You’re a doctor. A scientist. You should know better.”

“So, you think my framework of knowledge is limited to microbes and cells?”

Her lips suddenly twitched, as if the banter was threatening to make her smile against her will. “That was my hope.”

It was a risk, but he inched closer, near enough to catch a whiff of her perfume. “The way you seem to affect me, you’re testing my deepest convictions.”

“A man should always keep his convictions.”

He kept his voice steady and bemused, even though she was doing wild things to his blood. “Why?”

“It shows character.”

Chuckling, he shrugged. “An overrated virtue.”

The scent of her perfume was soft, faint and floral, but he could smell something else beneath it that stirred him. He could sense so much in this woman. Old wounds that ran deep. A river of pain, maybe. But he wanted to ask her a thousand questions, starting with how it felt to grow up in a place that was apparently considered to be the local haunted house.

Taking a deep breath, she blew out an audible sigh. “To be honest,” she murmured. “I don’t want the CDC here.” She frowned. “Really, it’s nothing personal.”

“It’s always personal.”

“I don’t know if it was in your…uh, dossier.”

“It’s not a dossier. Just so you know, the CDC doesn’t really keep files on citizens. It’s America, and we do have civil rights, you know.”

“I work for a Pittsburgh TV station,” she began. “And next week, during the Harvest Festival, a cameraman’s coming from Charleston, to help me tape a feature spot. It’s a big chance for me. I don’t want anything blowing it. I definitely don’t want the World Health Organization coming into town during the shoot, much less the military.”

He was impressed. “The plot thickens.”

“Meaning?”

“I thought you were home for a family vacation.”

“That, too.”

But she had ambition.

“And in addition to keeping you off my turf,” she continued, “I need to find a missing recipe book. It’s old, treasured by my family. It contains all Matilda’s recipes, was written by her own hand. People have tried to steal it for years, as my grandmother suggested downstairs, but now, someone’s broken into the safe, and taken it.” She paused. “So you see,” she finished, “I don’t have time for flirtation.”

His heart missed another beat. “Flirtation wasn’t really what I had in mind.”

“No?”

He slowly shook his head. Primal heat flared inside him. Barely able to believe he was doing it—he was usually a little more suave—he glanced pointedly toward the bed. “Flirtation,” he murmured, raising a finger to touch her cheek once more. “It does seem like a waste of time.”

She blinked, as if she couldn’t quite believe the conversation they were having, then answering desire sparked in her eyes and she said the very last thing he expected. “Then let’s not waste any more of it.”

Scarcely believing his ears, Rex leaned across the scant remaining foot between them, circled an arm around her waist and drew her against himself, almost gasping as they made contact. She had a strong body. Probably, she worked out, and the muscles and bones felt equally hard, and yet she yielded to him, too, with a female softness. He arched to her, and as his mouth covered hers, she lifted her hands to his shoulders.

His tongue pushed apart her lips, and belatedly, he realized his kiss was too hard, too demanding. He didn’t even know her. They’d met only moments before. Maybe Romeo was in the water, after all. Maybe he’d become infected as he’d splashed in the chlorinated pool. Why had he gone swimming? Usually, he was much more rigorous at a possibly infected site. But it had seemed so hot, and the proprietors hadn’t been around, and…

Jessica would kill him if she knew.

But right now, he didn’t even care. His hands tightened around Ariel’s back, urging her closer, as her tongue moved against his, feeling silken, hot and delicious. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, then he felt them on his bare back, moving toward the elastic band of his trunks.

He wanted to remove her jacket again. And as he imagined using his teeth to unbutton the flimsy silk blouse, and his tongue to lick inside the lace of the bra, blood engorged him.

When she broke the kiss, he was half-glad. At least one of them had come to their senses. Except that, honestly, he wanted to spiral back downward into the whirlpool of the kiss and spend all night drowning in it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathlessly. “I don’t know what…came over me.”

If he reached for her, she’d let him kiss her again, right now. He knew it and she knew it. Even as she took another self-protective step backward, she was licking her lips, tasting his moisture.

“I do,” he managed to say huskily, slowly shaking his head, barely able to believe the kinetic heat that had ignited between them. “We want each other.”

Her skin was flushed, her breath short. “Like I said,” she continued, her voice holding a quiver that indicated she was just as shaken as him. “I’m worried about my project. And you’re only here overnight. Before dinner, you can take your samples of the water.” She pointed through the window. “Those steps take you right down to the spring.”

“I have to take them from other locations as well,” he found himself saying, the words seeming strangely inane in his mouth. Why were they talking at all? The way she’d felt in his arms, and tasted on his lips, they should have wound up in that huge bed making love.

Tonight, she’d come to him. He knew it like his own name. And right now, if someone told him he’d become clairvoyant, he’d have believed it. He could see her in his fantasies, naked and sudsed in the bathtub…how he’d slowly dry each inch of her before pulling down the duvet and laying her on sheets.

Her voice still held that crazy-making quiver. “You’ve got a few hours until dinner.”

With that, she turned to go. He could only watch in disbelief—and need. Every swish of her hips felt like sheer torture. His hands ached to mold the curves of her hips. Instead, he said, “I’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes. Think you can be ready?”

At the threshold, she turned. Everything in her gaze said she felt they’d better stay as far apart as possible. “Ready?”

Determined to ignore the fact that he was standing there, barefoot with a hard-on, in nothing but wet trunks, he said, “In case the World Health Organization really does wind up involved in this. It might affect your story.”

Looking torn, she considered the truth of it. “Okay,” she finally said. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs. We’ll take my car. It’s the silver Honda Accord.”

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