Flashback Read online

  “Don’t believe you, but it’s your business.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kyle smiled at that. “Always a lady, Everly.”

  “Now isn’t the time to needle me, Scanlon.”

  “Maybe not. But whatever is riding you is more than what happened earlier and just maybe you need to talk to someone about it. I’m offering.” He bent to wrap his fingers around her ankle and lifted away one shoe, shaking the sand from it, then the other. Holding her shoes in one hand, his other hand curved around her leg as he rose to stand in front of her. The trail of his touch warmed up her body and locked onto her waist. “Okay, now?” he asked gently.

  She was afraid to move, afraid her legs wouldn’t carry her. “You didn’t need to check on me. I’m fine. I just want to stand here in the night air for a while before going in.”

  “Nice night.” Kyle moved to stand close beside her, his arm going around her waist as he looked up at the stars. She knew what he was doing, giving her the safety and warmth she badly needed, wrapped in a casual stance, so that she wouldn’t find reason to step away. His hand caressed her waist and Rachel found herself leaning against him, tucked into the protective cove of his body. It felt too right and in another minute, she’d—

  Rachel moved away, this time trusting her legs to walk away from Kyle and the need to make love with him, to have him in her, around her, tasting him—“Good night,” she said as she walked toward the apartment’s stairs.

  When she’d reached the top, she turned to see him still standing in the same position, watching her. He was still there when she opened and closed the door, looking out the window. Only then did Kyle get into his rig and slowly drive away.

  At ten o’clock that night, Rachel awoke from the brief necessary nap and turned slowly from her stomach to her back. She’d had to put the beach incident out of her mind. She wasn’t in New York, fighting an attacker; she was in Mallory’s bedroom, the ceiling fan rotating slowly, the reflection of it caught in the closet’s glass mirrors.

  The room held nothing of Mallory now, the muted creams and greens of Rachel’s furniture was nothing like Mallory’s heavy walnut bookcase, bed, and chest of drawers. The heavy drapes had been replaced by white plantation blinds.

  Rachel lay thinking about her sister, the woman who had died in this room. “Are you still here, Mallory?”

  I’ll always be here when you need me, Mallory had said. I love you, kiddo, and take it from someone who knows, your attack didn’t change the person you are, didn’t lower you at all. You get back whatever you think they took, and you do your thing. You’re tough. You can do it….

  Then Mallory had planned her death…and Leon had driven out of town to mail her last letter….

  “I’m still mad at you, Mallory. You didn’t let me help. You’re not supposed to close off the ones you love….”

  Troubled by her unsettled emotions and exhaustion, Rachel took a long shower, dressed in her comfortable men’s undershorts and a worn T-shirt, then padded into the kitchen to heat the casserole her mother had brought that morning. While eating in the living room, her legs extended from the couch to the coffee table, she surfed through television programs and studied her new living quarters.

  The apartment had a homey look now, pieced together by Rachel’s things, used furniture and discount store purchases, and a contribution of odds and ends from her mother’s and Bob’s houses. The shells she’d collected with her sisters filled the glass bottom of a lamp, a flat earth-brown pottery bowl on her coffee table held the white smooth pebbles they’d collected on the beach. She’d placed three lavender-scented candles of different heights within the pebbles, the flames throwing eerie shadows on the lamp table’s framed pictures of the Everly women.

  “Soho shabby,” Jada had labeled the apartment as they’d fitted a covering over a couch Bob had said he’d been wanting to discard. The cream color matched Rachel’s own designer love seat beautifully. Jada had plumped the stamped-fern-motif sofa pillows, and studied her work critically, taking in the expansive painting that Rachel had taken to New York to remind her of Neptune’s Landing—a seascape of the beach, the waves white and foamy upon it and crashing against a mountainous black rock that disappeared into a layer of mist. “Not as nifty as all your contemporary black and glass furniture. And, gee, not a big wrought-iron wine rack in sight—I always thought that was so classy at your place, the bottles of wine poking out of that thing and the different shaped wineglasses you used when entertaining. Your parties had real class—quiet music, fancy dinners, expensive wine. Think your boyfriend will like it?”

  “Those parties were more for business than for fun, and you know that Mark and I were over a long time ago,” Rachel had said, remembering their furious argument after her attack: Mark Bradburn was certain she’d been flirting at the pool hall before taking that walk across the park, and he’d resented her playing billiards with her friends anyway. Tramping back and forth across Rachel’s New York apartment, Mallory had been furious with Mark’s assumption that she’d flirted while playing pool. “So the only reason you gave the police was because you beat a few bastards at pool? You actually think whoever he was came after you for that?”

  Rachel’s assailants words tumbled back into her mind: He’d known her name, he’d used it while humiliating her, exposing her body—he’d known that she worked in an office, dated and lived with a rising executive, and that she jogged alone….

  She pulled herself back from that awful night and opened the letter that she’d read many times, the last letter Mallory had written: “I know you don’t like Kyle, but try to understand that he was my friend, and maybe try to repay him a little for his kindnesses since I can’t, will you?”

  Kyle. The mention of his name brought Rachel to her feet; she stripped away the damp towel from around her head. She walked into the bathroom, spreading the towel over the rack to dry, then returned to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine, a little private relaxation at the end of the day.

  The candles resting inside the layer of white pebbles were inviting, and Rachel watched them, thinking of Mallory. “You’re still here, aren’t you, Mallory?”

  Her breath caused the candlelight to sway and flicker against the shadows. “What do you want from me? What will it take to make you rest?”

  She went to the kitchen cabinet and removed the cloth doll, taking it to the candlelight. “Who is this, Mallory? Who is he? You were protecting us, weren’t you? By sacrificing yourself?”

  A slight clatter at the back stairs caused Rachel to go to the window overlooking the parking lot. Tommy James’s pickup was parked beside the steps, and he was lifting the trash sacks from the garbage cans, placing them into the pickup’s bed. Rachel opened the door and flipped on the porch light. “Tommy?”

  The light caught his upturned face, his expression stunned and blank as Rachel moved down the back steps. “Tommy, what are you doing here? It’s not your usual run.”

  At close range, Tommy was obviously nervous. “I noticed that you had a lot of trash bags stacked outside the stairs. Usually those big bins are enough to handle Nine Balls stuff. Business was pretty good today, that free day of pool and all. That’s good advertising, Rachel, but maybe you need a Dumpster now. You have more trash than usual.”

  “It won’t be all the time. Some of those things are Mallory’s. Just some odds and ends.”

  Tommy moved quickly to toss the bags onto the back of his pickup and the wind riffled his soft brown hair—hair like that of Mallory’s doll. “You need any help tonight, Rachel? I mean any cleaning inside the pool hall, or need anything heavy toted for you? I’d really like to help.”

  Was Tommy James the man on the tape, the man hurting Mallory and threatening her family? Was he the father of her unborn babies?

  Rachel gripped the handrail and tried to speak evenly. Tommy had a loving wife and two sweet little girls; if he were involved with Mallory and that fact got out, he’d be ruined in Neptune
’s Landing. He would have a lot riding on anything inappropriate left behind that could tie him to Mallory. How far would he go to protect his life? Murder?

  She’d known Tommy all her life; he was a community leader, active in church and school, and he had always been upright. She was just imagining his nervousness, that shifting of his eyes and body, that startled expression. Tommy James wouldn’t hurt anyone…. “No, thanks. I’ve got a handle on it, I think. Maybe some other time?”

  But his hair was the same shade of brown as that of Mallory’s doll—and of many other men in town.

  Tires squalled as a big beige Ford Taurus pulled into the parking lot. Sally Mae slammed out of it and walked to stand by Tommy. “I got Mom to watch the kids, while I hunted for you. Why are you here?” she demanded hotly.

  Tommy seemed to shrink. His glance at Rachel said he was wary and embarrassed. “I was just getting a little ahead. There’s more stuff here than usual. Tomorrow is trash day.”

  Sally Mae was shaking with anger. “You don’t have any reason to be here.”

  She stared up at Rachel and took in the men’s undershorts and T-shirt. Her “Don’t you look all comfy?” wasn’t sweet.

  Kyle’s big Hummer pulled into the parking lot and parked by Rachel’s Cadillac. He got out, leaned against it, and folded his arms.

  “Is everything okay, Sally Mae?” Rachel asked carefully. Was it possible that Sally Mae was jealous of her?

  Or was Tommy looking for something that could tie him to Mallory?

  He got into his pickup, slammed the door, and drove onto Atlantis Street. “He was just getting ahead of a big work schedule,” Sally Mae said furiously. “He won’t do it again. But you shouldn’t go running around, or talking to other women’s husbands, without wearing a bra. I didn’t think you’d be like Mallory, but maybe I’m wrong.”

  “I just came out to see—” But Sally Mae was in her car and racing after Tommy. Rachel frowned slightly. “Okay. Have a nice night, guys.”

  Had Tommy come for a reason other than collecting the trash bags? Was he looking for something?

  Had he been involved with Mallory?

  With Jimmy immediately released into his parents’ custody, Kyle wanted to make certain that Rachel wasn’t in danger and had returned to check on her. Sally Mae and Tommy in Nine Balls’ parking lot at eleven o’clock at night probably wasn’t a friendly social call and Kyle had decided to stick around to see what happened. By the way the Jameses’ left, the big Taurus’s tires leaving rubber, the meeting hadn’t been pleasant.

  In the light coming from the apartment’s doorway, Rachel looked feminine, small, and vulnerable in her baggy clothes. She gripped the handrail and stared after the Jameses, then as she refocused on Kyle who was walking toward her, she seemed dazed. She had that sick, pale look that said she was adjusting to an unsavory fact. But then Rachel’s fine mind was trying to fit Tommy into Mallory’s life—and she was just starting to see that Mallory didn’t always turn the town’s husbands away.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked unevenly.

  “Just stopped by for the convention. Any problems?” Kyle placed his boot on the bottom step and watched Rachel wade through her thoughts as she studied her wiggling toes in those cute little pink thongs. She was hurting, and feeling helpless wasn’t a thing Kyle liked; he’d had enough experience with Mallory.

  Rachel looked up at him suddenly and her expression wasn’t helpless—it was tough and fierce, the kind of cold mad that didn’t go away easily, the kind that ate at a person’s gut until they had to do something. And even revenge might not take that burning ache away….

  He’d learned to survive as a child and Kyle knew a lot about that kind of frustrated rage, how it could destroy chances for a good life. He ached for Rachel, who was just discovering how badly raw anger could burn, how deep it could go, obliterating life’s positive opportunities….

  “Yes, I think there is a problem. Did you know about Tommy and Mallory?” she asked briskly with that lift of her head, that attitude showing in the flash of her eyes.

  But just that touch of breathlessness in her voice underlined that Rachel was really shaken. He admired her more at that moment than any other—the girl knew how to cover her emotions too well, had taken a bad blow to the heart. “I suspected a relationship. He always liked her. Mallory could never turn away anyone with real trouble, and Sally Mae is real trouble. He wouldn’t have hurt Mallory, if that’s what you’re thinking. Tommy is gentle, like she was. They both have—Mallory had—a special sort of innocence that nothing could take away. That really irritates people who do not have it…they need to ruin those with it.”

  Rachel turned and started up the stairs. Halfway up, she turned and looked down at him. “Are you coming or not?”

  He couldn’t resist teasing her, hoping to distract her from that slap of harsh reality. “What’s in it for me?”

  But Rachel wasn’t sparring tonight; she was dead serious. “I want you to listen to something.”

  “Sure it’s not too late? I mean, if someone saw me coming upstairs they just might get the wrong idea.” Kyle thought about the different cars that had stayed for hours when Mallory was alive; he didn’t want her visitors getting the wrong impression of Rachel.

  Her jaw had that stubborn set, her tone cool and crisp. “I’ll handle gossip. If you’re afraid, then go on home. But I really don’t see how gossip could hurt you much. A man living with his two ex-wives surely has had some taste of it.”

  “Oh, she’s real mad,” Kyle murmured as he moved slowly up the stairs. An invitation from Rachel could only mean trouble, and he should know better. He stood inside the apartment, moved slightly aside to let her close the door behind him. She reminded him of a businesswoman in an office, getting ready for a conference.

  Those dark brown eyes were watching him as he took in the living room and kitchen changes, a sophisticated retro look blended with comfort and style. “Nice.”

  Then he looked down to her breasts and realized there was nothing but soft, sweet curves beneath her shirt. Rachel never stopped studying him; she didn’t move as he took in the loose undershorts and her legs, down to those pretty pink thongs with the flowers. “Is something wrong?” she asked as she flipped on a lamp, the glass base filled with seashells.

  The movement had tightened the soft cloth across her bottom, and the slight bend of her body had revealed one really nice bare cheek that would just fit in his hand—“Not a thing.”

  “I’ll be just a minute,” she said and walked into the bedroom. The heavy scents and dark brooding colors were gone, replaced by light shades and simplicity. Candles were burning in a brown bowl, the flames flickering, casting shadows on the big painting of the beach. Something smelled really good, and Kyle thought of the French dish Iris had tried to cook recently. When she wasn’t looking, Pup had loved it.

  Rachel’s laptop was sitting on the kitchen table, tiny little fish swimming around on the screen, a yellow pad and pen nearby.

  Kyle ran his hand across his chest where the sorrow for Mallory lay, cold and hard. The apartment looked clean and fresh and—Kyle frowned slightly. There was something else here that he couldn’t define: Mallory’s favorite scent, vanilla, before she’d started in on heavy, musky perfumes, seemed to hover close. He held very still and something seemed to wrap around him. It was just the candles, he told himself, his emotions uneasy because he hadn’t been in the apartment since before Mallory had died.

  Then the air stilled, and he could almost hear Mallory call softly, “Kyle? I need you, Kyle….”

  He studied the flickering candles, the shadows dancing on the wall, and they blended with the echoes of Mallory’s calls, the times when she couldn’t handle business or herself.

  Rachel came into the living room dressed in loose black slacks and a silky Chinese-style tunic that probably cost plenty. She moved to the small minibar and looked at him as she lifted a bottle of wine and questioned him with a look.
When he shrugged, she poured wine into two goblets and walked toward him. She handed one glass to him and then took a sip of hers, her eyes locked on his face. “Do you like the changes?”

  “They’re okay.” He picked up one of the candles and inhaled its scent. It was lavender, tiny purple buds embedded into the wax. Yet the vanilla scent seemed to linger around him. “Nice,” he said to cover his curiosity and replaced the candle.

  “So you were up here a lot?”

  Rachel was smooth, he decided, taking her time to get what she wanted. “Sometimes. Sometimes she needed me.”

  Mallory’s wispy voice echoed in his mind. Kyle? I need you, Kyle….

  Rachel’s dark eyes locked on him. “Are you certain that there was nothing else?”

  He didn’t want Rachel to know how badly her sister had gotten at the last, that the images weren’t pleasant. “Something smells good. Are you serving dinner?”

  “I can get you something. Sit down.”

  Rachel was being too accommodating and that caused him to be suspicious. Kyle eased onto the big couch and watched Rachel move gracefully into the kitchen. She spooned something onto a plate and in a minute, the microwave sounded. She collected a napkin and a fork and walked back to him.

  “Do much of this in New York, did you?” he asked, noting her grace, the way she moved—she’d make love like that, he supposed—smooth, graceful, keeping her poise, and getting what she wanted. He had no doubt that Rachel could leave a man hurting, but he didn’t intend for that to happen….

  “Enough. I wanted the usual things—that big fat executive chair and a key to a private washroom. Having parties was a way to move up in my career. I did a little hosting for other people. I got what I wanted, a neat little V.P. job, and I wanted more…. But that’s Mom’s casserole, not mine.”

  Kyle got the point: Rachel was pointing out that their lives were different, that he didn’t fit into hers. There was a lot to admire about Rachel Everly, Kyle thought, especially all those soft curves beneath that Chinese outfit. “Well, then, you’ll have to cook for me sometime, won’t you?”