Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry Read online

  “This can’t happen,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he said, his eyes on her.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know about you,” Matthew said, “but I think I’m going to kiss you.”

  “I think I’ll die if you don’t—”

  Emily’s words were lost as his arms came around her and he drew her to him. His mouth sought and found hers as his hands moved over her, every inch of her. She felt their hardness against the soft folds of her satin pajamas, and the sensation was extraordinary, exquisite.

  Trembling from head to toe, Emily wrapped her arms around Matthew’s neck and pressed herself against him, and they tumbled backward, letting the thick bathroom carpet cushion their fall.

  Emily landed on top, and she pulled back to stare down at Matthew. His eyes were deep and dark and full of mystery, full of promise. She shuddered to think what it all meant, but in the next instant, she wasn’t thinking at all. With his hand on the back of her neck, he drew her back down for another soul-shattering kiss.

  Emily’s heart pounded against Matthew’s. She had never felt so overwhelmed, so overcome. When at last he broke the kiss, she buried her face in his neck, marveling at the way her body had blossomed at his touch.

  He tangled his hands in her hair. “Emily.”

  “I know.” She sighed deeply. “This can’t happen.”

  “It can’t. Not again.”

  Emily raised up so that she could look down at him. “Matthew, why not? And please don’t tell me I wouldn’t understand.”

  “All right, I won’t.” He lifted her so that he could slip out from beneath her and sit. Then he leaned back against the tub and drew his knees up, resting his arms across them. Emily knelt beside him.

  His eyes had grown dark and bleak, and he wiped the back of his hand across them, as if he could erase the painful images he saw. “There was a woman.” His voice was wooden, emotionless.

  Emily’s heart pounded in desperation. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any more, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from asking, “Were you in love with her?”

  He rubbed his hand across his eyes again. “I thought I was. I’m not sure anymore. It was…a relationship that never should have happened. It ended in disaster.”

  “What happened?”

  His eyes met hers. Emily thought she had never seen such darkness. Such guilt and agony. But his voice still betrayed nothing when he said, “She died.” And Emily felt the world as she knew it come crashing down around her.

  She put a tentative hand on his arm, and he flinched, as if he could no longer bear her touch. Emily drew her hand back, hurt.

  “I can’t afford to get involved with anyone, Emily. I don’t trust myself. Especially not with someone like you.”

  Emily knew she should ask no more questions. Knew that she should get out of that room while the getting was good. But she couldn’t move. She was mesmerized, rooted to the spot by a kind of sick fascination that made her ask, “Because you still love her?”

  “No.” His gaze bored into hers. If it was possible, his eyes grew even darker. “Because I killed her,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  “My dear! This place is positively vibrating with psychic emanations!”

  Emily could only gape at the woman who was walking—no, sailing—through the inn’s front door. Large, rawboned, with unlikely wisps of red hair peeking from beneath the wide brim of a lavish hat, the woman reminded Emily of nothing so much as a large purple battleship plowing full speed ahead as she steamed into the Other Side of Paradise Inn.

  With a flourish, she presented Emily her card, then turned and gazed around the room. Beneath the purple knit suit the woman wore, her generous bosom jutted to attention as she flung her arms wide and closed her eyes in ecstasy.

  Emily, unable to do anything but stare wide-eyed at such an awe-inspiring sight, finally tore her gaze away and glanced down at the pale lavender card that proclaimed in dark purple ink:

  Mrs. Grace DeVere

  Pine Bluff Psychics League

  “Why have I not heard of this place before?” the woman demanded, opening her eyes to glare an accusation at Emily.

  “Well, I…”

  “If my dear cousin Fayetta hadn’t had the good fortune to run across the article in the Bald Knob Banner, and if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to clip the story and send it to me, I would have remained in the dark about this house for the rest of my natural born days.”

  “How fortunate that didn’t happen,” Emily said doubtfully. “What can I do for you, Mrs., uh, DeVere?”

  Grace DeVere had stepped away from the desk to once again gaze in rapture around the room, but now she spun back. “What can you do for me? Young woman, a better question to ask is what can I do for you?”

  Oookay, Emily thought. “Exactly why are you here, Mrs. DeVere?”

  “To help you contact the spirits who inhabit your home,” Mrs. DeVere said matter-of-factly. “Tell me, have you experienced any unusual psychic phenomena since you moved in?”

  Emily wasn’t sure she would know a psychic phenomenon if she met one, unusual or otherwise, but she said gamely, “Not that I know of.”

  “No cold spots? No levitation? No unexplained noises in the middle of the night?”

  Emily thought about the noise the rock had made last night, when it crashed through her front door. The cause of that had hardly been supernatural, but she almost wished it had been. It would certainly be no less of a mystery.

  “I haven’t experienced any of those things,” Emily said.

  Mrs. DeVere looked crestfallen, but then she perked up. “Well,” she said, “we’re obviously dealing with a shy spirit, one reluctant to make contact. It may take a few days to break through the barrier.”

  “Barrier?”

  “That separates the known world from the unknown one. Now, if you would be so good as to show me to my room, the quicker I settle in, the quicker the spirits will become accustomed to my presence.”

  Emily said, “Mrs. DeVere, I’m afraid there’s been some mistake. I’m not yet open for business.”

  Mrs. DeVere, obviously not one to be daunted by such a minor detail, said, “The article mentioned something about a grand opening on October twenty-third. That’s only a few days away. Surely an allowance can be made.”

  Actually, allowances had already been made. Emily hadn’t exactly turned Matthew away, now had she? And after last night, after what he had told her, she wasn’t so sure her decision had been a wise one.

  Emily made a few mental calculations. If she let Mrs. DeVere stay, she could put the extra money toward the repair of her front door, which had been taken down this morning and was en route to Bradford, where a stained-glass maker Emily knew had agreed to start work on it immediately. A plain wooden door had been temporarily installed in its place.

  “You do understand there may be some inconveniences,” Emily explained. “I’m still working on some of the rooms.”

  “I understand, and don’t worry, my dear. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  Emily very much doubted that. Mrs. Grace DeVere wasn’t exactly the type—or of the stature—to fade into the woodwork. However, Emily forced herself to say cheerfully, “If you’ll just sign the register, I’ll take you up now, and someone will bring up your bags in a few minutes.” Someone like her, but Emily didn’t mention that fact to Mrs. DeVere.

  Using her own pen, Mrs. DeVere scrawled her name across the register in purple ink, then followed Emily up the stairs to the room at the top of the landing. Mrs. DeVere entered, gazed around for a moment, then stated, “This will do nicely. Now show me to the murder room.”

  “I’m sorry, but that room is occupied at the moment.”

  “Of course it is. Restless spirits always return to the scene of the crime. That’s why I’m here, my dear.”

  Emily strained for patience. “I don’t mean that. I have a real flesh-and-blo
od guest in that room right now.”

  Mrs. DeVere smiled mysteriously. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? If the vibrations are as strong as I suspect they will be, I know at least two or three other psychics who will come at once to join me.”

  Emily hesitated. The last thing an innkeeper should do was violate a guest’s privacy, but to have the bed-and-breakfast at full occupancy so early in the season would be a real coup. The fall foliage wasn’t even at its peak yet, and the Fall Folk Festival wouldn’t start until the weekend of the twenty-fifth, two days after Emily’s grand opening. Cora Mae Hicks would be pea green with envy.

  And, besides, Matthew was gone. He’d been gone ever since last night, when he’d walked out on her after their disturbing conversation in the bathroom. Emily wasn’t sure he was ever coming back, and she thought, with more than a flicker of regret, that perhaps it would be for the best if he didn’t. How could she trust him now, after what he’d told her? After what he hadn’t told her?

  “Well?” Mrs. DeVere demanded, drawing Emily’s attention back to the present. “Are you going to show me the murder room or not?”

  Emily shrugged. “Why not?” she said, and led Grace DeVere down the hallway.

  Emily opened the door and glanced inside. The room was just as she’d left it earlier that morning, when she’d been in to change the linens on the bed and leave fresh towels.

  Mrs. DeVere looked positively ecstatic as she stepped inside. She sought the center of the room, closed her eyes, and went very still. A tiny humming sound emanated from the back of her throat. After a moment or two, Emily began to get the creeps.

  Mrs. DeVere reached out with one hand, groping like a blind woman. “She’s here. The young woman who was violently murdered. I feel her all around me. Her spirit roams restlessly, searching for peace.” The clutching hand stilled and her breathing became shallow. She splayed her other hand across her ample bosom. “I feel another presence here, as well. An evilness…”

  The dramatics were straight out of Poltergeist, Emily thought, but a sudden movement in the hallway caught her attention, and she jumped in spite of herself.

  Matthew stood in the doorway. The sunlight spilling in through the window at the end of the hallway surrounded him with a golden aura. For a moment, his form seemed to waver in the light. He looked misty, ethereal, not quite of this earth.

  Then he stepped into the room, and the illusion shattered. The look in his eyes told Emily that he was a flesh-and-blood man, all right, and a damned angry one at the moment.

  “I’M REALLY, really, really sorry,” Emily said again, for perhaps the tenth time. “I know it was inexcusable of me to invade your privacy that way, and I don’t blame you for being angry, but it was just that…she wanted to see the room, to—”

  “Experience the psychic vibrations. I know,” Matthew said dryly. They were in Emily’s little Volkswagen, headed toward Tony Vincent’s garage. “And I told you, I’m not mad.”

  “But you were. I could tell.”

  He sighed. “All right, I was. But I’m not now. Let’s just get on with our business, okay?”

  And pretend last night never happened.

  Though he hadn’t said it, Emily sensed that was what he meant. But she wasn’t at all sure she could do that. Like it or not, Matthew Steele had gotten to her. Big-time. The kiss last night had proven to her just how much she had come to care for him in such a short period of time.

  Was there such a thing as love at first sight? Destiny? Emily had never really believed in any of those things before, but from the moment she laid eyes on Matthew, she had felt something. Something…significant. Something more than just physical attraction.

  Something that frightened her a little.

  Especially after what he’d told her last night.

  She glanced at him. His head was turned, and he was staring out the side window. Emily wondered whether he was thinking about last night, too, and what he had told her.

  Because I killed her.

  The unspoken words seemed to hang in the air. Emily took a deep breath. “Matthew.”

  He turned his head and looked at her.

  She bit her lip. “We have to talk about last night.”

  One brow rose slightly. “About the kiss, or the confession?”

  “Both, I guess.” Emily was feeling miserable and was suddenly wishing she hadn’t even brought up the conversation. But when a man told you he’d killed someone, and when that man was staying in your home, when he’d kissed you—Well, Emily didn’t see that she had a choice. For her own peace of mind, she had to know the truth.

  “About the kiss,” Matthew said slowly. “You and I both know it should never have happened, but I can’t honestly say I’m sorry it did.”

  “And the confession?” Emily managed to ask, her heart fluttering inside her chest like the wings of a caged bird. “Do you regret that?”

  There was a long pause, and then Matthew said, “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m still here.” For better or for worse. Emily swallowed. “The woman you told me about last night…”

  “What about her?” Matthew’s tone was flat, expressionless, giving away nothing of what he might be feeling. They might have been talking about a social event or a football game instead of…

  Emily couldn’t even bring herself to think the M word. She took another deep breath. “Did you really…I mean…you know…”

  “Kill her?” Matthew seemed to have no such compunctions. He said the words bluntly, without hesitation. “I won’t lie to you, Emily. I was very much responsible for her death.”

  “But being responsible…that’s not the same thing as…I mean, the implication was that…you…you…” Emily lifted one hand from the steering wheel and gestured helplessly.

  Matthew said nothing.

  “What I mean is…her death was an accident, wasn’t it?” she asked softly, braking for a stop sign. She turned and looked at him.

  Something flickered in Matthew’s expression, a denial. Then he said with a weary sigh, “Okay. It was an accident. But that didn’t make me any less to blame,” he said harshly. “I was careless, irresponsible, and someone died.” He glanced away for a second. “There are a lot of things about my past I can’t explain. That I don’t want to explain. But I will tell you this.” His eyes were dark and mysterious, oddly seductive for the conversation they were having. He said, almost reluctantly, “You have nothing to fear from me, Emily. I would never hurt you.”

  Their gazes clung for a moment. Emily’s eyes dropped to his lips, searching their contours as she remembered the way his mouth had felt on hers, the way his body had molded against hers. If Matthew hadn’t stopped the kiss. If he hadn’t pushed her away—

  Emily lifted her gaze to his. His eyes were deep and knowing. A shiver raced through her, because she knew he was thinking exactly what she was thinking.

  Forcing herself to look away, Emily checked both ways, then drove through the intersection. “Well,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “I guess I just have one more question, then.”

  “What?”

  “Are you wearing…do you have your gun with you today?”

  “No. Does that make you feel better?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I guess I’m worried about what’s going to happen when we talk to Tony Vincent. I mean, we can hardly just waltz in and ask him if he killed Jenny Wilcox.”

  “Why can’t we? You just asked me.”

  Emily blushed. “That was different. I mean…well, it just was. But I don’t think Tony’s likely to admit to anything, do you?”

  “Maybe not overtly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we watch his expression, study his actions,” Matthew explained. “We let him do all the work and hope that he gives himself away.”

  “Well, I, for one, haven’t a clue as to how to do that,” Emily assured him. “So I hope you’re up on your E
llery Queen routine.”

  “I’ll try to muddle through.”

  She didn’t doubt it for a minute. Matthew Steele seemed quite capable of anything. She tried to ignore the little voice inside her that demanded, Even murder? as she pulled into the gravel parking lot of Vincent’s Auto Repair and killed the engine.

  When she and Matthew got out of the car, she could hear a loud banging noise coming from the interior of the garage. “Sounds like Tony’s hard at work on something.”

  “Yeah, but what?” Matthew took her elbow and steered her to the open bay and the noise.

  A man with greasy orange coveralls was bent over a table scattered with an assortment of parts and wires and springs that, connected, might once have been an engine. He looked up when Emily and Matthew entered the garage, and the hammer he’d been using to straighten a metal pipe dropped to the table with a clang.

  He stared at Matthew.

  By now, Emily was used to the reaction. She called out, “Hello, Tony. I don’t know if you remember me or not, but you and my brother used to be friends. I’m Stuart Townsend’s sister, Emily.”

  “I know who you are.” Tony picked up the metal pipe as he came around the worktable and walked over to meet them at the doorway. He limped slightly, favoring his left leg.

  He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, and even though there were telltale signs of his drinking etched into his face, his body, beneath the coveralls, looked hard and muscular, the still-powerful physique of a man who had once been an all-collegiate running back.

  Feet planted apart, a scowl creasing an already deeply lined forehead, he swung the pipe up and slapped it against the palm of his other hand. “What do you want?” His voice was coarse and gravelly, the voice of a man driven to excess.

  “We just want to talk to you,” Emily said. “We’re hoping you can answer some questions for us. This is Matthew Steele.”

  Tony glanced at Matthew. “That name supposed to mean something to me?”

  “I don’t know,” Matthew said. “Does it?”