Low Pressure

Chapter 20

At the touch of Dent’s mouth, Bellamy’s bones seemed to liquify. Reflexively she reached for something with which to support herself and wound up clutching handfuls of his hair.

“Does this hurt?”

Hurt? He was tenderly kissing the dark bruise on her pelvic bone, made last night when she banged into the iron railing outside his apartment. “No.”

“Good.”

He kissed the spot again then eased down the zipper of her jeans, his mouth moving into the widening gap, doing wonderful things that caused her insides to quicken.

“Dent,” she murmured. “We can’t.”

“We are.” His breath was warm on her skin as he rubbed his face against her. “You taste good.” A gentle suction of his lips pulled her skin against his teeth; he nipped her lightly, making her breath catch.

He angled back and looked up into her eyes, then gave his full attention to each button on her shirt as he pushed it through the hole. He worked his way up from the bottom and, when all were undone, opened her shirt and kissed the slight indentation between her ribs just under her bra.

Using the fingers of both hands, he caressed the loose strands of hair that brushed across her nipples. “That’s been driving me nuts.” Pushing her hair aside and leaning in, he replaced his fingertips with his mouth, first on one breast, then on the other, biting her gently through the lace cups of her bra.

He bracketed her hips with his strong hands, turned her, and pulled her down onto the bed, then leaned above her and claimed her mouth in a kiss so deeply passionate, so uniquely Dent, that she banished her resolve never, ever, to let this happen.

They kissed long and hungrily. While his hands moved over her, he took her mouth boldly, sweetly, teasingly, and continued to kiss her until they were breathless. When they broke apart, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and whispered, “I think you have a talent for this.”

He worked his hand into the opening of her jeans, into her panties, and barely paused to cup her mound before easing her thighs apart, separating and caressing, and finding her ready. Instinctually she raised her knees and angled her hips. With a growl of satisfaction, he slid his fingers deep into her.

Oh, God! This was Dent. The Dent of her most innocent adolescent daydreams and her most erotic adult fantasies, making her whimper with each intimate stroke of his fingers, every breath-grabbing brush of his thumb.

His hair was soft against her breasts, now freed from the lace cups of her bra. Gently and avidly he loved them with his mouth, his tongue, while from low in his throat came sounds of arousal that were altogether masculine.

He wanted her, and for these moments, he was hers. Exclusively hers.

She closed her arms around his head, and arched up to meet the thrusts of his fingers and beg the exquisite pressure of his thumb. She called his name as the first ripple of ecstasy washed through her.

Then came the tide.

Ray had watched the sun go down, and then had given his eyes hours to grow accustomed to the dark. He now felt that his night vision was as keen as that of the coyote he could hear yipping in the hills to the west of the airfield.

A single-engine plane had landed at twilight, but had stayed only long enough to refuel and then had taken off. Shortly after that, the landing-strip lights had been extinguished, leaving only a pale glow coming from inside the hangar.

Ray got out of his truck and jiggled his legs to restore circulation. He did a few deep knee bends, then some curls with his left arm. He caressed the scabbard attached to his belt and kept his hand there as he headed toward the hangar.

The ground was uneven, rocky, and strewn with patches of wild grass and occasional cacti. Fearing a mishap, he didn’t walk fast, but he moved as quickly and quietly as he could.

When he got to within fifty yards of the hangar, he slowed his pace and bent almost double to decrease the size of the target he made. He didn’t think the old man would detect him, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He’d looked forward to this. He was pumped. He wanted nothing to prevent him from doing what he’d come to do.

After tonight Denton Carter and Bellamy Price would know that Ray Strickland was a fearsome son of a bitch. The attack in the IHOP parking lot had been chicken feed compared to the blow he was about to strike. This would shatter them, rattle them, make plain the threat he posed, and intensify their fear.

Twenty yards from the building, he dropped to the ground and lay there, imagining himself to be as invisible as the special forces guys. He loved watching movies about camouflaged sniper types who could lie in one position for hours, days if necessary, waiting for the perfect shot.

He thought of himself like that now: lethal, invisible, and invincible. His weapon of choice wasn’t a high-powered rifle but a double-edged blade. He’d passed the long hours of the afternoon and evening stropping it to razor sharpness. He now slid it from the scabbard, loving the hiss it made against the leather, which sounded both sexual and sinister.

He gripped the bone handle in one hand as he belly-crawled to the exterior wall of the hangar. Pressing his ear to the corrugated metal, he heard the twang of a guitar picking out the melody of a Hank Williams song.

Ray hated hick music like that, but he was glad the old man liked it. It would screen any sounds he made. Emboldened, he slid up the washboard metal until he was on his feet, then crept along the wall, following it toward the front of the building and the half-moon of concrete onto which the hangar opened.

By the time he reached the corner, his heart was pounding and his breathing was fast and shallow. He took several moments to slow them down, then counted to three and poked his head around the wall and peered into the hangar.

He took in everything at a glance that lasted no more than a second or two. The old man was lying on his back beneath Dent’s airplane, his legs and feet sticking out from under it. An extension cord that snaked across the concrete floor was supplying power to the radio, which was sitting on the wing, as well as to a work light that lay beside the old man beneath the fuselage. In addition to the light were an open toolbox and a greasy rag.

This was going to be easier than he’d thought.

“This is for you, Allen,” he mouthed. Then, exultant, Ray charged into the hangar. Before the old man had time even to realize he was there, he plunged the blade of his knife, hilt-deep, into his belly.

Even as orgasmic aftershocks were causing Bellamy to gasp, Dent levered himself above her and hastily unbuttoned his fly, then sank down into another of those kisses of hers that felt like fucking. As his tongue plundered her mouth, the eroticism of it compounded his urgency.

He positioned himself between her thighs and rubbed the tip of his erection against her dampness, cursing the barrier of clothes that he would have to work around. At some point, they would need to stop and take a breather. That would be when they’d get naked. He really wanted to be skin-to-skin with her, lying lengthwise on the bed, and doing this thing right. But he couldn’t be bothered now. He had to get inside her, where she was silky and hot and wet. Surprisingly so.

She didn’t give off the vibe of a woman who would ignite that quickly and burn that fiercely. Who would have guessed that she, of the reserved manner and solemn eyes, would be so damned sensitive where it counted?

And, man, was she. Barely a glancing touch to that sweet spot, and her body was electrified. Made him feel like all the great lovers in history rolled into one, made him crazy to claim her, made him desperate to feel those contracting responses again. Except around his penis, from inside her. Now.

He reached between them to move aside her panties.

“No!”

At once, her head began thrashing from side to side and all four limbs started flailing. She shoved him away and scrambled off the bed. By the time he realized what had happened, she had her back to him and was hiking up her jeans.

“What the hell?”

“I can’t. I can’t. I told you.”

Disbelief held him back for a few seconds, then he launched himself off the bed and reached for her. At his touch, she jumped like she’d been shot. She whipped around. “Don’t touch me. Don’t say anything. Just…” Frantically, she motioned for him to back up and give her space.

He somehow—miraculously, he thought later—managed to tamp down his surging rage. That had been his first reaction. But he was quick to realize that she wasn’t being coy. Or a tease. Or just plain cruel.

Instead, she was a woman in full freak-out mode, and, unless he wanted her screaming the hotel down and bringing on the house detective, he’d better do as she said.

Clumsily she replaced the cups of her brassiere and buttoned up her blouse. Maybe she remembered what he’d said about where her hair fell and how that drove him nuts, because she pushed it back off her face and hooked it behind her ears. She took deep breaths and shook her hands at her sides like somebody literally trying to get a grip. Finally, a little bit restored, she looked at him.

“I know it’s unfair.” She glanced down at his open fly, blinked rapidly, gulped air. “Terribly unfair. I’m sorry.”

He said the only thing that immediately came to mind. “You buttoned your shirt wrong.”

She stared at him for several seconds as though trying to make sense of that. Then she looked down at her shirt and saw the mess she’d made of aligning the buttons with the right holes. She didn’t fix it, only ran her hand over the placket to smooth out the bunched fabric.

“I never meant to… I shouldn’t have let you…” She glanced past him at the bed, then raised her hands to her cheeks, which were flaming. “You must think I’m awful. I apologize for not stopping sooner. Before… I should have stopped you before… But I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I just… can’t.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, which minutes ago she’d been about to rip from his scalp. He blew out a gust of air. “Yeah, I kinda got that.”

“This was a bad idea. I’ll move to another room.” She started toward the dresser where she’d left her large shoulder bag.

“Leave it,” he said. “You’re staying here.”

“Haven’t you heard—”

“Yeah I heard. About a dozen times. You can’t. What do you think I am? It’s hands off. I get it. Okay? Okay?”

Still wary, she hesitated, then, after a moment, bobbed her head.

“Okay. But I’m not going to let you be by yourself when you’re one degree away from a total meltdown.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m not going to—”

“Bellamy, we are sharing this room, this bed, for the rest of the night, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Like you have a say in what I do.”

“Tonight I do,” he said with heat. “And if you ask what gave me that right, I just might tell you in language so graphic it would cause you to blush like you’ve never blushed before. So ask at your own risk.”

She didn’t say anything.

“All right, then.” He motioned toward the bed behind him. “Which side do you want?”

It took him a long time to go to sleep. Despite her flipping out, which should have doused any and all amorous inclinations better than a cold shower, he didn’t immediately recover from his throbbing lust. Because, although he’d given his word not to touch her, he was aware of her being within touching distance, aware of everything about her.

He knew the instant she fell asleep. Her body, which had been as unyielding as an I-beam, eventually relaxed. Her breathing became steady and deep and—What the hell was wrong with him?—sexy.

In order to get even halfway comfortable, he had to unbutton his fly again.

Which wasn’t such a good idea, because when he came out of a sound sleep hours later, he was masturbating. But then he realized it wasn’t his hand, but Bellamy’s, that was feeling around his alert cock.

He moaned pleasurably and turned onto his side, laying his arm across her waist, his leg over her hip, and pulling her against him.

“Dent.”

“Good morning,” he mumbled, smiling lazily, eyes closed.

She planted her other hand firmly against his chest. Now the woman couldn’t take her hands off him. How great was that?

“Dent.”

He took her groping hand, drew it to his straining erection, closed her fingers around it, and released a long, low sigh. “Tighter. Yeah. Like that.”

“Dent!” She wrested her hand away. “It’s your phone.”

“Hmm?”

“Your phone.”

He jerked his head up and back, eyes springing open. “What?”

“I was trying to get to your phone. It could be important.”

The jingle penetrated the passion that had fogged his mind and muffled his ears. He flopped over onto his back and lay gasping for breath and cursing liberally. Feeling blindly, he angrily yanked his cell phone from where it was clipped to the waistband of his jeans and blinked the calling number into focus.

He didn’t recognize it, but he had words for the person on the other end. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Who the fuck you think?”

“Goddammit, Gall! I’m gonna kill you!”

“Get in line.”

Dent, struggling to cap his arousal, covered his eyes with his forearm. “What’s that mean?”

“Your pickup-driving redneck?”

“Yeah?”

“He came calling. He’s out for blood, all right.”

Dent sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and drew his shirttail over his lap. Bellamy had also sat up, her eyes watchful and worried, correctly gauging the seriousness of his expression.

“Tell me,” Dent said into the phone.

“He was parked several hundred yards from the field a good part of the day.”

“How’d you spot him?”

“Didn’t. Guy from Tulsa on his way down to South Padre stopped here to refuel. He’d spotted the truck on his approach. Since it was out in the middle of nowhere, he thought it might’ve been somebody lost or broken down, needing help. I told him I’d check it out.

“Which I did. After he took off, I got some binoculars. The moron thought he was well hidden in the brush, but his truck was facing south. The sun was reflecting off his windshield like a spotlight all afternoon.”

“Could’ve been somebody hunting rabbits, taking in the scenery. How can you be sure it was my guy?”

“I got more than one good look at him. Big guy. Solid. Black leather vest. Tattooed left arm. Ugly son of a bitch, too.”

“Did he see you?”

“Anytime I checked on him, I did it from inside. And he had his own binocs. He was watching me. I went about my business, acted like I didn’t know he was out there. Night came on. He was still there, and I figured he’d been waiting for dark to pay me a visit. I was ready for him.”

“What did you do?”

Gall described the stage he’d set for the man they believed to be Ray Strickland. “He fell for it. He barreled into the hangar, screaming like a banshee, and shoved his knife into what he believed to be my gut. Was actually a piece of a blown-out tire. Looked pretty natural, though, when it was zipped up inside my coveralls. Same curvature as my belly.” He chuckled.

“Gall, this is nothing to laugh at.”

“No, I guess not.”

“What did he do when he realized he’d been tricked?”

“I’m not rightly sure. Messed hisself maybe. ’Cause I tripped the breaker switch and all the lights went out, the radio went off, and he was left in total darkness and silence, not knowing what the hell had happened.

“I could hear him cussing a blue streak as he tried to dislodge his knife from that tire, but in the end, he took it with him, my coveralls included. Just scooped it all up and ran like hell. Left my shoes, and I’m glad. I just now got them worked in.”

“Did he return to his truck?”

“Yep. Made it okay, I guess, ’cause I saw the headlights when he drove off. One good thing, before it got dark, I got his license plate number.”

“Did you call this in?”

“To that sheriff’s deputy who came out after your plane was trashed. I told him I thought it was probably the same guy. Gave him a description of Strickland. He said they’d lifted dozens of partial prints off your airplane, which they’re ‘sorting through.’”

“They’ve got missing kids to find and meth labs to shut down. I doubt my damaged airplane has priority.”

“Yeah, and if they stopped Strickland today, all they could hold him on is theft of a pair of coveralls. He’s probably disposed of them by now. Bastard. They were my favorite pair.”

Although Gall was making light of it, Dent could tell the older man had been shaken. Dent sure as hell was. Attacking him was one thing. Attacking Gall was a clear indication of just how vindictive this individual was.

Worried for Gall’s safety, Dent asked if he was still at the hangar.

“No, I got the place locked up good and tight, then left. Short night, but, you know.”

“This guy won’t appreciate being made a fool of. You’re probably not safe at home, either.”

“I didn’t go home.”

“My place?”

“No safer than mine.”

Dent remembered the strange phone number. “Whose number is this?”

“A lady I know.”

“Lady?”

“She’ll put me up for a day or two.”

“You know a lady?”

“What? You think you got a monopoly?”

“Not lately,” Dent grumbled, cutting a glance toward Bellamy. She’d returned to the armchair that she’d been sitting in the night before. She was listening intently to his side of the conversation and could probably hear Gall, too.

“Sorry to call you at this hour of the morning,” Gall was saying. “But I just got settled in here. Thought you should know right away.”

Dent agreed, he just didn’t know what to do with the information. He rested his forehead in his hand, weakened by the thought of what could have happened to Gall if that pickup had been parked facing north instead of south. “Sorry I yelled at you when I answered.”

“I’m used to it.”

“I’m still sorry.”

There was an extended moment of silence, which was full of understanding but no unnecessary sloppiness. Finally Gall asked about their meeting with Moody, and Dent gave him a rundown. “He and I had no kind words for each other.”

“You didn’t shoot him?”

“No, but I hit him.”

“Overdue. Got to give him some credit, though.”

“For what? Plotting to frame me for murder?”

“For admitting it.”

Dent didn’t say anything.

“What are you going to do now, Ace?”

“Hold on.” He covered the receiver and said to Bellamy, “Are you speaking to me this morning?”

“You kept your word.”

“Yeah, I’m a regular choirboy. One who’s desperate for coffee. The help-yourself bar in the lobby opens at six. I noticed the sign. Would you fetch me a cup?”

“What don’t you want me to hear?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not that much of a choirboy. You couldn’t look innocent if you tried, especially when you’re lying. But”—she stood up and got her bag—“I’m desperate for coffee, too. Besides, I need to check in with Olivia.”

Dent stared at the door for several seconds after it closed behind her, then raised the phone to his ear again. “Gall?”

He snorted. “No more separate rooms?”

“Shut up and listen. I sent her on an errand, but she’ll be back soon. I didn’t want her to hear this. I won’t go into the details now, but Moody told us yesterday that it’s almost certain Bellamy witnessed her sister’s death.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“It shook her up. I don’t know all the psychological whys and wherefores, but that would be traumatic enough to cause a memory shutdown, wouldn’t you say?”

“Damn straight.”

“This guy, Ray Strickland, has reason—and a solid one—to want vengeance for his brother. But I’m afraid he’s not the only one who’s stalking Bellamy.” He told Gall about her fan Jerry. “She dismissed him as a harmless, bookish type, an admirer who’s gone a little overboard.”

“She’s probably right.”

“Probably. Maybe. But in the park, he pretended not to notice us. At the Austin airport he was near enough to touch her. Close enough to address her, at least. If he’s gushy over his favorite writer, why didn’t he gush?”

“Maybe he was intimidated. She’s got big bad you at her side now.”

“Yeah, okay, maybe. But factor Jerry into everything else, and his unlikely presence in Texas doesn’t seem quite so innocent or coincidental.”

“But you said this Jerry is a fan.”

“Appears to be a fan. But say he’s only pretending to be and is actually someone with an axe to grind.”

“Say he is. He’s been close to her on several occasions, right? Even while she was still in New York. Why hasn’t he struck?”

Dent had no answer to that. And when Gall asked him what so-called Jerry’s connection to Susan’s death could be, Dent didn’t have an answer to that, either.

He threw a glance toward the door. “She’s back. I’m going to pretend that we’ve been talking about something else.” He grabbed the pen and small tablet on the nightstand. “Give me that license plate number for the pickup.”

He was jotting it down when she came through the door carrying a cardboard tray with two tall paper cups of coffee. When he saw the doughnuts she had also brought, he blew her a kiss.

“Don’t go back to the hangar, Gall. Until you know we’re on our way back, stay in bed with your lady. You’ll be safer there.”

He laughed. “You don’t know my lady.”

“Soon as the weather clears and we can take off, I’ll call you with our ETA.”

“You’ll have to call this number.”

“Where’s your phone?”

The old man wheezed a sound of disgust aimed at himself. “In the pocket of my coveralls. The ones Strickland took with him when he hightailed it out of here.”