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After Dark
Wendy Etherington
Aidan Kendrick may be rich, mysterious and hot as anything, but he's also surly, brooding and deeply troubled. Not the kind of guy Sloan Caldwell can really afford to get mixed up with.She's head of the historical society, so her sole interest in the enigmatic newcomer, she keeps reminding herself, is the heritage home he's renovating on Palmer's Island. Right. He's tall, dark and gorgeous spelled with a capital G. Soon Sloan's attention is focused only on the bedroom as she and Aidan give in to a lust that's as intense as it is immediate, and pleasure is the only object…until tragedy interrupts, and they have to catch a killer!
He was standing behind her.
All six-feet-three-amazing-inches of him.
Sloan drew a quick breath as Aidan turned her to face him. She lifted her chin and his lips captured hers, silencing her in a flash. Her heart leaped in her chest, and she was pretty sure she let out a moan of longing.
He didn’t hesitate to tangle his tongue with hers. He tasted of the lemon he drank with his tea. He smelled of sawdust and spicy sandalwood.
She clutched his T-shirt in her fist, grasping to get closer. She wanted to feel his bare, sleek skin against hers, to have that intense gaze focused on her, to feel his muscles harden beneath her…to have him tremble and gasp along with her.
His hands molded her to his body and she felt the need, the hunger and the wild lust they’d been trying to deny. It had been too long, and she wasn’t going to miss her chance now that it had come, to satisfy her desires…and his.
Dear Reader,
I’m a Southerner with roots so deep my mother has directly traced me (since I’m the oldest grandchild) back seven generations to my great-several-times-over grandfather, who was one of the first non-Native Americans to live in Reeseville, Alabama.
Along with family histories, telling stories is a Southern tradition, and now that I live in South Carolina, I’m learning new tales to share. Palmer’s Island is my fictional combination of two real islands off the coast near Charleston—Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island. Beautiful and quiet, they represent a beloved living history in this part of the country.
Like any real Southern town, I infused my island with nosy but caring citizens, church ladies who love to bake casseroles and a beauty salon as gossip central. It was also the perfect place for my grieving hero, Aidan Kendrick, to hide and brood in a dark, damaged house behind a wall of tangled foliage. Fortunately for him, however, Sloan Caldwell and her fellow islanders are like the island itself—abundant with sunshine and forgiving of mistakes.
I hope you enjoy my tale of love and redemption—with an old-fashioned mystery mixed in to keep everybody guessing.
Best wishes,
Wendy Etherington
After Dark
Wendy Etherington
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wendy Etherington was born and raised in the deep South—and she has the fried-chicken recipes and NASCAR ticket stubs to prove it. The author of nearly twenty books, she writes full-time from her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her husband and two daughters. She can be reached via www.wendyetherington.com or by regular mail at P.O. Box 3016, Irmo, SC 29063.
To my cousin, Mark Durham, a true Southerner
who knows how to tell a good story
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
1
SLOAN CALDWELL yanked at the hem of her little black dress, then lifted the worn brass knocker on the big oak door. The resulting tapping noise sounded like a series of gunshots, echoing in the misty, dark night.
Every small town in the South had a crumbling, spooky old mansion on a hill, and hers didn’t disappoint—though their hill was more of a dune. To think, they now had a genuinely dark, eccentric and notorious owner to go with it.
It was spine-tingling stuff for Palmer’s Island, South Carolina.
As a barrier island just over three miles wide, with five restaurants, one bar, no high-rise hotels, one public park that was beach-accessible and its largest house—the one she was standing on the porch of—not backing up to the beach, the island itself was considered a bit eccentric. But the residents who lived there and the tourists who visited liked it that way.
After several long minutes, the door was flung open. The tall, dim shadow of a broad-shouldered man filled the frame. “What do you—” He stopped, cocking his head. “Who are you?”
Sloan really wished she could see his face, specifically his eyes—though she knew from the TV, newspaper and Internet how gorgeous he was—but the lack of light on the porch or in the foyer left most of the details about him to her memory and imagination.
She swallowed and held out her hand. “I’m Sloan Caldwell, Director of the Palmer’s Island Historical Preservation Society.”
“You’re a society matron?” he asked, his disbelieving tone clear.
Like blue hair was a requirement for social awareness. “Miss, actually.” She tried a smile and put her hand on her hip. She had nice hips. Men usually noticed. “May I come in?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m busy at the moment. Come back another time.” He started to turn away.
She reached into the briefcase hitched on her shoulder and pulled out a file folder, which she handed him. “But you contacted me. About the renovations to the house?” she added when he remained silent.
Sighing audibly, he reached behind him and flipped a switch, which turned out to belong to a small desk lamp sitting on a sawhorse in the foyer. “My lawyer sent this,” he said, staring at the papers in the file, then flicking his gaze to hers. “I didn’t contact you.”
Silver. His eyes were a cool and piercing silver.
Again, she’d known this both from his recent notoriety courtesy of twenty-four-hour cable news and from the research she’d done on him. But the pImages** hadn’t done him justice. The pictures weren’t full of annoyance and sensual power. Nor had she been prepared for the breath-stealing impact of having that gaze focused on her. Not to mention the fact that those eyes were surrounded by a lean face, the sculpted jaw shadowed by dark stubble and tons of tousled, wavy black hair.
She shivered. And not in a bad way.
Clearing her throat, she tried to remember she was there on business. “As your lawyer is no doubt aware—even if you aren’t—all renovations to Batherton House must be approved by the committee before any work can be done.”
“So?”
“Your neighbors heard hammering.”
“What neighbors? The property encompasses three acres.”
“But past the intimidating, spooky and overgrown bushes and trees, there are houses on either side of you. You just can’t see them.” She smiled in the face of his frustration. “Sound tends to echo out here on the island.” She accepted the documents he thrust back into her hand. “I thought I should come out here personally and take a look at your plans.”
She could practically see the wheels in his brain spinning, striving desperately to find a way to get rid of her. She found his efforts surprising and interesting. Very few men had the urge to slam the door in her face.
And not just because she was the sheriff’s only daughter.
“Do you always come to business meetings at nearly nine at night, dressed like that?” he asked, drawing his eyebrows together.
“I preserve the past, Mr. Kendrick,” she said huskily, stepping closer, so that their bodies nearly touched. “But I live very much in the present.”
His eyes shone with interest for a split second, then he stepped back.
She walked past him, the faint scent of whiskey brushing by her nose. Drinking alone in a dark old house? Aidan Kendrick certainly lived up to his eccentric reputation.
“I bet you were surprised by the working electrical system,” she said, walking across the foyer’s wood floors and into the parlor, where she flipped on the switch for the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. “Old Doc Marcus replaced it about twenty years ago.”
“Nothing surprises me, Miss Caldwell.” He paused. “At least not until you appeared on my porch.”
Smiling, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “I have that effect on some men.”
He nearly succeeding in looking amused. “I’ll bet.”
She wandered around the room, noting the stacks of boxes in one corner, the collection of hand and power tools gathered in another. Wondering about the lack of furniture, she strolled past him. She peeked into the dining room on the opposite side of the foyer, but finding nothing but a creaking and broken chandelier and an impressive collection of cobwebs, she moved into the central hallway and headed toward the back of the house, where she knew the kitchen was located.
Here, at least, there was a battered oak table and a set of chairs that looked reasonably sturdy. There was also evidence that someone actually lived in the house.
A brand-new stainless-steel refrigerator took up one corner. Empty water bottles were strewn across the scarred, yellowing, linoleum countertops. A partial loaf of bread sat next to a plate bearing a half-eaten ham sandwich. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey rested beside a stack of red plastic cups.
The whole place was depressing. It was hard to believe the Atlantic Ocean ebbed and flowed only a few blocks away.
She lowered herself into one of the chairs, set her briefcase beside her, then looked up at him. “It was rude of you not to invite me in. I thought you were from Atlanta.”
He frowned. “I am.”
“They never taught you Southern hospitality up there?”
“We’re a rare breed, I guess,” he said, his sarcasm clear. “For instance, we rarely come uninvited to someone’s house, then walk around like we own the place.”
She shrugged. “I came to see the house. I didn’t see any point in not getting started. Do you ever offer uninvited guests something to drink?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have whiskey and water.”
She needed water for her dry mouth. Heavens, the man was so tempting. But she knew he’d smirk at that request. “I’ll have whiskey.”
“One finger or two?”
“One.”
Without comment, he moved to the counter, then poured a splash of the amber liquid into a fresh plastic cup. When he returned to her, he held out the cup.
She didn’t quite suppress a wince. “No ice?”
“I haven’t hooked up the ice maker yet.”
She took the cup, glanced into it, then tossed back the contents in one swallow. Her throat burned, then her chest. But she didn’t cough or flinch.
On occasion, she liked the rich, smoky taste of whiskey. However, she preferred it with a serious game of poker. Or a hot fire and a warm guy. Or, even better, a hot guy and a blazing fire.
“Do I pass?” she asked, handing him back the cup.
“Pass what?”
“The test on not being afraid of you.”
“I’m not testing you,” he said, his annoyance intensifying. “I’m not doing anything with you.”
But you could be. She’d never gone after a guy who clearly wanted to see the back of her. In fact, she’d had enough of guys she wanted, but who’d suddenly realized they didn’t want her.
Guy, really.
After wallowing in Rejected Land a few months back, she’d decided she liked her guys fun, enthralled and uncomplicated. Which Davis had been. Before he’d decided to run off to Atlanta after some other woman—and a job with the man glaring at her now.
Which brought up a whole new complication. Why had Aidan Kendrick decided to come to Palmer’s Island? Did it have anything to do with Davis? How well did the two men know each other?
When her life decided to come full circle, it had apparently chosen to jump on the upside-down roller coaster, rather than the merry-go-round.
“Oh, so you’re not trying to intimidate me into running back to town and leaving you to your brooding and hammering?”
“Sure I am.” His lips curved. “And, yes, you would greatly aid my efforts if you’d saunter back to town.”
The effort at humor was intriguing. Appealing. If he could be any more appealing, that is. “I don’t saunter.”
