“If he’s not a kidnapper, what then?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Charlie went into the cottage and so did you. What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
LuAnn stood up and glared at him. “I don’t appreciate being called a liar.”
“Then stop lying.”
Her lips trembled and she abruptly turned away from him.
“Catherine, I’m trying to help you here. Okay, in my past life I did deal with the criminal class quite a bit. I’ve got some insights and some skills that might prove useful if you’d just tell me the truth.”
He rose and put a hand on her shoulder. He turned her around to face him. “I know you’re scared. And I also know you’ve got stronger nerves and more spirit than just about anybody I’ve ever run across, so I’m assuming whatever you’re facing is pretty bad. And I want to help you. I will help you, if you’ll just let me.” He cupped her chin with his hand. “I’m playing straight with you, Catherine. I really am.”
She winced slightly as he said her name again. Her fake name. She finally reached up and lightly caressed his fingers with her own. “I know you are, Matthew. I know.” She looked up at him and her lips parted slightly. Their eyes did not budge from each other as their fingers exchanged touches that were suddenly electrifying both their bodies. The spontaneity of the sensation absolutely immobilized them. But not for long.
Riggs swallowed hard, dropped his hands to her bottom, and abruptly pulled LuAnn against him. The warmth and softness of her breasts burned invisible holes through his thick flannel shirt. Their mouths erupted against each other as he yanked the robe free and it fell to the floor. LuAnn moaned and closed her eyes, her head swaying drunkenly from side to side as Riggs attacked her neck. She pulled at his hair and then wrapped her arms around his head as he hoisted her up in the air, his face buried in her chest. She wrapped her legs around his torso.
Following her frantic, whispered directions, Riggs lunged blindly along the hallway to the small first-floor guest bedroom. Riggs pushed open the door. LuAnn jerked away from him and sprawled flat on her back on the bed, the muscles in her long legs tensing in anticipation. She reached up and pulled at him.
“Dammit, Matthew, hurry!” At his subconscious level Riggs noticed the abrupt return of the Georgia drawl but he was far too intoxicated with the passion of the moment to do anything about it.
Riggs’s heavy work boots hit the hardwood floor with a loud thump and his pants followed immediately. She jerked his shirt off, popping several buttons in the process, then slid his boxers down. They didn’t bother with the bed covers although Riggs did manage to back-kick the door closed before he plunged on top of her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Jackson sat at the table and studied the laptop’s small screen. His suite was large and airy and furnished with eighteenth-century reproductions. The aged hardwood floors were partially covered with area rugs stitched with early American colonial themes. A large wooden carving of a duck in flight hung on one wall. A set of framed prints, each depicting a Virginia native who had gone on to become president of his country long ago, was on another wall. The inn was located in close proximity to his areas of focus, was quiet, and allowed Jackson the greatest freedom of unobserved movement. The night before, he had checked out as Harry Conklin and checked back in under another name. He liked to do that. He became uncomfortable staying in one character too long. Besides, he had met with Pemberton in the Conklin role and he didn’t want to run into the man again. Now a baseball cap covered his head. Heavy latex eye pouches bracketed the fake nose. The hair was blondish-gray and tied in a ponytail that sprouted out the back of the cap. His neck was long and wrinkled and his build was stocky. He looked like an aging hippie. His luggage was stacked neatly in one corner. He had a practice of not unpacking when he traveled; his line of work sometimes necessitated rapid exits.