Labyrinth Read online

  Wouldn’t the boys back home love that? Miss I’d-as-soon-shoot-your-ass-as-fuck-you was hot to trot. Being runner up for Miss Mississippi hadn’t helped when she became deputy sheriff. It seemed all of Wilkinson County’s male population thought beauty queen turned cop was a ready-made recipe for cock and pussy.

  Firelight glinted off his eyes in the instant before his head dipped. Moist lips closed around a nipple. Margot arched into his mouth. He emitted a low growl. He slipped warm fingers beneath her top and around her waist to the small of her back, then pulled her against him. The soft fabric of his shirt tickled the tiny hairs on her skin.

  Margot ground her taut belly against the steel of his abdomen. Her heated flesh cooled, then warmed again in sync with his warmer body. Teeth gently tugged at her nipple. She gasped. He sucked, flicked his tongue against the sensitive bud, and sucked again. She wrapped her hands around his ass. Muscle tightened as he sucked harder. Margot rolled her sensitive nub against his rod. He growled.

  “That’s it, sugar,” she coaxed.

  His hand covered the other breast as he released her nipple and kissed her mouth. He flicked his tongue against her lips. Margot opened and his tongue swept inside. Damn, he tasted like brandy. Just like the movies. What fantasy had she conjured him from? She slid her hands around his waist and flattened her palms on his chest. His heart raced like a thoroughbred. Margot shifted her hands upward and her shirt bunched. He grabbed her lapel and yanked the remaining buttons free of their holes. Two buttons pinged off the wall and bounced noiselessly to the carpet.

  Margot glanced at the shirt, then lifted her gaze to his face. “You ruined my best pair of pajamas.”

  The awareness that had grabbed her attention a moment ago sliced into her thoughts. She twisted in an effort to see the door she was still pressed against. “What the hell’s out there?”

  He scooped her off the floor and pressed her tightly against his broad chest.

  “Whoa!” Margot threw her arms around his neck.

  He strode to the bed, tossed her onto the mattress and came down on top of her.

  She lifted a brow. “Ready to step things up a notch?”

  He stared for a long moment, then laid a palm on her stomach. Her flesh quivered as his warm fingers glided downward. He slipped his hand beneath her waistband. Margot yanked his kilt up, wrapped a leg around his naked hip, and arched into the fingers sliding through her curls. He grazed her clit with a fingertip and she pulsed against the long digit. The finger dipped between her folds and into her wet channel.

  His head dropped to her neck. “Faigh muin,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  Margot gave a low laugh. “I don’t know what you said, but I like the way you said it.”

  Warm breath bathed her neck. He slid the finger in, then out, starting a rhythm. Feather light kisses moved along her neck to the hollow in her throat. Soft hair tickled the underside of her jaw. She startled when his thumb brushed her swollen sex. His in-and-out rhythm didn’t miss a beat.

  What the hell was she doing? She’d never before waltzed into a stranger’s room and let him fuck her. Pressure mounted in her core. Familiarity edged to the surface. What was it—

  Sweet Christ, I’m dreaming.

  Pleasure shot through her. Well, damn, how long before she woke up? Margot shoved a hand under his kilt and grasped his steel-hard cock. His intake of breath hissed in her ear. Satisfaction shot through her when his rhythm faltered then started again with renewed vigor. She rubbed the mushroom shaped tip and a trickle of thick, sticky cum coated her fingertip. He groaned. Her nipples tightened and throbbed in sync with the ache building in her core. He gently flicked her pleasure point. She gasped.

  He thrust into her hand. She tightened her grip around him, until the edge of her hand met pubic bone, then he lifted and slowly thrust again. His thumb slowed on her nub, teasing, keeping her release in sight, but just out of reach.

  He rose up on one elbow, his eyes meeting hers as he pulled his finger from inside her and began rubbing her clit in quick strokes. She squeezed his cock, sliding her hand up its length, while pulsing her hips against his finger. Pleasure rose on a hard wave, building for a mind numbing orgasm. She released him and covered the hand massaging her. Margot jammed her eyes shut and bucked against him. Light burst behind her lids.

  “Don’t stop.” She bucked harder.

  A ripping sound filled the space around her. The hand moved faster. Pleasure tore through her. A finger dipped inside her channel as another stoked again, then again, and one last time while the orgasm tightened her channel and locked her insides in spasm. She arched into his hand and pleasure exploded between her legs.

  Chapter Three

  Margot snapped open her eyes and gasped at the orgasm that tightened her body. She drew in even breaths in an effort to slow the hammering of her heart. Vague images of a dimly lit hall, soft light, and a tall dark figure flitted through memory. Her room at last came into focus and she registered the beginnings of gray morning light seeping through the curtains of the French doors leading to the balcony. Margot lifted her head off the pillow and ran her gaze down her arm. Her hand disappeared inside her pajama bottoms. Bare breasts, open shirt, and missing buttons? Well, damn.

  She allowed her head to drop back onto the pillow. The best fuck she’d had in over a year—maybe the best finger fuck she’d had in her life—and she’d administered it herself. She eyed the shirt. How had she managed to ruin her favorite set of pajamas in the process? She withdrew her hand from the pajamas and a chill rolled across her arms. Margot glanced at the fireplace on the opposite wall. Red embers glowed beneath the ash. Apparently, even early summer in a Scottish castle was damp and chilly.

  She rolled over, dragging the quilt over her arms, and looked at the travel alarm clock on the nightstand. That and the Blackberry lying beside it were the only pieces of modern equipment in the room. The digital numbers read 6:39. Margot grimaced. The time in Mississippi was just past midnight. She should go back to sleep. Instead, she looked past the foot of the bed at the painting that hung over the mantle.

  Soft light from the coals bathed the painting in a glow that didn't stop the same prickle of gooseflesh up her arms she had experienced yesterday when she’d first seen the painting. Even the twenty feet that separated her from the painting didn’t diminish the castle’s detail. Cat must have gone to a lot of expense to have the picture restored. Why put it in the room that was the last to be renovated?

  Margot slid her gaze past the castle to the North Atlantic that stretched into infinity beyond the steep cliff where the castle sat. The distant crash of the waves beyond her room filtered into her consciousness. Had the artist sat on her balcony while painting the pale blue water? Margot glanced at the doors leading to the balcony.

  After Cat’s warning yesterday afternoon, Margot had examined the balcony. Cat hadn’t exaggerated. The wrought iron railing teetered on the verge of crumbling away from its stone anchors. Margot burrowed deeper beneath the thick quilt. She’s really stepped into the looking glass this time.

  Four years ago, the coroner ruled the death of Donald Bowers, son of Wilkinson County’s richest land owner, accidental, but Margot knew better…had seen what no one else had seen. Chief Hicks ordered her to forget the case. Even a champion swimmer could drown, he said. But she couldn’t forget the gawky blond boy she’d grown up with, or the way he’d mooned over Cat throughout high school. She would never forget his body when she arrived on the scene at the lake. But most of all, she couldn’t forget the lack of pain in Cat’s eyes when Margot broke the news that her husband had been found floating face down in the lake.

  The day after Margot got Cat’s call, she asked Hicks for a leave of absence. He told her she could take as much time as she needed—as long as she wasn't planning a trip to Scotland. Margot had laid her deputy sheriff's badge and service automatic on his desk and walked out.

  Sadness tugged at her. Despite long periods of boredom, heat, and
humidity, she had thrived on being one of four police officers who patrolled six hundred and eighty-eight square miles of woods and swamp that hid moon-shiners, alligator poachers, and backwater gambling. She would never find another wild ride like the last twelve years. But losing her job was a small price to pay to give Donny peace.

  A soft chime drew Margot’s attention to the Blackberry. She reached for the phone and pulled it close, and tapped the lit email icon. A message from her father loaded.

  How you doing, baby girl? I did some fishing this afternoon. Caught me some perch and catfish. You'll be sorry you're missing this meal. I bet they don't have nothing like this in Scotland. Anyway, let me know you're all right. I still say you should come on home and leave things be. Ain't no use fussing with a witch.

  Your father.

  Margot couldn't help a smile. Her father figured that any woman who could kill a man and not leave a trace of how she did it had to be a witch. He wasn't completely wrong. He also wasn't a modern man, and didn't have any real understanding of modern forensics. His use of a computer to email her only illustrated his determination to stay in touch with her. But he understood people, and he believed in her. When Hicks asked him to talk some sense into Margot, he'd told Hicks that she was the best damn cop on the force, and if she said Cat was a killer, then she damn well was. Of course, when Hicks left, her father told her the same thing his email said, ain't no use fussing with a witch.

  She typed a reply that she was fine, and she would stay in touch. Margot hit send, then set the Blackberry back on the night table and buried deeper beneath the covers. She had just begun to drift off when the creak of the door brought her to attention. Who was visiting her room so early? The door creaked again and she tugged the edge of the quilt from her eyes. Margot stilled. Cat had entered and was clicking the door shut. Cat turned and stared at the fireplace. Not the fireplace, Margot realized, the picture.

  “Gets to you, doesn’t it?”

  Cat whirled, green eyes wide. “What—you’re still here?”

  “You expected me to be up? What kind of vacation would that be?”

  Margot propped up on an elbow. The quilt fell forward. Cat’s gaze dropped to Margot’s chest. Margot glanced down at her exposed breasts.

  “Oops.” She pulled the pajama top closed.

  “What happened?”

  Something in Cat’s demand gave Margot pause, but she grinned as if talking to the old Cat. Cat understood what it meant to have a good time, even when flying solo. That fact hadn't changed for her even after Eric Olsen was killed while drag racing their senior year in high school.

  “A wild and wet dream,” Margot said. At least, what she could remember of it. Damn, why were the good dreams always the hardest to recall?

  Cat crossed to the bed. “You had a wild time on your own last night?”

  Margot waggled an edge of her pajama top. “Looks that way.”

  Cat looked from the shirt to Margot. “That’s a stretch, even for you.”

  Margot grinned again. “I know. Guess I’m starting my vacation off with a bang.” She flopped back onto the mattress. “What do you have planned for us today?”

  “Us?” She shook her head. “I’m working all day. The contractors are starting the second phase. I’ve got to be available for consultation.”

  “No problem. I’ll just bum around today, see what this place is all about.”

  “We can have dinner tonight. Eight o’clock,” Cat said.

  “Perfect. Gives me loads of time to get into trouble.”

  Cat nodded and Margot couldn’t help thinking Cat had lost her sense of humor. Murder did that to a woman.

  “You’ll have to keep clear of this wing until after five when the crew clears out,” Cat said. “They pretty much take over the hallways. They don’t want anyone traipsing through the work area. Insurance concerns. You know the drill.”

  “I’ll clear out for the day. What time do they arrive?”

  “Nine. They’re not early birds. See you later,” she said, and left.

  Margot glanced at the clock. 7:01. Construction didn’t start for another two hours. Plenty of time to take care of unfinished business. She threw back the covers, sloughed out of her shirt and pajama bottoms, and studied her naked body. She reached between her legs, then stopped. Cat hadn't said why she’d come to Margot's room so early.

  Chapter Four

  Atlantic wind whipped the small notepad Margot scribbled on. Her grip on the Blackberry plastered to her ear tightened as she seized the pad that skittered across the surface of the stone wall where she sat. Knuckles scraped rock and she grimaced.

  “You there?” Bobby Sares’ voice over the Blackberry sounded far away.

  “Yeah.”

  Margot gave her hand a vigorous shake and sucked on the knuckles as she cast a murderous glance at the sea that stretched out to the horizon. She hadn’t gotten a phone signal at Castle Morrison and had been forced to make a five mile bike ride to Gearrannan Blackhouse Village. The strong four-bar signal she’d gotten came at the expense of a merciless wind.

  “What’s that noise?” Bobby demanded.

  “Wind.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  Margot swung her legs over the wall, dropped to damp ground, and leaned against the hard stone. Making the phone call with the gorgeous view in sight had seemed like a fair trade for the long bike ride. She’d been wrong. How did the people in the village live with the unrelenting wind?

  Trying to ignore the dampness seeping from the moss covered ground past her jeans to her panties, she said, “Anything else on Franklin Williams?”

  “He’s a big time contractor in Las Vegas.”

  “A millionaire who came by his money honestly.”

  “If you think any multi-million dollar businessman in Vegas is honest, I've got a bridge to sell you.”

  If anyone could spot a crook, it was Bobby. The forty-two year old ex-bookie ran Wilkinson County’s internet crimes department, officially called the IT department. Bobby didn’t know anything about criminal justice, but knew every computer trick in the book, had even invented a few, and ran rings around the kids coming out of tech schools. Hicks had recruited Bobby under threat of prosecution for felony gambling charges. Bobby had also taken bets in Louisiana, which meant he would be charged in both states. He’d faced a lifetime in prison. He almost didn’t take the deal.

  Margot liked Bobby, everyone liked Bobby, and everyone knew he ran numbers. In a county with the population of eleven thousand, everyone knew everyone’s business, and butted into everyone’s business. Everyone cared, no one cared. When Hicks offered Bobby the deal, Margot—everyone—figured the chief had finally miscalculated. Even if Bobby agreed, he could find a way to get even.

  But Bobby had taken to the job like he’d been born to it. Within the first six months, he’d caught two pedophiles trying to seduce young girls over the internet, shut down the internet gambling ring that had been his competition, even caught a guy making moonshine and selling it over the internet. Bobby was a regular Lone Ranger. Hicks had been right. There was something to be said about having a criminal on the good guys’ side.

  Margot jammed ear and shoulder together to hold the phone in place and bent her knees to support the pad so she could jot down Las Vegas contractor beside Franklin Williams’ name. The letter m in the twenty-seven million she’d been scribbling trailed off the page with a sudden gust of wind.

  “Thanks, Bobby. I really appreciate it.”

  “Chief is going to kill you,” he said.

  “I don’t work for him anymore.”

  Bobby snorted. “That won’t stop him.”

  He was right. “You worry about yourself,” she said.

  “I’ve already deleted the evidence.”

  That meant no one would find a trace of evidence that he’d run a check on the guests staying at Castle Morrison.

  “Smart move,” she said. “Hicks would simply shoot me, then bury the bod
y. You, he’d torture.”

  “He’d try,” Bobby said. “What do you think you’ve found over there?”

  “Rich people who are paying way too much for a hotel room.”

  “Sounds more like stupidity than a crime.”

  “Crimes are often born out of stupidity.”

  “Yeah,” he drawled. “Just make sure you’re not one of the stupid ones.”

  Affection warmed her. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Ain’t nobody there to ride to your rescue,” he added, then before she could reply, “Call if you need anything else.”

  “I will.”

  Margot tapped the screen to end the call and looked at her notes. John and Tory Hanley occupied the rooms at the far end of Castle Morrison’s west wing. Joseph Morris had the next room, Leslie Evans the third, and Franklin Williams the fourth. They were all worth a bundle, but Williams topped the bunch at a whopping twenty-seven million. Williams would be one helluva step up from Donny’s measly four million. A thought struck. What better way to find prospective rich victims than a hotel that ran twenty-five thousand dollars for a two week stay?

  Hard to believe people would part with so much cash to live for two weeks like people did three hundred years ago. Not quite like three hundred years ago. There were toilets instead of chamber pots. According to Cat, research showed the lack of plumbing would have been a deal breaker. She planned to upgrade heating be used only in the coldest months. Otherwise, the fireplaces would be maintained in the guestrooms.

  Safety codes dictated a telephone had to be installed on the second and third floor alcoves, but they were connected to emergency only. The two phones located on the main floor used by Cat and her staff were off limits to guests. Morning and evening meals were served family style in the great hall, the food placed in troughs located in the middle of the table just as it would have been in the seventeenth century. Only indigenous foods were served: pheasant, duck, grouse, wild boar, salmon, trout, pike, potatoes, greens, fruits and an assortment of pastries that made her mouth water. Yep, the genuine seventeenth century experience—if you were a seventeenth century king.