The Pit and the Passion Read online

  “How do you know it’s a crime scene? If the remains belong to Tommy, it’s an accident scene.” At her expression, he said patiently, “Look, it’s not like there are any fingerprints left. I want to study this more closely. We’ll return it later, okay?”

  Charity marveled at the man’s total lack of deference to the legal niceties. Guess he’s above that sort of thing. She helped him out of the pit, and they walked to the car. The sun was setting over the Gulf in a splash of corals and tangerines that burnished the aquamarine water.

  “Where can we go to check out our find?”

  “How about your place?”

  He didn’t answer. “Pull into Durante Park.” They found a bench by the artificial lake and sat down. He took the ring out of his pocket. After a minute, he said, “It’s no use. Not enough light here.”

  “We can try Milton’s.”

  “Okay.”

  They drove up to the Village and down the street to the restaurant. The host showed them to a well-lit table on the porch. They ordered oysters and beer and sat poring over the object. “It’s definitely a man’s. Can you make out any inscription?”

  He turned the ring. “I think so. You have a flashlight or something?”

  Charity called to Wilma, who brought over a lighter. “Will this do?”

  “Thanks.” He rolled the spark wheel until it ignited. In the flickering flame, he read, “ ‘To my beloved RB from G’…and there’s the date 1931.” He speared an oyster and swallowed it. “RB must be his initials.”

  “And G hers, yes.” She took the ring from him and slipped it on her thumb. “If it belongs to the remains in the pit, the skeleton must be an adult male.” She cocked her head at the bartender. “Wilma will be so disappointed. She was sure it was some long-dead beauty queen.”

  Rancor pondered, chin in hand. “If it’s an adult, then it’s not Tommy.”

  Charity frowned. “That would be disappointing.”

  “How come?”

  “I dunno. I guess I was hoping we could use him in the book.”

  “We can still use him as a ghost story.” Rancor swallowed another oyster. “You know…even if the skeleton does turn out to belong to a little boy, it doesn’t mean the ring isn’t significant. Tommy may not have fallen down the shaft. He could have been pushed.”

  Charity clapped her hands. “And the ring belonged to the killer.”

  Rancor nodded. “In any case, it must be related to the body somehow, and we need to find its owner.”

  She pulled it off. “Look here on the top. On one side of the stone is a U and on the other an M.”

  “If it’s a class ring, the letters could refer to his school.”

  “University of…whatever. Maryland? Miami? There must be hundreds of schools with those letters.”

  “You’d best get right on it then.”

  She glared at him. “There’s no rush. I…no, you, can work on it tomorrow morning.”

  “When do you plan to return the evidence to the pit then?”

  “Me! You’re the one who lifted it. You figure something out.”

  He didn’t argue. He let her pay the bill—“It’s the least you can do”—and they drove out to Gulf of Mexico Drive. “Just drop me off here. I can walk.”

  “Okay.” She watched as he ambled up the road, then again, after looking both ways, crossed to the beach under a street light. She pulled into a spot in Whitney Plaza and waited fifteen minutes, fingers tapping the steering wheel, then drove slowly across to Broadway. She parked in the public lot and tiptoed down the boardwalk to the dunes. Leaving her sandals on a rock, she headed toward the cliff. The sky was brighter tonight, the moon almost three-quarters full. Waves splashed quietly on sand still warm from the sun. She shuffled toward the beach chair.

  “Are you following me?”

  She jumped a foot. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  He gave a low chuckle. “Do you want to cop a feel or call a cop?”

  She said stiffly, “I want to know what you’re doing on the beach at this hour.”

  “Waiting for you.”

  The realization hit that this was exactly what she wanted him to say. Heart pounding, she held out her hand, palm up. “Are you…are you….”

  “Naked? Not yet.”

  “Oh.”

  “Charity, come here.” She went. He sat her down in the chair and knelt before her. His eyes glimmered in the moonlight. The rest of him was in shadow. Taking her hands in his, he spoke earnestly. “Let me tell you what I saw in the last wavering beams of scarlet sun. Hair the color of cinnamon toast. Charcoal gray eyes that remind me of a London twilight. Those little flashes of silver in them are the stars just peeking through.” He touched her face lightly. “A clear, ivory complexion and a tiny nose that could belong to a pixie.” His hand shimmied down her thigh. “And damn fine legs. You, Charity, are in fact the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a few.” The retort died on her lips, mainly because he brushed her breast lightly and her mind cantered off into hitherto undiscovered pathways, both electrifying and strange. He went on. “Women tend to throw themselves at the famous author…I dunno—there must be something sexy about a man who works with a thesaurus. I’ve never”—he stressed the word—“never wanted a woman as much as I want you.”

  No, no, no. But it was too late—the melting had begun. She held her breath while he unbuttoned her blouse and slipped his hand inside. One finger wormed its way under the bra and flicked at her nipple. She sighed. He pulled the breast out and took it in his mouth, swirling the tip with his tongue. She couldn’t help it. She grabbed the back of his head and crushed his lips against her. He pulled her hands away and stood. “Over here.”

  She walked unsteadily to a towel laid on the sand in the shelter of the cliff. “Lie down.”

  He gently removed her skirt and panties, then rolled his jeans down and off. Spreading her legs wide, he slowly planted kisses up the inside of her thighs. She held a hand to her mouth to stop the scream. “Rancor, no.”

  He raised his head. “No?”

  “I…uh.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “No. I mean…don’t…”

  “Don’t stop? Make up your mind, woman. I can feel you tremble. Are you afraid of me?”

  “No.” I’m afraid of me. It had been so long. She wanted him inside her. She wanted sex. But this has to be a mistake. It had to be. She’d known Rancor—and hated him—for a mere two days. How could she want him so desperately so quickly? Shut up, Charity.

  His finger started working its way inside.

  She lifted her hips and pushed herself onto the finger. The orgasm snapped into place, and she lost control, bucking against him.

  He pulled out of her. “Wait.” Something hard slapped against her thigh. He rose over her. Leaning down to kiss her, he whispered, “This may hurt a little.”

  If the juices sloshing around in her loins were any indication, Charity didn’t think so. But then she didn’t know how big he was. He entered her slowly, moving an inch at a time. After a minute, she relaxed and let him in. He began to pump, his hands under her ass. As he pumped, he talked—a steady stream of images. “I’m going to take you where you’ve never been, Charity. I’m going to take you on tables, on the car seat, on a bar stool in a crowded restaurant. I’m going to make you come in the ocean and in the bathtub. On the bed. Under the bed. And right here.”

  She could feel the tip of his penis under her belly button. He rolled his hips so it filled the passage wall to wall and began to pump harder. She rose to meet him, and they fought for control back and forth until he made one last great thrust and his body went dead still. She held on, not wanting to let go, and let the second orgasm wash over her.

  After a minute, he pulled out of her and stood. She kept her mind blank, knowing she’d feel the guilt and shame soon enough. But oh, how wonderful it had felt!

  “And
then…and then…”

  What else could he do to me?

  “And then I’m going to marry you.”

  She fell back on the towel. “Oh, shit.”

  He turned away. “Well, that was a rather disheartening response. Good thing I was only joking.”

  Confusion wrapped long tentacles around her brain. She rubbed her forehead. “Rancor, hand me my skirt, please.”

  As she dressed, he pulled his jeans on and held out a hand. “Walk with me.”

  She took it, and they strolled in silence under the moon. Peace stole over her. Instead of shame, she felt oddly content. As though I’ve found my place at last. Maybe he is the one…maybe.

  “Charity? I have something to confess.”

  Chapter Three

  Family Matters

  Apparently, the contentment was not destined to last long. “Oh?”

  Water flowed over their feet as they walked, depositing sand and tiny shells between their toes. Rancor stated flatly, “I’m broke.”

  “Excuse me?” So much for traveling the globe, TV gigs, and book signings. Oh, and raking in the dough. “I don’t understand.”

  He faced her. “I don’t want you to think I’m one of those high rollers who can’t manage his finances. It’s true—I did make a lot off the last four books. Not much before that, but who does? Once my name was made, I received advances and enough royalties to buy a big house outside of Camden and only had to churn out a book a year.”

  “Camden, as in Maine?”

  He nodded. “That’s where my family’s from. The Basses go way back. The first Michael Bass settled in York in 1623, and several Basses fought in the French and Indian war. They were paid in pelts. One Ferdinand Bass opened a clothing store specializing in furs in 1746, and the family has lived there ever since.”

  “Are you still in furs?”

  “Oh no. By the turn of the century—that’s the eighteenth century—several ancestors had branched out into the hospitality industry. We kept taverns along the post road in Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island. Then in the late 1870s, Old Robert—my great-great grandfather—bought his first hotel from some guy named Biltmore. Today, we have boutique inns here in Florida, Seattle, and San Francisco.” He paused, his brow furrowed. “I think there’s one in Chicago too. But we’re still based in Maine.”

  “My family originally came from Maine too—a place called Penhallow. Do you know it?”

  “Oh sure—it’s not far from Camden. Nice, quiet little borough. That is, until recently, when I hear they had a series of murders.”

  “Oh dear! My mother’s sister still lives there.” She thought about the little town where she’d spent her summers as a child. She’d only been up to see Aunt Maude once in ten years. She had seemed pretty normal. Charity resolved to call her soon.

  “Charity? Could we get back to my confession?”

  “What? Oh, yes. You’re broke and forced to camp out on the beach. Which is illegal, by the way. Not that petty ordinances would deter you.”

  “So you guessed. That’s why you showed up tonight. And here I was sure you simply wanted to manhandle me in wildly wanton ways.”

  In the dark, she couldn’t tell whether he was teasing or not. Even so, she needed time to ponder their recent coupling and her feelings about it. The memory still left her rather shaky, but in a cozy sort of way. It felt…well…quite therapeutic, but who knows if it was anything more than stars and sand and dirty talk? “I did follow you. It seemed suspicious, you sneaking through a resort that’s closed. Not to mention wandering around in the buff.”

  “I’ve been living here for four days. I lost my car, and they’ve begun foreclosure proceedings on my house, so when a friend told me about this ghost story proposal I contacted Arlo Mickenbacker. We go way back. He was happy to sign me up. I…need the money desperately, Charity.”

  “But why? What happened?”

  He halted and dropped her hand. “It seems my editor needed my royalties—and those of several other authors—more than I did. She cleaned out the company accounts and skipped off to who knows where nine months ago.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They’re investigating, but by the time we’d figured out what she’d done, she was long gone.”

  “You said nine months? Don’t you get royalties monthly?”

  “Quarterly. When two quarters went by without remuneration, I contacted some of my colleagues. We discovered no one had been receiving their checks.” He kicked at a shell. “Ow!” He bent down to rub his toe.

  “But…nine months! You didn’t suspect anything?”

  “Not really. See, us writers are an introspective lot. We’re not particularly social. Most of my correspondence is via email.” Charity remembered her initial impression of Rancor—not a man with many social graces. “I just didn’t think about it until it was too late…but that wasn’t the worst of it.”

  “What could be worse than her stealing the money you earned fair and square?”

  “Stealing my future income.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isabella filled one suitcase with checks. She filled another with manuscripts that five of the firm’s top authors had submitted.”

  “Oh, dear. Can’t your agent do anything?”

  “Pansy? Pansy’s job is—how do I describe it?—akin to the last passenger pigeon. She ferries my manuscripts to Isabella by hand, or wing as it were. Period. I only keep her on to make my Aunt Gertrude happy. She’s a third cousin. Once removed.”

  Charity thought it best not to ask what that meant. “What about your publisher?”

  “He’s been incommunicado since the events in question. Or in deep despair—we’re not sure which.”

  “Could he be in cahoots with her?”

  “Cahoots? If I didn’t know you better—or want to—I’d suspect you’ve steeped yourself in graphic novels. Pity.” He paused. “Michael doesn’t seem the type. But then again, neither does Isabella. Hmm.”

  “So…” She plucked a sand bur off her thigh. “You had no money coming in and no prospects for more. Meanwhile, you were spending cash hand over fist.”

  “I most certainly was not. An occasional bottle of Veuve Cliquot when I’d finished a chapter. A spin in my Bugatti. Perhaps a quick trip to Aruba in my yacht. But that’s it.”

  Now she knew he was kidding.

  They had reached a pile of driftwood that blocked the way. “I have to go home.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t ask, and she kept her mouth tightly closed on the return stroll. Should I invite him to stay with me? No! She contemplated his profile, cast in sharp relief by the moonlight. A Roman nose lorded it over a rather aggressive chin. Long, dark lashes matched the smooth hair now flowing freely down his back. With his bare chest and muscled arms, he could have stood in for Geronimo, or maybe Tarzan. Can I trust him? No! Can I trust me? Not in a million years. “Do you…do you want to stay at my place? Temporarily, of course?”

  In an instant, she was in his arms, lost in a deep kiss. When they broke apart, he mumbled, “Probably not a good idea.”

  “But where will you stay? You’re bound to be arrested if Pete finds you here.”

  “Really? I used to camp on the beach in Ogunquit all the time and nobody bothered me.”

  “Maybe because the police thought anyone who’d make whoopee on a cold, seaweed-covered pebble beach is harmless.”

  He was quiet. As they neared the boardwalk, he said diffidently, “I know it took a lot to offer to take me in. I promise not to molest you—and I’ll find a place tomorrow. How’s that?”

  Charity smothered the elation that rose unbidden in her chest and replied softly, “Okay.”

  He went back for his gear, and she started the car. When he got in, she said, “Perhaps you should tell George about your predicament.” He won’t let on that he’s already guessed. “They have a spare bedroom. I’m sure he and Norah won’t mind putting you up.�
�

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Charity turned right on Gulfside Road and drove a couple of blocks to her building. Her apartment was on the second floor at the far end. A covered walkway ran along the front, ending in an exterior stair that led to the beach. She opened her door onto the kind of mess normally left by Mafia enforcers delivering a “message” from the Capo. Newspapers, books, and magazines lay upside-down and open on the floor by the sofa. Junk mail flyers served as coasters for half-filled coffee cups and empty water bottles. Clogs and sandals littered the entryway, and towels hung on every doorknob. A plastic bag fluttered in the breeze coming from the balcony.

  “Did I miss the weather report? Looks like a tornado touched down in your living room.”

  She kicked the shoes out of the way, gathered the empty cups, and took them to the kitchen. As she headed toward her bedroom, she picked up the plastic bag and grabbed the towels.

  “Don’t forget this.”

  She turned around. Rancor held up a gauzy demibra by the lace ribbon, his eyes sparkling. She snatched it away, cheeks flaming, and ran into the bedroom.

  When she came out—having straightened the sheets, put the pillows back on the bed, and stuffed a pile of clothes into the closet—she found a tidy living room and a smiling Rancor. He handed her a drink. “I took the liberty.”

  She sniffed. “My Glenlivet? The bottle I save for special occasions?”

  He tried to snatch the glass back. “And this isn’t a special occasion? You’re entertaining a distinguished author, lusted after by droves of women all over the world not just for his prurient prose but also his body—a body that’s been compared to Adonis, to Michelangelo’s David, even to Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime. Why—”

  She knocked back the whiskey. “I knew I didn’t like you.”

  He poured her another tot. “Relax. When our book hits the New York Times bestseller list, I’ll buy you a distillery.”

  “I’m not sure how popular ghost stories are.”

  “Oh, they’re box office candy. It’s like reality shows—people can’t get enough of them.”