Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle. BEVERLY BARTON
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body, every lush curve. Her slender neck; her long, shapely legs; her full, high breasts.
His semierect penis twitched with anticipation.
He wished they were already lovers, wished she was lying beneath him, telling him she loved him, begging him to make love to her.
Soon, my beautiful Thomasina. Soon.
He lifted the pen and added the subtle nuances to the drawing that brought it to life. Just the right shading to make the nipples appear puckered. And then he moved on, completing the fingers on her right hand that demurely tried to cover her pubic hair.
Brandon Kelley lived outside Adams Landing, in a rock and cedar house built on the banks of the Tennessee River sometime back in the fifties. Brandon had paid five hundred thousand for the place, a fact Bernie knew because her sister, Robyn, had dated the man and he’d bragged to her about how much the house had cost, as well as what his antique Aston Martin was worth. Actually, Bernie knew more about the man and his house than she’d ever wanted to know because her sister was the type who did kiss and tell. Robyn had a penchant for regaling Bernie with stories about her exciting love life. She knew Brandon Kelley liked to give and receive oral sex, that he was a talker during the act and that Robyn, who’d bedded more than her fair share of men, had been impressed with the size of his cock.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Jim said as he drove along the bumpy dirt road leading to Brandon’s house.
“Just thinking.”
“About the case? About whether or not Kelley might be our man?”
“Mmm …”
“What are your gut instincts telling you?”
“Nothing really,” she replied. “I’d never consider Brandon as a suspect if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s a talented artist, which our guy apparently is.”
“You referred to him by his given name. How well do you know him?”
“Not well. Robyn’s the one who knows him.”
“Oh.” Jim tightened his hands on the steering wheel, a fact that Bernie noted and took as a sign of aggravation.
“They dated for a while. Nothing serious.”
“Who broke things off: him or her?”
“What difference does it make? It has no bearing on our case.” Bernie mentally counted to ten, then said, “Unless you’re asking for personal reasons, because you want to make sure she’s not carrying a torch for another guy before you ask her out.”
“Forget I asked.”
“Take the turnoff up there on the left. You can see a glimpse of Brandon’s house from here.”
Jim nodded, took her directions and within a couple minutes pulled his old Chevy truck to a halt in the driveway beside the house.
“Robyn broke things off,” Bernie said. “My sister’s never been dumped in her entire life.”
Jim grunted.
“Well, let’s get this over with.” Bernie opened her door and got out, not waiting for Jim to assist her. He could save his gentlemanly manners for her sister. All she wanted from him was his respect.
Yeah, sure, that’s all you want. You can lie to the whole freaking world, Bernadette Granger, but you shouldn’t lie to yourself.
Jim got in step with her quickly as they approached the wide, sprawling porch that circled three fourths of the house and faced the river. Before they reached the front door, the porch lights came on and the door opened to reveal Brandon standing there waiting for them. Bernie had telephoned half an hour ago and explained that they had a few questions for him about his relationship with Stephanie Preston, and he’d invited them to come to his house this evening. He’d acted charming and cooperative, as if he had nothing to hide.
Maybe he didn’t. She’d know after they talked to him. She’d always had a sixth sense about these things, had always been good at figuring out when somebody was lying to her. That sixth sense had been what alerted her to the fact that her husband had been cheating on her. The only problem was she had chosen to ignore that inner voice for years. And dear God, how she had lived to regret not listening. She had never made that mistake again.
“Come on in,” Brandon said. “Or would y’all prefer to sit out here on the porch? It’s turning out to be a fairly pleasant night, but I’m afraid we’ll get rain before morning.”
“Out here will be fine,” Bernie said.
“Would y’all care for something to drink? I just made a pitcher of iced tea.”
“No, thanks,” Jim said.
“Nothing for me either,” Bernie added.
“Well, then, come on over and sit down.” He indicated the rattan settee and chairs to his right. “I don’t know what I can tell you about Stephanie, poor little thing, but if there’s anything I can do to help y’all find the person who killed her, I’ll be more than happy to.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Bernie told him as she sat in one of the chairs, while Jim took the other.
Brandon sat on the settee, crossed his legs and leaned back, looking perfectly at ease as he glanced from Bernie to Jim.
“We were told that you and Stephanie were involved at one time,” Jim said. “Is that correct?”
Brandon smiled and Bernie thought how very attractive he was, very smooth and debonair, almost too sophisticated for a rural area like Adams County, Alabama.
“We had a brief—very brief—fling.” Brandon accentuated his speech with hand mannerisms. “She was a pretty little thing and deliciously eager. But I soon realized that she was taking things a little too seriously, so I ended our relationship quickly.”
“Do you make a habit of dating your students?” Jim narrowed his gaze, giving Brandon what Bernie thought of as “the evil eye.”
Brandon laughed. “I make a habit of dating beautiful young women. Some are students, a few are colleagues”—he looked pointedly at Bernie—“and some are gorgeous fitness instructors with fabulously toned bodies.”
The guy was a sleaze. He might be handsome, cultured, well educated and talented, but he was a sleaze nonetheless. If there was one thing Bernie hated, it was men who bragged about their conquests.
“Did you ever sketch Stephanie?” Bernie asked.
“What?”
“Did you ever—”
“No, I never sketched her. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Bernie told him. “You’re an artist. She was, as you say, a beautiful young woman. I just thought maybe you liked to sketch or paint your lovers.”
“Have you ever sketched or painted any of your lovers?” Jim asked.
“Yes,” Brandon replied. “But not Stephanie. As I told you, our relationship was short-lived.”
“Were you teaching a class the night Stephanie came up missing?” Jim studied Brandon. Bernie guessed that he, too, had a knack for sensing when someone was lying.
“I don’t teach night classes,” Brandon replied with an air of superiority.
“Then where were you the night Stephanie disappeared?” Jim asked.
“And where were you the day she was killed?” Bernie kept her gaze on Brandon’s face, searching for any sign that might tell her if he was lying.
“You can’t seriously believe that I had anything to do with Stephanie’s disappearance and murder, can you?” An outraged expression marred Brandon’s classically handsome features.
Bernie