When Shadows Fall

“I like the view.”

Their eyes locked, and she gestured toward the water. “Are you interested in a swim?”

He shook his head and started toward her. She held her breath. The way that man moved, sinuous and graceful, the unconscious warrior in him always alert and ready, drove her wild. He had his shirt off after two steps, his shorts a heartbeat later, and then their skin touched and he put his mouth on hers. She was shocked by his warmth. He was hot, so hot, his skin overheated from his run, slightly sweaty and damp, and his mouth was hotter still, ravenous for her.

He was much bigger than she was; she could just reach her arms around his body. She pulled him closer, and closer still, until he picked her up as if she weighed no more than a leaf, and her legs wrapped around his waist. He went to his knees and bent her backward into the grass, and she wanted him, wanted him so badly. She didn’t care that people were walking down the street five feet away, on the other side of her fence. She wanted him now.

He knew it, but held back, his hand running the channel down from her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach and down between her legs. He stroked her, and it didn’t take long. He knew exactly what she liked, and had her at the edge within seconds. He kissed her again, long and sweet, and laughed quietly when she whispered, “Now, please. Oh, God, Xander. Now.”

Oblivion. She bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. He lost himself moments later, arms wrapped tight around her, a hand in her hair, shaking, tense in silence.

The grass was soft under her back, and the shouts and beeps of the Georgetown traffic became loud again. A mockingbird scolded them from the pear tree. Xander was giggling slightly, trying to hold it together. He always laughed after, some bottomless well of joy unleashed, and it made her laugh, too.

Sam put a finger across his lips and hushed him. “You cackle like that, everyone will know exactly what we’re doing back here.”

“I don’t care. Let’s do it again.” He reached for her just as Thor came bounding through the back door and launched himself into the pool. His splash drenched them both, and this time Xander couldn’t stop laughing. He grabbed Sam in his arms and rolled them both right into the pool.

* * *

It was dark when the message came.

They were in the kitchen, finishing off a light dinner—prosciutto and melon, fresh buffalo mozzarella, sweet basil torn from the small herb garden out back, a loaf of crusty bread. They might have had too much to drink; there was maybe an inch of wine left in the bottle. Thor was snoozing on his green plaid flannel bed. It was a normal night, a happy night.

The knock at the door made Thor leap to his feet and go tearing into the hall. He was too well disciplined to bark, but stood at attention, yellow eyes fixed on the door. Xander tensed. He didn’t like unscheduled visits.

“Don’t answer it.”

“Don’t be silly.” Sam snapped a dish towel at him and went to answer the door.

The man on the step was gray. Gray hair, gray suit, gray skin, gray shoes. Probably gray eyes, but it was hard to tell in the dim light of the streetlamps. He was small, his eyes were even with Sam’s and his hands shook slightly, a distinct resting tremor Sam immediately identified with Parkinson’s disease.

Thor growled, deep in the back of his throat, and Sam instinctively took a step back.

The gray man didn’t move.

“Can I help you?”

“Dr. Owens? Dr. Samantha Owens?”

“Who’s asking?” Xander stepped next to Sam, one hand on Thor’s ruff, the other hidden out of sight, tucked behind his right thigh. Sam knew it held a SIG Sauer, the gun he kept stashed in the small drawer in the foyer desk.

The man was apparently used to causing alarm when he knocked on doors. He took one look at Xander and Thor, smiled and held out a white business card. “Rolph Benedict, with Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson, out of Lynchburg. I represent the estate of Timothy Savage. Ah, you are familiar with his name, I see. Good. May I come in?”

A lawyer.

“It’s late, Mr. Benedict. You couldn’t have called ahead?”

The little man shook his head. “I apologize, sir. My cell phone died on the drive up. I would have been here earlier, but I took a wrong turn, managed to hit 66 going out of town instead of into the city.”

His tone didn’t sound very apologetic, but Sam shot a look at Xander, who sighed and made a show of putting the gun in the waistband of his jeans before he stepped away from the door. A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

“I suppose you better come in,” Sam said to Benedict. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Chapter

6

SAM FIXED BENEDICT a cup of tea, served it to him at the dining room table. Allowing him to settle into one of the comfortable leather chairs in the living room felt too welcoming, too personal. This was a business call, and the lawyer didn’t seem to mind her treating it as such. The table was a round of thick glass surrounded by six Eames chairs in white ash. Beautiful, functional, comfortable enough.

Once settled, Benedict set out a pad, a Montblanc fountain pen and a document backed by blue paper. He took a sip of his tea, gave Sam a nod of thanks. Understanding the challenges of Parkinson’s, she’d given him the mug with the biggest circumference and handle, and hadn’t filled it all the way. He managed well, though soon enough he’d have trouble. Without aggressive treatment, resting tremors didn’t improve, only steadily worsened, and it was probably too late for him already. His age, the advance of the disease: he didn’t have much time left.

Xander was through with the niceties. “What’s this about, Mr. Benedict?”

“I’m not sure we’ve met, Mr....” He trailed off expectantly.

Xander cleared his throat. “Whitfield.”

“Ah. Mr. Whitfield. Thank you. Now. Mr. Savage hired my firm last week to prepare a trust to handle his estate.” He turned to Sam, eyes shrewd and assessing. “He named you as executor, Dr. Owens, and left you a respectable amount of money.”

“What? Me? Why? I don’t even know him.”

“Be that as it may, he insisted. He said you’d understand why, when the time came. I must admit, the situation is curious, but understandable. Many people wish to clear up loose ends before they, well, leave this life on their own terms.”

“Is that even legal, putting a stranger in charge of your estate?” Sam asked.

“It certainly is. And better a named stranger than a faceless government drone whose only interest is taking as much as possible for Uncle Sammy.” His lips moved into an approximation of a grin.

Sam felt a chill run down her spine. This dead stranger, this lawyer on the edge of the grave, this whole situation—it was too much. Xander picked up on her discomfort, reached a hand to her under the table. She squeezed it, then stood and murmured, “I’ll be right back. I need a sweater.”

Sam picked up her favorite cashmere pashmina from the living room couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. Feeling much less exposed, she marched back into the dining room in time to hear Xander say, “I think you need to explain yourself, Mr. Benedict, and quickly. Who exactly is Timothy Savage?”

Benedict ran a shaky finger along the rim of his mug. “You are aware, of course, of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Savage’s death?”

“Enlighten us.”

“Oh. You really don’t know.” Benedict’s voice took on a classic Southern ghoulishness, horror and delight coupled in a high-pitched whisper. He leaned forward as he said, “He killed himself. With a very nasty chemical agent he cooked up in his kitchen. Detergent suicide, is what they call it. Very big in Japan.”

Benedict’s earlier words hit Sam then. Left this life on his own terms. “But Mr. Savage was—”

Xander put a hand on her knee and stopped her. “A suicide. And he retained you last week to draw up a will, and named Dr. Owens as executrix. May I ask, who is the beneficiary? Does he have an heir?”

Another gummy grin from the ghoul.

“There are several people named in the will, but he’s left the bulk of the estate to a Mr. Henry Matcliff.” He was silent for a moment. “Unfortunately, Mr. Matcliff is proving difficult to locate. We wanted to alert you to the situation, and locate the primary beneficiary before contacting the rest of the heirs. We were hoping you would know where he is.”

This was getting ridiculous, and Sam wasn’t in the mood. The letter this morning had upset her terribly, and now this? No. She wasn’t going to let this go on a moment longer.

“I’d never heard of Mr. Savage until this morning. And I have no idea who this Matcliff character is. I’m sorry, Mr. Benedict, but I respectfully decline the offer of handling Mr. Savage’s estate. I trust your practice will do right by him.” She stood, and Benedict stood also in reflex, a look of shock on his face.