Wicked Game. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
learning all your favorite spots and following you around instead of having to wait for you.”
“Are you making fun of me?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“No.”
“Did you tell Zeke you thought I was following you?” she asked with sudden horror.
“I don’t tell Zeke much,” he assured her.
“Renee, then.”
“I don’t confide in my sister, either.” He reached across the car to touch her nape. Tiny tingles of anticipation ran up her neck and she knew she was in trouble. “What kind of guy do you take me for?”
“I really don’t know, do I?”
“Wanna find out?”
They stared at each other for long moments. Becca could feel her pulse beating slow and strong. “Maybe…”
Then she climbed out of the car and hurried into the house before she could make a bigger fool of herself. She told herself the ball was in his court and it was up to him now—dreadfully afraid he would let her down. But he didn’t. He called before she fell asleep that night and made a date with her for the next day.
Two weeks later he kissed her good night outside her door and she was lost all over again, telling herself that she was falling in love and not trying very hard to fight the rush of adrenaline that slipped through her bloodstream whenever she thought of him.
She thought about making love to him. About what it would feel like. And she knew she couldn’t wait long.
She was right.
A couple of nights afterward they came together on a blanket laid out under the stars, far from the lights of his parents’ ranch house, kissing and touching and sighing and then the heat…the incredible heat and desire that caused her to throw away any lingering doubts as easily as stripping him of his T-shirt and jeans. Even now, almost twenty years later, she remembered that first time, the tautness of his body, the strain of his muscles as he moved over her, the firm warmth of his lips as she opened to him. What little pain there had been when he’d first entered her had quickly disappeared in the rapture and need of her first time. Her first love. It was glorious. Heart-stoppingly incredible. She wrapped herself around him and squeezed her eyes tightly shut and swore she would make him hers forever.
Now, thinking back, her tea cold, the dog asleep on the couch near her, the picture of the Madonna statue still starkly visible on the folded page of the newspaper, Becca knew what a fool she’d been. A schoolgirl creating silly fantasies of a perfect life with a perfect man. On this Valentine’s Day, she knew the folly of the whole perfect-man thing. Come on. How naive had she been? “Pretty damned,” she told herself while she scratched Ringo behind his ears and he made happy little grunting sounds without raising an eyelid.
That summer had raced by with the heat and intensity of a prairie fire stoked by hot winds. Becca and Hudson spent every night they could making love: on the sandy shores of the creek while their fishing poles and bathing suits were strung forgotten on the banks; on a blanket in the hayloft with the horses snorting in their stalls below; in the backseat of Hudson’s car or in his bed when his parents were gone and the window was open to let in the soft summer breezes and thrum of bats’ wings.
They couldn’t get enough of each other as the months bled together. They spent time with other friends, of course, and Zeke, Hudson’s best friend, seemed to always be hanging around, though as the weeks passed, he became distant and the relationship between them seemed strained. At the time, Becca had thought her relationship with Hudson had somehow made Zeke uncomfortable. Later she learned that it was Jessie’s disappearance that still affected the one-time best friends.
Jessie, always Jessie.
Now Becca picked up the paper again gingerly, as if its very touch could harm her in some way. She scoured the article once more. There was no mention of the sex of the remains. Nothing more than the bones’ discovery. But they had to be Jessie’s, didn’t they? Had to be.
You should call someone.
She put her hand on the phone. Picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear. It rang in her hand and she nearly dropped it. For a wild moment she thought it was Jessie, calling from her opened grave.
For the love of God, Becca, get a grip!
“Hello?” she said, clearing her throat, determined to shake off her case of nostalgia and nerves.
“Becca? Rebecca…Sutcliff? Rebecca Ryan, in high school?”
Her fingers clenched around the receiver. She knew his voice. Damn, but she’d just been thinking of him! Hudson Walker. Her lunatic pulse jumped as it had all those years ago and she inwardly chided herself. “Yeah, Hudson, it’s me.”
“Good. Uh…how’ve you been?”
“Great,” she lied. “Fine.” As if he’d called to inquire about her health. Oh, yeah, sure. After all these years. “I take it you saw the news.”
“I turned it on after I got a call from my sister.”
In her mind’s eye Becca conjured up Hudson’s sister—tall and thin, with dark hair that had, in high school, feathered around large eyes as brown as her twin’s were blue. Renee had never liked Becca much and had made no secret of her feelings. “So she was calling about what those kids found in the maze at St. Lizzie’s? The bones?”
“Yeah.” His voice lowered a bit and she imagined his dark eyebrows pulled together in a knot, just as they had years ago whenever he’d been disturbed.
“You think it’s Jessie.” There was no reason to pull punches. After all, he was the guy who’d wanted things honest way back when…well, at least until things had gotten tense between them. Then where had the honesty fled?
“Maybe.”
“And you called me?”
“I got your number from Tamara. I take it you sometimes still hang out?”
Tamara, with her curly red hair, porcelain skin, and belief in all things mystical, was one of the few people with whom Becca had kept in contact. At St. Elizabeth’s Tamara had been a couple of steps outside of mainstream, but she’d still been a part of Hudson’s crowd, even putting up with the constant teasing from some of the other kids, including Christopher Delacroix, the richest kid in the school at the time and the only one who had numerals after his name, as he had the same name as Daddy and Granddaddy. Hence his nickname of The Third. As Becca remembered him, The Third was a privileged kid who got his kicks out of embarrassing others. In short, a dyed-in-the-wool jerk. He had constantly needled Tamara.
“Tamara and I keep in touch. See each other once in a while,” Becca admitted.
“Renee is pretty freaked out about the discovery of the skeleton and she wants us all to get together,” Hudson said, sounding not quite certain about the wisdom of that.
I bet she doesn’t want me, Becca thought, but kept it to herself. She was trying her best to concentrate on the conversation at hand and not on eighteen-year-old questions she wanted to ask him. She hadn’t spoken to Hudson in years, had only run into him twice since that summer of their affair. But both of those times she’d been with Ben, and nothing more than a few polite hellos had been exchanged between them.
Which was probably just as well.
Let sleeping dogs lie, Becca. No need to bring up the past that you’ve worked so hard to bury.
“What does she think will come of that?” Becca asked as Ringo, opening his eyes, stretched on the couch.
“I don’t know. She thinks the bones are Jessie’s.”
So do I. That’s why I had the vision. “What do you think?”
“I always thought she ran away,” Hudson stated. “She had a history of it.”
“I