“I do wish you could get away for a few days and come with us,” Webb said as he spread orange marmalade on his toast. “This will be the first time you haven’t gone to the beach with us. It won’t be the same without you.”

“You know Ella can’t just up and leave,” Carolyn said. “Not now that she’s a judge. We’ve offered to postpone our annual trip this summer and she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“I don’t like the idea of leaving her here in Spring Creek. Not with Reed Conway out of prison. There’s no way to know what that man might do. I think we should change our plans, postpone our trip and stay here.”

Ella set her china cup on the saucer. This morning was a rare occasion. Seldom did her mother come to the table for breakfast. Customarily, Viola served breakfast to Carolyn in bed. But this morning was special—the first day of her family’s annual Gulf Shores vacation. Her family owned a house right on the beach.

“I’d think you two would be looking forward to some time alone together. You could make this a very romantic vacation.”

“She’s right, you know.” Carolyn reached for Webb’s hand. “It’s been ages since the two of us had any time alone.”

He caught Carolyn’s hand in his, but glanced at Ella. “With the Halls and Donnells spending a week at the beach the same time we are, I doubt we’ll have much time to ourselves. You know how Kit Hall and Pattie Donnell love to monopolize your mother’s time.”

“And if I know Jim Donnell and Trey Hall, they’ll have you off deep-sea fishing by the second day we’re there.” Carolyn glanced meaningfully at Ella. “Pattie Donnell is bringing her two grandchildren with her. Jim Jr.’s two little girls. If you’d just give Dan some encouragement, I could have a grandchild one day soon.”

“Mother, please, I don’t want to discuss Dan. Not again. I’ve told you and Daddy that Dan and I have agreed to end things. We’re having a farewell lunch today.”

“For the life of me, I don’t understand you, Eleanor. Fine young men like Dan don’t come along every day of the week.” Carolyn munched on a bite of toast. “It could be ages before someone half as suitable shows an interest in you.”

“Carolyn, really,” Webb said. “Ella’s a fantastic catch for some lucky man. And I dare say that we’ll never think anyone is quite good enough for her, but if she doesn’t love Dan, then—”

“She could learn to love him.” Carolyn glared at her husband.

“I would think you’d want more than that for her. I certainly do.”

Ella let out a long, low whistle. Her parents turned their heads and stared at her. “Hey, I’m sitting right here. Don’t talk to each other as if I’m not.”

“Sorry, honey,” Webb said.

“Will you two stop worrying? I’m fine. I’m a big girl who can take care of herself and make all her own decisions. So, what I want is for my mother and father to go to their beach house and spend a relaxing week together. A romantic week.”

Before either Webb or Carolyn could reply, Bessie entered the breakfast room with a long, white florist’s box in her hands. She cleared her throat.

“I found this lying on the back doorstep,” Bessie said. “There’s a card attached with Miss Ella’s name on it.”

“My, my, flowers on a Friday morning. Someone is obviously trying to patch things up.” Carolyn eyed the box curiously.

“I don’t understand why the florist didn’t ring the doorbell and deliver them to the front door,” Webb said.

“What do you want me to do with ’em?” Bessie asked.

“Give them to Miss Ella, of course.” Carolyn sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward, an expression of exasperation over the hired help’s lack of astuteness.

Bessie had been with the Porter house for four years now, ever since her aunt, Maisie Clark, retired at the age of seventy, and still she lacked the proper attitude for a servant. “Maisie knew her place,” Ella had heard her mother say more than once. “But Bessie is much too fresh. She acts as if she thinks she’s our equal.” And it was a real bone of contention between Carolyn and Bessie that Bessie refused to live in as her aunt had done.

“Yes, ma’am.” Bessie dumped the box on the table in front of Ella, right beside her plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.

The moment the housekeeper disappeared into the kitchen, Carolyn said, “Webb, we simply must find someone to replace that woman. She’s totally unsuited to being a servant.”

“Now, we’ve been through this before,” Webb said. “Bessie is good at her job. She keeps this house spotless and she runs things like a well-oiled machine. She’s a good cook, too. Almost as good as Maisie was. Just because she doesn’t bow and scrape enough to suit you doesn’t mean we need to replace her.”

“She doesn’t bow and scrape at all.” Carolyn huffed.

Ella untied the red ribbon from around the white box, laid the ribbon on the table, and lifted the lid. “How beautiful.” Red roses. Not her favorite, but beautiful all the same.

“That’s odd. There isn’t a florist label on the box,” Ella said. “Our three local florists usually attach an identification sticker when they deliver flowers.”

“Check for a card,” Carolyn said. “The florist label may be on the card. I’m sure Dan used The Flower Box.”

Yes, Ella thought. Of course Dan would use only The Flower Box, since it was the florist everyone in their social circle used. She wished Dan hadn’t sent flowers. If he’d thought roses would soften her heart and make her more inclined to give their relationship a second chance, then he was wrong. He shouldn’t have wasted his money.

What if they’re not from Dan?

Ella’s heartbeat accelerated. When she lifted the card from the box top, her hand trembled. Reed wouldn’t send her flowers, would he? He didn’t seem to be the romantic type. If they were from Reed, how would she ever explain to her parents? She could hardly say, “I almost made love with Reed in the woods at the park yesterday.” She’d gotten very little sleep last night. Actually, she had been afraid to fall asleep, afraid she’d dream of Reed.

Dear God, what had she been thinking yesterday to have allowed things to get so out of hand? That was just the problem—she hadn’t been thinking. She’d been feeling. The emotions Reed aroused in her were unlike anything she’d ever known. A hunger so great that she would have risked discovery, right there in the Sarah Rogers Garden. She would have let Reed make love to her in the same way his cousin had made love to her aunt Cybil. But that kind of mating wasn’t lovemaking. It was nothing more than screwing to release sexual tension.

“Aren’t you going to read the card?” Carolyn asked.

“Huh? Oh, yes, of course.” The small envelope in which the card was encased had her name typed on it. But there was no florist’s label. She lifted the card out of the envelope and began to read aloud.

“What the hell kind of message is that?” Webb shoved back his chair, stood, and rounded the table. He grabbed the card out of Ella’s hand. “The damn thing is typed.”

“I don’t understand,” Carolyn said. “Why would Dan—”

“Hell, woman, don’t be dense,” Webb roared. “Dan Gilmore didn’t send these.”

Ella’s hand hovered over the lovely flowers. A dozen perfect long-stemmed roses. Suddenly something slithered over the roses, weaving in and out around the stems. Ella gasped. What on earth?

“Daddy, I—I think there’s something in this box.” Her pulse drummed maddingly inside her head.

Webb grabbed the box away from her and dumped the contents onto the breakfast room floor. The roses fell apart, scattering across the hardwood surface. A green snake wriggled about at Webb’s feet.

Carolyn screamed. Ella jumped out of her chair.

“God damn it!” Webb eyed the scaly creature, then reached down and picked it up.

“Webb, be careful!” Carolyn cried.

“It’s nothing but a harmless garden snake,” he explained, then left the room, carrying the squirming serpent with him.

“This is Reed Conway’s doing,” Carolyn said. “I was afraid he wouldn’t stop with letters and phone calls.”

Ella whirled around and stared at her mother. “How did you find out about the letters and…Daddy and I didn’t want you to know. Who told you?”

Carolyn glanced into her lap, averting direct eye contact.

“Viola somehow found out and told you, didn’t she,” Ella said. “She knew we didn’t want you to worry.”

Carolyn held out her hand beseechingly. “You mustn’t be angry with Viola. You know I depend on her to keep me abreast of everything. She’s been my most loyal confidante all these years. She understood that I had a right to know my daughter was being threatened.”

“No one has actually threatened me. Harassed me, yes. Threatened me, no.”

“What do you call sending someone a snake?” Carolyn glanced toward the closed door leading into the kitchen. “There’s simply no way that Webb and I can go off to the Gulf and leave you here alone.”

“No, Mother, y’all are not staying here. You look forward to this trip every year. I will not let you cancel your plans because of a stupid garden snake.”

“A garden snake this time,” Carolyn said. “But what about next time. He said this time, no harm. Next time—be prepared.”

“This could have been someone’s idea of a sick joke,” Ella said. “It may have nothing to do with the letters and phone calls.”

Webb stomped into the room. “I thought we’d agreed not to tell your mother about—”

“She didn’t tell me,” Carolyn explained. “I already knew.”

“Viola.” Webb groaned.

“We can’t go to the Gulf now, Webb.”

“I agree.”

“No!” Ella flung out her arms, the palms of her hands open, in a gesture of exasperation. “Letters, phone calls, and a harmless garden snake aren’t going to hurt me. I refuse to allow the person who is harassing me to scare me.”

“The person who is harassing you?” Carolyn inquired. “You can’t mean you think it’s anyone other than Reed Conway.”

“I don’t know who it is, but we have no proof that it’s Reed.” Ella didn’t dare say more, couldn’t defend Reed and risk her parents’ displeasure. Displeasure? Get real, Ella. Outrage would be more like it.

“He went a little too far with the prank he pulled today,” Webb said. “Frank Nelson should be able to track down the florist those”—Webb eyed the flowers in the floor—“roses came from and find out if they have a record of who purchased them.”

“Unless they’re stolen,” Carolyn said.

“What?” Webb and Ella piped in unison.

“Reed Conway killed a man. You don’t honestly think that stealing flowers would be beneath him, do you?”

“I’m calling Frank,” Webb said.

Ella laced her arm through her father’s. “The flowers were probably purchased at Food Express or another grocery store. If that’s the case, there won’t be any record of who purchased them. So, go ahead and call Frank, but after you do that, put this problem in his hands. I insist that you and mother get in the car this morning and head for the Gulf as planned. I’ll be perfectly all right here for a week without y’all. Aunt Cybil and Uncle Jeff Henry are right next door, and if I get lonely I’ll spend a few nights with Heather.”

Carolyn frowned. “Oh, dear. I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I shudder to think what might happen while we’re gone.”

“Nothing is going to happen. And if by some chance it does, I’ll contact Frank immediately.” Ella knew what this week at their family’s cottage meant to her mother. Over the years, it had become an annual ritual.

“Maybe I’ll pay Reed Conway a visit before we leave,” Webb said.

“No, Daddy, don’t do that. You’ll lose your temper and there’s no telling what might happen. You and Reed might come to blows. You don’t want to go on vacation with a black eye, do you?”

“Someone needs to warn that man again.” Webb clenched his hands into fists.

“If Reed needs warning again, let Frank do it. After all, it’s his job.” Ella patted her father’s forearm. “Besides, how many times can Reed be given a warning when there’s no proof that he’s behind the harassment.”

“We’ll get the proof,” Webb said. “And when we do, Reed will be heading straight back to prison.”

“That’s exactly where he belongs,” Carolyn said.

Was Reed the person harassing her? Ella asked herself. She didn’t believe he was. But what if she was wrong? What if he’d sent the letters, made the phone calls, left the flowers? What if pursuing her was part of his plan for vengeance?

She wouldn’t see him again, wouldn’t allow herself to be alone with him. He might excite her in a way no other man ever had, but he also frightened her in the same inexplicable way. No doubt about it—Reed was a dangerous man. Any smart woman would stay the hell away from him.

Cybil looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and groaned. Despite the face-lift she’d had three years ago when she turned forty-five, old age was catching up with her. Every day she noticed a new wrinkle, fine lines creeping up her neck and at the edges of her eyes. She ran her fingers through her tousled hair. If not for the monthly visit to her beautician, her black hair would be streaked with gray.

She filled a cup with water and rinsed out her mouth. The residue of one too many whiskey sours last night had left a bitter taste. At least her teeth were still good and all her own. She raked a hand down over her naked body, across her full breasts—not quite as pert as they’d once been, but not sagging either. Her hips were trim and her legs lean. She eased her hand between her thighs and rubbed her fingers over her feminine folds. Even though she’d begun menopause last year, she hadn’t experienced any real problems. Her periods were erratic, but she had yet to have her first hot flash. And there were no problems with dryness. Thank God. She inserted her fingers into her body and strummed her thumb over her clitoris. Her nipples peaked. Moisture coated her inner folds.

Loud, repetitive tapping from outside her bedroom door ended her sensual musings. Damn, it was probably Judy, all fresh and cheerful. How the woman had anything to smile about, Cybil would never know. She was poor as a church mouse. She had slaved away five days a week as their housekeeper for the past twenty-odd years. She had an ex-con son who was nothing but trouble. She’d been married and widowed twice—once to a real louse who deserved killing more than anyone Cybil had ever known. In retrospect, Cybil admitted that her brief fling with Junior had been the biggest mistake of her life. Death had been too good for the likes of Junior Blalock. Someone should have tortured him for endless weeks before slitting his throat. Of course, she didn’t have the stomach for torture herself. Murder, yes. Torture, no.

“Judy, just leave the tray outside and I’ll get it later,” Cybil called to the housekeeper.

“It isn’t Judy,” Jeff Henry said.

Cybil went deadly still. Her husband seldom bothered coming to her room anymore. If he came to her more often, she might not be inclined to seek out lovers elsewhere. And if Jeff Henry truly loved her, she’d swear off booze and other men altogether. But his loving her was about as sure to happen as Webb ever loving Carolyn again.

On her way out of the bathroom, she jerked a sheer black robe off the door rack and slipped into it, but didn’t belt it. She opened her bedroom door to her husband, the front of her body boldly displayed for his view. He stood there with a breakfast tray in his hands. His gaze traveled the length of her, from head to toe. The expression on his face didn’t alter, showing no sign of either disgust or arousal. But she detected a gleam in his eyes. He wasn’t as immune to her charms as he’d like for her to believe.

“We need to talk,” Jeff Henry said as he pushed past her to enter her private domain.

When was the last time he’d been in here? Hmm…Almost a year. She’d lured him in here on their wedding anniversary. After plying him with champagne to loosen him up a little, she had seduced him. He had been tenderly passionate. Jeff Henry was always a considerate lover.

“What could we possibly have to discuss?” she asked flippantly as she closed the bedroom door and turned to face him.

He set the tray on the writing desk by the windows overlooking the backyard. “I’ve been patient and understanding. I’ve excused your drinking binges and I’ve looked the other way when you’ve had affairs.”

“How very noble of you, the poor cuckolded husband.” She noticed how red his face was and thought it odd. Only when he was very hot or very angry or sexually aroused did a scarlet flush stain his face. “My goodness, something has your boxer shorts in a wad.”

“I will not allow you to publicly shame yourself or me or our families.” His broad, thick hands curled into fists. “We have an unspoken agreement, or at least I thought we did, that you’re to keep your misconduct discreet.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Cybil sauntered across the room, lifted the silver dome from the plate, and inspected the pancakes dripping with butter and maple syrup.

Jeff Henry slapped the dome out of her hand. It hit the floor with a thud. “You’re nothing but a slut.”

“And just how is this news to you?”

Jeff Henry’s eyes glimmered with pure rage. “I saw you yesterday. In the park, in the garden. You and that white trash grease monkey, Briley Joe Conway.”

Cybil’s mouth opened to a shocked oval. He’d seen her? With Briley Joe? No, no, no! They’d chosen a secluded spot, hidden behind shrubbery and a grove of trees. She’d been so sure no one could see them. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry, all right. A sorry piece of nothing. But you know what makes it even worse? I wasn’t alone when I came upon you and your lover. Ella was with me. Do you hear me? The child who means more to you than anyone in this world was with me, and she saw you screwing that low-life scum. He had you backed up against a tree, pumping into you like a jackhammer.”

“Ella saw me?”

“She saw you and felt the same disgust that I did. How do you think she’s going to feel about you now that she knows you’ll spread your legs for any man?”

Pain washed over Cybil, drowning her with self-pity and self-loathing. The only person whose opinion still mattered to her was Ella’s. She had loved her darling girl since the first moment she saw her, since the very instant she had held her in her arms.

“You, of course, told her what a slut I was, didn’t you?” Cybil glowered at her husband. “You enjoyed filling her in on my legion of lovers. Did you tell her that I’d even screwed Junior Blalock?” She saw the truth in his eyes. “My God, you did, didn’t you? You bastard!”

She slapped his face, anger and frustration riding her hard.

Jeff Henry grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm, painfully tugging her up against him. His nostrils flared. His eyes flashed. The red stain on his cheeks darkened even more. For the first time in a long time—not since the night Junior was killed—Cybil was afraid of her husband.

He dragged her to the bed and tossed her down atop the wrinkled satin coverlet. She watched anxiously, shocked by his actions. He unzipped his pristine khaki slacks. She shook her head in disbelief. He eased his hand inside the open zipper slit and into his boxer shorts. She scooted away from him. He jumped her, almost knocking the breath out of her. She glared up into his face, into his hard, cold eyes, and wondered who this man was. It wasn’t Jeff Henry Carlisle, her well-bred Southern gentleman husband. He forced his knee between her legs and parted her thighs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“I’m going to fuck my wife,” he told her.

Before a rational reply came to mind, he grabbed her hips, lifted her swiftly, and thrust into her, hard and deep. She moaned with unexpected pleasure. He pumped into her relentlessly, like a madman bent on breaking the spirit of the animal he rode. He lifted one hand to her breast and kneaded it roughly; then he lowered his mouth to hers and consumed her with a raging hunger.

Cybil wrapped her legs around his waist, lifting herself up to take all of him, to accept every pounding thrust. She caressed his buttocks, then slipped her hand between them and sought his scrotum. They mated wildly, passionately, Jeff Henry using her as if she’d been a whore he’d picked up for the night.

He climaxed first, jetting into her as he groaned and buried his face against her shoulder. The feel of his fluid bursting within her sent Cybil over the edge. A powerful orgasm shook her to her bones.

Without saying a word, Jeff Henry disengaged his body from hers. He lifted the edge of the satin sheet and cleaned himself with it. Then he stood, put his penis back in place, straightened his clothes, and walked toward the door.

“I’ll bet that was one time you weren’t thinking of my sister when you were screwing me,” Cybil called after him.

He halted but didn’t bother to glance back at her or respond in any way. He opened the door, went into the hall, and closed the door behind him.

Cybil lay on her back, not moving, her body still tingling as aftershocks of release rippled through her. Only one other time had she ever seen Jeff Henry so upset. Only one other time had he taken her with the same fury as he had this morning. And God help her, she’d loved it—then and now. This morning he had been angry enough to kill, just as he had been that other day. The day he’d caught her with Junior Blalock, less than eight hours before Junior had been found with his throat slit.