Immortal Bride. Lisa Childs

arms so that his chest crushed her breasts. And he cupped her face in his hands, tipping it up so that his mouth could devour hers. His lips pressed hers apart, so his tongue could slide inside, tasting and teasing her. Then, with his wet skin sliding against hers, he lifted her, making love to her against the glass, which steamed up not from the moisture of the shower but from the heat of their unquenchable passion.

      Even now, knowing what he had undoubtedly done to her, she wanted him. How could she be so weak?

      As the shower shut off, she tensed. But yet she couldn’t look away from the reflection in the mirror as he stepped out, droplets of water trailing down his body. He reached for a towel, sliding the soft, white terry cloth over every inch of his dark skin.

      Energy charged throughout Olivia with her desire. She glanced down at herself, surprised to find her image so substantial—nearly as real as his.

      Dropping the towel into a hamper, he sauntered naked into the walk-in closet. As he reached for jeans and a shirt, he stood so close that Olivia noticed when goose bumps rose on the smooth skin of his broad back, along the spine she had once kissed so tenderly. And he whirled around, turning toward her.

      She stilled, cowering behind the long dresses. And she hated herself for cowering, and she hated him for making her cower. But it was like last night—on the shore—she wasn’t ready to see him. She needed proof first.

      “Olivia? Olivia, are you here?” Damien asked in his deep, soft voice.

      Even though she had no real breath to hold, Olivia held it—willing herself invisible to him now, when for six months she had been desperate for him to see her image.

      Damien pushed a slightly shaking hand through his wet hair. “God, you’re losing it, man,” he murmured to himself. “Nathan’s right—you need to get out of here.”

      No! Olivia held in the shout—barely—but it echoed in her mind. He couldn’t leave yet, not until she found the evidence that proved his guilt or innocence. If he left, she would never have justice. She would be forever trapped in the Lake of Tears.

      Like she was trapped right now in the closet with him. But he dressed quickly, pulling on jeans and dragging a dark T-shirt over his head. The cotton clung to his damp skin, molded to his chest. Naked or clothed, the man affected her like no other man ever had.

      Had her attraction to him blinded her to his faults, to the dangerous side of him that others had warned her about?

      With one last glance around the closet, he walked out the door. Moments later she heard his footfalls on the mahogany treads of the staircase. And again a door opened and closed.

      If she’d had breath, Olivia would have released it. Her tension eased with relief that he was gone. She stepped out from behind her dresses and moved back into the bathroom. Peering out the octagonal window, she glimpsed him below, walking down the rocky hill toward the lake. Sunlight gleamed in his dark hair, the wind ruffling and drying the long mane that hung loose around his shoulders.

      She pulled her gaze from him, resolving that he would not distract her again. But then she noticed his clothes spilling out of the basket. And she lifted his shirt.

      Had he been at the casino—where the female employees fawned over him and the female customers drooled? When Olivia had started working there, she had been warned that he was a womanizer, that after his wife’s tragic death, he had no relationships—only one-night stands. She had disregarded the warnings, writing them off as the jealousy of her fellow workers.

      But now she wondered. Had he gotten rid of Olivia because he had changed his mind about being tied to one woman?

      Freedom was his likeliest motive for murder. Olivia had owed more money than she had, and he had taken out no life insurance on her. So he couldn’t have murdered her for financial gain. But maybe he had done it to avoid financial loss. They had married in such haste that he had never asked her to sign a prenup, as a man with his substantial wealth should have done. But maybe he hadn’t considered one necessary, as he preferred murder to divorce.

      And freedom to marriage?

      She brought his shirt to her face and inhaled deeply. But no feminine perfume emanated from the silk. Only his musky aftershave clung to the material. But that didn’t really prove anything—that didn’t mean he wasn’t seeing other women.

      But when? Over the past six months, she’d noted that he rarely left the house. So she had to make the most of this opportunity before he interrupted her again. She dropped the shirt and turned away from the window.

      And she resumed her search for evidence of his guilt. Upstairs she rummaged through closets and dresser drawers. She even checked the attic, glancing inside boxes—hoping to find some evidence of not just her murder but Melanie’s, too.

      If he had killed his second wife, he had probably killed his first wife. As with the warnings about his womanizing, Olivia had been warned that he was a killer, as well. But she had been too in love, or too infatuated, to listen to any of the warnings.

      And she had believed Damien when he’d claimed that Melanie had killed herself. Was that what he had told people about Olivia—that she had taken her own life? Anger surged through her, strengthening her energy and her resolve as she continued her search.

      Downstairs she checked cupboards and desk drawers. She did not exactly know what she was looking for, but yet she realized she had found it when she pulled a search warrant from atop the pile of papers on the desk in Damien’s mahogany-paneled den. The round room was in the turret beneath the master bedroom—its curved windows framing the lake and the man who stood on the shore of it, gazing out over the water.

      Olivia pulled her gaze from him to focus on the warrant, which encompassed the house, grounds and lake. So the police had searched for her body, but she’d sunk too deep. Even if they had dredged, they wouldn’t have found her.

      Had they found anything else for which they’d searched—any evidence of a homicide? Her homicide? Or Melanie’s?

      Apparently she was not the only one who suspected Damien of killing her. But if the police had found the evidence they needed, he would not be a free man right now.

      Of course he was too smart to leave any evidence. He was too smart to get caught.

      But maybe he had left a witness—one more reliable and able to testify than she was. Ignoring a pang of loss and regret, she left the house and, avoiding the lake beneath which her body lay and where Damien stood vigil, she slipped deep into the woods.

      And she hoped he wasn’t the only one who could see her….