Divine Evil

saw her standing at the counter, tearing open a bag of chips. Her feet were bare, and her hair was pulled back with a shoestring. Long amethyst wands swung from her ears, and her T-shirt was ripped under the armpit.
    He realized he was desperately in love with her.
    She turned, spotted him, and smiled as she poured chips into a cracked blue bowl.
    “Hi. I was afraid you weren't going to-”
    He cut her off, pulling her against him and savaging her mouth. Her hands went to his shoulders as her body absorbed the shock waves. She held tight-he seemed to need it-and let him feed whatever hunger gnawed at him.
    Relief. Simple. Sweet. Stunning. It washed over him, flowed through him. Slowly, without even being aware of the change, he gentled the kiss, softened it, and savored. Her hands slid from his shoulders to cling weakly to his waist.
    “Cam.” She was surprised the sound was audible in the thick, syrupy air.
    “Shh.” He nibbled on her lips, once, twice, then slicked his tongue over hers. There was a lingering zip of wine overlaying the deeper, richer flavor he'd discovered was uniquely hers.
    “Clare, Jean-Paul's not having any luck with the charcoal. I think we should-oh.” Angie stopped, her hand still holding the screen door open. “I beg your pardon,” she said when Cam and Clare drew a few inches apart.
    “Oh.” Clare lifted an unsteady hand to her hair. “Cam, this is-ah… ”
    “Angie.” After letting the screen door slam, Angie held out a hand. “Angie LeBeau. It's nice to meet you.”
    “Cameron Rafferty.” Cam kept an arm around Clare's shoulders in a gesture he knew was overly possessive.
    “The sheriff, yes.” Angie smiled at him and took his measure from the tips of his worn high tops all the way to his dark, tousled hair. “Clare's told us about you.” Angie's brow cocked as she shot Clare a look. “Apparently she left a few things out.”
    “There's wine open,” Clare said quickly. “Or beer if you'd rather.”
    “Whatever.” Cam was taking his own measure. Angie LeBeau, he noted, was, like the jazz pouring out of the radio, very slick. She was also very suspicious. “You and Clare went to college together, right?”
    “That's right. Now I'm her agent. What do you think of her work?”
    “Have some more wine, Angie.” Clare all but thrust a fresh glass in Angie's hand.
    “Personally or professionally?” “Excuse me?”
    “I wondered if you were asking as her friend or as her agent.” He watched Angie as he took a glass from Clare. “Because if it's as her agent, I'll have to watch my step. Since I want to buy the fire sculpture she's got sitting out in the garage.” He flicked a glance at Clare. “You left the keys in your car again,” he said, then dug them out of his pocket and tossed them to her.
    Smiling, Angie sipped her wine. “We'll talk. Meanwhile, what do you know about starting charcoal?”

Chapter 14
    J ANE STOKEY DIDN'T CARE what was done to the farm. She was finished with it. She was done with Emmitsboro, too. She had two husbands lying in the cemetery, each one taken from her abruptly. The first one she had loved desperately, fully, happily. There were times, even after all these years, when she thought of him with longing-as she walked toward the fields he had plowed, the fields he had died in, or up the stairs toward the bed they had shared.
    She remembered him as young and vibrant and beautiful. There had been a time when beauty had been a large part of her life, when such things as flowers in the garden or a pretty new dress had been vital and soothing.
    But Michael was gone, more than twenty years gone, and she was an old woman at fifty.
    She hadn't loved Biff, not in that heart-fluttery, giddy way. But she had needed him. She had depended on him. She had feared him. His loss was like an amputation. There was no one left to tell her what to do, when to do it,how to do it. There was no one to cook for, to clean for, no warm body breathing beside her in the night.
    She had left her parents′ home at eighteen and gone to her husband's, full of dreams and dizzy love and flowering hope. Mike had taken care of her, paid the bills, made the decisions, done all the worrying. She'd kept the house and planted the garden and borne the child.
    That was what she had been taught. That was what she had known.
    Six short months after his death, she had given herself, the farm, the house, to Biff. Even before that he had begun taking over the worries and