Free Every Move She Makes by Beverly Barton Page B

squealed loudly. When she dared a glance in her rearview mirror, she saw a smiling Reed Conway standing in the doorway, waving good-bye.
    “Now, there, my man, is one fine piece of ass,” Briley Joe said as he walked up beside Reed. “Got class written all over her.”
    “Yeah, she’s a class act, all right.” Reed shook his head and laughed. “She’s scared shitless of me. And I don’t think it’s just because I’m a convicted murderer.”
    “You think the judge has got the hots for you, cuz?”
    “I think she’s scared of me. That’s all.”
    “Yeah, but wouldn’t you like to know what it feels like to make it with one of her kind?”
    “Not much chance of that.” Reed shrugged. “Women like Miss Ella are too high class for the likes of you and me.”
    “That’s where you’re wrong,” Briley Joe snickered.
    Reed glanced at his cousin and noted the self-satisfied grin on his face. “Don’t compare Ella with her aunt.”
    “Some high-class dames like to get their hands dirty—real dirty.” Briley Joe hooked his lean fingers over Reed’s shoulder. “Even if you don’t think she’s anything like her aunt, who knows? Judge Porter might get real turned on just thinking about jumping in the sack with an ex-con.”
     
     
    Ever the dutiful daughter, Ella called and left a message with Bessie to let her mother know she’d be home a little later than usual. She’d been driving around for the past half hour asking herself what the hell had happened between her and Reed Conway. She had stopped by the garage to confront him about the letter she’d received and came away badly shaken and halfway convinced that the man hadn’t sent her the letter.
    You’re an idiot , she scolded herself as she turned left on Tallulah Street. She needed someone to talk to about what had happened and about her confused emotions. She certainly couldn’t run home and confess to her mother that she’d gotten all hot and bothered over Reed Conway. Carolyn was apt to have heart failure just at the thought that Ella might have spoken to the man. And if she even mentioned Reed’s name to her father, he was liable to take gun in hand and go after him. No, this situation called for the sympathetic ear of a friend.
    She parked her Jag in the driveway beside the restored Victorian house at 508 Tallulah Street. Ella’s best friend since childhood, Heather Marshall, had recently returned to Spring Creek after an absence of five years, and the two had picked up right where they’d left off. Of course, during that five years when Heather had lived in Mobile, they’d phoned each other on a regular basis and had visited twice a year. Ella had been Heather’s maid of honor when she married Lance Singleton. She’d sat by Heather’s hospital bed when she suffered a miscarriage. And she’d offered support during Heather’s ugly divorce ten months ago.
    Ella stood on the flower-lined brick walkway in front of the house that had belonged to Heather’s grandmother and had gradually fallen into disrepair after the old lady’s death ten years ago. Heather had spent a small fortune restoring the place, and now the facade boasted its original Victorian colors: pink, cream, and green.
    Working on the house had, according to Heather, saved her sanity after her divorce. Luckily, Heather had inherited enough money that she didn’t have to work unless she wanted to, and Heather definitely preferred a life of leisure.
    Thinking about how different she and Heather were, how different they had always been, Ella rang the doorbell. Even as children, they’d been exact opposites in appearance and temperament. Ella waited. No one came to the door. She rang the bell again. No response. Heather was home. Her black Corvette was parked in the driveway. Ella tried the bell one final time, then gave up and walked off the porch. She’d try the back door. When she made her way around the side of the house and opened the gate that led into the enclosed