Текст книги "Alone in the Dark"

Автор книги: Karen Rose

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 49 страниц)

‘What do you really want?’ he asked, curious now.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a catalog. ‘This.’

Marcus whistled at the six-burner, two-oven Viking range. ‘That’s a monster. Do you cook, too?’

‘I was one of seven kids and my mom worked a full-time job. We all can cook.’ She paused, lifting her brows. ‘But I can cook.’

‘I have one of these,’ he said, pointing to her dream oven. ‘In my apartment. It’s never been used.’

Her eyes widened. ‘That’s a crime.’ She took the catalog and put it away. ‘Speaking of crime, I need to walk Zat, get you back to your job and get back to mine.’

No, not yet. Just a few more minutes. His mind scrambled, then remembered. ‘What about my head? You were supposed to fix it.’

She blinked, startled. ‘I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll walk him and then tend to you. Come here, Zat. Let’s go outside.’

His gaze dropped to her ass when she bent over to fix a leash to the bulldog’s collar, and he shoved his hands back in his pockets when they itched to touch her smooth curves.

‘Just make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘But don’t sit on anything but the blue couch or the rockers in the living room. Everything else I’m still fixing.’

Marcus followed her to the back door, watching as she patiently waited for the three-legged dog to hop down the steps. Then he watched her pull her cell phone from her pocket as she walked with Zat around her backyard, where the dog proceeded to water every blade of grass he could.

‘You’re letting out all my AC,’ she called over her shoulder, not turning to look at him. ‘Close the door or you’ll air-condition the whole damn neighborhood. I’ve got to check my mail. I’ll be in soon.’

He complied reluctantly, not wanting to miss a moment of their time together. Which made him sound all touchy-feely, he thought, but he didn’t care. Now that he’d decided to go for this relationship, he didn’t seem to be able to slow himself down. He wanted her – all of her. And he wanted her now.

She, however, seemed to be wanting to slow things down. He’d have to follow her lead on this one. There was no way he was forcing her to do anything. Even if it killed him. Which it just might.

Reining in his desire, he went into the living room to sit on the blue couch, but stopped short in the doorway. The room resembled a furniture store more than a living room. There were desks and nightstands and even two twin-sized headboards leaning against a wall. Chairs of all shapes and sizes were clustered in groups. Some, like the desk in the corner, were clearly broken, some were works in progress, and others appeared pristine. There were upholstered chairs, desk chairs, dining room chairs . . . and three brand-new rocking chairs.

The rockers drew his interest, and he crouched beside one of them, running his hands over the wood, looking it over. The workmanship was flawless, the design sleek yet homey. A carved inscription on one of the curved runners caught his eye. SAB.

Scarlett A. Bishop. She made these. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘She’s really good.’

‘Thank you,’ she said from behind him.

He looked over his shoulder to see her standing there, her phone in one hand, the wrapped-up leash in the other. She’d shed the tactical vest and her weapons, leaving her in a thin top that showcased every curve. ‘What does the A stand for?’ he asked.

Her dark brows lifted. ‘You mean that didn’t come up when you ran my license plates?’

He refused to be embarrassed about that. ‘It probably did. I was so relieved that the Land Cruiser belonged to you that I didn’t ask for anything else.’

One corner of her mouth quirked up in an almost-smile. ‘Anne. The “A” is for Anne.’

‘Good Catholic middle name,’ he said, and was startled to see her almost-smile fade as her eyes went expressionless.

‘The Bishops are a good Catholic family,’ she said bitterly, then turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, leaving him to wonder what he’d said. Because he’d obviously touched a raw nerve.

He heard water running, and thirty seconds later she reappeared carrying a tackle box with FIRST AID neatly printed on the side. ‘Have a seat on the sofa and I’ll take care of your head. Then I really need to start working on finding Annabelle. I ran a search of all the churches within a two-mile radius around the Anders house. There are over forty of them, assuming Tabby attended a church nearby. If we expand the search area, we’re up in the hundreds.’

Marcus didn’t think he should tell her that he’d already tasked Gayle with calling the churches in the area, asking if they had a parishioner named Annabelle. Gayle had found nothing so far. But another thought had occurred to him during the mostly silent drive to Scarlett’s house. While she sat the tackle box on a scarred end table, he sat down on the blue couch as she’d directed, then took out his phone and brought up the website he used for background checks. But before he started his search, he noticed that the contents of her first aid kit would put most medics’ packs to shame.

‘Are you preparing for the apocalypse?’ he asked, pointing to the box.

‘Close enough,’ she said, taking out a pair of latex gloves. ‘I’m the babysitter of choice for all my nieces and nephews. They can play rough with each other, so I’m fully certified in CPR – adult and infant – and have taken the basic paramedic’s training. No kid’s getting hurt on my watch.’ She glanced at him as she pulled on the gloves. ‘Do you have any latex allergies?’

‘Nope. My body is one hundred percent latex tolerant. Especially the retractable parts.’ He waggled his brows, which made her laugh.

She looked over his shoulder at his phone. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I was thinking about Annabelle and Tabby, how their paths might have crossed and how Tabby would get in touch with her.’

‘They go to church together and she used that cell phone she was trying to reach when you found her.’

‘Maybe. Probably, even. But what if it’s simpler than that?’

She sat on the arm of the sofa, so close he could smell her hair. ‘What do you mean?’

He forced his mind to clear, a nearly impossible task with her so near. ‘Whoever took the Anderses – kicking and screaming – didn’t know to look for Tabby, which means Chip kept her a secret. Do you think he’d let her go to church?’

Scarlett bit her lower lip and Marcus swallowed a groan. She shook her head. ‘No, you’re right. Vince Tanaka had our resident Internet guru do a background on Tabby. I saw the email when I was out walking Zat. The search came back saying that Tabitha Anders’s last known address was outside Boston, but the address was obviously a fake. Chip was hiding her for some reason. So if she and Annabelle didn’t meet at church . . .’

‘Maybe her name is Church.’ He typed in Annabelle Church and the Anderses’ zip code. Fifteen seconds later, he had a match. Fifteen seconds after that, Google had given him the connection between Tabby and Annabelle. ‘Annabelle Church lives three blocks away from the Anderses and is a regular golfer at the country club.’ He turned his phone so that she could see the article and photo that Google had provided. ‘She won last year’s seniors’ tournament.’

Scarlett leaned closer to his phone, filling his head with her scent. But she didn’t seem to be aware of the effect she had on him, absorbed only in reading the article on Annabelle Church.

‘This says that she won the tournament despite suffering from a seizure disorder that’s left her unable to drive a car. She drives to the course in this tricked-out golf cart using the bike path.’ Taking off the gloves, Scarlett pulled up a map of the Anderses’ neighborhood on her phone. ‘The bike path runs through the trees behind the Anders house. You’re right. I guess I made that harder than it needed to be.’

‘It was only a guess, Scarlett.’

‘A damned good one. Let me get this name to Isenberg. She can send a squad car and someone from Children’s Services to get the baby and bring Ms Church in for an interview.’ She got up from the arm of the sofa and gave him a hard nod. ‘That was good thinking, Marcus. Thank you.’

Her approval warmed him inside even as he cooled on the outside when she stepped away from the sofa to make her call. He sighed heavily, knowing that he’d screwed his chances of getting close to her again as she tended the cut on his head.

Finding Ms Church had been the right thing to do, but too many times the right thing sucked ass.

Eighteen

Cincinnati, Ohio

Tuesday 4 August, 4.15 P.M.

‘That was good investigating,’ Lynda Isenberg said when Scarlett gave her Annabelle Church’s address.

‘I can’t claim credit,’ Scarlett told her. ‘Marcus O’Bannion found her.’

‘Oh. I see.’ A very long pause. ‘Anything you need to tell me, Detective Bishop?’

Scarlett winced. Lynda only called her ‘Detective Bishop’ when Scarlett had done something wrong. Kind of like being called ‘Scarlett Anne’ by her parents. Both pissed her off. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘I see. Are you sure? I understand he was there with you at the crime scene.’

‘Yes, ma’am, he was. And yes, I’m sure. I have no conflict to report.’ Not yet, anyway. All they’d done was kiss a little. Well, okay, that kiss wasn’t exactly little. But Marcus wasn’t a suspect and it wasn’t like they’d declared their undying love for each other. Either of those would be a conflict of interest. ‘I have to feed and walk my dog but I’ll be in the office by the time you have Ms Church brought in to CPD. See you then.’ She hung up before Lynda could point-blank ask her if Marcus was with her, only to have her cell phone start chiming with an incoming call.

Scarlett grimaced at the caller ID. When it rained, it poured. She hit accept and swallowed her sigh. ‘Hi, Dad.’

On the sofa, Marcus’s eyes widened with interest.

‘Scarlett Anne, are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘I heard you were shot at.’

Scarlett let the sigh out. Being part of a family of cops meant never having any privacy on the job. Her father had particularly good sources of information – he and Lynda Isenberg were old friends. ‘I’m fine, Dad. Not a scratch on me.’

‘I heard you were in the line of fire because of a reporter.’ Her father’s disdain was unmistakable.

‘He’s a publisher, not a reporter.’ It was a fine distinction, but a critical one. A publisher who did the right thing even when it meant losing a scoop. ‘And actually I don’t have a scratch because of him. He pushed me out of the way. Took all the flying splinters and rock himself, shielding me.’

‘Oh,’ her father said gruffly. ‘Well. I’ll thank him when I meet him, then. Your mother wants to see you, to prove to herself that you’re not dead.’

Scarlett shook her head. Her mother would never ask her brothers to do the same. ‘Tell her I’m not dead,’ she said, trying to keep the attitude from her tone. ‘I’ll drop by when I can, but it won’t be today.’

‘I should make you tell her yourself,’ he grumbled. ‘But I know you’re busy with this case.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘Stay safe, okay, baby?’

She forced her lips to curve. ‘Okay,’ she said with a pleasantness that was equally forced.

A slight hesitation. ‘Listen, about this publisher . . . Your lieutenant seems to think he’s more than a witness to you.’

Scarlett’s teeth clenched. Yet another question her parents wouldn’t dream of asking her brothers. ‘Is this an official question? Sir?’

A pause, longer than the hesitation. ‘And if it is?’ her father asked crisply.

‘Then I’ll tell you the same thing I just told Isenberg. No conflict of interest. Sir. I have things to do. I’ll call when I can.’ She hung up and drew a deep breath.

Her father always did this to her. Always treated her like she was five years old. She’d thought when she earned her badge that he’d change, but he hadn’t. She’d thought when she earned her detective shield that he’d change, but he hadn’t then either. He might never change. She’d learn to be okay with that. Someday. At least she knew it was because he cared, but that didn’t make it any easier to tolerate.

‘I’ve made things difficult for you, haven’t I?’ Marcus asked quietly from the sofa.

Yes, you have, but I’m okay with that too. ‘No, not really.’

‘You lied to your boss. And to your father. Who is also a cop, I take it?’

She frowned at him. ‘Yes, he is a cop. I come from a long line of cops. And no, I didn’t lie to either of them.’

‘You told both of them that you didn’t have a conflict.’

‘And I don’t. You’d be a conflict if you were a suspect.’ Or if I were to fall in love with you. ‘You are not a suspect.’

‘And if I were?’

‘If I had even an inkling that you were, your ass would be in lockup so fast your head would spin. But you’re not a suspect.’ She shrugged. ‘And sticking with me is the best way to keep it that way. If you’re with me, nobody can accuse you of anything.’

His lips curved, making her heart stutter in her chest. ‘Protecting me, Scarlett?’

‘Maybe. Maybe you need it.’ She went back to the table that held her first aid supplies. ‘Mr I’ve-got-concrete-in-my-head.’

‘Touché,’ he said, sounding pleased. ‘You’re going to fix me up after all. I thought you’d be racing out of here to interview Annabelle Church.’

‘It’ll take Lynda a little while to coordinate a pickup with Children’s Services, and I’m only fifteen minutes from the precinct, so we’ve got a little time.’ She pulled a headlamp from the box, slipped it over her head and turned it on, then went back to the bathroom to wash her hands again. A minute later she was back, snapping on a new set of gloves. ‘Hold still,’ she said, sitting on the arm of the sofa again so that she could get close to the cut on his head. Holding a pair of tweezers in one hand, she pushed his hair from the wound with the other and wiped away the dried blood with some soft, dry gauze.

‘You look like a coalminer,’ he said gruffly.

She frowned again. ‘You do realize I’m holding a pair of very pointy tweezers mere millimeters from your head?’

‘You do realize you’ve got your breasts in my face? I have to distract myself somehow, and commenting on your coalminer-ness was the first thing that came to mind.’

She looked down and her cheeks instantly heated, because he was right. She had pressed her breasts almost in his face. She leaned back and dropped her hands, trying to figure out how she could accomplish her task without getting so close to him.

He scowled up at her. ‘I’ll be quiet. Just get the cut cleaned. I can control my baser instincts that long.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m used to patching up little people. The angle is different.’ She scooted closer on the arm of the chair so she didn’t have to lean over so far. ‘I would have had you sit on one of my bar stools,’ she said as she finished wiping the dried blood from his head, ‘but they’re all wobbly. I’ll fix one of them so you’ll have a stable place to sit while I do this the next time you almost get yourself killed.’

‘God, you’re snotty when you’re being Nurse Nancy.’

She started to laugh, but held it back to keep her hands steady. ‘Nurse Nancy?’

‘It’s a guy thing. Naughty nurse fantasy.’

A single glance at his lap told her he wasn’t bluffing. ‘Well thank you very much,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Now I’ve got that picture in my mind.’

‘Are you wearing the naughty nurse uniform in that mental picture?’ he asked slyly.

She huffed. ‘I am now. I thought you were going to be quiet. I have to make sure you don’t have any debris in here before I clean it.’ She stole another glance at the very impressive bulge in his lap and had to draw a steadying breath before leaning a little closer to examine the wound. ‘I don’t see any splinters of wood or shards of concrete.’ She reached for a bottle of wound cleaner. ‘This should help numb it while I’m cleaning it. Again, no allergies, right?’

‘None,’ he said, much quieter than he had been before.

She’d leaned in and was squirting cleaner into the wound when he spoke again, his tone very serious. ‘What did your neighbor mean about “that other one”? The one you gave walking papers to?’

Damn you, Mrs Pepper. The old woman had said that on purpose. ‘Bryan is an ex. Kind of, sort of.’

‘Kind of, sort of?’ he asked sharply. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, first, I did give him his walking papers, so he is no longer anything other than an old friend. We’ve been friends since college. Kind of, sort of means that he was off and on. Never anyone steady. We both knew that. He didn’t want to take the walking papers at first and kept ignoring them. So I put my foot down and Mrs Pepper heard us.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘She heard you? Was he fighting with you?’

‘No, not that time. We were standing in the driveway. I didn’t want to let him in the house.’

‘Not that time?’

‘Like I said, he didn’t want to take his walking papers the first several times I handed them to him.’

‘When was the first time?’

‘Eight months ago.’

His brows shot up. ‘Eight?’

She knew what he was asking. ‘Like I said, we were off and on, mostly off. “On” was usually at his instigation. He was in a relationship until eight months ago, so that was the first time it came up.’

‘And if he’d instigated something nine and a half months ago?’

Right before she’d first met Marcus. She focused on swabbing the cut on his head to keep her hands steady. ‘We’d have probably been on. Bryan has always been a friend, Marcus. We always knew that one of us would end this off-and-on thing eventually.’

‘Will he remain your friend?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, packing the cut with treated gauze. ‘This stuff has antiseptic in it, so you don’t need to add anything else. You should probably have a doctor look at the cut. I didn’t see any splinters, but sometimes they hide.’ She turned back to her kit to trade the wound cleaner for a roll of tape. ‘I’m not sure this will keep the gauze in the wound with your hair in the way.’

‘Then shave it,’ he said curtly. ‘I don’t want to go to the hospital or see a doctor.’

Scarlett winced, both at the hurt in his tone and at the thought of shaving off any of his beautiful dark hair. She changed the blade on her razor and cleared away just enough hair so that the tape would stick. ‘Bryan and I go back a long way, Marcus.’

‘Back to your college days. I heard you.’

And it had hurt him. That much was clear. ‘He’s more like a . . . war buddy than anything else. We went through a rough time together and for a long time only had each other.’ She hesitated again, then sighed. ‘I don’t love him, okay? I never did. Not like that, anyway.’

A moment of silence. ‘What did you go through?’ he asked carefully.

Her hands stilled as she pressed the tape to his scalp. ‘You remember me saying that I’d lost a friend back in college?’

‘Of course. Michelle.’

He’d remembered Michelle’s name. Scarlett braced herself, willing the words to come. ‘I found her body. Thrown behind a dumpster, like she was trash. And there was so much blood.’ She gritted her teeth, forcing the images to the side of her mind. ‘Bryan was with me. We found her together. It’s not something either of us has managed to completely leave behind.’

His sigh was heavy. ‘I’m so sorry, Scarlett.’

‘It’s all right. But there will always be that link between us. I can’t make it go away. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’m sorry.’ She’d finished her task, but didn’t move away from him. And then a second later she didn’t want to move anywhere. He’d leaned into her, closing the distance between them, resting his head against her.

The kiss they’d shared earlier had been intimate. This was much more so.

She peeled off the gloves so that she could stroke his hair. ‘I told him that it was over. Today, in fact. When I came home from the alley, he was waiting for me. I’d been avoiding him for the last few weeks because he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

He shuddered in pleasure when she raked her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, so she did it again. ‘Do I need to go beat him up for you?’ he asked lazily.

Her lips curved. ‘Thank you, but no. I can do that on my own, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I . . . told him that there was someone else. He finally got it.’

Marcus pulled back to meet her eyes. ‘That someone is me, right?’ he asked lightly.

Scarlett chuckled. ‘Yes, Marcus.’

He rested his head against her again, his shoulders relaxing. ‘Just checking.’

That he could make her smile even as the images of Michelle’s broken body continued to flash through her mind was nothing short of a miracle. A gift she didn’t intend to squander. She pulled him a little closer, her eyes sliding shut when he wrapped an arm around her waist and simply held her. She felt . . . cocooned. Safe. Wanted.

His arm remained curved around her waist, his hand lightly gripping her hip. He touched her nowhere else, but God, she wanted him to. Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples tight and sensitive, her panties moist. She could smell her own arousal. From the deep breaths he drew, she could tell he could too.

She was going to have to change her clothes before heading back to work. She couldn’t go question a woman named Church while smelling like sex.

‘I have a confession to make,’ he murmured, his breath warm against her breast.

She swallowed hard, her mind no longer on the job. ‘More stalking?’ she asked, the words coming out husky and thick.

He turned his head so that his lips brushed against her nipple, sending a stream of current straight between her thighs, making her suck in a startled breath. ‘No, Detective Smartass,’ he muttered. ‘Just for that I won’t.’

She stroked his hair some more, wondering if he meant that he wouldn’t tell her or that he wouldn’t touch her. Both were unacceptable. ‘Tell me. Please.’

He was quiet for so long that she thought he’d been serious about not confessing, but then he whispered, ‘You think I don’t like hospitals because of what happened last year.’

One of her hands dropped to his chest, her fingers seeking the place where the bullet had ripped his skin, piercing one of his lungs, but all she felt was his Kevlar vest and she was thankful for it. ‘But that’s not the reason?’

‘No. The real reason is that when I was young, my mother spent a lot of time in a hospital. I visited her there and it was not pleasant. The smell of antiseptic makes me . . . Well, it makes me go back to a place I never want to see again.’

There was something here, she thought. Something much deeper. ‘Why was your mom in the hospital, Marcus?’

Another, longer, silence. ‘She took a lot of pills. I couldn’t wake her up, so I called 911. She was almost gone when they got her to the ER.’

‘Oh no,’ she whispered. ‘How old were you?’

‘Eight.’

The same age that he’d moved in with his grandfather. ‘Why did she take the pills?’

His throat convulsed against her as he fought to swallow. ‘It was right around the time my father died. So, uh, no hospitals, okay?’

‘Okay.’ She kissed the top of his head, wishing she could take the hurt away, but understanding the tentacles those old memories wound into one’s brain. And understanding that he’d offered her one of his secrets because she’d given him one of hers. ‘If it starts to get infected, I’ll call Dani, Deacon’s sister. She can check you out here or down at her shelter.’

‘All right.’ He drew another breath. ‘You smell so damn good. I remember that from when you came to see me. When things got too intense, when the smell of antiseptic started to choke me, I’d think about how good you smelled. Like wildflowers.’

‘Honeysuckle,’ she whispered. ‘It’s my shampoo. And body wash.’

This time she felt his cheeks crease in a smile. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘For replacing the memory of my mom in the hospital with one of you naked and sudsy in the shower. With my hands all over you, getting you very, very clean.’

Everything deep inside her clenched, desperately wanting. ‘Oh,’ she breathed quietly. ‘Unfair, O’Bannion. Really unfair.’

His chuckle was wicked. ‘I have another confession,’ he said.

She thought she just might like this one better. ‘Tell me.’

Abruptly he moved, grabbing her around the waist and yanking her down to the sofa. A second later she was on her back, staring up into his dark eyes. His body was a welcome weight, the bulge in his pants now hard and thick, positioned exactly where it felt the best.

Well, not exactly where it felt the best. There wasn’t enough time for that.

But she wished there was, especially when he began slowly thrusting against her. Her eyes slid closed on a low moan. She really wished there was. ‘What is your confession?’ she managed, gasping when his thrusts became harder, faster.

His head dipped low, his lips kissing a line of fire up her throat, along her jaw, up to her ear. ‘I dream.’

A shudder racked her body. ‘So do I. I have for months and months. Since the first day I saw you. Heard you.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ he demanded hoarsely.

She opened her eyes, snaring his gaze. ‘Why didn’t you?’

His hands kneaded her shoulders fitfully. ‘If I did have a reason, for the life of me I can’t remember what it was. In my dreams, you’re always looking up at me just like this.’

She brushed her fingers against his cheek, already dark with stubble even though he’d shaved only a few hours before. ‘In my dreams, it’s always your voice.’

‘Good to know,’ he murmured. His dark eyes flared hot and needy as they slowly traveled from her face to her breasts, lingering there for a heartbeat or two or ten before returning to her face, staring down at her like she was a treat he wanted to devour.

The tight rein she’d kept on her response simply snapped. She slid her hands into his hair, pulling his head down as she lifted hers up, meeting him halfway, kissing him the way she’d done earlier in that parking lot. And in all of her dreams. Their dreams.

He’d been dreaming of her too. All this time, she thought. All this time wasted.

And then she stopped thinking when he gripped her hips and hauled her into him, his groan vibrating against her lips, her breasts, everywhere he touched her. He took over the kiss, slanting his mouth, teasing her lips with little licks of his tongue, urging her to open for him, then groaning into her mouth when she did.

His hands squeezed her hips, then slid beneath her to flatten at the small of her back, clenching in the fabric of her shirt as he kissed her mindless. He broke away to let them breathe, kissing his way down her throat, then running his tongue back up, and then he was kissing her again like a man starved. She dug her fingers into his muscled shoulders, struggling to get closer to that hard ridge in his jeans.

She heard a low growl of frustration, then realized it had come from her throat. The growl became a moan, his greedy mouth muffling her cry of satisfaction as she thrust back, her release coiling tighter and tighter.

She couldn’t remember ever feeling this good while still wearing her clothes. Once again he pulled back to let her breathe, and her head fell against the sofa cushion. She was panting, for God’s sake. She could run a seven-minute mile, but he had her so wound up that her lungs felt like they were about to burst. He was panting too, but he didn’t seem the least bit deterred, pressing hot, wet kisses down her throat and along the edge of the scoop-neck T-shirt she wore. All while he continued the hard, steady thrusting between her legs.

‘Feels so damn good,’ she whispered, and he pulled back to meet her eyes, his hunger laid bare.

‘I want you,’ he said quietly. ‘I have dreamed of having you every way imaginable. Woken up so damn hard it hurt. I want to taste you and touch you and stroke you and watch you come for me. Over and over and over. And then I want to come inside you and start all over again until you scream my name.’

Scarlett opened her mouth, but not a single word came out, the images his words evoked winding her even tighter. But her expression must have been sufficient, because his mouth curved with satisfaction.

‘Is that a yes?’ he asked, dropping his voice a few notes lower.

She swallowed audibly. Nodded. Forced real words out of her mouth. ‘That’s a yes.’

His eyes closed, his erection becoming even harder when she hadn’t thought it possible. Without warning, he palmed her breast and she cried out in stunned pleasure, hardly even aware that he was pushing up her shirt and her bra along with it until she felt his hot, moist mouth close over her bare nipple. A low moan rumbled from her throat as he sucked hard, making everything inside her go taut as a bow. ‘Oh God.’

He released her breast and she grasped the back of his neck, urging him back down. ‘More. Please. Don’t stop.’

‘Scarlett.’ No longer smooth, his voice sounded raw. Nearly a growl. ‘Look at me.’

She did, and instantly felt her inner muscles contract, her body responding to the urgency in his eyes. His hand slid between them, his fingers tugging on the button of her slacks. ‘Yes or no?’ he whispered hoarsely.

She bucked her hips up against his hand, looking him square in the eye so that there would be no doubt for either of them. ‘Yes.’

Lincoln Park, Michigan

Tuesday 4 August, 4.30 P.M.

Drake Connor sat in his sister’s car, glaring at the gas gauge and its fucking ‘E’. The ads lied. Belle’s Civic didn’t get nearly the miles per gallon they promised. He should have been able to make it into Detroit. Instead he was sitting on the side of the road with an empty tank, his buddy wasn’t answering his cell phone, and his bitch sister had reported her credit card as stolen.

Just because I borrowed it. She didn’t have to get her nose all out of joint.

He hadn’t been able to get gas a few exits back because the card had been declined. He was lucky he hadn’t been caught. He didn’t dare try again and he’d already spent the cash he’d taken from her purse on another box of bullets and a greasy burger. The burger had been hours ago and he was starting to get hungry. When he got hungry, he got mean.

So he tried to never get hungry. Thanks to his bitch-face sister, it looked like hunger was going to be unavoidable.

Cursing, he tucked the Ruger he’d stolen from Stephanie’s father at his back, in the waistband of his jeans, and untucked his shirt to cover it up. He was going to have to walk.