A Tracers Trilogy

by Laura Griffin

They stopped in front of the room. He jerked open the pocket. Anger flashed across his face as he spotted her SIG. He glanced up.

  Oops.

  But, come on. Had he really thought she’d come here unarmed?

  Shaking his head, he dug through everything else until he found the clunky fleur-de-lis. He jerked it free and shoved the purse at her, then muttered a curse as he fumbled with the old-fashioned lock. She watched him, tucking her hand in the back pocket of his jeans as she waited, heart pounding. At last, he jammed the key home and shoved open the door.

  Finally.

  He yanked her inside, and she barely had time to drop her purse on a chair before he had her flattened against the wall. His body was hard. His mouth and hands were everywhere. His hips pressed into her, and she felt the thick ridge of him through his jeans.

  “Bed,” she managed, tearing her mouth away.

  But he wasn’t listening. His hand was up, under her skirt, the other one crushed against her breast. He squeezed it through the wet fabric and seemed to realize she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

  He pulled back and down looked at her, panting, and the desire in his eyes made her knees weak. He jerked and tore at the buttons until her dress gaped open, baring her to the waist. Then his mouth was on her again, licking and nipping and pulling. His hands slid to her hips and suddenly she was up, off her feet, and pressed against the wall. She wrapped her legs around him and clutched at his head, his hair, whatever she could reach as he went after her mouth again.

  Then they were moving, and she held on tight as he crossed the room. Adrenaline rushed through her as she let herself be carried off to bed. It was amazing. Romantic. Amazingly romantic. And then he dumped her on the mattress and gazed down at her, hands on his hips. Her breath left her. The look on his face said nothing about romance. It was raw and dangerous and made her skin tingle.

  “Don’t like the bra I gave you?”

  “Not really.”

  The mattress sank as he rested a knee beside her thigh and slid his hand up her skirt.

  “You like the rest of it.”

  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back as his hand slipped under the lace.

  “You like that?”

  “Umm…”

  His fingers stroked over her, and then his mouth was on her again, kissing and licking its way down her body. Somehow the buttons opened and the dress fell away and all her skin was exposed and chilly, but then his mouth glided over her, warming her, as his hands scorched everything they touched.

  “Oh my God,” she murmured. Half-dazed, she fumbled for his waist, his jeans. Her fingers skimmed over him, managed to find his belt somehow.

  But he pulled back.

  She grasped the belt and jerked him toward her, but he leaned back.

  “Now,” she said. Right now.

  But he didn’t stop what he was doing, and she couldn’t make him stop. He didn’t stop looking, either, gazing down at her with that fiery, triumphant gleam as she lay there, totally weak with need.

  “Please?”

  He lifted an eyebrow slightly. “You can’t always have your way, Alex.”

  And then he slid his hands up her body, making her squirm and shudder, as he gently pulled her arms through the sleeves and removed the dress. He tossed it aside, and it landed with a whoosh on the chair. She shivered again, suddenly acutely aware of her damp skin, her wet hair, and the hot gaze that had zeroed in on the one scrap of covering she had left.

  He slid it down her legs. Much too slowly. And she propped up on her elbows as she watched him. She reached for his belt again, and again, he backed away.

  Impatient now, she got to her knees on the bed and tugged up his T-shirt as she hooked a finger inside his jeans. Finally he helped her, jerking the shirt over his head and tossing it away while she stroked her hands over that wonderful body she craved more than air. She started kissing him. She loved his smell, his feel, the salty taste of his skin.

  But then he was nudging her back against the feather comforter and kissing his way down her body again. She squirmed and reached for him, and he caught her wrists in his hands and planted them up by her shoulders.

  You can’t always have your way. And he was proving it, right this moment, with every slow, languorous touch of his hands and mouth, while she quivered beneath him and he gazed down at her. He took her mouth, kissing her deeply, as she arched and pressed herself against him. He moved down her throat, lingered over her breasts, teasing her until she was ready to scream. And he knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing to her, and he was watching her, savoring every moment. He moved up to kiss her mouth again, and she hooked her leg around him, and the rasp of the denim against her bare skin frustrated her beyond belief. She moved under him and pleaded with her eyes. She was begging now, but the desire inside her was coiling tighter and tighter, and she knew she was going to explode if he didn’t hurry.

  She squeezed him closer, and he smiled down at her in the dimness.

  He knew. He knew exactly where she was. He knew her—she could feel it in every cell of her body as he shifted over her and she heard the scrape of his zipper.

  She closed her eyes and nearly wept with relief as he moved over her. She listened to the tear of foil, the thud of his wallet hitting the floor. She bit her lip and waited, afraid if she uttered a single syllable, she’d choke.

  And then he caught her knee in his hand and pushed into her.

  Every nerve cried out. She wrapped herself around him and pulled him as close as she could. Her hands were in his hair, pulling his mouth down to hers. She moved beneath him, but he refused to be rushed, and he tortured her for minute after minute until she thought she’d die.

  He whispered her name.

  She opened her eyes, and the look on his face as he gazed down at her made her heart skitter.

  He was making love to her. With every slow, sweaty thrust of his body, he was proving her wrong, letting her know that they were connected, linked, that this wasn’t just about sex, and they both knew it.

  He must have seen the shock on her face, because he smiled slightly. He slid her hands from around his neck and planted them firmly above her head. She moved beneath him, lost in the pure pleasure of it, as she let go of all her resistance and gave him what he wanted.

  He knew the instant she let go. She felt it in his body, his pace, as he pounded into her, fiercely and possessively, never letting her hands go, never giving her one single shred of control, as she gasped and reached and struggled to keep up. And just when she thought she was going to die from all of it, he freed her hands and said her name and she threw her arms around him and came undone.

  In the morning, he was gone.

  Alex squinted at the light shining through the windows. She reached back through the haze, trying to remember.

  He’d left before dawn. The room had been dark. She’d been lying there, sapped and sated, after yet another storm of lovemaking. She’d heard the faint jingle of his keys as he’d slipped out the door.

  She sat up now and rubbed the grit from her eyes. The bed was a wreck. So was the room. Her dress was on the chair, where he’d tossed it last night. Her purse was beside it, and her backpack, and the sleek, palm-size device that could tell her the time, the weather, and everything she needed to do today, if only she’d look.

  She got out of bed and went to the French doors, dragging the comforter with her. She pulled it around her shoulders, then flipped the lock and stepped onto the balcony.

  The sounds of zydeco and traffic greeted her. Another humid day. More rain probably, too, judging by the clouds. She looked out over the street, and her gaze went to the parking meter half a block away.

  A black truck was there now.

  She sank onto the chaise and gazed up at the sky. Her thoughts wandered back, retracing every moment from the instant she’d entered the bar. She realized what he’d done.

  The old bait and switch, only in reverse. He’d given her exactly wh
at she hadn’t wanted, then everything she had. He was gone. She was alone. No commitment, no hassles, no headaches. It was just what she’d asked for.

  She curled up on chair, tucked the blanket around her, and felt empty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

  Mia stalked into her workroom and slapped the file onto the counter.

  “Shit!” she hissed, snapping off her gloves and pitching them into the biohazard bin. She dropped her head into her hands and tried to will away the tears burning her eyes. These were the days she was grateful to work in a closet by herself. Sometimes it was all just too much—

  “Rough morning?”

  She gasped and whirled around.

  Nathan Devereaux got up from the stool he’d been sitting on and stepped toward her. “They told me to wait in here.”

  “God, you scared me!” She clasped a hand to her chest and glanced around. No more surprise visitors lurking in the corners. Just this blue-eyed detective. “Who told you to wait in here?”

  “Your friend next door. Think his name was Mark.”

  Mia glared at the door separating her little workroom from the larger DNA lab. Privacy was merely an illusion in this place. She needed to remember that.

  The detective held out a paper bag from the coffee shop downstairs.

  “They were out of chocolate, so I got cinnamon,” he said.

  She snatched it from him, both annoyed and embarrassed to be caught in a weak moment. She peeked inside, then placed the scones on the counter. “Thank you.”

  “You okay?” he asked, and the genuine concern on his face made the tears threaten again.

  “I’m fine.” She took a deep breath and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Time to act professional. “You’re here about your baling wire.”

  “That’s right.”

  She brushed past him and retrieved a file from her in-box. Delphi’s ligature expert had printed up his report, and Mia had clipped it together with the DNA findings.

  She skimmed through the pages to refresh her memory, then cleared her throat. “Your sample was identified as eleven-gauge baling wire,” she said crisply. “According to our ligature tracer, it typically comes in fifty- or one-hundred-pound coils.”

  He whistled. “Lotta wire.”

  She glanced up from the file.

  “Wonder what the chances are we might find some leftovers sitting around in his garage.”

  She could see what he was hoping for, so she went ahead and told him the rest. “According to our expert, this stuff’s the farming equivalent of duct tape. It’s ubiquitous. Also known as hay wire, it’s commonly used to mend fences, bind haybales, or do any number of chores.”

  But the detective didn’t seem put off by this.

  “It might be possible to link it to a specific coil, if you had one,” Mia said. “Do you have a search warrant?”

  “Not yet.” Devereaux propped a hand against the counter and nodded at the file in her hands. “What else you got there?”

  “That’s it for the wire itself. As for the DNA, the profiles you submitted—and I excluded yours from the sample taken from the handkerchief—were consistent.”

  His gaze sharpened. “You got a match?”

  “Not quite. I recovered skin cells from the wire, but the sample was too degraded—probably due to improper storage—to get a full profile. I only got eleven loci.”

  At his questioning look, she backed up. “DNA is analyzed by comparing specific loci. The standard is thirteen. The eleven I was able to get are consistent with the sample from your handkerchief.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, and she wondered how he managed to make a blazer and slacks look so scruffy. Maybe it was the hair. It seemed longer than she remembered it a few weeks ago.

  “Tell me straight,” he said. “In your expert opinion, is it a match or not?”

  “The odds of the samples belonging to the same donor are astronomically high,” she said. “I think it’s the same person.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.”

  And suddenly the horror of this morning faded a bit as she realized she’d managed to help someone today, at least a little.

  She sighed and put the file down, and he nodded at the other one sitting on the counter.

  “Bad case?” he asked.

  “Sexual homicide.” He nodded. “Victim was eight.” She didn’t mention that the DNA sample she’d used to place the victim in the suspect’s home had come from dried tears on a bedsheet.

  “So,” she said, changing the subject. “What do you hear from Alex Lovell?”

  He glanced away. “Not a whole lot.”

  Mia tried to mask her surprise. The question made him uncomfortable, and yet last time she’d seen him with Alex, they’d seemed so close.

  “I’ve left her several voice mails,” she said, trying for a neutral tone, “but she hasn’t returned my calls.”

  He didn’t respond, and she decided to keep pushing. The Cyber Crimes Unit wanted Alex back, and they’d asked Mia to help make that happen.

  “Her assistant, Sophie, tells me she’s out of town on business,” Mia continued. “You know if she’s coming back soon?”

  “No idea.”

  “She’s been gone a couple weeks now. Sophie recommended I drop her an e-mail, said Alex was checking her messages every few days.”

  His eyebrows tipped up. “Every few days?”

  “I thought it sounded weird, too.” Mia tried to read his expression. Concerned? Defensive? She couldn’t quite tell. “Is she okay, do you know? Because our cyber crimes people got the impression she really wanted to lend us a hand here. It seemed to be going somewhere, and then she just up and left.”

  He looked guarded now, and Mia knew her fishing expedition had come to an end. Once again, she’d come up with nothing. She’d talked to Troy, then Sophie, and now Devereaux, but no one seemed to know what was going on with Alex Lovell.

  “Anyway, if you hear from her, please tell her to get in touch with us.” Mia held out her report.

  He took it and gave a stiff nod. “If I happen to see her, I’ll pass it along.”

  Alex pulled into her parking lot and sailed down the row of cars. Sailed. It really was the only way to describe what it felt like to drive around in this boat. But it was growing on her. If it weren’t for the lack of CD player, and air conditioning, and power locks, she might actually consider holding on to this thing.

  She maneuvered into her parking space and glanced at the rearview mirror.

  It couldn’t be. She whipped her head around and looked over her shoulder.

  And yet, it had to be. How many black Ferraris did she see in a year? She got out of the Sunliner and glanced around.

  He sauntered toward her from the direction of the main office.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi yourself.”

  Troy stopped in front of her and peeled off his shades. His eyes were bloodshot, and it appeared as though he hadn’t slept, showered, or shaved in at least a week.

  He gazed up at the sign towering above the parking lot and sighed. “Extended Stay, Alex?”

  “They have good rates.”

  He shook his head.

  She looked him over, and she felt a wave of tenderness. She’d seen him like this before, but never this bad.

  “Looks like you could use a cup of coffee,” she said.

  “I think I passed the coffee stage”—he glanced at his watch—“about ten days ago.”

  “Let’s go.” She led him across the parking lot to the greasy-spoon diner adjacent to the motel. He didn’t talk, and she used the time to push aside all the emotions that he’d triggered just by showing up here.

  They settled into a crescent-shaped booth, and she pretended to look at a menu, even though she’d memorized everything on it. Neither of them was good at just plunging right in. A waitress stopped by to take their orders, and finally they tucked their distractions away behind the k
etchup bottle.

  “How bad?” Alex asked, earning a glare from him. The mere allusion to writer’s block pissed him off.

  “Let’s not talk about me yet.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “What the fuck are you doing, Alex?”

  She laughed. “What am I doing?”

  “You’re scared shitless, aren’t you? That’s why you’re here.”

  “I’m scared?” She crossed her arms. “You’re the one who drove eight hundred miles because you’re afraid of shrinks.”

  “This isn’t about me.”

  “Oh, right. My mistake. You came all the way here out of concern for my personal life. Who told you where I was?”

  “Sophie.”

  Alex sighed. Sophie had flown to New Orleans to deliver Alex a laptop and some more clothes. She’d driven back in the Saturn, and Alex had paid her overtime for all her trouble.

  “She shouldn’t have told you where I was,” Alex said now. “I need to have a talk with her.”

  “Ah, give her a break. She’s a nice girl. Think she took pity on me after I hauled my ass all the way to Austin only to find out you were kickin’ it in the Big Easy.”

  Alex noticed the look in his eyes. “Oh my God. You slept with her, didn’t you?”

  He raked his hands through his hair and leaned back.

  “Troy!” She slapped her hand on the table. “How could you do that? She’s my assistant! And she’s underage!”

  “She is not.” He scowled at her. “She’s twenty-three.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I checked. And I didn’t sleep with her.” He shot her a grumpy look. “She’s hot, though. Don’t think I didn’t think about it.”

  Alex leaned back against the seat and watched him, a bit relieved. If he still had his sex drive, he couldn’t be that far gone.

  Their drinks came, and he gave her a few moments’ peace before launching in again.

  “You talked to Devereaux lately?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You planning to?”

  “I don’t know.” She stirred her Coke with the straw and felt his gaze on her.

  “How’s Melanie?”

  “Same.” Alex glanced up warily. “How did you hear about that?”