Trace Evidence in Tarrant...

by Delores Fossen

  "Apparently he or she is gunning for Leland right now. No matter what we think of him, I have a job to do. I can't just let him die."

  Her voice was ripe with emotion, but beneath it he could hear the cop. Sloan could feel the cop in him, as well, and he knew he couldn't let an unarmed man be murdered.

  Keeping his body against the wall, Sloan moved toward the front door. Not the back. There were too many places out there for a gunman to hide. Carley was right behind him.

  Sloan unlocked the door and opened it. The hot, muggy air engulfed him. So did the doubts.

  This could all be a setup.

  If Leland was the killer, he could be using this call to draw them out into the open. That's the reason Sloan forced Carley to stay behind him. It didn't please her, but he didn't care.

  With his gun drawn and ready, Sloan stepped outside. He saw no one, but he could still hear Leland shouting for help.

  "This way," Sloan told Carley.

  Again he didn't lead her toward the back, but instead they kept to the sidewalk on Main Street. He slowed when he got to the narrow alley just before the inn and he peered around the corner to see if he could spot Leland.

  He did.

  The man was indeed cowering next to Carley's car. He didn't appear to be armed, but Sloan knew that appearances could be deceiving—and deadly.

  "Are you all right?" Sloan called out to Leland.

  Leland scurried to the back of the car, where he was out of Sloan's line of sight. A split second later there was that damn swishing sound again.

  Sloan felt the bullet slice across his shoulder.

  It was fiery-hot and it cut right through his flesh. He ignored the pain—or, rather, tried to as he ducked back behind the cover of the front of the building. Sloan cursed. Had Leland fired that shot? He couldn't tell.

  "You're hurt," Carley said, her voice mostly breath.

  Sloan didn't have time to let her know that he was okay. He didn't have time to do anything.

  Because there was another shot fired.

  And another.

  The bullets slammed into the sidewalk, tearing out a chunk of concrete and coming so close to Carley that Sloan saw his life flash before his eyes.

  Damn it, the shooter had moved. The person was probably in the woods. Or behind Carley's car. In other words, Sloan didn't know if the shots were coming from Leland or from someone in the woods just behind him.

  Because this had to stop, because Carley could be killed, Sloan had to take drastic action. It was a risk. A huge one. But he had no choice.

  "Let's go," he warned Carley.

  But he didn't give her time to react. Sloan aimed toward the woods and fired. A diversion of sorts. So he could buy Carley and him some time.

  He fired again. And again while he latched onto her with his left hand and hauled her toward the front of the inn.

  Sloan plowed through the entrance, both Carley and he landing on the floor.

  "Get down and call my brother," Sloan shouted to the desk clerk.

  In the same breath, he pulled Carley into the corner. So they'd have cover. He wanted to comfort her, to assure her that all would be well.

  But he couldn't.

  He couldn't assure her of anything. Hell, he couldn't even guarantee that he could keep her safe. But he could do everything within his power to catch this killer.

  Or die trying.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Carley studied the McKinney brothers, Zane and Sloan. They were huddled in the corner of her living room, having a whispered but very intense conversation. She knew the intensity was sky-high because Sloan's jaw muscles were iron-stiff and his hands were white-knuckled. Every other word was one of harsh profanity.

  "I'm not going to let you interrogate them," Zane insisted, his voice not quite a whisper for that comment. "Not while you're in this state of mind."

  By them, Zane no doubt meant Donna and Leland. The state-of-mind reference was obvious, too. Sloan appeared to be on the verge of launching himself at anyone, including Zane, who would stand in the way of going after the person who'd tried to kill them tonight.

  Sloan obviously didn't approve of Zane's directive. He stood there, glaring at his older brother. Cursing. Mumbling. Getting even more tense with each passing second. And this while Sloan still wore his blood-spattered shirt.

  His own blood.

  From the gunman's bullet slashing across his left shoulder blade.

  The injury had been treated and stitched and was covered with a crisp white bandage. It was a minor injury, the medic had declared. Maybe physically it was. But for her, mentally, there was nothing minor about a bullet that'd come within a fraction of an inch of killing Sloan.

  "Besides," Zane added, glancing at her. "You have to stay here with Carley. The gunman is still out there, and I don't want her left alone. At least not until we've had time to process the area for evidence."

  She almost protested, because it made her sound weak. But the truth was, she didn't want Sloan back out there in the town tonight. Not after they'd come so close to being killed. Until her adrenaline had leveled, until her heartbeat had returned to at least seminormal, she didn't want him putting his life back on the line.

  And if Sloan left the apartment, his life would definitely be on the line.

  If she could keep Sloan safe under the guise of keeping her safe, it was worth any damage this would do to her image as sheriff.

  "Image," she mumbled under her breath. Suddenly that didn't mean a whole lot to her. But she knew what did: Sloan and solving this case.

  But especially Sloan.

  She'd come very close to losing him, and it might take her a couple of lifetimes to come to terms with the sickening feeling she had because of that.

  Zane and Sloan finished their conversation. Well, sort of. Sloan cursed, threw his hands up in the air and stormed into the bathroom. He ripped off his bloody shirt along the way and hurled it at the trash can.

  "He blames himself for this attack," Zane said to her.

  Carley strolled toward him. "I understand. I blame myself, too. And neither of us likes to share that blame."

  The corner of Zane's mouth lifted, but the smile didn't quite make it to his eyes. He cocked his head to the side, studying her. "I hadn't seen it before tonight. But I see it now."

  Since that seemed like some kind of announcement of a personal relationship between Sloan and her, Carley didn't comment.

  "It's not a bad thing, you know," Zane continued.

  It could be, but she kept that to herself, as well.

  "All right. Here's how this has to work," Zane continued. His voice was all business now. "You two stay put until the area behind the inn is cleared and processed. There'll be a deputy posted at the end of the hall, but I don't want Sloan or you to open the door to anyone."

  "And then what?" she asked.

  "You wait until you hear otherwise," Zane confirmed. "I'll round up Donna and have both Leland and her tested for gunshot residue. We didn't find a gun on Leland, but he could have easily tossed it into the woods."

  "Was Leland hurt in the shooting?" Sloan asked.

  Zane shook his head. "Not a scratch. That doesn't mean he's the shooter, but it doesn't mean he's innocent, either. We'll have to search the woods in the morning in case he tossed a gun there. I have a team who'll go through Donna and Leland's houses and vehicles, so they can look for anything that might link them to this attack."

  In other words, this wasn't going to move quickly.

  "I want you to try to get some rest," Zane went on, his tone a little less businesslike. "I need you to be a hundred percent for tomorrow afternoon."

  Surprised, she stared at him. "What's happening tomorrow afternoon?"

  "You'll likely be called to testify before the grand jury. If not tomorrow, then the following day for sure."

  Carley groaned. With everything else going on, she'd forgotten about that. "I won't be able to tell them who tried to kill Sloan and me
."

  "I know. We just need your account of what happened the night you were shot."

  Strange. Carley hadn't thought it possible, but that night was no longer the worst of her life. Oh, no. Since then, she'd been through much worse with the two attempts to kill Sloan and her.

  "I heard about you making it to the next round for Ranger selection," Zane said.

  Carley wasn't surprised. Zane was an important, powerful man within the Rangers organization. "It's a long shot," she answered.

  "It always is." Zane opened the door, started to leave but then turned back to her. "I don't know how deep your feelings go for Sloan. I'm hoping they're deep."

  "Why?" she asked, not at all certain she wanted to have this conversation.

  "Because he's going need you to get through this. He's the good guy, Carley. The one who stayed behind in Justice and tried to take care of things when our family fell apart. That's what Sloan does—he takes care of things. He makes things right. He'll see what happened today as a personal failure."

  Yes. He would.

  "I'll smooth things over with him," she promised Zane. Though Carley had no idea how she could keep a promise like that.

  "Good," Zane said. "Lock the door behind me."

  She did, and it occurred to her that she'd been doing that a lot lately. Except this time she was locking herself in with Sloan.

  Sloan, who needed soothing.

  Oh, mercy.

  Carley held out her hand, saw the tremble. She apparently could use some soothing, as well. The adrenaline was still there. It created a nervous energy all its own and, coupled with the other things she was feeling, everything suddenly seemed out of control. And more than a little dangerous.

  She wasn't thinking about the killer, either.

  But about Sloan.

  There was a surefire way to burn off some of this excess energy. That was the dangerous part. Because it involved human contact. With Sloan.

  Carley did a mental check to make sure that was what she wanted.

  It was.

  No doubt about it. In fact, she didn't think she'd ever wanted anything more than this. So she took a deep breath and headed toward the bathroom.

  Sloan had left the door open, and she immediately spotted him. Shirtless, he had his hands bracketed on the sink and was staring, into the mirror. It wasn't a good kind of staring either. He was obviously riled. At the shooter. At himself. At the world. At everything.

  "This isn't a good time," he snarled.

  "Yes, I know."

  She didn't leave.

  Carley stood there, their gazes connected in the mirror. A thousand things passed between them. Things probably best left unsaid or unfelt. But it was too late for that. It was too late for a lot of things, including putting a leash on her own feelings.

  Sloan's eyes narrowed slightly.

  "You're playing with fire," he warned, his voice dark and raw.

  "Is that supposed to send me running?" she challenged.

  He took the challenge. Sloan pushed himself away from the sink and stormed toward her. Carley held her ground, and because she thought they could both use it, she tried to smile.

  The smile didn't ease the tension. In fact, it seemed to increase it. Everything seemed to increase. Sloan's breathing. Her breathing, too. The energy that was zapping between them. The adrenaline.

  And the need.

  Especially the need.

  Sloan reached out lightning-fast and caught onto the back of her. Carley didn't have time to react. He pulled her to him, and in the same motion his mouth was on hers. Nothing gentle. This was an assault. As if it were the first and last kiss he'd ever have.

  Carley welcomed the heat. It rolled through her.

  She kicked it up a notch. She put her arms around him and kissed him right back.

  That seemed to be the only invitation Sloan needed. He deepened the kiss, tightened the embrace. Building the sensations that had been barely under control for days.

  He stopped, stared at her, his breath hot and racing. "If you're going to say no, say it now," Sloan insisted.

  Carley managed to shake her head. "I'm not going to say no."

  And to prove it, she started to strip off her shirt.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Carley's bra was pink.

  Not a shocking shade of hot-pink. But a pale, barely there color that caught Sloan's attention and wouldn't let go.

  That barely there part applied not just to the color but to the bra itself. Sheer lace. That was it. Sheer. Lace. She might as well have been wearing nothing, because he could see her breasts. And her nipples that were puckered and tight with arousal.

  "Ignore the underwear," Carley insisted.

  "Not on your life." In fact, it fulfilled a fantasy or two, and he was going to take full advantage of it.

  Carley must have had some fantasies of her own in mind. Urgent ones. She reached for him. Sloan reached for her, too, and he kissed her until she went limp. The limpness didn't last long, though, because she quickly remembered that she had hands.

  Agile, busy hands that began to undress them both.

  Sloan knew he should be slowing down. He should be thinking this through. He should be weighing the consequences. But he also knew that thinking and weighing wouldn't help now. Carley and he were already past the point of no return. The only thing that was left was to finish what they'd started.

  Until a single thought managed to make its way through the fog in his brain.

  "I don't want to hurt you," he said, glancing down at her bandaged side.

  "You won't. But I don't want to hurt you, either." She looked at his bandaged shoulder.

  They were a pair, all right. Both injured and both hell bent on doing whatever it took to cool down this heat. Hopefully they wouldn't do any permanent damage before this was over.

  "You won't hurt me," he assured her.

  She obviously believed it, too, because she started to remove her pants. Sloan did stop her then, since there was something he wanted to do before they got naked. Because naked would lead to immediate sex.

  The frantic need was already raging inside both of them. Their bodies certainly didn't require foreplay.

  But he wanted the foreplay.

  He wanted to give to Carley before he took her.

  And he very much intended to take her.

  Sloan grabbed both of her hands in one of his and he lowered her zipper. That didn't stop the urgency within her. Nope. Carley moved against him. Her body squarely against his. And she had no trouble finding the most aroused part of him. She did a little maneuver with her hips that nearly caused his eyes to cross.

  Not to be outdone, he rid her of her khakis and nearly had the breath knocked out of him when he saw her panties. Barely there pink. It matched the bra, and the lace only accented the triangle of dark hair beneath.

  He went from being aroused to being ready to take her then and there.

  Trying to keep things from getting out of control, Sloan unhooked the front clasp of her bra, and her breasts spilled out into his hand. She was perfect. And responsive, he soon learned. All it took was one taste of her right nipple, one flick of his tongue, and she was insisting they have sex against the wall.

  Sloan was sort of insisting it, too.

  "We might not survive this," Sloan mumbled, only partly joking.

  She laughed. It was smoky and laced with nerves and a whole lot of need. She slid her leg along the outside of his, pulling him closer.

  Her need fed his. Not good. There was already enough of that without adding more. But despite that need, that urgency, Sloan didn't rip off her panties and act like an animal. No. He wanted something that pure mindless sex wouldn't give him.

  He wanted to watch Carley lose control.

  And he wanted to be the one to cause it.

  Ignoring the tug from his injury, Sloan pinned her against the wall. It didn't stop her from wriggling her hands out of his grip and going after his zipper. She l
ikely would have succeeded if Sloan hadn't slid his hand down her stomach and into those pink panties.

  She was hot, wet.

  Ready.

  And with just a touch from his fingers, she stopped the zipper quest.

  A low, feminine sound rumbled in her throat. Her eyelids fluttered down. Her breath became heavy. And she moved. Mercy, did she ever move. Carley pushed the slick heat of her body against his fingers, and judging from the look of pure ecstasy on her face, she was savoring this.

  Sloan savored it, too.

  The feel of her. The taste of her mouth when he kissed her. Her aroused feminine scent that curled around him. Drowning him. It was a primal invitation for him to do what their bodies were begging them to do.

  He continued to touch her, to stroke her, to move her closer and closer to the edge. Sloan could feel her that close. So close. So ready.

  But then she stopped.

  "I want you inside me," Carley said. And it wasn't a suggestion.

  Pushing his hand aside, she reached into the medicine cabinet and extracted a foil-wrapped condom. She slapped it into the palm of his hand and tackled his zipper again. She didn't stop there. Nope. Carley kissed him. Hard and long. By the time he was out of his pants, they were pulling each other to the floor.

  The hard tile floor.

  Mindful of Carley's injury, Sloan knew this wasn't going to be a missionary thing. Ditto for her being on top, where she'd have to do too much work. He didn't want her exerting herself, even though she obviously had other ideas. She dragged off his boxers and went after him.

  After a few clever strokes of her hand, Sloan knew he had to do something about the logistical problems caused by their injuries.

  Carley protested it, of course, but Sloan lifted her back up against the wall. She said something about now, reached between them and squeezed him. It was a rather stark reminder—not that he needed it, of what she wanted.

  "I don't want to hurt you," Sloan repeated, keeping his voice slow and easy. It was a hint for their bodies to do the same.

  Still moving slowly, he put his mouth against her ear. He kissed her there. Just below her earlobe, and was pleased that it was an erogenous zone for her. Good. Because kissing her there fired his erogenous zones, as well.