by Fiona Archer
He entered the shower, placing a small vibe on the built-in shelf, then soaped his hands with a generous dollop of London’s creamy liquid soap. The steam of the shower now carried the scent of lilacs.
“How’s that pressure from the nozzle, London?” Heath pressed himself against her back, keeping her warm and teasing her with his hardness. He rubbed his soapy hands from her shoulders and down her sides. And her rib area? Those tiny little squeaks and jolts were a dead giveaway someone was ticklish. As would any cop worth his badge, he planned on investigating that situation further.
With his hands brimming over with soapy bubbles, he swept them up over her breasts and massaged the plump flesh.
Her soft moans were louder and more urgent sounding when amplified by the tiled surfaces.
“I love it when you stretch your spine each time I roll one of your nipples.” He tugged, then rolled the tender bud, watching the way the soap bubbled and popped right over her nipples.
He rinsed the soap off his hands and grabbed the small vibe. “Both hands on the wall. Head height.”
She glanced to her left, watching everything he reached for.
Suspicious wench.
“Let’s see how you like this, shall we?” Heath traced the tip of the vibe over the tender skin above her clit. She attempted to close her legs, but Heath spanked the cheek of her bottom in warning. “Keep them apart.” He didn’t miss the way her face heated as she bit down on her lip, no trace of shock or pain on her face at the light tap.
Just hunger. Raw, needy hunger that ripped away her usual sweet politeness and left only the wanting, squirming, sometimes swearing woman in his arms.
The sound of the water spray was now enhanced by her heightened breathing and the occasional moan.
Heath placed the hand nozzle into its slot. He switched the water back to the main large square rainfall showerhead. Warm steam wafted up around them.
Locking his arm around London’s waist, Heath ran the tip of the vibrator over the outer lips of her pussy, dipping into her sweet wetness and then gliding the vibe over the hood of her clit. Back and forth, varying the stimulation with little pats on the one spot, Heath had her squirming in his hold. Her skin, flushed from her desire and damp from the steam, shone under the lights above.
She’d never looked more fucking beautiful to him, and his cock ached to sink into her warm cunt.
“You want more, Red?” He nudged the hood of her clit back with the tip of the vibe.
“Yes,” she snarled, flicking the hair out of her eyes; some of it stuck to her face, making her look wild, desperate.
“Then let me take you there.” In one swift move, he entered her in a hot glide. Her tight, inviting warmth milked him on every thrust. Her frantic clawing at the wall tiles fueled something equally carnal inside him. He felt himself drawing tight, a rising of his energies, gathering, growing more urgent. But he wanted her with him in that moment. He tapped the vibe over the top of her clit and then pushed down, wanting to drive her beyond distraction, beyond reason. She started to clench around him, each outward stroke a test of the limits of exquisite torment as her greedy pussy refused to let him go.
Her walls squeezed him with impossible tightness. She was so close. Then a rippling of sensation and her high keening cries of pleasure filled his ears.
“You feel so fucking good, London.” Heath increased his pace, hammering her as she rocked into his rhythm, each stroke firing his expectation until he slanted the angle of a thrust and pounded in. Her pussy contracted tight around him and held…held…until pleasure spiraled out of control, and he abandoned himself to ecstasy.
Keeping a hold of her exhausted body, he withdrew and, with one hand, cleaned himself up. Taking care to warm them both up under the spray, he washed her clean before wrapping her in fresh towels. With quick, efficient moves he dried her body and then carried her to the bed.
“I’m so proud of you, Red. This evening you shared a lot about yourself, and I know that was difficult for you.”
“I could say the same for you.” Her voice was soft, sleepy, and Heath smiled as he kissed her forehead. They’d talk more later. For now, he’d have her sweet warm body in his, no—their—bed.
That night, Heath held London in his arms and dreamed about the crash.
But unlike every other time he’d had that dream, this one didn’t end with him covered in sweat and emotionally exhausted. Instead, he was sure he heard his father tell his mother to “do her bit.”
Did he imagine it? Was wishful thinking so powerful? Or was he unlocking a memory he didn’t believe he had the right to own?
****
London slid the character sheets for her project into the blue plastic folder, snapped it closed and congratulated herself on clearing up so much of her old writing desk. Thank goodness she’d worn an older pair of jeans and a coffee colored t-shirt. Great for hiding the dust smudges she always ended up wearing when moving old piles of papers. The trip back to Gran’s house—interesting how she had stopped calling it hers and made the clear connection back to its actual owner over the last week—had been fruitful. And slightly nostalgic.
How funny that, after only a short time away, she look around at things and see them in a different light. The old bookcase across from her desk. All those old trinkets she’d saved over the years. The sea glass she collected with her mom’s parents on a trip down the West Coast. A pinecone from a family trip to see the giant Redwoods when she was a kid. A playbill from her first holiday in New York. All held meaning in one way or another. But where she used to think of her life so much in the past, London now wanted to look forward, see what was still to be discovered. And with whom she’d like to discover it all.
It was crazy, thinking she was in love so soon. Of course it was. Didn’t people really need months, sometimes years to know if a guy was the one? At least that’s what she’d always thought. Heath wasn’t perfect, far from it, but then neither was she. And fricking heck, they clashed over small things. This morning he’d stood there watching her as she cleaned out the coffee machine. The used filter bag and grounds had sat on the sink for less than thirty seconds while she was distracted by the view off his back deck. She’d wondered what it would look like with some potted color from Gran’s garden, but by that time, he’d cleaned up the mess and London had heard his soft sigh—one of impatience she was sure. She’d called him on it, and they’d quarreled. Stupid stuff.
So, yeah, there would always be differences, but…wasn’t that what added spice to what could become a boring existence? And he understood the value of make-up sex. She chuckled softly, thinking of the way he lifted her onto the kitchen counter and enjoyed his breakfast treat this morning.
Now all she had to do was decide when to tell Heath of her feelings. This morning wasn’t right. Sharing that news for the first time was big. Yelling that out as Heath headed out to the garage and his car would have been bad enough. Doing so after he’d gone down on her and given her two orgasms seemed to tie the emotion with sex.
And there was a chance she was overthinking the whole damn thing because, hey, she was a writer and obsessive behaviors for creative types weren’t unheard of.
Shaking her head at her nutty thinking, she stood and took one quick glance around the room, hoping she hadn’t forgotten anything. Notes were in her hand. Plants watered. Paid that bill. That seemed about every—
Her gaze landed on a colorful picture of a villa at Lake Como. It had fallen down from her inspiration board and lay on the floor. Lake Como. One of her dreams.
Hadn’t she and Henry discussed her buying a book on the Italian lakes? They’d been in A New Chapter. The day she’d had her dress rehearsal with Jinx.
Henry had been contemplating a trip to New Zealand. Then he’d changed his mind and put the book back in the travel section. Typical Henry. If only he’d—
She froze.
“Search in your dreams, London.” Henry’s frantic gaze drilling into her head. H
is hands squeezing her arms so hard. “The answers to what happened are here in your dreams.”
Here. In her dreams. The bookstore.
She grabbed her tote, ran out of the house, slamming the door behind her. By the time she had her head together, she was parking a few spots from A New Chapter. Grabbing her phone, she rang Heath, but got his voicemail. She left a message saying where she was and why. Deciding she needed to do the right thing, she reached into her purse and found Snyder’s business card with his number. She was hoping for Reed’s, but the other detective would do.
Snyder answered the call and told her he’d meet her there and not to talk with anyone about this news or start searching. Jerk. He didn’t even give her a chance to tell him she’d left a message with Heath.
She quickened her pace, entering A New Chapter. Cleo was enjoying a rare Saturday morning off, so London dashed straight to the back and the travel section.
She scanned books, looking for Italy, Lake Como. There was nothing. She slumped. No. That…that didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t try to tell her and then not follow through. She ran her gaze over every shelf, spending ages methodically checking the six long shelves. Then she spied a group of five books on the bottom shelf. They sat a tiny bit more forward than the others.
Her heart pounding, she kneeled down and pulled the books out and spotted a book on the Italian Lakes. Grabbing it, she went to flick open the pages and an envelope fell out with her name on it.
She tore it open, revealing a small, thin thumb drive.
What on earth?
Not wasting time, she dug out her laptop and inserted the thumb drive. There was a Word document and a video file.
She clicked on the video.
Buildings filled the screen. It was dark. He’d filmed using his phone. Henry narrated as he walked. “I’m scouting for my next novel. Listen, hear how quiet it is at night? We’re only one hundred meters from the traffic on the 99.”
Five minutes passed. He reached an old brick warehouse on the corner of a T intersection. The building had a loading bay on one side and exterior doors on the other that faced the other street. The exterior was well lit by street lights and a floodlight from a nearby building. Henry was filming from across the street from the building’s loading bay, well back from the edge of the road.
The loading bay door started to rise as another door, this one on the side of the building facing the street, burst open. A lady and a man started running, followed by a large guy chasing after them. They disappeared around another corner.
Oh, my lord.
A car pulled out of the loading bay and onto the road. The video zoomed in. London could clearly see the face of a third man as he raced from the well-lit loading dock and jumped into the car. The driver’s side window was down, showing the driver’s face, too. Once the third man joined his buddy, the car took off and rounded the corner, speeding after the fleeing man and woman.
Less than a minute later, the large guy who’d chased the couple on foot came running back toward the building.
The video got shaky and the picture moved out, as if Henry was walking backward.
She heard the sound of a tin can being kicked. Then Henry’s panicked curse.
The large guy from across the street stood, gun in his hand, and looked directly toward Henry.
Dread filled London’s belly. She wanted to shout out to her friend, to help him.
The video turned jumpy before it ended abruptly. It went into replay mode and she clicked as the walking tour of the streets started up. Hearing Henry’s voice once more, knowing that he…that someone had hurt him…
She sat there, staring blindly at the shelves in front of her.
Henry had inadvertently witnessed…something.
She remembered the Word file.
Her finger moved over the cursor pad, about to click.
“Miss Shaw?”
She looked up. Detective Snyder stood near, towering over her.
Behind him stood another man. Another cop. Senior, judging by his uniform of black pants, white shirt, black tie and black jacket. Gold letters S.P. were on the collar and a shield on the left side of his jacket.
But that wasn’t what sent an icy river of fear up her spine. It was his face.
She’d seen him before.
This man was the driver of the car in the video.
****
“The guy saw Jinx and Mercy and took off. Declan was close to nailing the bastard but someone pulled out in the car and cut him off.” Heath finished recounting last night’s adventure to Derek as he walked back from the photocopier.
“What did the club’s security want with London?” Derek shook his head, as if trying to make sense of such a ridiculous idea. “No way she’d have drugs. She hardly takes a headache tablet.”
Heath dropped the copied case notes on his desk and saw the icon for a new voicemail. “Don’t ask me, mate. They were bloody cagey when I visited them this morning. Said it was a communication error and they should have been looking for someone else on the lower floors.”
Derek made a disgusted sound in his throat and sat at his desk. “And we believe that for sure.” Derek switched on his computer. “Tell me again how you got out of attending this morning’s professional development training? Not even ten o’clock and I’m done with my day already.”
“I did my session the month before last.” Heath gave his partner a smug grin. “Before I forget, did you print that photo of the girl from Vargas’s motel room? DA wants it as background on his physical violence.” He grabbed his phone. "I can’t remember if you took it or me.” He swiped his screen. Jesus, when did he take all these damn photos? Mostly work related. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Swi—
Wait.
He swiped back. It took a second for the close up detailed photo to make sense. Stanton Fox. Moreover, the soles of his expensive leather shoes. And they were covered in the reason Heath had felt the ever-growing unease every time he reviewed their case.
“Heath?”
He held his phone out to Derek. “Look at the feet, the bottom of the shoes.”
“Orange grit.” Derek frowned. “But that’s what was on the hem of Alyssa’s skirt.”
“Yeah, and there’s no fucking grit that color in the alley where our vics were seen to be shot. We assumed she must have gotten that on her skirt at a previous location. Which means Alyssa was tied somehow to Fox, or at least to the last location the man walked over.”
“Let’s not forget they were both murdered on the same night,” Derek said quietly.
Heath’s unease with aspects of the case festered to suspicion. “Something isn’t right here. Hasn’t been from the start of this case.”
“Agreed. Who do we go to?” Derek looked around the room. “What do we say? Avery gave us the case, but we were next up.”
Heath hated the idea the sarge was involved in… Fuck, they had no idea what this was yet. Only that, right now, the case didn’t add up.
“We go to the one man who has been on Fox from the start.” He tapped a number on his screen. “Tollison.” He ended up leaving a message, telling the Agent it was urgent. Which reminded him he had one of his own to hear.
London’s excited voice greeted him. She had worked out Henry’s message to her about searching her dreams and was on the way to A New Chapter, sure Henry had left something for her there.
Heath rang her back, but got voicemail. He left a message and relayed the gist of London’s plans to Derek. Both stood as Reed approached their cubicles.
The tall African American nodded in greeting to him and Derek. “Have either of you seen Snyder? He got a phone call on his cell and shot out of here.”
“No, I didn’t see him leave,” Heath said.
Derek shook his head. “I’ve been stuck at training.”
“Poor bastard,” Reed commiserated. He glanced up across the room. “Kennedy, you seen Snyder?”
The detective assigned as part of the Fox investigation
walked over. “Yeah, saw him down in the garage. He had Lieutenant Brannigan with him. Both looked pissed.”
“Snyder was with the lieutenant?” Reed sent his colleague a questioning look.
“Yeah, I was surprised, but that boy’s a political animal; he wants to be Chief of Police one day.” Kennedy turned to Heath. “I could be wrong, but I’m sure I heard the lieutenant mention something about cleaning up a mess at a bookstore. I put that down to them discussing Banks’s murder.”
“What mess?” Reed crossed his arms over his chest. “And why isn’t Snyder talking to me first?”
Heath tapped London’s name on his contact list.
His call went straight to voicemail.
An icy coldness filled his chest.
He swung his gaze to Derek. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Kennedy asked, but the guys were already running to the stairwell.
“We can’t wait for Tollison’s opinion.” Heath took the stairs two at a time. “I don’t know Brannigan’s involvement in any of this shit, but the facts are he was the only reason we accepted Benny’s witness statement so easily. We have no evidence to corroborate it. No DNA at the scene of the crime or in the car to implicate Vargas.”
Derek was right behind him as they raced the six floors down. “Plus, Portland PD has a possible sighting of Vargas at the time he was supposedly seen shooting our murder vics.”
He tried London again, but the went to voicemail. Again.
As he fired up the SUV, he shoved his phone in the holder and called Adam.
“Justice.”
“Adam, we’ve got a problem.” He updated his brother, and by the end of the call, they had a rough plan. Now all he had to do was concentrate on what was in front of him.
Distractions could prove fatal.
And with London’s safety at stake, nothing could get in the way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
London forced a smile on her face, but nothing could dissolve the heart-thudding fear that took all the air from her lungs. His face. The driver. She was sure.
