by Rita Herron
“How long have you worked with Trace?” Korine asked.
“Almost a year.” Drummond heaved a breath. “He’s sharp, calm under pressure, and detail oriented. Last week, he told me he wants to be a detective.” She dragged a tissue from her pocket and wiped at her eyes.
Korine patted Drummond’s arm. “He’ll make it. Then maybe he can verify who did this and put an end to this vigilantism.”
“I thought you arrested them,” Drummond said.
Korine worked her mouth from side to side. “We did. But we need concrete evidence to make the charges stick.”
Drummond nodded quickly, her eyes flashing with a mixture of emotions, then she picked up her evidence collection kit. “Then I’d better get to work.”
Korine nodded.
A mixture of emotions enveloped her, though, as she glanced at the women. The jobs they did on a daily basis stirred her admiration. She understood the frustrations, too.
But they’d ruined their reputations and lives by committing murder and kidnapping Bellamy.
Still, locking them in prison with hardened criminals somehow seemed wrong.
But they’d crossed the line and come close to killing an innocent man.
For that, they had to pay.
CHAPTER FORTY
Hatcher glanced at Korine, well aware of the tension between them. They hadn’t spoken about what had happened between them, but they needed to.
He didn’t want to lose his job over it. Or his sanity.
And kissing her only made him want her again, which was totally insane.
Detective Brockett transported the women they’d arrested to the Savannah field office for booking, while Drummond and Watley processed the house.
He and Korine captured pictures of the interior of the house and chair setup, then he combed the rooms in hopes of finding something more concrete pointing to the women and the three murders.
The place looked as if it had been deserted for months, maybe longer. Dust and grime had collected on every surface, and the furniture smelled musty and was threadbare. The kitchen held no perishables, simply a few outdated cans of food and a bag of flour that mice had ripped into.
Drummond found a loose button in the corner of the living area not far from the chair where Bellamy had been secured.
“What can you tell about the button?” Hatcher asked.
“It looks like one from Trace’s shirt,” Drummond said. “I’ll pick up his clothes from the hospital and verify that and also dust for prints.”
Korine stepped inside from the backyard with a frown.
“Did you find something?” Hatcher asked.
She shook her head. “No, and that seems odd. We suspect that the murder weapons used on the other three victims were related to the men’s crimes—the gavel for the judge, a knife for severing Whiting’s penis, an ax or a machete for severing Hortman’s hands.” She combed the room. “The only weapon here is the gun belonging to Willis.” She rubbed her forehead in thought. “The Skull didn’t use a gun on Tinsley, did he?”
Hatcher shook his head. “He used assorted tools to torture her. Knives. A tattoo iron?”
“That’s right.” The images in the photographs of Tinsley after she’d been rescued taunted Hatcher.
“So where are those tools?” Korine asked.
“Good question.” Hatcher drummed his fingers on his thigh. The only answer that made sense was that the women had hidden them or that they were in the Tahoe.
Only the evidence team had already searched it and the cabin, and they hadn’t found anything.
Unless . . . there was someone else involved. Another woman who’d escaped, or one who hadn’t arrived yet.
One who was bringing the tools to their killing party . . .
Korine rolled her aching shoulders. It was midnight by the time she and Hatcher left the field office.
Kendall James had shown up and insisted on seeing her clients. When she emerged from the interrogation room where they’d allowed her to speak with the women individually, she looked tired, but she lifted her chin.
“My clients are innocent,” she said. “They are model citizens of society with no prior history of any crimes. In fact, they serve the community in their jobs and with very little monetary compensation.”
Korine said, “We know where they’re employed. But that doesn’t give them permission to take justice into their own hands.”
“They didn’t,” James said firmly. “I believe they’ve been set up.”
Hatcher folded his arms. “We caught them standing over their hostage with a gun.”
“You’re mistaken,” Ms. James said. “They were there to try to prevent a crime, not commit one.”
Korine’s instincts surged to life. “Really? Then they know who kidnapped him?”
Ms. James pursed her lips. “I can’t comment on that at this time. However, with your lack of evidence, I’ll have them out by noon tomorrow.” She straightened her suit jacket. “I suggest that you keep searching for this vigilante killer. My clients are guilty of nothing but being caring, responsible citizens.”
“Caring, responsible citizens report a crime and help the police,” Korine pointed out.
“Why don’t you look at where you’re getting your information?” Ms. James checked her watch. “It’s late, and we’re all tired. Excuse me.”
She pivoted, her heels clicking on the floor as she rushed toward the door.
Indecision warred in Korine’s mind. Was it possible that the four women they’d arrested were innocent? That they had been trying to save Trace Bellamy’s life?
If so, why cover for the vigilante killer?
Hatcher wanted the case tied up in a neat bow, but they needed concrete proof. Hopefully they would find it at the house on the marsh, or Bellamy would wake up and be able to identify his captor.
“I’ll call Tinsley and let her know we saved Bellamy,” Korine said.
Korine pressed Tinsley’s number, then put her on speaker. “It’s Agents Davenport and McGee. Is Agent Camden with you?”
“Yes, he stepped outside for a minute. What happened?” Tinsley asked, her tone frantic. “Did you find the man in time?”
“We did, and he’s safe,” Korine replied.
A long sigh echoed over the line. “Thank God. I . . . can’t believe this is happening. I meant for my blog to help people, not encourage more violence.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Korine said.
“Did you make an arrest?” Tinsley asked.
“Actually, we did make arrests,” Hatcher cut in. “A counselor named Liz Roberts, parole officer Rachel Willis, guardian ad litem Laura Austin, and court reporter Beverly Grant. Do you know any of those women personally?”
A tense second crawled by. “No.”
Hatcher thought he detected a quiver in her voice. “Maybe not, but Ms. Willis had a gun, and the four of them were standing around the hostage. My guess is they got tired of trying to do good and watching the system fail.”
Another strained pause. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“We’ll see. They lawyered up,” Hatcher said.
Korine cleared her throat. “Are you all right, Tinsley? Do you want me to come over and stay with you tonight?”
“Thanks, but I’m okay,” Tinsley said. “I’m just relieved you saved that man. Please let me know what happens.”
“Of course,” Korine said. “And don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”
Tinsley murmured thanks and ended the call.
But they all knew that she wouldn’t rest or be free until the man who’d hurt her was locked up.
At the moment, they had no clue about where he was.
Korine’s body ached from fatigue as she and Hatcher entered his cabin. The memory of what they’d been doing before the phone call teased her mind, reawakening her need.
Fool. Hatcher obviously didn’t feel the same. His gaze shot straight to the picture of his wife on t
he mantel.
Determined to preserve her dignity and her job, she grabbed her overnight bag. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to shower.”
His eyes darkened. “There’s a private bath for the guest room. Have at it.”
The urge to ask him to join her teetered on the edge of her tongue, but she squelched it and dashed into the extra bedroom. The furnishings were minimal, an antique rope bed covered in a dark-blue quilt, and a pine dresser.
Judging from the lack of personal or decorative touches, it was obvious a woman didn’t live here. Then again, her own place lacked decorative personal touches as well.
Remembering that four good women who claimed they were innocent were spending the night locked up raised questions in her mind.
They knew more than they were saying. If they valued their freedom, they would eventually talk.
The sound of Hatcher’s footsteps in the living room reminded her that he was only a room away. That they could finish what they’d started earlier.
That she’d wanted him after they’d parted at Quantico, and that she wanted him even more now.
Hoping a shower would cool her desire, she stripped and stepped beneath the spray of water.
But as she ran the washcloth over her bare skin, she could almost feel Hatcher’s fingers replacing the cloth, and hunger stirred full force.
Hatcher paced to the back porch, desperate to drown out the sound of Korine in that shower. But images of her naked and wet body tormented him.
He flexed his hands and gripped the deck railing, wishing he could touch her again and feel her satiny skin beneath his fingers.
The gusty wind caused the palm trees and seagrass to sway. The cloud cover added a gloomy gray to the swampland and made the water look murky, a breeding ground for mosquitos and a hiding place for the gators.
A reminder that death was a natural part of life. That he’d felt dead since he buried Felicia.
Until he’d touched Korine again.
Suddenly the need to live and feel her beneath him raged through him, and the rational voice that told him to stay where he was faded.
Dammit, he was just a man, and tonight he didn’t want to be alone. He needed Korine.
Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he strode back inside to the guest room. The bathroom door was ajar, steam oozing through the room and creating a sensual haze. He stepped inside, his hands fisting by his side.
If Korine asked him to leave, he would.
He took a deep breath, his body hardening at the sight of her naked outline through the fog. “Korine?”
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
Resigned that she didn’t want him, he turned to leave the room.
She was the smart one.
Taking her to bed once had wreaked havoc on him for months. It still was.
What would sleeping with her again do to him?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Korine’s voice stopped him. “Hatcher?”
His pulse pounded.
Then she eased open the shower door and waved for him to join her.
Heat surged through him as he shucked his clothes and stepped inside the shower. She was wet and warm and glowing from the soap bubbles dotting her naked body.
He lifted a hand and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, and a shy smile lit her eyes. Shy but needy.
That hungry look . . . nearly drove him to his knees.
She ran her soapy hands over his chest, triggering a hundred delicious sensations to ignite within him. Her touch shredded his reservations, and he reached for her.
But she shook her head and pressed one hand to his chest to slow things down. His chest rose and fell on a strained breath, and he stood ramrod straight, his cock jutting out, hard and thick and aching. His hands itched to touch her all over. His lips craved hers.
Instead of kissing him, though, she soaped her hands and slid them over his chest. Slowly she moved behind him and gave his back the same treatment. Her hands massaged his shoulders, then trailed lower to bathe his hips and thighs.
Soap bubbles dotted her bare skin as she faced him again. Her nipples stood erect, drawing his hands to her. This time she let him touch her, let him tease the silky, slick globes before she cupped his sex in her hand. She stroked him, up and down, over and over, until his cock thickened.
He couldn’t take any more.
He wanted her.
But he wanted to pleasure her more than he needed his own release.
She started to stoop down to take him in her mouth, but he captured her hands and forced her against the wall.
It was payback time.
He shoved her hands above her head, watching her carefully to make sure she still wanted him. A smile blended with the hunger in her eyes, and she ran her foot along the inside of his calf.
His legs nearly gave way.
“Korine?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I want you, Hatcher.”
Those words were pure music to his ears.
He kneed her thighs apart and rubbed his body against hers as he claimed her mouth in a kiss that started slow but turned fiery within seconds. She plunged her tongue in his mouth, teasing and taunting him. He clenched her hands above her in one of his, then trailed kisses down her neck, tasting the water and her silky skin. His other hand slid to her hips and he yanked her closer to him, stroking her inner thighs with his cock.
She threw her head back and moaned, and he tugged one nipple into his mouth and suckled her. She struggled to free her hands, but he held them firmly and tortured her other breast with his tongue and teeth. Finally, he released her so he could kneel in front of her.
Water cascaded down her body and his back as he teased her thighs apart, then closed his lips over her sensitive nub.
She groaned and pulled at him, but one taste only whetted his appetite for more, and he plunged his tongue inside her and teased her clit until her honeyed release dampened his lips.
“Hatcher, please,” Korine said in a ragged whisper.
Body hot with desire, he stood, opened the shower door, grabbed a condom from the drawer, ripped it open, and tugged it on.
She helped him, her fingers stirring the blood in his cock until he thought he would burst with pain and pleasure.
A second later, she parted her thighs, then guided him inside her. He stroked and rubbed her while she cried out and her orgasm claimed her.
Needing more, to be deeper, he lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he impaled her. Her warm body clenched his cock inside her, milking him as she rode him hard and fast.
Korine clung to Hatcher and gyrated her hips. Erotic sensations splintered her, making her mindless with pleasure.
The warm water made their bodies slicker, the friction intensifying with each thrust. She nibbled at his neck and tightened her legs around him, wanting him deeper, closer.
Their bodies slapped together in a sensual rhythm that spiked her blood and made her increase the tempo, drawing him deeper inside her as she climaxed again.
He gripped her hips, thrusting in and out and moaning her name as he came.
She buried her head against his wet chest, panting, overcome with sensations and emotions. He spent himself inside her, their bodies still entwined as their orgasms rocked through them.
Slowly, her breathing turned normal, and the water grew cold. Shivering against Hatcher, she managed to turn the water off, then she glided down his body until her feet touched the floor.
He opened the shower door, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her, then snagged one for himself.
She hugged the towel to herself, brushing water from her hair first, then quickly drying her body. Hatcher stepped onto the floor mat, disposed of the condom, then dried his own hair and tied the towel around his waist.
He looked flushed and sated and so damn handsome that tears pricked at her eyes. His breathing was still choppy, his body hot and hard. She feared she’d see regret in his eyes, m
aybe even anger, but the passion that had driven him to join her lingered, his eyes dark with need.
His need spurred her own, and she placed her hand against his cheek and kissed him tenderly.
He bit at her lip, then scooped her up and carried her to his bed. Her rational mind whispered for her to protect herself. To stop this insanity.
But she shut out that voice.
Today had been difficult. The dolls. Worrying about her brother. Arresting the women.
Leaving Hatcher’s bed was impossible.
He shoved back the covers and laid her on the sheets. Still quivering from their lovemaking, she tossed the damp towel to the floor and opened her arms to him.
He threw his towel onto the chair in the corner, opened his bedside table, snatched another condom, placed it on the table. Then he crawled in bed beside her, pulled her into his arms, and wrapped his hot body around her.
Hatcher was drowning in pleasure.
Korine was so sexy and loving, so tender and passionate, that he didn’t want the night to end.
They made love again and again, then fell into an exhausted sleep.
But an hour later, the nightmare came again. Felicia dangling from that tree. Felicia screaming for help, pleading for him to save her.
Felicia’s blood trickling down her neck and breasts and pinging to the ground. Her last breath as she cried his name and death claimed her.
Riddled with emotions, he slipped from bed, dragged on his jeans, and started into the hallway. Korine’s cell phone was on the dresser, a text lighting the screen. Assuming it was about the case or her brother and it might be important, he glanced at the text. The room suddenly grew hot as he read the message,
It was from Bellows. Asking about him—how was he doing? Was he drinking?
God . . . he closed his eyes and swallowed back a groan. How could he have been such a fool?
Korine was spying on him.
Furious at himself, he strode into the living room. His bottle of whiskey sat on the bar, an empty glass waiting.
Why couldn’t he have resisted her?
His hand shook as he poured the tumbler half-full.
