Hunted

by Karen Robards

  “You’re going to lie to me.” Her voice was flat. “Forget it, I’ll figure it out for myself.”

  She clicked on the text messages, skimmed them. Nothing but things like, where do you want to get lunch? and OMG, did you see that cute guy?

  “Put down the damned phone.” He was starting to sound really angry. “I mean it.”

  “How to put this? No.”

  “This isn’t some game we’re playing, Caroline.”

  “The phone belongs to a teenage girl,” she said. “What would she know about suspicious murders? Did she see something? Witness something?”

  A loud scraping sound made her jerk a look toward him. At what she saw, her eyes widened, and she took an automatic step back.

  Looking all dangerous and threatening, he stalked toward her, his hand gripping the headboard as he dragged the bed behind him. All dangerous and threatening, that is, except for the bed, which kind of took the intimidation factor out of play. The iron headboard was, as she had rightly calculated, apparently unbreakable. What she had not taken into account was how light the bed itself seemed to be.

  “You look ridiculous,” she said with a quick, condemning frown.

  “Think I give a damn?” He was shoving furniture out of the way, clearing a path for himself plus the bed. She backed up some more, confident that she had some time. He might reach her, but it wasn’t going to happen fast.

  She said, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Goddamn it, Caroline, don’t do this.”

  “She witnessed something. I bet she took a picture.” She clicked on the Pictures icon.

  “Put the phone down, Caroline.”

  She glanced up again as, with multiple shrieks of metal on wood and wood on wood, he plowed through the obstacle course of the sitting area, shoving aside furniture as he came. Everything about him said that he was deadly serious in his mission to stop her from learning more, and she experienced a brief but measurable qualm. If he thought what she was going to find was really so terrible, maybe she shouldn’t . . . But a picture was already filling the phone’s screen, and she couldn’t help herself: she had to look down at it.

  It was terrible.

  “Oh, my God,” she said, staring at a close-up of the corpse of a boy of maybe thirteen or so, lying on the ground in the dark with a bullet hole between his eyes.

  “Stop right there!” Reed roared, but she ignored him to click through to the next photo. Cursing a blue streak, he was making a terrific amount of noise with the bed as he struggled to get to her, but she was too transfixed by what she was seeing to pay any attention. A woman with a bullet hole between her eyes. Two more corpses killed the same way, both men. The yellow streak of a gun being fired through the darkness, less than a yard away from the head of one of those dead men, taken in what must have been his last split second of life. Those same four people alive, standing huddled together in a dark cemetery, obviously terrified. A man flashing a badge at them—

  Her heart lurched.

  “Goddamn it, Caroline!” Reed jumped her, grabbing her by the arm as he snatched the phone from her hand. His long, strong fingers bit into her flesh. Looking up at him almost blindly, still caught up in the hideous truth painted by the photos, she barely felt his grip.

  “They were killed by cops,” she said to Reed, who was looking down at her with a combination of fury and dismay. “Weren’t they? That’s what’s up with the suspicious murders. That’s what Holly meant when he said it was the cops. Police officers killed these people, and this girl—Elizabeth—witnessed it and took pictures.”

  She felt cold all over as she tried to assess what that meant. An isolated murder by rogue cops? But Reed had taken what he knew to her father and—

  “The department’s covering it up, aren’t they? And my father’s part of it.” Then another truly terrible thought struck her. “What happened to the girl—Elizabeth?”

  Reed tossed the phone onto the counter and gripped both her arms as if he never meant to let go. That was when she registered that he had somehow freed himself from both bed and handcuffs—right, she’d left the key on the table. He must have managed to reach it while she’d been looking, horrified, at the pictures.

  “She doesn’t know anything about those killings. If she did, she’d be dead. Holly stole her phone, was on the scene with Ant when this went down, and used it to take the pictures. He brought me in. I went to your father. And then the whole damned thing went straight to hell.” He gave her a hard little shake that had her glaring at him. “I told you to leave it alone. Why the hell didn’t you listen?”

  “Maybe because I don’t have to listen to you?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Maybe because I’m a cop, too?”

  “To hell with that. You should’ve listened.”

  His eyes as they stared down into hers were dark and turbulent. That look was because he was afraid for her, Caroline knew. If Reed was afraid for her—well, he wouldn’t exhibit that kind of fear lightly. But the knowledge that he cared enough to be afraid for her made some small part of her that wasn’t appalled and scared and sick to her stomach feel—good. Rallying, she took a deep breath.

  “I needed to know what was going on,” she said.

  His mouth twisted and he pulled her right up against him. She felt the hard strength in his hands gripping her arms, the solid wall of his chest against her breasts, the warmth of his skin everywhere they touched, the sense of barely leashed power in his body. Being pressed so close to all those nearly naked masculine muscles made her heart beat faster. Her pulse rate speeded up. And she realized that no matter what, where she found herself was just exactly where she wanted to be: up close and personal with Reed.

  “No, you damned well didn’t.” His voice was rough. His eyes were alive with anger and distress. “If they find out you know, they’ll hunt you down just like they’re hunting Holly and me. They’ll kill you. The only thing you can do now is put the damned pictures out of your mind and pretend you never saw them and trust in the fact that you’re the superintendent’s daughter to keep you safe.” Something in her face must have alerted him that she wasn’t exactly with the program, because he blew out an exasperated sigh. “Goddamn it, Caroline, do you even realize how much danger you’re in?”

  “I’m glad I know.” There was defiance in her tone, and somewhat to her own surprise she discovered that she meant every word. “There wasn’t ever any chance I was just going to walk away from this without finding out what was going on, you know. There’s no chance I’m walking away now.”

  His mouth tightened impatiently. His eyes flared at her. “That’s the stupidest damned thing I ever heard. Of course you’re walking away, just as soon as I can arrange it, and you’re going to pretend like you don’t know shit. I—”

  He broke off because she was shaking her head at him. “Forget it. You dragged me into this. Now you’re stuck with me.”

  “You’re going back. You’re going to tell everyone that you were my unwilling hostage this entire time, that you hate and despise me, and that you’re glad for whatever terrible fate I may ultimately suffer. And you’re going to keep your nose out of those murders.”

  “Not happening. You ever hear the saying you can’t unring a bell?”

  “The hell you can’t. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you. For your own damned good.”

  She met his blazing eyes with a level look of her own. “There’s something we need to get straight between us, right now: you are not and never will be the boss of me. I go back if I want to go back. I keep my nose out of things if I want to keep my nose out of things. Otherwise, no.”

  Their eyes clashed.

  “What is that supposed to be, your own personal declaration of independence?” His voice was harsh, his face tight with anger and frustration. “Cher, this isn’t the battle of the sexes. I’m trying to keep you alive here. Why would you even want to fight with me about it?”

  He was glaring down at her. She glared righ
t back.

  “This is why,” she said, and rose up on tiptoe to press her lips to his.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE STUBBLE ON HIS CHIN as her soft skin brushed it felt . . . sexy. That she had to go up on tiptoe to reach his mouth felt sexy. The fact that he was nearly naked, and she was nearly naked, too, felt sexy.

  Kissing him just because she could felt sexy. Even if he didn’t seem to want to respond.

  His lips were hard and tight beneath hers. Hard and tight and stubbornly resistant, just like his entire body felt hard and tight and stubbornly resistant. But as her mouth moved on his, plying it, coaxing, tracing the closed line of his lips with her tongue, two things happened: his grip on her arms relaxed enough so she was able to pull them free and slide them around his neck, and he kissed her back with a sudden fierce hunger that made her toes curl and her heart leap and her blood turn to steam.

  Then with an inarticulate sound he pulled his mouth free of hers, lifted his head, tightened his hold on her hipbones—that was where his hands had gone—and as she opened her eyes to blink up at him in bemusement he frowned down at her and pushed her a little away from him.

  Just a little away, putting no more than a few inches of space between their lower bodies, because she still had her arms wrapped around his neck.

  For a moment they simply stared at each other. Electricity arced between them, so strong it practically singed the air. Her heart pounded. Her breathing was uneven. Her pulse went all haywire. Her body leaned toward his like the needle of a magnet leans toward north.

  Then she snuggled into him a little more so that the tips of her breasts settled firmly against his chest—her nipples tightened instantly, making her body clench deep inside—and his head reared back and his body stiffened like she’d hit him.

  “We’re not doing this,” he said grimly.

  She might have been dismayed by his apparent rejection if it hadn’t been for his voice, which was low and thick. And his eyes, which had a hard restless gleam that told its own story. And his hands, which were holding on to her hipbones like he couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her right up against him again. And the very concrete (and concrete was the word) proof of his desire in the bulge she’d felt surging to life at the front of his boxers before he had pushed her clear of it.

  “Fine,” she replied in curt agreement, even though her voice was breathless and her breasts felt all prickly and tight and a hot sweet quickening had begun deep inside her body.

  “You don’t want to get involved with me,” he warned. His voice was gritty and harsh. A dark flush had risen to stain his cheekbones. His eyes smoldered down into hers. “Not under these conditions. Not now.”

  “No, I don’t,” she answered with absolute truth, and watched his eyes narrow and his mouth thin and his jaw harden as if he didn’t like that reply at all.

  But what she didn’t add was that it was too late, she already was hopelessly involved with him, having taken a header into the deep end of that particular pool during the previous night, a header from which she was still trying to surface, still trying to figure out if she was going to swim or drown.

  And what she didn’t do was stop leaning into him, or unwrap her arms from around his neck, or tear her eyes from his. And her heart didn’t stop pounding and her blood didn’t stop sizzling and her head continued to spin.

  He was still looking at her as if he burned for her.

  She couldn’t see her own face, but she was pretty sure she was looking back at him the exact same way.

  “Caroline.” He seemed as if he wanted to say more, but he broke off instead to take a breath. He shook his head as if hoping to clear it and his eyes slid over her face. She could feel the tension in the solid, strong muscles of his shoulders and neck, feel the heat coming off his skin. Her lips parted. They had to, if she wanted to breathe. He continued in a rough-edged voice, as if she was making some kind of protest, “It’s you I’m thinking of here.”

  “Am I arguing with you about it?” Despite being tart, her voice was unsteady, because that’s how she was feeling, kind of shaky and off-balance and wobbly and at the same time on fire.

  She looked at him, at his dark, handsome face, at the sensuous curve of his mouth, at the jet-black glitter of his eyes, and felt a rush of desire so strong that she went weak at the knees. He was right. She knew he was right: getting involved with him at this juncture was an absolute mistake. Didn’t mean she was going to walk away. Didn’t mean she could.

  “So let’s break this up,” he said, and from the way he moved his head and shoulders she knew what he meant: let go of me.

  “Fine,” she replied for the second time, still curt. Still breathless from wanting him.

  Slowly she unwrapped her arms from around his neck and let her hands fall.

  It wasn’t her fault that he was nearly naked, or that his skin was so enticingly hot, or that her hands were reluctant to leave all those corded sinews. It wasn’t her fault that they couldn’t resist running over the heavy smoothness of his broad shoulders, or down the solid firmness of his wide chest. It wasn’t her fault that the soft prickle of his chest hair beneath her fingers plus the honed masculine contours of his six-pack abdomen dazzled her into stroking all the way down to the low-slung waistband of his boxers before her hands slid back up his body again with sensuous appreciation.

  It wasn’t her fault that her hands on him made him shudder, or made his eyes blaze.

  Reed made a harsh sound under his breath. “Damn it, Caroline,” he said, and let go of her hips to catch her wrists, stilling her hands against him just as they reached the firm, wide planes of his pecs again.

  Their eyes collided. She forgot to breathe.

  His eyes were as hot and hungry as she felt, and he didn’t pull her hands away from his chest.

  That told her everything she needed to know.

  “Reed,” she whispered. Then, because she just couldn’t help herself, she went up on tiptoe and kissed him again.

  He stood there as if he’d been turned to stone, not kissing her back but not pushing her away, either, while his fingers tightened on her wrists and his chest expanded beneath her hands and heat radiated from him in waves. Then he muttered a disgusted-sounding “shit” against her mouth and let go of her wrists to slide his arms around her and pull her tight up against him and kiss her back.

  She caught fire. Just like that. Like her blood was flammable and he’d just set it alight.

  His lips slanted over hers, hot and demanding, and his tongue took possession of her mouth like he owned it. He kissed her with a fierce passion that sent shivery little tendrils of desire spiraling through her body, that made her insides feel all shaky, that made her dizzy. She kissed him back with an answering hunger of her own, wrapping her arms around his neck again, plastering herself up against him because she simply couldn’t do anything else, because she craved the feel of his hard body against hers, because she was swept away by need.

  She could feel his arousal, feel his urgency, and she melted inside. She burned and quaked and wanted.

  When his hand found her breast through the soft T-shirt that was practically no barrier at all, and cupped and caressed it, and then he ran his thumb back and forth over the already pebble-hard nipple, she moaned into his mouth, only to have the sound swallowed up by the intoxicating heat of his kiss. When his hand moved down to splay across her butt, to press her closer still to his telltale hardness, and then slid beneath the hem of the shirt to find her bare skin, she shivered and gasped.

  “You’ve got the sexiest ass,” he murmured against her lips.

  “You were feeling me up earlier, weren’t you?” she accused, although the lush devouring kisses he was dropping on her mouth were almost as distracting as his hand up her shirt.

  “What if I said I was?”

  “I liked it.”

  “Ah.”

  Then he was kissing her again like he could never get enough of her mouth an
d she was kissing him back the same way, and all the while her heart was hammering and her pulse was skyrocketing because his kisses were driving her wild and his hand was still up under her T-shirt and she still liked it there.

  It was big, and long-fingered, and warm, and there was an abrasive quality to his palm that might have been faint calluses at the base of his fingers. It felt like a workingman’s hand, capable and strong, and her senses were reeling because it was fondling her naked behind. He stroked her curves, traced the cleft that separated them, delved between her legs.

  “Oh.” She made a soft sound of surprise as his exploring fingers found her most intimate place. They stroked, rubbed, then slid inside.

  “Oh,” she said again, and her bones dissolved. Just like that. If her arms hadn’t been locked around his neck, her knees would have given way and she would have collapsed.

  “I want you.” His hoarse whisper came as his mouth left hers to slide across her cheek and nuzzle the hollow below her ear. He had one hard arm wrapped around her waist now, holding her in place for him. His other hand was still between her legs. His fingers still moved on her, knowing and sure, tantalizing her, touching her where she most wanted to be touched, then slipping inside her and pulling out again, in an erotic rhythm that had her melting for him, that made her quiver, that made her dizzy with desire.

  “Reed.” It was all she could say. She was panting, moving against him, rocking into his erection, so aroused by the feel of it against her and what he was doing between her legs that she was gasping, trembling, so turned on that she could hardly think, let alone speak.

  “Caroline.” He bent her back over his arm, trailing damp hot kisses down the side of her neck. Then his hand left its playground between her legs, leaving her empty, leaving her wanting.

  “Don’t stop,” she protested in a throaty little voice, clutching him tighter. Her eyes opened just as he swept her off her feet, picked her up in his arms, and started walking with her, and she saw that his eyes were ablaze with passion and his face was tight with it.