Trigger Effect

by Maggie Price

  She was shaking harder now, not just from the cold, but the aftereffects of the adrenaline that had surged through her system. Her heart was hammering, her pulse pounding. She felt light-headed. Nauseated.

  She raised a hand to her throbbing left cheek. Her fingers came back sticky with blood.

  The headlights of the approaching car licked across the road’s surface. Thank goodness, she thought, and was about to step away from the boulder when she realized the car was going too slow. Too slow, even for what the foggy conditions called for.

  A warning blip sounded in her brain. The same type of blip that had saved her butt more than once while she’d worn a badge.

  Plastering her body against the boulder, she watched. The car—a big one, a Lincoln, maybe?—rolled to a stop near where her rental car had gone into the water. No, not near, she amended. At the exact spot.

  What the hell was going on? Was the driver of the truck in contact with whoever was in the car?

  Lungs heaving, body shaking, teeth chattering, she watched. Finally, the car rolled away, a puff of fog obscuring its tag as it picked up speed.

  The night suddenly seemed darker. Colder. Emptier.

  Hunched against the cold, she stepped onto the bank. Shivering uncontrollably, she turned and headed as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

  “Sure you won’t let us transport you to the E.R.?” a petite EMT with frizzy brown hair asked Paige.

  “Positive.” Gingerly, she eased back against the cushions of the padded rocking chair belonging to the elderly couple who owned the first house she’d come upon during her dark, freezing walk. Thank goodness they were trusting souls who’d bundled her indoors, lent her sweatpants and a flannel shirt, then settled her beside the fireplace. They’d even made her coffee.

  “Might be good to have a doc check you over,” the EMT said.

  “No hospital.” If she went there, her name would be entered into a database. Even if they logged her under an alias there’d be a record of an accident victim who’d nearly drowned. With his computer skills, Isaac could track her. No way was she giving him another shot at her.

  Paige wrapped her fingers tighter around the mug her hostess had just refilled, and savored the warmth. From outside the living room’s wide window came the incessant red-blue strobe of lights from the ambulance and the patrol car that had answered the couple’s 911 call.

  The EMT did a final check of the cut on Paige’s left cheek, then stripped off her latex gloves. “I need a signed waiver saying you refuse to go to the E.R.”

  “Fine.”

  She scrawled her signature on the form the EMT provided, then handed it back. “Thanks.”

  “All in a day’s work.” The woman carted her trauma kit toward the entry hall, doing a quick sidestep to keep from getting plowed over by McCall.

  Paige tracked him as he advanced on her. His mouth was set, his dark brown eyes burning a hole through her. When he hunkered beside the rocking chair, his gaze focused on her cheek. A muscle clenched in his jaw. “How are you?”

  “A little banged up, is all.” She’d asked the patrol cop first on the scene to call McCall. Until this instant, she hadn’t realized how much she had wanted him there. Needed him.

  “You look more than just a little banged up.”

  “Scary, too, I imagine.” She sat her mug on a nearby table. “I’ve got a pound of lake muck in my hair.”

  “The uniform said you were at the lake because you got a call. What call? And why the hell did you go there without me?”

  The hardness in his voice shot up her defenses. But the gentleness in the hand he wrapped around hers had her ratchet back the comment on the tip of her tongue. He was angry, yes, but she sensed this was no “it’s my turf” reaction. Not when his face was so taut with worry.

  She focused on the flames leaping in the fireplace. Her training kicking in, she shifted into cop mode and related the facts in a voice void of emotion.

  When she finished, he rose from beside her chair and began to pace. “Dammit, I should have followed you. From the bar to your hotel.”

  “Why? You tagged behind me when we left the PD and drove to the bar. We both checked for a tail. There wasn’t one. And whoever it was in that truck didn’t have to tail me. Not when he knew the hooker’s phone call would get me to the lake.”

  McCall stopped pacing. “Whoever it was,” he repeated, his face stony. “Is there someone other than Isaac who wants you dead?”

  “Just his accomplice.” She shook her head. “Don’t forget the second car with the driver who seemed to know the exact spot where my car went into the lake. If the accomplice drove the truck, it could have been Isaac in the car, checking to make sure the job got done.”

  “Yeah. And now we know he’s got you under twenty-four hour surveillance because he knew you’d been at Low Track yesterday evening. Hiring some hooker to call and say she didn’t want to talk to you there because of your taking down Juju gave merit to her story.”

  “And he knew I had no clue how to get to Ruby’s Place, so he set it up that I’d have to stay on the phone with Aphrodite—or whatever her name is—instead of calling you.” Paige raised a brow. “Is there a Ruby’s Place near Lake Overholser?”

  “No.”

  “Well, she called from some restaurant because I heard that kind of noise in the background.”

  “I’ll have Crawford check with your cell phone service provider. They might be able to tell us where she called from.”

  “Okay.” Paige paused. “There was some other sound in the background.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure. Something that was…familiar.” She shifted on the cushions and winced. It felt like she’d wrenched every muscle in her body. “Maybe it’ll come to me later.”

  McCall stared down at her. “You sure you don’t want a doc to check you out?”

  “I’m sure.” She was suddenly so tired, so used up, that she couldn’t think. “All I want is a shower and a bed, in that order.”

  He held out a hand. “I’ve got those at my place. Which is where you’re staying until I find that bastard, Isaac.”

  She would decide that for herself after her brain cleared. Tonight, bunking at McCall’s sounded like a good plan.

  She slid her hand into his and let him help her stand. Stiffly. “One thing, McCall. Do I have to share sleeping quarters with the other Fiona Shepherd?”

  The full impact of what she’d been through hit Paige while she stood beneath the shower’s spray. With the hot water sluicing through her hair and down her body, her legs began to shake. Tears stung her eyes.

  Her hands were trembling by the time she toweled off. While she used the blow-dryer McCall had dug out of a drawer, she struggled to mentally talk her nerves into calming down. She’d been a cop. She was tough. She’d had near misses while she worked the streets. Always, always she’d been able to take them in stride, bounce back without getting teary-eyed.

  Why the hell couldn’t she do that now?

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale as death, her eyes shining like glass beads, her left cheek cut and swollen from the impact with the car’s window.

  If she hadn’t been extremely lucky tonight—and a good swimmer—she’d be at the bottom of that lake in a steel coffin.

  A tear rolled down her cheek and she dashed it away. Dammit, she was very afraid she was one sob away from a crying fit.

  Okay, so she was doing a crappy job of dealing with this latest attempt on her life. Maybe after a good cry and a night’s sleep she’d be able to distance herself emotionally. Get back to thinking like a cop instead of a scared, weepy victim.

  Good thing the guest bedroom was right across the hall. Because it felt like the ETA on that crying jag was about a half minute away and the clock was ticking. The last thing she needed or wanted was a witness.

  She hung up her towel, then pulled on the heavy velour robe McCall had handed her before sh
e bid him good-night. She opened the door and froze.

  He was waiting in the hallway, his dark hair rumpled, one shoulder propped against the wall as he talked on his cell phone. He’d changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a black OCPD T-shirt that didn’t do a thing to hide the muscular contours of his chest and arms.

  “Thanks, Captain,” he said, then folded the phone shut. “How you doing, Carmichael?”

  “I thought you went to bed.”

  “I had some business to take care of. They’ve recovered your car. A lab guy got your purse out of it, so we can pick it up from him. He’ll take paint scrapings and see if he can get an ID on the make and model of the truck. There’s an APB out on it.” He laid the phone on a narrow, long-legged table that bordered one wall of the hall. “How you doing?”

  She formed her hands into fists so he couldn’t see how unsteady they were. “I’m fine.”

  “You always say that when something bad happens. It’s usually a lie.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “Aren’t you the person who said everybody lies?” He pushed off the wall and stepped over to her. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Well, here’s a news flash, I’ve had a rough day. A rough several days. I’ve always heard Oklahoma City was a friendly place. I’m getting a different impression.”

  He raised a hand and touched her cheek, stroked his fingertips down her jaw. “You’re a strong woman. Probably stronger than you realize. But the adrenaline high you’ve been on since that truck caught up with you is bound to have burned off by now. It won’t make you less tough if you admit you’re a little shaky.”

  She blinked furiously, trying to discourage the tears that threatened to spill over. “I’m scared, okay?” she whispered. “Dammit, I hate being scared. It ticks me off.”

  He cupped his palm against the side of her throat. “When the patrol cop called and told me what happened to you, it scared the hell out of me, too.”

  She knew she should turn away from his touch but she couldn’t make herself do it. His show of tenderness was too soothing.

  “Come here.” He tugged her into his arms, stroked a hand over her hair. He kissed her temple, her cheek. “I’m damn glad you’re alive, Paige Carmichael.”

  “Me, too.” Giving in, she turned her mouth to his.

  He kissed her quietly, slowly, deeply.

  She slid her hands up, wrapped her arms around his neck and let the sweet sensation wash over her. As her mouth moved beneath his, she ached and trembled, aware of how close she’d come to death, and how very much this man’s touch was bringing her senses to life. Her blood heated. Her pulse picked up speed. Their kiss turned fevered, she could taste the need—his and her own. She wanted to give in to it. Wanted to wipe out everything else from her mind. Except Nate McCall.

  His hands slid inside her robe, parted it. His palms brushed down over her hips, his long fingers brushing across her skin until she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  Everything inside her turned hot and sensitive. It had been a long time since she’d felt the tension and heat of a man’s body—a very long time since she’d wanted to.

  She lost the robe somewhere on the short route to his bedroom. He discarded his T-shirt between kisses. She didn’t know exactly when he shed his sweatpants, but they were gone by the time they fell together onto the bed.

  He began a trail of slow kisses at the base of her throat, working his way down while her body arched beneath his.

  She blocked out everything but his touch. His taste. Him. She strained against him, each frantic movement bringing new and devastating sensations.

  When he was inside her, filling her, stretching her, she dug her fingernails into his back, wrapped her legs around his hips, and succumbed to a mind-numbing, shattering release. Heart hammering, breaths shallow and shuddering, she willed the intensity, borne of fear and need, to reaffirm her own existence.

  With the soft light of dawn seeping in around the edges of the curtains, Paige slipped from the bed. She padded across the room and snagged the velour robe off the floor. As she belted it, she listened to McCall’s deep, regular breathing. Against the white sheet, his olive complexion seemed almost swarthy, shadowed by the stubble on his jaw. He was one hell of a good-looking man.

  As for his ability to perform magical feats, well, it wasn’t just a rumor.

  Since he’d mentioned his brother, Josh, had taken off for a ski trip, she didn’t hesitate to make her way along the hallway and into the kitchen. She’d watched McCall make coffee when they ate dinner there the other night, so in no time she had a pot brewing.

  While the coffeemaker did its thing, she called her grandfather. Avoiding any mention of the events of last night, Paige assured Tate Carmichael, then her mother, that she was being careful. Spending time with a cop—maybe too much time. And keeping her eyes open for Isaac.

  After ending the call, she sat at the small pine table in the middle of the kitchen, savoring the heady fix of caffeine. And a great night of sex. Shaking her head, she wondered what she had gotten herself into.

  She couldn’t bring herself to regret what she and McCall had shared. Last night she had needed him, he had wanted her—it was as simple as that. There was no reason to wonder where things would go from here emotionally. There was simply nowhere to go. She was all too aware of the bitter consequences of emotional involvement with a man whose grin could blind a woman to the truth. Not that she thought McCall had lied to her in the past or would do so in the future. Still, she just wasn’t prepared to roll the dice again with that kind of man.

  So, the solution was to keep things light. Enjoy each other physically. Her mouth curved. Judging from their past hours together, there would be no shortage of enjoyment. Her smile wavered. And when they nabbed the guy who killed Lauren Gillette, they would both move on. No regrets.

  With some effort, Paige forced her thoughts to the investigation and focused on Loverboy. The masked man of Midnight fame.

  Who was he? What did he do for a living? If Lauren had gone through with the plan she’d told Brenna Freeman about and confronted Loverboy at home, he’d been smart enough, controlled enough to lure her to the remote area where he’d killed her. He’d then transported her body and hidden her in the freezer at Lang, all without being observed. It took steady nerves to kill and keep one’s cool.

  “You look deep in thought.”

  She jerked her head around at the sound of McCall’s voice. He stood in the doorway, wearing his gray sweatpants, his chest and feet bare.

  God, he was gorgeous. How was she supposed to keep things between them in the safe zone when just looking at him made her throat go dry? “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I woke up on my own and reached for you.” He angled his chin. “And you were gone.”

  Her stomach flipped over. She knew exactly what they’d be doing right now if she’d still been in bed. And she was very tempted to drag him back there. So much for the safe zone.

  “How about one of Morgan’s cinnamon rolls to go with that coffee?” he asked, letting the subject of sex drop.

  “Great.” Maybe food would help her system settle. “Isn’t Morgan one of the kazillion McCalls presently on a honeymoon?”

  “Yeah. She was thoughtful enough to stock our freezer before she left town.”

  Minutes later, he’d dealt with the microwave and settled a plate of warm rolls on the table. They sat across from each other, sipping coffee and eating what Paige thought was the best cinnamon roll she’d ever tasted.

  McCall regarded her over the rim of his mug. “What were you thinking about when I walked in?”

  “The Gillette case. Specifically Loverboy.”

  “I spent a night of passionate sex with a woman and I’m not who’s on her mind the next morning? That doesn’t do a lot for my ego.”

  Paige fought a smile. “Would it help to know you were the first person I thought of when I woke up?”

  “
Yeah, that helps.” He sipped his coffee. “So, what about Loverboy?”

  “I was wondering what type of man he is. What he does for a living. How he lives.”

  “Come up with anything?”

  “Only speculation. But there is something that hadn’t occurred to me until now.”

  “What?”

  “Every time we talk about Lauren Gillette, the subject turns to sex. Rightly so, since she was obsessed with it.”

  “So it seems. Go on.”

  “I saw enough in my years working Homicide to recognize the distinctions between the intense malevolence of sexual homicides as compared to homicides of other kinds, like shootings and stabbings.”

  “Huge difference,” McCall agreed.

  “The killer didn’t strip Lauren, tie her to some bed and rape her before he strangled her. He dumped her into a box fully clothed and stashed her in a freezer. So, even though she was over-the-top when it came to sex, she wasn’t the victim of a sexual homicide. Whatever Lauren was in life, her death wasn’t about sex.”

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way, either.” McCall shook his head. “Good call.”

  “Too bad it doesn’t get us closer to Loverboy.”

  “Doesn’t feel like we’ll do that until Brenna Freeman calls and tells us there’s a meeting at Midnight.” Sliding one hand across the table, McCall linked his fingers with hers. “You sure going in there undercover is a good idea?”

  “That’s our best bet, McCall. You thought the plan was solid enough to take to Ryan and Quaid. They approved it.”

  His gaze lifted from their joined hands, settled on her cheek. “You’ve been through a lot lately. Too much.”

  “I’m fine.”

  When he raised a brow, she huffed out a breath. “That’s the truth. I’m fine.” She tightened her hand on his. “Last night, you helped. So, thanks.”

  “Thanks?”

  “I was pretty unsteady, and you—”

  He reached across the table, pressed an index finger to her lips, silencing her. “Let’s get a few things straight before you say something to annoy me. What happened between us in my bed wasn’t a result of that dip you took in the lake.”