“It’s okay, MacLain. You’re right. I owe you, and I pay my debts. Don’t add me to your list of people to feel guilty about.”
“Guilt is the last thing that comes to mind when I think of you.”
She didn’t think he meant to sound so sensual when he said it, but he did. He knew it, too, and it embarrassed him. It didn’t embarrass Marnie. An exciting little shiver ran down her body, and there were those butterflies again.
To be alone, under the stars with her crush, no one shooting at them—her heart screamed opportunity, but her mind snickered. She wasn’t in her pajamas watching them Skype. As much as she enjoyed the fantasy of him enfolding her in an embrace, kissing her with abandon—with her wearing heels and a drop-dead gorgeous dress—it was a fantasy. If she kissed him now, it would confuse him at the least, horrify him at worst. She’d spent two months analyzing him, and she was a quick study. They were from completely different backgrounds. They thought differently, made different choices, valued different things. Hell, they were afraid of different things. There was no way he could understand the workings of Marnie’s mind, and if he did, it would horrify him. Then there was her crush. She’d allowed her fascination with him to turn into something inappropriate. He’d feel obliged to protect her from it. He was that type of guy. The nice type. Admirable. He had integrity. More butterflies assailed her.
MacLain kept his hands in his front pockets, staring at the sky. Moonlight allowed her to see his breath fog before him, the sharp angles of his handsome face, and the furrow of his brow. He was fresh off the win of her agreement to help. It wasn’t a great leap to assume he feared she wouldn’t be easy to control. He’d be right. She didn’t begrudge him the sentiment. Men like MacLain needed control. How else could they save the world? But she recognized his drive, because she had it, too. His need for justice was a version of her need to be legit. They were both trying to define who they were in the world. No, Marnie was not a person who could be controlled. He was right to worry.
It was time to put him out of his misery and give him something safe to talk about. “Elizabeth is lucky to have you.”
He nodded, humbly. His confidence as a father had taken a hit this year. “You got her talking.”
She hadn’t. That was all Elizabeth. “Don’t bring me into that. If she decides to clam up again, I don’t want to take the fall.” She walked past him toward the house, because she was starting to moon over him and feared revealing her crush. It would be humiliating, and she was already feeling off balance. She tried to ignore the sound of his boots crunching on the gravel behind her and waited for him to catch up and walk beside her, but he didn’t. So then she kept worrying he was staring at her ass. Harper’s clothes were too big for her, so the pants were saggy at the seat. Once again, she was not looking her best. Marnie couldn’t catch a break.
In the house, nerves strung tightly, she headed straight to the refrigerator, pulled out two beers, hoping alcohol would ease what ailed her. She used the counter’s edge to open the bottles and handed him one before taking a pull off hers. It didn’t help. She still felt unaccountably nervous around him.
She sat, sneaking looks at MacLain as he sipped his beer. He sat across from her, near the radiator next to the window. Beer. Silence. And MacLain. It was better than Skype, ice cream, and her pajamas. He pulled the flash drive from his pocket and placed it on the table between them.
Shit. “I told you,” she said. “There is no way to get the files off it.”
“It might be all we get. It’s possible to figure out decryption codes. I did some research today.”
She sipped her beer and decided to cut him some slack. MacLain didn’t know what he didn’t know. “If cracking the code was a feasible option, I’d already have that flash drive in the hands of a hundred feds. Without a decryption key, the code could take years and thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. Who would invest that kind of time and money on my word? And I don’t have that kind of money. Or time, for that matter.”
“Well, the feds aren’t doing anything on my word, either. I’ve tried. Worn out my welcome, actually. They’re of the opinion I’ve gone round the bend. Says so in my file.” He snorted derisively. “If I’d known punching the lieutenant meant a diagnosis of PTSD to stay out of jail, I might have kept my temper.” He picked up the flash drive and studied it. “So we’re looking at a big fat no on the flash drive.”
“Unfortunately.” She felt bad for the guy. He wanted this to be easy, and it would be anything but. “We’ll get the files. It won’t be easy, cheap, or safe, but we’ll get them. Maybe you should start thinking about what to do when we have them.”
“MPD, FBI, DA, you name it. If it has an initial, they’re getting a copy of it. And the newspapers. This evidence will not disappear.” His expression gave her a hint of his well-earned anger.
“The video will leak to the public.”
“What? Why?”
She’d figured that hadn’t occurred to him. Not much he could do about it, but best to get used to that reality now. “Your wife’s murder and the video of Elizabeth being tortured will be monetized when it leaks. YouTube, definitely to the deep web. Product placement will net a fortune.” He looked horrified. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the worst of it. “Then it will chase you and your family for the rest of your lives, a mouse click away.” MacLain stared at her, as if he didn’t understand. “It’s the flip side of the justice system. It strips a victim of privacy.”
He took a long swig of his beer, slammed it on the table and watched as the foam grew in the bottle. “That ship sailed when she was kidnapped and her mother was murdered. My daughter needs closure. I’m going to give it to her.”
She could break into the office again, contrary to the line she’d been feeding him for his own safety, and was almost sure she could steal the information again, but she had no confidence she could get out again. Yes, MacLain was trained. His credentials filled a large file, but so did every goon that said how high when Whitman said to jump. This job scared her, even with MacLain’s help.
It was late. Gulping down the beer, she stood and felt the alcohol hit her hard. She was tired and still weak from yesterday’s traumas. “I’m tired.”
“I’ll make coffee.” He shook his head. “We have to plan.”
“Tomorrow.” She needed to get her head on straight before she started working the problem. “You’ll need to show me what you have, those files you spoke of. You said they’re in one of the rooms upstairs?”
“Yes. I’ll show you whenever you want.” His body language and tone told her he wasn’t happy she was calling it a night, and he was looking around the kitchen as if searching for an excuse to keep her there. Marnie kind of liked that. It felt remarkably like he was wooing her, though she knew that was ridiculous. People didn’t woo people like her. They used her. A means to an end.
“Don’t worry, MacLain.” She touched his arm. “I’m good at what I do. I specialize in the impossible.” His arm was buff, and through the thin material of his flannel shirt she could feel the delineation of his muscles. Hot to the touch.
MacLain stood, met her gaze and paused. Then he embraced her and pressed his lips to hers with enough force to bend her over his bicep. She supposed the pause had been his signal, a silent request for acquiescence. She’d just been too distracted by his muscles to see it for what it was. Thankfully. If she’d known, she probably would have screwed everything up. As it was, she was fighting a gurgle of glee, a tittering and an eye roll of shyness. He was kissing her!
He ran his tongue the length of her lips’ seam. Marnie gasped as the tickle unbalanced her. He used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, pressing his tongue inside her mouth and tasting her. The kiss was everything she’d fantasized and more, because it was real. His scent, the feel of him, arms about her, the absolute mastery of his kiss—it was real and all for her. Marnie. Her crush was kissing her like she’d dreamed of, and it was heavenly. She kissed him back with
as much gusto as her trembling lips could muster. Fingers biting into his shoulders, testing his strength, he had her toes curling in her boots.
When his hand ran down her back, leaving a trail of tingling loveliness in its wake, it settled on her ass, pressing her hips close; his arousal was impossible to miss, which she supposed had been his intent. He wanted her and wanted her to know it. Well, hot damn, she wanted him back. She moaned into his mouth, threading her fingers through his silky, thick hair. He needed a haircut, but she hoped he’d delay, because it felt amazing.
Warmth, sweet as molasses, grew inside her as he kept her pressed to his chest, kissing her as if there was nothing he’d rather do. Her heart was racing, her palms sweating. This felt too good to be true…
Marnie stiffened, and things fell into place. She pushed out of his arms. “Shit!” Out of breath and riding high on desire, she glared at him, feeling cheated. “I already said I’d help you. You don’t need to add sex to the kitty.” As contingency plans went, it was a good one, but Marnie refused to be on the receiving end of that grifter tool. “I’m a big girl. I have my priorities straight.”
He shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Why did you kiss me?”
He took a moment to think and then very simply said, “Because I couldn’t help myself.” It didn’t sound like a lie. He took a step toward her.
Marnie didn’t consciously tell her feet to move, but suddenly she was in his arms, kissing him again. His hand reached under her T-shirt and cupped her breast. She gasped. He excited the hell out of her, and he was the best kisser she’d ever kissed. She found the buttons on his shirt and worked them until his flannel hung open. She needed to touch his chest, his glorious chest… Dragging the flat of her palms from his pecs to his abs, Marnie broke the kiss so she could see what felt like heaven.
“What the hell—” Harper stood at the kitchen’s entrance. Marnie and MacLain flew apart, each wide-eyed and startled. “Oh, well, I’m sorry—” Harper looked equal parts mortified and apologetic.
Marnie didn’t know what to do. With a bereft last look at MacLain’s washboard stomach, she hurried past Harper, taking the stairs two at a time. When she slammed the bedroom door behind her, she leaned against it, trying to think. Then she laughed, but she sounded like a crazy person, so she covered her mouth, trembling in reaction. Wow! What the hell just happened? A giggle escaped, muffled by her hands.
Damn. This was his room. She knew it. It smelled of him. She pressed her ear to the door, wondering if he’d follow her upstairs. She heard nothing.
Throwing herself on the bed, she pulled quilts that smelled of MacLain to her face and rolled to her side. Thoughts of his hands on her, his kisses—it was all she could think about, all she wanted to think about. She was shaking in reaction, and then suddenly she was afraid.
Reality, the bitch that she was, would not be denied. There was nothing more dangerous than wanting something you couldn’t have. What was she doing? She’d been down this road before. She knew better.
Marnie threw her feet over the edge of the bed, patted the quilt a few times, and then forced herself to do what was necessary. She walked to the bedroom door and locked it for her own good. MacLain’s, too. Then she lay back in bed. She told herself she wasn’t waiting to see if he would follow her. She wasn’t waiting to see if he wanted to continue that crazy, passionate embrace they’d started in the kitchen. She wasn’t. Because then she’d have to care if he didn’t come to the door. She’d have to mourn her fantasies, two months in the making, and set them free despite knowing she and MacLain would be attached at the hip for the foreseeable future. She wasn’t sure which was worse, him not coming, or her sending him away.
Who was she kidding? If he didn’t come, she’d die.
It took five minutes. He tried the knob, found it was locked, and then he knocked. She wanted to open the door. She wanted a lot in life, but there were some things she’d learned weren’t for people like Marnie. Reach for it, and you got burned. Dane MacLain was one of those things. She’d rather burn for him now than be burned by him later.
He didn’t knock again. But once was enough for her. That once would keep her warm, would fuel her dreams and be consolation for things that couldn’t be. She gathered the quilt to her chest and curled up into a ball, wondering how she’d gotten herself in this mess.
Chapter Nine
Sleeping on the couch two days straight had Dane waking cranky and sore at dawn. Even a shower didn’t change his mood. Yesterday, he and Marnie woke early and shared information. She was polite and distant, a far cry from the sultry, wide-eyed siren he’d kissed in the kitchen the night before. He’d allowed his dick to control his head, and now he was furious with himself. He wanted her, and when she’d accepted his kiss, it had turned combustible, and then…
He sighed. She was like a drug, heady and addictive, and by the time Harper interrupted them, he could barely string two words together. All he wanted was to strip down with her and make love there on the floor, up against the wall, on the table, anywhere and everywhere, as long as it meant he could touch and kiss her. Possess her.
He’d misread the moment. His one excuse was being off the market too long, buried in case files. He must have lost the skill of reading a woman’s signals. Marnie ran the first chance she got. The next day she was indifferent and he was kicking himself. His lack of focus, priorities, propriety, for shit’s sake… He’d allowed his attraction to her to muddy the waters of their partnership, and that was all on him. He couldn’t forgive that mistake, or get it out of his head.
She’d locked the door on him.
Yesterday Marnie had asked to see his files. He’d agreed because no one had ever asked before, except Joe. When she peppered him with questions, pulled apart every decision, every assumption he’d made on every lead he’d followed up and discounted, he’d patiently answered, willing to give her the day to do what she had to do. He knew she was trying to help. He also knew she needed time to recover from her wound. She liked to pretend otherwise, but she’d been shot three nights ago. It was only a graze, but it had to hurt still, be mending, and she’d been beaten up by her near drowning, and was still weak from exposure on the mountain. A day wasn’t too much to ask, not that she was asking for anything.
He suspected she was searching through his files to find evidence that would make breaking into Whitman Enterprises unnecessary. He could have saved her a day’s research. What they needed was on Ian Whitman’s personal server, and they were going to steal those files before the company moved them or did something worse.
Someone woke before him and had the coffee brewing. He knew it had to be Marnie. Harper wasn’t an early riser. He stood in the kitchen, hesitating, because this early there’d be no Elizabeth or Harper to act as a buffer. A hundred pounds soaking wet, and Marnie had him walking on eggshells around her. How exactly had that happened?
She wasn’t downstairs, so he assumed she was still upstairs. He peeked his head in the file room and found her sitting on the floor. Hair damp, wearing the same clothes he gave her when she arrived, she was sipping coffee and frowning at a file.
“Hey.” He sat next to her, trying not to disturb the files lest she had a system in place. “You’re up early.” There were dark circles under her eyes. The last couple of days had taken a toll on them all, but especially Marnie. She never once complained. “Did you sleep at all?”
She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I have a lot on my mind.”
He scanned the room and tried to see it through her eyes. So many files. “This all started with an email in a dead man’s inbox.”
“I’m sure Kevin Washington would disagree.” The suicide case. Marnie dropped the file she was holding onto a pile. “Why didn’t you drop the case when you were ordered to?”
“Information and evidence was being suppressed. A man was dead, and I thought he deserved justice.”
She perused the manila folders. “Your files are comprehensive, but there’s nothing here to indicate Whitman Enterprises is a shell company, or that they had anything to do with Washington. Yet you wouldn’t drop the case.”
“Something felt off.” He shrugged, not willing to delve into the many red flags he’d seen when he brought up his concerns to his lieutenant.
“Then you were sidelined with the kidnapping and Alice’s murder. Thrown off the force because of your reaction to your wife’s death being classified as cold. Even now, you have nothing to tie Whitman to Alice. I guess what I’m trying to ask is, why were you so sure Whitman was behind this?”
“With the Washington case, every lead I had was touched by Whitman somehow and then scrubbed clean afterward. I smelled cover-up, and I was right. Then, after Alice was killed and Tuttle confessed, I found the security feed from that gas station I told you about. It proved he couldn’t have been with Alice, yet the police pretended it never existed once it was stolen. That kind of stonewalling takes someone powerful pulling strings.”
“But no evidence it was Whitman.”
“I never thought Whitman personally killed Alice. But he was involved. You know it.”
She pressed her hand on Tuttle’s file. “I’m not sure I did you a favor by forwarding you the Tuttle bank information. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“I’d be here. Maybe not today, but soon. It wasn’t as if Tuttle’s new influx of money could be hidden forever. I would have traced it, found the link between Whitman and Tuttle. I’d be here. You just got me here sooner.” She met his gaze and then looked away just as quickly, blushing.
In the scenario he just described, she wouldn’t be involved. She’d still be blithely ignorant of whom she was working for. She wouldn’t have warned him at the cabin. She wouldn’t have tipped him off about the files. He’d be here, but he wouldn’t know about Whitman’s extensive files and where he kept them hidden.
Betrayed by a Kiss Page 9
