Cold Touch
Page 22
She would bet he’d rather go back to the precinct and get to work on that list immediately rather than escort Mick to the evidence lockup. Then again, considering how fascinated he’d looked by Mick’s teacup performance, maybe not.
Gabe turned his attention toward Derek, who was, as usual, sitting a little apart from the group, over by the window. Though a good guy, Derek was a bit of a lone wolf. He definitely looked the part, right down to the faded jeans, the tight black T-shirt, the engineer boots and the chain looping from his belt to his back pocket. With the clothes, the motorcycle, his longish hair and unshaven face, he looked more like the kind of guy the police would be investigating rather than one who’d be helping with an investigation. His attitude usually didn’t help matters, either.
Surprisingly, though, he’d been pretty receptive to this whole working-together idea. Normally, Derek didn’t play well with others. Olivia had never had any problems with him, except for the fact that he was a little irritable on occasion, but he and Julia had gone toe-to-toe a few times. And she knew Mick’s sense of humor sometimes grated on his nerves. Despite that, they all still respected one another, which was why he stayed.
That was a good thing; Derek was incredibly gifted.
“Julia and Derek are going out to the site of the old barn where Liv was held to see if there’s anything left to find,” Gabe said, “and to do whatever else it is they’re going to do.”
Olivia knew what they were going to do. Derek—dark, dangerous-looking Derek—had a good eye. A really good one. In fact, it was so good, he was able to see the imprint a violent death left on the world. Not cognizant ghosts, like the one Julia saw. Or the one I spoke with? These were more like photocopies: It wasn’t real; it was Memorex.
If anybody else had been killed around that barn, Derek would see an imprint of it. Not who did it—he only saw the victims. Still, the knowledge of exactly where and how somebody had died could be very important. He’d give the information to Julia, and she would give it to Morgan, who would leave for a while, then come back with some useful tidbits. Like whether the person who’d died was still “lurking around” somewhere, or if he or she was beyond his reach.
For the first time, she wondered where Morgan got those tidbits and where those spirits lurked. Did he go to the station Zachary had mentioned? And what was it, some kind of railroad depot between this world and the hereafter?
Sometimes she wished she had been left with some memories of what had happened during the two minutes and ten seconds she’d been dead. Had she gone to that station? Been unable to afford the fare? Missed her train? What?
“And Olivia and I,” Gabe said, looking her in the eye as if he realized she’d been drifting, “will go over the names Agent Ames e-mailed me, find out what those people are up to now and see if we can come up with another possible suspect.”
“I’ll do my best,” she told him, though she knew her parents should probably be the ones to help him with that list. She might remember some of the names, but she wouldn’t recall them all. But she still didn’t want her parents to know any of this was happening, not until it was absolutely necessary. Bad enough that Brooke had gotten sucked into this.
Olivia had promised to call her sister this morning to let Brooke know what was happening. As much as she hated to admit it, Olivia figured Brooke might be able to help. “Brooke was pretty young, but she was at the house during the days I was missing. She might recognize some of the names I don’t.”
“Want me to go pick her up?” asked Ty, with a quick, suggestive lift of his eyebrows.
Interesting. It appeared the handsome detective had a mild crush on her baby sister. She only wondered whether Brooke had noticed and what she thought of it. Considering Brooke was engaged, she probably wasn’t interested. But considering she was engaged to a jackass . . . Olivia couldn’t help hoping maybe she was.
“You need to go with Mick,” Gabe told his partner, rising to his feet.
Everyone else followed suit, exchanging phone numbers and other information, then leaving two by two. Meanwhile, Olivia made a quick call to her sister, who promised to come in immediately, sounding excited at being involved. Olivia only hoped that excitement didn’t get Brooke into any kind of trouble—with her fiancé or anyone else.
Soon, Olivia and Gabe were alone in the silent conference room, alone for the first time since last night. He stood at the head of the table, a few feet away, busy reading over some paperwork, and she took a long moment to stare at him: the masculine profile, the perfect mouth, the strong, slightly stubbled jaw.
Memories of how it had felt to taste him, to touch him, washed over her. Her fingers tingled as she remembered touching that flat stomach, rippling with muscle. Oh, had she wanted to keep touching him. All over.
A sensation that was part awkwardness and part anticipation slipped through her. She’d been wondering since last night if he’d kissed her back strictly because he felt sorry for her and because she’d practically leapt on top of him. God, she hoped not. She didn’t know what she would do if she found out this intense attraction was strictly one-sided.
There was one way to find out, she supposed. “So, about what happened yesterday . . .”
“At the coroner’s office?” he asked, immediately frowning.
“No, uh, afterward. In my room.”
Unfortunately, his frown didn’t ease up by much. “Yeah,” he said, not meeting her eye, “I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m not,” she said with a simple shrug.
He turned slightly away from her, busying himself with the files, opening them and spreading some lists out on the table.
“Hello? Did you just drop out of this conversation?”
“I didn’t know we were having one.”
She walked around the table and pushed a chair out of the way so she could stand toe-to-toe with him. “Well, we are. I’d like to know what you’re thinking.”
He thrust his hand through his hair as if frustrated, then asked, “You want the truth?”
“I would prefer it, yes.”
“Okay, truth. I think we should forget it ever happened. Last night was great. I loved hanging out with you, getting to know you. But what happened in your room . . .”
“So you’ll be my friend, you just don’t want to kiss me.”
He blew out a hard breath. “Kissing you—that was a mistake.”
Olivia paused, letting herself process that, not reacting immediately. Ghosts in parking garages notwithstanding, she was a pretty calm, deliberate person. She didn’t like to make snap judgments and preferred to analyze the reasons for things that happened.
He’d said, “It was a mistake.” Not “I wish I hadn’t kissed you,” or “I didn’t enjoy it.”
Which didn’t necessarily mean he did wish he hadn’t kissed her, and she would lay money he had enjoyed it. The way he wouldn’t meet her eye told her that much.
So if he had liked it but didn’t want to repeat it, there had to be a reason. “Is it because of who I am?”
He didn’t answer right away and still wouldn’t look at her, preferring to shuffle papers from one corner of the table to another. Which was answer enough.
She stepped back, hurt—devastated, actually—but determined not to show it. Her grandmother would have been proud as the unemotional, aloof, proper Southerner in her responded, “Well, thank you for being so candid.” Then, to her annoyance, the emotional, nonaloof, nonproper woman seized her vocal cords. “I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time my freak quotient has driven a man away.”
His jaw dropped, and his green eyes flashed. Gabe grabbed her upper arms, forcing her to remain still. He pressed closer, so close one thick jean-clad leg slid between her legs, bare under her summery skirt. The contact made her a little weak in the knees.
“Don’t ever say such a thing again. It’s got nothing to do with that.”
“You just said . . .”
“I said it was because of wh
o you are, not what you do.”
He wasn’t making sense. “And who am I, other than the weird psychic investigator who gets her jollies by repeatedly getting murdered?”
“Damn it, Olivia,” he said, his fingers tightening on her arms. Not painfully, just providing evidence of his frustration. “I meant your name. You’re a Wainwright, a senator’s cousin, for Christ’s sake.”
“Not by choice, believe me,” she muttered.
He ignored her. “You live in a house that’s about ten times bigger than my condo.”
Relief suddenly washed over her. It was about the money, the difference in their backgrounds. She found such things ridiculous in this day and age but knew others did not, especially in the South. Gabe didn’t seem like the type who would be bothered by such things. But if he was, she needed to make him understand that just because she’d been raised a certain way didn’t mean she had the same lifestyle now. “I live in that house not because I could afford to buy it but because my grandmother left it to me.”
He rolled his eyes and dropped his hands, freeing her arms. His eyes flashed, and she suddenly realized that had been the wrong thing to say.
“Want to know what I stand to inherit from my grandfather, my only living relative? Nothing but the strap he used to beat me with.”
She froze, hearing in that one sentence so much more than he had probably meant to say. Her heart ached, and a sudden hot anger flashed through her to think of him being treated that way by anyone, especially somebody who was supposed to love him. What the hell was the matter with this world, anyway? “He’s still alive then?”
“He’s too mean to die,” he muttered.
“And your parents?”
Sounding weary, as if he wished he hadn’t opened this can of worms, he rubbed his hand over his jaw and admitted, “I never knew my father. My mama died when I was a kid. It was just me and the old man, living in a farm shack for a whole lotta years.”
She didn’t even want to picture it, wondering how on earth this thoughtful, kindhearted man could have turned out to be so good after being raised in those circumstances. Talk about rising above your past. He was living proof that determination and a good soul could triumph over adversity. Of course, she’d witnessed that once before. Poor little Jack—Zachary—had been raised by a monster yet had saved her life.
Unable to resist, needing to connect with Gabe, she lifted a hand and brushed it against his face in a simple gesture of tenderness and empathy. His cheek felt a bit rough—he hadn’t shaved today—and the result was a sexy, sandpapery feeling. An image flashed through her mind, and she wondered what that hint of roughness would feel like against her skin—her neck, her breasts. Elsewhere.
He allowed it for a moment. Then he turned away from her, his jaw as stiff as granite. “Look, Olivia, I’m not playing the poor-little-poor-kid card here, okay? I’m fine. I have a good life, and I’m happy with it. But the point remains, you and me, with our histories, our backgrounds? We’re worlds apart.”
“Yes, of course, because my life’s been so utterly charmed,” she murmured.
He lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes. “Hell, I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
She held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t be. I wasn’t saying it to play the poor-little-rich-girl card. I merely wanted to remind you that we have a lot more in common than you think.” She stepped close again. This time, his back was to the table, and he couldn’t evade her. “Okay, other than that, is there any particular reason you don’t want me to kiss you again right now?”
“There is the fact that you’re a witness.”
“Come on, we’re way past that point. Anything else?”
He eyed her warily. Opened his mouth. Then snapped it closed.
“I thought not.”
She didn’t ask, wasn’t tentative about it, she simply looped her arms around his neck and pressed her body firmly against his. Leaning up on her toes, she brushed her mouth against his. Their lips met softly, tasting, caressing, and then widening so they could deepen the kiss.
Liv tilted her head, loving the way he started slowly sliding his tongue in and out of her mouth, tasting her, sharing each breath and making secret promises about how much pleasure he could give to her. Not that she had any doubt of that, not considering she felt weak and boneless yet still electrified and excited at the feel of his mouth on hers.
He slid his hands to her hips, cupping them, tugging her more firmly against his hard body. They lined up perfectly, her sensitive breasts scraping that brawny chest, the hollow in her thighs cupping his rising erection.
Olivia moaned, and he pulled his mouth away, sucking in a deep breath. She feared he was going to stop—oh, God, please don’t stop—but instead he kissed his way down her jaw to her neck. He tasted her skin, sampling her in little nibbles all the way to the hollow of her throat, holding her in his strong hands as she leaned back to urge him on.
Tangling her fingers in his thick hair, she turned, drawing him with her, until her back was to the conference table. Gabe lifted her by the hips until she sat on the table’s edge. He covered her mouth again, this time kissing her hard and deep, his tongue possessive and demanding. Olivia’s legs shifted apart instinctively, and he stepped between them, and that was instinctive, too. Like he belonged there.
Oh, she wanted him to belong there, wanted him to stay there. Wanted him to pull off her clothes and make love to her right there, on top of the table. She wanted the pleasure of it, the eroticism of it, the wickedness of it. And the mindlessness, she wanted that, too. Wanted to forget everything else except how good and right it felt to be here, with him, like this.
As a knocking sound blasted through the cloud of hazy pleasure in her brain, however, she realized she wasn’t going to get what she wanted.
He pulled away from her, lurching back, staring at her, breathing heavily. Olivia did the same, feeling breathless and dizzy.
Not so dizzy, though, that she didn’t hear the voice calling from the hall outside the office suite. “Livvie? It’s me, Brooke. Come let me in!”
Gabe straightened, shook his head, adjusted his jeans, then muttered, “That sister of yours. She’s got some timing.”
Indeed she did. But at least this time she’d knocked.
Though the old barn that had once served as a prison for a young girl had been torn down at some point over the years, Julia and Derek didn’t expect to have any trouble finding the spot on which it had once stood.
Using GPS and police reports from the case, they made their way through the thick woods and scrub. Typical of Georgia, the woods ranged from dry and piney, to boggy and wet, to tangled and thick, with old, creaking oaks and wild plum trees. And moss, everywhere the moss, which some thought was pretty but which most locals knew was a virus, a blight on the landscape. Julia loathed the stuff; it looked like big clumps of witch’s hair strewn over everything.
There had been no real road, just the hint of a path. Maybe even the same one the kidnapper had used to haul his camper back here, with a dozen years’ added growth. It would have been hard to spot now, maybe even more so then, if someone had taken pains to conceal it.
“Almost there,” she said, tapping him on the back. Julia rode behind Derek on his motorcycle, clinging to his broad back, her legs locked around his lean hips.
Not an unfamiliar position, actually.
Ducking a low-hanging branch, she found herself glad for the helmet, which had probably spared her from a nasty scratch. She’d thought that at least they might have a respite from the brutal heat here in the shade. But the trees overhead merely locked in the hot air and humidity until it felt like they were in the bowels of an enormous greenhouse. Oppressive didn’t begin to describe it.
She spotted their intended destination first, pointing to a few remaining boards and the hint of a foundation on the ground. “There it is,” she said, leaning close and raising her voice to be heard over the whistling wind and the motor.
Cutting the engine, he pulled off his helmet. Julia did the same, then stepped off the bike. Her legs shook a little, the vibration of the powerful machine seeming to have seeped into her limbs. “Do you see it?” she asked.
When he didn’t reply, she glanced at him and realized he wasn’t looking toward the remnants of the old barn at all. He wasn’t even pretending to listen to her, his avid attention focused to the left, where there was another small clearing. Perhaps where the camper had stood?
“Jesus,” he whispered, the word sounding like it had come from a tight, dry throat.
That was when she knew their trip out here had been worthwhile.
He cleared his throat, took a deep breath that made his broad chest move, then turned his head about thirty degrees to the left. He stared intently at nothing that she could see, still and silent as the grave. Then came another quarter turn of the head. Now she could see his face clearly, noting the blaze of anger in his dark brown eyes and the disgusted twist of his lips.
Oh, yeah. They’d hit pay dirt.
“How many?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know.
“Three so far.”
Three people murdered in this small, innocent-looking patch of woods. And those were just the ones Derek could see from here on the bike.
What a strange world he must live in and how cautiously he had to tread in it. Derek never knew when he rounded a corner if he was going to be presented with the violent images of a phantom body flying through a car windshield or someone being flung back after being shot in the chest. Deaths happened everywhere. The quiet ones eluded his sight, but the violent ones, oh, they left their mark.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, fine.” Shaking his head as if to clear it, Derek finally turned to look at the ruins of the old barn, which she’d pointed out to him.