by Lora Leigh
And he would strike at Amelia.
The thought had Crowe’s entire body tensing with the need for action. She would never be safe, she would never be free until Sorenson was dead. It was the only way to ensure he never harmed her again.
And there was only one way to draw him out—
“Unless we force him to make a move again,” Crowe mused, narrowing his gaze and staring back at the agent coolly.
Weston nodded slowly.
“His daughter,” Agent Donovan guessed, his attention now on Crowe as well. “That drew him out before.”
“But there was no proof we were lovers, only supposition.” Crowe nodded. “If he continues to think we believe he’s dead, and Amelia and I begin a very public affair…”
“Then he could snap,” Donovan agreed. “But I think we keep the truth of her parentage to ourselves. Wayne learns that she’s not his daughter, he won’t give a damn what happens to her.”
The agent was wrong, Crowe knew; Wayne would still care. It was Amelia he’d have to keep that information from, though. If she found out that she wasn’t related to Wayne it would give her the out she needed to possibly leave Corbin County, and Crowe couldn’t allow her to do that.
She belonged to him.
She might not like it, she might not want to admit it, but he wasn’t going to allow her to run from it. They had something to finish. Whatever had eased the ice beginning to overtake him seven years ago, haunted him. He’d been completely frozen inside after he’d left. So frozen that at times he worried himself. He nodded slowly, aware that his cousins stared back at him in disapproval.
“You can’t keep that information from her, Crowe.” It was Logan who hissed the protest beside him.
He turned to his cousin slowly. Dark blond hair, intense blue eyes with only the faintest shadow of the steel-hard core of determination he possessed.
“You’d do it,” he replied coldly. He turned his gaze to Rafe. “As would you in the same situation. Don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t.”
“We would protect her, Crowe,” Rafe swore. “Just like you’ve protected Cami and Sky.”
“I know you would,” he agreed. “If you could. But trust me—she’ll run. The minute she learns Wayne isn’t her father, she’ll go, because she’ll believe he won’t care anymore. But we all know he will. We all know he’ll kill her, just like he’s killed the others. And he’ll do it faster because she’s not his daughter.”
The muttered curse as Rafe sat back once again was all the agreement Crowe needed.
“You’re taking a hell of a chance,” Archer stated.
The sheriff had stood by them since they were all were little more than boys. Archer had stood against his father, the cousins’ powerful grandparents, the men who had run the county for more than forty years, and he’d stood by them as sheriff.
“It’s one I have to take,” Crowe said.
If she ran, then any chance of catching Wayne might go with her.
“This could have the added benefit of drawing Amory Wyatt back as well,” Weston said. “He’s only returned to the scene of the kill once, as long we’ve been tracking him. A similar situation, actually. One of his former partners targeted a young woman he seemed to be fond of while in the area.”
Crowe wanted to shake his head, to force that statement to make sense. But he couldn’t quite push any logic into it.
Amory Wyatt had gone by a variety of names but the FBI had dubbed him the Master. He took certain serial killers under his wing and aided them, as long as their kills met his criteria, or his warped code of honor.
No one knew who he was, what he really looked like, or where he disappeared to when he was finished. But they did know he would return to an area if a former partner targeted a victim outside his “code.” And for some reason Amory Wyatt had decided both Crowe and Amelia were no longer on that list of potential victims. He’d made that clear when he’d left Amelia and another young woman Wayne had kidnapped together on his porch, albeit naked and still drugged, but unharmed.
“Then we could possibly capture not just Wayne, but Amory as well?” Archer mused, his expression harsh.
“If we play our cards right, yes,” the agent agreed, his hazel-green gaze calculating as he watched Crowe.
Nothing mattered to Weston but finding Amory Wyatt. The man lived, ate, and slept the search for the serial killer. It was as though it were a personal vendetta for him. Just as the death of Wayne Sorenson had become Crowe’s personal vendetta.
“I don’t like the means,” Archer sighed, agreeing with Logan and Rafer. “And I sure as hell don’t like keeping the truth from Amelia, but like Crowe, I can’t help but believe she’d run as fast and as hard as possible if she learns she’s not Wayne’s daughter. It would be her ‘get out of jail free’ card and we’d lose our shot at getting Wayne once and for all.”
“Get real,” Weston laughed. “It would be guilt chasing her out of here. You can’t convince me she didn’t know what he was doing. I just can’t prove it. That’s all that saved her.”
Crowe stared back at the agent with icy disdain, his lips curling in disgust. He leaned back in his chair and watched him for long silent moments. “You don’t know Amelia, Weston. Don’t presume to understand her or to judge her. Trust me, she’s given more to this county in bruises, broken bones, and sheer courage than anyone can imagine. If you even consider attempting to go after her, then you’ll deal with me.”
“And me,” Logan promised.
“And me,” Rafe said, leaning forward to glare at the agent.
“Stay away from her,” Archer advised him, his voice harsh. “You don’t want to take all of us on.”
The agent only shook his head slowly, a mocking smile tugging at his lips. “All I want is Wyatt. What the rest of you do with Sorenson and his stepdaughter is up to you.” He rose from his chair, motioning to Donovan to follow him before turning and leaving the conference room.
Crowe watched as Weston left, feeling as if there was something was vaguely familiar about him. He just couldn’t put his finger on what.
“Amelia finds out you’ve held this information from her, there will be hell to pay,” Logan said, pulling Crowe’s attention back to him. “The people in Sweetrock are putting her through hell, Crowe. That would fix all of it.”
“Not for much longer, they won’t.” Rising to his feet and jerking his leather jacket from the back of his chair, he faced the other three men before turning to Nash. “Keep this to yourselves. We draw Sorenson out first. Once he’s taken care of, then we’ll fix the rest of it.”
The nods were reluctant, but he saw their eyes. They would commit themselves until this was finished. Once it was finished, then Crowe would deal with the fallout.
After Amelia was safe.
CHAPTER 6
Amelia hadn’t had a migraine in over a year, but oh boy could she feel one coming on now. That building pressure behind her eyes, the heavy throb beginning at her temple.
Yep, migraine.
And its instigator’s name was Linda.
Linda Grandor. Well, Linda Justin-Grandor.
The mayor’s daughter. And the newly appointed county attorney’s wife.
Too bad Linda didn’t have the one saving grace her husband had, which was compassion.
Amelia had once believed Linda’s mother, Ruth Anne Justin, had that compassion as well, but there Ruth Anne was behind her daughter, obviously backing her. Linda stood on her doorstep now, dressed in a black wool peacoat and stylish leather boots beneath gray wool slacks with expensive black leather gloves on her hands. A mini me of her mother.
At least, outwardly.
Not that Ruth Anne appeared to be pleased with the situation.
“I’m rather busy, Linda. Ruth Anne,” she assured them both as she blocked the doorway and stared back at them firmly. “You should have called first.”
Ruth Anne’s brows lifted, amusement gleaming in her hazel eyes.
That amusement quickly disappeared when Linda’s head snapped around in suspicion as though somehow sensing her mother’s defection. Flipping her long, silken blond hair over her shoulder, Linda gave her mother a short, imperious glare before turning back to Amelia.
Amelia had already had enough and moved to close the door in their faces.
“That would be ill advised, Amelia,” Linda snapped, pressing a gloved hand flat against the door as Amelia moved to close it.
“I’ve done a lot of ill-advised things over the years, Linda.” Amelia glanced back at Ruth Anne, her expression hardening at the shame and regret that flickered in the mother’s gaze.
“And I’m certain once the FBI realizes this then they’ll place you in a cell, where you belong.”
The accusation had Amelia stilling as the cap on her anger began to loosen.
“My God, Linda, that is enough!” her mother demanded, shocked outrage filling her tone.
“I will not—”
“I will damned well not listen to any more,” Amelia decided.
Moving back to slam the door she was caught unaware as Linda suddenly pushed herself inside, her cheeks flushed a harsh red. Anger gleamed in her eyes and curled her fingers into fists.
Hell, she knew Linda, and she knew this wouldn’t turn out well. If only she had an ounce of the mercilessness Linda possessed, Amelia thought in resignation as she stood next to Ruth Anne and watched the childish petulance that filled the daughter’s face.
“For pity’s sake,” Ruth Anne muttered, embarrassment filling her expression. “I’m so sorry about this, Amelia.”
“Why would you dare to apologize to that killer’s little bitch?” Linda suddenly snarled, furious. “Tell her why we’re here, Mother. Are you frightened of her? You know her and her family for what they are now, you can stop kowtowing to her.”
The moment the words left her lips a dark, heavy shadow shifted, extending from behind Amelia into the foyer as both Linda and Ruth Anne stared behind her in sudden apprehension.
She knew who it was.
“Are you demanding kowtows again, Amelia? And here I thought my kowtows were the only ones you were accepting this week. Shame on you,” Crowe chastised her mockingly.
Amelia felt her own fists clench, her back teeth grinding—she just didn’t need this.
“Ruth Anne. Linda.” Dark, rasping, his voice sent a sexual thrill racing up Amelia’s spine as the other two women stared back at him speechless.
Neither of them missed the hand that settled on her shoulder, or the possessiveness in the fingers that gripped her lightly.
“We were just leaving, Crowe,” Ruth Anne assured him, the false brightness in her gaze suddenly at odds with the flicker of trepidation in it.
“Mother,” Linda hissed, turning on Ruth Anne with just a hint of nervousness. “We have to—”
“Pick up dinner for your father. I know, dear,” Ruth Anne broke in seamlessly, firmly, as she gripped her daughter’s arm and dragged her ruthlessly through the doorway. “We’ll visit with Amelia some other time.”
Just what she needed, a later visit.
Amelia made a mental note to ensure her doors remained locked at all times and that Linda and Ruth Anne’s names were listed in the do-not-open-for-any-reason file.
“Now, what the hell do you want?” Amelia demanded as she tried to shrug out of Crowe’s grip, watching as he gave the door a firm push with a flick of his hand.
The crack of wood against wood seemed overly loud in the entryway as he waited for the door to close before slowly releasing her.
“Does it matter why I’m here?” he asked, a hint of mockery in his voice grating on her already irritated senses.
“Of course it matters. Just as it mattered why they were here.” Flinging her hand toward the door, she managed to jerk out of his hold on her to stalk into the family room.
Heavy dark furniture made the room depressing, even with the shades and curtains open and the balcony doors thrown ajar. The only bright spot was the huge, flat-screen television hanging on the wall across the sleek cherrywood of the desk her mother had used for household accounts.
She paused in the center of the room as Crowe moved past her and began pulling the shades closed over the wide windows.
“It’s not dark enough in here yet?” she asked incredulously as he moved to the balcony doors and pulled the shades closed there as well.
“There are still a few reporters hanging around town.” He shrugged as he turned back to her. “I’d hate to give them something more to speculate on.”
It was the look in his eyes.
The amber and brown swirled and shifted, holding her, mesmerizing her as he moved to her, ensnaring her in the brilliant hunger reflected there.
“No.” She barely had time to utter the word before she found herself in his arms.
In that single second the years fell away. She was eighteen again, her body hot and eager for his touch, her sensuality an untouched canvas awaiting each stroke of his fingers.
Those fingers threaded through her hair at the back of her head, clenched in the thick strands, and pulled until her face tilted up to him, leaving her vulnerable to his kiss.
There were no preliminaries.
His lips covered her as he ignored the whispered protests, a part of his conscience growling in outrage.
He would just take this kiss, he assured that snarling inner voice. He would take nothing else.
He needed it.
He needed the taste of her, the feel of her. He needed to know she was safe, living, breathing, and still aching for him.
God knew, he ached for her.
The ice surrounding his soul didn’t seem as cold or as unending when she was in his life.
His lips moved over hers, his tongue pressing inside. The taste of her, hot and sweet, exploded against his senses as a whimper fell from her lips. A sound more of pleasure than protest as he felt her arms lift, her fingers digging into his hair. Slender and graceful, her delicate little body arched to him, pressing tight against him, tempting the sexual hunger he fought to rein in.
God yes!
The taste of her alone was an aphrodisiac. The feel of her was pure temptation after years of pent-up need.
Her tongue met his as his lips slanted over hers, a little feminine groan of rising need sounding from her. The sound of it ratcheted his hunger higher, harder.
His lips sipped at hers as her hands pulled at his hair. As though trying to pull him closer, to force his kiss deeper, she tugged the hands full of hair toward her.
She wasn’t protesting any longer.
She was demanding more.
She wanted him, needed him with the same hunger he needed her. A hunger raging out of control.
The taste of her sank into his senses like sunlight and a promise. Her tongue twined with his. Lick for lick, touch for touch as their moans met and mingled in the seductively dim light of the room.
Pushing his hand beneath the hem of her sweater, Crowe moved immediately to the front catch of her bra and flicked it open. Pushing the cups back from the rising curves, lust transmitting to a hunger so intense it was all he could to keep his hands from shaking, Crowe fought to rein the hunger in enough to ensure her pleasure, to ensure he didn’t hurt her.
A faint little shudder raced up her spine as his hand curved around a swollen breast, his thumb finding and rubbing the tight sensitivity of her nipple.
“Fuck.” Tearing his lips from hers, Crowe eased back just to swing her into his arms. “Come here, sugar elf. We need a bed for this.”
He had to get her to a fucking bed before he ended up taking her on the floor. He was so hard, so ready to fuck, his balls were throbbing in agony.
It felt as though he had waited forever to touch her.
The stairs were taken two at a time as the heated curves of her lips pressed against the base of his neck. The flick of her tongue seared his flesh with sensation.
She was as ready fo
r him as he was for her. There was no longer any need to allow guilt to flay him, to fear she didn’t want him. Hell yes she wanted—she wanted with the same driving desperation that he felt.
Pushing into the bedroom Crowe kicked the door closed, pausing only long enough to lock the deadbolt before bearing her to the bed.
Somewhere she’d lost a shoe, he thought, as he removed the other and tossed it to the floor before straightening.
“Undress,” he said, his fingers going to the buttons of his shirt as his voice rasped with the harsh demand.
Vulnerability shadowed her gaze, but her fingers went to the clasp of her pants as he shed his shirt.
She eased the material over her hips as he tore his boots from his feet. Shedding his jeans, he groaned as the sweater came over her head and fell to the side of the bed a second later, along with the bra he’d unclipped downstairs.
Clad in nothing but black silk panties, the long strands of her hair fanning around her face and shoulders like a dark halo, she seemed surrounded by innocence.
Hard-tipped breasts, swollen and flushed, teased him with the candy-pink promise of her tight nipples. Silken skin sheened with the lightest glimmer of perspiration made her look damned lickable, and there, between her thighs, the black silk of those panties glistened with the evidence of her juices spilling from her sex.
It had been forever since he’d seen her like this, laid out for him, tempting him. Forever since he’d touched her.
His gaze licked over her, from the dampness of her panties to the tight peaks of her nipples.
Then he stared down at the band of her panties again, drawn by a slight shadow peeking out, drawing his interest.
“Take the panties off,” he demanded, his gaze moving to her face as she hesitated.
Her eyes flicked to his heavy erection as her fingers clenched in the blankets beneath her. A pink flush of hunger filled her face, washing down her neck and to her already tempting breasts as her gaze lifted to his almost shyly.
