by D. C. Stone
Her mind spun through memories of the night. Trent’s strength and fury bellied the down-to-earth man. Some sort of transition sparked in him, and he seemed to be the opposite of the original joking, sexual-innuendo-sputtering male who originally took her for the same sex, just because people called her Charlie.
She checked the time. It was still early, and she was too wound up to go home now. A random patrol would help settle her. Turning right, Charlie drove in a meticulous fashion through the neighborhoods. Her gaze tracked yards, studied houses, alert for anything standing out.
Thoughts of Trent kept easing their way to her subconscious, but she brutally shoved them back, unable to concentrate on two things that tore her from her true self. This case needed to be solved, the perpetrator stopped. Her town, the place she called home for as long as she had been alive, remained in a state of chaos, lived in fear for their safety.
Unable to keep it from the media any longer, the reports plastered across the newspapers had caused overwhelming tendrils of panic to stir through the community. The results? Fewer smiles from the quaint village and more demands for a vicious killer to be stopped.
Satisfied everything was in order, Charlie pulled back out to Broadway and headed home. Only then did she allow him to push his way into her head. Despite what her mind told her, her body viewed him as a sensual man, one who held secrets waiting to be uncovered. She wanted him to confide in her, desired to help, to discover who he was, and to ease her fears about who she suspected him to be.
Lost in thoughts, she almost missed the lone truck sitting in an abandoned lot. She stomped on the brake and threw the vehicle in reverse until she was parallel to the silver Range Rover. It sat empty, lights off, in the middle of a field with nothing around it. Out of place. She broke her gaze off and scanned the area. The field lay abandoned since the home on it burned down years before. The family who lived there perished in it, and no one had wanted to rebuild. On one side was a road leading to a restaurant that sat along the river. On the other side of the property was a house, a cute little cottage with pink and white azaleas surrounding it.
She wracked her mind trying to remember who lived there, then pulled into the dark driveway. As she got out, she remembered the owners. A couple who had given their daughter the place and left to go live in Florida. The current resident was the local Starbuck’s barista, Julie Thorngood.
Charlie stood in the gloomy drive and listened. Crickets filled the air, along with sounds of the river lapping the shore a few blocks away. She took in the vehicle and turned to the opaque house. She crossed the yard, stepped up to the front door, and knocked. Silence. She glanced over her shoulder at the Range Rover once more, and a heavy weight settled in her stomach. Something seemed off, but her sluggish brain was too tired to keep up.
Her instincts screamed, but there was not a whole lot she could do. Perhaps the SUV belonged to a local contractor looking to revisit the land. Perhaps Julie was not home. Without a car in the driveway, conclusions led her to believe such, but Charlie walked around the house, peeked in windows that didn’t have curtains drawn, and checked for anything unusual before ending at the driver’s side of her cruiser.
She popped the door open, set a foot inside, and leaned against the top of the car again, studying the surroundings. Thoughts nagged her, just out of reach. She felt as if she were forgetting to do something, but couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was.
The weight of exhaustion settled. She slid into her seat, shut the door, and pulled out of the driveway, making a mental note to follow up on the seemingly abandoned vehicle tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
After a long, hot shower, Charlie sat on her couch and studied the video left behind at the last scene. As disturbing as the pictures were, she could not tear her gaze away. Their perpetrator filmed the attack, committed acts even her imagination as a cop couldn’t fathom. In addition, the missing woman she checked on was, without a doubt, now a murder victim. She had never gotten the whole “watching a bad accident” comment, but this time she couldn’t draw away from the screen. She was missing an answer that hovered out of reach.
The most damning thing that taunted her was that he knew who she was. Knew who she was. Her name had been written across the DVD that lay in wait for her, the lead detective on the case, something not shared with the public. How? Who had access to that kind of data and what would someone gain by knowing it?
She reached for her warm mug and sipped hot chamomile tea, wincing as it scraped down her bruised throat. The chief’s reaction to her being called out on the latest piece of evidence wasn’t pretty. He’d huffed and puffed and paced along the side of her desk until she’d finally calmed him down. He’d only given in to her request to stay on the case because the other detectives were too busy. Did it hurt that he didn’t think she could handle this case and her own safety? Well, yeah, but was she more than willing to keep trying to prove herself?
You had better believe it.
Without taking her attention from the laptop, she moved to set the cup back on the tall side-table next to the couch when it slipped from her hand and bounced off the white couch with a soft plop. Everything moved in slow motion, and she sucked in a harsh breath as mint-colored liquid splashed against the fabric, the mug bouncing and spinning before landing on the floor with a crash.
Her reaction came too late. Charlie steadied her laptop on her lap, but the cup shattered against the dark wood floors.
“Damn it.” Her eyes stung with frustration. This was the last thing she wanted to deal with—another mess.
Her two tabbies lifted from their perches by the window with disgruntled sounds, eyeing her with a look of contempt only cats could master.
“Oh, shut it.”
Cereal and Killer jumped from the wooden ledge with a heavy thud and another meow, completed a wide arc around the broken ceramic and liquid spreading across her floor.
Charlie laid her laptop on the coffee table and slid into flip-flops, hurrying over to grab a towel in the kitchen.
She rounded the bar separating the living room and kitchen, snapped the dishtowel from the oven and turned. A thump from the back of her house had her dropping the cloth and making a dash for the hall table where her weapon sat. She slid out of the kitchen, cursed the tile floor when she had to slap a palm out to catch herself on the wall, and yanked the Glock from its holster.
Kicking off her shoes, Charlie slammed a hand down on the light switch, casting the room in darkness. Silver moonlight shone through living room windows, lighting her path as she crossed the house on the balls of her feet.
Adrenaline surged, turning her vision sharp, her hearing acute, and her body into overdrive. On this side of the house lay the laundry room, a guest room, and a spare bathroom. She passed darkened rooms and kept her focus fastened on the door at the end of the hall. Nobody should be back there, seeing as this door led to the backyard. The gold knob rattled and shifted as someone attempted to turn it. Above it, a security chain fastened it to the wall.
Not a whole lot to keep an intruder out, but this was Nyack, a village where people didn’t usually lock their doors. She shifted and centered her weight, bringing the gun’s sights up and concentrated. Without a doubt, someone was on the other side, and they wanted in.
It wasn’t Dwayne, she was certain. Her best friend and partner had a habit of jumping beds just as much as he changed underwear—not that she paid attention—but he only showered here and hardly slept. He’d already called to say he would not be home tonight and was in the city with his latest conquest.
Getting from her kitchen to the door took all of thirty seconds, but apparently, it was too long for her perpetrator because in the next instant, the door rattled on its hinges and exploded inward. Charlie tensed and wrapped a finger around the trigger.
A bulk rolled through the door and before it came to a stop, she used her most commanding voice.
“Freeze, asshole!”
Th
e blur of a body rose to his knees a foot from the end of her barrel. Familiar blue eyes widened.
Her palm tightened around the stalk of her weapon, and her muscles squeezed in pain.
“What the fuck, Trent?”
He focused on the end of the barrel and lifted his hands.
“Easy, Charlie.”
His crooning tone pissed her off. What in the fuck was he doing here? Why did he bust through her door? Good God, were her suspicions true?
She swallowed hard, and her mind spun with questions, her chest ached.
“Charlie?” he warned and shifted.
“I said, don’t move!” She rammed the gun against his forehead and tightened her grip, adjusted her trigger finger so it wrapped securely around the smooth metal. Her heart was an anvil in her chest, pounded against her ribs and threatened to shatter the bones.
He closed his eyes, and sweat beaded across his brow. He licked his lips and let out a slow breath.
“Charlie, listen to me.”
“Why in the fuck should I do that?” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, her muscles cramping with painful heat. Although her weapon weighed only 2.4 pounds with a full load, as it was, holding it for minutes at a time proved exhausting. Especially with the hours of sleep she’d missed, and the killer workouts she’d been putting herself through. All because of this case, and this man. Her body couldn’t take much more and as it were, adrenaline was the only thing keeping her on her feet. Her arms shook.
He tilted his face up. His gaze slid over the gun and up the length of her arms before he pushed out a harsh breath.
“Charlie, Jesus, put the weapon down. Let me explain.”
She shook her head and stepped back. Her hands were slick against the metal. She needed to get the chief here. If what she suspected was true, there was no way to keep this a secret any longer. Goddamnit, why did he have to be the one terrorizing her town? She motioned upward with her weapon.
“Get up.”
His jaw clenched, but he followed her command and rose, his movements slow and smooth. As he unfurled from the floor, she lifted the weapon, training center mass on his upper body. Her arms screamed, and her shoulders started to shake with the effort it took to keep the weapon level. After the adrenaline surge, the locking of her muscles, and the strenuous day, her body was two minutes from camping out. A mental clock ticked the time she had until she wiped out. Despite the fact that he’d just barreled in, there was something about the dark, empty space behind him that had her growing more uneasy. With her chin, she motioned to the door behind him.
“Shut the door.”
He turned, too fast for her taste.
“Slowly.”
He paused, gave a small nod, and moved slower this time, sighed as he pushed the door closed.
“The lock is busted.”
Her face scrunched up. “No fucking shit, Sherlock. Set the chair from the laundry room beneath it.” She tilted her head toward the room to their right.
He moved as if scared to spook her—good—and pulled out a small wooden chair, setting it beneath the knob. That done, he faced her with a look of expectation and wariness.
“Charlie,” he began again.
“I said shut up!”
He let out an audible sigh.
“Let’s go, Rossi.” She backed down the hall, and he stepped forward, matching every one of her retreating steps. In the dining room, which stood off to the side of her kitchen, she motioned to a chair with her Glock, and he sat. Keeping one hand on the gun, she reached back for the cordless phone. Her muscles screaming with such agony, and nausea swirled in her stomach.
“Talk. You have three minutes before I call back up.”
Why was she giving him this chance?
Something akin to relief flashed across his features. He kept his hands palms down on the tabletop and held her gaze.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
She made a sound of disgust, and he shook his head.
“I was coming here to check on you. Worried about your…” He pointed at her neck. She tensed, and he dropped his palm again. “Your neck. I pulled up outside and saw a shadow walking in your backyard. I got out and when I reached the area, it was empty. But two distinct boot prints are outside your back door.”
She leveled him with a look. “So you decided to break in.” Sarcasm laced each word.
He sucked in a breath, sat straighter, and spoke in a low voice, as if unsure he wanted her to hear what he said next.
“I was worried about you. Is that so hard to believe?”
She studied him and wrestled for control, tried to work out the implications of the story. How much she would love for his statement to be true. What she would give for him not to be who she thought he was. She gritted her teeth. Pain shot along her limbs, tingling with uncomfortable pricks of agony.
“Christ, Charlie.” He moved to stand, and she lifted her arms, not realizing they had fallen. Her barrel pointed center mass again.
“Sit down!”
A small whimper trembled from her lips. The ache became almost unmanageable. Trent lowered into the chair again, his gaze never leaving hers.
“Charlie, please, don’t hurt yourself. You’ve been through enough today. Let me help you.”
“Like you’ve let me help you?”
His jaw tightened. The muscle jumped and drew her traitorous attention to the sexy stubble lining his cheeks. “It’s not the same thing, and you damn well know it.”
“Why? Why won’t you trust me?” It had to be the screaming pain, the reason her eyes stung. She could not be getting emotional over this man. Not over someone who refused to let her in.
He stood, this time ignoring the gun and took a step, moving in sure but slow motions toward her. She tightened her grip on the Glock, and her muscles threatened to turn to liquid as all receptors registered pain. A breath punched out of her, the sound coming out like a tortured sigh.
“Trent, stop.” Her voice shook as bad as her body.
“You’re hurting yourself. Put the weapon down, and talk to me. Show me some trust here, and then we’ll talk about me returning the trust to you.” He held her with his steady stare, dark and mysterious. A deep blue t-shirt wrapped around his frame like Cling Wrap to a platter. Charcoal-colored jeans hugged and cupped him in all the right places, looked worn at the pockets and knees, the kind caused from use and not factory made.
“Please. I don’t want to hurt you,” she pleaded.
His lip twitched, a small movement. He wrapped one hand around her wrist and tugged, drawing the weapon down and to her left. A small cry escaped her as her muscles vibrated with relief.
“I know, Charlie, and I refuse to hurt you.”
She stared at him. A dark tint of a shadow painted his jaw. Normally, she didn’t like facial hair but on Trent it made him look rugged, manly, and so damn handsome.
He moved closer and pushed his hand down until it curled around hers on the gun. A gentle yank as he came within inches of her frame, and he’d pulled the weapon from her grasp.
“I’m going to kiss you now, Charlie.”
His gaze never left hers. She felt caught in a storm, pulled into the swirling blue gaze as if swimming in the Arctic Ocean. Compared to her fire-laden muscles, the coolness was a welcomed relief.
“No,” she whispered.
He stepped forward, and she retreated. He did it again and again until her back pressed to the wall, and he hovered against her. With each breath, her breasts brushed against his chest. Her nipples tightened, and her body became painfully aware of this dangerous man.
The clink of metal against wood sounded, and she snapped her head over as he laid the Glock on her hall table.
“Yes,” he said and gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turned her to his face. He dipped his head and hovered, his breath hot against her lips. She drew in air and held it, anticipation licking, sending all sensation to the surface. “I am.”
> Then he crushed his mouth to hers.
****
Fear and frustration may have had a hand in how hard Trent kissed Charlie. He conquered her in a bruising mash of lips. Confidence gathered when she didn’t push him away. Releasing her chin, he laid his palms on each side of her face, and tilted it to an angle of his liking. He stepped closer until they were in full contact, from their thighs on up to their hips. He shuddered at the feel of her breasts against his chest.
He remembered all too well how those soft mounds fit in his hand, his mouth. Right now, her nipples beaded like rocks and pressed against his body. He moved his mouth over hers, giving her sounds of approval. She had not opened her mouth to him yet, and his frustration grew. Something about her caused a primitive response in him, a feeling of possession, of his inner caveman breaking free, and a need and want entirely too crazy to keep him sane.
He growled and nipped at her lower lip, encouraging her to give in. He had to taste her. It was a desire that drove all reasonable thoughts from his head. His earlier arguments against why he could not go near her flew out the window as she gasped. He didn’t give her a chance to close her mouth again and dove in to claim his pursuit. His tongue stroked hers, and his chest rumbled with pleasure. Velvet warmth tentatively responded to his caress. He removed his hands from her face, and tangled one in the hair at her nape. His other palm roamed over her shoulder with a slow, deliberate motion that bellied the urges churning in him. He wanted to possess her, bury himself between her thighs until they couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. He ran his hand along the length of her spine and settled it above the curve of her rear.
He drove the kiss deeper, unable to get enough of her taste. His world narrowed to the woman in his arms and all else fell away. She tasted of spice and vanilla, and combined with her scent of coconut, it pushed his craving up another notch.
