Traceless

by Debra Webb

  Honestly, the concept hadn’t even crossed her mind. She’d spent so many years not caring if she lived or died, the idea of protecting herself was foreign to her.

  “Are you sure about that?” she countered. “The hurting-me part, I mean. I was the key witness who sent you to prison.”

  His gaze lingered on her mouth a moment or two before lifting back to her eyes. That moment or two was all it took to ignite a slow burn deep in her belly, a yearning that wouldn’t be ignored.

  “You believed you were right. You were hurting and angry. You were in shock.”

  “I helped ruin your life.” Emotion got stuck in her throat, prodded more of those damned tears to brim against her lashes.

  “Yeah.” He reached for her, gently cupped her face in his hands, smoothed the pad of his thumb over her cheek. “You did. You needed someone to blame. I won’t say it no longer matters, but I’m dealing with it.”

  “What can I do?”

  He dropped his hand back to his side. “You can leave this damned town and put all this behind you.”

  He couldn’t be serious. “And just let it go?”

  “If we keep poking at this, somebody else could end up dead,” he said on a heavy exhale that spoke volumes about just how weary he was.

  Now she understood. He felt responsible for Keith’s death. If Clint hadn’t come back … “Keith’s death wasn’t your fault.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. Clint stood only inches away. She needed to touch him. Her hand rested against his chest. “You don’t—”

  “I should go.”

  She’d made herself a promise—to go after what she wanted from now on. Don’t let him walk away. She hadn’t felt anything real for so long, the memory of how he could make her come alive screamed inside her, begged for more. “You shouldn’t be sleeping in that old barn.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Say it! “I don’t want you to go.”

  Hesitation filtered into his eyes. “You sure about that?”

  “I want you to … touch me.”

  Those lips she yearned to taste quirked. “I touched you.” He glanced at the cheek he’d caressed.

  She gave her head a little shake. “Not like that.”

  “Emily …” His gaze rested on her face. “It shouldn’t have happened that way. Your first time should have—”

  “Touch me,” she ordered. She didn’t want to hear how it should have been. She’d spent her whole adult life wallowing in regret. “Please.”

  The hesitation in his eyes cleared. “Show me how you want me to do it.”

  She took his right hand and placed it on her breast. “This is good.”

  He squeezed. Need keened low in her throat.

  “Is that all you want?”

  “No.” She took his other hand and guided it to the place where her robe parted at the top of her thighs.

  His fingers sifted through her pubic hair, stoking the flames already building there.

  “Is that all?” His voice was gruff now.

  “No.”

  He drew his hands away and she made a sound of protest, wanted to grab on to him … to make him touch her again.

  “Take off your robe and lie down on the bed,” he ordered instead of attempting to retreat as she’d feared he would.

  She didn’t hesitate. The robe hit the floor, revealing her nude body. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, scooted back to lie against the pillows.

  He looked at her for a long while. Her heart pounded twice for every second. Then he reached to turn off the lamp.

  “I want to see,” she challenged.

  He didn’t argue.

  He toed off his sneakers first. Then he peeled the T-shirt free of his body, revealing that muscled chest with all its reminders that he’d spent ten long years in a prison criminals weren’t meant to survive. He unfastened his jeans. Her pulse rate altered significantly. The jeans slid down his long legs and he stepped out of them and shucked his socks. No briefs, just him. Ridged abdomen, narrow hips, muscled legs … and that thick sex that hung prominently between them.

  The bed shifted with his weight as he lay down beside her. The heat of his body instantly warmed her … or maybe just seeing him this way had already done that. He lay on his side, his head propped in one hand. His well-muscled body exuded a kind of power that had hers humming with excitement already.

  “What now?”

  She tried to analyze what he was thinking. Impossible. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not taking anything else from you, Emily. Whatever happens now is going to be about you taking what you want.”

  The idea sent power surging through her. She liked that he gave that to her.

  She took him at his word and made her own choices. She pushed him onto his back and straddled him. The feel of his body beneath her was incredible. He was hard and pressed firmly between her thighs. She lifted her hips far enough to guide him where she wanted; then she slid down around him. All the way. The sensation of being filled so completely took her breath, set her on fire. He groaned savagely, his hands fisted in the pillow under his head.

  She rode him until her body collapsed, sated, against his chest. His own climax had left him panting and damp with sweat. She loved the feel and smell of his clean sweat. Loved that she could make him come like that, with such intensity. He stroked her back while the rhythm of his heart lulled her toward absolute bliss.

  She refused to give in to her body’s need for rest. She sat up, grinding her bottom against his loins. “I want you to do what you did before.” Butterflies took flight in her stomach at the memory. With him behind her, he could go deeper … she liked deeper. And she’d waited too long to play games or to pretend a shyness she didn’t feel.

  He didn’t question her request. He rolled her over before he withdrew and sat back on his haunches. His solid erection glistened with their commingled fluids. Shivering, she turned onto her stomach and waited for him to take her.

  “Lift your hips.”

  She scooted her knees beneath her, lifting her bottom into the air for his possession.

  He moved against her. She moaned deeply, could hardly bear the sensation of his solid length against that part of her. Slowly, as if he wanted to be sure he did this right, he guided himself into her. That last inch or so had her charging toward climax before he’d even started to move. He held still, let her adjust to his size and the new depth. Then he did something different; he pulled her up to his chest and held her close, cupping her breasts in his hands. She moaned her pleasure, unable to tell him how awesome he was, how full and satisfied he made her feel.

  Then he moved. He held her tight against him as he flexed and relaxed his hips in a slow, tightly controlled manner, his thrusts shallow but somehow mind-blowingly intense. He kissed her temple, squeezed her breasts, all the while making those small, firm moves. When she could take it no more she started to wiggle against him … needing more … needing faster. As if he understood exactly what she required, he ushered her forward, until her cheek rested against the pillow. Her entire body pulsed with the pleasure searing through her. She wanted him to make it happen before she lost her mind.

  He thrust. Long, deep, hard. Faster. Until she came just as fast and just as hard. Then he slowed it down, trembling with the effort of restraint.

  “Please.” She wanted to feel him come undone. To feel him lose control.

  He resisted … moved slowly, each flex of his hips a deliberate effort in discipline.

  “Clint …” The rush of sensations started again, wave after wave, building, building … how could he make her come so many times?

  He groaned softly.

  “Hurry!”

  He stopped completely, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. His breath was ragged. The damp contours of his chest branded the skin on her back. “I want to savor every second,” he murmured.

  Then he started those slow, s
teady strokes once more.

  Release crashed down on her … took her breath completely.

  Those final, exquisite ripples of tension pushed him over the edge. He pounded into his own climax, grunting savagely with the force of it.

  He collapsed onto the mattress, pulling her against his chest while their bodies remained connected so completely she wondered how she had lived this long without him.

  … without him.

  The community—everyone she knew—considered him a killer. Even knowing his alibi was real, her parents would never think of him as anything but dangerous.

  The never-ending tragedy. Shakespeare couldn’t have written a more unfortunate plot.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tuesday, July 23, 1:30 A.M.

  Emily had fallen asleep, cradled against his chest.

  It still stunned Clint when he considered that this was real. She was real.

  In prison he’d learned not to count on anything. As much as he wanted it to, he couldn’t allow himself to hope that this connection meant anything other than the desperate need to cling to someone in all this insanity.

  Allowing her continued involvement in what he knew he had to do next, her tarnished reputation with her friends might be the least of her worries.

  He had confirmation of his alibi. He had the primary, the only, witness seeing that night a whole different way.

  He needed to know what had happened that night. All the guessing and theories in the world wouldn’t help. Emily had shown him her detailed lists, and even though much of it held merit, none of it was evidence. He needed evidence or some way to prove the investigation hadn’t been properly conducted.

  There was just one place he could get that information, since Ray Hale refused to talk about that night with him.

  The case files.

  He needed to get his hands on those files. To review the suspect/witness interviews for any details he hadn’t been told. Ray claimed there was nothing to see, that he didn’t have the case files in his office any longer. Then he’d offered that story about the water damage. Clint wasn’t buying it.

  If Ray had something to hide, and Clint wasn’t saying he did, he might decide to dispose of the files before Clint got himself an attorney and forced the issue.

  Clint couldn’t take that chance.

  Four hours ago, before he’d ended up in the parking lot across the street from the Valley Inn, he’d gathered the tools he thought he might need and decided to do what needed to be done. But as he’d passed this place he’d thought about Emily and whether or not she was actually safe, considering Turner’s murder. So Clint had stopped … and well, he’d ended up here.

  He snuggled his face into her hair and inhaled deeply. He didn’t want to go … but he had to.

  Turner’s murder had made one thing crystal clear: Clint’s tactic had worked. Heather’s killer was nervous.

  Clint wanted him.

  Clint’s jaw tightened. He wanted him bad.

  As much as Clint would like to stay right here with Emily, he had to get this done now, before it was too late.

  He carefully untangled himself from her sweet body. She mumbled something in her sleep and he held still, let her settle again, and then he managed to get out of bed without waking her. Gathering his clothes as he went, he edged into the bathroom and closed the door. He grimaced when it creaked. After dressing, he washed his face with cold water to ensure he was fully alert. He combed his fingers through his hair and stared at his reflection a moment. If he got caught … he would go back to prison.

  It was a risk he had to take.

  He opened the bathroom door slowly, hoping it wouldn’t creak this time. It did. Didn’t matter, he realized, when his gaze landed on Emily standing at the end of the bed, her clothes in her arms.

  “Whatever you’re planning,” she said with a tone that told him he could forget any negotiations, “I’m going with you.”

  She stalked past him, went into the bathroom, and closed the door. He stood there for several moments in a kind of shock. As much as he appreciated her desire to help him, this was way too risky.

  By the time he’d regrouped and come up with an argument he’d intended to shout through the door as he made his hasty exit, she emerged fully dressed and looking exactly like the next brick wall he’d be hitting.

  “You’re going after those files, aren’t you?”

  He hesitated when he should have been running, putting some distance between her and the new danger his actions could very well trigger. He shouldn’t have told her about requesting to see the files. “It might not help,” he countered.

  “It’s the only way you’re going to know if the police did their job,” she argued.

  She was right, but that didn’t give her license to get involved. “You’ll only slow me down,” he challenged. “This has to be done fast and with as little noise and as few mistakes as possible.”

  “I’m head of the files department at a major research facility. I know more about filing systems than you can imagine exists. You need me. I can evaluate the filing system and find what you’re looking for in minutes. It could take you hours.”

  He wished she wasn’t right about that. “You understand that if we’re caught, this won’t be just breaking and entering.” He had to be out of his mind to even consider this. “The community will look at you the way they look at me.”

  “I understand.”

  Still, he stood there, hoping she’d change her mind.

  She didn’t.

  “All right, but we do this my way. You follow my instructions without question.”

  She nodded. “Whatever you say.”

  2:45 A.M.

  Pine Bluff’s post–Civil War courthouse stood in the center of town, with shops, offices, and a couple of cafés fanning out around it like a square wheel. Emily had always loved this courthouse. It made her think of history and justice.

  But justice didn’t always show up here. Sometimes a person had to make justice happen. That was what she was doing tonight.

  “You’re sure he said they were stored in the courthouse basement?” She’d envisioned some run-of-the-mill storage facility. Breaking into a courthouse would go on one’s permanent record … especially Clint’s. If he was caught … she didn’t want to think about it.

  Funny, she’d wanted exactly this scenario in the beginning. She would have given anything for this opportunity to ensure he went back to prison.

  She pushed the painful memories away. She had to focus. This was far too important to screw up.

  “That’s what he said. You can still back out.”

  “No way.” She shook her head adamantly. “I’m in.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  He grabbed a small duffel and got out of the car. She’d insisted on using her Malibu, since it was dark enough to blend in with the night. He’d left his truck several blocks away in case they needed a backup.

  Emily followed his lead. They’d parked in a back alley on the east side of the courthouse. The whole world had appeared to be asleep as they drove into the heart of town. That was something one could usually count on around here.

  She stayed close to Clint as they wove their way around to the front of the line of shops. Careful to stay away from the lampposts, they cut across the street and approached the courthouse on the handicapped-accessible side.

  This was the part that really worried her. Considering his former profession with Sylvester Fairgate, she wasn’t concerned about Clint’s ability to get in, but what if there was a security system? A silent alarm could go off and they wouldn’t even know it until it was too late.

  When she asked as much, he said, “That’s why we’re not going through a door.”

  He found what he deemed a worthy window and then he went to work. He explained a few things about security systems: “Magnetic sensors to monitor the opening and closing of windows are costly, especially when you’re talking about the whole building. Has t
o be a hundred windows.

  “Most places use glass-break sensors. As long as we get the window open without breaking any glass we’ll probably be fine.”

  Probably.

  With the window chosen, she understood why he’d selected this side of the courthouse. The handicapped-accessible side had exterior access to the basement level, including two full-sized windows, whereas the windows leading to the basement on the other sides were small casements. Probably not even large enough to meet the current emergency egress standards.

  She would never have thought of this.

  He pulled a pair of gloves out of the duffel. “Here.” He offered them to her. “I only have one pair; you take them.”

  “You,” she argued. “You’re the one whose prints are on file. If they find mine they won’t have anything to compare them to.”

  He considered her reasoning, then tugged on the gloves. She liked that he listened to her. She also found it mindboggling, since less than one week ago they had been mortal enemies.

  From his duffel he removed a glass cutter along with one of those suction-cup hangy things people bought all the time to hang wreaths on windows. After licking the suction cup, which she watched avidly, he stuck it to the glass. He scored the glass and, using the suction cup, pulled the newly cut piece away from the sash, leaving a hole.

  “Amazing,” she muttered. Just like MacGyver.

  Clint cautiously snaked his arm through the hole and unfastened the lock. The window went up and they were inside. He closed the sash and ran his fingers along the wooden edge where the two sashes met.

  She leaned close so she could whisper, “What’re you doing? Don’t we need to hurry?”

  “Checking for a sensor that would’ve set off an alarm when the window opened.” He drew his hands away from the window and reached for his duffel bag. “We’re good.”

  “Let’s find the storeroom.” She wanted this done as quickly as possible. It wasn’t that she was afraid … okay, she was afraid. Hazing-week pranks were the closest she’d ever come to breaking the law.

  The window had taken them into the property assessment office. The door leading into the basement corridor was locked but allowed for opening from the inside. Once they were in the main corridor and the door closed behind them, they would be locked out of the room.