by Mari Manning
“Don’t you think this proves Frankie’s suspicions? Maybe there’s evidence in there that will help us find Charleen.”
“Maybe there’s not.”
“Come on, Seth. Five minutes. That’s all I need.”
“If you tramp around in there, won’t that screw things up?”
“Manny and the pickers said it’s Zack. You can’t tell that from the door. The scene is already compromised.”
He arched a brow meaningfully. “You owe me.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Damn straight we will. Saturday night. I’ll pick you up at seven.” He strolled off in the direction of Jones and Swope. His lithe, loose-hipped body covered the grassy area between the murder scene and the road in a few long strides. “Hey, Ed. Derek.”
“What’s up, Maguire?”
“You guys want some grub while you wait for the sheriff? They’re setting up the mobile kitchen now. Might not be anything left by the time the sheriff gets through investigating.”
“Sure do,” Jones said. He took off his hat and fanned his flushed face for a moment. “It’s gonna be a hot one. Got any iced tea?”
“Iced tea, lemonade, Coke. Whatever you boys want,” Seth said. “Sandwiches, too.” He disappeared around the back of the main building with two hungry cops in tow.
Kirby slipped into the bunkhouse. Pine walls, pine floors, pine rafters. The narrow interior reminded her of a coffin. The air, too. Musty and thick with dust, the faint odor of dead body clinging to the wood.
A denim shirt lay in a crumpled heap near the door. The edge of a torn sleeve made a zigzag pattern against the floor. It was Zack’s shirt—the one Seth had shredded yesterday. She took a shallow breath against the smell and moved on. Four minutes and counting. Then Jones and Swope would be back.
She studied the hasp and open padlock hanging on the door. Had Seth unlocked it last night for Zack? If not, who else had a key? Miss Bea? Brittany? Manny?
She followed Zack’s movements by following his clothes. A battered hat under a long dining table. A soiled undershirt on a bench. In the sitting area, a pair of dusty boots beside a battered blue chair, jeans just a step farther, briefs atop a boozeless bar. Zack’s naked body crumpled between a sagging sofa and teetering TV.
Why would he do a striptease in a deserted bunkhouse?
Stepping over Zack’s rumpled underwear, Kirby used the hem of her shirt to press the TV’s power button. Nothing happened. Tilting her head, she examined the back of the box. It was unplugged. So Zack managed to get his hands on the keys to the TV room but didn’t bother plugging in the TV. Then he’d pulled off his clothes. Then someone killed him.
Glass, clear and shiny and smooth, winked beneath the sofa’s skirt. Using the tip of her shoe, she raised the hem. It was a half-drunk fifth of whiskey. Who gave Zack alcohol?
The blood had begun to settle in Zack’s skin, leaving bruise-like marks. It had probably been at least twelve hours since he was killed. She eyed the cushion. The thin slice in the fabric and thick puddle of blood said he’d been stabbed on the couch. He must have fallen to the floor. Alive. His left hand was twisted behind him. He’d tried to pull out the knife.
Poor man. There was an ocean of blood at the scene. It must have taken at least a half hour for him to bleed out. But maybe God had been merciful. Maybe Zack lost consciousness before death came.
She bent over the body and shooed away the swarming flies. The hilt was worn, the protruding blade shiny and sharp. Kirby’s breath caught, triumph and dread tumbled inside her. Sweet Lord, sweet Lord, sweet Lord. Miss Bea’s kitchen knife. Or its twin.
But Mr. Shaw had been so sure of Miss Bea’s innocence. Was he protecting her? Or worse, was he issuing the orders? He loved the land. Charleen and Frankie loved the money it would bring. But why kill Zack? Unless Frankie had talked to him about her suspicions. Maybe he came down to the house last night. Maybe he threatened to go to the police unless he got paid. He’d wanted money to get away so it was possible.
Zack’s right hand stretched over his head. He must have been reaching for someone or something. Her eyes followed his hairy, blotchy arm. On the worn floor, he’d written three letters in his blood. The first two were clear: Ki. The last was smudged. It was an L…or the beginning of another letter like H or B or even N or R. But she liked it for an L. Killer or kill. Maybe he’d tried to name his killer but died before he got the chance.
“What are you doing in here, Frankie?” Jones, frowning, was at the door.
Busted. “Thought I saw him move.”
Jones’s eyes widened.
“But I was seeing things, I guess.” She heaved a great sigh. Dust particles blew up her nose, and she sneezed.
His expression darkened. His little eyes glittered with meanness. “You’re putting me on, girl.” He stepped inside the bunkhouse.
Seth poked his head in behind Jones and winked at her. “There you are, Frankie. The apricots won’t pick themselves, you know.”
“Right.” She scrambled for the door, pushed past a fuming Jones and a suspicious Swope, and hit fresh air and freedom with a sense of relief.
Sliding a protective arm around her, Seth nodded at Jones. “We’ll leave you to your work. You holler if you need any more of that iced tea.”
Jones nodded unhappily. “Sure thing.”
“Do you know how Zack got a hold of whiskey last night?” Kirby asked when they moved away from Jones and Swope.
“I gave him three sandwiches and a few bottles of water to tide him over until the food wagon arrived. Why?”
“There’s a fifth of whiskey, half drunk, next to the body.”
“Fuck.” He pulled her closer to him. “You watch your back. I don’t know if a maniac is loose or Miss Bea’s lost her marbles, but Zack is dead. For no reason that I can see. You could be next. Or me. Or anyone.” He stopped. “And if there is one more incident on this ranch, I’m going to out you to Shaw.”
“Seth. Please.”
“The police will find Charleen…if and when she wants to be found. In the meantime, you will be much safer as yourself.” He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, Kirby. I know you love Frankie and want to help her. But I won’t allow anything to happen to you.”
Was this part of his get-laid campaign, or the wellspring of genuine feeling? She studied his eyes, deep blue oceans, bottomless and cool. All she could see in them was Seth watching her back.
“One more question, Seth.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you unlock the main building last night?”
“No. Just the north bunkhouse.”
“Does anyone else have a key to the padlock on the main building?”
“Everyone on the ranch has access. It’s hanging in the coach house with the other keys. They’d just have to know which key it was.”
“Who’d know?”
He shrugged. “Most everyone.”
“Miss Bea?”
“Of course. Why?”
Manny’s face appeared between them. “We found the pickup. It was hidden in the lavender field.”
“Where is it now?”
“Same place. The front seat was smeared with blood.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Lonestar Saloon’s soft light splashed across the bar and illuminated Kirby’s face. Dark hair spilled over her shoulders like an inky waterfall. Seth itched to capture a fistful of it and pull her close. He itched to taste her skin and the inside of her mouth and the parts of her he hadn’t seen. Yet.
The top of her pink sundress rose and fell with each breath. He let his eyes rest on the valley between her breasts, the shadowed mounds, the straining fabric. Who said heaven was up?
Her head was bobbing to Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places,” and when she caught him studying her, she smiled. “Do you like this song?” She raised her voice over the thrumming music and Saturday-night laughter.
“Sure.” He liked her this way—sexy and swee
t. A little drunk on her second bottle of beer. Did lady cops let it all hang out in the bedroom? He hoped so. He leaned close to her ear and inhaled the scent of clean skin. “You want another beer?”
“I’m good. Thanks for bringing me tonight. This is fun.”
“No problem.”
Across the room, a girl squealed and a bottle broke. Male laughter erupted. Kirby jumped from her bar stool.
“You’re off duty tonight.”
She frowned. “But—”
He slipped his foot out of his Top-Sider and rubbed it against her calf. “Even lady cops get a night off now and again, don’t they?”
Her eyes met his and widened. She took a gulp of her beer.
He could usually tell right off if a gal was coming home with him. But Kirby was tough to read. She’d gotten herself all gussied up and come out with him, but whenever he touched her, she’d get all fluttery and nervous. He was already wound tighter than a top, and if tonight was a no go, he wanted to know before his goddamn balls turned blue.
The cover band played the opening chords of Willie Nelson’s “Always on My Mind.” “Wanna dance?” He hit her with his lopsided grin.
“That would be great.” She squeezed out a tight smile.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m not very good. I—I mean at dancing.”
“Just follow my moves, baby.” On the dance floor, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. His mouth found her ear. “You like Willie Nelson?”
She nodded.
“You like me?”
The pulse point at the base of her throat fluttered. “Yes.”
“Good.” He pressed his lips against her forehead. “Your heart’s beating a mile a minute.”
“Is it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Must be the beer. I’m not much of a drinker.”
“I thought it might have something to do with us.”
She stilled.
What is bugging her? And how could he make her forget about it…until after he’d touched her, tasted her…taken her? He twirled her across the floor, getting off on the way her slender body swayed against his, imagining how it would feel beneath him.
“Do you think Miss Bea killed Zack?” She mumbled the words into the side of his neck.
Dang. She wasn’t making his job easy. He pulled her into him again. “I think you are a fine lady cop, and I know you’re going to figure out what’s going on out at the ranch, but just for tonight, put all that in your back pocket.”
“But I just—”
“No more questions.”
“What are we supposed to talk about?”
“Why do we need to talk?” He dipped his head and brushed her lips.
Her breath caught, and her skin flushed. Her body trembled in his arms.
“Is something wrong?” He didn’t want to ask, but he had to.
She sucked in a gallon of air, but the words came out high anyway. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“’Cause you’re jumpier than a schoolgirl on her first date.”
“You wish.” Her hand cupped his jaw and drew his mouth down. She kissed him, slowly, softly, her lips parting to warm him with her sweet breath. Her eyes closed. The dim lights danced across her lashes and her cheekbones and shadowed her dark brows. Her skin shimmered, igniting a flame of desire in his belly. She pulled away from him. “How’s that?”
“I like it when you take charge.” He held her gaze. “Maybe you can whisper all the things you want to do to me when we get back to my place. Wouldn’t mind hearing a little of that.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “Are you teasing me?”
He pulled her in close again and spoke softly into her hair. “Every time you blush, a switch gets flipped inside me. You know?”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “I thought we weren’t talking.”
The song ended, but he didn’t release her. “That was some kiss, baby. You really know how to get a man going.” He studied her dark eyes, glittering softly in the bar’s dim light. Surrender swam in their round depths.
A couple brushed past them. “The song’s over,” she said.
Do it now. While she was warm and aroused and in his arms. Before she made it back to the bar stool and cooled down and started to think. “I don’t want to let you go.”
“We’re making a spectacle of ourselves.”
He arched a brow at her. “Home?”
She jerked her chin up and down. “Yes. Home. Let’s do it.”
Hallelujah!
The parking lot was dark, the air cool. His arm curled over her shoulder. Beneath his fingers, her bones felt light as feathers, her hair heavy, her skin clammy. “Cold?”
She nodded. “A little.”
He hugged her close. Her hand looped his waist and rested on his hip. His reaction was immediate, and he prayed she wouldn’t look down at his tenting khakis.
What was wrong with him? He was never this horny. Of course, he’d had quite a dry spell.
She slipped into the Jeep, pressing her knees together as she pulled her sandaled feet up and in, smoothing her dress over her lap once she was settled. The silk skirt molded to her thighs.
Before they left the parking lot, he was going to touch those golden legs and get those knees loosened.
He was throbbing by the time he slid into the driver’s side and set a hand on her knee. A soft breath escaped her parted lips, but she didn’t pull away. He leaned into her, hoping the moist air from her mouth would fall on his face.
Her lips curled into a nervous smile. Why was she running hot and cold?
“What about the other morning?” he asked. “Do you want to talk?” His palm slid past her knee, brushing back the hem of her dress.
“I was upset, that’s all.” She still sounded unsure.
“Look, Kirby, I come on strong, but I don’t take what’s not on offer. If you want me to back off, just say so.”
His words opened the way for a graceful exit, but his hand was halfway up her thigh, stroking and coaxing. Gentling his skittish filly. Her legs relaxed. She twisted in her seat and slid her arms behind his neck. “I’m offering. That’s why I’m here with you.”
An unexpected sigh escaped his lips. Tonight was a go.
He dug his fingers into her silky hair, pulling her head back so he could see her face. She watched him, her beautiful brown eyes vulnerable and receptive and ready. He lowered his lids, let his body take over. His mouth brushed her lips, kissing her slowly, over and over. A bee sipping sweet nectar. She tasted of beer and lime and arousal.
His hands fell away from her head, his palms cupping the side of her face, then her shoulders, then her breasts. The nipples puckered through the thin silk of her dress.
“Oh.” Her back arched, and the soft mounds molded to his palm. “Seth.” She breathed his name, sending raw need into his muscle and bone, his legs, his arms, his dick. He was so hard, he couldn’t walk a straight line for a million dollars.
He opened his eyes. Her head was flung back, her hands gripped his shoulders, but her knees were back in locked position.
“Come here.” Pulling her to him, he covered her neck with hungry kisses and love bites while his hands slipped under her dress. His thumbs made circles against her inner thighs. With a gasp, her mouth opened, hot against his face. But her legs barely budged.
“Let me in, baby. Give me what I want.” He pushed at her legs, and they parted a few inches. But that was all he needed to slip his hand into her panties.
She gasped when he touched the hot, wet core of her. Her knees fell apart. She wanted him.
He lifted her over the console so she straddled his lap. “Oh, baby,” he groaned. “You’re driving me crazy.” He pushed himself against her silky panties, letting her know he was ready. His mouth found her ear. “A quickie here, then home for more leisurely fun?”
She stilled.
He’d pushed it too far. Of course she’d
need more time. She was a nice girl—and he was going to come in her lap if he didn’t move fast.
“A traditionalist, huh?” He pushed her head against his shoulder. “Don’t move. We’ll be home in fifteen minutes.”
The cop in her emerged. She sat up. “You can’t drive with me on your lap.”
He fiddled with the key, and the Jeep roared to life. Then he kissed her once. Hard. “Yes, Officer, I can. Unless you’re going to arrest me.” He pressed her head against his shoulder and roared out of the parking lot.
He’d never driven with a woman straddling his lap before. But it wasn’t much different from driving in Iraq’s hundred-degree summer heat in his bulletproof vest and his boots and fatigues. Minus the erection. Fortunately the road to the ranch was dark and deserted…and straight. The straight part was especially good, because every time the Jeep hit a bump, her hips rubbed against him, and he nearly forgot he was driving.
“You’re going to get us killed,” she murmured.
His penis was throbbing like a son of a bitch. Death seemed like a risk worth taking. “I got it under control, baby. Just stay still.”
Gravel crunched under the Jeep’s tires. They’d made it to the ranch. She raised her head, and he lost sight of the driveway. The Jeep rattled and bumped over grass.
“Not yet.” He pushed her head down again. “A few more seconds.”
He righted the Jeep, roaring into the coach house, squealing to a halt an inch short of the back wall. He killed the engine.
“Are we here?”
“Yeah, baby.” His mouth sought hers, coming in hard. She nipped at his tongue, then tilted her head so he could go deep into her mouth. He shouldered the Jeep door. It flew open. The overhead light flickered.
Her golden skin was flushed, and her breasts heaved against the thin fabric of her dress. “You first, baby.”
Without breaking their lip-lock, she shifted, uncurled a leg, found the floor. The dress rode up nearly to her waist, revealing damp pink panties and the shadow of womanhood between her legs. Almost there. He could feel it.
He lifted her from his lap. Her other foot hit the floor, and her knees buckled.
“Whoa, there, baby.”
Climbing out after her, the front of his khakis rising like a circus big top, he pulled her close. He trailed wet kisses down her neck, distracting her with his mouth, his hands fumbling at her back. He touched the tiny metal tab. Her zipper came down, rolling along her spine and over the curve of her waist and across the rising slope of her bottom.
