Touching Evil

by Kylie Brant

  “Perimortem? You found signs of healing before death?”

  He nodded. Swallowed. “Barely. You can double check, but I’d estimate that the injury occurred at least two weeks before her death. Oh, and these remains aren’t the source of the finger bone found in the cave. Once I reassembled it the skeleton was complete.” He took a last helping of candy before offering the rest of the bag to her. Lucy snatched it up with a desperation she was too hungry to be embarrassed by.

  “Not bad for a few hours work,” she allowed. Sharing his chocolate had her feeling equally generous.

  “I’d like to get that DCI agent in here—the redhead—to help do a facial reconstruction. I gotta get permission from the ME, though. She can be real testy about things like that.”

  Lucy smirked. “Really? I hear the ME is a saint. Maybe if you ask real nice she’ll okay it.”

  For a man who rarely walked above an amble, he could move remarkably fast. He took her hand and tugged her from her seat to his arms with dizzying speed. “I am capable of much more than nice,” he assured her with a wicked smile, his arms wrapping around her waist.

  Lucy could blame it on the chocolate. Or her lack of sleep. But against her better judgment she smiled back. “I remember exactly what you’re capable of.” He had the ability to strip her of a life’s worth of defenses armed with nothing but a lazy smile and a wicked sense of humor. He was capable of tempting her, a woman not known for indulgences, to forget duty long enough to be wicked with him.

  And the buffer of the miles between their occupations made indulging in Gavin Connerly safe enough to soothe even Lucy’s hyper-cautious nature. She went up on tiptoe to catch his bottom lip between her teeth. Nipped lightly. “Exactly how many miles is it to your hotel?” And was gratified when she felt his body shudder.

  He drew back a little to survey her. “I’ve never been inside your place. Maybe we can pick up some takeout and head to Bondurant. It’d give us time to talk.”

  Something in his tone had her beating an emotional retreat. Having sex with Gavin was far enough out of character. The thought of allowing him into her home, into her life had mental walls springing up.

  “Tell you what, Connerly.” Although her voice was conversational, her hands were anything but. “We can talk. Or we can…” She rose up to whisper a suggestion in his ear and his gaze went a little unfocused.

  “We’ll talk later.” He shepherded her out of the office, barely allowing her time to grab her purse and lock up. “But we are going to talk, Luce.”

  “If you still have the strength to talk later,” she murmured sultrily, “then I’m horribly out of practice.”

  * * * *

  “We got the license number, color, make and model off Moxley’s car from DMV. There’s a BOLO out on it now. We’ve also alerted surrounding counties. Someone will see him.”

  They were walking up the drive at Cam’s house. Sophia was nearly staggering with exhaustion, but Cam’s voice was alert as he discussed strategy with the SAC. Stars studded the sky, but the moon was slivered, as if its fullness had been carved away with one brutal slice. She felt the same. As if each new event of the day had pared away another layer of skin until her nerves lay raw, exposed and vulnerable.

  “Well, the garage gave us a lot of information. That’s where he embalmed them. The supplies and equipment for it are stored there. He also had a walk-in freezer. We’ll need lab results, but I think he might have kept victims in it while waiting to dispose of them. Like Dr. Channing guessed, he also had a small boat and trailer there.” He listened for a moment as he fit his key into the deadbolt and unlocked the door to allow them inside before resetting the security system and securing the door again. “We’ve got feelers out with all the banks in the area, but we found no trace of bills or bank books. Pinter’s clerk said he was a cash customer. Dr. Channing thinks he would have been far more likely to shun banks.”

  He listened for a moment, then slanted Sophia a glance. “Yeah. She said organized offenders can descend into disorganization. She says he’s unraveling as a result of an untreated psychosis, triggered by an emotional event. You should have seen the prescriptions. Hard to say where Baxter came into contact with Vance. He doesn’t have a record.”

  It was impossible to say which beckoned more insistently—a bath or sleep. Sophia decided she’d get rid of the wig and contacts first and go from there.

  Cam draped his suit coat over the back of the couch, then remembered to take the tie he’d wadded up out of his pocket. “Yeah, the warrant came through okay on Baxter’s juvie DHS records, but accessing them is slow. The foster father’s files showed he was placed by Polk County, and we’ve got a query out. Hopefully we’ll have a response mid-morning.” He started walking toward his office, still talking. “Yeah, search on the river begins again tomorrow morning, too. Briefing’s at eight so…”

  Instead of trailing after him Sophia headed for her bedroom to grab her robe. From the sounds of things she had less than seven hours to clean up and get some sleep. Right now both seemed equally pressing.

  But for some reason after taking her customary brief shower and combing her hair, the thought of crawling into bed had become suddenly unappealing. Details of the day crowded in and her thoughts couldn’t turn in any direction without bumping into one of them. They weren’t exactly musings guaranteed to summon slumber.

  She gathered up her things and took them back to her bedroom. The light was still on in Cam’s office, but she no longer could hear the sound of his voice. The phone call with Gonzalez must have finally ended. She busied herself putting her things away and then turned, her gaze falling on the neatly made bed.

  Last night’s scene flickered across her mind. Cam had offered comfort after her PTSD flashback. In his arms she’d felt safe enough to finally shut her eyes.

  Safe. The word had her mentally squirming. She had a doctorate in psychology. Trauma-induced reactions were, clinically at least, familiar territory. But she was self-aware enough to recognize that safety and caution had guided her life choices for most of her years. The only time she’d ever veered from the familiar—the safe—was when she’d chosen to go into forensics rather than solely clinical psychology. And even then she’d hedged her bets for far too long, trying to balance the two sides of her occupation with a career in academia and a forensic consulting firm.

  Teaching had, she could admit now, completely and utterly bored her. She walked to the dresser and laid her comb down on the surface. She’d done it to please her parents and husband, all academics. But the routine of following a predetermined course outline, grading papers and the petty university politics had never truly appealed. She wondered now how long she would have continued fooling herself that her life completely satisfied if she hadn’t walked in to her husband’s department office to find him enthusiastically banging a young co-ed on his desk.

  It had, she thought wryly, been a life altering wake-up call. And so had her brief fling with Cam Prescott last month, in a totally different sort of way.

  In just twelve short days she’d felt more alive with the man than she had throughout her entire marriage. Even before. The relationship had been totally out of character for her. The selection of the man even more so. Cam wasn’t safe. He wasn’t risk-free. And he definitely wasn’t boring.

  She turned and walked slowly to the windows, drawing the curtains over the blinds. It wasn’t especially comfortable to admit that she’d pulled away from him because her feelings for the man were too raw, too unfamiliar. She hadn’t been equipped for a no-strings relationship. She, a woman who valued guarantees in life had realized there was no guarantee of a future with Cam Prescott. No assurance that he would ever reciprocate anything close to the welter of emotion he incited in her.

  Mason Vance had showed her the folly of living her life afraid to take risks. Thoughts of the man had her skin prickling. If things had turned out differently she’d have died at Vance’s hands, never having taken a chance on any
thing other than the somewhat tepid relationship she’d had with her ex-husband. And that made her rather ashamed of herself.

  There was lingering emotional damage from her time spent in captivity. Sophia was the first to admit it. But it didn’t impact her ability to do her job on this investigation. And it didn’t factor into her realization that she’d almost let something infinitely precious slip through her fingers, because she’d been so busy protecting her heart.

  The thought shook her. After she’d escaped from Mason Vance, Cam had told her over and over how brave she’d been. But he’d never realized that it had been sheer cowardice that had sent her running from him.

  Sophia was done running.

  She walked through the bedroom door on feet that faltered a little when she found his office dark. Taking a deep breath she continued to his bedroom and peeked inside. Empty.

  Just then she heard the shower in the adjoining bath turn on. The sound nearly sent her fleeing. She actually turned toward the bedroom door.

  And then had a mental flash of how she’d left him the first time, fueled by the same cowardly fear. Her purpose solidified. She walked to the bath, pulled the door open. She could see Cam’s form through the glass shower stall and a tendril of heat unfurled, curling through her system. She saw the exact moment he noticed her. He froze in the act of sluicing the water from his face. Stared for a moment, then opened the door of the stall.

  “You okay, Soph?” He gave her a quick onceover with his gaze as if to answer his own question. “I’ll be done here in a minute.”

  “Yes.” Untying the robe, she gave a slight shrug and let it slip down her arms to pool on the floor. “I really am okay.” She walked to the shower stall and stepped inside, brushing by him to do so.

  Her hands immediately went to his chest. Her fingers flexed. His came up to cover them. Swallowing hard, he rasped, “Listen, God knows this isn’t easy for me to say. But this probably isn’t a good idea right now for you. I don’t think…”

  The concern mingled with desire on his face told her everything she needed to know. “It’s all right.” She closed the distance between them and went up on tiptoe to nip lightly at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve done enough thinking for both of us.” Sliding her arms around his neck, she pressed her mouth against his and sank into pleasure.

  The kiss in the car at Screwball’s had been too unexpected and much too brief. It had been over before her defenses were sufficiently lowered to enjoy it. But Sophia was done erecting defenses around this man. The thought was frightening. Exhilarating. Liberating.

  His arms came around her then and pulled her closer. His lips opened and his tongue went in search of hers. He knew how to kiss a woman—hot, deep and devastating. With a single-minded intensity that had the rest of the world fading. Inner fires flaring. She pushed aside a persistent niggling doubt and dove into the flames.

  His flavor was dark temptation, lethal to her senses. Her hands played over the muscles of his shoulders, her fingers stroking in remembered pleasure. She’d always loved the contrasts between them when they’d lain naked and entwined, his sinewy strength against her softness. And she’d enjoyed stripping him of that strength, torching his control until desperation turned his breathing ragged, his hands hard and frantic.

  The warm water cocooned them in its spray and the moment spun out, wrapping them in a dark intimate heat.

  When he lifted his mouth, it took an instant for Sophia to remember to breathe. Her bones were lax, hot molten wax and she leaned heavily against him. Nor did her strength return when she opened her eyes and saw him watching her, his gaze slitted. His eyes were antique gold when washed with desire, and that’s what she saw in them now. But it was what she noted in his face that had her heart turning over.

  There was passion there, yes, but also the signs of exhaustion he had successfully kept at bay for almost eighteen hours. He was a protector to the core, a cop, that ex-Army ranger toughness as much a part of him as his eye color. Perhaps that was why his unexpected tenderness could be so devastating.

  It was that gentleness as much as his passion that had been responsible for tripping up her normally safe decisions. Caused her to want too much. Feel too deeply. She’d walked away from him then. Run actually, from him and from her own feelings. For all intents and purposes Sophia had lived her life between the lines. And Cam not only was outside the lines, he shouldn’t have even been in the picture.

  But he was. He was the picture and although he’d let her flee, she hadn’t been as successful leaving behind the feelings he’d elicited from her. She allowed herself the indulgence of studying him. His dark brown hair was painted a shade darker by the water, and kept a shorter length favored by most of the agents. She’d seen a picture of him last month in which his hair had been longer, sporting what he’d called an unmanly wave. She’d decided on the spot that she preferred it grown out, but doubted she’d ever see it that way.

  His jaw was stubbled, his eyes shadowed and she felt a sudden ache of tenderness. He’d push on until he dropped, or until he put Baxter behind bars. And he’d do so without considering the physical cost to himself.

  But it was what she saw in his golden brown eyes that had her pulse stuttering and conscious thought draining away. Unvarnished desire. Smoky tendrils of heat suffused her. She’d spent her life neatly compartmentalizing her life, weighing risks, skirting threats to her equilibrium. To her heart. He represented the biggest risk she’d ever taken. And she was through running from the possibility of heartbreak.

  Their gazes tangled. He stroked a lazy path up her spine, and she shuddered in response. An alarm shrilled in the distant recesses of her mind. She’d heeded it once, and regretted her cowardice. If there was one thing a brush with death had taught her, it was that moments were meant to be seized.

  His head dipped and his teeth closed over the cord of her neck, testing not quite painfully. The uncertainty of their future had once frightened her until she’d learned what true fear was. But this. This was worth taking a chance.

  Thoughts grew foggy. Reason clouded. She dragged her lips across his jaw, felt his whiskers lightly abrade her mouth and the sensation cemented her decision. He was the only one who could make her believe that these feelings, wild and primitive, were more important than a relationship of shared interests. He shattered her safe risk-averse world and all too easily became the center of it.

  It wasn’t the frankly carnal passion between them that had frightened her so much. It was finding herself wanting more. His lips moved over hers then, and there was a flare in her belly, hot and immediate.

  He cupped her face in his palms, and his mouth devoured hers, their tongues tangling, breath mingling, teeth clashing. He walked her backwards a few steps until she felt the shower wall at her shoulders, and still he didn’t lift his mouth from hers. She softened against him. Here was the hunger she craved. The hint of savagery that called forth an answering wildness she would have once denied existed.

  He urged her legs apart with his knee then stepped between them. His erection pressed against her belly, and she squirmed against him, wanting to feel him where she was empty and aching. As if aware of her frustration, his hands went to her butt and he lifted her. With her legs wrapped around her hips, she rocked against his hardness, feeling his reaction even if she couldn’t drag her eyes open to watch it.

  Her head lolled against the wall, fingers on a tactile journey, dancing over the hard planes of his chest, the hollows beneath his ribs. The ridges of sinew and bone.

  There was something exquisitely sensuous about focusing on touch alone. She mapped a journey along his biceps, across his shoulders, while he followed the streams of water along her skin with his tongue. He sipped at the drops collected in the hollow beneath her neck. She shivered each time his mouth found a new inch of skin to taste. To savor.

  This rollicking of her pulse was familiar, but no less heady for it. Every brush of his lips, every teasing slide of his tongue was a
dark promise of things to come. It fueled a quiet desperation in her system. He was pressed close. She wanted him closer. Seamed against her. Buried deep inside her. So close even the pulsing water couldn’t dribble though. And then closer yet. And she wanted him quaking, too. Wanted to release the primitive nature that he kept so tightly harnessed. She wanted, quite frankly, to strip him of every defense as easily as he’d crumbled hers.

  To that end, she relaxed her fingers, went on a quest designed to unleash his control. Her senses scattered when his tongue circled one nipple, teasing it tauter and then took it in his mouth, drawing strongly from her. It took all the strength she could muster to concentrate on the places that made him shudder. The soft velvety skin beneath his arm. A fingernail scraping over one male nipple. Her fingers lowered. Over taut muscles in his belly that jumped and bunched at her touch.

  He raised his head, the sound of his hissed breath was its own reward. Her reach was constrained by the closeness of their position but she was thorough in her investigation. She brushed her fingers over his back, feeling the flesh punctuated by vertebrae. The muscles beneath her fingers quivered under her touch like an impatient stallion.

  Sophia felt seared by his gaze. It painted her face, her breasts, causing her nipples to tighten even more. She knew from experience that he’d take pleasure and return it tenfold, and the knowledge sparked comets of heat through her veins.

  Eyes locked on him she arched her back, a carnal invitation and watched the color slash over his cheekbones. His jaw tightened, and she knew intuitively he was battling against the urge to rush the ending, an urge she wouldn’t protest. But she saw the moment he won the battle, saw the slight curve to his lips as he reached out a finger to brush it across her swollen and tender nipples.

  She jerked against him in involuntary response, and her reaction seemed to ignite something inside him. He slid a hand up to cup one of her breasts, capturing the taut bud between thumb and forefinger before lowering his mouth to take the other nipple between his lips.