by Lisa Jackson
Ty flipped on the radio and they listened to the end of the prerecorded Lights Out program, instrumental renditions of familiar songs, guaranteed to put you to sleep, all engineered by Tiny, the nerd who knew the station inside and out. He'd worked at WSLJ longer than anyone else, part-time from the time he was in high school. While Tiny attended Tulane, Eleanor had offered him a full-time position.
So what about him, she wondered as the Volvo's tires sang against the pavement and the engine hummed. Maybe Tiny wasn't as innocent as he appeared. Or what about Melanie? Lord knew she was ambitious enough and sometimes she seemed secretive, then there was Melba, over-educated and underpaid… or someone in league with Trish LaBelle over at WNAB? It was no secret that Trish wanted Sam's job… Stop it, Sam, you're not getting anywhere, she thought, turn off the noise. As an instrumental version of "Bridge Over Trouble Water," played, Sam was vaguely aware that they were entering the Cambrai city limits. It was good to be with Ty, to relax, to be able to trust someone. She opened her eyes just a crack, enough to see his strong profile, bladed cheekbones, dark expression as they passed beneath streetlamps or the headlights of a few oncoming cars illuminated the Volvo's interior.
It was odd to think that she'd known him only a few weeks and smiled to herself to think how pleased Mrs. Killingsworth would be that her matchmaking had come to fruition. He slowed and cranked the wheel as they turned down the street rimming the lake.
They passed her house, the windows dark, no sign of life within. She nearly changed her mind, and invited him to stay with her and Charon and the hornets, then smiled to herself. Soon enough it would be dawn, but tonight she'd stay with Ty and exhausted as she was, she felt a little tingle of anticipation at being alone with him. She'd thought about their lovemaking often during the day, too often. It seemed so natural to be with Ty. So right. And yet she warned herself that she had made bad decisions in the past, poor choices when it came to men. And he was a virtual stranger to her—what did she really know about him except that he'd shown up at about the same time someone had started terrifying her? And her emotions for him were way out of line.
She couldn't, wouldn't fall in love again. Not with Ty. Not with any man. She'd learned her lesson. Or so she told herself as he parked the car and walked her into his cottage—a little house with few furnishings other than a desk, sectional and television. Sasquatch stretched and sauntered up, tail wagging and Ty let the shepherd out through the back door.
"Hungry?" Ty asked Sam.
"Dead would be a better description."
He whistled to the dog, then helped Sam up a short flight of stairs to the loft, where a king-size bed was pushed beneath windows overlooking the back of the house. Moonlight glinted on the lake and the smell of water drifted in on a warm, Louisiana breeze.
"You know, I don't really think my being here is a great idea," she said.
"Why not?" He'd already kicked off his shoes.
"I might do something I shouldn't."
His grin was wicked as he lifted her chin and stared into her eyes. "A guy can only hope."
"You're impossible."
"I try," he admitted, drawing her into his arms and kissing her until she couldn't think of anything but making love to him.
Don't do this again, Sam! Think. Use your head. How do you know you can trust him?
She couldn't. She knew that much, but she couldn't fight the need to lose herself, to close out all the fear and pain, to trust someone—if only for a night. What could it hurt? She closed her eyes and they tumbled onto his bed, into his world, not knowing what that world was made of. Truth? Lies? Deceit?
What does he want from you?
She didn't know, didn't want to question anything as she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. His lips were hot, his tongue insistent and she eagerly parted her lips and kissed him open mouthed as his arms lifted her up, pulling her so close that her breasts were crushed. One hand pulled, pressing her rump ever closer, so that beneath her skirt her mound was pushed against the hard length of his erection.
She ached deep inside and had trouble catching her breath. Her heart pounded and her blood raced as his fingers bunched the fabric, strong fingertips molding around a buttock and probing in her cleft, forcing her closer still, creating a heat and electricity that sparked through her.
She wanted him; God knew she wanted him and the moan that escaped her was just the beginning. One of her legs curled around his and he lifted his head to stare deep into her eyes.
"As I said before, you want me," he said as the breeze, sifting through an open window tickled the back of her neck. "And I want you."
"Do you?" she breathed, perspiration dotting her skin, heat building deep within. The fingers over her buttocks clamped tight.
"What do you think?"
"I—I think I'm in trouble."
"We both are," he whispered against the shell of her ear and her skin rippled with goose bumps. "Oh, darlin' we both are."
He tumbled backward onto the bed and his lips claimed hers again. Fierce, hungry, hard, he kissed while his hands worked at the fastenings of her skirt and blouse. Knowing she was giving in to a passion she should deny, she pulled his shirt over his head and skimmed the ropey muscles of his arms. In the half light she saw his face, intense, wicked, downright sexy as he removed her blouse then kissed the tops of her breasts as they spilled over the lacy cups of her bra.
Beneath the flimsy fabric her nipples hardened and the need within her throbbed. "I knew it would be like this with you," he said as he shoved the strap of her bra off her shoulder and warm air brushed against her suddenly bare nipple.
"Like—like what?" she whispered as he bent his head. She felt the gentle scrape of his teeth on her tender flesh, the tickle of the tip of his tongue.
"Like this," he said, breathing hard and suckling as his other hand delved beneath the waistband of her skirt, grazing her navel in its quest.
Her legs parted as if of their own accord and she writhed anxiously, wanting, needing, consumed by an ache that seemed to pulse.
He unhooked the clasp at the waistband and the zipper hissed downward as, with both hands, he scraped her skirt and panties over her hips and down her thighs and off her feet. Then she was lying beneath him, her blouse crumpled beneath her, her bra half off, her skin bare.
He lowered himself further, lips touching and tasting, tongue exploring the contours of her skin, his breath moving the curls at the apex of her legs. She closed her eyes, lost herself in pure sensation. He parted her legs, touched her, played with her, tasted her and she writhed, fingers curling in the bedspread, hot images flashing through her mind, desire running rampant.
Don't let him do this to you… don't let him make you vulnerable, but she couldn't stop. The wanting was too intense, the fire in her blood too hot. She felt the pressure building, the ache, and all thoughts converged on that one spot, the center of the world seemed to pulse where his skin touched hers, hotter, higher, faster… her mind spinning until the universe cracked. She bucked, cried out and he held her fast, two strong hands on her legs until she fell back against the bed, panting, her body enveloped in sweat.
"Ooohh," she sighed, breathing hard as the warm glow of satisfaction wound over her. "Ty… What about… you?"
Lifting his head, he winked at her. "We'll get to that."
"Now?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Oh, yeah, now." He stood on his knees. "Trust me, I'm not letting you off the hook. I'm not that noble."
"Noble?" she repeated, then laughed as the wind sighed through the open window. "I didn't think so."
"What did you think?" He swung a leg over her and straddled her. "Tell me."
Sam stared up at him, this man she'd taken so readily for her lover, this stranger who could make her ignore all her doubts, make her cast aside her worries about him. And yet what did she know of this man? His smile was pure sin, his beard-shadow dark, his hair mussed as he held her gaze. Bare-chested, muscles g
leaming with sweat, his jeans slung low on his waist, he placed his hands upon her breasts and squeezed. "What?"
"Oh, that you were…" He was kneading her breasts, scraping his thumb over her nipples, turning her on again, so soon. She had trouble collecting her thoughts. "That you were… dark and dangerous."
"I like that."
"That maybe I shouldn't trust you."
"You shouldn't."
"But that… that I found you…"
"Irresistible?"
"Damningly so."
"Then I guess we're even," he said and reached for the top button of his jeans. He slowly slid the top button out of its hole. Samantha stared, her throat tightening as he flipped his wrists and a series of seductive pops echoed through the loft. She bit her lower lip as he slid his jeans downward and kicked them off.
"See… not noble at all," he insisted, lowering himself onto her and kissing her on her belly before inching up to her breasts.
Again the heat. The damned, moist, all-consuming heat between her legs. Again his tongue tasting and exploring, sliding ever upward, leaving a moist, hot trail upon her skin. "No woman has the right to look as good as you do, you know?"
"Is that right?" She had to force the words out.
"Oh, yeah."
"Maybe I should say the same about you that no man should be allowed to do the things you do to me."
His laugh was a throaty growl. "Flattery will only get you into trouble."
"As if I'm not in enough already."
"A little more won't hurt," he said as his lips found hers and his tongue plunged into her mouth. He pushed her knees apart and, as he kissed her, thrust hard into her. Deep. Deeper, pushing against her, then slowly easing back.
Her arms wrapped around his head and she lifted her hips, wanting more of him, aching to be with him, closing her eyes to the night and the threats surrounding her. Tonight, oh, God, tonight she would just let go.
"That's a girl," he said and plunged deep again, and again and again, breathing hard, sweating, his heart pounding as rapidly as her own. She moved with him, forced her anxious lips to his, arched her back and heard his breathing accelerate, felt each of his sinewy muscles tense as he thrust into her and she let go, her body convulsing, her mind splintering. Ty let out a primal roar as he fell against her, clinging to her, holding her close, his body damp, the moonlight streaming through the open window. Sam sighed, her breath ruffling his hair and knew that she was losing herself in this man, this dark, interesting, stranger, a man she wasn't sure she could trust.
Sam was asleep. Dead to the world. In his bed.
Moonlight streamed through the open window, playing upon her face, and Ty was struck by the unlikely thought that he cared about her far more than he should, maybe was even falling in love with her.
You poor, sick, S.O.B. He'd used her. And in so doing, he'd put her in jeopardy. Plain and simple. There was no reason to sugarcoat it. He'd considered her a means to an end, and now he felt like a heel. Carefully he extracted himself from her arms. She moaned in her sleep and rolled over, never once opening an eye. The bed was rumpled, the pillows mussed, the room smelling faintly of her perfume and sex. He hadn't intended to make love to her, but hadn't been able to stop himself. That was the problem—he, who'd always been careful when it came to women, a man who protected his own best interests as well as his heart, lost it when he was around her. Just plain lost it. He studied the lines of her face, the sweep of her eyelashes, the way her lips were open just enough for shallow breaths.
Tearing his eyes away, he reminded himself that he had things to do, things she was better off not knowing about His conscience nagged him a bit as he stepped into a pair of shorts and didn't bother with a shirt.
The digital readout on the clock showed it was four-thirty in glowing red letters. With the ready excuse of taking Sasquatch outside should she waken, he hurried stealthily down the stairs, the dog at his heels.
Without making a sound he opened the door to the street and saw no one in the bluish illumination from the street-lamp. The night was still, that time of day before dawn when the entire world was asleep. The morning newspaper hadn't been tossed onto his driveway, nor were there any patches of light glowing from the houses lining the street No A-types were out jogging for their morning exercise, no cars cruising along the narrow road. In this section of Cambrai, it was still late night.
Sasquatch nosed around the front yard and Ty walked to the end of the drive, stopping near the magnolia tree that guarded his mailbox. Heavy leaves blocked the shimmering light from the streetlamp, creating an even darker shadow around the bole of the tree. Ty waited, his eyes straining in the darkness, his ears tuned for even the softest of sounds.
He heard nothing, but a few seconds later a figure emerged from the dense shrubbery. Dressed in black, shoulders hunched, expression hidden in the night, Andre Navarrone seemed to blend into the shadows. "Helluva time to be out," he whispered.
"Couldn't be avoided." Ty glanced back at the house, then to the man he'd known over half his life, another cop turned private investigator. Navarrone's tenure with the Houston PD had been short and infamous. He'd never quite learned that the tactics he'd learned in the Gulf War as a special agent couldn't be implemented in the city. So he'd gone independent. Which was perfect.
Ty stared straight into his friend's eyes. "I need your help."
"I figured that much. Otherwise, you wouldn't have called." Navarrone's smile was a wicked slash of white. He didn't ask what Ty wanted, but then he never did.
And he'd never failed.
Yet.
Sam rolled over and sensed that something was different. Wrong. She wasn't in her own bed… no, now she remembered. A contented sigh escaped her lips, and she smiled. She was with Ty, though she'd argued against it. Images of their lovemaking flashed behind her eyes. The feel of his warm skin, the taste of him, the way he knew just how to touch her She reached behind her and felt cool sheets against her fingertips, just sheets. No skin or muscle or bone.
Rolling over she blinked and pushed up on an elbow. Sure enough she was alone. There was an impression where his body had so recently been, but it was cool to the touch. Maybe he'd gotten up to use the bathroom, or get a drink or… the dog. That was it. He'd taken the dog outside.
In the darkness, she found her slip and wiggled into it. She heard his muffled voice through the open window, a hushed whisper and she imagined Ty was encouraging Sasquatch to hurry and do his business. But as she peered out the window, she saw no sign of dog or man on the stretch of lawn between the house and lake. Curious, she walked downstairs where a banker's lamp, left on as a night-light, gave off a soft green glow over a wide desk and allowed her to move through the rooms without switching on any other lights.
In the kitchen she splashed water from the tap over her face and finger-combed her hair, then looked out the window toward the street. Nothing. But he had to be near. She didn't believe that he would leave her alone now, not after he'd driven into town like the cavalry and made a big point of her not staying in her house alone. On top of all that she'd heard his voice—was certain she had. She scoured the darkness and, from the corner of her eye saw movement Sasquatch rounded the corner of the house and was trotting to the end of the driveway only to sit at the base of the tree and look up expectantly. Another movement and the shadows came to life. She caught a glimpse of a man beneath the tree… no, there were two of them. Two. One of the men had to be Ty—otherwise the dog would react differently.
Samantha bit her lip. Ty and who? A man he'd slipped out of bed to meet. A man he hadn't told her about Squinting hard, she leaned over the sink and stared into the night where moonlight dappled the ground and two men huddled.
She gripped the edge of the counter. One of the men was Ty. So who was he talking to so quietly at this hour of the morning? What was so important as to prod him from bed and out into the night? Dark suspicions nagged at her brain. Hadn't the police insinuated that no one was
to be trusted, especially men she hardly knew.
But Ty had only seemed to have her best interests in mind. He'd shown up at the station, not once but twice, when he suspected she might need him. He'd insisted upon driving her home, on checking out her house, on seeing that she was safe. That was why she was here tonight Right?
Or had it all been an act?
She considered walking out the door and demanding answers, then told herself to hold tight and have faith. That whatever he was doing, it was on the up-and-up. She shouldn't second-guess him, should wait for him here in the house, and when he deigned to return she could ask him what was going on.
No way. She was too wound up, too on edge. Her mind was racing with all kinds of reasons for him to have left her alone in his bed—none of them good. Suddenly keyed up, she couldn't imagine trying to fall back to sleep; nor was it her nature to docilely wait and let some man determine her fate.
She walked into the living area, intent on flying up the stairs to the loft, throwing on her clothes and storming back to her house where she belonged, but on the way to the stairs she passed his desk and laptop computer with its screen saver of brightly colored pipes. She paused, tempted to sneak a peek at his files. Edging toward the desk, she told herself she was breaking a trust, but decided she had to know the truth. There was a reason he'd slipped out of the bedroom, and she'd bet she wouldn't like it.
She leaned over the keyboard. In a matter of seconds, she'd opened his word processing program. There flickering on the screen were file numbers that corresponded to chapters and research information.
What had he said about it? What was his joke to Melanie? That it was kind of like The Horse Whisperer meets Silence of the Lambs?
She clicked onto the first chapter.
Her heart dropped.
The title of the book loomed at her:
Death of a Cheerleader: The Murder of Annie Seger.
"Oh, God," Sam whispered, her gaze raking down the page.
