by Debra Cowan
"Why?" She nearly squirmed in her seat. "You've got enough to do here."
Dallas never squirmed, which only made Sam more determined to go. Had she told him everything she knew about Valeria or was her unease spurred by the heat he'd felt simmering between them all day? "The bars won't start hoppin' until nine or ten at night. Besides, this is my case and I'll follow all leads."
She looked about to argue, then laughed shortly. Gray eyes scrutinized his face. "All right, Detective Charm."
"All right." Picking up his cell phone, he called Information and waited as the operator connected him to the airlines. After reserving two seats on the earliest direct flight to Atlanta, he hung up. "I'll pick you up about five in the morning and we'll head for the airport."
She nodded.
"You did a good job today, talking to the people at the apartment complex and the bar."
"Thanks." Her voice dropped, stroking over him like crushed velvet, and his stomach jumped.
He rolled his shoulders and told himself he was imagining that warm interest in her eyes. Then her gaze shifted to his lips, and the muscles in his back twitched.
He grabbed the manila envelope and shoved it at her. "Here, don't forget these."
She took the crime-scene photos, her fingers brushing his. "You're sure—"
"You can look them over tonight. Bring them tomorrow so I can see them again."
"Okay."
He glanced over and found her gaze slowly tracing his chest, his hips. She ran the delicate edge of her tongue across her bottom lip.
Though he'd ignored it as best he could, gut-knotting awareness had spiked Sam's nerves all day. Now his control snapped. "If you don't stop looking at me like that, I'm going to give you what you want."
"What are you talking about?"
He ruthlessly reminded himself of how she'd thought of Brad while making love to him. That she could be doing the same thing right now. But in his gut, Sam knew better. She was looking at him, seeing him.
He knew how to make her back off. He clamped one hand on the back of the seat, brushing against her coat. He wanted to intimidate her but his body went hard at the spicy whiff of her infuriating perfume. "You want me to kiss you."
"Give me a break." She laughed with just the right note of disgust and disbelief.
Still, he noticed that she inched farther into the door. "Are you telling me I can't read the signals?"
"I'm not sending any signals—"
"Liar," he said softly.
She swallowed, turning her head to face him. "Whatever we had—whatever that night was—is gone."
He suddenly, fiercely wanted to thrust his hands into her hair, pull her to him and ravage her mouth until she lost that control and surrendered. Until she admitted that he, Sam, was in her head and not Brad. Then he would turn away from her, the way she had from him. "Are you sure about that?"
"Yes." Uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
He raised one eyebrow. "Really?"
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't give an inch. Oh, no, not Dallas. "Positive."
A year and a half ago, she'd mangled his ego like a bullet ripping through tissue. What kind of idiot would go back for more of that? Still, Sam couldn't stop himself from baiting her. He moved closer. "Shall we try it?"
"Why are you playing this stupid game?"
That fast, his intent shifted from taunting her to breath-knotting anticipation. She hadn't wanted him then, only a warm, willing body. He knew that and yet he couldn't stop himself. "Prove me wrong."
"You're ridiculous. And tired." She reached for the door handle.
He reached for her. Even while telling himself to stop, he couldn't. He slid one palm along her nape, the ends of her silky hair tickling the back of his hand.
She stiffened, but didn't pull away. Her skin was soft, warm, inviting. She froze. He caressed her neck, exerting a little pressure, forcing her head toward him.
Her jaw set and defiance glittered in her eyes, daring him to prove his point, if he could. Her blatant disdain fired something deep inside him, something hard and sharp.
He leaned in, making his intent clear, his gaze locked with hers in a silent battle. Her breath misted his cheek. "Are you saying if I kissed you, you wouldn't like it?"
"I probably wouldn't feel anything."
"Oh, really? You mean, like a year and a half ago? When you asked me to—"
"Stop it! Just stop." She was shaking and shame blazed in her eyes. Gripping the manila envelope, she opened the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"You've been looking at me all day as if you'd like to have a go at me," he growled.
"I would. With my gun!"
Her tart reply snapped his last restraint and he moved in one swift motion. Panic flared in her eyes.
Pure male satisfaction swept through him. She wasn't unaffected, as she wanted him to believe. She wasn't unaffected at all.
He slid his fingers into her hair, cupped the warmth of her scalp. Her breathing quickened; her eyes narrowed.
He gave her plenty of time to push him away, to slide out of the truck. Defiance tightened her features. Her lips flattened and it sparked a savage urge in him to prove that she wanted him. Prove it to himself and to her. He lowered his head.
"Don't even think about—"
He covered her mouth with his and sensation streaked through him. Her lips were warm, moist, drugging. She gasped and his belly clenched.
He tugged gently at her bottom lip with his teeth. Stiff and unyielding, she sat passive beneath his kiss. He remembered this—remembered the resistance, the slow surrender, the hovering memory of Brad. But Brad wasn't here now. It was just Sam and Dallas.
His lips played on hers, soft and gentle and coaxing. His tongue teased the seam of her Lips. She didn't open, didn't moan and sag against him as she had that night; didn't yield at all. Angry at her and himself, he ground his lips harder against hers. She sat rigid, unmoving.
Finally it penetrated that she wasn't responding. She wasn't going to return the kiss. No surrender. Not Dallas.
He drew away, painfully aroused, his gaze leveling into hers. He was stunned at his ragged breathing, the sweat that had gathered on his neck, the knife-edged desire twisting his gut.
How could he feel so much while she felt nothing? Her breathing was slightly erratic and that was probably from anger. "See?" she whispered, climbing out of the truck into the fading light. "Nothing."
As she walked to the door, he gripped the seat back, his fingers curling into the soft upholstery. He watched her and mercilessly forced himself to relive the fiery burn of her rejection.
She didn't fumble with the keys or the lock. She smoothly let herself in and closed the door, leaving him in the drive-way—blatantly, undeniably aroused. How could he have wanted her so keenly while she'd felt nothing?
The same way he could have made love to a woman who was pretending he was another man.
He swore viciously. Scooting back behind the wheel, he put the truck in gear and rolled out of the driveway.
He'd let her get to him this time. But never again.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
Dallas carefully threw the dead bolt, deliberately slid on the chain, pushed in the knob lock. Knees trembling, she leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door. Her breath ripped out in shallow pants.
She could still feel Sam's lips on hers, at first soft and coaxing, pulling the strength out of her, turning her bones to powder. Then harder, demanding. Exciting.
She felt nothing, she'd said.
"Liar," Sam had called her. Liar. Liar.
Her heart thundered against her ribs and her lips tingled. She could still feel him. Peripherally, she was aware of the sweep of headlights as he reversed out of the driveway. Anger, desire and resentment clashed.
She didn't know what burned her soul more—the brand of his lips on hers or the unfolding realization that she'd liked his kiss. Wanted it.
Wanted more.
She'd refused to let herself feel anything during that kiss. She couldn't. Sam's kiss could still turn her inside out, make her forget how she'd betrayed Brad. And how Sam had gone to another woman after leaving her bed.
Pressing her forehead harder against the ungiving wood, she let the darkness flow around her, the quiet of the empty house. A mist of sweat broke over her skin.
Liar.
She pushed away from the door, whirling to flip on both the entryway light and the one for the adjoining living room. Her gloves came off, stuffed into the pocket of her coat. Fighting to ignore the pleasure that rippled through her, Dallas tore off her duster, let it fall to the floor.
Only then did she realize she'd long ago dropped the envelope containing the crimescene photos. She bent to retrieve it, smoothing the crumpled corner she'd crushed.
Liar. That kiss still hummed through her.
Tossing the photos onto the polished cherry-wood table behind Carrie's plaid sofa, Dallas headed for the guest room, palming her gun and unbuckling her holster. She transferred it to one hand while she pulled her mock-turtleneck sweater over her head.
She laid her weapon and holster on the satinwood dresser, tossed the sweater into a wicker basket in the closet. After toeing off her boots, she shimmied out of her jeans, took off her bra and pulled on a white tank top with baggy gray sweats.
She walked over to the dresser and picked up her billfold. Opening the change purse, she dumped the contents into her palm. One coin. One Eisenhower silver dollar. It had belonged to Brad.
His Grandpa Kittridge had given it to Brad on his tenth birthday. He'd always carried it with him, until he'd given it to her on their wedding day.
It lay cold and heavy in her palm; she closed her fist over it. She'd put the coin away after his death—it hadn't been lucky for him that day.
Being back in Oklahoma City was difficult and not just because of Sam. As she'd waited for him outside the police department, where she'd visited Brad countless times, her chest had tightened with loneliness.
She closed her eyes, tried to imagine that wild impatience on Brad's handsome features, the wicked glint in his eyes, but the picture was fuzzy. Still, it reassured her to have something of his. She opened her hand, stroking the flesh-warmed silver with her thumb, then laid the coin on the dresser beside her badge.
Feeling more steady, she looked up Sam's phone number and left a message on his machine. She would meet him at the airport tomorrow. Even if she had to sit inches from him on the plane ride to and from Atlanta, she wasn't getting back in that truck with him. Not after tonight. She didn't want him going with her to Atlanta at all, but balking would have convinced him that she was affected by him, too aware of him. His ego didn't need any convincing.
Five minutes later, she sat in front of Carrie's gas fireplace, wrapped in a burgundy cotton throw that sported hunting dogs and horses, and holding a cup of hot chocolate. The rich aroma of thick steaming cocoa filled her nostrils and soothed her.
Finally, at last, the prickling sensation began to fade. Her lips no longer tingled from Sam's. Well, only a little.
Dallas crossed her legs Indian-style and dumped the crime-scene photos on the plush pewter carpet in front of her, shifting to escape the glare from the overhead light. Dead bodies. She'd rather look at dead bodies than face the seething arousal she felt. Arousal that reminded her, painfully, that she was still alive and Brad wasn't. Reminded her of the desire, the bittersweet, confusing hunger she'd felt for Sam that night a year and a half ago. And just minutes ago.
Liar, liar.
His voice crawled through her mind and a tight knot of awareness settled in her stomach. She'd been telling herself all along that she missed their friendship, but not the other part—the physical, sweaty part. She had refused to respond to him because that would mean—
Okay, so she was … attracted to him. She jerked and hot cocoa sloshed over the cup, burning the tender skin in the hollow of her thumb. She licked up the liquid, laying the pain for a second.
She felt something for him. This … giddy warmth, this acute awareness was what she'd been dodging all day. No, for the past year and a half. That thought sprang out of nowhere, freezing her breath for an instant. Before, she'd always dismissed these feelings as the pleasure one might feel around a friend.
Now she knew it was more. But she hadn't felt like this about Sam after Brad had died, had she? That had been only friendship, hadn't it?
Dallas rubbed at the knotted muscles in her right shoulder. She couldn't have felt anything other than that for Sam. She gripped the mug with both hands and focused her attention on a black-and-white glossy of Valeria's body.
Sam probably knew she'd felt something when he'd kissed her tonight, but she hadn't given in, hadn't validated his smug certainty. And she wouldn't. When they'd slept together that once, it had ruined their friendship. This time, she couldn't afford to screw anything up.
Yes, she was attracted to him, but he'd never know it. She'd find Valeria's killer and get the heck out of Dodge—without getting involved with Sam.
Dallas trembled slightly and wrapped her hand around the mug, staring down at the picture of Valeria's lifeless body. She hugged the throw more tightly around herself.
* * *
He'd been humiliated. Rejected. Again.
Sam didn't like how Dallas got under his skin—quick and sly, like a needle. One minute he'd been taunting her, trying to shatter that cool demeanor. The next minute, he'd let anger—and his ego—take over.
Kicking shut the door to his three-bedroom house, he jerked off his sheepskin coat and threw it across the back of his navy leather recliner. Stalking across the open living room, he halted at the built-in bookcases beside the fireplace.
The picture was there, where he'd left it last night—a single photograph propped against the books on the second shelf. A photograph of him and Dallas and Brad, taken during a weekend cookout the summer before Brad's death. Dallas was in the middle, her arms locked around Brad and Sam's necks in a mock wrestling hold, with Sam and Brad hamming it up for the camera, eyes crossed, tongues hanging out as if she were really choking them.
Even her fake glare into the camera couldn't disguise the laughter in her eyes, the unguardedness of her stance. Her tanned arms were leanly muscled. Her tawny hair gleamed like polished gold in the setting sun. One side of her body molded to Sam's and he remembered the jolt he'd gotten when he'd felt her breast pressing into his shoulder.
The shame had hit him hard, because she was his best friend's wife. And because it had been extremely difficult to forget the feel of her.
The picture blurred. Sam took a cut-glass tumbler and whiskey decanter from the silver tray on the bottom shelf, then strode back to the sofa trimmed in rustic oak. Plopping down on one of the navy-and-burgundy-checked cushions, he unstopped the Scotch, splashed a liberal amount into his glass and tossed it back.
It burned down his throat, simmering in his belly. He glared at the photo, at the completely unguarded smile on her face. Memories flooded back of times they'd shared; laughter, teasing, warmth.
He cursed. She'd practically dared him to kiss her back there in his truck, to thaw the wariness in her eyes. Then she'd frozen him out. But this time it had been different.
A year and a half ago, she'd been listless, completely unconcerned, frighteningly absentminded. Tonight, she'd been controlled, deliberate. Restraining herself. Yes, restrained and angry.
See? Nothing.
Even the memory of her cool silky words couldn't squelch the desire that still hummed through him. Tossing the photo aside, Sam poured another drink, guzzled it down. Sweat peppered his skin. He reached up and tore open the buttons on his flannel shirt, tugging it out of his jeans. He shook his head, rage spilling through him like a backward tide.
Maybe he'd scared her off. Maybe now she'd go back to Denver, leave him in peace.
He laughed harshly. Not Dallas. It would take more tha
n a kiss to chase her out of town.
His hand tightened on the tumbler and he poured, took another swallow of liquor. His mind locked onto the first time he'd come home with Brad and met her. He'd never forget that gut-clutching awareness and then the disbelief, the unease that he was attracted—very attracted—to his partner's wife. In all the years the three of them had been friends, he'd never let on, not to either of them. He would never have betrayed Brad that way. And he hadn't. Until after Brad died.
Bile rose in his throat. The decanter clanged against his glass as he refilled his drink. He toed off his boots and pushed them away.
At last, the liquor warmed his insides and he slouched against the comfortable cushions. The Scotch decanter rested on his bare belly. He didn't want to think about her anymore. Not anything about her.
His gaze moved over his comfortable living room, the bookcases stacked with true-crime novels, the Star Wars trilogy on videocassette, along with The Civil War by Shelby Foote, and his favorite, How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
He didn't know how long he sat there, nursing his drink. But now the edge was blurring. The tightness in his chest had eased. He felt loose, relaxed. The image of her steely gray eyes was fading. He sipped his Scotch.
A knock sounded on the door, startling him.
"Hey, Ever Ready! You in there?" Mace called. "Open up!"
Sam struggled to sit upright and blinked a couple of times to clear his vision. Ever Ready. Because he'd always been prepared on his dates, his brothers had given him the nickname in high school. And even Brad had picked up on it.
Another fist hammered on the door. "Sam, come on!"
Oh, great, Linc was here, too. Sam groaned, setting the decanter on the solid surface of the coffee table as he pushed himself to his feet. On impulse, he stuffed the photo between the cushions. Clutching the glass to his belly, he walked to the door, bumping into the recliner.
"Sorry," he mumbled, patting the chair.
"Sam!" his brothers called in unison.
