by Debra Cowan
"Are you sorry?"
"No."
"Think it will interfere with the case?"
"Neither one of us can allow that." She paused. "Maybe he doesn't completely trust me."
"And what about you? Do you trust him?"
Dallas considered her friend solemnly. She trusted Sam not to turn away from her now. She trusted him to be her friend again, no matter what. "Yes."
"So, what you're saying is you're not sure where it will go?"
"Maybe that's it."
"Welcome to the dating world, hon."
Dallas smiled, pulling on socks, then her left boot. She never would have guessed Sam could be so giving. A year and a half ago he'd been a generous and tender lover, but early this morning, he'd been focused only on learning her body, giving her pleasure. She'd always enjoyed sex with Brad, but in their eight years of marriage, he'd never lavished that kind of intense attention on her. A shiver chased down her spine at the memory and she smiled.
Carrie chuckled. "It must've been really good."
Dallas ducked her head, pulled on her other boot. What she'd always thought of as affection for Sam had turned into attraction. Actually, no-holds-barred lust. Maybe it had been that even a year and a half ago—something she didn't like to admit.
"So, you guys obviously kissed and made up."
"We did do the kissing part." She grinned like an idiot as she went over to the dresser and buckled on her holster.
"I think it's wonderful. It's been a long time coming."
"Has it?" Dallas shook her head.
"What does Sam say?"
She paused, torn up inside over the torture she'd seen in his eyes. "I don't think he's any more sure than I am."
"Hey." Carrie rose and enveloped her in a hug. "It will work out. You'll see. I bet you'll be surprised."
Dallas nodded, her throat tight as she released her friend. Last night had been wonderful, but it had been reckless and out of control. The truth was, she hadn't had one thought past that initial searing kiss. Making love with Sam didn't feel wrong, but something did.
* * *
The day was beautifully clear and the temperature a comfortable fifty degrees. Translucent blue painted the sky. The sun shone, chasing away the gloom of the last couple of weeks and encouraging a false hopefulness, an aura that the day would be easy and slow and simple. Sam knew nothing would be easy or slow or simple. Not the case. And not what had happened last night.
He and Dallas had come together strictly out of physical need and an emotional connection he wasn't sure he could define. They had not made love for comfort or in grief or deception.
Sam believed what she'd said. About thinking only of him while they'd made love eighteen months ago. About being confused. About her guilt over the whole issue. He'd wanted to call her a liar, but she wasn't lying. The battle she'd fought to come to terms with it on her own, and to admit it to him, had been all too clear. And he could understand that guilt.
It was eating him up. He'd thought that he'd come to terms with it. She didn't hold him responsible for Brad's death. That should have let him off the hook, right? But it didn't.
He'd wanted her while she was married to his partner. And now she'd admitted that while she should have been grieving for her husband a year and a half ago, she'd wanted him. Yes, Sam understood her guilt all too well.
He kept telling himself that he and Dallas were free agents and over twenty-one. Still, he couldn't deny the shame, the sense that he'd cheated on his best friend, that things had worked out a little too conveniently for him.
His head knew he hadn't taken another man's wife—his best friend's wife. But his conscience condemned him for it.
He picked Dallas up at Carrie's. And as they checked the remaining truck stops on their list and spoke to the managers, Sam couldn't quiet the insistent scorn in his mind. Nor could he block the images of last night that reeled through his mind like a film.
The first time they'd made love, he hadn't been able to help himself. Some elemental instinct had taken over and he had focused only on satisfying the raging hunger he'd felt. But that second time, he'd been slow, deliberate. He had no excuse for that and couldn't shake the sense that he'd trespassed into a forbidden place.
As she rode beside him in the truck, Dallas's distance mirrored Sam's own. She didn't try to breach the wall he'd erected. Once, he saw pain in her eyes but she looked away; and when she directed him to the next truck stop, her voice was steady.
Just recalling her responsiveness last night tripped his pulse. He didn't remember from eighteen months ago how a certain touch could make her melt all over him. And he hadn't remembered the way her eyes glittered like smoky crystal when she climaxed, or the wickedness of her nimble fingers. A new rush of guilt flooded him.
As they moved from truck stop to truck stop, Sam forced his mind to the case. He couldn't allow himself to think about her or dwell on the bleak sense of failure pricking at him.
He'd done it. He'd finally crossed the line, betrayed his best friend. He couldn't take it back. He'd spent a year and a half telling himself he didn't want Dallas, but he did. He wanted to explore things between them, but he couldn't shake the sense of disloyalty he felt toward Brad. He didn't know what the hell to do. He did know he needed to figure it out, because he didn't want to give her up again.
Tension filled the space between them like water gushing from a reservoir, rapid and forceful and drowning the little progress they'd made. Their silence emitted a sharp static that charged the air with unease, discomfort. Sam knew he was pushing Dallas away, putting distance where they'd finally managed to build a bridge, but he did it anyhow. It seemed the only way to deal with the festering wound of responsibility Sam felt over Brad's death, all the self-loathing he'd experienced when he realized his lust for Dallas.
They pulled into the last truck stop on their list—the third Love's Country Store they'd visited today. As they climbed out of his truck, she remained as she had for most of the day, professional and as distant from him as if they'd never glimpsed each other's souls last night.
She met him at the front of the truck. "If nobody recognizes any of these mug shots, what do we do?"
"Look harder."
She gave him a measuring stare, but said nothing.
Once inside, they bypassed the convenience-store area for car travelers and walked to the left, into a diner smelling of bacon grease and cigarettes. A low roar of voices hummed through the boxy room. Plates and glasses clanged in the back, accompanied by the hiss of food on the grill.
A burly man with only a fringe of hair around his bald head looked up from his booth near the entrance. Small eyes, like raisins pressed into his doughy face, leered at Dallas.
Sam gave him a hard-eyed look, trying to shrug off the protective instincts that suddenly roared to life.
Dallas met the man's gaze calmly, and casually pushed back one side of her black duster—just enough so the guy could see her .9mm Taurus in all its glory.
The man's slimy smile disappeared and he looked down at his plate, his jowls working furiously as he ate.
Sam scanned the room full of men and two waitresses, wondering why he'd even been worried. Dallas could take care of herself. He started for the cash register to his left and she followed.
A tall, large-boned woman with flaming-red hair stood at the register. She wore a Hawaiian-print shirt in turquoise, orange and yellow, with lumpy turquoise stretch pants. Beefy fists settled on her ample hips. Powder-blue eye shadow covered her lids up to her thinly plucked eyebrows.
As Sam walked up, flashing his badge, her hazel eyes turned hungry and she licked her lips. He fought to cover his distaste.
"You handle this, Detective Charm," Dallas murmured. "I think she's waiting for you."
"I'm Detective Garrett." He smiled at the woman and tapped the mug shots he held. "I'd like to show you some pictures, if I could."
"Hello, sweetness," the woman purred. "I'm Charmaine."
Her gaze honed in on Dallas. "You can ask me anything you want. I'm not much for talking in a crowd."
He glanced over his shoulder, catching the twinkle in Dallas's eyes.
She said in a strangled voice, "I'll talk to the customers."
Sam nodded as she walked off. Charmaine shifted so that her huge breasts pointed straight at him. He bit off a smile and had no trouble keeping his eyes on her face.
Fifteen minutes later, he walked out, breathing deeply of the fresh, cold air and shrugging off the way his skin crawled. That woman had been a piece of work, touching and stroking and salivating all over him as if he were a candy cane. Gold flashed from his windshield and he saw Dallas waiting in the truck, sunlight playing on her tawny hair.
He climbed in, relieved to be away from the distasteful woman inside the truck stop. "Get anything?"
"No. What about you, sweetness?"
At her playful tone, he shot her a look, pulling out one of the mug shots. "She recognized him."
"Bernie Dwyer?"
"Yeah. Prior rape conviction. This could be our guy."
"Let's check the bar over there and see if they know him."
Sam nodded, reversing out of his parking space.
"Someone's missing you already." Laughter warmed her voice.
He glanced up to see Charmaine just beyond the window, waving. He waggled a small piece of yellow paper in the air. She pursed her lips in a pouty kiss and Dallas choked, quickly turning away from the window.
As they drove off, she burst into laughter. "Oh, this is something else, Garrett."
He glared, shoving the paper into his ashtray.
"Her phone number?"
He grunted.
She laughed harder, clutching her side, and Sam grudgingly smiled. He tuned out the refreshing sound of Dallas's laughter. They were on to this SOB. They were going to nail him.
But inside the bar, the bartender said he'd never seen the guy.
"You're sure?" Sam pushed the mug shot across the bar again.
The bartender studied it carefully again. "Yeah."
The two women cleaning the bar didn't recognize Bernie Dwyer, either. Beside Sam, Dallas sighed. "Are we ever going to get a break?"
He felt that same hopelessness as he thanked the bartender and stuffed the photo back in his coat pocket, frustrated that they had hit another wall.
Dallas stepped around him and sad to the bartender, "Maybe you remember a customer with a tattoo of a cross on his right hand?"
The bartender frowned. "I don't think so."
"Hey, I might!" One of the women, a washed-out blonde, walked over, balancing a round drink tray on her bony hip. "Well, I don't know if it was a cross, but I do remember a guy with a tattoo on his right hand. It was weird because it went all the way up his hand."
Hopeful, Sam asked, "Could you identify this guy?"
She shrugged. "He looked like every other customer I see."
"If you remember anything else, will you give us a call?" Sam fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to her.
"Sure."
"Maybe you can remember his hair color?" Dallas asked. "If he was young? Or old?"
"Sorry, the tattoo's about all I remember."
Sam nodded. "Thanks, then."
He and Dallas walked out, exchanging grim looks.
"Well, that was a dead end." She opened her door and slid inside.
Sam joined her. "We'll go ahead and show Bernie's picture to the other bar owners on our list. Maybe he's a regular at one of those."
They spent the afternoon retracing their steps to the previous bars, but no one recognized Bernie Dwyer.
"Maybe he doesn't drink." Dallas massaged her shoulder, her forehead puckered in concentration.
"Or do anything else." Sam rubbed a hand over his face. "At least we jogged the memories of a couple of those bartenders and they remembered the tattoo."
She looked over and gave him a tired smile. "We'll find him, Sam."
"Yeah. I'm just ready, is all." It was dark. He was tired and hungry. Dallas had to be, too. He didn't remember seeing her eat the sandwich he'd gotten them for lunch. "Let's go grab some dinner."
"Sounds good."
A couple of hours later, after they'd eaten, they pulled into Carrie's driveway, satisfied, and with some of their flagging energy renewed.
"Looks like Carrie's home," Sam observed, relieved he wouldn't have to walk Dallas inside.
Her gaze followed the direction of his, took in the lights glowing from the front and kitchen windows. "So, what next?"
She unbuckled her seat belt and shifted in the seat until she faced him. Moonlight played over her hair, silvering the short thickness. Her lips were shadowed and tempting in the half-light.
Sam picked up the mug shot of Bernie Dwyer. "I'll make a call to this guy's probation officer. I don't think he's our man, but I'll check a little further. I'll ask about that tattoo, too."
"And tomorrow?" She rubbed her neck.
Sam sighed, dropping the photo he held. "Back to square one. We must've missed something."
"Sounds like a plan, sweetness." She chuckled.
For the first time, the friction that had been between them all day dissolved. He grinned, tossing the mug shot onto the dashboard. "Hey, only large, redheaded women can call me that."
"You were looking a little sick in there, Detective Charm." Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, kicking off a burst of heat low in Sam's belly. And that blistering edge of guilt.
Despite that, his heartbeat quickened. Heat lightning whipped between them.
Her smile faded. Dark smoky eyes met his, gauging, then her gaze dropped to his mouth. Desire exploded like a flare through his body. He went rigid. All over.
Silvery light streamed in through the back window and skimmed over her creamy skin, glittered in her eyes like stars.
"Sam?" she whispered.
His hand came up to her shoulder, partly in defense. The spice of her scent threatened his resolve to keep a distance. If he leaned forward, he could kiss her. He recalled the dark honey taste of her and it coaxed him to ignore all the doubt roaring through him and surrender, give in to mindless, reckless desire the way he'd done last night.
He wanted her. No amount of guilt could disguise that. But all day he'd been haunted by images of that fateful day in the warehouse with Brad. The scene of Sam seeing the perp too late, feeling the brutal hit on the back of his head, waking up to find Brad dead by Sam's gun ground through his mind like a record stuck in the same groove, resurrecting agony and condemnation.
He hadn't thought about the specific events of that day in more than a year, but making love with Dallas had dredged up everything.
Her eyes were wide with questions. She skimmed a finger along his eyebrow, then touched his cheek, her palm soft and smooth against the whiskery roughness of his face. He knew her breasts would feel like velvet in his hand. He knew, painfully, how tightly she would grip him when he slid inside her.
The guilt took over then. He was probably out of his mind, but he couldn't do this.
With a shaking hand, he gently gripped her wrist, forcing himself to remain unresponsive when what he wanted was to haul her to him and answer the need building to white heat inside him.
She looked at him for a long time, confusion clouding her eyes. She wanted more, but he couldn't give it to her—at least not right now.
"I want you, Dallas. Don't doubt that." He closed his eyes briefly against the battle of his heart and mind. "But I'm haying trouble sorting all this out. I can't let go of Brad. I can't let go of what happened."
Pain flashed across her features and she gave a small smile. "I understand. I really do. I'm here, Sam. When you're ready, I'm here."
"Thanks." He pressed his lips to her temple and murmured, "I'll see you in the morning."
She nodded, not moving, her lashes brushing softly against his jaw. For a moment, they sat like that, his lips on her warm skin, a poignant ache stretching betwee
n them.
Then she pulled back. She studied him, desire and frustration battling in her gaze.
He waited, his nerves raw, tempted to change his mind, knowing she could make him if she touched him one more time.
Finally accepting, she nodded, reached back to open the door and stepped out. Her voice had only a trace of huskiness. "Good night, then."
"Good night," he said.
Silhouetted in the pure white of moonlight, she looked pale and fragile. A lie, he knew. She was very strong. And very beautiful. His throat tightened.
It was possible Dallas might hurt him again, but as Sam watched her walk toward the house, he realized that wasn't what was holding him back. Maybe it never had been. It was Brad.
Sam shoved his fingers through his hair. He'd wanted Dallas since the day he'd met her, but she had been Brad's wife. That day in the warehouse, was there something he could have done to save Brad? Was there some dark, unthinkable, unconscious motive that had slowed his responses?
Dallas was now free to be with Sam because Brad had died. Was that what Sam had wanted? Had Sam wanted her so badly that he hadn't given every effort to stop Brad's death?
Everything in him vehemently wanted to deny it, but he could no longer ignore the questions.
* * *
Chapter 12
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He drove around for an hour, impatient, muscles straining as if he were caged, feeling indicted and resenting it. If he was so certain in his mind that he hadn't wanted Brad out of the way, that he hadn't wanted Dallas at any price, then why couldn't he get past the guilt?
Dallas hadn't given him an ultimatum, but he felt they were at a crossroads. He was at a crossroads. Frustrated, desperate to escape the heavy darkness weighing on him, he considered getting good and drunk. That would solve nothing. Resigned to a long, agonizing night, he headed home. And that was when it came to him.
Mace. Mace had been through something similar with his old buddy and late father-in-law, Bill Landry.
Because of his and Dallas's work today, Sam had managed to ignore how awkward and miserable he felt, how strained things were between them. But he couldn't ignore it anymore.
