He wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But she was hurt all the same, for reasons she couldn’t put a name to. “Would that be a problem for you?”
“Frankly, yes.” With his thumb, he smoothed the tension building between her brows. “I haven’t been with a woman—any woman—in three years. I don’t want to go too fast for you.”
She was appeased. Aroused. And more moved than she would have believed possible. This vital, virile man had gone without sex for . . .
“Three years?”
Since his wife died. Since before his wife died.
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that a problem for you?”
Yes. No. Yes.
Why now? she wanted to demand. Why me?
But she was afraid to hear the answer.
“I’m impressed,” she said.
He shook his head, his expression wry. “Sugar, I’m not looking to impress you with my lack of experience. More like warning you about my lack of control.”
Daring, she let her gaze drop to his navy briefs and then smiled into his eyes. “I don’t see anything lacking.”
Warm humor lit his gaze. “Maybe you need to examine the evidence more closely.”
He freed himself from his briefs and let them drop. Her insides clenched.
Naked, he sat on the edge of the bed. His long legs stuck out in front of him. His erection jutted up. He pulled her to him, guiding her with firm hands on her waist, her thighs, her hips to straddle him, her knees on the mattress.
“That’s it.” He stroked her. Opened her. Stretched her. “Just like . . . Oh, yeah, sugar, like that.”
She let herself sink down, down, entranced by the shuddering power of his body under hers, the play of muscle beneath her hands, his sudden catch of breath.
“Bailey.” His jaw was set. His voice was strained.
“Mmm.” She experimented, gliding over him, easing down on him, her senses humming. Hot. He was so hot.
“Birth control,” he said hoarsely. “Do you have any?”
“Oh, God.” She scrambled off him so fast she almost fell on her ass.
He caught her. “Easy.”
“Oh, God.” She was horrified. She was always so careful. “I can’t believe I forgot.”
“Easy,” he said again, supporting her. Soothing her. “It’s not a disaster. Unless you don’t have anything and I’ve got to go lights-and-sirens to the nearest drugstore.”
“No, I have . . .” She struggled to get away. “In my purse.”
He kept hold of her until he was sure she could stand. She stumbled across the room and dug in her bag, aware of his gaze on her bare ass. Tissues, Tic Tacs, tampon, mace . . . condoms.
Face burning, she crossed the room again and handed the foil packet to him.
“You don’t mind?” she asked.
“Hell, no. You’re practical. That’s part of what I like about you.”
“You like me because I’m practical,” she repeated, trying not to feel insulted.
“Yeah. Plus, you’re naked.” His eyes gleamed. “I really like that.”
“Practical and naked.” She nodded. “Anything else?”
STEVE looked at Bailey, pale, slim, and burning like a candle in the cool, blue room. Her eyes were mistrustful. Yearning. Their impact knocked a hole in his chest.
Christ, she got to him.
He liked the puzzle of her, her smart mouth, quick mind and slow smile. Beneath her sometimes brittle defenses, she was solid and warm and real.
And naked, or nearly so.
Blood pounded in his head and pooled heavy between his legs. His gaze traveled down her beaded breasts, the shadowy indentation of her navel, the tiny scrap of fantasy between her pale thighs, and he wanted her under his hands. Under his mouth.
He shook his head. “I can’t explain it to you, sugar. Hell, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.” Rising, he cupped her face in his hands. Her skin was cool and smooth as porcelain. He could feel the heat inside her, like coffee warming a cup.
“So I’ll have to show you,” he said, and laid his mouth on hers.
She gripped his wrists, but under his lips, her lips softened and parted. She swayed into him, the points of her breasts brushing his chest, the smoothness of her belly teasing his erection, and he almost exploded.
He licked into her mouth and felt her soften and yield, felt her quicken and sigh. Satisfaction beat in his blood. He wanted her willing and with him, wanted her open and under him.
Now.
He laid her on the twin-sized mattress and followed her down.
Take it slow, he warned himself. Make it last.
He took her mouth, and now she was kissing him back, sweet, deep, long kisses, her body arching and her tongue chasing his. He slipped his hand between their bodies, dying to touch her, eager to strip that bit of black nothing off her and feel her shudder and respond. But she wrapped her arms and legs around him, her hips rising, urging him on, pulling him in, guiding him home.
He pushed himself just a little bit inside her, and she reached around and grabbed his ass.
Sweet God in heaven. He was buried to the hilt, and she was slick and sweet, hot and tight around him, making these little whimpers in her throat that destroyed him.
He was still in control. All he had to do was not move. Yeah, right.
Not breathe. Entirely possible.
Not feel.
She tightened around him, a velvet fist, and blew his world and his control to pieces. Every time he tried to take it easy, to take it slow, to make it good for her, to make it last, she tugged at him or gasped or bit.
He was losing it. Losing himself in the slap of flesh on flesh, in the scent and sight and feel of her, wet and aroused.
Losing himself.
Heat built in his balls and the base of his skull like fury, blinding him, driving him, making him pound into her, heavy, hard, hammering faster, harder, into her.
She cried out and came, her short nails digging into his back. Her internal muscles clamped him. Milked him. She wrung from him every bit of response, wrested from him every pretense at control. He groaned and gave it up, gave everything up, emptied himself in her slim, pale body on her narrow white bed.
Home.
BAILEY lay stunned, her body in satisfied languor and her mind and emotions rioting.
Steve had shifted their positions so that she sprawled over him. She had to, to avoid falling out of bed. Her thigh nestled between his hard, hairy thighs. Her arm stretched across his broad, damp chest.
What was the old saying? Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.
Sexually, Steve had given her everything and demanded everything she had to give in return. She had never felt this way before. Smug. Sore. Confused.
Her fingers curled.
“Ouch,” he said mildly, and removed her hand from his chest hair.
He kissed her palm and laced his fingers with hers, holding their joined hands against his heart. The tenderness of the gesture made her melt.
“So, now that we’ve gone all the way,” he rumbled, “will you wear my letter jacket?”
She smiled against his shoulder. He smelled so good, sweaty, sexy, and male. “You’re too big. It wouldn’t fit.”
“Let’s see.” He rolled with her. Pressed against her.
She gasped with laughter and renewed desire. “We were talking about your jacket!”
“I wasn’t.” He rocked against her, his eyes dark and heavy lidded. “Got another condom?”
HE went into his office, where he could appear to be working and no one would disturb him, and closed and locked the door.
He was annoyed to notice his heart was still racing.
He had hoped to solve one problem, and now he had two. Taking out his find, he set it on his desk. It looked tacky and out of place against the brown leather blotter, a reminder of a tawdry episode from another time. Another life.
He sank into his desk chair. He’d thought . . . he’d reall
y believed Billy Ray’s death would be the end of it.
But then Ellis had come, prying into things that were none of his business, bragging about things he didn’t understand. Frank Wells had barged home at the worst possible moment. And he’d seen his carefully constructed life, his plans and his reputation, shift like a house built on shaky ground.
He had done his best to shore up the damage. Nobody had questioned his arrival at the Wells place. That was the beauty of a small town, and the advantage of his place in it. He had made the appropriate noises about kids and drugs and why a good dog beat one of those newfangled alarm systems any day.
And he’d plotted his next move. He hadn’t gotten where he was today by leaving things to chance or other people.
He had to make this go away.
He had to find those tapes.
They weren’t in Ellis’s study. He’d searched.
And they weren’t in the Wells girl’s bedroom. Unless that skinny bitch had hidden them. What exactly did she know, or suspect?
If the tapes had been packed up with the rest of the evidence Burke turned over to the lab in Raleigh, he might already be too late. Unless he pulled strings at SBI the way he had at the prison. Something to consider for the future.
The important thing was not to panic. As long as he kept his head, as long as he kept control, everything would work out. Everything always worked out. Pulling his find toward him, he skimmed the pages, searching for the mention of his name.
“YOU can’t stay here alone tonight,” Steve said in his cop voice. Detached. In control. As if nothing at all had changed.
And maybe, for him, nothing had. You make me feel, he’d said. Is that enough for you?
Bailey wiggled her jeans over her butt. She would be happy for his company, but she wouldn’t accept his protection as a present. Not if it came wrapped in that patronizing, “all part of the job, ma’am,” attitude.
“I’ll be fine. Besides, I don’t have anyplace else to go.”
“Then stay with me.”
Stay with him, sleep with him, be with him . . . She flushed all over at the thought.
She fastened the button at her waistband, resolutely not looking at him. “For how long?”
Steve prowled her bedroom, his hands in his pockets, already fully dressed. She saw him glance from her Lisa Loeb poster to the romance novels on her bookshelves and felt even more exposed. “Your father’s discharged tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. So his offer was a totally temporary thing. Which was fine with her, because there was no way she was staying in Stokesville. Although what was waiting for her in New York?
She bent to retrieve her bra from the floor. “Stay with you in your mother’s house? I don’t think so.”
“We’re not teenagers.” He sounded amused. “She’ll be thrilled.”
“Uh huh. And your daughter? I don’t know much about raising preteen girls, but I’m pretty sure flaunting overnight guests isn’t in the parenting manual.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So you can have my room. I’ll grab some pillows and take the couch.”
She was tempted. Too tempted. “Such a sacrifice.”
“Not really.” His eyes gleamed. “I don’t plan on actually sleeping there.”
Instant sexual meltdown.
She was in so much trouble here.
Ignoring the thrill his words gave her, the treacherous softening of her body and heart, she yanked her shirt over her head. “Thank you for your very attractive offer, but no. As you said, it’s only for one night. I’ll just . . .”
Her heart tripped in her chest. She felt a second’s unbalance, like the pause at the top of the stairs.
“What is it?” Steve asked quietly.
Nagged by a subtle sense of something wrong, she surveyed the familiar items scattered on her nightstand: a box of tissues, an empty water glass, a pencil. Two condom wrappers.
Her breath hissed out. “Where’s my lamp?”
His gaze narrowed. “Your lamp?”
“My father was hit with a lamp, you said. A brass lamp? With a white shade?”
“They took the shade for prints,” Steve said.
“He was in my room.” She found her confirmation in his eyes. “Whoever hit my father was in my room. But I don’t have anything valuable, I . . .”
She spun toward her desk, where the evidence boxes were stacked in random order, and counted. Everything was there. Wasn’t it?
She jerked the lid off the nearest carton and looked inside. She had never actually inventoried the contents. How would she know if anything was missing? But her feeling of being off balance, that breathless moment before a fall, grew.
“What is it?”
She opened another box and another.
“What are you looking for?”
She hardly knew. Until she flipped the lid of the last carton and realized it wasn’t there. Not on her bedside table, not on the floor, not in any of the boxes.
“Tanya Dawler’s diary.” She sank back on her heels, looking up at him in dismay. “It’s gone.”
EIGHTEEN
STEVE rocked on his heels, hands in his pockets. “Why? Fear of exposure? Blackmail? Did she do like that Holly-wood madam and write about her johns?”
Bailey released a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. “Heidi Fleiss never actually divulged the names of her . . . All right, no,” she said, when he looked impatient. “Tanya wrote about ordinary stuff—fights with her mom and how much she hated school and which boys she had crushes on. She hardly ever wrote about her clients. Not by name.”
“Whoever took the diary wouldn’t know that.”
“Still . . . it seems a big risk for a little return. Who cares who visited a prostitute twenty years ago?”
Steve shrugged. “An underage prostitute. Statutory rape’s a crime.”
“So is murder.”
His gaze sharpened.
Encouraged, she continued. “Paul always argued the police missed something important in the Dawler case. No one was threatening to publish a list of the women’s clients. Paul was writing about their deaths. What if Tanya’s diary was stolen because it implicates someone else in her family’s killings?”
“Billy Ray confessed.”
“Billy Ray is dead. He talked to Paul—”
“And Ellis is dead,” Steve finished for her. “I got that. What I also have, aside from your twenty-year-old crime, are three isolated deaths in two separate jurisdictions with plausible, unrelated explanations for each.”
“Three deaths?”
“Helen Ellis was killed, too.” His eyes were dark and weary.
Bailey felt an instant’s shame. In her focus on Paul and Billy Ray, her worry over her father and her excitement over the diary, she had forgotten Helen.
“Do you think . . . Could her death be connected, too? She’s from Stokesville. Maybe she knew the Dawlers.”
“I don’t see Helen and Tammy Dawler moving in the same social circles,” Steve drawled.
“Her husband, then. Jackson Poole. He could have been a client.”
Steve shook his head. “What if he was? You still have to make a case based on motive, means, and opportunity. Paul Ellis was in debt. He stood to benefit from a four-million-dollar life insurance policy. The murder weapon was from his study, and he tried to frame you for the crime.”
She was shaken, her conviction and her confidence fading under the force of his attack. “Well, if you’re going to put it that way . . .”
“It’s my job to put things that way. We need to look at this rationally.”
His job. This was all a job to him.
She should be grateful for his expertise. But she couldn’t escape the unwelcome feeling that maybe she was a job to him, too.
Squash that thought.
“I’m rational. I’ll be as rational as you want. But I can’t compartmentalize the way you do. I can’t be impersonal.” She pulled herself to her feet. “Somebody was in my roo
m. Somebody attacked my father. That makes it personal for me. If there’s a link to the Dawler case, to my work for Paul, then this is my fault.”
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