by Debra Cowan
“Fine.” She knew that was for the best, but the old wound inside her cracked open.
He irritated her, but even so, he was the one man she regretted walking away from. The one man who could reach places in her no one else ever could.
She couldn’t ignore the knot in her belly that was part anger, part anticipation. Not affected by him? Who was she kidding?
She wanted him to reassure her, tell her he’d find Liz quickly, that she would be able to handle all this. But she squared her shoulders against the maverick wish. She needed Rafe to find her sister. That was all.
She couldn’t let herself start needing him for anything else.
The sun sank to the horizon in a smear of gold and purple, edging the clouds with shimmering light. As Rafe drove north on May Avenue behind Kit’s car, following her from her brother-in-law’s apartment to her house, he rolled his shoulders against an edginess that worked through him, made him feel cornered. What he wanted right now was distance, but he’d needed Kit’s access to Tony Valentine’s apartment and her house.
She hadn’t been shy about letting him know she didn’t appreciate the way he did business. Even now, his blood charged at the thought. That sassy, sharp-tongued woman was not the Kit he’d known. No, sir. And he liked this new Kit. Which was why it would be better for both of them if he worked alone. Hell, it would be better for him. He needed to stay on this side of the past. Letting her tag along on this case would make that difficult, if not impossible.
He didn’t like the idea of spending a lot of time with her. Hell, any time with her. Rafe’s lips twisted.
The scent of fresh-cut grass and car exhaust drifted through the window of his ’67 Stingray. Golden light shimmered across the Corvette’s sleek black hood. He was making a big deal out of nothing. It was the shock of seeing her—his first love—after all these years, that was all. Plus the fact that he didn’t like working with anyone, especially the client who’d hired him. But with Kit there was another layer.
Calling in to report once or twice a day he could handle. Breathing the same air, smelling her provocative scent, having her in his space—no, thanks.
He rubbed his chest against the ache that had settled there upon first seeing her. The focus, the action of working the case would enable him to treat her like any other client. Eventually.
So far, so good. They hadn’t discussed the old days while Rafe had searched Tony’s place for scraps of paper, plane or bus ticket stubs, anything that might give a clue as to where Valentine had gone.
On the assumption that Valentine really was being watched by the mob as he’d told Kit, Rafe had swept the guy’s place for bugs and surveillance equipment. And found nothing. As a precaution, he needed to sweep Kit’s place, too. If he didn’t find anything there, he’d be free to start working the case. Alone.
As he swung his ’Vette behind her late-model four-door compact in the drive of a small brick house, his stomach clenched. He’d never seen Kit’s home, never known she lived in this popular older neighborhood. After college, she’d gone to work for a major airline in Tulsa. How long had she been in Oklahoma City? Longer than the three years since his own return?
Those questions had nothing to do with her supposedly missing sister. Rafe pushed them aside as he got out of the car, grabbing his device for detecting transmitters and his cell phone. Sergeant Kent Porter, a buddy from the Oklahoma City Police Department, had promised to call Rafe back after reviewing the report of the traffic accident that had sent Liz to the hospital. Porter had also said he would see what he could find out about any do-wrongs named Alexander.
Rafe followed Kit up the neatly swept concrete porch steps, flanked by terra-cotta pots brimming with yellow and white petunias. There were no memories for him here, nothing to distract him from the case.
Except the woman whose hips swayed so compellingly as she moved across the porch.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of silver. He turned in time to see the tail end of a sedan cross the intersection at the end of the block. It looked like the same car he’d seen a few minutes ago on May Avenue, right before Kit had turned into her neighborhood. Which could mean that they lived nearby. Or that someone was tailing her.
The little pinch in his gut told Rafe it was the latter, but he’d check again for the car before he left to speak to Valentine’s parents. He turned his attention to her home as she opened the front door and stepped inside.
He put a finger to his lips, then walked in, motioning for her to stay in the entry hall as he activated his bug detector. The late-model CPM-7307 had been modified by a buddy to also pick up the presence of hidden cameras. In addition to locating commonly used transmitters, the tool allowed Rafe to test AC outlets and phone lines. The small metal box, no wider than his wallet, included an output so he could listen for any phone modifications such as resistors or infinity bugs, anything placed on the wire itself.
Kit shook her head, wearing the same expression of amazement and disbelief she’d worn when he performed a search at her brother-in-law’s apartment.
Rafe bit back a grin. Making a quick sweep, he moved through the living room, peripherally aware of the honey-colored walls and ivory woodwork, the bold punctuation of color around the room. One wall of built-in bookcases boasted two shelves devoted to titles regarding functional family relationships. Interesting.
The scent of Kit’s light perfume trailed him, but he kept his focus narrowed. He found no bugs or cameras in the kitchen, no bugs in the phones or outlets there or in the living room. Moving down the short hallway off the foyer, he checked two bedrooms and the bath, then the ceiling fan in the living room and one in Kit’s bedroom. He felt along the undersides of her fluffy, distinctly feminine bed, keeping a firm lock on his imagination.
He returned to the front part of the house to test the phone. The dial tones hummed normally, and he removed the earpiece, snapped off his machine and tucked the device into his back pocket of his jeans.
“All clear.” He turned to where she still stood in the doorway. Red-gold sunlight pooled around her legs and shimmered through the light fabric of her dress, outlining her slender calves.
“This thing only scans one room at a time, but it’s thorough. One tone sounds for bugs, another for video equipment.”
She gave a short laugh and closed the door. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“I’ve picked up some things.”
A shadow passed through her eyes and she nodded tightly, wrapping her arms around her waist.
“Think you’ll find anything on that computer?” She referred to the desktop unit Rafe had confiscated from Tony’s, along with some disks.
“If there’s anything to be found on it. I’ve got a guy who’s a whiz with that stuff.”
“I hope so,” she said doubtfully. At his raised eyebrows, she explained, “Tony’s a computer genius. If he wants to hide or erase anything, he can probably do it.”
As she moved from the wood floor of the foyer into the carpeted living area, Rafe was careful to stay in the center of the room. When she flipped on an overhead light, he took a closer look at the living room and the visible part of the kitchen. The soft neutrality of the walls, woodwork and carpet was offset by jewel tones of ruby, emerald and sapphire in pillows, candles, an area rug beneath the dark pecan oval coffee table and frames scattered on the walls.
Kit watched him intently. So still, so quiet. Waiting. Awareness prickled his skin. As his gaze scanned the living room, he tuned in the soft snick of the undulating ceiling fan, the faint barking of a dog down the street. Something was off. Something—
Pictures. The realization hit him like a one-two punch. Rafe stepped closer to the wall, his gaze narrowing on the framed photograph there.
It was of Kit and her sister, brunette heads together, laughing. The distant sound of Kit’s laughter filled his mind, and he shoved away the phantom sound, his gaze skimming the wall.
More pictures. Some of Kit a
nd Liz. One of Kit with her father.
One of Liz and a nice-looking man. Tony?
Kit walked over and removed the photograph from the wall. “This is Tony, just before he went to prison.”
Rafe nodded, taking the picture, studying the man’s intelligent pale gray eyes, the shaggy, medium brown hair. Though Rafe tried to concentrate on the image in front of him, his thoughts skipped back. In college, Kit had never wanted her picture taken. She’d been almost fanatical about that. Rafe had come to learn that was due to her innate shyness.
The only photograph Rafe had ever had of him and Kit had been taken at his fraternity’s spring formal. His mother probably still had it in his box of college stuff in the attic. Judging from the amount of pictures in this room, Kit seemed to have gotten over her aversion, he thought ruefully. Such a small thing, but not for her.
The Kit he’d known then, he reminded himself forcefully. Dragging his attention to the face of Tony Valentine, he struggled to bring to life something besides regret and a resentment that should have cooled long ago.
Kit walked to the mantel and took down another framed photograph. “This one of Tony was just taken about a week ago. He sent it to Liz.”
Rafe nodded, careful not to touch her as he took the frame. Valentine had cut his hair, almost a buzz cut. He’d grown a mustache and wore glasses. “I’ll want to make some copies of this.”
“Sure. Let me take it out of the frame.” Her fingers brushed his as she took the picture.
Casually, he turned away, squelching the jolt of electricity that jumped up his arm.
“Tony had some pictures of Liz. When we checked his place earlier, I noticed they weren’t on his refrigerator, where she told me he usually kept them.”
Could’ve been a smart move by Valentine to keep Alexander from getting a good look at Liz. Or it could’ve just been Valentine’s way of disappearing.
The photo Rafe had requested appeared over his shoulder, sans frame, and he took it, too conscious of the way Kit’s breath tickled his neck. His gaze scanned the entertainment center, the collection of CDs that ranged from the Eagles to Elvis Presley. Before it could fully form, Rafe aborted the reminder of his and Kit’s mutual pleasure in Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
More pictures lined the curved-leg table behind the sofa, and Rafe moved toward it. This case was all that mattered. There was a picture of Kit and her sister. Another of Kit in a pale pink satin gown that hugged every curve, bared her gorgeous shoulders. She stood next to Liz, who wore an ivory tea-length wedding gown, her hand on the tuxedo-clad arm of a man whose face was cropped off. Their father? Tony or another groom? Kit’s lover?
That last thought ambushed him, and before he could stop, Rafe wondered how many men Kit had seen since their college days. Had she ever come close to marriage or had she pushed them all away before they could get too close? Was she involved with someone?
Rafe knew he should leave those questions alone, but there was one he had to ask. “Are you seeing anyone now?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Dating anyone?”
A frown snapped her dark brows together. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about anything except this case.”
“That’s the reason I’m asking.” Even while his chest tightened in anticipation of her answer, he managed to sound detached. “I need to speak with anyone who’s had recent contact with your sister. They might know something without being aware of it.”
“Or they might have something to do with her disappearance?”
“Right.”
“I’m not seeing anyone,” she said stiffly, avoiding his eyes. “Haven’t for…a while.”
He nodded, silently cursing the bubble of pleasure that bloomed inside him. “I’d like to take a closer look at Liz’s room.”
“This way.” She walked past him and down the hall.
His gaze slid down the slender line of her back to the taut curve of her butt, the lean line of her thighs. She still had a class-A butt. And beautiful dewy skin. Rafe’s gaze lingered on the soft magnolia flesh of her neck.
He forced himself to look away and rejected the awareness that had started a dim, persistent throb in his pulse after the initial shock of seeing her in his office.
As he’d asked—or rather ordered—she’d kept her conversation limited to answering his questions, nothing about the past. He could do the same.
Stepping into Liz’s bedroom, Rafe took in the unmade full-size bed. Kit walked over and began pulling the leopard print sheet taut, straightening the matching comforter.
A black bra strap hung out of the top of one dresser drawer; three pairs of stiletto heels cluttered the space between the dresser and the wall.
“Are any of her clothes missing?”
Kit stepped over to take a quick look in the closet. “No, I don’t think so. And her suitcase is here.”
He nodded. “Who did Tony work for before he went to prison?”
“Another computer manufacturer. He worked with hardware back then, rather than software.”
“Any friends who kept in touch after he was put away?”
“Not that I know of.” Nervous energy poured off her. Her voice grew quieter with each answer.
Rafe could see that she was trying to stay out of his way. Regret stabbed at that, but he didn’t try to put her at ease. The more distance, the better. “Did Liz go see him?”
“Yes, at first. I don’t think she’s been in the last couple of months.”
In here, it was easier to pretend Kit was just another client. In here, there was no danger of running into the past they shared.
He followed her into the hallway, paused when she halted in front of an open closet that housed a washer and dryer. A laundry basket full of clothes jutted out, and Kit reached to move it out of the door’s path.
“Where does Liz work?”
“At a day-care center. It’s by the airport. We drive to work together sometimes.”
Rafe nodded, not sure how to define the strange heat that pushed under his ribs. Kit had become a woman he didn’t know; she had a life he knew nothing about.
“She’s had this job for more than two years, and I think she’s really getting her life together.”
Liz didn’t sound much different to him than she had when he’d known her ten years ago, but he said nothing. “What number was Tony? Which husband?”
Kit half-turned, eyeing him flatly.
“Number two, three, four?”
“Number three.” She flipped the tail of a shirt into the basket, then suddenly made a strangled sound. Her gaze shot to his.
“Kit?” He stepped toward her, concern spiraling through him. His gaze dropped to the basket then the shirt she fingered. At first he scanned for blood, something to explain why she’d gone so pale. Then he froze as he recognized the crimson-and-white basketball jersey.
His gaze locked on hers. Panic, disbelief, memory rippled across her features. Two bright spots of red crested her cheeks. His stomach flipped like it had the first time he’d taken up a fighter jet.
His thoughts wheeled back to the day after the Oklahoma University basketball team had made the NCAA playoffs. His college team hadn’t had practice that day; he had hoofed it back to the frat house, intending to shower and pick up Kit for supper. But she’d been waiting in his room, wearing his jersey—this jersey—and nothing else. Number twelve.
He swallowed hard, his gaze sliding over her before he could stop himself. Memories burst in his head like popping flashbulbs. The full curve of her breast peeking out from the deep-cut armhole of his jersey, the hem skimming the center of her smooth, bare thighs, the flush of shyness she’d never lost even though they’d been lovers for months.
That fast, he went hard. He could taste the sweet musk of her skin, smell his scent on her. His body quivered like a newly strung bow.
He sucked in a ragged breath, and his gaze went to hers. He saw the way her eyes darkened to purple,
the pink that climbed her neck, the frantic tap of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. She remembered, too.
Every touch, every kiss, every whispered forever.
Her reaction only hollowed his gut, sheared the edge off any control he thought he possessed. Involuntarily, he stepped toward her. For one hellacious, gut-twisting instant he wanted to drag her to him, kiss her and prove to both of them that there was nothing left.
As if coming out of a trance, Kit jerked into motion. She shoved the basket against the washer face and shut the door.
“Is that—”
“No.” She flashed a brilliant smile, so brilliant it cut him to the core. “Looks like yours. Not yours.”
Bull. He was tempted to call her on it, but he resisted.
Where would that get them? Why had he thought he could ignore the past? Kit was his past. And he was good and pissed over her slingshotting back into his life. Hell.
Rafe clenched his teeth against the razor-edged desire that slashed through him.
Remember, he ordered, trying to escape the grasping hands of memory, of want, pulling at him. Ruthlessly he dredged up the rejection he’d felt when Kit had refused his marriage proposal. When he’d said forever, he’d meant it; she hadn’t.
“What about friends? Tony’s friends?” he asked quickly, his voice rough, the words scraping his throat.
“Can you think of anyone who might let Tony and Liz stay with them? Anyone who might hide them or know where they’ve gone?”
“No,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “Maybe you can ask his parents—”
His cell phone jangled, and Rafe grabbed at it like a drowning man going for a rescue line. “Yeah,” he said, almost ashamed at the enormous relief that rolled through him.
It was Porter, and as the cop spoke, Rafe’s jaw clenched tighter. The ambivalence he’d tried to shake off seconds ago surged back. Displeasure merged with concern. And his protective instinct, always deeper and stronger with Kit, roared to irritating life.
“Thanks, Kent.” He disconnected, his hand curling over the phone. “We’d better get going if we want to make it back from Davis before midnight.”
