Mary looked up at him. Two weeks ago, there had been no way she'd lie beside him this way. Suspicious, always on guard, she would have felt the need to rise up herself, to make sure they were nose to nose. Two weeks ago, she would have been wearing at least one weapon.
Tonight she wasn't armed. Somehow, in the past two weeks she had started to trust him. And he was going to blow it, big time.
But first he was going to kiss her. He lowered his head, moving slowly and giving her plenty of time to move away. She didn't. He hadn't thought she would. She was drawn to him the same way he was drawn to her. Strongly, reluctantly. And yeah, it was nice.
While he kissed Mary, her arms circled his neck. She kissed him back.
This time she didn't taste like muscadine wine or greasepaint. She tasted like a woman; she tasted like Mary. Lord, he loved the way she tested his lips with her tongue, the way the tips of her fingers brushed through his hair. Every touch was soft and easy, so gentle and yet tinged with hunger.
He was tumbling, falling like one of the meteors in the sky. And he had just about as much control.
He waited for Mary to remember that there were satellites in the sky, invisible eyes looking down, but she seemed to have forgotten about her space-age technology. She just kissed him, deeper, longer and more demanding.
More than anything, he wanted to make love to Mary here and now. Before he ruined everything with the truth.
* * *
Mary tried to convince herself that Clint really wasn't such a great kisser. It had just been so long since she'd let a man hold and kiss her this way she'd forgotten how wonderful it could be. Warm. Tingly. Outrageously sensual. Who was she kidding? He really was a great kisser. She relaxed and let herself enjoy.
He'd kissed her before, but this was more than a kiss. It touched her in a way she had not expected to be touched, ever again.
His hand slipped under her T-shirt, firm, gentle fingers raking across skin that had been unexplored for so long. He was tentative at first, as if he thought she might push him away. She didn't. She deepened the kiss a little, and his hand delved beneath the shirt to cup her bra-covered breasts, one and then the other. Clint Sinclair had well-shaped, large, warm hands that were tender and not at all clumsy. Was there anything clumsy about this man? Of course not.
Had she come out here hoping for this? Hoping that he would kiss her? Touch her? She didn't want to think about what was happening, what might yet happen. She simply wanted to feel again.
Clint rolled her onto her side, never breaking the kiss, and his free hand reached around and under her shirt. With a single flick of his fingers, he unfastened her bra.
Deft fingers moved the undergarment aside, and then Clint's hand was on her bare breast, cupping, caressing, his thumb flicking over the sensitive nipple that was already hard.
He was moving too fast, but she didn't mind. It was right. Good. She thought about what Katie had said about Clint never being satisfied. That wasn't true. He just wanted more from life than most men. He wanted everything faster, higher, hotter and closer.
So did she.
Mary's insides clenched and unclenched. She wanted Clint. She really shouldn't, it wasn't a good idea … but her body wanted his in a way she had not imagined possible. Oh, if she thought about this too long and hard she would run. She didn't want to run.
Mary untucked Clint's shirt and laid her hand against his flat, bare stomach. She felt him quiver at her touch.
The kiss was interrupted for a moment. Clint pulled her shirt over her head and slipped off the bra. Night air touched her naked skin, her back and her breasts. It was a new sensation, luscious and forbidden. She unbuttoned his shirt, kissing his neck while she worked her way down, parting her lips to suck gently at his flesh, to taste his sweat on this too-warm night.
She removed Clint's shirt and dropped it to the side, and when that was done he kissed her neck. His lips were warm and gentle, his tongue teasing. It was a kiss Mary felt to her bones, and beyond. While he continued to lavish attention on her neck, his hands caressed her breasts. His palm learned the shape of her, his fingers teased the nipples. Heaven help her, she could come apart here and now.
This was definitely faster, higher, hotter and closer. And still, not close enough. Mary squirmed as she struggled gently to find a position that brought Clint even closer. Their tongues danced, delighting in the sensations their bodies experienced and wanting more. Touching him was an experience in itself. Everything about Clint was hard and muscled, taut and smooth.
There was nothing but the night and sensation and a burning need. Burning. She was definitely burning. Clint unsnapped her jeans as neatly as he had unfastened her bra—with one flick of his fingers. He lowered the zipper, and in anticipation Mary felt a deep shudder ripple through her body.
In an instant, something in Clint changed. He slowed his once-frantic movements, his mouth came to hers for another long kiss. She could feel him pulling away from her, in a way she could not understand. It was as if they'd been on a speeding train, and for no reason that train was slowing down in the middle of nowhere.
"Mary," he whispered against her mouth. "I want you so much."
All she could manage was a hum of approval before she kissed him again.
"But before we go any further, there's something I have to tell you."
Those words weren't exactly a dash of cold water, but they were definitely not what she'd expected to hear. "Something that can't wait?" she asked.
"I wish it could wait." He brushed a strand of her hair back with one finger. "For a while there I convinced myself it could wait … but it can't."
"What is it?" she kissed him quickly, again.
He took a deep breath, kissed her one more time. "When I go to Birmingham tomorrow, you're not going with me."
That was a dash of cold water. "What?"
He placed his arms around her so they were bare chest to bare chest. "You're not ready. You're good, but you're not good enough."
"I am!" she insisted, pulling her body slightly away from his.
"You're not," he whispered. His head shook slightly. "I couldn't bear to see you hurt."
Mary's chin came up. She still trembled, she still ached. But she was also angry. Two weeks, wasted! "I can do my job."
"As an FBI agent? I'm sure you can. As a bullfighter?" He shook his head. "No."
"You could have told me this days ago and saved me some time." She shoved him away and grabbed her T-shirt, yanking it over her head.
"I just decided the other day," he said.
"You never intended to take me to the rodeo." She rose to her feet. "You've been leading me along, making me think you intended to hold up your end of the bargain, and all along this was just some … some game to you."
"That's not true." Clint stood, too, bare-chested and too tall. "Last week I called the barrel man and offered to pay him to fake an injury."
"I never asked you to do that," she said. He'd said he'd get her in. She hadn't expected him to pay off someone to assure her a place.
"A couple of days ago I called him and told him to be ready to go on as usual."
"Why?"
"You're not ready," he said again.
She turned, wanting nothing more than to escape. Had she really been about to make love to him? Here? Outside, under the stars, in a blaze of mindless passion that was so unlike her. She glanced up as two meteorites streaked across the sky. Clint grabbed her shoulder.
"Tell me what to look for," he said in a lowered voice. "I'll find your serial killer for you, if he's really with the rodeo."
"No."
"Why not?"
"You say I can't do your job? Well, you sure as hell can't do mine."
He pulled her against him, and the pickup-truck bed rocked. "I still want you," he said. That was all too evident, with their bodies pressed together from chest to knee. "But I couldn't make love to you without telling you this first."
Most men would have, sh
e knew that. Most men would have taken what they could get and then told her the bad news.
It didn't make this moment any brighter. "You can't yank the rug out from under me and expect … you can't ruin everything and then…"
He let her go. "I was afraid of that."
Mary climbed over the tailgate and onto the bumper. "Thanks," she said as she jumped to the ground.
"Thanks?"
"Your need to be Captain Good Guy, superhero from the sticks, saved me from making a very big mistake." She tried for a tone of voice that was sharp and emotionless.
"Did it really?" he asked flatly.
"Yeah." She turned her back on him. "See you in the morning, Sinclair. Try to leave without me and I'll arrest you."
"On what charge?" he asked from the back of the truck.
"Obstruction of justice, for a start."
He didn't follow her, thank goodness, so there was no one to see her begin to tremble as she walked into the kitchen, no one to see the tears fall down her face.
* * *
Captain Good Guy, superhero from the sticks. Clint was still ticked off about that as he threw his bags into the bed of the pickup the morning after Mary had walked out on him and the meteor shower. The way she'd said it was what rankled, still … like she would have preferred it if he'd slept with her and then told her he wasn't going to get her a job with Brisco.
Maybe she would have. Maybe she was one of those women who liked guys who treated them like crap. Funny, but he never would have thought that of her. She liked herself too much for that nonsense.
Then again, maybe not.
Before he could climb into the driver's seat, Mary burst through the front door, a bag in each hand. Clint took a step forward to help her with the bags but stopped before he'd taken a full step and fell back to lean against the door of the pickup.
Special Agent Mary Paris looked the part, he'd give her that. No more chic gray suit and high heels. She wore blue jeans, a buttoned-up blue shirt and a pair of black cowboy boots she'd bought in Scottsboro last week.
She threw her bags into the back of the truck, having no trouble hefting them over the side. Wes and Katie stepped onto the porch to wave goodbye, and Clint stepped back to stand beside Mary.
"You forgot something," he said in a low voice.
"I didn't forget—"
He reached into the bed of the truck and snagged her bra, hooking it on one finger and whipping it up and around to present it to her on the end of that one long finger.
She blushed as she snatched it from him. "Thank you, so much," she said, frost in her voice.
"You're welcome. ma'am," he said, bowing to her ever so slightly. "Captain Good Guy to the rescue."
She had the good grace to look contrite. "Sorry about that," she whispered.
"What?"
"I said I'm sorry," she said, a little bit louder. "What do you expect? That I'll just give up on what I've planned for months? That I'm willing to write off two weeks of hard work and months of research because you think I'm not ready?"
"Is everything okay?" Wes walked to the end of the porch, limping more than usual this morning.
"Fine," Clint said with an insincere smile. He turned his eyes to Mary, who had hidden the bra behind her back. "Get in the truck."
She ran to the passenger side and jumped in. As he started the engine, Clint turned to look at her again. "I'll tell you what I expect. I expect you to consider the lives of the cowboys and other bullfighters in the arena. Should they have to risk their lives for your assignment? Should they?"
"I can handle my—"
He held up a finger to silence her, and amazingly she obeyed it.
"As long as nothing goes wrong, you could handle yourself just fine. But Special Agent Paris … something always goes wrong."
"Of course I don't want anyone else to get hurt," she said contritely. "That's why I was willing to spend two weeks here getting properly trained."
"Could I become an FBI agent on two weeks' training?"
"Of course not."
"What makes you think this is any easier?"
She pursed her lips. Dammit, would he ever again look at her and not remember how close he'd been? Would he ever be able to look at her and not want to take her, then and there?
Neither of them had planned it, neither of them wanted it, but something had happened. Maybe it had started with that first dance at Dexler's, or with that first muscadine kiss. Maybe it had started the first moment he'd laid eyes on her at Shea's house. He felt something unexpected growing inside him … but he knew nothing could come of it. He and Mary were too different. And in another way, they were too much alike.
"Most of all," he confessed, "I guess I expect you to understand why I have a hard time watching you make yourself bait for a cold-blooded killer."
"I told you that would only be as a last resort, and with proper backup from—"
"Save it for someone who buys that line of bull." Mary pursed her lips but didn't try to argue with him. "A butcher, I believe you called him," Clint continued in a lowered voice. "A man who targets women very much like you. Boone and Dean have filled me in on some of the details you didn't share about the crimes you're trying to tie together."
"I can handle myself," she said.
"I don't have to like it."
"Clint, I have to get into that rodeo." A touch of desperation colored her voice. "I can't stop now, I can't give up."
"Do you ever?" he snapped.
"No."
He stared at Mary, remembering last night, remembering all the reasons this wouldn't work. He should kick her out of his truck, toss her bags on the ground and go to Birmingham without her.
And then her eyes went wide and she whispered, "Please," and he was a goner.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
He laid the earrings across his dresser, admiring the way each one caught the morning light. Eight bright, dangling earrings, each one different in its own way, sparkled with memories. He laid a finger against the first one in the row. It was gold, real gold. Even after all these years, it was as brilliant as it had been on the day he'd taken it.
She had screamed most of all.
He was aroused and electrified, as he always was at the beginning of the tour. Such anticipation. Such a thrill. He felt that thrill down to his bones, and as he caressed the earrings before him he remembered each woman, each kill. If he had a smaller degree of discipline, he would go out right now and choose his next victim.
No. That would never do. It wasn't time. Not yet. Part of the exhilaration was in the planning. In the anticipation. In the knowing that he was smarter than everyone else.
And he was smarter. He'd taken great care to make certain no trail led to him. Choosing the right time, the right place … the right woman. That made all the difference. No one even knew he existed. There had been no sensational headlines about a serial killer, no breaking news on the television.
He should be annoyed to be anonymous still, and on some days he was. What he had done was genius … someone should appreciate that. He soothed himself with the knowledge that one day he would be feared and respected by may people. The time to reveal himself would come and a worthy adversary would step forward. Not this year, not the next. But eventually. One day, when the box where he stored his treasures was filled to the brim. When the thrill had gone and he needed something more to make his bones sing.
But for now, his box was practically empty. The eight earrings he had collected barely covered the bottom of the wooden box he had carved himself that first summer. There were many summers ahead of him. He shouldn't be thinking of fame now … it was too soon.
He smiled as he returned the keepsakes to their proper place. The earrings kept him going through the year. They excited and pleased him when he took them out of the box to play and remember. A lesser man, a weaker man, would continue to kill year round. Not him. He had a great deal of discipline, and he would
not lead the authorities to his door by committing murder near his home. That would be foolish, and he was not a foolish man.
Some days he was annoyed that he couldn't take his anger out on the woman who had earned it; the woman who had pushed him into discovering the rage he'd kept buried. To do so would turn suspicious eyes his way, so that could not happen. Not now, not ever.
He turned his mind to happier thoughts. Soon he would have new memories and new keepsakes. He could hardly wait.
* * *
"No."
Oliver Brisco sat behind the plain metal desk in his trailer office while Mary and Clint stood on the other side of that desk. There were no chairs for visitors.
Brisco was everything Mary had expected. Of course, she'd seen his photograph and studied what she could find about his life. But no photograph or research could've prepared her for the emotionless depth of his dark eyes or the chill in his voice as he rejected Clint's perfectly reasonable proposition.
On the drive to Birmingham, she and Clint had come to an uneasy compromise. She wanted to be in the thick of things, to be in the midst of the action. But in truth she'd take any job she could get here at Brisco Rodeo.
"She won't be in the arena," Clint said. "She'll just work the crowd. Entertain the kids before the rodeo starts, work the stands during the events."
"No," Brisco said again. He was a striking man, with sun-kissed skin and wavy black hair that touched his collar. And he was big, with muscular arms and large hands. He'd have no problem capturing and imprisoning a small, defenseless woman like Elaine.
Mentally, she ran down the list of details about Oliver Brisco. Thirty-seven years old. Divorced. Had a kid, a nine-year-old daughter he hadn't seen since she was four. Mary didn't know why Brisco hadn't seen his daughter in five years, but that didn't speak well of him. Since his bitter divorce there hadn't been any other marriages or even serious relationships that had been uncovered. He was an unpleasant man who fit the profile perfectly.
"I can juggle," Mary said, trying not to sound too desperate.
"Miss," Brisco said, laying those dark eyes on her. "Would you mind waiting outside?" He gestured with one hand to the door of his trailer, which was parked near the civic center arena, where the rodeo would take place.
CLINT'S WILD RIDE Page 8
