by Desiree Holt
Watching her cowering in fear only ramped up the lust blazing through him. When she cried and tried to pull away, he just laughed.
“That’s it,” he crooned. “You go ahead and cry. I love it when they cry.” Then he began to sing. “There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead…”
Chapter Four
Her hair was spread out on his pillow like a silken fall, the low lamplight catching the golden streaks. He could still feel the anxiety running like a stream beneath her arousal, but the heat in her eyes told him she wanted this. God, he hoped he didn’t fuck it up.
He brushed his mouth over hers then traced the outline of it with his tongue, licking the softness of her lips. When they parted, he eased his tongue inside and glided it over the slick inner surface. Her small tongue danced with his, tentatively at first, then exploding like a banked flame.
His cock was so hard he had to grit his teeth to keep from ramming into her. Easy, easy, easy. This is a frightened bird you’ve got here. Don’t attack like some berserker.
He kissed her cheeks, the line of her jaw, licked the soft spot behind her ear before trailing his tongue down the slender column of her neck. Her skin was like the softest satin, so smooth against his tongue. She moaned beneath him, delicious little sounds that made his balls ache.
Her hands fluttered against his back, then clutched at his muscles as his mouth found one stiff nipple. He sucked it, hard, pulling it into his mouth. Scraping it with his teeth. Nibbling then licking it to soothe the ache. When he had the one fully swollen and pebbled, he turned his attention to the other.
Beneath him, she moved restlessly, her thighs bracketing his, her body trembling as he teased and aroused her. He wanted her more than ready when he finally entered her. This would be it. The thrust that broke down all the walls. The moment that chased whatever demons kept her emotionally locked up.
In slow increments, he worked his way down her body, licking the soft flesh of her tummy, tracing the whole of her navel, until he reached the soft nest of pubic curls. He tugged them lightly with his teeth before moving lower and taking one long, slow lick of her slit.
Wet!
Soaked!
His cocked flexed and his balls tightened in anticipation.
Her moans were increasing, louder now and more frequent, as he took her clit between his teeth and tormented it. Sliding one hand between her thighs, he inserted two fingers into her drenched pussy, stroking her fluttering walls in cadence with his mouth, working her nub.
He worked her slowly, forcing himself to be patient, waking up all those dormant nerves. Unlocking the invisible manacles. Oh, yeah, she was soaking his hand and her hips were hitching upward, pushing against his mouth and hand.
“Oh, oh, oh.”
Her little cries were breathy and so arousing he was afraid he’d come just listening to her. He pressed her thighs open wider and replaced his fingers in her cunt with his tongue. The moment he thrust inside her, she climaxed, her legs clamping against him, her body shaking. Hands grasping his hair, yanking.
Before the aftershocks began to fade he grabbed the condom from the nightstand, rolled it on, and lifting her to him with his hands beneath her ass, drove home.
Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Oh, holy mother.
She was so damned tight and slick and wet and hot, like a silken fist gripping his cock. Squeezing it.
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, trying to steady himself. But then she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in tighter, and jerked her hips against him. The last thread of his control snapped. He drove into her, hips thrusting again and again, his cock dragging the walls of her pussy with each in and out movement.
He couldn’t hold off release any longer. Moving one hand between them, he found her clit and stroked. Rub, rub, rub. And as she climaxed around him, he exploded, his cock pumping hot fluid into the latex reservoir.
Lights exploded behind his eyes and he felt as if someone had launched him into space. They shuddered together, over and over, the only sound in the room the ragged reverberations of their breathing.
I’m dead, he thought, collapsing at last, trailing kisses over her face and neck. But kill me again. Please.
At last, he lifted himself and eased slowly from the tight clasp of her body, his hand gripping his cock to keep the condom in place.
Cole woke to find himself clutching his erection with his own hand, his skin covered with the heat of semen where he’d jerked off in his sleep.
Swell. Just fucking swell. He was having wet dreams like a teenager over some woman he hadn’t even met yet. So she intrigued him. Big fucking deal. A lot of women intrigued him, but he didn’t have fantasies about them.
Good going, asshole.
The image of her in the rain was still burned into his brain. Soaked, with her thin T-shirt plastered to her breasts and her shorts clinging to her ass like a second skin, she’d looked like something washed up from High Ridge Lake. Even in the best of circumstances, he was sure Dana Moretti wasn’t a woman he’d be anxious to get into his bed.
Yet there was the fucking dream.
He was losing his mind. That was the only answer. Or else he badly needed to get laid. Most likely the latter. But certainly not by anyone in High Ridge. Everyone in town would know within twenty-four hours, and five minutes later they’d have him married. He loved this place, but it exasperated him.
Awakened by the dream at five thirty, he decided to take a ride up into the hills where he could watch the day come to life. The sun was barely a whisper of gold in the sky when Cole had Thunder saddled and was riding him out of the yard. With a thousand pounds of sleek stallion beneath him running flat out, he felt the early morning breeze on his skin and inhaled the heady scent of horseflesh mixed with the crisp aroma of prairie grass.
At the top of a rise, he reined in Thunder and stopped beneath an oak. He lifted his Stetson to wipe his forehead with his forearm. His acreage rolled away from him in waves of green and gold, and the clean morning air sang with the music of various birds.
He still wanted to kick himself for the stunt last night. Why in hell had he decided to hunt up Dana Moretti? Because Janie Milburn was telling people in the diner that she’d rented a little house and now they’d never get rid of her? High Ridge was small enough that Cole knew exactly what property was available where, so locating her hadn’t been difficult.
Renting a house had to mean she was planning on hanging around for a while. Causing a stir in his nice little community. His gut told him a big pot of trouble was about to boil over, covering all of Salado County with its sludge.
When it had begun to rain yesterday, he thought offering her a ride would be an easy way to meet her but she’d run from him like a scalded jackrabbit. She probably thought he was some stalker trying to pick her up, and he couldn’t exactly blame her. From her point of view, that’s probably exactly what it had looked like.
Way to go, idiot.
He’d have to figure out a way to talk to her without pissing her off too much. Just enough to get rid of her. Convince her there was nothing here to find. The killer was long gone and people wanted their kids to rest in peace.
Maybe he’d call Uncle Tate. See if he could drag him in early from the ranch for breakfast and tap into the man’s instincts. They’d always been very good, an important trait for a man who raised cutting horses.
He held Thunder still for another long moment, trying to piece together all the bits of information about this woman. She still remained a puzzle. He’d have to find a better way to meet and assess her. He needed to keep his county safe from prying busybodies and at the same time figure out why those brief glimpses had aroused him so intensely and given him a hard-on like he hadn’t had in months.
Loosening the reins slightly and urging Thunder with his knees, Cole took off across the pastureland, hoping to outrun his demons.
****
“I guess that probably wasn’t the
best way to try and meet someone.” Cole took a swallow of the fresh coffee the waitress had poured in his cup and studied his uncle across the booth table. The man might be pushing seventy, but he was in damn good shape. All those years of ranching had kept his body lean and hard, his muscles nearly like those of a man many years younger. He still had a thick head of dark brown hair, although it was now liberally streaked with gray. Cole knew men a lot younger who weren’t in half as good shape.
“I’d say you’re right,” Tate Bishop drawled, lounging back in the booth. “Seems pretty smart if she didn’t want to get in a truck with a complete stranger. Seems like one of you has a brain in their head.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know it was stupid.” He stared at his coffee. “I don’t know. It’s just that she’s been doing strange things since she got in town.”
“Like what?” The look in Tate’s piercing blue eyes was sharp. “And what have you been doing? Following her? Is that why you were in her neighborhood last night?”
Half embarrassed, Cole told him what he’d done the day before. And about Dana’s strange behavior and her visit to the fairgrounds.
“What was she was doing there?” he asked, as much of himself as his uncle. “And what’s up with the vomiting, anyway? I sure didn’t expect to see her heaving her guts.”
Tate idly stirred sugar into his own coffee. “Maybe she’s not as hardboiled as she pretends to be and the stories she read really got to her. What did John Garrett have to say?”
“Not much more than who she is, an author of true crime books. Here to dig up all that stuff from twenty-five years ago. It’s so far in the past, I can’t figure why she’s after it now?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Tate sipped the liquid in his cup. “There’s nothing for her to find. And no one will talk to her.” He paused. “You don’t think she’s got a personal interest in it, do you?”
“Like what?” Then a cold thought froze him. “You think she might be related to the pedophile? That she’s trying to see if we ever found any evidence against him? Shit.”
“I think that’s very unlikely. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep a close eye on her. Just in case.” Tate smiled. “And use that smooth personality of yours to convince her she needs to leave High Ridge alone.”
“Smooth.” Cole snorted. “But I will talk to her. Make her see she has to leave these folks alone.”
“You know good and well whoever it was has been long gone from here,” Tate pointed out. “Otherwise, I’d say, yeah, go for it. But after all this time?” He shrugged. “There isn’t even a trail to follow. And people want to keep their dead buried.”
“I know. I know. Thanks for meeting me.”
“Anytime. You know that, Cole. Maybe you could find time in your busy schedule to come out and have dinner with us. Your aunt sure would love to see you.”
Cole slid out of the booth and clapped his Stetson on his head. “I’ll see how the weekend shapes up. And I sure could use some of Adele’s cooking.”
“Come out Sunday. Plan on it.”
“I’ll let you know.”
****
Dana dragged herself into the kitchen worn out from wrestling with the nightmares that always left her sleep deprived. The stranger in the truck last night had ignited a terror she usually kept a tight lid on. Every time she closed her eyes, memories of Kylie seized her in a tight grip, and with them came the choking scent of wood shavings. Sleep was a hell she didn’t need.
She found the coffee maker and pulled the new can of coffee from the fridge. Leaning on the counter, she willed the machine to brew faster, needing the caffeine jolt to her system. When the last drop filtered into the pot, she poured some into a large mug and carried it outside to the small patio.
The chairs were still covered with dew, but the chilly dampness woke up her weary body. She settled in a lounger, leaned back, and watched two birds hopping from branch to branch in one of the crepe myrtles that guarded the corners of the tiny yard. If only her life could be that simple. She sighed and turned away.
She wasn’t looking forward to her visit to the sheriff’s office today. Would he be willing to help? After all, she might at last be able to find answers to an age-old case. He ought to be happy about that. Of course, if he gave her a hard time and was a real ass about it, she could always wave court decisions at him.
Assuming he gave her access to the files, reading the one about Kylie—and herself—would be the toughest part. She just hoped she’d be able to get through it.
Focus. Make an outline and focus. Think of it as an abstract story that piques your interest. Do what you always do. Stick to the facts, don’t let emotion cloud your thinking.
Yeah, right.
When her mug was empty, she went inside, refilled it, and headed for the bathroom. Half an hour later she was showered and dressed in slacks and a tailored blouse, what she considered her non-threatening outfit. Grabbing a muffin from the box on the counter, she headed out of the house.
At Freddie’s she bought a cold drink to wash down her muffin, chugging half of the liquid in her car in the parking lot. She could already feel the tension grabbing at her again, the expectation of conflict at the sheriff’s office. Not to mention the image of that black pickup dogging her, crawling around the edge of her consciousness like some poisonous bug.
Despite swallowing three aspirin the night before and two more this morning, the headache still clung to her like moss to a tree. She rolled the half-empty can of soda against her forehead then pressed it to the column of her neck.
I can do this. I have to do this. For Kylie. And for myself.
She swallowed the last of the soda and tossed the can in the car’s litter bag. Okay, enough with the pity party. Time to take on the law.
When she turned into the parking area at the sheriff’s office, her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she nearly stopped breathing. That damn black pickup was parked at the side of the building. Sweat slicked her palms and the jackhammer in her head kicked up another notch. Surely he couldn’t be here. Could he?
The lettering on the glass door said Cole Landry, Sheriff, Salado County. Her research had told her he’d only been in office a short time, but unless the records had been destroyed, he’d still have access to them. The doors opened into a small, enclosed lobby with a reception window at one side.
“I’d like to see Sheriff Landry,” she told the woman behind the glass. “If he’s available.”
And if he’s not, I’ll just wait until he is.
“May I have your name and the nature of your business?”
God. The woman was as frosty as Marion Jordan.
From her body language, Dana figured word was already circulating. Well, what did she expect in a small town?
“Dana Moretti.” She handed a business card through the window opening. “I’d like to ask him some questions about an old case if he has the time.”
“Let me just check.”
She waited tensely while the woman spoke softly into a telephone. In a moment, she looked up and said, “He’ll be right with you.”
Dana wasn’t sure if she should be surprised or grateful that Sheriff Landry had agreed to see her so easily. She’d have bet a year’s royalties John Garrett had called him, filled him in, and asked for his help in shutting her down. A lock snicked as a door opened behind her.
“Can I help you?”
The deep voice that spoke to her sent shock waves through her. She whirled, her knees shaking. Oh, hell. It was him. The man in the truck. Wearing a uniform, for God’s sake.
“I have to say,” he went on, “you look a lot better when you aren’t soaked through by the rain.”
Dana’s legs were shaking, keeping time with the butterflies doing the rumba in her stomach. The first thing she thought was cowboy. He had the easy, relaxed yet alert stance she’d seen on men around horses and cattle. And his feet were shod in square-toed Western boots. She was sure his hat would be a Stetson.
/> But the way his eyes assessed her, the analytical gaze…military. Some kind of covert ops.
A dangerous combination in a man.
Dangerous to women. And to people who were misled by his friendly smile.
He was somewhere in his mid-thirties. At least six-four, broad shouldered, and lean hipped, the khaki of the sheriff’s uniform looking as if it were custom tailored for him. His face was all angles and planes, with deep-set, whiskey-colored eyes framed by dark brows and lashes. Even in her state of high anxiety, she couldn’t miss the sexuality that radiated from him.
The ultimate alpha male.
And trouble.
I’ll bet he has to beat the women off with a nightstick. Well, for sure he won’t have to worry about me. Oh, wait. After last night, he probably thinks I’m a nutcase anyway.
She wet her lips. “I gave my card to your…to the woman at the window. I’m Dana Moretti.”
“I know who you are.” His smile, like John Garrett’s, was professional and didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been expecting you. Come on.”
He swung the door wide, the muscles in his tanned arms flexing with the movement.
“If you’d identified yourself last night,” she told him, trying to keep the acid out of her voice, “I might have been more willing to accept a ride. I don’t make it a habit of jumping into trucks with strange men.”
His body brushed hers as he let the door swing shut, and lightning shot through her. What the hell? She knew what unexpected lust was. She often wrote about it, but it wasn’t a feeling familiar to her personally. Certainly not in a situation like this. Maybe this was a bad idea, after all.
“So, what kind of men do you jump in trucks with?”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
His smile was a little softer as he ushered her into his office. “If not strange men, what kind?”
“None.” She made her voice as clipped and professional as she could.
“This is a small town, Miss Moretti,” he said once they were seated. “People are very neighborly and reach out to help each other. If you stick around for any length of time, you’ll find out we don’t have marauders prowling the streets.”
