Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned

by Annette Dashofy

  Ryan Mancinelli, a fire bug. With intimate knowledge of explosives. The Farabee house. The Krolls’ barn…

  But why kill Stephen Tierney and plant the body in Zoe’s basement?

  Pete needed to step up the search for Ryan Mancinelli. He pushed off from the kitchen counter and shouldered his way through the door to snatch his phone from the table and key in Kevin’s number.

  “Have you located Mancinelli yet?” Pete demanded when his officer answered.

  “You only told me to keep a lookout for him like five minutes ago,” Kevin complained. “No, I haven’t located him yet.”

  “I want to talk to him, now. Find him. Bring him down to the station. And call me. I want to hear about it the second you track him down.” Pete hung up before the young officer could respond.

  From behind him, Zoe said, “So Holt’s really innocent.”

  The softness of her voice when she said it sliced through Pete’s heart. “I’m not a jury, but it looks that way.”

  He didn’t turn to look at her. Didn’t think he could stand to see the brightness of her eyes when she thought of another man. He heard her inhale and then release a loud sigh.

  Her fingertips touched his back, so lightly he thought maybe he imagined it. Wished her caress into reality.

  “Pete?” Her voice was soft this time, too, but it carried a note of sadness, heartache echoing his own agony.

  He turned to her. Her fingers that had brushed his shirt and connected to his soul hovered in the vibrating air between them.

  She curled those fingers into an uncertain, unclenched fist. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve been an ass.”

  His throat threatened to close. He forced a grin and what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. “Well, as asses go, yours is rather cute.”

  Her eyes widened in momentary surprise. Then she snorted a laugh. “Yours isn’t bad either, Chief Adams.”

  Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he broke one of his own rules and asked a question he didn’t really want to know the answer to. “What about you and Holt Farabee?”

  A pained scowl carved a crease in her perfect forehead. “There is no me and Holt Farabee. Yeah, I like him. My heart breaks for his little girl. But he just lost his wife, and I…” The crease deepened and she lowered her face so all he could see was the top of her blond head. “I’m kinda hung up on another guy.”

  The temperature in the room cranked up at least ten degrees. “Oh?”

  She looked up, meeting his gaze, unwavering, no more scowl. “Yeah.”

  A thousand thoughts ripped through him the way the explosion had torn through the house at Scenic Hilltop Estates. Smartass quips formed and faded on his tongue. In his mind, he visualized taking her right there on the table. Instead, he cupped her face in both hands, her skin soft against the roughness of his. He allowed himself the luxury of looking at her. Really looking at her instead of the stolen glances he’d become so good at over the years. He brushed one thumb across her lips and then bent down to meet her mouth, warm, wet, inviting.

  Her strong arms around his waist pulled him against her. He kissed her, devoured her, cradling the back of her head with one hand, fingers twining through her hair. With his other hand, he traced the line of her jaw, down the long curve of her throat, to the collar of her v-neck t-shirt.

  He hesitated. Broke the kiss and drew back to look at her. How far was she going to let him go before stopping this?

  She was breathing hard, and she held his gaze for only a moment then leaned in and brushed his cheek with her lips, her breath warm on his ear, her kiss soft on his neck.

  Pete’s breathing matched hers. He leaned his face against her hair as his fingers continued their southbound journey from the collar of her shirt, over the curve of her breast.

  In response, she gasped and, like a cat bringing out her claws, dug her nails into his back.

  Without thinking, he slipped his hand under her t-shirt, palm against her flat, toned stomach, sliding his fingers up to touch her bra.

  Swallowing hard, he drew her head back and looked down into her questioning eyes. “If you intend to red-light this,” he said, his voice ragged in his own ears, “you’d better do it now.”

  The questions in her baby blues faded into a smile as she grabbed the hem of his shirt and skimmed it over his head.

  Twenty-three

  Zoe opened her eyes to the pale light of early morning sun through her lace curtains. Her curtains. Her room. Her bed. Yet even before her mind kicked into gear, she sensed something was very different. Then last night cut through the brain fog.

  She rolled slowly from her side to her back and snuck a covert peek. Pete.

  He faced away from her, still asleep. The sheets…her sheets…covered him from the waist down, but his broad, muscled back held her appreciative gaze.

  The sweet and sultry memory of last night stirred a flutter, like bird wings, inside her chest.

  She lay back against her pillow and blew out a long breath. It had been incredible.

  They’d denied their passions for so long, and once released, those passions had nearly consumed both of them.

  She smiled recalling the trail of clothes they’d shed in her living room before she’d taken his hand and lured him up the back staircase to her bed.

  Wow.

  But now what?

  She drank in one more look at Pete’s bare back before rolling away from him and gingerly sitting up.

  Merlin sat on the floor staring at her in disapproval, his tail swishing from side to side. Zoe looked around for Jade and found her curled up at Pete’s feet. Clearly Merlin was the only judgmental one.

  Zoe tiptoed into her bathroom with Merlin trailing along behind. Jade appeared perfectly content to keep an eye on their guest from the foot of the bed. The door squeaked as Zoe eased it shut, and she shushed it. Pete didn’t stir.

  Running the shower would be too noisy. It could wait until after the morning’s barn work. She dug through the hamper for some not-too-terribly-dirty clothes to slip into. Her fuzzy tongue tasted like the stuff she scraped off her boots, but the old pipes in the even older house tended to elicit an assortment of whistles and bangs. Sounds she had grown accustomed to and didn’t even hear anymore, but which would no doubt wake the man slumbering in the next room. She snatched her toothbrush and paste. She could brush her teeth in the kitchen sink.

  Pausing to look in the mirror, she groaned. Her short blond curls suffered a severe case of bed head. Her hairbrush did little to tame them. A red line creased her face where she’d had it buried in her pillow. She offered up a little prayer Pete wouldn’t wake up until she was already out in the barn. Not only because she looked horrible, but also because she needed to think.

  Something she should have done—but didn’t—last night.

  She turned the bathroom doorknob as quietly as possible until it clicked open. Pete had rolled onto his stomach. The sheet had slipped even lower. Heaven help her, he looked good out of uniform. Way out of uniform.

  With Merlin underfoot, she padded toward the stairs. Jade stood and gave a long feline stretch before dropping to the floor with a soft thud. Still Pete didn’t budge.

  Zoe touched the plain pipe handrail at the top of her staircase, and the phone rang. Pete flopped over onto one side, pushing up onto one elbow. Zoe did a shuffle-step around the cats to grab the cordless handset on the mantle.

  “Zoe? It’s Wayne. I’ve been trying to reach Pete, but he’s not answering his cell. Do you happen to know where he is?”

  She thought of Pete’s cell phone still on her table downstairs. But how on earth did Wayne Baronick know to call her house? She glanced at Pete, now sitting up in her bed, looking rugged and rumpled and incredibly sexy. “Yeah, I do,” she said into the phone before tossing
it to him.

  Clutching her toothbrush and paste, she bolted down the steps.

  Zoe reconsidered her retreat to the barn. With the cats fed and her mouth tasting like Colgate instead of dried mud, she scooped her favorite mix of light roast and French vanilla into the Mr. Coffee and filled the reservoir with water. Leaving it to brew, she returned to the living room to gather Pete’s clothes, and hers, from last night and headed back upstairs.

  The bed was empty, sheets strewn to the side. Her phone was back in its nest on the mantle. The shower she’d taken a pass on was running in the other room.

  For a fleeting moment, she contemplated joining Pete, but she had no problem playing the choice out in her mind. It would end with them back in bed. And she still had her doubts as to the wisdom of that move the first time.

  She deposited her clothes on a chair and his on the bed and slipped downstairs again.

  Her cell phone was in its usual spot with her keys on the small catch-all table next to the door. She snatched it up on her way to the kitchen. The screen indicated two missed calls. One voicemail. Probably Baronick in his attempt to track down Pete. She’d listen to the message later. Right now she needed to think, and the best way to do that was by cooking breakfast.

  As she cracked eggs into a stoneware mixing bowl, she replayed last night. After years of waiting and longing, being with Pete had been close to perfect. Close. There was still the little matter of the last few days when they’d been at each others’ throats. Did one night, even one unbelievable night, mean everything between them was copacetic?

  Yeah. Right.

  Zoe whisked the eggs into a froth. By the time Pete swung open the kitchen door, she had the makings of an omelet sizzling on the stove.

  “Hungry?” she asked over her shoulder, her voice entirely too cheerful.

  When he didn’t answer, she risked a glance at him.

  She’d hoped to see a smile. A twinkle in his ice-blue eyes. The expression she saw instead was one she’d never witnessed before. Troubled creases carved his forehead, his eyes were wide with…what? Worry? Regret? Trepidation? His slightly lopsided mouth seemed torn between admiration and lament. Definitely not the in-charge poker-faced Pete Adams Zoe was familiar with.

  Since he still hadn’t responded to her question, she pointed to the skillet. “I’m making omelets.”

  Pete blinked. Offered an apologetic smile. “It smells great. I wish I could stay. But—” He motioned over his shoulder. “I have to go.”

  She should be relieved he was leaving. She wouldn’t have to make sense of her jumbled feelings with him sitting across the table. Instead, her chest felt hollow.

  He aimed a thumb at the Mr. Coffee. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.” Pete had never asked permission before. The fact he was asking now left Zoe convinced the void between them had not been bridged by sex.

  He opened the cabinet door where she kept her cups and pulled out a travel mug, which he held up to show her. “I’ll get it back to you.”

  A lump was growing in her throat. “Don’t worry about it.” She tossed a handful of cheese on the eggs and folded the omelet. Not that she had any appetite left. “What did Wayne want?”

  Pete filled the mug and replaced the pot on its warmer. “He’s heading to the station so we can have an early meeting.”

  With everything that had transpired, she’d almost forgotten about the body in the potato bin. At least the odor had dissipated. “Has he learned anything about Tierney’s murder?”

  “I don’t know yet. That’s why we’re meeting.”

  He was dodging her questions. This was how it was going to be? A one-night stand? The lump continued to press upward, squeezing her brain. She kept her eyes on the skillet, switching off the heat to the electric stove.

  Pete moved behind her. She hoped, prayed, he was going to turn her to face him, apologize for being an ass, and kiss her long and hard like he had last night. Instead, she felt his presence, the heat of his closeness. His fingers lightly touched her shoulder and he pressed a brief kiss into her hair on the back of her head. Then he took his coffee and walked out of her kitchen. A moment later, the back door slammed.

  Zoe swept a hand across her face. No. She would not cry.

  She slid the omelet onto a plate. Nothing about it appealed to her at the moment. Maybe later. Or maybe she’d feed it to the cats. What she really needed was to talk to her best friend Rose. Unfortunately, Rose was out west somewhere with her kids and had sworn off electronics for the summer.

  Zoe scooped up her phone. Perhaps this one time, Rose would have her cell turned on. Zoe keyed in the number, but the call went directly to voicemail. With a guttural growl, she contemplated hurling the useless thing across the room, but remembered the two missed calls.

  The first one, as expected, was from Wayne’s number. The second was from Holt’s. The lump in her throat returned. Had something happened to Maddie? She played the message, but it was the detective. “If you see Pete, have him call me.” Zoe deleted it.

  No message from Holt.

  She dialed his number. Like her call to Rose, it went straight to voicemail.

  “Holt, this is Zoe. I see you called.” What else should she say? “I hope you and Maddie are all right. Call me back. Okay?” After she hung up, she held onto the phone and asked it the question she’d really wanted to ask Holt. “Where the hell are you?”

  Had it been possible to kick himself all the way to Dillard, Pete wouldn’t have needed his SUV to get to the station. He was a damned idiot. He’d finally, finally, made love with Zoe. It had been better than he’d ever imagined. He’d dreamed about her for years. Wanted her for years. He’d had their first time all planned out. Romantic dinner. Perhaps dancing. Taking her back to his place. A little wine. And then slow and sweet.

  Instead, he’d practically ripped her clothes off in a primal zealous rush to claim her as his own like some frigging caveman.

  He could have…might have…redeemed himself this morning if he’d simply talked to her. The second part of his dream. The afterglow. A languid morning of mimosas and French toast, sharing laughter and conversation in each other’s arms.

  She’d fixed breakfast for him. Not French toast, but omelets she’d prepared herself. She’d wanted him to stick around. That was huge.

  He’d wanted to stay. Longed to stay and take her in his arms again. Instead, coward that he was, he bolted.

  For a moment, he contemplated turning the Explorer around and heading back to the farm. And Zoe.

  But there was the blasted phone call from Baronick.

  “I think we may have been too quick to dismiss Farabee as a suspect.”

  Pete didn’t want Zoe to suspect Holt might once again be on his radar. Not until he knew what Baronick had dug up. And the detective had refused to discuss it over the phone.

  Zoe could read Pete all too well. If he’d stayed for breakfast and conversation, she’d have known immediately he was keeping something from her.

  So, he’d left without telling her what he’d intended to say.

  I love you, Zoe.

  Pete slammed the steering wheel with his palm. He was an idiot, plain and simple.

  Baronick was already seated in the conference room with two cups from Starbucks when Pete arrived. The detective slid one of the cups toward him. “Morning, Pete.”

  He eyed the Starbucks brew then the travel mug of Zoe’s French vanilla crap. He loved the woman. Hated her coffee. Swapping cups, he took a seat across from Baronick. “What’s so damned intriguing you couldn’t discuss it on the phone?”

  “Whoa there, big fella. First things first.” He hiked his eyebrows suggestively. “How was your evening?”

  Pete fixed him with The Stare. The one that withered criminals and put his officers i
n their place when needed.

  Baronick was a little tougher and took a little longer, but he eventually backed down. “Fine. You don’t wanna be the kiss and tell type. Hey, I’m cool with that.” He picked up his phone and did some swiping and tapping. “I did some digging into our EOD Specialist Ryan Mancinelli. Honorable discharge. Treated at the VA in Pittsburgh for PTSD. Nothing new there. So I checked him out with the Monongahela County Builders Association where he’s a member in good standing. All four and five star ratings for his work. But no one has any idea what job he’s been on lately.”

  Pete turned the Starbucks cup around and around. “Builders Association. Don’t suppose you asked whether Holt Farabee was a member.”

  The smug grin returned. “I did indeed. And that’s where it got interesting. Farabee’s also highly thought of. Good worker. His customers are happy.”

  “That’s interesting?”

  “No, but the guy I talked to told me Farabee and Mancinelli are best buds from way back.”

  “Really?”

  Baronick swiped the screen again. “They always sat together at meetings. Most of the time, they rode to meetings together and went out for burgers afterwards.”

  Pete mulled it over. “So? They live in the same township. They share the same profession. They’ll either be friends or competitors.”

  “True. Let’s move on to my next tidbit. I decided to have a talk with Dennis Spangler.”

  It took a moment for the name to register in Pete’s brain. “The guy from the collections department at MNB?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to touch base with him now that Tierney’s dead.”

  Pete should have thought of that. If he wasn’t so damned twisted up about Zoe… “And?”