“Yeah. It is.” He pulled her close, cradling the back of her head in his palm.
She pressed her face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, where his skin was warm and damp. Beneath its silky surface, his firm, vibrant muscles rippled, and his chest rose and fell with his strong, steady breathing. She slid her arms around his waist, just to absorb more of the comfort he offered her.
She missed Marcie.
“Something in me never let her go,” she whispered. “I believed she was out there somewhere. That she was waiting for something—waiting until she felt safe enough to come back.”
He pressed his cheek against her hair. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes. I am.” She laughed quietly. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”
“You’ve got a right.”
She hugged him tighter, pressing her nose into his damp flesh, breathing deeply. His closeness and scent were comforting, she told herself. Her insides were warm and glowing from his gentle embrace and their shared sadness—not hot and liquid because she craved the taste of him on her tongue.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, a sweet, protective gesture at odds with the quick, staccato beat of his heart.
Her own pulse sped up, and her breasts, already taut and full where they pressed against his chest, suddenly grew ultrasensitive.
She pulled away.
His hand slid from the back of her head to her neck, and his thumb brushed across the line of her jaw gently, caressingly. “Do you want to leave?”
She shook her head, not knowing if she was answering him or wishing he would stop talking. The way she was feeling right now couldn’t be described in words.
Words only complicated everything.
He nodded, as if he knew what she was thinking and agreed. She felt the movement of his head against her hair. Before he could speak, she pressed her fingers against his lips.
To her surprise, he opened his mouth and slid his tongue along her fingertips. She gasped.
He lowered his head, pushing her own fingers to her mouth, sending even more heat to her core. She slid her hand around to his nape, where his hair was damp and tousled, and pulled his head closer.
And accepted his kiss.
When their lips touched, he sighed—a ragged expulsion of breath. Hesitating, he hovered there, the full center of his lower lip barely grazing hers.
Without thinking about the consequences, she ran her tongue over the seam that linked their lips.
With a gasp, he let his mouth cover hers, and their tongues met. He tasted just like she knew he would. Hot and sweet and minty, with an undercurrent of something dark and delicious.
Then his hands were around her back and pulling her to him. The thin silk of her camisole seemed to melt as he imprinted his body on hers. Her nipples tightened until they ached. Her thigh muscles contracted reflexively, responding to the rising heat his touch was coaxing from her sexual center.
Wyatt tore his mouth away and studied her face, his eyes as hot and blue as a flame of pure oxygen. “Professor? I don’t want to take advantage—”
Her fingers curled into fists. “You’re not,” she grated.
“You sure about this?”
She couldn’t answer. She had no breath. All she could do was kiss him again, more deeply.
That was all the answer Wyatt needed. He picked her up and laid her down on the bed, then lowered himself beside her. It was all he could do not to rip away the delicate material of her panties and camisole.
But he restrained himself. Instead, he caressed her bare skin, feeling her abs and thigh muscles contract when his teasing fingers touched them. He slid his fingers under the thin band of elastic and inched her panties lower and lower.
His immediate goal was to savor every second of this fantasy—this small moment out of time.
Neither one of them was exactly rational right now. Especially not Nina. She was grieving for her friend. Seeking comfort.
Later, when she was thinking clearly, he knew for a fact that she’d regret this momentary lapse of reason. But he wiped that thought from his head. If this was the only chance he ever got to act on the longings she’d generated in him from the first time he’d met her, he’d take it.
Every second of it.
The first time he’d laid eyes on her two years ago, he’d wanted to sink his fingers into her thick dark hair and watch it slide like black silk across his skin.
He’d wanted to skim his tongue across every inch of her creamy, petal-soft skin. If her face and the tops of her breasts were that creamy and smooth, what would the softer skin of her tummy feel like?
And the protected, sensitive skin of her inner thighs?
And the even softer, erotically charged skin of…
His hardness throbbed as her hands, busy pushing his sweatpants down, brushed it.
“Keep going,” he breathed as he pushed the black satiny camisole up. Her belly and abs were as taut and shapely as they’d felt under his fingertips. He brushed his palms across the underside of her breasts. She moaned aloud and shoved his sweatpants farther down.
He kicked them off.
Then he sat up and brought her with him, holding her so he could tongue her nipples. She arched, giving him easier access, and in one sleek movement, wrapped her legs around his waist.
She raised her arms so he could yank off her camisole.
Her breasts were beautiful, perfectly shaped—perfectly sized. Not small, yet not too big. He could spend eternity there, touching, tasting, savoring.
But Nina wanted more. Without saying a word, she let him know that she was ready. She tightened her legs. She threw back her head and moaned as he feasted on one creamy globe and then the other.
And finally, she fisted her hands in his hair and forced him to look up into her eyes.
“Now,” she said, holding his gaze. “Now.”
He laid her down and raised himself above her. “I don’t want to do something you’re not ready for—” he began, but she stopped his words with her fingers.
He thrust, and she took him in.
He gasped aloud as her heat enveloped him. She was so tight, so hot, so perfect. He sank hilt-deep, hearing the hitch in her breathing as he began to move.
She ran her fingers down his shoulders to caress his biceps, then back up, as she met him thrust for thrust, matching his rhythm. And the whole time she watched him. Her gaze never wavered.
Wyatt moved slowly, taunting them both with long strokes that brought him closer and closer to losing control.
Each time he moved, she moaned, low and breathy, and moved to match his rhythm.
After an indefinable time, he felt his muscles tense, felt the sweet, hot fire that signaled his coming release. He slowed down. “Let’s take it easy,” he hissed softly.
Nina shook her head. “No. Let’s take it hard.”
Matching words to deed, she ground against him, pushing him, demanding more, until he couldn’t hold back for another second.
Then the fire ignited and spread. At the same time, he felt the change in her. The catch in her breathing, the tiny contractions, which told him she was as close as he was. So he pumped up the rhythm and made sure they came together.
NINA AWOKE TO SUNLIGHT streaming in through the window and the rhythmic sounds of Wyatt’s long, smooth breaths. He was on his back, with the sheet angled across the edge of his hip.
She was curled up on her side, and for a while, she just lay there and watched him breathe. His brown hair was tousled, softening his features and making him look innocent and young.
His mouth was curved in a slight smile. The eyelashes, which were barely darker than his hair, lay against his cheek like fringes, hiding the intense blue of his eyes.
She traced the line of his jaw to the cleft in his chin with her gaze. Then down the elegant line of his neck to his chest.
There, below his right collarbone, was a scar. An ugly, jaggedly curved scar that disappe
ared under his arm.
Where he’d been shot. Where they’d cut the bullet out of his lung. Her throat contracted until she could hardly breathe.
She’d been shocked when he said he’d been shot in the lung. She’d thought the bullet had hit his shoulder, and nobody had ever told her any differently.
When they’d taken him away on a stretcher, with the EMTs shouting commands and hustling everybody out of the way, she’d been resentful at so much hoopla over a shoulder wound. Tough guys on TV still chased villains after being shot in the shoulder.
Meanwhile, whoever had shot him had disappeared into thin air, with her best friend as his captive.
She’d yelled at Wyatt as they rolled the stretcher past her. She remembered her exact words.
My best friend is gone. She could be dead, and it’s all your fault.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered silently as her gaze traced every inch, every millimeter of damaged skin. It shone pale against his tanned flesh, like the silver star he wore pinned to his shirt. And like the Ranger badge, the scar was a symbol of his courage.
He’d taken a bullet to his lung trying to save Marcie. He could have died.
Her breath caught in a near sob. How could she have been so wrong about him?
Each and every person who became a Texas Ranger took an oath to protect not only the state of Texas and their fellow Rangers but any innocent person.
These were men of legend. Heroes.
Heroes. She nodded to herself and sighed. How wonderful to be the recipient of such protection, such courage, such caring.
If she were looking for a hero, she could certainly do worse than Wyatt Colter. Against her better judgment, almost against her will, she reached out to touch the scar. Her fingers hovered over his skin, trembling with emotion.
They’d made love last night, more than once. If the fact that she was in his bed wasn’t proof that it hadn’t been a dream, the soreness between her thighs was.
Many people would say that what they’d done was the ultimate intimacy. That nothing could bring two people closer together.
But right now, her desire to touch his scar, to feel the place where the deadly bullet had entered his flesh, felt much more intimate.
She slid her gaze from the tip of her finger to the curve of his scar, then up to his face—and met his sleepy gaze. “Oh!” she gasped.
He caught her hand in his. “Good morning,” he muttered without taking his eyes off her. He stared at her as heat rose in his eyes. Then slowly he pressed her fingers to his chest.
To the rough, damaged skin of his scar.
Tears welled in her eyes. Embarrassment? Maybe. An awful ache at the pain he’d felt? Certainly.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
The heat in his gaze flickered and changed to blue ice. He took his hand away. “Why? You didn’t wake me.”
“N-No,” she stammered. “I meant—”
“It’s getting late.” He threw back the covers and got up, reaching for his clothes.
His brusque dismissal sent chills up her spine. She opened her mouth to say…what? She had no idea.
He headed for the bathroom, his clothes in his hand. A couple of seconds later, the pipes creaked. He’d turned on the shower.
She lay there staring at the closed bathroom door. Why had he deliberately pressed her hand against his chest—against his scar—and then acted as though he didn’t know what she was apologizing for.
Then it hit her. He did know what she’d meant.
He hadn’t misunderstood her apology; he’d rejected it.
Oh, she’d made a big mistake. She should have known better. She’d never been cut out for casual relationships.
She knew—because she’d tried them before. But her idea of a relationship included trust and safety. And in her experience, casual was the antithesis of safety.
Quickly, she scanned the floor for her panties and camisole, but she didn’t see them. Feeling around in the rumpled sheets, she finally came up with them.
By the time she had slipped them on and was ready to dart through the connecting door and back to her own room, Wyatt had appeared from the bathroom. He’d showered and put on dress khakis, but he hadn’t shaved. His hair was still wet, and his chest and abs were damp.
She kicked the sheets away from her legs. “I’ve got to shower, too,” she mumbled just as a knock sounded on the door. She froze, then pulled the sheets up again.
Wyatt reached for his holster, slung over the back of the desk chair.
“Lieutenant?” Betty Alice’s cheerful voice cut the air like a paring knife. She knocked again.
Nina stared at Wyatt, who frowned and held a finger up to his lips.
She shook her head and pointed toward the connecting door, silently asking for a couple of seconds to escape into her own room, but he ignored her plea.
He opened the door, swinging it wide, toward the bed. If Betty Alice didn’t come all the way into the room, she wouldn’t see Nina.
Why it mattered to her what Betty Alice saw or didn’t see, Nina couldn’t say. Maybe because of the smirk on the woman’s face when Nina had refused to change rooms. Or when she’d declined the offer of a lock on the connecting door.
Her face burned. She should have let Betty Alice install that lock.
“I found this on the desk this morning when I opened up,” Betty Alice was telling Wyatt. “When I saw what the envelope said, I thought I’d better bring it right up to you.”
“Did you see who brought it?” he asked.
“Why, no, I didn’t. I got up about an hour ago to start my cinnamon loaf. It must have been before that, because I can hear the door from my kitchen, but not from my bedroom.”
“Do you leave the front door unlocked?”
Betty Alice laughed. “No, but probably half the people in town know where the spare key is—under the doormat. This is a friendly town, for the most part. Anybody can get in if they really want to.”
“Thanks.”
Nina heard the dismissive tone in Wyatt’s voice. Apparently Betty Alice didn’t.
“Well? Aren’t you going to see what it says?” she asked.
“I appreciate you bringing it up to me.”
There was a pause of a few seconds. Then, “Well, I guess I’d better be getting downstairs. My cinnamon loaf needs to come out of the oven.”
Wyatt closed the door. He didn’t budge, and Nina held her breath until Betty Alice’s footsteps faded down the hardwood stairs.
Finally, he looked at the note in his hand and then at Nina.
She got the message. She was dismissed, just as Betty Alice had been. He wanted to read his note in private. She ducked her head. “It won’t take me long to shower and dress. If you don’t mind running me out to the site, I’ll catch a ride back to the lab with one of my students.” She jumped up and sprang toward the connecting door.
“Wait.”
She turned her head, feeling naked in her black camisole and bikini panties.
Wyatt had crossed to the writing desk and picked up an ornate letter opener. “It’s addressed to you, too. Lieutenant Colter and Dr. Jacobson.” He held it up to show her.
She got a glimpse of plain block letters before he slit the top of the envelope. He shook the folded sheet of paper out onto the desk and used a pen and the letter opener to ease it open.
Nina took a couple of wary steps toward him, still feeling viciously exposed in her underwear. As he opened up the note, she spotted another piece of paper inside.
His eyes scanned the sheet of paper, and he cursed. Then cursed again as he used the letter opener to flip over the enclosed rectangle. As she watched, his brows shot up and his face drained of color.
“What is it? Wyatt?”
“Damn it!” he growled. “Can you lift prints off paper?”
“Sure,” she said. She was beginning to get scared. Wyatt looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “The lab at the community college has the necessary chemicals. Wh
at does the note say?”
“It says, ‘I’ll contact you about this in a few days.’”
“About what?”
Wyatt’s gaze met hers. His eyes looked somehow hot and icy at the same time. His jaw muscles bulged.
“Wyatt?”
“This,” he bit out. “Take a look.”
She stepped over to the desk. There, looking dark against the white of the note paper, was a photograph. Nina stared in disbelief. Her heart raced so fast, she felt like she couldn’t take a breath. “Dear heavens,” she whispered. It took a moment before she could say anything else. “Is that the date stamp?” She pointed to the right lower corner of the photograph.
“Yeah. It’s dated the first of this month.” Wyatt’s voice was void of emotion.
Nina squinted. “This year?”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. She knew it was.
She intertwined her fingers together and pressed the knuckles against her mouth. A slightly hysterical chuckle escaped her lips. “So I’m not crazy?”
“If you are, then I am, too.”
“You see what I see? A picture of…” Her voice died. She swallowed and tried again. “Of Marcie, date stamped a week ago.”
She stood there, her mouth dry as a bone as Wyatt met her gaze. Then she said, “That means Marcie’s alive.”
Chapter Thirteen
Nina stared at the photograph of her best friend. “Who could have sent this? Marcie’s kidnapper?”
Wyatt didn’t speak. He looked as stunned as she felt.
“Do you think it’s a fake? That date could have been added in a computer program.”
He nodded.
Neither one of them spoke for a few seconds. Then Wyatt said, “Get your kit.”
She was already at the door. She popped into her room, grabbed her forensics kit and her camera and hurried back without even stopping to put on a robe.
She took several shots of the note and photo, then pulled on gloves and bagged the note and the photo.
“Get dressed. I want to get this tested for fingerprints now,” Wyatt told her.
She locked the evidence bag in her kit and headed back to her room. By the time she’d showered and dressed, Wyatt was gone. So she hurried downstairs.
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