Fatal Hearts

by Norah Wilson

  Her eyes sparkled. “That sounded like a challenge, Detective.”

  “It was, Doctor.”

  Her smile broadened, growing absolutely carnal. “Hands behind your head,” she said. “Isn’t that what you tell the people you’re about to slap the cuffs on?”

  “In bed, you mean?” He pushed the pillow off the bed, then laced his hands together behind his head, making a cradle of them.

  “No!” She laughed. “I meant in the field.” Then she sat back on her heels. “But now that you mention it, ever handcuff anyone during sex?”

  “No.”

  “Too cliché, cop breaking out the cuffs?”

  He should say yes and let it go, but he was finding it harder and harder to lie to her, even by omission. “No, nothing like that.” He lifted his shoulders in a tight shrug, considering his hands were behind his head. “It’s more that I didn’t want to send any messages, subliminal or otherwise.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, and he wondered if he’d been a little too honest. But she just nodded.

  “That makes sense, not mixing capture-and-keep messages with hook-and-release practices. Lots of guys wouldn’t spare a thought for that kind of thing. I guess that’s Frank McBride’s influence too?”

  “Indirectly, maybe, in that he always told us to be straight with people as much as possible. He didn’t have any specific advice for navigating the dating waters, other than no always means no and show women respect.”

  Hayden blinked rapidly again. “I think I love your father.”

  “Hey, that’s enough of that!” How had they gotten onto this subject anyway? “I thought you were going to fool around with my body, not my brain.”

  She grinned. “Oh I intend to get to the body, but I’m fascinated by what goes on in that mind too.” She leaned over him and put a finger to his forehead. “You know the most powerful sex organ is in here, right?”

  “Uh . . . I’m pretty sure that’s just women.”

  She laughed. “Maybe so.” She slid down and laid a hand on his leg. Even through the material of the pants, it felt amazing when she skimmed that hand up his inner thigh. He hissed and arched, trying to make her hand brush against his arousal.

  “Would you like out of these pants?”

  “You have no idea how much,” he groaned.

  She hooked her fingers into the waistband. “Lift,” she commanded. He obliged, lifting his butt off the bed. She slid the thin material down, dragging it maddeningly against his erection.

  He gasped, unable to keep the sound in. She pulled the pants down his legs, but slowly. She bent to press her open mouth to his hip bone, his thigh, his knees. Jesus, she was killing him. Finally, she dragged them off.

  He flexed his feet. “Hayden, don’t—”

  “Touch the feet. I know. I got the scoop from Josh. To tickle the foot of a McBride man or menace him with a snake is to risk bodily injury.” She glanced at his face. “I always wondered how Josh could stand in the muck of that lake and have the grasses tickle his legs.”

  “Hello? Totally different. Although if a snake or an eel swam by, he’d have dumped you and swum for shore.”

  “He would not!”

  “Okay, he probably wouldn’t. But he’d have wanted to.”

  She started kissing her way back up. Just as he’d done to her yesterday, she skipped over the part that most yearned for her touch.

  “Let’s get this shirt off.”

  “Am I allowed to help?”

  She sat back on her heels. “Go ahead.”

  He hauled the shirt off and tossed it, then put his hands back behind his head.

  “How are your arms holding out up there? Shoulders okay?”

  He chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re kinda sorta topping, Hayden. I don’t think you’re supposed to worry if my arms are getting stiff.”

  “I can’t help it. I look at that position and think about your rotator cuffs. I guess I’m not very good at this.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a hard-on that says different.”

  She glanced down at it. “You do, don’t you?”

  “I was wondering if it had escaped your attention.”

  Her laugh this time was sharp and spontaneous. “That’d be pretty hard to miss.”

  “Yes, very hard.”

  “You know what I also notice?”

  “What?”

  “I’m talking way too much for a woman with so many other options in front of her.”

  “Other things you could be doing with your mouth?”

  “Exactly.” She bent over him and kissed him.

  With his hands out of the game, he had no choice but to let her lead the dance of tongues. In truth, he had no desire to wrest that control from her. She was so clearly enjoying it.

  Out of nowhere, it struck him again how lucky he was to be the object of all her pent-up desire. And how much she’d sacrificed for her career. Celibacy was one thing. A big damned thing. But for her, probably the emotional intimacy, the need to touch and be touched, even in a nonsexual way, was the bigger part of it. It was criminal she felt she had to do that, and all to keep some guy from latching on to her and staking his claim. Like the asshole who let her sacrifice those two years of medical school so she’d have enough time for him. After that experience, he totally got why she felt she had to avoid relationships altogether. Lots of guys talked the talk, pretending to be all pro-woman, but when push came to shove, how many of them would have turned out to be just another meathead who didn’t want his “woman” going off to a third world country now and again? Never mind that it was humanitarian work.

  He wanted to make up for everything she’d missed out on. Starting with lying here and passively accepting the torturous, leisurely tour she was presently taking of his body.

  Her mouth was on his neck, trailing fire to his ear, where she paused long enough to whisper something very dirty. The promise sent a surge of lust through him, swift and brutal as an electric shock. His head actually spun.

  Her hands traversed his chest now, their touch both soft and sure. He’d never been touched quite that way before. Damned if he could figure out the difference. Then she moved lower over his abs and he forgot to analyze anything. His muscles contracted under her featherlight stroke.

  “God, I love your body. Lean, toned muscle, but not too bulky. And none of this pumping up some muscle groups at the expense of function. You must avoid the usual contraptions at the gym.”

  He was impressed. Everyone thought the way to a great body, including most of his colleagues on the force, was through pumping iron and doing a million reps on the machines. “Yeah, I thought I’d pass on the freakishly overdeveloped upper body and the legs of a rooster.”

  She laughed again, trailing her hand farther down his belly. “I can see you put your focus on your core.”

  He sucked said core farther in. “It’s killing me not to be able to lay my hands on you. Your body is so damned beautiful.”

  “It gets me around.”

  That it did, but he suspected she had no idea how graceful and eye-catching she was.

  “I’ll never have buns of steel, I’m afraid.” She gave her booty a shake as evidence.

  He groaned with the need to touch that delectable part of her anatomy. “Baby, I don’t know any men who are looking for buns of steel. I think that must be another one of those things women want to show off to other women. Men generally like things that jiggle a little.”

  Then she put her mouth so close to his stomach. There was a time and a place for talking, and a time and a place for kissing, licking and—oh, Christ—biting! Her even white teeth had nipped the right side of the taut V of muscle leading to his groin. He hissed, but not in pain.

  She soothed the spot with her open mo
uth. “I always thought they needed a better anatomical name for this.” She ran a delicate finger along it. “Iliac furrow doesn’t do it justice, but the street names are so corny. Adonis belt. Apollo’s belt.”

  He didn’t care what she called it, as long as she traced it with her mouth, all the way down to the base of his erection.

  “Hayden?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m dying here. Please touch me.”

  She laughed, her breath an agony of delight on his skin.

  He groaned his relief when she did just that, taking his cock in hand. The same deft touch she’d used on the rest of him made his already hard member harder still. Jesus! As she studied him, he uncupped his hands from behind his head and lowered his arms so he could at least grip the sheets.

  She moved between his legs, urging his thighs farther apart to accommodate her. He obliged. And, oh, God, the picture she made kneeling over him, fully dressed, pulling that glorious riot of hair to one side to keep it out of the way. Then her mouth was on him, taking the head of his cock inside her warmth.

  He closed his eyes, removing that sensory input, but all that did was intensify the incredible sensation of her mouth, her tongue, her firm, sure grip sliding over him. He dug his fingers into the bed so hard he was sure he’d leave imprints in the mattress. He wanted the pleasure to never end, but she drove him relentlessly upward. Only when he felt the first signals that he was going to come did he use his hands to touch her glorious hair.

  “Hayden, you have to stop. Now.”

  She lifted her head but kept working him with her hand. His orgasm slammed into him. On his back like this, maybe because he wasn’t in control, the release was intense, rolling through him, going on and on.

  “Am I still alive?”

  She grinned, handing him the box of tissues. “I take it you enjoyed that?”

  “I think there needs to be a new word for what that felt like.” He cleaned himself up, then lifted his gaze to her, eyeing the yoga gear. “Okay, you being fully dressed a minute ago was hot, I have to admit, but right now all I see is a lot of clothes between you and your orgasm.”

  That drew a laugh.

  “Where’s your vibrator?”

  Her smile disappeared so fast, Boyd had to grin. “Excuse me?”

  “Your vibrator. And, honey, don’t tell me you don’t have one. I’m guessing it must be in that lingerie drawer that you wouldn’t let me search.”

  She blushed, but she grabbed it and handed it to him.

  Within moments, he had her writhing in ecstasy on the bed. She was so responsive, so amazing, so freaking ripe and ready, he had to pin her bucking hips to the mattress before she exploded with her own orgasm.

  While she lay there in what looked like pretty profound postcoital bliss, he held her loosely. She absolutely could not afford to bond to him. And he absolutely should kiss her and roll away, tell her that’s the only way he could sleep. But the soft yet solid weight of her body against his was too sweet, too perfect. Besides, it wasn’t all about him. After the harrowing day they’d had, who was he to deny her that human touch, that fundamental comfort?

  In silence, they both drifted off to sleep.

  By the time they woke the second time, Boyd felt if not completely restored, pretty damned close. Hayden made them a late supper of gluten-free pasta in a faux cheese sauce made from nutritional yeast. It wouldn’t have been his first choice, or even his fiftieth choice. Of course, Hayden had given him the speech about why she chose to limit her gluten. He’d also heard why everyone should eat nutritional yeast—high protein, high fiber, lots of folic acid, a day’s supply of B12, et cetera, et cetera. And actually, it was surprisingly good. Any shortfall was made up by the dessert of baked custard, the kind made with lots of eggs and milk like Ella McBride made.

  They’d talked about Dr. Gunn’s death. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from going there, but he hadn’t planned to raise the subject. He figured he’d already torpedoed her day off. But when she’d raised it, they were off and running. Not that they did—or could—reach any conclusions, but it helped to bat ideas around. He couldn’t wait to learn more from Morgan, whom he hoped would share what he could. The problem was, in the current information vacuum, suicide and homicide were equally plausible.

  He kept picturing the scales of justice. On one side rested the suicide theory. Gunn had had some level of involvement in Josh and Boyd’s illegal adoption, possibly coercing, or helping to coerce, Arianna Duncan’s cooperation. He’d confessed his sins and named names to Josh, after which Josh had died or been killed. Consumed by guilt, either for the original offence or upon learning of Josh’s death, or by the cumulative weight of both, he’d committed suicide. The act might or might not have been hastened, or even triggered, by Boyd’s call.

  Then, on the other side of the scale, he plopped the murder theory, and they balanced perfectly. Gunn had confessed his sins and named names for Josh, and Josh had died or been killed shortly thereafter. When Boyd called, the tortured doctor had seized on the chance to unburden himself, promising to share the contents of his mother’s file with him. But before that could happen, Gunn’s “guest” had murdered him, just as they’d probably murdered Josh.

  Except why would the murderer go to those lengths to cover something up, then leave the file?

  The mental scales tilted in favor of suicide.

  Yet Boyd didn’t entirely buy that, not at a gut level. With any luck, there’d be trace evidence at the scene that could help him refine his thinking.

  When he’d said he should head back to the B&B, she hadn’t protested. Nor had he expected her to. He knew putting space between them was necessary, especially after this afternoon.

  On the drive back, he resolved to talk to Sylvia about Dr. Gunn as soon as he could corner her. He needed to hear what she knew about the man, what kind of practice he’d run, and whether she thought he might have offed himself over whatever he’d done to facilitate whisking Arianna Duncan’s babies away.

  He parked in his assigned space, climbed out of the vehicle, and hit the “Auto Lock” button. He turned and headed toward the service entrance. He hadn’t traveled more than a few steps when an alarm went off. He turned toward the sound, his heart stuttering, then pounding in heavy thumps he could actually feel.

  What the actual hell? It was just a stupid car alarm. Man, those bouts of insomnia must be getting to him.

  Sylvia Stratton poked her head out the service entrance door. “Detective McBride, would you kindly shut off that racket before my neighbors call the police.”

  He pointed to his rental. “Not my car. It’s the one beside it. The little Hyundai.”

  “Ah, that’s Mrs. Garner’s. I’ll send her out to silence it.”

  By the time he reached the door, the alarm had stopped. Inside, a flustered Mrs. Garner was apologizing. “I don’t know how that happened, Dr. Stratton. The keys were in the pocket of my coat in the closet.”

  “No worries. It happens,” Boyd offered. Mrs. Garner bustled away.

  “So how are you holding up?” Sylvia asked.

  He blinked. How was he holding up to being surprised by a car alarm? She was looking at him expectantly. “Sorry, come again?”

  “I was wondering how you’re holding up. I got back from Saint John to hear that you and Dr. Walsh had rather an eventful day.”

  He locked his gaze on her face. “How did you hear that?” He was sure Facebook and other social networks were probably abuzz by now, but there’s no way those random people could know he and Hayden had been there.

  “I had a call from David Bradley.”

  Boyd’s antenna went up. “Dave Bradley?”

  “Yes. He wanted to work up background on Dr. Gunn.” Her expression told him what she thought of Dave Bradley. Or perhaps just reporters in general.

  “But why wo
uld he call you?” He frowned, feeling like a dull child. Maybe he’d gotten too much sleep. “Unless . . . Are you related to Dr. Gunn?”

  “Goodness, no. But we were colleagues and very dear friends. He’s actually the Senator’s physician.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize.” Now that he looked at her, he could see the strain in her. Her shoulders were drawn higher toward her neck, as though she were hunched in on her grief. He could understand that.

  “Of course you didn’t. And thank you.” She inclined her head in dignified acknowledgment.

  It made sense, he supposed, that they would be friends. Both Dr. Stratton and Dr. Gunn had been in practice here forever. But how had Dave Bradley known about their relationship? Of course, it was a pretty small town. Maybe it was just a natural assumption on Bradley’s part that the doctors would have known one another. And what did he imagine he was going to get out of Sylvia Stratton, the original dragon lady? Bradley would find himself overmatched.

  More importantly, had Boyd dismissed Bradley as a suspect too soon?

  “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe I’m being obtuse, but I guess it has been a long day. How is it that Dave Bradley would know about your friendship with Dr. Gunn?”

  “I am related to Mr. Bradley. Distantly, to be sure, but he’s been here before, at Stratton House, for a dinner party or two. That, of course, is how he knew Dr. Gunn and I were great friends. Not that I’ve had either the time or inclination to socialize since the Senator fell ill, but I do . . . sorry, I did make time for Angus. We used to have a glass of sherry or sometimes something stronger—he did bend that elbow a bit much—over our conferences about the Senator’s treatment plan. As I mentioned, he was my husband’s doctor.”

  “I guess it’s been a rough day for you too,” he said gently.

  She inclined her head. “Thank you. I really don’t know what I’ll do now. I trusted Angus utterly with the Senator’s life, and now I’ll have to go doctor shopping.” She shook her head. “I never thought I’d be in this position.”

  Boyd didn’t know what to say to that. If Dr. Gunn had earned this demanding woman’s trust, he must be of impeccable character. At least insofar as she knew. How could he have presented such a sterling face to the very shrewd Sylvia Stratton, yet have been involved in an illegal adoption, the ramifications of which were being felt thirty-five years later?