“Tight,” he moaned. “I love that word.”
He withdrew as far as he could, then slowly slid back in. It felt so damned good, he did it again. And then again.
“Oh . . . my . . . S-Soldier . . .” Betsy was panting, her body trembled against his. She was close.
Her naked bottom in his palms, he lifted her and took one nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, played with it with his tongue, gently scraped it with his teeth.
She gasped. “I’m going to . . . oh. Yes. I’m going to . . .”
Her neck arched back and she breathed out a long, slow, totally sexy sigh as she came.
The feel of her clenching around him drove Soldier over the brink and he stroked again, groaned as his own pleasure rocketed through him, lighting his skin on fire, taking his breath away.
Wrapped together, they both breathed hard until they’d recovered a little. Soldier held Betsy against his chest, her legs wrapped around his waist, his flesh still a part of her.
I love you. You are beautiful and you are kind and you are strong and smart and irreplaceable. I love you.
Betsy raised her head and looked into Soldier’s eyes. “Did you say something?” she asked, her voice a tremulous murmur in the dark.
He shook his head. “No. It must have been the wind.”
Claire slid into her car and locked the doors, then waved to the cop in the patrol car assigned to keep close watch on Betsy’s house.
A weary sigh escaped her lips. Taylor McKennitt was going to be trouble, she thought as she started the engine.
The man was attractive and charming. Tomorrow night he would try to charm the pants off her, as the saying went, but there was no way a relationship between them would work, so it was no use even getting started.
As she turned the far corner, she noticed headlights come up behind her. Somebody else was up at one o’clock in the morning on a quiet street in Port Henry? Poor sap, she thought.
She had early rounds in the morning and couldn’t wait to get home and slip into bed. Her house was only a few miles from Betsy’s, less than a ten minute drive. A nervous rumbling began in her stomach when she realized the headlights behind her had made every turn she had and had not been more than a block behind her the whole way home.
The next corner was her street. Should she take it and see what happened? If the car turned and followed her, she would drive on by her own house and head straight for the police station. Flitting her gaze between her rearview mirror and the street ahead, her fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
Slowly, she made the left hand turn and watched in the mirror to see if the car followed.
It didn’t. It kept going, straight ahead.
Claire blew out a breath of relief. Port Henry just wasn’t that big, so it was possible somebody would take the same route home as she. Anyway, they hadn’t turned on her street.
Pressing her garage door opener, she drove in and immediately closed the garage door behind her.
There. Safe at home; safe inside.
Deactivating her home alarm system, Claire entered the house through the garage, snapping on the kitchen light as she greeted her fat calico cat, Agatha. “Hey, sweetie. Hungry?”
The sloe-eyed feline offered up a loud meow. Claire stood before the sink opening a can of cat food while Agatha wound a fluffy figure eight through her legs.
“There,” she said, setting the bowl on the floor next to the water dish.
As Claire turned off the kitchen light and headed for the bedroom, headlights pierced the sheer curtains that covered the window. A tingle of fear shimmied up her spine as she watched the car drive slowly by, not stopping, not speeding up, just creeping along the street and then disappearing around the corner at the end of the block.
Could it have been the same car? she wondered. She could call the cops, but what would she say? The car hadn’t stopped and the driver hadn’t done anything aggressive. She couldn’t even give a good description of it.
All her doors and windows were locked. Reactivating the alarm, she decided she was safe against an intruder, nevertheless, she sat on the edge of her bed and picked up the phone.
“I want to report a possible prowler,” she said when the police department picked up. “This is Dr. Claire Hunter and I live at 535 Windjammer Road. Could you please have a patrol car cruise the area tonight? I’d feel a lot better. Yes. Thanks.”
She let go a huge breath. Now she could get some much needed sleep.
As she snuggled down into her covers, her tired mind drifted to Taylor McKennitt and how his big, strong body affected her. Maybe she should consider trading her alarm system in for a flesh and blood man. . . .
Abruptly, she sat straight up in bed. She had been asleep, but something awakened her. A noise? The phone wasn’t ringing, so what—
Tapping. Something was tapping or scratching at the window. In her sleepiness, she wasn’t sure exactly where it was coming from.
Pushing the covers back, she stood and walked toward the side window—
And the window exploded. Glass shards, sharp as razor blades, sliced the air around her as she tried to cover her face and bare arms.
She screamed as thousands of tiny needles pricked her flesh and tore at her hands and scalp. Another explosion, and the other window shattered into knives of glass, showering her with splinters. She screamed again as something flew past her ear. Then pain, sharp and bright.
She clutched her head as she fell on her knees to the carpet, now strewn with chunks of broken glass.
Lights came from somewhere, the illumination turning her bedroom into an obscene tableau of debris and destruction. Amidst the sparkling splinters, her blood was splattered about like so much red confetti.
Voices, pounding, sirens . . . none of it made sense as Claire collapsed, her world suddenly gone dark.
Chapter 21
After a decade in law enforcement, Taylor thought he’d pretty much seen it all. In his line of work, he’d encountered perverts who preyed on guileless children, witnessed the devastation left after innocent bystanders had been run down by cars turned into weapons of destruction in the hands of someone too drunk to drive. He had seen domestic violence at its worst, and heroism at its finest. He had seen birth and death, and everything in between. But this was a new one.
The lunatic stalker had followed Claire home and riddled the doctor’s bedroom with bullets, nearly killing her. It was only through a miracle, and because she’d called the police earlier, that she didn’t bleed to death on the floor of her own bedroom.
Taylor stood with his brother in the doorway of the ER, where the paramedics had brought Claire. She lay on the narrow bed as the nurse finished applying antiseptic ointment to the unstitched cuts on her arms and face. It was a miracle none of the bullets had found their mark.
“Taylor,” Soldier said. “You’re not well enough to do this. Let me—”
“Shove off, Jackson. The lady and I had a date tonight, and I’m keeping it. As soon as they’re done with her, I’m taking her home.”
When his brother began to protest, Taylor said, “I don’t need anything but one working arm, one working trigger finger, and my trusty little Glock. I’m doing this. If that bitch takes another swipe at Claire, I’ll be there.”
“Taylor?” Claire’s voice sounded dry and far away somehow.
Immediately, Taylor moved from the doorway to her side. The pain in his leg hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to the sharp ache he felt seeing the damage done to Claire’s lovely face and body.
The treatment room was small and brightly lit, unforgiving in its intensity. Claire’s face and arms were covered with tiny cuts. She looked like she was recovering from the measles. A neat row of stitches now adorned her bare shoulder, and her hands were bandaged against the cuts she’d gotten when trying to protect her face and eyes from flying glass. They’d taken away her torn and bloody nightgown and replaced it with one of those ugly cotton hospital things, but
to Taylor’s mind, rather than detracting from her beauty, she looked prettier than ever.
Maybe it was some weird male psychological thing, he thought. She looked vulnerable, she’d been hurt, and her guard was down. Maybe enough to let a man watch over and protect her. Maybe.
Her big brown eyes searched his, and while he saw fear in them, he also saw defiant determination. Claire Hunter was no easy mark. She was afraid, but she was also totally pissed.
Clasping her bandaged hand, Taylor wrapped her fingers over his palm. “We make a fine pair, don’t we?” He chuckled. “I may not be able to run anybody to ground right now, but I promise to protect you with my life.”
“No,” she whispered, her words slurred from the pain medication the nurse had administered. “Soldier’s right. As your doctor, I order you to—”
“You’re not my doctor anymore, remember? But I’m your detective. So shut up,” he ordered gently, “and let me take you home.”
She closed her eyes. “My house is a mess,” she whispered. “The bedroom looks like hell.” Her soft mouth curved into a smirk. “And I have a cat.”
“I love cats,” he said. “Especially with catsup.”
She attempted a smile, but even that small movement was obviously painful for her.
Taylor swallowed the most disgusting curse he knew. He could hardly wait to get his hands on Carla Denato. This case would break any minute, and when it did, he only hoped he’d have a front row seat when the bitch was taken down.
As Soldier left Claire’s room, he saw Betsy hang up the courtesy phone opposite the nurses’ station. Seeing him, she sent him a very weary smile.
Zing went the strings of his heart.
Everyone was tired and on edge, but for Soldier, the sight of her was like mainlining adrenaline.
Did you say something? No. It must have been the wind.
Christ, he was a jerk. When this was all over . . .
“Loretta’s taking care of Daddy,” Betsy said when she reached him. “And the officer watching the house has reported no unusual activity. Things should be okay, at least until morning. How’s Claire? Can I see her now?”
“They’re just finishing up,” he replied. “Taylor’s going with her to her house. Until Carla is apprehended, it’s probably best if we don’t all stay in one place.”
When Taylor emerged from the examination room, Soldier motioned him over.
“Any news?” his brother asked.
Soldier nodded. “While you were in with Claire, I made some calls and got the results of a background check on Kristee Spangler. Turns out she has an outstanding warrant in Texas, under her real name.”
“What name?” Taylor asked.
“Kristine Lee Denato.”
“You are shitting me.”
“Nope. Carla’s little sister.”
Betsy’s cheeks turned pale as she absorbed the news. “Carla killed her own sister?”
“Not only that,” Soldier continued, “looks like the two of them did their parents by torching the house. The sisters have moved around some since then. There’s not a whole lot on Kristine, but we’ve got some very interesting items on Carla. Several outstanding warrants, too. She’s been a busy girl.”
“How busy?”
“Besides her parents, at least two possible homicides, maybe more. She goes into a town, gets a job, seems to settle down. Then she becomes obsessed with somebody and starts to stalk them. The people get wise, they get a court order against her, she either leaves the state or resorts to violence. She’s so arrogant, she doesn’t even bother to use an alias or try to get a false ID.”
Betsy covered her mouth with her fingertips. “I never would have suspected Carla of such . . . violence. Such anger. Hatred. She fooled me completely.”
She looked up at Soldier, her eyes clouded with bewilderment. “I trusted her. How can I ever trust anybody again? From now on, how will I be able to trust my own judgment to know who’s good and who’s bad? I thought she liked Ryan and Linda, but she killed them! I never even suspected she was capable of such . . .” She seemed to search for the right word. “Evil. She’s evil. I’ve never known anybody like her.” She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head.
“Anybody ever done a psych eval on her?” Taylor asked.
“Yeah, back in, let’s see . . .” Soldier took out his notebook and flipped some pages. “Yeah. Back in high school she was pulling some shit, so they set her up for a mandatory.”
“And the results were?”
“She’s fucking nuts, of course. Or do you want the clinical term?”
Taylor scoffed. “Nuts’ll do.”
“They tried to dry her out, but she bolted,” Soldier continued. “So. We’ve got a homicidal maniac who tries to kill—and sometimes succeeds in killing—anybody who thwarts her plans. She’s had it with her sister, so she offs her, too. She’s killed Linda Mattson and Ryan Finlay. She’s thoroughly pissed at Betsy, whom she blames for all her troubles. What in the hell is she going to do now?”
Chapter 22
Soldier stood at the living room window, hands on his hips, a scowl on his face. A day had passed and it was night again. A day and a night, and no Carla Denato.
He wanted to believe she’d moved on, but the hairs on the back of his neck were still standing at attention, warning him he couldn’t relax just yet.
Ryan Finlay’s funeral was tomorrow morning. If Denato was smart, she’d stay the hell away. But Carla Denato wasn’t smart, she was nuts, unpredictable, and an opportunist. Soldier knew he had to be ready for anything.
He tugged the curtain back into place across the window then closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on his thoughts, trying to find a way to sort them all out. This would all be over very soon and life would return to normal. He’d go home to Seattle, bury himself in work, and try like crazy to stop thinking about Betsy.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the doorjamb and sighed. He’d known her less than two weeks, but that had been enough for him to realize that she was the most real, down-to-earth, perfect life’s partner for him he could ever hope to find.
It wasn’t just the sex, either. Making love with Betsy was an explosive almost ethereal experience, the kind of intimacy he believed was the result of being with the right woman. Sex was sex, but making love with a woman who belonged with you on so many levels, that was special. Too special to let go.
Let Betsy go? Could he?
Okay. Let’s say I do let her go. And she meets some guy. And they hit it off and he asks her to mar—
No. No, no, no. No other man. He didn’t even want to think of Betsy sleeping with another man, living with him, bearing his children. No. That just didn’t work.
He felt his heart do a happy little flip as he began to absorb just what this meant. Yeah. Love. As hard as he’d tried to avoid it, he’d fallen ass end over teakettle in love with the prickly, witty, charming, totally delightful Ms. Tremaine.
And if the soft look she got in her eyes whenever he came near her was any indication, she’d fallen for him, too.
“S-Soldier?”
He shifted his stance to see Betsy’s father approaching him from the kitchen.
With a smile left over from his mini epiphany, Soldier said, “Douglas. What can I do for you?”
Douglas Tremaine shuffled over and sat in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. Soldier dropped into the other one.
Douglas was clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed. He wore a pair of jeans and a faded University of Washington sweatshirt. At nearly sixty, he was still a good-looking man. Soldier could see the resemblance to his daughter in the high cheekbones, the arch of a brow, the line of the jaw.
The older man’s gaze shifted from the hands he held in his lap up to Soldier, then down again.
“Is there something I can do for you, sir?” Soldier asked.
He nodded. “Betsy’s upstairs. I w-wanted to talk to you when, you know, when she couldn’t hear.”
Soldier leaned forward, making eye contact with him. “Okay.”
Douglas let out a long breath then returned Soldier’s steady gaze. “I’m Betsy’s father,” he began, sitting a little taller in the chair. Soldier waited a few seconds for the man to gather his thoughts and words. “I’m Betsy’s f-father,” he repeated, “so—so I needed to talk to you, you know, about your intentions.”
“My intentions?” Soldier said tonelessly. “Oh. My intentions.”
For a moment he was caught off guard. Did fathers do that anymore? he wondered, then swallowed a grin. Sure they did, when the father was the stalwart Douglas Tremaine and the daughter happened to be the tastiest morsel in town.
“Yes.” Douglas’s gray eyes narrowed. “Your intentions. Th-They are honorable, I trust?”
Honorable? Soldier had always thought himself an honorable sort; not perfect, but aware of his flaws and fairly willing to work on them. Well, to a certain point anyway.
“Mr. Tremaine,” he said, the unaccountable need for formality punctuating his discomfort. Why in the hell did he suddenly feel like some pimply-faced teenager, nervous and shy? Douglas Tremaine had to know that he and Betsy had been sleeping together, a fact that probably didn’t set all that well with the man.
For a split second Soldier saw himself somewhere down the line, oldish, grayish, pressing some hormonal son of a bitch about his intentions toward his own daughter. He bit down on a rueful smile.
He coughed. “Well, Betsy and I haven’t really discussed—”
“You know,” Douglas interrupted, “I haven’t been a very good fa-father.” His words were slow in coming, as though he had to pull them up from a long way away. “I haven’t really had much of a chance to be one, as you know. I w-want to fix that.” He looked beseechingly into Soldier’s eyes. “Fathers don’t ask much about intentions anymore.” He sighed. “I just w-want to make sure that she doesn’t get hurt. I hurt her plenty when they sent me away. I don’t want that to happen to h-her again.”
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