by K. A. Tucker
Oh God. And there goes my heart, pounding inside my chest again, with thoughts of where this night might lead. Where I want it to lead, if I’m being honest.
So much for taking things slow.
* * *
“What was this one for?” I tap the gold trophy closest to me.
“Regionals. I was ten.”
“And this one?” I eye the plaque next to it.
“I can’t remember. ‘Most improved player,’ I think?”
I let my gaze drift over the array of medals and trophies that line the metal shelf on the wall. A thin layer of dust coats everything. Someone kept them clean over the years. Just not in recent months.
I carefully lift one from 1999 and study it. “Is this the one you were holding in that picture?”
I sense Noah coming up behind me. “Yeah. That was my first trophy, ever.”
“It looked a lot bigger back then.”
“It’s the same size.” He reaches around to cup the small gold statuette within his large, strong hand, his fingers entwining with mine. “I just got a lot bigger.”
And I can feel his size, towering over me from behind, his body radiating heat.
My breathing grows ragged.
I clear the huskiness from my throat. “Where’s Cyclops?”
Noah settles the trophy back on the shelf and then wanders over to the doorway. He chuckles. “Looks like he’s ready for guard duty. He’s lying in front of the stairs. Probably the best place for him. He’ll warn us if anyone gets past the alarm again.” Shutting the door, he turns the lock.
Why am I suddenly so nervous? Why is the air in the room suddenly so dense?
“Is that loaded?” I nod toward the gun sitting on the nightstand, trying to distract myself, even as I steal glimpses of Noah—of his body clad in only a T-shirt and shorts; of his smooth stride as he walks toward the gun; of the muscles in his arms as they cord when he picks it up, to check it.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll leave it right here for the night, within easy reach for me.” He sets it down. “You know, once they’re done with your dad’s Colt, maybe they’d be willing to give it back to you.”
To me? “I’ve never fired a gun.” To be honest, the idea of them has always made me edgy.
His brow raises in curiosity as his gaze drifts over my bare legs. “You want to upgrade from the switchblade?”
I smirk. “Only if you teach me how to use it.”
“I’ll take you out to the range where my mother taught me,” he promises.
“Deal.” My heart stutters as I crawl into the double bed—too small for the two of us—and take my place on the far end near the wall.
With a flick of Noah’s wrist, the lamp is shut off, the room thrown into darkness save for the glimmer of streetlights from beyond the blinds. It’s just enough light for me to watch him reach over his head and yank off his T-shirt, then kick off his shorts. Exposing that hard body, molded by hours of effort, now covered in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs that sit dangerously low on his hips.
My shaky breath fills the quiet room as he settles in beside me, the bed sinking under his weight.
I’ve been with guys before, I remind myself.
And I’ve already seen Noah naked. Unintentionally, but all the same . . . And I slept against that chest—clothed—last night. And I climbed onto that lap, just this afternoon.
It’s as if he can read my mind. Stretching his arm across, he wordlessly beckons me to him, to take over the same position that I woke up to this morning. I happily slither into it, pushing aside the warning voices in the back of my mind. The ones that have lingered, a soft hiss in my conscience, reminding me of the possible pitfalls ahead, given our history.
“I doubt either of us is going to sleep much tonight,” he murmurs, drawing sloppy circles against my bare shoulder with one hand, while his other brushes my wild mane of hair back, tucking it under his chin. “I mean, because of paranoia.”
“Right. That’s why.” I note the growing ridge in the front of his briefs and chuckle.
Noah’s responding laugh vibrates deep within my chest.
And then suddenly he’s rolling me onto my back. Even in the dimness, I can see the brilliant blue of his eyes as he hovers over me, his hand sweeping away the stray curls from my face.
“No matter what happens, whatever we find out . . . we will always have each other, right?” he asks.
“No matter what.” Just the thought of not having Noah within reach tomorrow, next week, next year, causes an unbearable emptiness in my heart.
He’s changed my life.
And with that realization, all my reservations about letting this—us—happen melt away.
CHAPTER 45
Officer Abraham Wilkes
April 29, 2003
“Wilkes, I need a minute.” Mantis appears out of nowhere, marching toward my car.
“Sorry, don’t have one.” I need to change my parking spot, starting tomorrow.
I unlock my door, but Mantis blocks it with his stocky body before I’m able to yank it open.
“Make one.” There’s a sharpness in his tone that instantly puts me on high alert. “I want to make sure you’re clear that you were mistaken about what you think you saw the other night.”
“Was I?” A low, bitter chuckle sails from my lips.
Mantis’s eyes narrow. “Don’t be a fucking moron. This fight you’re picking isn’t worth it.”
“I’m not picking any fights.”
“Good, ’cause you won’t get anywhere with it.”
“Then why are you even here, Dwayne? You worried?” Everything about him—his stance, his expression, his voice—tells me why he’s here: to issue an ultimatum, a warning.
An unspoken threat.
He takes two steps back, scanning the parking lot. There’s no one within earshot, from what I can see. “I am worried. About you tanking your career for a lowlife drug dealer.”
“I’ll worry about my career. You worry about yours. Along with your freedom.” I climb into my car and crank my engine. I pull out, slowing just long enough to open my window and holler, “Oh, hey, Mantis, by the way . . . I have proof.”
I wish I could record the look on his face in my rearview mirror as I speed off.
CHAPTER 46
Noah
“Noah . . .” a female voice croons seductively.
“Noah . . .”
“Noah.” A hand paws my face, and I realize I’m not dreaming. Gracie’s calling my name.
“Yeah?” My voice carries with it a heavy morning scratch.
“Can you let Cyclops out? Please?” she mumbles into the pillow.
I frown, forcing my head to one side, to see him curled up by the door, fast asleep. I let him in around three a.m. while up to use the bathroom. He hasn’t moved from that spot. “He’s not asking.”
“He needs to go outside and kill all those damn birds.”
The bed shakes with my hearty laugh. I reach over to smooth my hand over her arm. “That’s what you woke me up for?”
“They’re torturing me. I’m so tired.” She hugs the sheets to her chest but they cascade down, over her hip, exposing her slender, naked back to me. That back that I admired last night, as she positioned herself on the bed before me, as I gripped her curvy hips tight within my hands.
However I imagined Gracie might feel—against her, inside her?
I was wrong.
She felt a thousand times better.
Just thinking about it now . . . I’m instantly hard.
I roll onto my side to fit snugly against her back, her bare skin silky and warm and so inviting. “You shouldn’t have stayed up so late, then.” I burrow my face into the back of her neck to kiss her, her wild, soft curls tickling my cheek. The smell of her skin is intoxicating to me.
“You wouldn’t stop bothering me.”
“Is that what you call it?” With a swift tug, I yank the sheet away from her tight grip, sliding it down to expose her. “Am
I bothering you now?”
“Very much. You’re a menace.”
Pushing against her shoulder gently until she rolls onto her back, toward me, I take in those beautiful breasts, visible in the morning light. “A menace?”
Her lips twitch as she hides her smile.
But she’s unable to stifle the soft gasp as I lean down to take a peaked nipple into my mouth. I grin as gooseflesh erupts over her skin.
The shrill sound of my phone ringing cuts into the moment. “I’m ignoring that.”
“It could be Kristian.”
“Then I’m definitely ignoring that.” Bastard probably knew what he was about to interrupt as he was dialing.
She climbs over me to check the screen on my phone. “It’s your uncle.”
“I’ll call him later.”
“It could be about my dad’s case.”
“I’ll call him back in ten.” I doubt I’ll need even half that long.
She grabs the phone and, hitting the answer button, shoves it against my ear.
His voice, full of energy, is too much for me this morning. “You’ve learned how to answer your phone again.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. I can’t even manage a “yes, sir.”
“No issues last night, I assume?”
“None.”
“Good. Canning wants you and Gracie to pay him a visit today.”
I’m instantly wary. “For what?”
“What do you mean, for what? To talk about Abe’s case.”
“I’m not sure if—”
“If Gracie wants any hope of bringing Mantis to justice, believe me, George is the best ally you could ask for. He’s expecting you for an early lunch. Eleven o’clock.”
I glance at the clock. “Where does he live again?”
“McDade. I’ll send you the address. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, sir.” I hang up with a groan.
“Where are we going?” Gracie asks, still draped over me, her green eyes flaring with excitement as she gazes down at me.
“Canning invited us out for lunch.” Invited may not be the right word. “He wants to talk about your dad’s case.”
Instant suspicion fills Gracie’s gaze. She hesitates. “Kristian thinks Canning might be involved in this cover-up.”
“Kristian thinks the stray cat six doors down might be involved,” I mutter, though I shouldn’t be surprised by the agent’s suspicion. I wondered the same thing. “When did he tell you that?”
“Last night.” Her fingertips skate over my chest, outlining my muscles. “I want to meet Canning. See what he has to say. Then I can decide for myself.”
“If Klein thinks Canning is involved, then we shouldn’t be going out there.”
“We have to. If we don’t, he’ll be suspicious. He can’t know that Kristian suspects him.”
I sigh. She’s right. Still, if that’s the case, then bringing Gracie out there to meet him is probably a bad idea. “He’s going to see through you in five seconds flat.”
“What are you implying?”
I give her a pointed look, only to earn a scathing glare in return. “Maybe you should call Klein, then, and let him know.” Let him tell her it’s a bad idea and earn her wrath.
“So he can tell us to not go?” She scoffs.
Exactly.
“So . . . when are we leaving?”
I sigh. “Within the hour.”
“I need to shower.” She peels herself off me. “Come on, get up.”
“I am up.” I chuckle.
Gracie peers over her shoulder at me, her intense gaze trailing the length of my body, studying me like a cat studies its prized mouse. She bites her bottom lip and I swell in response.
I don’t think she expects me to move as fast as I do, because she lets out a playful squeal as I reach for her, flipping her onto her back, and fit my body to settle between her thighs.
* * *
“How much does a police chief make, anyway?” Gracie mutters, staring up at the impressive gateway that we pass underneath; stone pillars hold up an ironwork archway with a metal sign that reads “Three Lakes Ranch.”
“Not this much.” We coast up the winding path, in awe of the sprawling two-story rectangular house ahead of us, an inviting row of blue rocking chairs set out on the porch to overlook the lake in front. Beyond the house and to the left is a barn designed to match the house. Horses graze off to the side.
“Do you trust Canning?”
“I don’t know if I trust anyone, anymore,” I admit. “Except you.”
I feel her eyes on my profile and it instantly brings me back to this morning, to her body pressed against me, her heart pounding in her chest, her breathing fast and heavy. Her skin slick in all the right places.
Not the time to be thinking about that.
I throw my Cherokee in park. “Remember, Gracie . . .”
She rolls her eyes. “Do you honestly think he doesn’t already know that the FBI suspects him?”
“Maybe he does. But if he doesn’t, he’s not going to find out from us.” I climb out of the driver’s seat.
Two sheepdogs come galloping around the house, and a moment later, the screen door creaks open and George Canning steps out, smoothing his button-down shirt over a round, hard belly. The loud thwack it makes when it releases to slam shut echoes, earning a few horse neighs from nearby.
“He looks so . . . harmless.” Gracie eyes him as we meet around the front of the truck, a potted plant for Dolores within her grasp.
Canning eases down the front stairs and makes his way toward us at a leisurely pace, but I sense the extra time isn’t so much on account of his slowness with age as it is his chance to do some assessing of his own, his shrewd, calculating gaze never leaving us. “I’m so glad you came!” He sticks a hand out.
“Thank you for the invitation, sir.”
“And this lovely young lady must be Grace Wilkes. Wait, it’s something else now?”
“Richards.”
“Right.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile. “My, you’ve grown up! You look like the perfect mix of your parents, don’t you?”
“I guess?” Gracie says in an even voice.
“Why of course you do! I remember your mother, at the funeral. Pretty little thing.” His brow tightens. “Silas told me about her affliction. I hope she’s finally on the mend.”
Affliction. That’s a polite term for it.
Gracie offers a tight smile. “We have a long road ahead, but she’s doing better.”
I slip my hand over Gracie’s back, a gesture of comfort.
The move doesn’t go unnoticed by Canning’s ever-watchful eyes.
“So, how are you likin’ Austin, Grace?”
“It’s been . . . eventful so far.”
He chuckles. “I’ll bet. And you.” He turns to me. “Sounds like you’ve been doing a bit of drivin’.”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes flash to Gracie, and then back to me, a knowing twinkle in them. “Come on. Dolores has been busy in the kitchen all mornin’.”
“We hope she didn’t go to any trouble on our account.”
He waves it off. “Heavens no, son! No trouble at all. Dolores lives for feedin’ folk until their bellies are ready to explode. I’m living proof.” He pats his round belly.
We trail him along the stone walkway that wraps around the house, Gracie walking so close to me that her arm nudges my side with almost every step. “You have a beautiful home,” she finally offers, her overly polite voice sounding so foreign that I can’t help but grin at her.
I get an elbow to the ribs in return.
Canning chuckles in that easy way of his. “Oh, this is my wife’s house. I just take up space here.”
We round the corner to the back, where three young children clamber over a play set.
“Hope y’all don’t mind the noise, but we’re watching the young’ns. My sons and their wives are down in Louisiana with our thoroughbreds. They l
ive just over there.” George waves a hand toward what I assume is his property—rolling hills and trees as far as the eye can see, along with two imposing houses, one to the far left, the other to the far right.
“You have a lot of land,” Gracie notes.
He leads us to a covered seating area with plush wicker furniture. “Yes, ma’am. It’s been in Dolores’s family for generations. We had a house in Austin for some years, ’til it was time to move out here full-time. Her great-granddaddy was big into racin’. Her daddy was hopin’ I’d follow suit, and I might have, had the city stopped beggin’ me to stay on. My sons, though, they got the racin’ gene in their blood, so they run the show. I’m here for the pretty view.”
The back porch door creaks. “George! Why didn’t you tell me they were here!” Dolores—who looks every bit the well-bred Southern woman, right down to the paisley apron that covers her white silk blouse and creamy pleated pants—strolls through the sliding door carrying a silver tray. “Noah! It’s so nice to see you again. And so soon!”
“Good day, ma’am.” I push the chairs aside to make room for her to set the tray down. It holds a pitcher of sweet tea and three already-filled glasses, along with a small basket covered in a tea towel. “We brought you pansies. Thought you might like them for your windowsill.”
“Well, how thoughtful of you. That Jackie sure did raise you right.”
I gesture toward Gracie to make introductions.
“It’s so nice to meet you. Why, aren’t you just the most stunning little thing!”
I brace myself for Gracie’s coarse response to being called a “little thing.”
“Likewise, ma’am.” The genuine smile plastered across Gracie’s mesmerizing face has me breathing a sigh of relief.
“Call me Dolores. Welcome to our home. I was bakin’ biscuits for the children, so they’re just hot from the oven.” She pulls the tea towel off the bowl to reveal the golden, round treats. Canning reaches for one and she promptly smacks his hand away. “George Archibald Canning! Now you heard what the doctor said about your diet!”
“I heard it. I just wasn’t payin’ no heed to it,” he grumbles, leaning back into his chair, looking properly chastised.
