Gone in the Night

by Anna J. Stewart

  “There isn’t anything I can do for your brother, Max. And from a purely selfish perspective, you were as much a distraction for me as Napa was for you. I needed something to focus on to keep me centered.”

  “Always the analysis with you docs.”

  “Why do you hate us so much? Doctors?”

  “Hate’s a strong word,” Max argued. “Where you’re concerned, anyway.” He could definitely think of a few other words that described his feelings for the doctor. “My issues are my issues, Allie. They don’t involve you.”

  “Maybe I want them to involve me.” She stretched out her arm and touched his shoulder. “You know what I hate? I hate seeing people I care about in pain. And it’s written all over your face, Max. Or should I call you...” She squinted, leaned closer. “Smokey? Sparkles? No, that sounds more like a unicorn. How about Captain Fireball?”

  How had she made him smile when it was the last thing he wanted to do? “Not even close, Doc. My turn.” He lifted his hand and slipped his fingers between hers, reveling in the sensation of her skin touching his. “From a purely analytical and statistical perspective, what’s a more effective tonic for sleep? Hot milk, Scotch or sex?”

  “From a medical standpoint?” Her face barely flickered except for a spark in her eyes, bright enough, quick enough, for him to think he’d imagined it. “Chemical reactions in the lactose that take place during the warming process have been proven to—”

  He arched a brow, folded his fingers around hers. She returned the favor as she unfolded herself out of the corner.

  “Scotch, of course, would come in right behind it, as long as one drinks enough to make passing out a viable option.”

  His stomach muscles clenched as exhaustion faded. “And option three?”

  “I believe that would require some experimentation to prove the theory.” She closed the distance between them, pulled her hand free and straddled him, her knees pressing into his hips. “You know what other theory might be worth exploring?”

  “What’s that?” He bypassed her hands, smoothed his own down her sides, over her hips as he went rock hard.

  “The theory that animosity between potential partners makes for invigorating copulation.”

  “Mmm.” He gripped her hips and smiled up at her. “Talk dirty to me, Doc. Who knew medical lingo would turn me on?”

  She smiled and then gasped as he shifted. She caught her lower lip in her teeth and let out the sexiest moan he thought he’d ever heard.

  Now she moved, slightly, just enough to make him wish she’d stop. Or not stop. Allie leaned over him, grasping his shoulders before slipping her hands up along his neck, cupping either side of his face. “There’s also evidence that the endorphins produced by rigorous sexual activity stimulate brain waves and thought processes.”

  “It certainly stimulates something.” He arched off the sofa, ran his hands up her spine so he could draw her to him. He wanted to, needed to kiss her. To find out for certain if the explosions she’d set off inside of him on the side of the road had been a fluke or if there was something more.

  As if reading his mind, she brushed her lips against his. Eyes wide open, she stared into his, her knees tightening around him, her hips pulsing against him. She stroked her fingers over his mouth, licked her lips and then, as if answering his every desire, she kissed him.

  The urgent demand of her mouth emptied his mind. Her tongue invaded, dueled, stroked and threatened to drive him out of his senses as he met her, action for action. Max slipped his hands up under her shirt. The bare skin of her back felt electric under his fingers. She curved around him, rocked against him, as she took and gave in equal measure.

  He pushed her shirt up, drew his hands around to cup her breasts. She tore her mouth free and leaned back as he tweaked her nipples with his rough, calloused hands.

  “Max,” she gasped as he let go but then pressed her onto her back on the sofa. She curled her legs around him, locked him against her as he bent his head to feast on her breasts.

  A faint jingling echoed in his mind. An odd tone, one he remembered hearing before, but not one loud enough to break through the Allie-induced fog in his brain.

  She went stiff in his arms, and not, Max realized, in a good way. “That’s my phone.” She planted her hands on his shoulders and shoved him aside. “I’m sorry, I have to...it could be about Hope.”

  He sat up like a shot as she rolled off the sofa. She tugged her shirt down and covered herself as she wobbled into the kitchen. Part of him took pride in her semi-intoxicated stumble out of the room. Only when he heard her strained voice on the phone did he come crashing down to reality.

  No, no, no...

  He scrubbed his hands down his face as he tried to get control of his breathing. What was he doing? Getting hot and heavy with Dr. Allie Hollister when his niece was out there all alone, probably terrified. Wondering if she’d ever see her family, her home, again? He swore. What kind of man did that?

  Max got to his feet and made his own unsteady way to the kitchen where he found Allie sitting at the breakfast bar, scribbling on a notepad. “No, Eamon, it’s fine. I was still awake. I’m glad you called.” She turned hooded eyes on Max and bit her lip. “Yeah, the press conference is scheduled for ten a.m. We’ll see you there?”

  To distract himself—in a way that didn’t include divesting Allie from her clothes—Max went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, a close-enough choice to option number two when it came to knocking himself out for the rest of the night. “Is Eamon coming tomorrow?” he asked her when she hung up.

  “No.” Allie shook her head. “He hates press conferences more than the rest of us put together. He’s going to go back up to the Vandermonts’ place, talk to the girls again.”

  “Was that why he called?” That pang of jealousy that struck him when he’d first seen Allie and the FBI agent greet each other hit again.

  “No. They found two sets of prints on one of the perfume bottles from Hope’s bedroom. Hope’s, of course. And Chloe’s.”

  “Chloe’s?” That was the last name he expected to hear. “They’re sure?”

  “They ran them twice to be sure. I swear the deeper into this we get, the less anything makes sense.” She rubbed her face as if to erase the exhaustion he saw there, but it didn’t help. Allie looked positively drained.

  “Did Eamon have any other information?”

  “No. He’s going to wait at the lab to see if anything turns up on the envelope Cole brought him. He just wanted to give me an update before he headed to his hotel,” she added.

  “Sure.” He tried to shrug it off. “Makes sense.”

  Allie’s cheeks went pink after she looked at him. “About before—”

  “I’m sorry,” Max cut her off. The last thing he wanted to talk about was how wildly inappropriate and callous his actions had been. “I was out of line. Not thinking straight. Cloudy. It won’t happen again.”

  “Oh.”

  Her disappointment crashed through him and nearly finished him off.

  “Okay.” She nodded, as if trying to convince herself. “You’re probably right. Heat of the moment and all.”

  “I can’t let myself think about anything other than Hope right now.” Why did he feel the need to explain, to ease what she was clearly seeing as a rejection? “She’s all that matters, Allie. Maybe, once this is all over, if—”

  “I understand, Max.” She drew herself up and, he noticed, curled her arms around her torso as if locking herself off. “You’re absolutely right. Hope has to be our main focus. We can’t afford to let ourselves get caught up in something...else.”

  So other distractions were acceptable not just...the something else. He nodded, drank half his beer. “I’m going to bed.” Although the idea of that cold, lonely guest room held little appeal. “You good?”


  “Mmm-hmm.” She nodded with a tight smile. “Perfectly fine. I’m heading upstairs myself so, um, good night.” Allie moved toward him, stopped as if she thought better of it and gave him a cursory wave. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She flipped off the light as she left and plunged him into the dark, the dim table lamp in the guest room his only guide. But what he saw on her face the instant before she disappeared had him wishing that something—everything—was different.

  * * *

  “Way to go, Allie.” Allie slipped into bed and clicked off the bedside lamp. Sitting back against the pillows, she shut her eyes briefly and tried to push the impatience and frustration away. “Nothing like trying to seduce a traumatized family member to cement your reputation as a therapist.” What was wrong with her? She’d never lost her objectivity like this before. Then again, she’d never met anyone like Max Kellan before.

  She took a deep breath and then another. She’d been thinking he seemed lost sitting there on her sofa, defeat and doubt replacing the barely there optimism that had brought her comfort most of the day. No one had ever looked at her the way Max Kellan did; or if they had, she’d certainly never felt the overwhelming urge to do something about it.

  Allie flexed her fingers, repeating the ghostly memory of sinking her hands into that glorious thick hair of his, the feel of his mouth under hers, his hands roaming her bare skin as his slightest touch set off tiny explosions of desire inside her.

  She shook her head as if she could dislodge the thought and curled up onto her side to stare out at the dim streetlamp. He was absolutely right. They had to focus on finding his niece and making sure her abductor—and Chloe’s killer—was locked away for good. Whatever either of them might want shouldn’t matter, couldn’t matter.

  Except it did.

  She flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. It was physical, she told herself. That’s all it was between her and Max. He was everything she never thought she could have, all those teenage daydreams and fantasies come to life. Sex had never been high up on her priority list and now she knew why.

  No man had ever made her feel as wanted, as desired as Max Kellan had. The feminine power within her had exploded, maybe for the first time in her life. She wanted him.

  But, as Allie knew, you don’t always get what you want.

  Chapter 12

  “Hey, Max.”

  Max started when a foot kicked his. He sat up in his chair, blinked himself into consciousness and gazed uncertainly at the steaming paper cup of what he hoped was very strong coffee.

  “It’s almost showtime.” Detective Jack MacTavish jerked his head toward the window of the second-floor office in the courthouse that had been turned into command central for the press conference. “You good?”

  “Yeah, good.” He accepted the coffee even as he longed to escape into the fitful twenty minutes of sleep he’d managed to catch. Twenty minutes on top of the unexpected five hours last night. Most sleep he’d had in months. “Thanks.” Afraid he’d drop back off if he didn’t move, he got up and searched for the least invasive path to the window and tried to stay out of the way.

  The conversation that filled the room was subdued and intense. The constant clicking of keyboard keys, the murmured orders and comments bouncing across the conference room table were muted, but Max could see all these people doing whatever they needed to do to bring his niece home, and it helped to slow to a thin trickle the mounting doubt he’d been struggling to keep on top of. Max pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt as if he’d been caught on a hamster wheel and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t jump off.

  The half-dozen techs ranging in age, sex and size had gobbled up nearly every inch of space in the room, buzzing like a beehive, humming in cooperation and understanding. Between the laptops, surveillance equipment and electronic devices, he felt as if he’d stepped into a briefing room at the CIA. “Everything set for the press conference?” Max asked the detective before he drank. “Okay, that’s awful.” He shook his head as if he could dislodge the taste from his mouth.

  “Mmm. Drink more than a cup and you won’t blink for a week.” Jack nodded and took a solid stance by one of the three windows. Video cameras had been set up in each one, their narrow lenses barely peeking through the slats, each aimed in a different direction toward where the anticipated crowd would gather outside. “We’ve got two vans set up on either end of the block monitoring anyone coming and going. These guys will be running a new facial recognition program on the onlookers who stick around. We’ve got eyes and ears on all involved, including Allie and Simone, not that I think this guy would be brazen enough to try something with news cameras filming.”

  “If he even shows.” Max wasn’t entirely convinced this was the best course of action, but if it had even the slightest chance of working, there wasn’t a choice, was there?

  “The DA and my lieutenant have been promoting this event since last night. They even got the mayor to say something in his morning briefing,” Jack said. “Your brother made sure to include it on his social media and that’s been picked up by national news sources.”

  “Great. More press.”

  “Could be great, actually. Or not.” Jack pinned him with that practical, no-nonsense, straight-shooter expression. “More attention could drive this guy deeper into hiding or it could shine a light on wherever he’s hiding.”

  “And all we’re gambling with is my niece’s life,” Max grumbled.

  “I guess it seems that way.” Jack took a long sip. “Allie wouldn’t have suggested this course of action if she didn’t believe it had a shot of drawing him out.”

  Wouldn’t she? “Tell me something.” He figured Jack was a safe and objective person to ask. “What’s foremost in Allie’s mind and her friends’ at the moment? Finding my niece or finding whoever killed Chloe Evans?”

  “You make it sound as if the two are mutually exclusive.” The sharp female voice had Max looking to the door as Eden St. Claire entered. “Come and get ’em, guys.” She set stacked trays filled with oversize paper cups on the table, pulled two free and made a mad dash around the stampede of officers diving for digestible coffee. “Figured you could use something drinkable, too, Max. Ah! Not there.” Eden kicked out a foot to stop Max from setting his cup of swill on the closest desk. “Trust me. No liquids near the computer equipment. Right, Officer Castillo?” Eden blinked too-innocent eyes at the young female officer nearby.

  “I’ll take a cup of coffee near my system over you any day, Eden.” Was that a smile on her face or a grimace? The way she said it, combined with the snort that emanated from Jack, told Max there was a story behind the exchange.

  “Don’t suppose you brought us any food?” Jack asked as he dumped his coffee into a sad, sagging potted plant in the corner.

  “Coffee now. Food later.” She beat her way through the crowd to grab the last cup. “How’s our team looking?”

  “I’m about to go check,” Jack said. “Simone seems fine. Allie, I’m not so sure. Ten minutes and counting. You waiting up here?”

  “I have no interest in becoming part of the story until absolutely necessary.” Eden sipped and cringed. Max felt safe in assuming the expression on her face had nothing to do with the exceptional caffeinated liquid. “My former colleagues aren’t high up on my Christmas list,” she explained to Max. “Especially that one.” She stabbed a finger through the slats at the crowd of reporters and interested onlookers gathering in the courtyard beneath oddly gnarled, leafless trees. “The sallow, scrawny, gerbil-looking guy next to that woman in the baseball cap?”

  Max inclined his head, appreciating her way with words. “Gray suit? Squinty eyes?”

  “Benedict Russell. That charmer was after my job for most of the time I worked at the Sacramento Journal and, wouldn’t you know it, I ended up
giving him one of the best stories of his career.” She aimed a tight smile in Max’s direction. “Karma works both ways. You hanging in there? How’s your brother doing?”

  “Not great.” Max hadn’t liked the defeat he’d heard in his brother’s voice this morning. If the information Max gave him about his faith in Allie and her friends eased Joe’s mind, Max hadn’t been able to tell. “He seems torn between staying hopeful and preparing himself for the worst.” Just like Max.

  “There’s no right way to deal with a missing child,” Eden said in that clipped, matter-of-fact way she had. “But now isn’t the time to lose faith in people. Allie knows what she’s doing,” she added as if Max needed clarification about whom she was talking about.

  “Because you’re so objective when it comes to your friends.”

  He got a smile out of her—a genuine one this time. “I like you, Max. For the most part, at least. I can work with that.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “You should be. I don’t like a lot of people.” She tugged the hem of her faded rock T-shirt over the waistband of her jeans. “And a lot of people don’t like me.”

  “I’m sure they have their reasons,” Max countered. “Whether they’re good or not—”

  “The reason I bring it up,” Eden continued as if he hadn’t interrupted, “is so that I can tell you that Allie’s different. She honestly cares about everyone she meets. She just doesn’t show it. She can’t. That shield she wears is the only thing that helps her function.”

  Max nodded. He did know. Not only because Allie had admitted as much last night, but because he’d been doing something similar for most of his life.

  “That emotional-distance thing she’s supposed to have when it comes to her patients?” Eden went on. “Yeah. She’s flirted with that line since she was a grad student working with vets and troubled youth. Has she told you anything about her family?”

  “A little. She told me her parents took in foster kids, a lot of them.”

  Eden smirked. “Mistress of understatement, that’s Allie. Intentional or not, Sitara and Giles Hollister did a real number on her. If I didn’t know firsthand the damage they’d done, I’d be inclined to think they were saints based on how they’ve cared for other people’s children. Their own?” Eden shrugged. “Not so much.”