She moaned, and her body became soft and pliable. So he continued to kiss her there while he slid his hand between her legs and touched her.
Her heartbeat and pulse were pounding, and he could feel it everywhere. Through both of them. His heart took on the rhythm of hers. The same cadence, The same intensity.
The same need.
"Sloan." She said his name like a plea.
Carley leaned the back of her head against the wall, pressing against him as he pressed against her. Soon, however, the slow, soft touching and the kissing weren't enough. Not nearly enough. Sloan leaned slightly away from her and managed to put on the condom.
"Sloan," she repeated.
He didn't make them wait any longer. He entered her slowly. Carefully. Savoring every inch of her as she was obviously savoring him.
The rhythm they found was as old as time. Stroke after stroke. Until the pace built. Until it was frantic. Until they were frantic.
Until the pleasure was unbearable.
"Sloan," she begged.
He understood what she wanted. What she needed. He pushed, hard, inside her. One last time. And he felt her body close around him. Carley didn't go alone.
She took him with her while she whispered his name.
* * *
SATIATED AND EXHAUSTED, Carley went limp and together they slid to the floor. For several minutes she was so immersed in the aftermath of pleasure that it wasn't a bad position to be in—with Sloan still holding her close to him. With his groin still against her. But soon, too soon, the hard tile seemed to get cooler with each passing second.
Sloan must have sensed her discomfort—and her inability to move—because he slid beside her so that she could put her head on his shoulder.
He was slightly damp with sweat and smelled like sex. And his strong arms were warm and inviting. All in all, it was a good way to recover from what had just happened.
Of course, Carley couldn't leave that thought alone. It led to another.
What had just happened?
Obviously sex had happened.
But was that all?
She frowned, disgusted with herself that while she was still getting some orgasmic aftershocks, she was already trying to analyze their relationship. Or lack thereof. Because she had to accept that this might be nothing more than adrenaline sex.
Her frown deepened.
Sloan glanced down at her. "You're not having second thoughts?"
"No." But she had no idea if that was true or not.
"Then what's wrong?"
Carley looked up at him. "I was afraid you'd be this good."
His forehead bunched up. "Afraid?"
"You're a benchmark, Sloan." She paused when he shook his head. She didn't want to know what that head shake meant. No. She couldn't risk that now. In addition to feeling gloriously satisfied, she also felt ungloriously vulnerable.
It was best to go with something that wouldn't come back to haunt her later.
"I won't ever forget this," she said. Sheez. It sounded really stupid.
"I would hope not."
Now that sounded, well, promising. As if he were about to add something like he wouldn't forget it either. Or, better yet, he was very interested in repeating the experience. And more. That this had been some kind of earth-moving revelation for him.
It certainly had been for her.
She frowned again. Obviously sex with Sloan had given her quite an imagination.
"I have my own theory about what creates good sex," Sloan said. He leaned in and kissed her. "It has to do with the people involved."
He didn't elaborate because a ringing sound echoed through the bathroom. Cursing and groaning, he reluctantly pulled away from her and located his discarded jeans. Carley sat back and enjoyed the view of a buck-naked Sloan locating his phone.
"Sgt. McKinney," Sloan snarled when he found it and answered the call.
Hating that they couldn't continue their conversation or attempt another round of lovemaking, Carley got up to dress. Probably because that call would involve work. Or even a visitor. She hoped it wasn't Zane. After glancing in the mirror, she knew there was no way she could completely erase that I-just-had-sex glow on her face.
She listened to Sloan's responses but couldn't figure out the caller. She couldn't tell, but she could determine other things. For one, it was something important, because Sloan put on his clothes as he talked.
Carley was completely dressed by the time he finished the call. "What happened?" she wanted to know.
"A lot, apparently. Until he can arrange for a safe house, Zane wants us to move to the police station. He's having cots delivered and he's beefing up the locks. That's where he wants us to spend the night—in the interrogation room."
"Why?" Carley asked.
"For one, he wants me to go through some old files that are stored in the basement."
"The ones that pertain to Lou Ann's murder?" Carley remembered discussing those with Zane not long after Zane had arrived in town.
Sloan nodded. "He thinks we've all missed something in those files. And Zane also wants us there because he just did a walk-through of the inn and decided it's the least secure building in the entire town. It's just not a good idea for us to stay here."
She couldn't argue with that, and while the killer—or at least someone—had attempted to break into the police station, he or she hadn't been able to gain access. Added to that, the interrogation room had no windows, so they couldn't be ambushed.
Carley stood there while Sloan gathered his gear. She waited for him to add something to their post-coital conversation. Not shop talk but personal talk.
He didn't.
She could tell from his stony expression that further conversation would have to wait. Carley only hoped that when they talked, she wouldn't blurt out that as much as she would have liked, this wasn't just sex for her.
She was falling hard for Sloan.
And her prediction?
The fall would be very painful.
Because once the case was solved, Sloan would leave town. And he'd also leave her with a broken heart.
Chapter Sixteen
"You should get some sleep," Sloan told Carley. He tipped his head to the green Army surplus cot that the deputy had delivered an hour earlier.
"Ditto," Carley answered, tipping her head to the matching cot on the other side of the room.
The deputy had obviously believed that Carley and he would want space—and lots of it—between them during the night.
Right.
Sloan had already violated that space and then some by making love to her in the bathroom of her apartment. He didn't regret it. No way. But he did regret that here he was thinking about doing it again and again. That was a dangerous path to take because every thought that he didn't devote solely to the killer could mean a delay in catching the bastard.
Carley returned her attention to the open manila folder on the table in front of her. Sloan didn't doubt that she was studying it with a lawman's eye. Heck, she even looked focused. Which was good. Very good. Talking about what'd happened between them wouldn't do a thing to make sure Carley was safe.
And that had to be Sloan's focus, too.
His obsession, if necessary.
The one thing he trusted was his ability as a Ranger. He was damn good at what he did—and he'd never needed that ability as much as he did now.
"Is there anything in that file?" Sloan asked. He grabbed one of the folders they'd retrieved from the basement, opened it and dropped down in the seat at the end of the table.
"Not so far. It's the interview that was done with Rosa Ramirez the night of Lou Ann's murder. Nothing jumps out at me so far. I'll keep reading."
Sloan scanned through his own file. It contained interviews of three of Leland's household staff. He'd already read through them once. So had Zane. So had Carley. So had countless other lawmen who'd tried to solve the sixteen-year-old murder. But Sloan tried again.
He
failed almost immediately.
Huffing, he forced himself to reread the transcript of the recorded interview between the sheriff and Jennie Taylor, a maid who'd worked at Leland Hendricks's house. Judging from the woman's one-word responses, she hadn't been very cooperative.
"You seem, uh, restless," Carley said, not taking her eyes from the file.
"Angry," he corrected.
That caused her to lift her head and look in his direction. "About what?"
Their gazes met. Something unspoken passed between them. Carley wanted reassurance about the sex. Sloan could tell from her expression. But he couldn't give her that. The only thing he could do right now was the job.
And the job was Carley.
"Well?" she prompted.
"I'm angry about not being able to solve this case," he explained, knowing that wasn't what she wanted to hear and also knowing it wasn't what he wanted to say. "All we need is a break. One clue. If we get that, we can catch this killer."
She looked disappointed. For a moment. But she covered it by studying the notes again. "Maybe Zane will find gunshot residue on Leland or Donna's hands." She paused. "I know you barely got a glimpse of him, but was Leland wearing gloves when he was supposedly hiding behind my car?"
Sloan shook his head. "I couldn't tell. But he didn't have gloves or a gun by the time Zane and the deputies arrived on the scene."
"That's right, he didn't. When we raced into the inn, we lost sight of Leland," Carley continued. "He could have ditched both gloves and gun in the woods. Or my car."
"If he did, we'll find them." Sloan checked his watch. It was still hours until daylight, but as soon as the sun came up, Zane would have a team out there, searching.
"Zane should probably question your mother, too," Carley added, her voice tentative.
Yes, because she'd visited them only minutes before the attack. She might have seen something. Sloan silently cursed. This was something he should have thought of sooner. It just proved how splintered his focus was right now.
"I was going to re-interview Stella about the night Lou Ann was killed, but Zane will automatically check our father's alibi," Sloan commented, thinking out loud.
If his father had an alibi, that is.
"I'm sure he will. But I think we need to concentrate on Leland and Donna. I don't see your father doing this," he heard Carley say. "He wouldn't shoot at you."
That was true. For all his father's faults, Sloan didn't think he'd attempt to kill his own son.
Of course, one could argue that those shots had not been aimed at him.
But at Carley.
Just the thought of that sent his blood raging again, and Sloan made a mental note to make sure his father did indeed have a legitimate alibi for the time of the shooting.
"What's that sound?" Carley asked.
Sloan pulled himself out of his thoughts and listened. It was faint, barely audible, but he heard it.
"It's like steam coming through a pipe," she added, getting to her feet.
It was, but Sloan knew in his gut that steam wasn't the cause. He hooked his arm around Carley and dragged her to the floor. It wasn't a second too soon.
The explosion tore though the building.
* * *
THE SOUND WAS DEAFENING, and the debris seemed to spew from every direction.
Something slammed into Carley's back. Hard. It knocked the breath from her and left her helpless, fighting for air.
Fighting for her life.
The room—or, rather, what was left of it—was suddenly dark. The explosion had no doubt caused them to lose power. Worse, the place was instantly filled with the scorched smell of smoke and dust particles.
Sloan turned and crawled over her, probably so he could shelter her with his body. Still, the debris pelted her legs and her head. She felt the sting of the cuts on her skin, but there was nothing she could do about it. Carley could only pray that Sloan wasn't being injured through all of this.
And that made her wonder—exactly what was this?
Obviously there'd been an explosion. But why? And who'd caused it?
The first thought that came to mind wasn't a good one. Had someone done this on purpose? It could be an accident, of course, but with the other things that'd been happening to Sloan and her, that didn't seem likely.
"Are you okay?" Sloan asked.
Carley tried to do an inventory. She had some minor injuries, no doubt about that, but she didn't feel as though anything had broken. "How about you?"
"I'll live. We have to get out of here," Sloan insisted. "The place is on fire."
"No one else is in the building, right?"
Sloan verified. "Right." And that was the only good thing about their situation.
He moved off her, and Carley rolled to the side. Well, she rolled as much as she could considering the entire floor was covered with rubble. A good chunk of the ceiling had also broken loose and was literally dangling over them.
Sloan reacted fast. He caught onto her, rolling them over the debris just as the ceiling came crashing down.
More dust. It was smothering. As was the smoke. Carley batted it away with her hand and spotted the orange-red flames eating their way through the interior wall. Sloan was right. They had to get out of there.
But how?
Sloan got to his feet, dragging her with him. Carley frantically looked around for an escape route. She forced herself to remain calm. She couldn't panic.
"We can't get out through the hall," Sloan informed her.
Carley soon saw why. The hall was already engulfed in flames and thick black smoke that was snaking straight toward them.
The room had no windows. Ironically that was the reason they'd chosen it—so the would-be killer couldn't gun them down while they were working. But the killer had obviously found a different way to get rid of them.
"We're not going to die," Sloan snarled.
Carley wanted to agree with that, but it wasn't looking good. Her body reacted to that, too. Her heart was racing and her breath was much too fast and thin.
"We'll take off our shirts," he instructed. "We can put them over our faces while we make a run for it."
It wasn't a good plan, and judging from the anxiousness in Sloan's voice, he knew that. They'd be burned alive if they went into the hall.
Of course, the same would happen if they stayed put.
She coughed when a gust of smoke washed over her and she batted away the smoke and the heat so she could see. Her gaze landed on the far wall.
"There was once a window there," Carley said, pointing to it.
Sloan didn't waste even a second. He picked up a chair. The drywall was already battered and bashed, thanks to the explosion, so it didn't take much effort for him to start tearing his way through it.
Carley grabbed the first thing she could find—a piece of the door—and she began to ram it into the wall. With them working together, the remainder of the drywall gave way. Behind it was the window, covered by a shutter.
The smoke became thicker, and Carley could feel the heat of the fire pressing against their backs. She risked looking over her shoulder and didn't like what she saw. The flames were not only higher, they were closing in on them.
Sloan struggled to open the window.
It was stuck.
Stuck!
Carley cursed and bashed it with the door piece. Anger flared through her, and it was as hot and lethal as the fire. She would not die here. Nor would Sloan. Somehow they would make it out alive so they could catch the person responsible for this.
Probably because there wasn't enough room and because he was stronger, Sloan pushed her aside and rammed the chair through what was left of the glass panes. He didn't stop there. He punched and clawed his way through the window frame and to the shutter.
Carley could feel her heart in her throat. Every inch of her was pulsing with adrenaline and tension. She prayed that someone had heard the explosion and called the fire department. Hopefully some
one was already on the way.
But they had to do something in the meantime.
She pulled in a breath, but it was filled with smoke. Her lungs were on fire. Starved for air. Because she wasn't sure how much longer she could last, she bashed her hands against the shutters.
The wooden shutters finally caved in.
As did the wall behind them.
Sparks, embers and more smoke spewed right at them.
Sloan latched on to her arm and practically shoved her through the opening. Carley gladly went through and took a much-needed breath of air, but not before she reached for Sloan and helped him through.
"We can't stay by the building," he managed to say, though he was coughing. "The whole place is about to come down."
He was right, but it took Carley a moment to get her legs to cooperate. Sloan helped. He took her by the wrist, and they started to run toward the clearing that fronted the woods.
Carley ignored the stabbing pain in her side. She ignored her breath-starved body. And she ran as if her life depended on it.
Because it did.
She heard the groaning sound behind her. Not human. It was the sound of the police station succumbing to the fire.
Sloan stopped and pulled her to him. Probably to shelter her from the flying sparks and debris. She could feel his heart pounding as hard as hers.
"This wasn't an accident," she said.
"No." He took in several deep breaths. "We have to find a phone and make sure someone's called the fire department."
Sloan turned to take them in the direction of the inn, but then he stopped.
"What's wrong?" Carley asked.
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. She followed his gaze. His eyes were focused on the woods.
Carley must have seen the movement at the same time Sloan did because together they dropped to the ground.
As the bullet came right over their heads.
Chapter Seventeen
It was too risky to pull Carley to the ground and hunker down. The fire from the explosion was about to bring the building down around them. They also couldn't just stay put. So Sloan took out his gun and shoved Carley into the woods that butted up against the police station. Carley followed suit and drew her own weapon.
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