Explosive Attraction

by LENA DIAZ,

  “That name sounds familiar.”

  “It should. He was a defendant in one of your cases.”

  “Let me guess. You testified in his defense.”

  “Actually, no. It looks like I testified for the prosecution. I guess that disproves your theory that I always testify on the wrong side.”

  “I didn’t say you always were on the wrong side, just usually.” He added a smile, as if to take away the sting of his words. “What was the date of the trial?”

  “About five years ago.” She rattled off the exact date.

  He pulled his computer in front of him and brought up one of the police databases.

  His fingers flew across the keys, typing criteria into the search engine. He punched Enter and sat back to wait. It only took a few seconds for the result to fill the screen, a detailed report from the case file.

  He whistled long and low. “Fullerton did a stint in the army as an EOD specialist.”

  “EOD?”

  “Explosive ordnance disposal, the military equivalent of a bomb technician.” He read a few more lines. “This may be it. You and McHenry both worked on the prosecution side. Jake made the original arrest, and I helped him build the case. You, Jake and I all testified in that case.” He read a few more lines, then looked up at her. “The judge assigned to the trial was Thompson.”

  “Bingo,” Darby said. “What about the A.D.A., Victor Grant? Did he work the case?”

  “No, doesn’t look like it.” He paged a few more screens in. “Wait, here he is, Victor Grant. He had a private practice back then. He was the defense attorney.”

  “He defended Fullerton? That doesn’t make any sense, does it? If Fullerton is the bomber, and he wanted to get back at the people on his case, why would he go after his own lawyer?”

  Rafe shrugged. “Maybe because his lawyer didn’t get him off? Fullerton was convicted of second-degree murder.” He typed a few more search strings, and another report filled the screen. “He was paroled a little over a year ago.”

  “He only served four years for murder?”

  “First offense, crowded jails, good behavior. It happens. I’ll give this information to Buresh and get the guys back at the station digging in. Fullerton’s on parole, so he has to check in with his parole officer on a regular basis. We’ll get his address and pick him up. Simple.” He punched the information into an email and pressed Send. “You, Darby Steele, are a very smart lady.” He leaned over and pressed his lips to hers.

  She wasn’t sure who was more surprised, Rafe or her.

  He jerked back. “Sorry. I’m going to grab a quick shower. Then I’ll check with Buresh, see what comes of the Fullerton lead. With any luck, this could all be over in a couple of hours.”

  He didn’t wait for her response. He grabbed his duffel bag and headed into the bathroom. Darby reached a shaky hand up to touch her mouth. That brief touch of Rafe’s lips on hers had her flushing hot all over. But to Rafe it had meant nothing, a mistake, something to apologize for.

  She was glad the case was coming to a close. She desperately needed to regain control of her emotions and get off this crazy roller coaster.

  The sun was going down, and the motel room plunged into darkness, but Darby didn’t move. A moment later, Rafe came out of the bathroom. His hair, newly shortened at the same salon where Darby had gotten her hair cut, was slightly damp. His broad shoulders were showcased in a fresh, dark blue collared shirt tucked into a pair of casual khaki pants. The man looked good enough to eat, but she’d never be invited to that table.

  “Darby?”

  He was waving his hand, as if to catch her attention. She’d been staring at his chest and must have zoned out. She smiled, until she saw the cell phone clutched in his hand and the serious expression on his face. “What is it? What’s happened? Did they find McHenry?”

  “Not yet. Fullerton only checked in with his parole officer once, right after he got out of prison. His parole officer reported him missing, of course. Officers asked his known friends and family members if they’d seen him, but they didn’t do much more than that. Lack of resources. No one knows where he is.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  After finding out about McHenry and Fullerton, Rafe and Darby spent the night and most of the following day in the hotel waiting and hoping for good news—news that never came. Now they were driving down the highway again. Darby longed to go home, to her house on the beach, and let her stress wash away with the outgoing tide. But that day didn’t seem as if it was going to come anytime soon. Not until Fullerton was in custody.

  Rafe drove past another hotel, the first one they’d seen in the past twenty minutes, but he didn’t stop. He was too busy on the phone with Buresh, discussing the ongoing investigation and the hunt for Fullerton. After Rafe ended his call, and passed another hotel a few minutes later, Darby started to wonder if he was ever going to stop.

  “Is tonight’s hotel in Miami?” she joked.

  He didn’t even smile. “Not quite. We’re not going to a hotel. We’re staying somewhere more remote, safer.”

  “Safer?” Her stomach clenched and she glanced at her side mirror. No other cars were on the road. No one was following them. “You’ve been awfully quiet since your last phone call with Buresh. Has something else happened?”

  He sighed heavily and pulled the car to the side of the road. Turning in his seat, he took her hand in his. She wished he hadn’t, because her pulse started slamming the moment his fingers touched hers. Then again, maybe that was good. When he touched her she had a hard time focusing on the bad things around her. And from the serious look on his face, she had a feeling she would need his touch to anchor her from whatever he was about to say.

  “How much do you remember about the Fullerton case?”

  “Not much. It was a long time ago. My case notes were sparse. Basically, I interviewed him several times and determined he was competent to stand trial. He knew right from wrong at the time of the murder.”

  “If he’s the one who committed the murder.”

  She tensed, her hand clutching his. “What are you saying?”

  “It was a circumstantial case,” he said. “No blood. No fingerprints, based on eyewitness testimony placing him at the scene, some fibers and hair. Motive was supported by a recording on the victim’s answering machine.”

  “His girlfriend. He threatened to kill her after she broke up with him. I remember,” Darby said.

  “There was no GSR on his hands, or his clothes.”

  “Gunshot residue?”

  He nodded. “Fullerton was picked up a couple of hours after the shooting. He tested negative for GSR, and the murder weapon was never found.”

  “But...GSR washes off, right?”

  “Yes. Eventually.”

  “I don’t understand,” Darby said. “The jury convicted him. Has something changed? Did a witness recant their testimony?”

  “No one recanted, but eyewitnesses can make mistakes.” He drew in a deep breath and checked the mirrors. “The guys at the station dug into Fullerton’s alibi. He’d claimed all along he was at a minor league baseball game in Jacksonville, but no one at the ballpark remembered him. He didn’t keep his ticket stub. He said he’d paid cash, so there wasn’t an electronic record of anything. Buresh had the guys dig deeper. He had them look into back issues of Jacksonville’s daily paper, the Times-Union. They found a sports feature for the ball game Fullerton said he attended. One of the pictures with the article showed some fans sitting in the stands.” His hand tightened on hers. “Fullerton was one of those fans.”

  Darby’s stomach sank. No, he had to be wrong. If he was right, that meant... She swallowed hard. “He could have left the game early. That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “The background in the picture has specific details to nail down when the picture was taken. It seems highly likely the photograph was taken a few minutes after Fullerton’s girlfriend was murdered. The ballpark is forty-five minutes from the vic’
s house.”

  She shook her head. Part of her knew she was being irrational, but she couldn’t accept what he was telling her. “Time of death isn’t always exact. The coroner could have—”

  “Time of death isn’t in question. Neighbors heard the shot, called the police. They were on the scene within minutes.”

  Darby started to shake.

  Rafe leaned over and pulled her against him. He rubbed his hand down her back and cradled her head against his chest. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. These things happen.”

  She clutched his shirt in her fist. “We sent an innocent man to prison. We destroyed his life. We—”

  He eased back and put his hand beneath her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. “Stop blaming yourself. If this is anyone’s fault, it’s Fullerton’s attorney’s fault. He should have dug deeper, like we just did, to prove his client’s alibi. We presented the facts as we knew them. And you...” He rubbed his thumb against her cheek in a soft caress. “All you did was testify that he was competent to stand trial—which he was. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  She nodded miserably, desperately trying to believe what he was saying.

  His gaze dipped to her mouth, then, slowly, deliberately, he cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers.

  She was so startled she froze, expecting him to jerk back, like the last time he’d kissed her. But instead, he deepened the kiss. She shuddered and curled her fingers against him, pulling him closer. The dark shadows of the past faded. He kissed away every thought, every hurt. Teasing, tasting, his tongue tracing erotic circles with hers.

  Her belly tightened and she moaned deep in her throat. How long had it been since she’d been held like this? The answer slammed into her. Never. She’d never been held or kissed like this. When Rafe’s lips moved against hers, heat shot through her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. How could he make her feel cherished and treasured and make her crave him with an intensity that was frightening, all at the same time?

  When he ended the kiss, the sense of loss was palpable. She didn’t want him to stop. As if he knew what she was feeling, he didn’t pull back right away. His lips lingered against the corner of her mouth. Then he moved to her jawline, the column of her throat. He worshipped the sensitive skin on her neck, making her shiver with longing.

  She breathed his name. “Rafe.”

  His arms tightened around her and he buried his face against her neck. He drew a deep breath, his hard chest pressing against hers. Then he pulled back, pressed one more soft kiss against her lips and let her go.

  They both sat back in their seats, staring out the windshield. Darby struggled to draw a normal breath, and from the sound of Rafe’s harsh breathing, he was struggling just as much as her.

  Gradually the sensual haze he’d built in her began to fade. Her breathing returned to normal. Her heart stopped pounding in her chest and slowed to a steady rhythm.

  And all the earlier doubts and recriminations slammed back into her.

  “We sent an innocent man to prison,” she whispered.

  “Yes.” His voice sounded defeated, broken, telling her he was thinking about Fullerton again, too.

  “We ruined his life.”

  Hesitation, then he murmured “Yes.”

  Darby turned to look out the window as Rafe pulled back onto the highway.

  * * *

  AT ANY OTHER TIME in Darby’s life, if a devastatingly handsome man had taken her to a cozy cabin in the woods, miles from civilization, she’d have been excited. And she would have been awed by the pristine beauty surrounding her.

  She would have stood by the lake behind the cabin, watching the sunset turn the water from deep blue to a rich burned gold. She would have marveled at the majestic, centuries-old oak trees, their thick branches clacking against each other in the light breeze that was picking up, carrying the scent of pine sprinkled in with the oaks.

  But not today.

  Because today she’d found out she’d helped destroy a man’s life, and that he in turn had then destroyed other lives. Victor Grant was dead. Mindy still hadn’t awoken from her coma, and probably never would. Clive McHenry was missing.

  Darby’s shoulders sagged. She was just about to climb the steps to the front porch when lightning zigzagged overhead, flashing against the backs of the dark clouds rolling in, snuffing out the last of the sun’s light. Thunder rumbled, and the scent of rain was heavy in the air.

  “It’s not safe to keep standing out here.” Rafe held the front door open, waiting.

  His words had Darby fisting her hands and glancing around, expecting Fullerton to jump out at her from a nearby bush.

  Rafe’s face softened with regret. “I was referring to the lightning. Or did you forget we live in the lightning capital of the world?”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “I wonder if the tourists realize that when they come to visit the Sunshine State.”

  She hurried up the front steps, just making it onto the covered porch when the first fat raindrops started pinging onto the metal roof.

  The tour Rafe gave her didn’t take long. There wasn’t much to see. A great room downstairs, with an open kitchen, and a full bath. A wrought-iron spiral staircase that led to the open loft master bedroom and bathroom.

  He set her suitcase beside the dresser, having left his duffel bag downstairs. Darby didn’t feel right taking the bed and making him sleep on the couch, but she knew there was no point in arguing. Rafe was old-fashioned, always opening doors, carrying her bag when she could have carried it herself. He’d probably be horrified if she suggested she sleep on the couch.

  “Is it yours?” she asked, waving her hand as if to encompass the entire cabin.

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the dresser. “It is now. Dad’s arthritis pretty much keeps him home these days. But when I was a kid, we used to come up here for a whole month every summer—fishing, shooting, canoeing. Good times.”

  “We?”

  “My brothers, dad, me...and Trina.”

  “Trina is your mom?” Darby ran her hand across the forest-green comforter on the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles.

  “My middle sister, Katrina. She could outfish all of us, and outshoot everyone but Lance.”

  “Lance...your youngest brother?”

  “You remembered.”

  “Told you. I’m a good listener.”

  “So I hear.”

  The lack of sarcasm in his voice surprised her. A few days ago he probably would have added a snide comment about her being a therapist. Instead, he quietly watched her, a half smile on his lips. Maybe being here in this cabin where he had so many good childhood memories was a balm for his soul with everything else going on.

  She envied him that, envied the closeness he obviously shared with his family, memories he treasured.

  Instead of memories he wanted to forget.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” His deep voice cut through the dark thoughts swirling through her mind.

  “Talk about what?”

  “Whatever makes you so sad when I talk about family.”

  She stiffened and snatched her hand back from the comforter. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Was it really that bad? Your childhood?” His mouth tilted up at the corner. “I’m a good listener.”

  She shot him an annoyed glance and grabbed her small suitcase from the foot of the bed. “I’m going to take a shower. And after that, I’ll probably go to bed. It’s been a...trying day. Good night.” She hurried into the bathroom and closed the door.

  * * *

  RAFE CHECKED EVERY WINDOW, the front door, the sliders that opened onto the back deck. Everything was secure, but the lightning and thunder outside, along with the tinny sound of rain pounding down on the roof, made it difficult to hear any other sounds from outside besides the storm. If the killer somehow managed to figure out where Rafe had taken Darby and he d
rove up to the cabin right now, Rafe doubted he’d even hear the sound of the car’s engine.

  That made him nervous as hell, especially since he was on the first floor and Darby was on the second.

  Lightning cracked overhead, followed by a boom so loud it made Rafe wince. The lights flickered, and the cabin plunged into darkness.

  He yanked his gun out of his holster and held it pointing down to the ground because he didn’t want to risk shooting Darby. He didn’t move for several moments, listening intently for any sounds that didn’t belong in the cabin. But all he heard was the storm.

  And the shower running upstairs.

  Having grown up in a house with three sisters, he knew what they would do if the lights went out while they were in the shower. First they’d scream, then they’d run out of the bathroom.

  But Darby hadn’t made a sound.

  That uneasy feeling Rafe had felt earlier kicked into hyperdrive. Guided by his familiarity with the layout downstairs, he hurried through the dark into the kitchen. A red, blinking LED light guided him straight to the flashlight mounted on the wall charger.

  He positioned the flashlight at his shoulder, holding it like an ice pick, ready to use it as a weapon if it came to that. With his gun still aimed at the floor, he clicked the flashlight on and made a quick sweep of the room. Windows and doors still secured. He turned the flashlight off and lifted the edge of the curtains from the front window. A few seconds later, the flash of lightning illuminated the porch and yard beyond.

  Nothing. No other cars, no stranger skulking through the grass or hiding on the porch.

  But Darby still hadn’t made a sound. She hadn’t called out to him in the dark. And the shower was still running.

  Rafe forced his breathing to remain slow and steady as he made his way to the spiral staircase.

  He turned the flashlight back on, sweeping it up the stairs to the loft. Then he hurried up the stairs to the bedroom. Empty. And there wasn’t a door to the outside from this room, no balcony that would allow the killer to gain access to the bedroom without coming up the spiral staircase.