Dying for Love

by Angel Nicholas

  He quirked his brow. “You’re awfully quiet. Everything okay?”

  Her lips parted, but no response came to mind. She focused on his lips again, the dimple on his cheek teasing her. Her brain had gone fuzzy.

  Back up, Grace. I hardly know him. Okay, so she’d worked for Matt for half a year and had an incredible orgasm on the back of his bike. Teensy details that meant nothing. Not in the grand scheme of things. She wasn’t a hop in the sack with any Joe Blow kind of girl.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Shut down raging hormones; get a grip on out-of-control libido. If this was what happened when she went too long between guys, maybe a battery-operated boyfriend wasn’t such a bad idea. A girl could get into trouble operating at this level of neglect. It clouded her judgment.

  She forced herself to smile. “I’m good. You can put me down.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind holding you. As a matter of fact, I’d be only too happy to carry you up to your condo.” His brown eyes twinkled.

  “Up three flights of stairs, Matt? Get real.” She wriggled.

  He quirked a brow. “You’re questioning my strength?”

  His arms tightened around her and he started walking, his long strides eating up the distance to her building. Flattening her palm against his chest, she pushed and squirmed. His arms didn’t budge.

  “Matt,” she hissed. “This isn’t necessary. You’re totally built, okay? A He-Man, an Adonis, a god among men. Just put me down.”

  He glanced at her and flashed a fully fledged, tooth-baring grin. Her heart skipped a beat and her muscles turned to runny pudding. No man had a right to be so gorgeous. Turning a girl into empty-headed mush should be illegal. No wonder Matt never smiled. He wouldn’t get any peace, what with beating women off with a stick 24/7.

  “Careful, beautiful. Your praise will go to my head.” He was still smiling.

  They stopped and he allowed her feet to drop. He didn’t release her, instead holding her caged against his body, her feet dangling above the floor. Grace couldn’t seem to find the presence of mind to drag her gaze from his.

  One arm wrapped tight around her waist, he tangled his other hand in her hair. His gaze dropped to her lips and his head lowered.

  His firm lips brushed across hers, feather-light, teasing. Not enough. Tilting her head, she lifted her chin a few notches and wrapped her arms around his neck. Complete surrender had never really been in doubt. She could be embarrassed by her behavior later. Right now, she had to taste him.

  Matt’s mouth settled more firmly. He nibbled at her lips and she parted them. So gentle, so erotic her breath staggered. He stroked her tongue, wrapped around and invited it to play.

  Hesitation had never been part of her personality. Grace sucked on his tongue. When he retreated, she sucked his lower lip into her mouth and rubbed the underside with the tip of her tongue. Matt groaned and flattened her backside against a wall.

  The slight shift brought their bodies into direct contact. His erection pressed against her. She wriggled, tightened her arms to raise up just a smidge. Oh, yes. Right there. She moaned into his mouth and fisted his hair in her hand.

  A deep WOOF echoing up the stairs shattered the moment. Grace jerked back.

  Matt grinned, rueful and wicked at the same time. Her stomach flip-flopped. His arms relaxed and she slid down to her feet.

  He crossed his arms. “Not very nice of Apollo to interrupt.”

  Grace glanced around. They were in the passageway in front of her condo. She leaned against her front door. Matt hadn’t been out of breath at any point while carrying her up the stairs. He really was a He-Man.

  She opened her mouth then closed it. What was she supposed to say? Too much time spent studying and pursuing her career had left her a little too inexperienced on the ins and outs of relationships. Sex, yes. Actual dating, no.

  “Thank you for an amazing evening, Grace.” The naughty twinkle lit Matt’s eyes again. A slow smile grew, bringing a single dimple into evidence.

  “Dinner was wonderful.” She wanted to bang her head on the door behind her. Could she be any more awkward? No, cancel that. She knew for a fact, she could.

  He ran a finger down her cheek, along her jawline, tipping her face up.

  “I’ll see you Monday, sweetheart.”

  He pressed a soft kiss to her lips and stole her breath. Who knew such a big guy, one who was reserved and self-possessed at every moment, could be so achingly sweet?

  Matt stepped back, then just stood there. Watching her. She relaxed into the door and met his gaze, arching her brows in silent question. His eyes sparkled and his lips twitched.

  “Oh!”

  Heat rushed into her cheeks and Grace spun around to unlock the door. Duh. He was being a gentleman and waiting for her to get safely inside before he left. Good grief. You’d think no one had ever kissed her before. Then again, they hadn’t. Not like him.

  Getting the door open took a minute too long as she fumbled with the dead bolts, the burning awareness of the patiently waiting man behind her making her hands tremble. She undid the last one and almost fell into her condo.

  Turning, she forced a smile through her humiliation. “Good night.”

  “Sweet dreams.” Matt’s devastating eyes gleamed.

  She closed the door and slid the locks home, then stood there panting like she’d just bolted up all three flights of stairs. Smooth, Grace. Real smooth.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sheriff John Sanford tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the light to change. He hadn’t done a whole lot of traveling in his life, but a natural sense of direction and a good map were all he needed. He just hoped he could figure out his final destination soon. A young woman’s life depended on it.

  The light changed and he stepped on the gas. Old brick buildings with century-old architecture lined the streets. The road turned into a small highway. Ten minutes later, he turned off onto a country road.

  The urgency of the situation rode him hard. He ignored his impatience and focused on the here and now. The technique was one he’d learned early on in his law-enforcement career. Dealing with the ugliness of car accidents and violence required some sort of coping mechanism, and rushing in could get a man killed.

  He pulled up in front of a big house, worn by the years but immaculate, despite the over-long grass. Instinct whispered up his spine. Big, spacious yards separated the houses. Big trees swayed in the light breeze, and bright sunshine made the day look deceptively warm.

  Five minutes passed, then ten. Nothing stirred inside the house. No curtains shifted, no shadows passed in front of the windows, no sign of life whatsoever. A door slammed nearby.

  Next door, a woman stepped outside. Flowered gloves, a wide-brimmed straw hat and a bag of gardening tools made her intent clear. Perfect.

  She knelt beside a perfectly manicured flower bed as he climbed out of the Cherokee. She glanced over her shoulder when he closed the door, but the hat cast a shadow over her face and he couldn’t read her expression. Keeping his posture relaxed and nonthreatening, he shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled over. A lawn mower grumbled a few yards down. The breeze carried a faint scent of freshly cut grass and spring bulbs in bloom.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  The woman rose as he approached, a pair of well-kept gardening shears in one gloved hand. “Yes?”

  Closer now, he could make out her face beneath the brim of her hat. Pointy chin, soft lips, small nose and dark, sober eyes gently lined with age. Her slight shoulders were ramrod straight.

  “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your neighbors there.” He gestured behind him.

  Her gaze flickered toward the house before settling on him again. Her smooth expression revealed little. Her eyes, on the other hand, were full of shadows.

  “What’s your interest?”

  “I’m…” He hesitated, ran a hand through his hair. Well, no point in hiding it. “I’m the sheriff
of a small town in Kentucky, ma’am. John Sanford’s my name. There’s a young woman I knew years ago, when she was just a little tyke, and I need to find her. She lived in that house for a while.”

  The woman’s mouth firmed.

  He bit back his impatience. “She’s in danger.”

  She considered for a moment more, then nodded. “A lot of children have come and gone from that house. Laura Wells used to live there. She cared for foster children, quite a few over the years. I assume the girl you’re looking for was in foster care?”

  He nodded.

  Her gaze shifted to the house behind him. “Laura died a few years ago. Her husband still lives there, but he was never involved with the children. Just kind of did his own thing. Stayed out of the way. He worked a lot. I don’t think he’s uncaring, just reserved.”

  Sanford reached inside his jacket. The woman jerked and stepped back, flattening one of her pretty bulbs beneath the heel of her shoe. She didn’t seem to notice. Her fingers tightened convulsively on the handle of her shears.

  Slow and easy, he removed a photo. “Nothing to worry about. I’m just getting out a picture I’d like to show you.”

  He held it out. She stared at him, not even looking at the picture. Why was she so jumpy? Like she thought he was going to yank out a shotgun and start blasting.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Has someone else been by recently, asking questions?”

  She nodded.

  “A man about my age?”

  She nodded again.

  “Did he hurt you?” His stomach knotted. She was such a little thing. “Was your husband around?”

  “My husband died ten years ago, but no, the man didn’t hurt me. He just…I don’t know. I know he was trying to be charming, but his eyes were flat. He scared me.”

  “I can show you identification if you like. As I said, I’m a sheriff from down south and I have no intention of hurting you. I’m just trying to find this girl.”

  Her gaze dropped to the picture he still held out, and she stepped forward. A small frown brought her delicate brows together. Another step and she reached for the photo. “May I?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She took the photo in her fingertips. After studying it for a minute in silence, she glanced at him. “This picture is old and shows a grown woman. I thought you were looking for a young girl.”

  “I am. I don’t have a current picture of Grace. I lost it. This was her momma. I understand they look alike and her momma is the same age in the photo that Grace is now.”

  She looked at the picture again. “The resemblance is amazing. She was younger when she lived there, of course, in high school, but I remember her. She was such a sweet thing, very reserved. I got the impression she didn’t trust easily. She helped me weed during the summer. Four years she lived with the Wells, before going off to college. Some big-name university, I believe. Purdue, that’s it. She came back for holidays and such. I got the impression she and Laura developed a real bond.”

  “That’s real helpful. Do you happen to know where she’s living now?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” She shook her head, staring at the picture before returning it. “I haven’t seen Grace since Laura died. Like I said, Darrell kept to himself around the children.”

  Sanford glanced back at the house. It squatted on the overgrown lawn, brooding and silent, despite the birds chirping and darting through nearby trees. His bad feeling deepened.

  “Does Mr. Wells still live there?”

  “Yes. I haven’t seen him for a few days, but that’s not unusual. Ever since Laura died, he’s turned into a real hermit.” She frowned, looking down the slight incline at the house. “Still, he’s always real particular about his lawn. I swear he measures the blades of grass, and he never lets it get overgrown. I hope he hasn’t fallen ill.”

  “Did the man who asked you about Grace talk to him?”

  “I don’t know. As soon as he left my yard, I hurried inside. There was something about him that wasn’t right.”

  “Okay.” He tucked the worn photo back inside his jacket. “Thank you for your help.”

  “I hope you find her, Sheriff. She was real sweet. Soft-spoken. She deserves a good life, and I hope she’s found it.”

  A good life. Not shuffled from one foster home to another. Guilt had been a part of him for so long he didn’t remember anything else. Every once in a while, though, it rose up and surprised him with its ability to suffocate a grown man. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I’ll just head on over and have a word with Mr. Wells.”

  He turned and started down the slope of well-manicured lawn. Not bothering with the sidewalk, he cut across to the porch of the house. Crossing the weathered boards to the front door, he rubbed the back of his neck. A lawman learned to listen to his instincts. His were going off like a fire alarm.

  He rapped his knuckles on the door. Nothing. Spotting a doorbell, he reached over and leaned on it. Loud chimes played a Mozart symphony through the big house. Behind him, birds twittered and the drone of bees humming around spring flowers filled the air. In front of him, stark silence screamed.

  Well, shit.

  He tried the doorknob. The door swung open easily and a heavy stench smacked him in the face. Not good.

  He drew his sidearm. The smell wasn’t fresh, but you couldn’t be too careful. With his free hand, he yanked out his cell phone and stepped inside, punching in 9-1-1. As soon as he finished relaying the information, he clicked the phone off, ignoring the operator yammering in his ear, slid it into his pocket and covered his nose with a handkerchief. There was no mistaking the ripe odor of death.

  Cautiously, he checked each room before proceeding. A wide-open family room spanned the width at the back of the house. Furnished with the bare minimum, the smell hung like smog in the air. At first glance the room was empty. He walked in, wary.

  The long windows on the far side overlooked a huge lawn pitching away from the house. Massive old trees loomed over the yard, providing shade and, no doubt, entertainment for young kids. He’d enjoyed climbing trees himself as a boy.

  Sirens pierced the serenity. Good response time. He scanned the room and spotted a scrawny arm dangling over the side of a worn recliner in front of a large, wall-mounted television.

  “Damn.” He holstered his pistol and circled the chair. “You must be Darrell Wells.”

  The unusually warm spring weather hadn’t done the body any favors. Flies buzzed around, crawling in and out of Darrell’s orifices. No air conditioner hummed in the background and young maggots writhed on the blood-splattered, bloated gray skin. If he had to guess, Wells had been dead for around a week. The gaping bullet hole in the center of his forehead left no doubt as to cause of death.

  The front door banged open, the local boys loudly announcing their presence. There went the rest of his day. He’d only planned an hour, two tops, at this stop. He just hoped they weren’t too wet behind the ears.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, pulled his badge, and put his hands in the air in expectation of their arrival.

  Bloody hell. He didn’t have time for this. Every delay allowed a monster that much closer to an innocent girl—that much closer to living out his twisted version of truth, justice and the American way.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Pleasantly squished between Matt’s muscles and the wall, Grace ripped her mouth free and gasped for air. Her lust-hazed gaze focused on the numbers lighting up the elevator panel. Eight more floors to go. Swallowing, she shoved at Matt’s shoulders. He didn’t budge, busy nibbling on her highly sensitive thank-you-very-much earlobe. She moaned and dropped her head back.

  “Matt.”

  “Hmmm?”

  The vibration of his voice sent a whole new sensation racing to her happy parts. Deep breathing. Think Tai Chi, Pilates, meditating. She groaned. If only she actually did any of those things.

  “We have to stop.”

  He raised his head. Heavy-lidded, desire-filled eyes met he
rs and he frowned. “It’s your fault.”

  It took all her willpower to not snag handfuls of his hair and drag his mouth down to hers. His words registered and her eyes widened. Her fault? He’d practically leapt on her the moment the doors closed on the basement parking lot.

  Matt backed up and swept his gaze over her from head to toe. “You’ve never worn shoes like that to work before.”

  They were fabulous shoes too. Strappy stilettos weren’t appropriate work attire, in her opinion. It was hard enough to get respect. He didn’t need to know she’d put them on with him in mind.

  She blinked at him innocently. “Don’t you like them?”

  “If I liked them any more I wouldn’t be able to form a coherent sentence.” He braced his hands against the elevator wall and dropped his forehead to hers, so close her eyes almost crossed. “Why are we whispering?”

  “Because …” Because someone might hear. She flushed. “Just because.”

  A charming grin curved his lips—his very, very fine lips—and her knees went weak.

  He stepped back and she sagged against the elevator. Straightened his tie, smoothed his freshly mussed hair and tugged his cuffs down. All the while he never broke eye contact. He tucked in his shirt and she couldn’t help taking note of the erection straining the front of his slacks.

  In the interest of self-preservation, she closed her eyes and rapped the back of her head against the wall a few times. She didn’t behave like this. Least of all with her boss. He was going to think she was a total slut. Easy Sleazy Grace Debry would be her nickname around town from now on.

  His hand between her head and the wall prevented a third thud. Minty, toothpaste-fresh breath wafted across her face. “Grace, why are you banging your head?”

  She peeked under her lids and yes, dry amusement lit his beautiful brown eyes. His hand cradled her head, stroking and soothing her abused scalp. Every fiber of her being wanted to lean into his touch and purr like a contented house cat.

  “Grace?”

  “You must think I’m a total s-l-u-t.” She groaned and closed her eyes. When had she gotten such a big mouth? She used to be so fabulously reserved.