by Terry Odell
He turned toward her, toying with a strand of hair. “You goin’ somewhere?”
“Me? Now? No. Of course not? It’s just that—”
“My mama taught me ladies first. I’m not sure this is what she had in mind, but it seems like a good policy for all things.”
“I like your mother. My former fiancé … well, lets say it was all about him, and forget it.”
He knelt above her, and she noticed he’d sheathed himself. That’s why he’d turned away. His lazy grin turned on those tingles. She and Scott hadn’t even had actual sex yet, and already it was a million times better than anything she’d experienced with Barry.
He lowered himself to kiss her, and she heard the quick hiss, saw the barely suppressed grimace. Damn. What was the proper way to handle the male ego in a situation like this?
Chapter 21
Scott’s arm trembled, and a sharp pain stabbed through his shoulder. He dropped to his elbows, relieving some of the pressure. On his arm, anyway. His leg throbbed, and he had a fleeting vision of collapsing on top of Ashley, squashing her beneath him.
He gazed into Ashley’s questioning eyes. “You mind being on top? It … um … might be easier.” He eased himself next to her, onto his back.
Was she smirking? Before he could decide, she’d rolled over and positioned herself above him, thrusting her breasts in his face. “My pleasure.”
“I hope so,” he mumbled around a still-turgid nipple. If he’d learned nothing else about her sexual preferences, it was that she enjoyed having her breasts touched. Licked. Sucked. No small sacrifice, since he enjoyed the hell out of touching them. Licking them. Sucking them.
And then she straightened, grasped him. She lowered herself, taking him inside all too slowly. He gasped.
She stopped mid stroke. “Am I hurting you? You know … your … injuries?”
He reached for her face and pulled her toward him, thrusting upward at the same time, trying to seat himself more deeply. “Hurting me? No. You’re torturing me, but that has nothing to do with my injuries.” To prove it, he rocked his hips.
She tightened around him, matching his rhythm, then taking charge as she moved up until he feared she’d break the connection. She paused, then moved down. Slowly. Too slowly. With one hand, he reached between them. With the other he kneaded her breast, thumbing her nipple.
He couldn’t tell which of the moans and groans came from him, which came from her. “Ashley.” He struggled for control, feeling it slip away. “God, Ashley.” His hips pistoned faster, and she clamped around him, matching his pace, taking it even higher.
When she cried out, he followed her into that glorious place where nothing else existed. It was exquisite. For the first time since before the incident, he felt like himself.
He cradled her against him, not wanting to sever the bond. Not wanting anything but right now to last forever. Something in the back of his fuzzy brain said he’d never felt a moment like this before—a moment he’d wanted to last forever. He’d have to deal with that another time. He drifted, floated, and was vaguely aware of Ashley snuggling alongside him.
He woke a short while later to use the bathroom. When he went back into the bedroom, Ashley had turned on the bedside lamp and picked up the clock. In the brief time he’d been gone, she’d put on a nightshirt.
“I guess I should leave,” he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
She gave him a quizzical stare. “Why? I was going to ask you what time I should set the alarm for. So you won’t be late to work.” She waited, smiling.
He did a quick calculation. Five-thirty? No, he could skip the Jacuzzi—a hot shower would suffice. Hell, he could hobble into the office for one morning. “Six?”
She fiddled with the clock while he climbed into bed beside her. She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Be right back. I need to put some things away in the kitchen.”
He closed his eyes, listening to normal kitchen sounds and allowing himself to think of simple domesticity. He was dimly aware of Ashley’s return, and her cuddling up beside him. Without the nightshirt. He spooned her into him, and she clasped the hand he draped over her.
Falling asleep with a soft body by his side. This was another side of domesticity he could get used to. Not that he’d never fallen asleep beside a soft, female body before, but there was something different about Ashley. Rather than ponder it, he allowed himself to drift.
The nightmare sucked him into its depths. Different this time. He was still a hostage, still helpless. Still trying to convince his captors to release everyone else. Begging them not to harm them, accepting another beating. But this time, when the haze cleared, it was Ashley on the bloody floor, staring at him with lifeless eyes.
Something rested on his shoulder. He flailed out, trying to deflect the inevitable blow.
“Scott. Scott, wake up. It’s me. Ashley.”
He sat bolt upright. A faint click, then sudden brightness blinded him. He covered his eyes.
Ashley stood at the bedside, one hand on the lamp and the other holding a bottle of water. She extended the bottle. He took it, mortified that his hand shook, that she’d caught him in a nightmare. “Light,” he croaked. “Off.”
Three quick clicks, and darkness surrounded him. Although he wasn’t particularly fond of the dark lately, it beat having Ashley staring at him.
He downed half the water, letting the cool liquid calm him. Okay, not calm, but calmer. Maybe. Sweat filmed his body, and he suppressed a shiver when Ashley lifted the covers to climb into bed. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I need a shower. Go back to sleep.”
Ashley said something about clean towels.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he limped to the bathroom and shut the door. He stood under the hot spray until his breathing returned to normal and the demons left his mind. Stepping out of the shower, he tried to remember what Ashley had said about towels. Given there weren’t many places in the bathroom for storage, he started with the under-sink cabinet. A stack of fluffy brown towels waited. He wrapped one around himself, wondering if he could retrieve his clothes and go home without waking her.
Crap. Why had he thought he’d sleep through the night? He hadn’t had a solid night’s sleep since he’d stopped taking those nice little pills the doctors had given him in the hospital.
Because he hadn’t thought about it. Period. He’d been sated with Ashley and all his pathetic brain could handle was how good she felt lying beside him. How good he felt lying beside her.
He visualized Ashley taking his clothes off, picturing where they lay in the room. He finished drying off, then shut off the bathroom light and eased the door open.
Ashley sat up in bed, reading. The sheet covered her, but the nightgown lying on the floor beside the bed told him what she wore—or didn’t—underneath.
***
Ignore, confront, or try to be supportive? Ashley hadn’t decided how to deal with Scott before he finished in the bathroom. From the way he stood there, frozen, clutching a towel around his hips, she didn’t think he was ready for the confrontational approach.
Men. Was he afraid he’d look weak if he admitted he’d had what was obviously a terrifying nightmare? Did he not trust her enough to share? Then again, they’d only known each other a few days, and despite the connection she’d felt, maybe to him, she was no more than another sexual encounter.
No, she told herself. If that was the case, he’d have gone home. They’d clicked, and she knew he felt it, too. She’d try something between ignore and support, she decided.
She set the book on the nightstand and smiled at him. “Come to bed. And lose the towel.”
He hesitated. She waited. Had she gone too far? Before she could say anything else, thank goodness, he sat on the edge of the bed next to her, but still wearing the towel. Not looking at her. “I should go home,” he said, his voice husky.
But he hadn’t gone. He’d chosen to sit beside her.
“I
thought we went through that. The alarm is set.” She put her hand on his shoulder, warm from his shower. “I’d like it if you stayed. To sleep, if that’s what you want.”
Should she have said that? Would he think she was implying he couldn’t perform again? Damn, she didn’t know how to read men. Or talk to them. Barry had always made her feel that her opinions weren’t worth hearing, in the bedroom or out, and she obviously couldn’t read him, or she’d have known what a cheat he was long before she walked in on him.
“I mean, we’re both tired, and we have to get up early.” She paused, touched his jaw, rough with shadows of stubble. “I’d … I’d like you to hold me.” When he didn’t respond, she played her last card. “You promised me tonight.”
“Ashley …” His voice cracked. Without another word, he circled the bed, dropped the towel, and crawled in.
She scooted backward until she made contact. Her back to his front. He drew her closer, his deep sigh warming her neck, his arm warming the rest of her. Content that he’d stayed, apparently trusting that she wouldn’t demand explanations, she decided she’d made the right decision. For now, anyway. She lay there, absorbing his warmth, listening to his breathing even out. When she was sure he slept, she allowed herself to relax enough to follow him down.
The alarm shattered the silence. Ashley slapped at the clock, finally connecting with the off button. Beside her, Scott groaned.
“I’ll make coffee,” she said. “Want some eggs?”
He groaned again. Or was it a grunt?
“You okay?” she asked.
Another grunt. “I’m up.”
She bit back the retort that he hadn’t moved and was far from up. Instead, she grabbed her robe and went to the powder room off the living room to take care of morning essentials. She finished, then tiptoed toward the bedroom, listening to make sure Scott was really up.
Hisses and groans came from behind the partially open door. Feet shuffled across the floor, accompanied by more hisses and groans. Fighting the temptation to offer help, Ashley went back to the kitchen and put the coffee on to brew. She knew Scott had to be at work at seven, but there should be enough time for him to eat a proper breakfast. While the bacon sizzled in the pan, she wondered if she should make sure he was all right.
Seconds later, Scott limped into the kitchen, wearing his trousers, and carrying the rest of his clothes. She flipped open the egg carton. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled—at least that’s the only way I can get them to come out right. But I need to change.” He avoided eye contact when he spoke, but not before she saw pain etched in his face.
Men. She’d give him a pass this time. She had too much on her own plate, and it wasn’t bacon and eggs. “They should be done when you get back.”
He paused, as if he were going to say something, but merely nodded before leaving.
Men.
When the bacon was done, she drained it on a paper-towel lined platter and slipped it into the oven to stay warm, then cracked the eggs into a bowl and whisked them with a little cream. She set two places at the counter and poured two glasses of orange juice.
When she heard the knock at the door, she cranked up the heat under the frying pan. “It’s open.”
Scott stormed into the kitchen, a scowl on his face. “Don’t you know enough to keep your door locked? I could have been anybody.”
Ashley almost dropped the bowl of eggs. The look on Scott’s face—a blend of pain and anger—held her retort at bay. “Sorry. I didn’t think—”
His expression softened. “Don’t do it again, okay?”
She served breakfast, received a polite, “Thanks, you shouldn’t have,” and they ate in silence. Scott scraped the last of his eggs onto his fork, then carried his dishes to the dishwasher.
“Sorry to eat and run,” he said. “Have to get to the station.”
She watched him leave. Eat and limp was more like it. But his mood had shifted, and she thought there was more behind it than his injury and an unlocked door.
Morning after regrets? She stomped to the living room and threw the deadbolt.
Chapter 22
Scott nodded to Doranna on his way to the detectives’ office. Detweiler’s call this morning had come right before Scott headed back to Ashley’s. Since Detweiler had said it wasn’t an emergency, only another lead, Scott had taken advantage of her hot breakfast. A breakfast that sat heavy in his stomach as he wondered what had sent up Detweiler’s red flag.
The office door stood open, but Scott tapped before stepping inside. Kovak, looking more rested than the last time Scott had seen him, and Detweiler, looking far less so, lifted their heads from papers spread out on a desk. Detweiler hid a yawn behind his hand.
Taking a seat, Scott waited. Let them speak first. No point of jumping to Ashley’s defense until he knew what this was all about. Less chance of inserting his foot into his mouth.
Detweiler motioned to the papers. “I stopped by the victim’s tea shop first thing this morning. Found this in her desk drawer.”
Scott struggled to his feet—skipping the Jacuzzi this morning was taking its toll, and the pain meds hadn’t kicked in yet—and dragged his chair closer to the desk. He stared at the pages, photocopies of what appeared to be diary entries, written in an angry scrawl. He skimmed through them.
How dare she come here and compete with me!
Those idiots can’t do anything right.
Nothing stops that bitch!
She saw me. Can’t risk that she noticed.
Just wait for her stupid bakeoff. She’ll regret it.
The copied pages were numbered, but there were no dates on the entries themselves. “These in chronological order?” he asked, to confirm.
Detweiler nodded. “Unless she’s a total nutcase and writes on random pages. The entire journal is in evidence. I copied the relevant entries.”
“There’s nothing specifically naming Ashley or her shop,” Scott said.
“The whole thing is written in that same style. No names, no paragraphs of prose. Nothing but cryptic notes,” Detweiler said.
“That entry about the bakeoff points to Ashley.” Kovak slipped another paper toward Scott. “And this should clinch it.”
It was one of Ashley’s bakeoff flyers with a thick, black X across it.
“I found more of them, torn into pieces, in the trash at her store,” Detweiler said.
“Didn’t Ashley say the victim refused to participate?” Scott asked. “Where did she get the flyers?”
“I thought we should speak with Miss Eagan again,” Detweiler said. “Kovak’s going to her place.”
Scott couldn’t help but notice that Kovak had deferred to Detweiler, apparently accepting his partner as lead in the case. Then again, they’d been working as a team for years, Kovak had said, and maybe this was the way they worked. As long as they continued to share information with him, their investigative style wasn’t his concern.
“And the victim’s assistant. Paige Haeber,” Scott added. He’d listened to the recording, and the woman had been fairly close-mouthed, but a second interview, with more specific questions might reveal things she’d kept to herself the first time.
“I’m going to take that one,” Detweiler said. “Maybe a change of face will open her up.”
Scott gathered the pages in front of him into a neat stack. “Anything on the cocoa?”
“The packet in the gift basket came back clean,” Kovak said. “Of course, if there was some new exotic poison in there, it wouldn’t show, but Connor ran the basics including the drug from the victim.”
“But there’s still something hinky about Belinda Nesbitt,” Detweiler said. “See what you can dig up without paper.”
Was Detweiler trying to keep him away from Ashley by assigning him to Belinda Nesbitt? However, he agreed to the task, knowing that if he protested, Detweiler would tell him there was a conflict of interest, and might keep him out of the loop altogether.
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br /> When both detectives left, he debated calling Ashley to alert her to Kovak’s impending arrival. No, he shouldn’t. While it might be the neighborly thing to do, it could pollute the investigation. His gut said she had nothing to do with this, and he trusted his instincts. Ashley hadn’t sent up any red flags when he met her, and that was while the brain above his neck had still been doing most of his thinking.
He sucked in a breath and forced himself to take an honest inventory of his feelings. Yes, he was attracted to her. Yes, it seemed as if it could be going further. Yes, he’d been fooled before, by women he thought cared about him, but were nothing more than Badge Bunnies.
Looking at the facts objectively, and rethinking Ashley’s body language and emotional reactions, he couldn’t buy that she was involved in the death of Felicity Markham. Which meant he had to figure out who else it could have been. He doubted Detweiler or Kovak were the railroading type, but he wondered if he should recommend that Ashley get a lawyer.
Not until he heard Kovak’s report. He went to the break room for coffee before settling down in front of the computer and digging into Belinda Nesbitt’s life. Which, after twenty minutes of poking around, was duller than dirt. She came from a small town in Colorado, one younger brother, parents still married to each other. No marriage license on record for Belinda.
He moved on. Clean record with the DMV—not even a parking ticket.
Next stop, education. Took a little more digging, but again, nothing notable. Private Catholic schools from kindergarten through high school. Solid B plus average. Did one year majoring in business at Colorado Christian University before transferring to Oregon State. Why? Her grades were good, and she hadn’t switched majors. Money run out? He’d made a note to see if he could uncover a reason for the switch when Kovak poked his head in the doorway.
“I’ve got Ashley Eagan in a room. Want to sit in?”
Damn straight he did. He logged off the computer and stood, keeping his expression neutral. “Sure. Thanks.”