by LENA DIAZ,
He rudely raked his gaze down her body and let out a puff of laughter. “Rapport? Is that what they call it these days when a woman wiggles her sweet ass under a man and gives him a hard-on?”
Inwardly wincing at his crudity, he was glad his very proper father wasn’t here to see his son’s reprehensible behavior. Alex Buchanan would never tolerate any of his sons being rude, especially to a woman. Devlin waited, expecting O’Malley to hop out of the truck any second and return to her safe, nice world.
Instead, her mouth tightened and her eyebrows drew down in an angry slash. “If you think you’re going to scare me away by being a jerk, think again. I have two brothers, and I promise you there’s nothing you could say that could burn my ears any worse than what I’ve already heard. But more importantly, we’re wasting valuable time sitting here. This isn’t about you or me. It’s about a young, terrified woman who’s out there somewhere because of my screw-up. Her life is on the line. If anything you can tell me gives me even one clue about where she is and who’s holding her, then there is no way I’m getting out of this truck. Not without the answers I need.”
Devlin could have easily plucked the sexy little hellion from the seat with one hand and deposited her outside. But he was so surprised, and impressed, by the courage and tenacity coming out of such a small, vulnerable-looking woman that he couldn’t hold on to his anger. There were very few women, or even men, who stood up to him. His respect for her just shot up several notches.
Besides, like she’d said, this was bigger than her. It was bigger than both of them. If she believed asking him a few questions might give her clues to find the missing woman, so be it. She could come along for the ride. He could think of far worse things than having her sweet, curvy body bouncing around in his truck for half an hour while he made the drive to Alex’s house.
He threw the truck in gear and floored the accelerator.
Chapter Four
* * *
DEVLIN’S TRUCK SKIDDED around a curve. Emily clutched the passenger armrest to keep from sliding across the seat. When they were on the straightaway again, she jerked her seat belt tighter.
“Do you always drive this fast?” she grumbled.
He didn’t answer. But a few minutes later, he asked, “Why is that cop following us?”
Damn. He’d noticed Tuck tailing them. She swiveled in her seat, pretending surprise as she looked over her shoulder. A speck on the horizon kept pace with them, or at least tried to. She was amazed Devlin had spotted their tail. Tuck was one of the best in the department at tailing people.
“That’s not a patrol car,” she said. “Or at least I don’t think it is. What makes you say it’s a cop?”
“He’s been behind us since we left. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s one of Savannah’s finest.”
His sarcastic emphasis on Savannah’s finest had her studying him more closely. “You have a problem with law enforcement?”
“My father is an attorney. One of my brothers and one of my sisters-in-law are both FBI agents. Another brother is a private investigator who works with the police and the FBI on cold cases. Do I sound like someone who would have issues with the police?”
No. But he obviously did have a problem with them. Was that predisposition against all police or just against her and her team because of what had happened today?
He slowed the truck, abruptly turned right, and careened down a narrow dirt road that led into the woods.
Emily glanced nervously in her side mirror. She sure hoped Tuck had seen them turn, or that he was paying attention to the dust or tire skid marks Devlin was leaving all over the place since he was driving so fast. “Where are we going?”
“My father’s house.”
“He lives down this road?”
“No. Shortcut. Why? Worried we’ll lose Tuck back there?”
She swallowed. “How did you know it was Tuck?”
“A hunch, which you just confirmed. Is he supposed to be protecting you from me?”
She tried to affect a nonchalant expression. She didn’t think she had any reason to fear Devlin. But his size was certainly intimidating. Having Tuck follow her seemed like the sensible thing to do. Just in case.
“I can protect myself, if it comes to that.” She patted the gun holstered to her belt. “I told the lieutenant to have Tuck follow us so he could give me a ride back into town after I interview your father.”
The skin around his jaw whitened. “No one is going to interview Alex. Not today. You said you had questions for me. Ask them. Because when we reach Alex’s house, you aren’t saying a damn thing. You’re not even going inside.”
If he thought she was going to sit on his father’s front porch while he broke the news about Carolyn, he was living in Disney World. But she didn’t see the point in telling him that right now.
“First question: Why do you call your father ‘Alex’?”
“What does that have to do with Carolyn’s murder?”
“Second question: Why do you call your mother ‘Carolyn’?”
He laughed but didn’t sound amused. “Touché.”
He steered the truck around a rut in the road, making Emily grab the armrest again. “Those were serious questions. I need background on the victim . . . I mean, on your mother.” When he didn’t seem inclined to answer, she leaned forward, catching his attention. “Mr. Buchanan, why do you call your mother and father by their first names? Are you adopted?”
He seemed to weigh her question, as if deciding the pros and cons of answering, just like he’d done back in the cell. “I call them by their first names because my older brothers always have and I grew up hearing that. As for whether I’m adopted, the answer is complicated.”
“You’re either adopted or you aren’t. How is that complicated?” She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She would rather have had a notebook and pen, but those were in her purse, which was in her car at the murder scene. She opened up a note-taking app and waited for his response.
“Technically, my two older brothers and I were adopted. But it’s more accurate to say we were . . . inherited. Alex and Carolyn had twins together—my younger brothers, Matt, then Austin who has the distinction of being the baby of the family by less than one minute. The rest of us were passed along to Alex through Carolyn’s previous marriages.”
She blinked. “Inherited? Passed along?”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “How exactly is this supposed to help you find that missing woman?”
“Even the smallest detail might prove useful in helping us figure out how your mother caught the suspect’s attention. I need to retrace her last steps.”
“Carolyn left Alex twenty-one years ago, divorced him when I was thirteen. Unless she was in that basement for a couple of decades, I don’t see how anything I tell you is going to be useful.”
His statement had Emily shifting uncomfortably on the bench seat and pretending sudden fascination with the notes on her phone.
The silence in the cab stretched out. She risked a quick peek at him.
He was staring at her, his eyes narrowed, searching. Eyes that she’d thought were a dark brown earlier but that she now realized were actually dark gray. Not that it mattered. It was her job to notice details like that. In case she had to describe him later.
His gaze flicked to the road, then back to her several more times. His jaw tightened, as if he’d just come to some kind of decision. He slammed on the brakes, bringing the truck to a skidding halt, sending another cloud of dust flying up from the road.
Emily gasped as the seat belt locked against her chest. It took several seconds for her to forcibly uncurl her fingers from the armrest. The leather would probably bear permanent marks from her nails, but she didn’t feel a bit guilty over that. She wasn’t the one who drove like a freaking maniac.
The maniac in question flung off his seat belt and swiveled to face her. “You know something,” he snapped. “What did the coroner tell you?
”
She unclicked her belt too, so she could face him, and subtly look over her shoulder.
“We’re miles ahead of him.” His words were clipped, impatient. “Tuck isn’t going to save you from answering my questions. Spill. Now.”
He crowded her against the passenger door.
Suddenly his hand clamped around her right wrist and he leaned down, his face inches from hers, his eyes as dark as a thundercloud. “Were you seriously going to try to shoot me again?”
“What?” Her breath left her in a surprised rush when she saw the gun in her hand. She didn’t even remember reaching for it.
He snatched the gun, popped out the clip, and handed the gun back, all so quickly, so smoothly, she’d barely had time to blink, let alone try to stop him. He tossed the clip on the floorboard and wrapped his hands around her upper arms, giving her a gentle shake. “Do you honestly think I’m going to hurt you?”
She glanced longingly at the magazine of bullets.
Devlin cursed and let her go. He studied her for a moment, then grabbed the clip off the floor and tossed it in her lap. He’d surprised her again, but this time she didn’t hesitate. She shoved the clip into her gun and pointed it at him.
Obviously not considering her a threat, or just not caring, he didn’t bother to look at her. Instead, he stared out the windshield. “You may not believe this,” he said, “but I wouldn’t hurt you. Not on purpose, anyway.” His mouth quirked in a wry grin. “Ever since I left that basement I’ve been wanting to get you horizontal again. And I promise, if I did, the only pain you would feel would be from an overload of pleasure.”
The sexual promise in that statement sent a shiver of longing straight to her core. Her entire body flooded with heat. She should tell him not to talk to her that way, but that would just make her a hypocrite. Since the moment he’d touched her, pressing his hard-muscled body against hers, she couldn’t seem to stop fantasizing about what it might be like to roll around on a mattress together for a couple of hours, an entire day, a weekend. She’d love to slide her fingers into his short, wavy hair. Or get a better look at the tattoos that peeked out from the edges of his T-shirt sleeves. But being so obsessed about a virtual stranger was insane. And besides him being a stranger, he was the only lead she had right now to find Mrs. Hawley. She didn’t have time to be distracted, no matter how sexy that distraction happened to be.
Devlin was certainly distracted right now. But not, apparently, by thoughts of her. He was quietly staring through the windshield, his mind seemingly millions of miles away. The angry stranger was gone. The sexy bad boy was gone. In their place was a man who looked . . . resigned, tired, even a little . . . vulnerable.
She looked down at the gun still in her hands. Once again, she’d handled the situation all wrong. She holstered her gun.
“Mr. Buchanan . . . Devlin?”
He raised a brow in question and looked at her.
“You stopped the truck because you thought I knew something that I wasn’t telling you. You’re right.”
His gaze sharpened, but he waited, without interrupting.
She cleared her throat. “The coroner has to perform tests to try to determine not only a cause of death for Carolyn Buchanan and the others in that basement, but a date of death as well.”
He blinked. “Date of death? What are we talking here, days, weeks?”
“Months. Maybe . . . longer.”
He cursed, surprising her with his creative way of stringing together a phrase.
“What did the bastard do? Hold those women as his prisoner that whole time? Torture them?”
“I . . . I honestly don’t know.”
“What about the coroner? He must have expressed some opinions specific to Carolyn, even without the autopsy.”
He had. There was evidence of several old fractures in her bones, a lot more than was considered normal. The coroner believed Carolyn had been tortured for some time, probably years. She bit her lip, reluctant to share such devastating information.
The truth must have been revealed by her expression. He swore bitterly and threw the truck into drive. But he didn’t take his foot off the brake.
“Buckle your seat belt,” he spat out.
Surprised and grateful that he would consider her safety after that revelation, she hurriedly clicked the belt into place. As soon as she did, he stomped the accelerator and took off down the road.
Moments later, he braked and turned the wheel hard right. She braced her arms against the dashboard. The truck slid sideways. The tires grabbed, held, then shot the truck down a side road. She was about to demand that he slow down when she realized why he’d turned down this road. He must have seen the same flash of white up ahead that she now saw.
“That’s the suspect’s truck!” she said. “How is that even possible?”
“Doesn’t make sense to me either. He should have been long gone by now. I sure as hell would have been.”
That last part had been uttered beneath his breath. Emily stared at him, suddenly wondering if she’d misjudged him after all. Was it possible he was in on the kidnapping? Had she made a horrible mistake insisting he take her with him?
“There are two people in the cab,” he said.
She turned her attention to the truck they were chasing. Sure enough, someone was sitting in the passenger seat, a woman with long brown hair. Hawley?
“Can’t you go faster?” She pulled out her cell phone.
“Not without flipping this thing. It’s not exactly a Maserati.”
“I wouldn’t know. Have you driven a Maserati?”
He didn’t answer, but something about the tightening of his jaw made her think he had, and that he regretted letting that fact slip out.
The truck hit a bump and started to slide. He steered into the skid, his arm muscles bunching as he fought the wheel. He hit the gas and straightened the truck out.
Emily’s heart seemed to skip several beats, her stomach flip-flopping as if she were on a roller coaster. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the dizzying rush of trees flying past her window. Had she seriously wanted him to drive faster?
“Tuck,” she yelled into her cell phone. “We’re chasing the suspect. It looks like he might have Mrs. Hawley with him. Request backup.” Devlin supplied the name of the road they were on and Emily relayed the information to her partner.
They lost sight of the truck as they maneuvered through several sharp turns. When Devlin rounded another long curve, the suspect’s white truck appeared ahead—pulling to the side of the road.
Devlin yanked the wheel, bringing his truck to a shuddering stop behind the other truck. Before Emily could remove her seat belt, Devlin was out of the cab, sprinting into the woods after the fleeing driver.
Emily said a few choice words that would have eclipsed the cursing Devlin had done earlier and hopped out. She drew her gun and aimed it at the other vehicle, determined to follow procedure this time to clear the cab and make sure there wasn’t a second suspect.
Crouching down, she crept to the bed of the truck. She straightened and aimed her gun over the side. Clear. No one hiding in the back. She crouched down again and continued to the driver’s door. She stood up, pointing her gun inside. The only person in the cab, her eyes wide with terror, was the young mother who’d gone missing four days ago.
Emily’s knees went weak with relief. Thank God. Her screw-up in the basement hadn’t cost this poor woman her life.
She shoved her gun in the holster and held up her hands. “Mrs. Hawley, I’m Detective Emily O’Malley. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Stupid questions. She regretted them as soon as she said them. The woman had bruises on her face and arms. Of course she wasn’t all right. Hawley burst into tears.
“It’s okay, ma’am. Everything’s going to be okay.” Again, the inadequacy of what she’d said twisted her gut, but what else could she say at a time like this?
The sound of a roaring engine had her turning
. Tuck’s car barreled around the curve in the road. He skidded but quickly corrected and pulled over behind Buchanan’s truck. Emily ran to the driver’s side.
“Mrs. Hawley is in the first vehicle,” she yelled as Tuck rolled down his window. “Call an ambulance. Stay with her. Buchanan took off after the suspect.”
She ran toward the pine trees lining the road, ignoring Tuck’s shout, telling her to wait. An unarmed civilian was chasing an alleged murderer who probably was armed. Waiting this time wasn’t an option. Buchanan’s life was at stake.
Tracking someone through the woods wasn’t a skill she’d ever mastered, but she didn’t need to be an expert to follow the trail Buchanan and the suspect had left behind. The grass was matted down, and little branches were broken all along the path.
She burst out of the woods into a clearing and skidded to a halt. Twenty feet in front of her, Devlin and the suspect were locked in combat, rolling back and forth on the ground. She leveled her gun at them.
“Police, freeze—both of you!”
Devlin wrapped his hands around the man’s head and jaw and gave a mighty jerk. A sickening crack echoed through the trees. The suspect slumped to the forest floor, unmoving, his neck twisted at an impossible angle. Devlin slowly climbed to his feet. He crossed the clearing, passing Emily without looking at her. His jaw was clenched tight and his entire body seemed taut, like a bowstring ready to snap. He continued into the trees and disappeared back toward the road.
Emily rushed to the suspect, checking his pulse even though she knew he was most likely beyond any help she could give him. As she’d feared, he was dead. Her gun hand began to shake. She holstered her weapon and bent to the side to get a good look at the suspect, or victim, or whatever label applied in this situation. This was definitely the man she’d passed on the highway a few hours earlier, the same man who’d shut the basement door in her face. At least they had the right guy this time.