She climbed into the shower, her thoughts on him as she scrubbed the day from her skin. How was she supposed to be scared when all she could think about was how badly she wanted those hands on her body. But then her fingers brushed a gnarly scar that she was so used to she barely thought about it. But what would he think of it? What would he think of that scar’s brothers and sisters, the history of her past that she couldn’t walk away from?
Stupid girl!
There would never be anyone she could truly share her life with. She’d known that since she was very young, but she’d allowed herself to believe that Kaden might be the one exception that proves the rule. But he wasn’t. He was just another scar she’d have to bear.
It was never going to be over. Nightmares just have this way of going on and on.
Chapter 8
Springfield, Illinois
Outside Detective Donna Hyde’s House
Durango set the stale cup of coffee back in the console, his fingers drumming an old melody on the wheel of his car. She had to come home eventually. He sat here until well after midnight the night before, but she never showed up. Working overtime, he was sure. Kyle’s murder was a high-profile case. Her bosses were probably laying it on deep, trying to get a resolution as soon as possible. And Durango was probably the main suspect. Still.
He couldn’t shake the memory of Kyle’s apartment the day after her murder, the covered mirrors, and the art that had been removed from the walls. It was a quirk of the Harrison Strangler, a serial killer Durango had investigated and caught—at least, he thought he had—when he was a homicide detective with the Chicago Police Department. He didn’t like ornamentation in the kill room. He didn’t like mirrors, either.
But he loved young, blond women with blue eyes.
Sarah had blue eyes. So had Kyle.
Two women he loved more than anything in the world. Two women murdered by the Harrison Strangler. Not that the police believed it, though. The police believed the Harrison Strangler died in custody the night before Sarah died. But he didn’t. He was still alive, and he’d followed Durango to Springfield.
And Hyde, along with her partner, Detective John Fedor, believed Durango was the killer.
It hadn’t stopped Hyde from coming to his place for a one-night stand, of course. And it hadn’t stopped him—as smart as he was, he could sometimes be a complete idiot—from telling her details about his relationship with his father that had found their way into an article published on the Internet the following day.
That’s why he was here. He needed to know what the hell she’d been thinking.
He just needed her to arrive before he fell asleep. Or got sick from this stale coffee.
He settled back against the seat and waited another forty minutes. Then, finally, her car pulled up into the drive. He watched as she got out, making sure she was alone before he ran across the street and grabbed her wrist, tugging her back toward him.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
Her eyes were wide, her free hand slipping under the jacket of her suit. But then she recognized him and relaxed a little.
“What are you doing here? You can’t just accost a cop outside her house and think no one will notice!”
“You told a reporter what I told you about my father!”
Hyde jerked her wrist out of his grip and stepped around him, glancing at a window in the house across the street that had just lit up.
“Come with me.”
She led the way up to the house, pushing open the door without looking back at him, without even seeming to care if he was following or not. Her house was a small, ranch-style in a quiet neighborhood. The living room was nicely furnished, almost like the display in a furniture store. There weren’t a lot of personal things in this room, but it looked comfortable. Lived in. Just not . . . personal.
And it was clear there wasn’t anyone else living here.
“I haven’t talked to a reporter since I became a detective. You of all people should know how dangerous that can be. Unless, of course, you’re working an angle.”
“I tell one person in fifteen years about my mother and suddenly it’s on the front page of some Internet gossip page? That can’t be a coincidence.”
“It wasn’t me.” She gave a little sigh, as though she wasn’t impressed with his outrage. “I wouldn’t have a reason to do that.”
“What about Kyle? Did you think releasing that information would help in her case?”
“How would it? Even Fedor was beginning to look at other suspects.” She went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, holding it up to offer him one. He shook his head and she shrugged, stepping back over the open threshold between the two rooms. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but we found security footage of you at a bar downtown within the window the coroner set as time of death.”
That shut Durango up for a second.
Hyde took a long swig from her water bottle before setting it down on a low side table. She walked up to him, pressing her hand against the center of his chest.
“I don’t mix business with pleasure. If I’d still been pursuing you as a suspect, I never would have gone to your place the other night.”
“Then who are you focusing on now?”
She shook her head. “I’ve already told you too much.”
“Are you looking at people associated with Mastiff?” he asked, unable to let it go. “At former clients?”
“I told you, I can’t go into detail. I’d lose my job just for telling you what I already did.”
“But you must be looking at our clients. You spent enough time going through our files.”
She moved up against him, her hand sliding up to his throat. “You have to stop.”
He grabbed her wrists and pulled her tight against him. “I need to know what you’re doing to find my partner’s killer.”
“I’m doing my fucking job!” She rose onto her tiptoes. “You’ve got to learn a little trust, Durango.”
She pressed her lips against his throat, her breath hot, her lips sliding against his skin like silk against cotton. He tilted his head back, frustration tightening his grip on her wrists. He pushed her back until she hit the counter in the wide, chef’s kitchen. She grunted, her eyes moving to his with just a hint of fear in them. He lifted her up, setting her on the edge of the counter, and then he stripped her shirt from her body. His hands were rough as they moved over her ribs, her breasts, ripping her bra away from those thick, gorgeous nipples. She groaned, her mouth searching his throat again. He shoved her back, slamming her head against the cupboards. And then he kissed her, biting down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
He needed to inflict pain. He needed to hurt someone else to take away the pain that followed him around. He needed to . . . hell, he just needed to find some release.
Durango pushed his fingers under the waistband of her slacks and yanked her forward. She nearly fell off the counter but caught herself by grabbing his arms. He tore the slacks, heard them rip in the silence of the house, jerking them from her body. She cried out, but she didn’t try to escape his grip. Her panties were next, shredded between his fingers as he drew her body against his, pressing his hips roughly against hers. She moved her hips slightly, forcing him where she wanted him.
Damn, he loved a woman who knew what she wanted!
He kissed her again, tasting the day on her, tasting the slight copper taste of blood. He wrapped his fingers in her hair and twisted her head around, making her grunt again. He scraped his hand over her breasts, squeezing one in his hand, her hard nipple taut against his palm. She was breathing hard against him, the moans coming more and more. When he pressed a hand between her legs, he could feel the moisture there, could feel the excitement vibrating through her body. She wanted this more than he did.
And he wanted it desperately.
She reached for the zipper on his slacks, but he pulled her hands away and trapped them behind
her back. He deepened the kiss, forcing himself deep inside of her. She sucked breath when he pulled back, her hands fighting against him as she tried to reach for him. He held her tighter, forcing her body back with the weight of his own. He moved his mouth from hers despite her attempts to keep him close, nibbling hard at her throat, her bared breasts. She cried out when he bit one nipple, but she arched her back, pushing her body closer to his, not pulling away. She was loving every bit of this.
So was he.
He bit her inner thigh when he dropped to his knees to taste her. There was a mark that he was pretty sure would bruise, but she only hissed. She didn’t pull away. In fact, her hands were wrapped around his head, pulling him in deeper.
Durango took his cues from her, enjoying himself, but wanting to feel her need, to feel the pleasure that was rushing through her body, too. She wasn’t shy about letting him know what she wanted. She was more vocal than any lover he’d had in recent memory.
When he stood again, she was tugging at the front of his slacks before he could even attempt to do it himself. He stood still, his hands at his side, and let her pull his cock from his pants, he stood still while she stroked him with soft, but firm hands. But he could only stand it for a moment, having worked himself up almost to the same heights he could feel her teetering on.
He shoved her thighs wide apart and moved up, impaling her with one hard thrust. She threw her head back, crying out like a woman who’d gone far too long without the pleasures of the flesh. She wrapped her legs around him, dragging him even closer to her. She held him so tight that he had to pry her legs apart in order to have the freedom to move, and he desperately wanted to move.
There was nothing gentle about what was happening between them, nothing that could even remotely be interpreted as romantic. He fucked her hard and deep, loving the way her body opened to him, the way she welcomed him with every frantic thrust. There was no soul mingling, no confessions of love. It was two people relieving a physical itch. And it was the best fucking sex he’d experienced in a long time.
She cried out as she reached orgasm, then again as the first set off a chain reaction of escalating pleasure. Her body tugged and pulled at his, drawing him closer and closer to his own climax. His whole body stiffened as he filled her with his final thrusts, his fingernails biting into the soft flesh of her thighs, his eyes screwed closed as he tilted his head toward the ceiling. Always a silent lover, he held the pleasure deep inside as it rushed through his body.
She clung to him when it was done, her legs wrapped around his waist again, her hands resting on his lower back. For a second, he allowed himself to touch her, to stroke the soft skin that covered the knobs of her spine. But his mind always went to that night, to the last moments he spent with his beloved Sarah the night before she died. They celebrated by spending the night alone in their apartment, making love for hours between conversations about the future. They were to be married at a ceremony she’d spent months planning without him. To make up to her all the time he’d spent chasing a serial killer rather than focusing on their future, he’d planned this elaborate honeymoon, a month during which he planned to concentrate on nothing but her happiness.
They never got to do any of it. He never got to hold her again, never got to see her in her wedding dress, never got the chance to make amends for his mistakes.
He didn’t deserve the intimacy of holding a woman in his arms, didn’t deserve to feel the pleasure of this moment. He didn’t deserve to breathe this air, to feel, to be alive. He should have died that morning, not Sarah. It was his mistake that had led to her death.
His mistake that allowed Kyle to die in the same manner, at the same hands.
He jerked back, untangling himself from Hyde.
“Durango . . .”
“I shouldn’t have come here,” he said as he straightened his clothing and headed for the front door. “I shouldn’t—”
“I didn’t do it.” She chased after him, naked save for the bra that was pushed up high on her chest. She grabbed his arm, tried to pull him back, but he was stronger than she. “I wouldn’t talk to a reporter about you. I don’t know how it got out.”
He didn’t answer her. The story about his father still burned, but it was no longer his focus. He’d allowed himself to become distracted from Kyle, from the investigation into her murder. He couldn’t do that because this new murder was the freshest clue he had to the identity of Sarah’s killer. He couldn’t let it go cold.
He was a fool for forgetting that.
Chapter 9
Springfield, Illinois
Dr. Naylor’s Home
Quinn curled up on the couch, a cup of hot tea between her hands. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess, something she wasn’t really used to experiencing. She had trained herself to be precise, to keep her thoughts focused and ordered. It had to be that way in her profession. She had to be calm under pressure, capable of thinking a problem through, finding a solution, and acting on that solution. She couldn’t allow herself to become frazzled.
She’d been attempting to use that approach with her current situation, but her thoughts were muddied by her fear, her frustrations, and . . . she hated to admit it to herself, but her attraction to the former detective Mastiff had assigned to her case.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Calder. And it wasn’t just the masculinity that he seemed to exude just by being. That tall, athletic build oozed manliness, those hands both delicate and capable, and his eyes that seemed to always be hiding behind a wall of his own making, but so intelligent, so full of emotions he appeared afraid to share. She could get lost in those eyes. And, despite herself, she loved the way it felt when those eyes focused on her when he allowed them to drift slowly over her, like he truly appreciated what he was seeing.
She felt like a work of art when he looked at her.
But focusing on Calder was making it impossible to look at her situation logically.
She sipped her tea, forcing herself to think about what had happened today. She left her lawyer’s office and someone had to have followed. But who? From where? Had this person been following her all along? Was it someone she’d seen in the crowds downtown, someone who was part of the tour at the Lincoln House? She doubted that last bit, but couldn’t rule it out. Her mind moved slowly over the faces she could recall, the tour guide and the three couples who had stayed close to her. There were a few stragglers toward the back of the group, a couple of teens and a young couple with a toddler who found the whole thing intensely boring.
None of those people had seemed suspicious then, nor did they now.
Quinn replayed the whole afternoon over in her head, trying to remember if there was anyone else who stuck out, someone she’d seen on the street more than once, someone who might have been following her. She couldn’t recall anyone.
She got up and walked to the kitchen, rinsing her mug and setting it carefully in the sink. She could look out the window here and see the rose garden, even in the dark. She loved those roses, loved to stand out there and smell their mingled scents. If she could live among those roses, she would. She’d tried when she was a child, living in the governor’s mansion. The rose garden was the only place her father wouldn’t go in search of her, the only place she felt safe in that massive home. He was paranoid of the press, afraid there were photographers in the trees, just waiting for the moment he stepped outside in order to get a photograph of him.
Quinn reached up and brushed her short hair out of her face, studying the garden with pride. But then her heart stuttered as she thought she saw a shadow move among the bushes. She stepped back and flipped off the lights, returning to the window to study the yard closely. She waited with bated breath for more than five minutes, but never saw the movement again. Maybe it had been her imagination.
But, again, maybe it wasn’t.
Why was this happening to her? Who was trying to kill her? Or were they even trying to kill her? What was this person’s real intention? To ru
in her life? To discredit her? Were they trying to destroy her life?
But why?
The only enemy Quinn had was her father. She’d told him time and again that she had the power to destroy him, that he’d better stay away from her or she had a whole list of stories she could go to the press with. And evidence to back her up.
Did he finally believe her? Was he trying to destroy her before she could destroy him?
It would make sense. He’d done worse to people who mattered less.
Quinn crossed the house to go into her study. Email was the only way they contacted each other anymore because she refused to answer his phone calls, refusing to hear his voice. And text messages were too easily saved and released to the press. But emails he could discredit, he could suggest were faked, especially since the address they were sent to didn’t technically exist. It was an address he hid from his staff, his constituents, the press. An encrypted email address that couldn’t be traced back to him unless someone had some inside information. But she was the only one he communicated with, therefore the only one who knew about it. The only one who could expose it. And that made her easy to discredit.
The last email she’d gotten from her father was dated just after Kaden’s death. She hadn’t opened it, too busy getting arrested and everything. She opened it now.
Heard about Kaden’s death and your subsequent arrest. Would appreciate being kept out of your mess. As you’ve said, you’d rather not be a part of the Naylor family legacy anymore, therefore I’ll respect that and not offer help. But you’ll have to repay my actions by keeping it out of the press as much as you can.
That was it. Loving father!
There was no way to keep it out of the press. The article published just yesterday identified Quinn as the daughter of the former governor in the first line. But, for some reason, the story hadn’t been picked up by the Associated Press. It wasn’t in every paper across the country, the way any other story of this type would be. She suspected that was because he’d paid someone off, done something to keep it that way. It was bad enough that someone who once worked in his office had been killed. He didn’t need the world made aware of the fact that it was his daughter accused of committing the crime.
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