by Kaylea Cross
He strode out of the station, stepped into the falling darkness, and sucked in a sharp breath when the cold hit him. With everything he was, he wanted to drive to Jersey. But he didn’t turn right out of the parking lot, toward Route 1 that would take him there. The crime scenes would be crawling with FBI tonight. He had to give them first look. He would drive over in the morning.
He turned left and drove by his house, packed Ashley’s paintings into his trunk, except one—his. Then he headed toward the reservoir. He needed to think right now, and there was one place that never failed to bring his mind into sharp focus. He wanted to ponder what the new development in Jersey meant, if Blackwell had moved on. If the bastard did know that Jack had been after him all these years, would he expect Jack to move after him again?
For the first time, he didn’t want to. Broslin wasn’t a bad town, better than many. And his sudden inclination to stay didn’t have anything to do with Ashley Price, he told himself, even if he wasn’t sure he believed it.
The victims circled in his mind, along with dozens of questions. But he reached no solution, gained no new insight by the time he pulled his car over on the side of the desolate stretch of road about three quarters of a mile from Ashley Price’s house. He got out and started forward. The cold would do him good. It would wake up his brain.
Here he always felt as if Blackwell was right next to him, within reach. And, of course, Ashley was here, not far behind the trees.
He hated Brady Blackwell with a passion that bordered on religious fanaticism. Yet he no longer spent every minute of every day thinking of him. Sometimes now, he thought of Ashley.
Not even the cold, bracing wind would clear her from his mind. The light at her core drew him, the light behind her palpable fears, especially when she spoke of her daughter. She loved that kid.
A million years ago, his father had said every man had two wolves in his heart, one representing love, the other hate, fighting for dominance. Which one wins? The one you feed. He’d made his choice, Jack thought. He’d been feeding hate for too long. He needed it to catch Blackwell.
His black, cap-toe boots crunched in the snow as he headed toward the creek. He saw the rock first, before he heard the water. It ran too fast to freeze over, even when the weather turned this cold. He slowed, watched, and listened for other noises. Nothing. He moved forward again, looking for footprints, any sign that someone had been out this way other than him.
He pulled his keychain from his pocket and the tactical light attached to it. He let the high-powered beam sweep the ground. He walked straight to the grave. Snow had filled the hole nearly to the top. Most of the yellow police tape was still waving from the nearby bushes where the wind had blown it.
Almost a month had passed since he’d been pulled from the damned grave, and not many new clues since. Maybe Blackwell had moved on to Jersey. Frustration tightened his muscles as he kicked the snow. Then he stilled as the short hairs stood straight up at his nape.
He was being watched. He felt it.
He turned slowly and reached for his weapon.
He couldn’t see anyone, bushes and trees and the boulder obstructing his vision. The moon sat too pale in the sky for him to see much beyond the circle of his flashlight.
Yet he knew, without a doubt, with every cop instinct he had, that he wasn’t alone in the woods.
A branch snapped somewhere to his right.
He whirled that way. “Hey! Who’s there?”
No response came.
“Broslin PD. Step forward and identify yourself.”
Nothing.
But a second later, he heard more rustling.
He moved forward, carefully, step by step, his weapon ready.
When he reached the point where he thought the sounds came from, he panned the ground with his flashlight. The ground rose here, rocky, blown clear of snow, so he couldn’t see footprints.
The rocks led straight down to the creek.
He looked there too and kept looking, but he found no prints anywhere, and he didn’t hear any suspicious noises again.
Had Blackwell come? Why? To recall fond memories of torture? To plan his next move? To say good-bye to a failed job before heading back to Jersey for a third victim?
Jack cast a last glance at the grave, then started off toward the house, through the woods, looking for evidence that Blackwell might have gone that way. He hurried.
Chapter Ten
He found no footprints as he moved forward, keeping a close eye on the ground, keeping his gun out, listening. The dark woods seemed endless suddenly, the frigid air menacing. He was pretty chilled through by the time he walked out of the woods.
He walked around the backyard, did find some shoe prints, but not the size and tread he was looking for. As he strode up to the front door, he could hear Ashley talking and laughing inside.
No extra car in her driveway but her own. Maybe she was on the phone.
Light poured out the windows. He glanced back at the woods that stood in dark silence. And darker yet, the grave.
He cursed, his breath visible in the air. He stabbed the doorbell before he could think more about it.
Then Ashley opened the door, with a black eye, and everything inside him stilled. Rage rose swiftly. Whoever touched her—
He hadn’t come up to the house with any clear idea of what he wanted, and whatever little he’d prepared in his head now fled, replaced by hot, pumping anger. “Are you okay?”
Maddie peeked from behind her with wide green eyes and dimples in her cheeks. “Hi, Jack,” she squeaked. “We’re playing makeup. Want to come in?”
A second passed before he regained his balance. Makeup. She wasn’t injured. “Sure.”
Ashley stepped back to let him through, long-legged and curvy in jeans and a simple sweater. “Maddie is visiting today. My father is in Baltimore for the day. He’ll be picking her up on his way back.”
The little girl ran forward in a fluffy skirt made of rainbow silk. “I’m a princess.” She had a sparkly purple magic wand in her hand.
Ashley watched her daughter with a smile, the first true smile he’d seen on her. It dazzled him more than it should have, so he turned to the kid.
“Hi, Princess Maddie.” He scrambled for something to say. “Uh… How is Princess Lillian?”
“She had a fight with Prince William. She wants to get earrings, and Prince William won’t let her. And all her friends have them already.”
Huh? And then he caught up. Man, he was slow tonight. Princess Lillian’s latest drama was probably the reflection of a real-life earring issue Maddie was having with her grandfather.
Jewelry and body piercing in general were out of his realm of expertise. He had no idea what to say. He came up with, “True beauty needs no adornment,” and was damn proud of himself for the quick thinking.
She looked at him as if he was talking Japanese.
“When you’re the most beautiful princess already, all the extra stuff is just distracting,” Ashley translated with a grateful glance at Jack. “Who needs it?”
Maddie’s scrunched-up face eased into a smile as she lifted her doll. “She is the most beautiful already, isn’t she?” She hugged the doll. “See? Jack says beauty doesn’t need ornaments. ‘Cept if you’re a Christmas tree.” She glanced up to her mother for confirmation, looking happy when her mother nodded.
He was about to extricate himself—he hadn’t meant to intrude on a private moment, take up any of the precious time they had together—when Ashley said, “How about some coffee?”
An invitation to all the warmth and light and smiles the house held.
He hadn’t known, until just now, that a part of him, deep down, wanted something like this. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about that. But he kicked his snowy boots off and hung his coat on a peg. “That would be great.”
“Do you want to play makeup?” Maddie’s face transformed into a look that he was pretty sure one day would have kids and p
uppy dogs ruling the world. “I’m very good at it. Mommy let me. See how pretty she is?”
He looked at the dark blue eye shadow all over Ashley’s cheekbone, held her gaze as he said, “She’s very pretty.” He wasn’t lying.
Surprise crossed her face as she looked away. “I don’t think Jack wants makeup, honey. How about we frost the last of the cookies?”
“Yay!” The kid danced around them, rainbow skirt flying, wand pumping in one hand, Princess Lillian in the other.
“I swear she lives for sugar.” An apologetic smile hovered over Ashley’s lips.
He moved toward the kitchen.
“Better get started before somebody loses an eye.”
She already had coffee made, probably for her father to have a cup for the drive home. She poured him a cup; then they all focused on frosting and sprinkles. Maddie wanted to make a contest of it, so they did.
He figured the kid would lose interest in ten minutes—short-attention-span generation and all that. He hoped in vain. An hour passed before the contest ended, not before every last cookie was elaborately frosted. They had secret voting. Maddie came in first.
The little girl pushed the biggest cookie toward him. “You get a condensation prize for trying.”
He glanced at Ashley.
“Consolation prize,” she translated.
“Can we play a board game?” Maddie beseeched, already squirming on her seat.
“I don’t think we have time before Grandpa gets back, honey.”
“Can I watch cartoons?”
“Sure.”
The kid scampered off to the living room with her own frosted sweet, turned on the TV, and plopped down to watch a cartoon elephant doing cartwheels.
Ashley was wiping pink frosting off the tablecloth. “It’s not as bad as you think. Oatmeal, and I used honey instead of refined sugar, substituted some of the oil in the recipe with applesauce. She loves her cookies, so I try to make them as healthy as possible.”
He grabbed a sheet of paper towel and helped. “It must be difficult not to be able to see her every day.”
The smile she’d been wearing all evening slid off her face.
He wished he hadn’t said anything. He really liked the lighthearted, smiling Ashley. She was going through a hard time. And he had done nothing but make it worse, ever since they’d met. She needed these moments of lightness. She deserved them.
“I want to apologize for pushing you so hard before,” he said. “I have your paintings in the trunk.”
She looked more alarmed than relieved, probably because her daughter was there.
“I can come by again with them tomorrow,” he offered.
She watched him with a wary expression. “Does this mean I’m completely cleared?”
“As far as I’m concerned.”
“You came all the way out here to tell me that?”
“I came to make sure you were all right.”
She took a moment to digest that. “Okay. Apology accepted.”
Just like that. “You don’t hold grudges.”
“You do.”
“Just the one.”
A moment of silence passed between them before she asked, “So other than looking for Blackwell, what do you do all day?”
“Look for Blackwell.”
Sympathy filled her eyes. That she could feel sorry for him, the man who’d wanted nothing more for the past weeks than to prove her a murderer’s accomplice, spoke volumes for her heart and character. Not that he wanted anyone’s pity. He was doing exactly what he wanted to be doing.
But she said, “Don’t you see how sad that is? He couldn’t kill you, but you give him your life anyway.”
He didn’t expect her to understand. He rose to go. He shouldn’t have come. He had no right to bring all his darkness here, to her, when she had plenty of her own shadows to struggle with.
“I can put those paintings from my car into your garage, where your daughter won’t see them.” He glanced toward the living room.
Maddie was sprawled on a pillow on the floor, sound asleep.
Ashley walked over there and picked up the kid, kissed her forehead, and lay her on the couch, covering her up.
“She’s tuckered out. We’ve been playing in the snow all afternoon,” she said as she came back to the kitchen. “I’m hoping she can move back home once school is out. I miss her too much when she’s gone. You must think I’m a bad mother for letting someone else raise her.”
“I think you’re as good a mother as they come,” he said sincerely. “You put her needs before yours. You want her with you, but you know it’s better if you wait until you’re fully back on your feet.”
And then she smiled at him, a true, full-on smile. For him. He tried not to think how many of his restless dreams she’d starred in lately.
The need that hit him was a punch to his gut. He cleared his throat and stepped back. “I should get those paintings.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have them back. The FBI was here this morning with a search warrant. What if they come again?”
“They won’t.” He told her about the kidnappings in Jersey. He didn’t like the thought of Agent Hunter and his men in her house, harassing her. Even if he’d done the same before. “They’re moving on.”
“Thank God. I thought they might frame me for it. Just so they have someone in the bag.”
“I’d like to think I would have protested.”
She looked at him as if she only half believed him. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again.
“What is it?”
She glanced down at her hands. “I tried to force a vision. To see him. I thought if I could draw him…”
Everything inside him stilled. He held his breath. “Did you?”
“No. I even went out to the grave the other night. Scared myself silly.”
He grabbed on to the back of his chair. “Don’t do that. Ever. Don’t go back out there, do you hear me?”
“That I can promise.” She tilted her head. “So if Blackwell is in Jersey, why are you here instead of being there?”
“I’ll drive over tomorrow.”
“Why not let the FBI handle it? You could let it go. You’re alive. You won.”
He didn’t want to talk about it. And then he did anyway. He’d never cared before if anyone thought him an obsessed lunatic. He shouldn’t now. But he did.
“I had a sister. Six years older than me. She raised me, pretty much. Breast cancer took our mother in her twenties.”
A dull pain throbbed to life in the middle of his chest. Then came the flood of guilt. “Our father was working the graveyard shift. I was a teenage brat, wanted pizza. We lived too far outside of town. The only pizza shop didn’t deliver that far out. I begged her into it. I stayed home and played video games. She drove out for the pizza. She always tried to make up for the fact that I had to grow up without a mother. I was a spoiled little shit, pretty much.”
“Jack—”
“Anyway, she never came back. They found…” He swallowed hard. “Parts of her, six months later.” He searched her gaze, looking for blame. He didn’t find any. “I grew up then.”
“And followed Blackwell since?”
“I’ll be following him until the day I catch him.”
“Even if it takes the rest of your life?”
He shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”
She came over and laid a slim hand on his arm. Heat shot through his body instantly at the slight touch. She was too close; he’d been holding himself in check for too long. She meant her gesture to be comforting, he was sure, but he wanted another kind of comfort.
She drew a slow breath. He didn’t want to hear what else she had to say. She wanted him to walk away from his vengeance and be a better man. She wanted him to fight against the forces that kept pulling him back to his dark place, like she was fighting. He didn’t want to hear it.
He reached for her and drew her to him. And the
n he kissed her.
He brushed his lips across hers. Hadn’t meant to do more than that. But he went back for another brush. Still too quick, still too unsatisfactory. She smelled like butterscotch frosting and tasted incredibly sweet. So he let his lips linger, then pressed a little harder, pulling her even closer. And again.
He was in complete control. And then he wasn’t.
Raw need shot through him, so sharp as to be nearly painful. He had to make a conscious effort to gentle his hands, not to hold her too tightly. He pulled back before he could have given in to the urge and crushed her lips under his like he meant it.
She looked at him wide-eyed, stunned. And, God, so beautiful she took his breath away.
He should apologize, some long-buried decency inside him said. He should walk away from her. Instead, he bit back a curse and kissed her again.
Since he was never going to get into heaven, this was the closest thing he was going to get. He lowered his hands to her waist and anchored them there. And then he deepened the kiss.
* * *
She wanted so badly to think, but she couldn’t. Those sculpted lips she’d thought about painting were over hers. Oh wow. The body she’d assessed with an artist’s eye was now pressed against her, suddenly gaining another dimension. So much more interesting, so much better, so much…everything.
As an artist, she kept her subjects at arm’s length. But now Jack was suddenly very, very close, her head reeling. Heat poured off him that threatened to set her on fire.
He was a ball of pain and hard man, a man on the edge, yet there was something heroic at the core of him, and at the same time something incredibly tragic. A complicated subject, layer upon layer, colors bleeding into each other, twisting. How on earth was she supposed to make sense of him?
She couldn’t, not for the moment. Right now all she could do was feel. She hung on to his wide shoulders, because she wasn’t sure how much longer her knees could hold her.
The passion that flared to life between them stunned her. There were parts of her that had been simply dead since the accident, most likely because of the depression and the pills she’d taken at the beginning. But suddenly everything came roaring back to life, passion as a swirl of vibrant colors. For the first time in a long time, she felt like a woman again. The fire was all-consuming, hotter and wilder than she’d ever felt before.