by Kylie Brant
“My case notes?” The words came out raspy, an after effect of the fire.
“We found Lisa Hansen alive in the cellar of the Coates’ place. You’d focused on Baxter’s years there, seemed to think it was important to her formation. I thought it was worth a look.”
“Thank God the woman is still alive. So that’s what led you to Denholt?” He’d explained the ownership of the cabin on the car ride home.
He nodded. His palm lingered at the base of her spine, his fingers rubbing in little circular motions that had her releasing a contented sigh. “You spent a lot of time trying to predict Baxter’s behavior based on people and events from her past. I decided to follow your lead. It paid off. Franks checked with Karen Denholt while I was making the flight arrangements, and she did remember Baxter being at the cabin with the Coates’ family once. Said she bitched about the amenities the whole time.”
“After yesterday, I have a few quibbles with them myself.”
He couldn’t share her humor. Her situation had been harrowing, and his panic still felt too close. Too real. Cam was acutely aware that the outcome could have been far different.
“The fact that you can even joke about it just underscores what I said before. There are different types of strength.” He cupped her jaw in one hand. “I didn’t have enough faith in yours. I’m not talking about your mind, that’s hard to overlook. Especially since you beat me at gin nine times out of ten.” When she smiled he traced his thumb lightly over the curve of her bottom lip. “But I didn’t figure I could trust your emotions when you told me you loved me. First we’d broken up, then Vance’s case threw us together again, and after you’d escaped him…”
“It was too soon,” she began.
“No. Or at least, yeah, I thought that at first. That you couldn’t possibly know what you felt because you’d just been through hell.” And although she might not have the PTSD diagnosis he’d had after the Moreno assignment, she had a lot of the symptoms. “But you told me once that going through a trauma can rearrange priorities. And I get that now. Because during those hours spent searching for you, things got pretty damn clear. Crystal.” Emotion thickened his voice. “I love you, Sophie. Life doesn’t hand out guarantees, so I guess it’s time to stop waiting for one. I’m not going to risk losing you. If you’re going to come to your senses and run like hell, this is the one and only chance you get. I’ll give you a head start.” He paused a beat. “At least to the couch.”
The radiant expression on her face gave him her answer even before she went on tiptoe to form the words against his lips. “I’m. Not. Running.”
Tension seeped from his body, a fraction at a time. “Good thing, too. What I lack in speed I make up for in endurance.”
“Good to know.” She nipped at his jaw. “Because right now I’m in the mood to put that particular quality to the test.”
His arms snaked around her with barely tempered desperation. She probably would have rested better last night had he left her sleeping, but he’d been incapable of leaving the hospital room. Had needed to hold her hand, touch her hair as if by maintaining that physical contact he could banish the knifelike fear that had hollowed out his gut.
He tipped his head, found her mouth with his and threaded his fingers in her hair. His lips moved on hers greedily. The urgency was still there, but now it was elicited by desire rather than panic. And for the first time since she’d been pulled from the burning cabin’s window last night, he felt a sliver of peace. She was here. She was safe.
Her tongue found his in a delicate sensual slide. And she was his.
The knowledge completed the transformation from desperation to desire. One of his hands went to the hem of the tee shirt she wore, stripping it up and off her. He lifted his head to look at the picture she made. Smooth creamy skin swelled over the confines of black lace. Considering Sophie’s sense of style, he could be assured her panties matched.
A slow primal throb started in his pulse. He was capable of finesse, but that would come later. After hunger had been sated. Greed assuaged. With his thumbs hooked in the waistband of her pants, he peeled them down her silky legs. Felt her balance herself with one hand to his shoulder when he helped her step out of them.
He reversed course with his lips, exploring the jut of her ankle, the feminine curve of her calf. The satiny smoothness of her thigh. He knelt before her, his hands cupping her lace-clad butt. Pressed a kiss against the moist heat dampening the fabric that shielded her cleft. And when her flesh quivered against his lips, any semblance of restraint abruptly eroded.
He straightened, lifted Sophie in his arms and strode to the bedroom, laid her on the dark rumpled sheets, a jewel against a velvet backdrop. She drew up one leg languorously and lifted a hand toward him in a gesture of feminine enticement that would tempt a plaster saint. Cam was damn grateful to be a sinner.
He stripped deliberately, his gaze never wavering. Her cheeks tinged pink under his intense regard. Joining her on the bed, he caught both wrists in one of his and drew them slowly inexorably over her head, watching her expression carefully for any sign of distress. He didn’t want the position to trigger a flashback of yesterday’s trauma.
But he didn’t have to worry. Her neck arched. Her body bowed. And the evidence of her passion incited his own. Cam stretched out beside her, one knee pressing her legs apart as he lifted her breasts from the lace cups. Her nipples were already taut, ready. He rolled one between two fingers while going on a primitive quest for flesh.
The taste of her whipped the fever in his blood to a frenzy. He needed to linger, to savor. Neither was an option. Not with Sophie writhing under him as he feasted. She tugged her wrists from his grip and clutched at his shoulders, her nails scoring his skin not quite painfully. The slight sting called to something savage in him and he knew control would soon be impossible to summon.
He traced the elastic of edge of her panties with one finger and her hips moved restlessly. Restraint slipped dangerously. One hand delving inside the lace, he covered her mound with his fingers. Found the taut bundle of nerves and began the steady rhythmic motion that would drive them both a little crazy.
His name was on her lips, a broken cry. It fed a frenetic craving coursing through him that wouldn’t be denied. Reason was receding. His vision graying.
Sweeping the wisp of lace over her hips and down her legs, he settled over her. Almost disgraced himself when her hand reached down to guide him, her fingers closing around him with clever knowing fingers designed to enflame. Unable to help himself, he plunged deeply inside her slick heat, paused to haul in a shaky breath and summon a measure of logic.
She wouldn’t allow it. Sophie set the pace with her hips, demanding and urgent. Her desire fired his own and he thrust into her wildly, reason gone. There was only the need to take, and be taken. To possess and be possessed. She arched beneath him, muscles rigid, a helpless cry on her lips. The sound of her climax ripped through him, demanded his own.
And when the pleasure crashed over him, swallowed him, his mind was wiped clean of everything but her.
Chapter 15
The deluge of media attention was brutal. Her work as a forensic consultant rarely put Sophia in front of a camera. And when it did, her notes were prepared, her remarks brief. She had acquired a newfound empathy for victims who were asked insensitive questions about their ordeal just provide a reporter with a fresh byline.
As they stepped outside DCI offices, a horde of reporters rushed forward, their shouted questions melding into an earsplitting crescendo. “Agent Prescott, how did Vickie Baxter die?”
His hand at the base of Sophia’s spine propelled her forward as he strode across the parking lot to his vehicle. “That matter is still under investigation.”
“Dr. Channing, did you see any other victims held at that cabin?”
“Details will be released as the investigation unfolds.”
“Good answer,” he whispered under his breath as they approached the veh
icle. He raised a hand to click the fob and release the lock on the car. As they both got in it, an enterprising reporter sprinted from several yards away to yank open the back door and slide into the back seat. Cam turned around, his expression stony. Unrepentant, the man grinned at him.
“Agent Prescott, can you tell me how many bodies have been linked to Vickie Baxter while Mason Vance was imprisoned?”
“SAC Maria Gonzalez is in charge of media releases. I’ve got nothing for you outside the details presented at this morning’s press conference.”
“I think you do. You were there, man.” The reporter, sporting a bald head and goatee, leaned forward. “I’ve got a tip claiming she offed five more people in the last couple weeks. Can you confirm?”
“What I can confirm,” Cam said neutrally, “is that you’re leaving my car. Whether it’s while it’s parked or while it’s moving is up to you, but you will leave it.” To Sophie he said, “Hope he doesn’t decide to get out at the Eighty-sixth Street overpass. That always gets messy.”
Her lips quirked. “I can imagine.”
“You want me out, just answer the question. Is it true that…”
Cam turned on the ignition, put the car in gear and headed it toward the exit of the parking lot. The reporter looked out the window. “Hey, my car is here. Just stop and answer a few questions, and I’ll get out.”
Slowing, Cam responded, “Get out now, or get out thirty miles from here. Up to you.”
“But…”
He accelerated, nosing the car down the drive to the stop sign. “Where do you want to be dropped off?” he asked Sophia deliberately.
She appreciated his quick thinking. The last thing she wanted was for their relationship to become fodder for local and national news. “The car rental at the airport will be fine.”
“All right, all right, you can let me out here.” Cam kept driving. The reporter repeated, “I said I’ll get out. Just let me out. Jesus, I’m going to have to walk a mile.”
Cam cruised to a halt at the stop sign that would allow him to turn into traffic. “Naw. From here it isn’t more than a half mile.”
The man’s muttered response was lost when he got out of the car and slammed the door.
“Honestly, it’s like being hounded by a ravenous beast that feeds on fresh sound bites.”
He sent her a quick grin. “An apt analogy.”
She sent a worried look in the side mirrors. “How can you be sure one of them won’t follow you home?”
“There’s no point. Gonzalez and Assistant Director Miller control the information dissemination, and we’ve already discussed what will be released and when. They aren’t going to waste time on me and miss a chance at her when she leaves the office.”
Satisfied with that, Sophia settled back in her seat. “Good. Something tells me she’s used to shutting down pushy media types.”
“She’s the master.” His cell rang and he pulled it out of his pocket to read the screen. His mouth flattened and he answered it guardedly. “Prescott.”
Sophia couldn’t hear the caller’s words, but she recognized the booming voice. FBI agent Del Harlow. Instantly, nausea did a quick churn in her stomach. Turning to her window, she pretended an interest in the scenery that she wasn’t feeling.
Sophia knew little about the details of the assignment the FBI agent was planning, but she knew just enough about Cam’s last task force assignment involving Moreno to be filled with sick fear. Cam had once revealed that Moreno’s lieutenants had conducted frequent ‘loyalty tests’. Which had involved dragging members of Moreno’s team off on a regular basis, putting a loaded gun in their mouths, and interrogating them as possible spies.
It didn’t bear thinking about what Cam might face resuming his undercover assignment.
The phone conversation lasted all the way back to Cam’s place. His side of it was terse. At one point he looked her way and said, “You know what it will take.” He listened a moment longer and his mouth twisted. “That’s not going to cut it. I’ll need it in writing.”
When they got into the garage, Sophia got out of the vehicle. Hurried inside. Got to the bathroom and leaned against the counter, fingers gripping the edge. She couldn’t face him. Not when her imagination was supplying her in vivid Technicolor detail all the infinite ways this task force assignment could go horribly wrong.
He couldn’t share the specifics with her. He didn’t need to. She knew enough to realize the mission included using Cam as bait. Pablo Moreno suspected him as being the informant that had nearly brought down his drug distribution network. Cam was walking into a lion’s den.
“Soph?” A rap sounded at the door. “You okay?” She closed her eyes. Drew a breath. Then she turned on the spigot and leaned forward to splash water on her face. Dried it. “I’ll be right out.” But it was several more minutes before she could steel herself to do so.
He was standing in the living room, his expression watchful as she joined him. “You feel like eating?”
“I can make you something.” The task would give her something to concentrate on besides the conversation he’d just shared with Harlow. A sudden thought occurred. “Wait.” She hurried to the coffee table in front of the couch, bent down to look at the underside.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for this.” She reached for a small foreign object, peeling it away from the adhesive. Rising, she handed it to him. “Courtesy of Vickie Baxter.”
“That’s impossible.” Turning it over in his fingers he studied it closely before looking at her. “How’d it get in here?”
Letting out a sigh, she replied simply, “Henry. I let him in that day when he pretended to be looking for his cat. Turned my back for a minute…” She nodded toward the object he held. “That’s how she knew exactly when you were leaving that morning. She had a narrow window of opportunity to act. She took it.”
Cam slipped the transmitter into his pocket. “Sometimes I wish the woman wasn’t dead. She got off too easy.”
His meaning was clear. She shuddered, headed to the kitchen. “I have no regrets in that regard.” Knowing Baxter would never take another victim would enable Sophia to sleep at night. Although, she thought grimly as she took deli meat from the refrigerator, she seriously doubted her ability to do any sleeping until Cam was out of danger for good.
She was adding mayo to his sandwich when she heard him clearing his throat. “That call earlier. It was Harlow.”
“I could tell.” It took effort to keep her voice steady as she handed him the plate and went in search of a glass. “You’re always at your friendliest when talking to him.”
Cam settled on a stool at the breakfast bar, but made no move toward the sandwich. He was too busy watching her. “We have a history.”
“I know. That’s why it’s so hard to figure why you’d put your life in his hands again.” She poured milk in a glass. Handed it to him.
“He’s a cog in a wheel. He’s not making the decisions for the op.” He took a drink. Lowered the glass. “He’s just the go-between.”
She didn’t want to have this conversation. To do so would make it far too real. But reality was hurtling toward her on a collision course. There was no avoiding it. She drew a deep breath and met his gaze, her heart hammering in her chest. “So what did your go-between have to say?”
A minute ticked by. Then another. “Soph.”
She shut her eyes, as if the action could ward off the rest of his words. “The op is on. Everything’s in place. I put him off when he called yesterday…but I have to go.”
She moistened her lips. Tried to speak. Could barely force the question out. “When?”