ONE SILENT NIGHT

by Debra Cowan

  Dallas detested this wanting, this gut-tightening hunger she felt around him, the same need she'd felt the night they'd made love. It was need that was more than physical; it overwhelmed her soul, gave her a feeling of completeness with Sam she'd never had with Brad. And it was wrong. It had been wrong then—her husband had been dead two months and she'd still loved him—and it was wrong now.

  The initial surprise faded from Sam's eyes and so did that flash of frank male interest. She was glad. For an instant, he'd looked at her as he had that long-ago night—like he wanted to possess her, like he already did. Which scared her more than anger or guilt or resentment.

  "Dallas!" He started toward her, his eyes glittering like hard points of steel.

  She took a step backward—one step.

  He stopped, his eyes guarded, his body going as rigid as hers.

  "Detective Charm?" His sculpted features slipped into a blank mask and his voice became cool and steady. "What kind of name is that?"

  Dallas swallowed, glad he couldn't see the flush of her skin through the mist of shadows and rain. Her heartbeat ripped through her chest like machine-gun fire. She'd privately taken to calling him "Detective Charm," while trying to get over the betrayal she felt over the glaring truth that she hadn't meant any more to him than any of the other dozens of women he'd slept with.

  His normally teasing blue eyes and quick smile marked him as aptly named, but now his eyes had turned the flat silver of a glacier and his mouth had tightened in wariness. Still, he was compelling. Intimidating.

  She'd watched him at the crime scene, then followed him to the boot-scootin' bar, giving herself what she'd thought would be enough time to ready herself for this unavoidable contact. But not even her survival training at Glynco could have prepared her for the ambush on her senses—the way his woodsy scent mingled with the rain and caused a kick in her belly, the way his gaze slid down her body like ice over heated skin, resurrecting the ache she'd lived with since that night a year and a half ago.

  "Have you already been to the cemetery?" he asked quietly.

  Guilt jabbed at her. Valeria's case had overshadowed her plans for the cemetery. "Not yet."

  "Then what are you doing here, Marshal Kittridge?"

  Braced for an onslaught of emotion, Dallas nevertheless tensed at the grimness in Sam's voice. If he was working on Valeria's case—and it appeared he was—he would find out soon enough what she was doing here. In the meantime, she had the advantage of surprise and she intended to keep it for as long as possible.

  "I'm meeting someone." His shoulders were still broad enough to rival a defensive end's, his hips narrow, and there was a taut strength in his six-foot-two frame that made women want to test it, see if they could make him lose control.

  Involuntarily, a warmth spread through her. One long ago silent night, she'd felt the release of that power as he'd surged into her. She didn't want to unleash it again. It could consume her, make her regret that she'd left here. And she didn't want to regret it.

  He snapped his fingers in front of her face, jolting her out of her musings. "Hey, this person you're meeting—are they from the FTC?"

  The Federal Transfer Center, used by the U.S. Marshals Service as a transfer and holding place for federal prisoners, was located near Oklahoma City's airport. And not very close to Calhoun's. "Maybe."

  Grudging admiration mixed with frustration glinted in his eyes. "The FBI has nothing on you when it comes to 'tight-lipped'."

  A sharp retort rose to her lips, but she bit it back. She had no desire to trade barbs with Sam. She'd decided to step out of the shadows, using her advantage while she still had it. And she had caught him off guard. Now it was time to move on.

  "Nice to see you, Sam." She smoothed back her rain-dampened hair and turned to go.

  "How are you, Dallas? How have you been?"

  The obvious reluctance in his voice sent a pang through her. She schooled her expression before turning back to face him.

  "Fine," she said breezily, fighting the urge to grit her teeth. "Just fine."

  "I'm glad." He stepped toward her, his boot soles a muffled scrape against the pavement. His lips flattened, as if he were steeling himself for something unpleasant. "Do you have time for coffee? Or dinner—"

  "No." She cut him off, glancing over her shoulder as she unconsciously moved her hand toward the Taurus holstered at her hip. "No."

  "Not even coffee?" His voice deepened, touching places inside her she'd closed off long ago.

  She eyed him warily as desperation funneled through her. She had to get away from him before she lost all advantage. "Nope. Sorry."

  "Dallas, I've wanted to talk to you for a long time. To apologize—"

  Apologize? She knew what was coming and dread washed over her in a sickening wave. "I didn't come here to rehash anything. There's no need for apologies."

  "I want to. I've wanted to since you left, but I couldn't bring myself to call you."

  "Consider it forgotten." Her voice was tight with the effort not to scream.

  He took a step toward her, his heat pushing away the cold air that surrounded them. "I can't forget, Dallas."

  The rawness of his voice had her clenching her hands. She couldn't do this. Her hand closed over the Taurus's butt and she gripped it tightly. This was what she could depend on—her job, not Sam Garrett.

  She lifted her chin and slid her gaze toward the bar's front door. "Maybe a drink will help you forget."

  Pain flashed through his eyes and for an instant she hated herself for hurting him. Remembered how she'd hurt him a year and a half ago. Then she remembered how he'd turned his back on her when she needed him desperately. Not even as a lover, but as a friend.

  "Can't you spare the time for me to apologize properly? For old times' sake?"

  She glared at him. He would bring up their past relationship. She didn't want to hear what he had to say, didn't want to feel again that razor-edge of betrayal or be reminded of the savage jealousy she'd felt upon discovering that bimbo, What's-her-name, in his apartment only two days after they'd… She tore her thoughts away from those memories.

  Distance was the one thing that enabled Dallas to keep thoughts of Sam and his lovemaking out of her mind. Distance she wasn't willing to give up.

  "I apologize for not returning your phone calls," he began, as if she'd consented to hear him out. "And I very definitely apologize for Mandy—"

  "I accept your apology. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?" She hated herself for the way her voice turned soft, almost pleading, but she wanted away from this man who reduced her to one big, throbbing nerve. "They" had been a long time ago. "They" were over.

  Just this few minutes of contact had sent emotion flooding through her, filling her with the dangerous urge to be held and comforted by Sam. Held and comforted the way he'd done after Brad's death, before he had turned away from her. But she was long past deriving comfort from the man who'd betrayed her.

  "Dammit, Dallas! I need to explain about Mandy."

  She definitely didn't want to hear that. "Please don't, Sam. For old times' sake."

  Frustration darkened his blue eyes, turning them black and mysterious in the darkness. That familiar stubbornness tightened his features, narrowed his eyes, but finally he nodded. "All right. As long as you know that I'm truly, sincerely sorry for what happened. Especially that you found Mandy there."

  "I had no claim on you," she said stiffly.

  He glanced away. "I felt bad about what we'd done."

  "You think I didn't?" she retorted, wondering how the advantage could have shifted so seamlessly, so easily to him.

  "Brad was my best friend."

  "He was my husband."

  "You didn't get him killed," Sam said quietly, his gaze shifting to hers.

  Dallas froze. "What are you talking about?"

  "If that suspect hadn't gotten the drop on me—"

  "I have never, never blamed you for Brad's death." Dallas trembled
with fury and shock. "It wasn't your fault."

  "The slimeball shot him with my gun."

  "It's a risk every cop takes when he responds to a call. Don't carry this guilt, Sam. It's not yours."

  He made a choked sound. "Why? Because you say so?" He rolled his shoulders as if trying to escape the memory. "I just want you to understand how guilty I felt, and still do. First Brad, then that night with you. I was trying to forget about you, about us—"

  "By using another woman. Yeah, I get it. I was just as guilty—maybe more—of cheating. On Brad. He was my husband. But we're talking about us—" Dallas faltered, unsure how to describe what was—what had been—between her and Sam. "Our friendship. I didn't dodge your phone calls or go to someone else's bed." She realized she was yelling and lowered her voice to a vehement whisper. "I wasn't the one who walked away from our friendship."

  "No, you ran away. And you did it first." The instant the words were out, regret flashed across Sam's face. He stepped back, a tangible wall coming up between them. "I was wrong not to return your phone calls. I was wrong to go to another woman, but I was furious when you turned away from me."

  Her gaze held his.

  His hands fisted on his hips. "So I suppose you won't apologize?"

  "For what?"

  Resentment, sharp and naked, glittered in his eyes. "For not telling me your plans, for planning to leave without a word"

  She had the distinct sense he wanted to say more, something else. Fury ripped through her. She had tried to tell him. That was where Mandy had come in. She clenched her jaw so hard she thought her teeth would snap. "No."

  "No," he repeated flatly. "Fine."

  "Fine." She bit off the urge to say more. They'd made a huge mistake. A bunch of words between them a year and a half later wasn't going to fix it.

  We can't go back, Sam. I won't go back. Pain sliced through her, nicking the raw place inside her that had never healed since that night she and Sam had made love. Her throat tightened and she knew she couldn't speak without betraying the quiver in her voice that had worked its way up from her belly.

  She nodded and turned away before he could see the sheen of tears that suddenly burned her eyes. "I've got to go."

  "Sure."

  She allowed herself one last look, one last memory of him standing against the truck, a silhouette of sinew and muscle against the sleek lines of the vehicle, his face shadowed by night, his eyes glittering like polished glass.

  She read remorse and concern in those features and a strange heat shoved up under her ribs. She turned away, feeling his gaze on her like a steady flame, burning away her anger, burning away the memory of what he'd done to her.

  "You look great, Dallas." His voice hung in the cold night air, stroking over her, soft and rusty and final.

  Rage. She recognized the heat in her chest now. He was really putting it—them—in the past. He could really forget.

  She squared her shoulders and pretended she hadn't heard him. She never broke stride, never hesitated, but instead walked on toward the bar, focused on putting one foot in front of the other, holding on to the knowledge that each step took her farther away from him, to safety, to the welcome numbness.

  She fought a stirring awareness in her belly the whole way. She wouldn't let him get to her. She wouldn't.

  Pushing through the door of the country-western bar, Dallas tuned in to the smooth strains of George Strait's "Easy Come, Easy Go," and headed automatically for the darkest corner. Once there, she disappeared into the shadows as she always did. After a few minutes, she could breathe without feeling that her chest was going to collapse from pressure.

  She jammed a shaking hand through her jaw-length blond hair. Anger still pulsed inside her and now she admitted why she would never be able to forget that night.

  From her vantage point, she blankly watched the miniskirt-clad waitresses thread their way among tables and booths. A thin blue cloud of smoke hung in the air; neon glared from the jukebox. She was invisible now. Invisible.

  That was the thing about Sam. With him, she had never been invisible. He made her feel … exposed, raw. Resentment churned inside her.

  Not this time. Hauling in a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She needed him to help find Valeria's killer, but she wouldn't open herself up to him again. She would keep what distance she had to, do whatever it took to find the murderer. She didn't intend to become a casualty in the process.

  She waited for a few minutes, until her heart had quit pounding and her breath had slowed to normal, then she went to the door and pushed it open for a peek outside. His pickup was gone. Other cars and trucks were pulling into the parking lot, their lights slicing through the hazy rain. Dallas walked back to her rented sports car and headed for the crime scene.

  * * *

  Disbelief and shock gave way to burning anger. Sam hated the desire he'd felt on first seeing her, in that split second before the agony crashed back. Before he recalled, with gut-wrenching clarity, how she'd used him as a substitute lover. He'd apologized, tried to move on, blast the memory of Dallas out of his blood. And he'd gotten nothing from her.

  What had he expected? A soft apology, a tearful request that they let bygones be bygones and resume their friendship? Not from Dallas.

  He wasn't interested anyway, Sam told himself forcefully. She'd turned away from him after they'd made love. She'd looked at Brad's picture. He'd known then that, in her imagination, he had been someone else. He'd been Brad. And when she'd realized that she was with him—Sam—she'd pushed him away.

  He couldn't get over how beautiful she was and resented the hell out of it. Just looking at her had reignited the memory. He'd found her crying on the porch and pulled her to him.

  "Make me feel something. Sam," she'd whispered that night. "Anything."

  Sam hadn't spoken at all. Silent and desperate, he and Dallas had come together.

  He didn't want to think about her.

  He couldn't seem to do anything but think about her.

  He drove to Mace's, still feeling as if he couldn't quite get a full breath. He didn't like leaving things unfinished with Dallas—again—but she seemed to like it just fine. She'd always put him off-balance. Only when they'd made love had he felt they'd meshed on the same plane, at the same time. Not ahead or behind, but together.

  If he hadn't run into her outside the bar, he never would have known she was in town. She wouldn't have contacted him at all. Which was how it should be. He'd worked hard to forget her and had succeeded. He didn't need Dallas LeAnn Kittridge screwing up his life again. He wouldn't allow it.

  Once inside his brother's house, Sam blurted out what had happened.

  "Dallas Kittridge?" Mace stared openmouthed at Sam. "You're kidding!"

  "Right," Sam muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. "I think this is real funny."

  Devon's eyes lit with curiosity and pleasure. "How is she?"

  "Fine," Sam growled, then gentled his tone for his sister-in-law. "I guess. I didn't talk to her that long."

  "What's she doing here?"

  "Is she moving back?" Devon asked hopefully.

  "That's not the impression I got." Sam's lips twisted as he shrugged out of his coat. He tried to tamp down the resentment burning through him, but his efforts were futile. His initial shock and disbelief had exploded into anger, then edged into this smouldering frustration.

  Mace shot Devon a meaningful look and they dropped the subject. Linc, a physician, and Jenna, a veterinarian, had both been called on an emergency so they weren't coming. Sam followed his oldest brother and sister-in-law into the kitchen of Devon's home. During the winter, Mace and Devon stayed at this house in the city, rather than their cabin by the lake. Devon had set the small dining table with bowls and glasses and crackers.

  Chili steamed in the bowls, emitting the mouthwatering aroma of cooked beef and spices.

  They sat down to eat, and for a moment there was only the sound of ice rattling in tea glasses an
d the scrape of spoons against the side of their bowls.

  "Don't forget about Greg's bachelor party tomorrow night," his sister-in-law reminded.

  Sam had forgotten all about their cousin's party and upcoming nuptials. He looked up, saw Mace grimace at the same time he did.

  "Linc's stopping by first," Mace said. "Want to meet us somewhere for dinner?"

  "Sure." Sam shrugged and took another bite of savory chili.

  He couldn't shake the feeling that something was going on with Dallas, something more than just her being in town to pick up a prisoner.

  Mace interrupted his thoughts. "Did you learn anything else at the bar?"

  "No."

  Mace slid a careful look at Devon. "But you still think it's the same guy?"

  "Yeah." Sam took a gulp of iced tea to dull the burn of the fiery chili.

  Devon smiled and rose from the table, reaching for Sam's and Mace's bowls. "I'm getting more chili. Feel free to discuss the gory details."

  Mace grinned and squeezed her leg as she walked past. "Does the medical examiner think those marks on the victims match?"

  "Hutch hasn't called yet with his findings, but I think they do. So far, though, the marks are the only things common to these two cases."

  "No similarities in hair color or age?"

  "Audrey Hayes was a redhead. Hilary Poole was a brunette. I'd say both were in the late-twenties-to-late-thirties range."

  "Body type?"

  Sam shook his head. "Hayes is petite. Poole was tall."

  Mace drummed his fingers on the table. "You know, Lightsey and Palmer caught a homicide about two weeks ago. It was a strangulation, too."

  Sam straightened. "Really?"

  "I don't know if there were any marks on the neck like the ones you described, but you could call Lightsey. Palmer's out with the flu."

  "So is Rock." Sam tugged Mace's cell phone over from the end of the table and punched in the numbers as his brother called them out. There was no answer so Sam left a message on Lightsey's voice mail, along with his own cell-phone number. "I'm pretty sure Hutch will confirm my suspicions. If Lightsey's case matches, we could have a—"

  "Don't say it," Mace warned quickly. "The lieutenant hasn't mentioned anything about a serial killer."