ONE SILENT NIGHT

by Debra Cowan

  "A lot of things have changed," she murmured. Finally she eased down on the stool beside Sam.

  She could feel the heat of him, the light brush of his thigh against hers. His rain-damp woodsy scent teased against her nostrils.

  Sam rubbed his chilled hands together and blew on them, looking sideways at Dallas. "Tell me about Audrey Hayes."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Anything, Kittridge." Sam half turned on his stool so that his knee bumped hers. His voice was hard, his eyes like tempered steel. "You knew her. Tell me something about her. I've given you more than you've given me and I can't help you if you don't share what you know."

  "True."

  "Well, then?"

  His dark hair was still neatly trimmed at the back and on the sides. The thick waves, as silky and dark as a seal's pelt, spiked endearingly in the front where he'd jammed a hand through them repeatedly. She thought about smoothing that stray lock of hair that flopped over his forehead. Instead, she grabbed another handful of peanuts. "Where should I start?"

  The bartender interrupted by setting their drinks in front of them. Sam pulled the instant photo out of his pocket and passed it to Theo, his lean strong fingers tapping the photo. "Do you recognize this woman?"

  The burly man studied it carefully for a moment. "No." He returned the picture. "I don't remember ever seeing her in here."

  Dallas fought down a swell of disappointment. It was only their first lead, but she'd really hoped it would go somewhere.

  "Thanks," Sam said.

  The bartender nodded. "Sure. Let me know if I can get you anything else."

  With that, he moved back down the bar. Sam stuffed the picture back into his shirt pocket and looked at Dallas. His eyes, which warmed to cerulean blue when he smiled, were hard and laser-bright.

  She sipped at her club soda. Focus on the case. That's why you're here. "Why did you come to this bar? Did someone see Valeria here?"

  "So, her real name is Valeria. Valeria what?"

  "Luciano."

  "Why was she a protected witness?"

  Dallas hesitated, then sighed, easing out of her coat. "She testified against her husband."

  "Who was…"

  "A member of the Dixie mob out of Atlanta." Dallas took off her right glove and started pulling at the other one. "It's crossed my mind that her murder could be a hit ordered by her husband."

  Sam shook his head. "I don't think so."

  "Why not?" She tossed her gloves on the stool beside her, on top of her coat.

  "Because Audrey Hayes and a murder I caught about two months ago had identical marks on their neck."

  "So, you have another victim who was strangled!" Dallas whipped toward him.

  "I didn't tell you Audrey—Valeria—was strangled."

  "I still have some connections, Sam."

  Sam nodded, tipping the mug to his lips. "For the sake of clarity, let's call her Valeria, okay?"

  Dallas nodded. "So, you think the guy who killed her has killed before?"

  "Yes." Sam swallowed his beer, staring into the murky light that wavered around Theo.

  "It could've been a hit."

  "Maybe."

  "But you don't buy it."

  "No."

  He was holding something back. Out of caution? Or because he didn't trust her? "Why don't you believe it could've been a hit, Sam? What are you not telling me?"

  "The marks on their necks are too distinctive."

  "It could've been a copycat."

  "We don't even know what made the marks. Some kind of chain or something. That information wasn't released."

  "Hmm. I don't think we should rule out a copycat yet. I still have to notify her husband. I can ask him some questions when I see him."

  "You're going to see him?"

  She nodded.

  "Why don't you just call the prison?"

  She shrugged. "I think I'd have a better chance of getting straight answers face-to-face."

  Sam took another drink of his beer as Dallas shifted beside him. The longer they sat here, the tighter her muscles became and the more her shoulder throbbed. Still, as long as they stuck to work, she could do this.

  "Remember when we used to unwind at your place with barbecue and a beer?"

  "Remember that stupid chef's hat Brad always wore?"

  "Yeah." Sam chuckled. "And that red-and-white-checked Betty Crocker apron."

  She stiffened, even while telling herself that it was only natural that she and Sam would reminisce about Brad. But a sharp ache pierced her chest. She had missed Sam. Only as a friend, she was quick to add.

  Still, she hated what had happened to them; what they'd lost. She'd turned to him out of selfish need and they'd both paid the price. She'd hurt him. He'd hurt her. They had to keep things strictly professional now. Anything else would hurl them back to the regret, the pain of the past. "That was a long time ago, Sam."

  He nodded. A chill that had nothing to do with the December night lanced the air between them. Dallas didn't know if they could work together or not. Reminiscing with Sam resurrected too many memories of Brad, the guilt she felt over having slept with Sam, the fact that she hadn't yet gone to the cemetery.

  He stared ahead, watching the mill of people behind the bar and absently tapping one foot to the moan of a steel guitar.

  Dallas recalled the instant in Valeria's kitchen when he'd hauled her to him, the way her breasts had gone heavy, the hard feel of his hip against hers. She'd felt the hunger surge between them, seen the naked desire in his eyes. He certainly appeared unaffected now. Lounging comfortably against the bar, he smiled easily and often as the waitresses sashayed past.

  Except for the flex of muscle in his jaw, Dallas could detect no signs of tension in him. He didn't appear any more eager to revisit the past than she was.

  "How are you, Dallas? I mean, really."

  Well, she'd been wrong about that one. She was quiet for a moment, then asked flatly, "You mean about Brad's death?"

  "Yes." Sam sipped at his beer, watching her expectantly.

  A sigh eased out of her. She'd been shocked earlier to hear Sam admit that he blamed himself for her husband's death. Whatever had happened between her and Sam, she'd never held him responsible for Brad's death and it bothered her more than she liked that Sam blamed himself. "I've come to terms with it."

  "And Denver? Do you like it there?"

  "It's cold." She paused, taking a drink of her club soda. "But yeah, I like it there. I bought this darling house and I'm fixing it up."

  "That's good." His voice sounded strained, but maybe that was due to the loud blare of music, the constant clink of glasses. "So I guess you won't ever move back here?"

  She glanced at him, then looked away. "No."

  He turned. "Why not? Your family would like it. Oklahoma's a lot closer to Texas than Colorado is."

  She met his gaze, her gut twisting. "There's nothing here for me anymore."

  Was that hurt in his eyes? No, it must've been a trick of the neon lights flashing over his shoulder.

  He shrugged and stood, grabbing up his coat. "Well, I guess we'll get started in the morning."

  "Yes." She rose, too, picking up her gloves and slipping into her coat. "I suppose you'll find me? I'll be at Carrie's."

  Carrie Turner was a friend of Dallas's and a woman whom Sam had dated a few times.

  Pleasure warmed his features. "How is Carrie?"

  "Very well," Dallas muttered, pulling on her gloves.

  "Tell her I said hi."

  She nodded, shrugging off an inexplicable pang of irritation. "All right."

  "See ya tomorrow." Sam pushed out the door without waiting for her.

  "Right," she murmured, stepping outside and watching as he got into his truck.

  He really did seem to be over the night they'd spent together. He seemed to have honestly put it behind him. Well, so had she. Dallas tossed her head and strode out to her car. Detective Charm had worked his magic on
her once. She wasn't giving him another shot.

  The night they'd been together had already cost too much. She'd done what she had to in order to survive, but it had meant that she'd run from something for the first time in her life. And Valeria had paid the price. Dallas was determined to find Valeria's killer. She wasn't going to let her history with Sam get in the way of that. Once she finished her business here, she'd go back to Denver. And probably never see Sam again.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Guilt looked good on her, Dallas decided. That was about all she wore these days. Hammered by it at Brad's grave last night, and haunted by Sam's revelation that he blamed himself for Brad's death.

  As she'd lain in Carrie's comfortable guest bed, Dallas's thoughts had seesawed between her visit to the cemetery and Sam's guilt over Brad. It bothered her that Sam was beating himself up over what had happened on that fateful burglary call. It bothered her more than she liked.

  The next morning, she sat at a small white-enamel-topped table across from her friend, drinking coffee.

  "You got in really late last night," Carrie said, dunking a sugar-glazed doughnut into her coffee. She tucked a strand of shoulder-length mink-brown hair behind her ear.

  Dallas still marveled at how her longtime friend could keep her tight, petite figure despite all the junk food she ate. At the thought of all that sugar zapping through her system, Dallas shuddered and sipped at her own straight-black brew. "I went by the cemetery."

  Carrie's blue eyes turned soft with sympathy. "How are you?"

  "Fine." She sighed, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic mug. "It's still so … weird. You know, him being gone."

  She'd stood beside Brad's grave until the cold seeped clear through her, until she couldn't feel her toes or fingers or even her legs anymore. She wished the guilt and regret inside her would numb as well, but those emotions were still sharp and cutting. She'd resisted the urge to fall to her knees and beg his forgiveness for what she and Sam had done.

  She'd ached for his forgiveness since that night a year and a half ago, and she knew Brad would give it to her. Already had. But she couldn't forgive herself. She'd turned to his best friend for comfort, when she'd still loved her husband. What kind of wife did that make her? What kind of person?

  Carrie reached across the table and squeezed Dallas's hand, drawing her back to the present.

  Dallas smiled at her. "Sorry."

  The other woman shook her head. "No need."

  Dallas sipped at her steaming coffee. "I miss him."

  "So do I."

  She knew Carrie really did understand. Dallas counted herself lucky to have such a friend. Carrie seemed like the other half of Dallas, just as she had when they'd first met as freshmen at the University of Oklahoma. Dallas was close to her brother, Austin, but there were some things he didn't understand as fully as her friend.

  The first time Dallas had seen Carrie, the petite brunette had been flanked on either side by two great-looking, strapping football players. It still amazed Dallas how Carrie had dated them both at the same time without inciting a riot. She had a gift, Carrie later told her with her self-deprecating humor.

  Both from Texas, the two of them had quickly formed a friendship in the dormitory where they lived across the hall from each other. From their sophomore year on, they'd been roommates.

  Dallas had begun dating Brad during their junior year and Carrie dated everyone. That was why Dallas had originally thought Carrie and Sam would be perfect for each other. Neither of them had ever found the "right" person. After college, Carrie had begun working for an airline company based in Tulsa and she'd been transferred to Oklahoma City four years ago. Dallas and Brad had set up a double date with them, and the four of them had gone out several times. But things between Sam and Carrie hadn't worked out, for some reason.

  Going to Brad's grave tonight had stirred up that memory for Dallas. Along with the ones of how she'd gone around in a daze after his death, not feeling anything for weeks until that night with Sam. She'd felt something then. Something unsettling and exciting and … wrong. Had it been pleasure? Or something more?

  It couldn't have been something more than pleasure, because that would mean she had feelings that encompassed more than just friendship for Sam back then; and she hadn't. She'd loved Brad very much.

  So had Sam. Dallas told herself that Sam's guilt over Brad's death bothered her so much because she and Sam had once been such good friends. But that didn't explain why Sam's confession had haunted her all last night; why she kept picturing the bleak pain in his eyes when he'd told her.

  She'd spent half an hour this morning trying to convince herself it was really all right to work this case with him. She tried to look at it as if they had no history together. As if he were a connection—her only one—to this case.

  "I can't believe it's been almost two years since Brad's death," Carrie murmured, nibbling at her doughnut. "Have you seen Sam?"

  Dallas narrowed her eyes. "What do you think?"

  "I'd say, judging from that bubbly happiness in your voice, you have." Carrie's eyes twinkled. "So?"

  "Yes, I saw him. And he's just as—"

  "Sexy as ever?"

  "Stubborn. Infuriating. Bossy." She swallowed another sip of coffee, the warmth doing nothing to dispel the chill of regret that had burrowed deeper inside her while she'd stood over her husband's grave.

  She'd shivered in the late-night cold and mist, fighting resentment the whole time. She couldn't stop thinking about how she and Sam had betrayed Brad. She'd tried to talk to Brad about it—about anything—but the words wouldn't come. She'd felt unworthy to be there, yet she hadn't been able to leave. Nor could she get over the fact that Sam seemed to have dealt with what they'd done when she hadn't.

  Carrie rose, then paused to put a hand on Dallas's shoulder. "It will get easier, Dal. After my mom died, I thought I'd never be able to even talk about her, but time does help with some things."

  "I know." She'd never told Carrie or anyone about the night she'd spent with Sam.

  Her friend walked to the sink and rinsed out her cup before placing it in the dishwasher. "If you've got time today, we could go to lunch. I don't have to leave until seven this evening."

  "I'm not sure." Dallas stood, finishing her coffee. "I'm going out with Sam."

  Carrie's dark brows arched.

  "It's for the job," Dallas said dryly. "I'll call you if it looks like I'll be free. And thanks for letting me stay here. I'm not sure how long I'll put you out."

  "I'm glad to have you. Stay as long as you need."

  Just then the doorbell rang and Dallas's stomach jumped. Sam?

  Carrie flashed a smile as she walked out of the kitchen and toward the front door. "Will that be Sam?"

  "Probably." Dallas set her own cup in the sink and shoved a suddenly unsteady hand through her hair before following Carrie to the door.

  The other woman peered through the peephole, then swung the door wide. "Hi!"

  Genuine pleasure lit Sam's eyes and that seductive, so-sure-of-himself grin flashed. "Hey, Carrie! How's it going?"

  "Great. Come on in." She stepped back as he walked inside.

  Sam's face was flushed by the cold, and his eyes glittered even more blue than usual. He brought inside the scent of winter-fresh air. Broad shoulders, made more bulky by the thick sheepskin of his coat, filled the door. Faded Levi's sleeked down strong thighs and lean calves; the hems brushed the tops of his scuffed ostrich boots. Sensation fluttered in Dallas's chest.

  Sam closed the door, his gaze shifting briefly to Dallas. Then he turned to Carrie, a broad smile spreading across his face as he caught her hand and twirled her in a quick little two-step. "What exotic ports have you flown to since the last time I saw you?"

  "Oh, I've been all over." She disengaged her hand and waved it dismissively. "I hear you're working Homicide now."

  "Yeah." A sudden tension lashed his words a
nd a muscle ticced in his jaw.

  Carrie flushed lightly, but she reached out and touched his arm. "How have you been?"

  "I'm fine. Thanks." His voice went soft and warm, as if he and Carrie had been close friends for years, instead of him and Dallas. He looked over her head, his gaze meeting Dallas's. "Ready?"

  "Yeah. I'll get my coat."

  From the other room, Dallas could hear the low murmur of their voices as she put on her holster and Taurus. She came back into the room, sliding her arms into her leather duster.

  Sam and Carrie laughed softly at something. They stood close, their dark heads nearly touching, their elbows brushing as Carrie flipped through a set of photos she'd taken in Hong Kong.

  "Are you seeing anyone?" Sam's voice dropped with husky interest and Dallas stilled, her eyes narrowing on the two of them.

  Carrie nodded, her thick shiny hair sliding over one shoulder. "A guy I met during a layover in Reno. He rides bulls."

  "Ouch!" Sam gave a suggestive grimace and Carrie laughed.

  Irritated, Dallas yanked her gloves out of her pocket, her fingers curling into the soft leather. It had been three years since Sam had dated Carrie, but he seemed perfectly at ease with her. He'd been that way with Dallas, once. Now he was uptight and guarded around her, just as she was around him. All because of what had happened between them. Sadness swept over her at the thought.

  For the first time, Dallas wondered if Sam and Carrie had ever been intimate. The possibility made Dallas's spine go rigid, but she didn't think they'd ever gotten that far.

  Watching them together, hearing Sam's frequent chuckle, caused Dallas's lips to flatten. She'd never given much thought to why Sam and Carrie hadn't dated longer, but now she wondered. Sam obviously liked Carrie, and her gorgeous friend obviously liked Sam.

  Something sharp and hot jabbed under Dallas's ribs and she flushed with the memory that she could have kissed Sam last night. She hadn't allowed herself to think about that split second at the crime scene when he'd pushed her into the wall and she'd turned her head.

  If they had kissed, it would have had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with … anger. Still, she had wanted him to kiss her, wanted him to dissolve all her defenses, fill the emptiness inside her the way he had a year and a half ago.