by Debra Cowan
"Absolutely not! No!" She held his gaze, hers compelling, deep, aching; reaching out to him without the guardedness he usually saw in her eyes. "I just wish I knew how to convince you. Am I sorry he died? Yes," she said fiercely, leaning in so he could hear her above the whir of the jet engines. "Am I sorry you didn't? No. And I never will be."
He stared at her for a long moment, wanting to take her hand, kiss her, curse her. Emotion choked him.
"Regardless of what happened between us," she continued quietly, "you're a good man, Sam. Don't let Brad's death change that. He wouldn't want to be the cause of that."
"If only I'd been more alert—"
"Sam, you're a cop. You put your life on the line every day. You do the best you can, every day. That has to be enough. If it's not, it's not enough for any of us. And I, for one, have to believe it is."
Astounded by her vehemence, her honesty, he nodded. That Dallas didn't blame him eased the guilt a little. And for the moment, her acceptance quieted the condemning voice in his head, relieved the guilt that rolled over his chest like a tank.
"You were jumped, Sam. It happens. Even to the best of us."
Her justification of his actions suddenly infuriated him. He didn't want her excusing the fact that his actions had caused a death. His partner's death. "You weren't there. You don't know what I did or didn't do. What I should've done differently."
"Like what? Die yourself?" Dallas snapped. She sighed, reached toward him, then dropped her hand back into her lap. "Your own department cleared you. If there had been the slightest hint of culpability, you wouldn't be carrying a badge. You wouldn't be on this plane with me right now."
He had to admit she was right; still, it didn't ease the yawning ache in his chest.
"I've never wished you were dead. Never." She eased back into her seat and gave a mock scowl. "If I had, you'd know it."
A reluctant grin tugged at his lips.
"It's time to forgive yourself. Let go."
"Have you?"
Pain etched her features, making her appear delicate, vulnerable—something he'd never seen before. "I'm trying."
She picked up her magazine again. "Thanks for your help with Valeria, Sam. I wouldn't be able to do anything on this case without you."
He sighed, laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the woman beside him and the awareness that hummed through him like a low-level vibrator.
She was using him. Just like he suspected that she had a year and a half ago. He'd almost been drawn in by her again—this time by her professionalism, by a side of her he'd never seen firsthand. It fascinated him, intrigued him, made him … want her. All over again.
He didn't like wanting her. And he wasn't going to do anything about it—he had no intention of making another useless trip down a dead-end road. But he could no longer deny it. He still felt the same gut-twisting, sweaty-palmed desire he'd always felt for her. That was dangerous. And the realization raised his guard the way nothing else could have.
He ignored the warmth of her arm against his, concentrated on breathing in and out, slowly, steadily. He might want her, but he didn't trust her. At least, not with his heart. Not after what she'd done. That one night together had ruined everything between them. This new and different level of trust—professional only—was enough. It had to be.
* * *
He and Dallas had hit every country-western bar in the city. The last one was The Rodeo, where he again flashed pictures of the victims. And as he'd hoped, the bartender, a woman named Sandy, recognized Mindy Rush, Lightsey's case. Sam stuck a fresh piece of gum in his mouth, nodding as the bartender told him Mindy had been a regular here.
Being inside the smoky bar gave Sam some relief. Since Dallas had agreed that driving two cars from bar to bar was silly, she'd volunteered to drive her rental. Sitting so close to her in the small two-seater had lashed his nerves taut. Their shoulders touched. When she shifted gears, her knuckles brushed his thigh. When she exhaled, he took it in.
He'd wanted to drive his truck, but she'd insisted. They should have driven his truck. They would have had more room and he would have had something to do with his hands. Inhaling the flesh-warmed scent of her sultry perfume had him flexing his hands endlessly on his thighs. Inside every bar, he welcomed the old ashtray-and-sweat smell.
As they drove from bar to bar, they kept their conversation restricted to the case. Sam had no intention of changing that. In most places, she stayed behind him and asked questions only when they met with resistance. No matter how close she stood, Sam was uneasily aware of her. More than once he noticed the sleek-fitting jeans she'd changed into after the flight. He wanted her, but he could get around that; he wasn't giving her the chance to hurt him again.
They were working together, period. Once this case was solved, Dallas would go back to Colorado and leave him in peace. Then he could move on.
The old anger welled up. He stuffed the victims' photos back into his shirt pocket and jerked his head back toward the entrance of The Rodeo. She nodded, trailing silently behind him through a weave of chairs, boot-scootin' cowboys and waitresses moving to the throbbing beat of a steel guitar.
They reached the door and Sam pushed it open just in time to see Tanna Catton slide out of a local news vehicle. Dallas stepped up behind him and he said over his shoulder, "We've got company. Go on to the car."
Her gaze immediately went to Tanna, then the cameraman behind her. Without hesitation, Dallas walked past Sam as if she didn't even know him and strode to her car. He knew she couldn't risk being connected to this case, especially by the media.
He stepped outside and let the door shut behind him, hoping Tanna hadn't seen him.
"Sam! Sam Garrett!"
Fatigue and his hangover wasted him, but seeing the investigative reporter at this bar with a cameraman tripped Sam's warning bells. As he waited for Tanna, a semitrailer roared by on the highway. A truck stop butted against the east end of The Rodeo's parking lot and Sam scanned the area. Lights blazed from the convenience store and restaurant. People milled about inside. Several cabs were parked in the lot and two were pulling in to fuel up.
Settling a smile on his face, he watched the leggy reporter approach, her platinum hair swinging over her shoulder. Her long camel-colored cashmere coat was unbuttoned, revealing a skintight sweater pulled taut over large breasts. She might look like a bimbo, but she was sharp. She knew something or she wouldn't be here.
She swooped down on him, halting only inches away and squeezing his arm. A thin, mustached guy in his early twenties trailed behind her, lugging a camera.
"How's it going, Tanna?" Sam's gaze skipped over her again. Yep, she was one fine-looking woman, but for some reason, that didn't stir his blood the way it usually did.
"Things are going well." Her blue eyes flashed with frank interest. "Have you seen me filling in for the ten-o'clock anchor?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Good job."
She eased closer, swathing him in a bold scent that reminded him of sex and cherries. Her gaze trailed slowly down his length, then back up again. Invitation gleamed in her eyes and she touched her tongue to her dark cranberry-slicked lips. "You're lookin' good."
He chuckled, flicking a glance to his left toward Dallas's car. The black 240SX sat in a pool of floodlight and Sam could see her outline, the gleam of her blond hair.
Tanna flipped her hair over one shoulder and said in a husky voice, "You haven't called me lately, Sam."
"I've been busy."
"Yeah, you've got dead bodies piling up everywhere."
"I do work Homicide, Tanna," he chided lightly.
"You know what I'm talking about." She slipped an arm through his, pressing her breast against him. "I know something's going on. Tell me."
Sam could feel Dallas's intense regard as if she were sighting him through a scope. He lowered his voice to match Tanna's. "Got nothing to tell."
The cameraman shifted from one foot to the othe
r, wearing a bored expression. Tanna smiled up at Sam with perfectly capped teeth and lightly rubbed against him. Once upon a time he would've felt that little buzz of desire, but this time he felt nothing.
"Now, Sam," she purred. "How's it going to look if it gets out the police knew they had a serial killer and didn't warn the women of Oklahoma City?"
"A serial killer?" Sam deliberately kept his tone mild, his gaze roving over her face. "How'd you get a hold of that?" He grinned. "Or maybe I should say, who'd you get a hold of?"
She dimpled. "You know me. Always looking for an angle."
He knew all about her angles. He'd had a hard and hot time finding out, but that was over. She knew something or she wouldn't be here. Leaning in close, Sam asked in a low voice, "What angles you got going on?"
He could feel Dallas's gaze on him, melting the skin off his neck.
Dallas gripped the steering wheel, stretching her gloves taut over her knuckles. From her parking spot at the end of the row, she could easily see Sam and Blondie. If that woman got any closer to Sam, she'd be wearing his coat! Was there a woman in this town whom Sam hadn't been with?
Why was she surprised? There was always another woman. Just like a year and a half ago. She told herself she didn't care, but she couldn't stop watching the two of them.
Scowling, she used the sleeve of her leather duster to clear a spot on the windshield. Body language screamed the fact that Tanna whoever-she-was wanted to get naked with Sam. In fact, the longer Dallas watched, the more certain she was that Sam and Miss News Chick had already gotten naked. A sudden spark of fury left her stunned and a little shaken.
Dallas narrowed her eyes at the bombshell's expensive cashmere coat, the perfectly coiffed platinum hair that made Dallas shove a hand through her own hair and wish she hadn't changed into her worn jeans. But she'd needed to blend into the bar crowd. Tanna what's-her-name wouldn't blend anywhere.
That sharp heat stabbed again beneath Dallas's breastbone and she chalked it up to indigestion.
The woman was coiling around Sam like a cobra and he was eating it up. Dallas recognized the masculine play-with-me smile that kicked up the corners of his mouth. She didn't have to be any closer to know that a sultry fire was burning in his eyes, as it always did when he liked what he was looking at. Dallas was sorely tempted to let him walk home. This frigid air would cool him down.
Her hand dropped to the gun at her hip and she absently stroked it, scowling. The woman motioned the cameraman forward, but Sam shook his head, laughing.
He bent low to say something in the woman's ear and she leaned into him, waving the camera guy off. After a few seconds, Sam shrugged noncommittally and stepped around her. Blondie turned and quickly stuck something in his coat pocket. He kept walking as the woman called out after him.
He lifted a hand in acknowledgement. In the hazy light, Dallas saw the white flash of teeth as he grinned.
Blondie's gaze stroked over him as he walked away. Dallas fumed. Sam glanced back and the reporter turned away and disappeared inside the bar with her companion.
Dallas started the car, aware now of how cold her hands and nose were. Sam angled toward her, his grin gone now.
Finally the burning in her gut eased. She told herself she didn't care who Sam flirted with, and if it got the press off their trail, so much the better. Still, she couldn't squelch her irritation.
Her teeth chattered and she flipped on the heater. She liked the way Sam walked, easy and loose-hipped, not too fast, not slow, just sure. Like a man who knew where he was going and how he was going to get there.
She felt a sharp stab of regret for what they'd lost. Two years ago, she would have been able to tell if he'd enjoyed flirting with that woman or if he'd only done it to throw her off the case. Now Dallas could read nothing in his handsome features.
When he reached the car, she leaned over and popped the lock. He slid inside, closing the door and holding his hands in front of the blowing heater. "Ah."
His shoulder brushed hers and a potent cloud of expensive, cloying perfume hit her in the face. She wrinkled up her nose, fighting a sneeze as she pulled out of the parking spot and drove away from the bar. "What's up?"
"The story's about to break."
"So, Barbie really is a reporter?"
He slid a glance at her, a grin tagging at the corners of his mouth. "Tanna Catton, Channel Nine. She's been digging around."
Dallas drove past the truck stop and turned onto the highway, the car picking up speed smoothly. "Does she know anything?"
"She knows one of the victims was here the night she died."
"Shoot."
"And she knows there's a serial killer."
"Great." Dallas couldn't shake the image of that woman's fingers curled around Sam's arm, her breasts pressing against him. He smelled like he'd been hosed down in Chanel No. 5 and Dallas's nose twitched again. "You didn't tell her anything?"
He gave her a look. "No, but she'll find out anyway. She always gets what she goes after."
"Did she go after you, Detective Charm?" The words were out before Dallas could stop them.
He chuckled and that dimple flashed at the corner of his mouth. "She didn't catch me. For long."
Something dark and hot zinged Dallas and she told herself he was only taunting her. Just ignore him.
He blew on his hands, then stuck them in front of the vent again. "We've been able to place the victims on the nights of their murders, but all in different bars. There's no common location, no tie in the victims' looks at all. There's a link here somewhere. We just have to keep digging."
The scent of Blondie's perfume suffocated Dallas and she fanned a hand under her nose. "I didn't know you liked women with fake boobs and hair color out of a bottle."
He gave her a sideways look. "We've hit every bar tonight. Tomorrow, we'll go to each victim's neighborhood, see if we can find any other connections between the women."
She sneezed.
"Getting a cold?"
"It's that perfume. You smell like someone rubbed it all over you," she said pointedly.
"Smells good, huh?"
"If you like drowning in the stuff."
His gaze sharpened on her, peeked through layers of anger and guilt until she felt completely vulnerable. He gave a short, surprised laugh. "You're jealous."
Only Sam had ever made her feel emotionally raw, exposed. Infuriatingly transparent. She slid him a cook look. "How do you walk around with such a big head?"
"Admit it, Dallas," he said softly, leaning toward her. One big hand gripped the top of her seat at her shoulder. "Come on, admit it."
Something inside her squirmed. Their trip to Atlanta had proved they could work together, but that was all. She wanted—needed—to get away from him. "Oh, I thought I hid it so well," she mocked in a falsetto drawl.
He chuckled. "You know I can see right through you."
That truth hit a nerve. Sam did break down all her barriers, made her lose control and she didn't like it. She concentrated on speeding down the highway. They didn't speak again in the fifteen minutes it took to reach Sam's house.
They pulled into his driveway and he reached for the door handle. "See you in the morning?"
"Yes."
"Meet me at my house."
"Got it."
He studied her for another minute, then quietly got out of the car. "See ya."
"See ya." Her chest tight, she watched him walk across the grass and onto the porch. Her hands clutched the steering wheel so hard she thought she might break it off the column.
Hell! She slammed a palm against the steering wheel, then grabbed her gearshift in a chokehold. Dammit, she had not come back here to pick up with Sam Garrett.
So why did she care that Tanna Catton had plastered herself all over him like Saran Wrap? And why couldn't she forget that macho prove-you-don't-want-me kiss from last night?
Sam paused on his porch, looked over his shoulder at her. Disgusted with herself, she re
versed into the street and drove away. She didn't look in the rearview mirror; didn't want to see if he still stood there, watching her.
Her, jealous? Ha!
It was only when she pulled into Carrie's driveway that Dallas realized her teeth were clamped together as though cemented. She relaxed her jaw, pulled into the garage and killed the engine. Damn. She wasn't jealous. She couldn't be.
She missed her friendship with Sam, that was all. A year and a half ago, she'd turned to him out of grief, nothing more. Still, that didn't explain the possessiveness she'd felt while watching him with the reporter. Or with Carrie, for that matter.
For the first time, Dallas wondered what might have happened between her and Sam if she'd stayed in Oklahoma. Would they still be friends? Something more? Or distant and awkward, as they were now?
Sam made no secret of the fact that he was only helping her with Valeria's case so he could close the door to his and Dallas's past. That was what she wanted, too. Liar. She ignored the irritating whisper of her conscience and went inside.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Egotistical, self-centered, smug … man. Dallas was not jealous of any bimbo—anyone—Sam associated with. And she spent the next four days proving it to him.
They canvassed the neighborhood of each victim and turned up nothing. They re-interviewed the neighbors in each neighborhood and turned up nothing.
She played along with his lighthearted banter, ignored his clean scent, refused to acknowledge the little flip her heart did every time he flashed those dimples.
Just as Sam had predicted, the story had been front burner on the six- and ten-o'clock news, front page in the paper. And Tanna Catton did have almost as much information as Sam and Dallas. The reporter didn't know about the victim from Edmond or that Valeria had been a protected witness, but she didn't need to.
Sam had already been called in by his lieutenant and they'd been joined by their captain, Maggie Price, and the governor's office. After that meeting, Sam had looked haggard and fiercely determined. And as the days passed, he and Dallas found no answers. The tension was sharp and showed in the hard glitter of his bloodshot eyes. His lips grew tighter.