by Debra Cowan
Dallas felt it, too. The muscles in her right shoulder had settled into one long, aching knot. And there was a new tautness in her belly that had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the detective—a sly insidious awareness of Sam that she tried to ignore by keeping her focus strictly trained on the investigation.
They'd had no hits from VICAP, nothing off the Internet. They'd combed every neighborhood with no new leads. According to the crime analysts in Sam's office, serial killers usually chose victims of the same race, so their killer was most likely a white male. If the killer stayed true to form, they only had five to seven days before he struck again.
She and Sam worked together every day—long, grueling hours. Her nerves were strained. She was still shaken and uncomfortably aware of the sting of jealousy she'd felt, which Sam had witnessed. Anger shimmered inside her every time she thought about it, and working so closely with Sam, she thought about it more than she liked.
Still, they worked well together. An unconscious rhythm developed between them. They could decide without speaking when Dallas would do better with a particular interview, and Sam would step back, let her handle it.
Still, she was very unsettled by that flush of jealousy she'd exhibited. It really couldn't be called anything else. The sooner Valeria's murder was solved, the sooner Dallas could go home. And she knew that she needed to leave.
The problem was, Oklahoma City was starting to feel more like home than Denver. And there was something about Sam—about her and Sam—that stoked her curiosity. Made her ask too many what-ifs. Stirred a restlessness inside her that she'd never experienced. Yes, she had to get out of Oklahoma City ASAP.
Sam made scrupulous notes at every interview, and each night when Dallas returned to Carrie's, she did the same—scrounging, hoping for a connection besides the suspect's MO and the victims' music preference that connected all the murders.
That first night, she'd fallen asleep on top of her notebook and dreamed of her and Sam making love. Since then, she had worked. Or watched the myriad Christmas movies on television. Or read. Still, she couldn't shake her awareness of him, couldn't get rid of the frustration surging through her. She hated that, too.
She told herself it was the holidays. Last Christmas had been a blur. She'd been wrapped in a stinging kind of grief that had left her numb, apathetic about having a tree or even wrapping gifts.
She told herself she was just missing Brad. But it wasn't Brad's face in her mind in the wee hours of the morning as she lay staring at the ceiling, aching for sleep. It wasn't Brad's lips she remembered as she waited for daylight and more, tedious legwork. It wasn't Brad's voice in her mind as she struggled to kill the spark of need that now burned in her belly.
She and Sam tiptoed around each other, spoke only when necessary, compared notes by exchanging their notebooks. Everything they said centered around the case. And yet Dallas couldn't help wondering where Sam went when he left each night, wondering if he was with anyone.
She wondered what a real kiss between them would be like. Not one given to comfort, like what they'd shared a year and a half ago. Or one born of anger, like the one last week.
Randomly, like a surprise attack, an image from the night they'd spent together would flash into her mind. The curve of his smooth, bare shoulder. The taste of clean skin. The intense glitter of his eyes as he'd buried himself inside her.
Once it hit her when they were interviewing a clerk in a busy convenience store. It brought her up short. Appalled and infuriated by the mental flash of well-defined pectorals and knuckled abs, she lost her train of thought right in the middle of a question. Sam had looked at her oddly, as had the clerk. She'd recovered, continued asking questions, but there had been a strange flutter in her stomach, an unsteadiness in her hands as she scribbled notes.
The next time, they'd been questioning an older woman with poor hearing. A stark image of Sam's body pushing into hers sliced through Dallas's memory.
She didn't react as obviously as she had before, but the picture left her just as shaken. The urge to get on the next plane to Denver had swamped her, but she'd remembered Valeria. And had redoubled her efforts to keep some space between her and Sam. It had worked until the fourth day of their interviews.
It was already dark and they were leaving the neighborhood where Valeria had lived. Sam scrubbed hard at his face, then plowed a hand through his thick hair. "Let's go get something to eat."
Massaging her right shoulder, she squeezed the tangled knot under her skin. "I don't think—"
"I don't want to talk about Brad, if that's what you're worried about. I just want some food."
"I could go on—"
"I'm too tired to argue with you, Kittridge. Or do anything else," he said pointedly. "I just want to eat. You've got to be hungry."
"What about going over what we got today?"
"We can do it after."
"I can't be seen in your office."
"I've got everything at my house."
She ignored the little trip of her pulse, yet she hesitated.
Impatience flared on his features. "Do what you want. I'm going to eat."
"Sure, that's fine." It was the smugness in his eyes that made her decision, the certainty that said he knew she didn't want to be alone with him. "Lead the way, Detective Charm."
She had the pleasure of seeing his mouth tighten, then he gave her the name of a restaurant close to his house in Edmond. She followed him up Broadway Extension and as she walked behind him into the bustling place, she wondered if she'd just made a big mistake.
She'd been here six days. The tension between them was palpable. She knew something had to give. But it wasn't going to be her. Besides, what could possibly happen? If Sam was anywhere near as tired as she was, the only thing he'd be up for was eating. She slid into the booth seat across from him. It was only dinner.
And it was. They ordered, ate their meal quickly. A couple of times, Sam's eyes went distant and intense and Dallas knew he was thinking about the case. They each paid for their own dinner and when Sam asked if she was coming to his house to look over the files, she nodded with only slight reluctance.
She ignored the hollow ache in her chest—the one that reminded her that she and Sam used to have more than this. She pushed aside the need that curled into a little pocket in her belly and followed Sam inside his house.
* * *
He'd been trying to ignore the fact that Dallas had been jealous of Tanna, but every time he thought about it, a smug, satisfied smile eased across his face. Served her right.
While Sam liked the way he'd made Dallas squirm, he didn't like the way his thoughts kept dwelling on her. Didn't like how his gaze kept sliding to her as they retraced every shred of evidence—recanvassed the neighborhoods of the victims, reinterviewed the neighbors.
Yes. Seeing that fire light her eyes had gone to his head like good Scotch, but his instincts screamed for him to back way off; to focus on solving this case so that Dallas could leave.
And the truth was, he needed her help. Rock was still out sick and the department dwindled daily due to the flu. Sam hoped he wouldn't come down with it. So, he'd spent the next four days dodging this frustrating, annoying, gut-twisting awareness of her.
His eyes grainy with fatigue, he got his second wind after they'd eaten dinner. Back at his house, Dallas put on a fresh pot of coffee while he stuck in a Tschaikovsky CD. He returned to the kitchen and took a chair at the end of the table. Dallas sat on his right, but closer to the other end, so they weren't touching.
Files scattered across the table. Sam flipped back and forth in his notebook as time scraped by. Between sips of coffee, Dallas muttered to herself as she compared files and scribbled notes. The graceful, mellow sounds of The Nutcracker Suite played softly in the background.
Sam thought his mind was fully focused on his work, yet he was still aware of every time Dallas moved her hand. When she shifted in her chair, his muscles tightened involunta
rily. Beneath the smoky aroma of coffee, he could smell the tantalizing spice of her scent.
He had to read the same note in the file four times before he comprehended it. The sound of shuffling paper merged with the music in the living room. His skin grew tight, hot. He wished he could ignore her. Or better yet, tell her he didn't need her help on this case. An unfamiliar impatience churned inside him.
He didn't know how long they sat there, but the room seemed to shrink. Irritated, he rose. "I'm going to call Rock, see how he's doing."
"All right." She didn't even look up.
"All right," he muttered, going into the living room and grabbing up the cordless phone. Rock's wife, Patsy, answered and when Sam hung up a few minutes later, he knew there was no way he could tell Dallas to go back to Denver.
His partner had been admitted to the hospital with dehydration and would be in there for at least twenty-four hours.
The flu was sweeping through the department. Even Lieutenant Roberts had looked a little green around the gills when Sam had been in his office the other day.
So, it seemed all Sam could do was suck it up and work with Dallas. Get back in there and find a connection so they could nail the sicko who'd killed at least four women.
Replacing the phone, Sam walked back to the kitchen but halted in the doorway. Dallas had laid her head down on her arms, her profile facing him. She slept peacefully, her brow smooth, her lashes dark against the cream of her skin. She looked as tired as he felt and as he stood there, something tugged at his heart.
Tenderness welled inside him; for a moment, he allowed it. He was reluctant to wake her, but the longer he watched her, the more he wanted to touch her cheek, stroke her hair away from her face, run his fingers through the tawny silkiness.
His body grew hard, annoying the hell out of him. "Dallas," he said softly.
She didn't stir.
His gaze riveted on her nape, pale marble above the collar of her denim vest. He fought the urge to press his lips to that patch of soft skin, taste the body-warmed spice of her—
"Dallas," he said, louder this time, with an edge, trying to dodge the need that throbbed through him.
She still didn't move and he realized how exhausted she must be. Still, if he tried to reach across her for her gun, which sat in its holster at her right elbow, she'd probably come straight out of that chair, her weapon cocked and ready. He squatted beside her and said her name again.
Her dark lashes fluttered, her eyes opened and she smiled at him—a smoky, unguarded smile. Sensation rippled up Sam's spine, igniting the old hunger. And the old wariness.
She blinked, looking confused for a moment. Then pleasure spread across her face and, despite the warning screaming through his mind, Sam couldn't tear his gaze from the soft flush on her cheeks, the way her tongue came out to wet her lips.
Slowly she pushed herself out of the chair. He straightened at the same time.
"I dozed off?" Her voice was low and raspy.
Desire kicked Sam in the gut. All he could manage was a nod
Her eyes were soft gray, drowsy. Her gaze dropped to his lips and his heart turned over. As if she'd suddenly realized where she was looking, she jerked and turned away.
He shifted, putting some distance between him and her chair, thinking she would move in the opposite direction. When she leaned forward to pull her gun and holster toward her, her jeans stretched tight across her rear. Sam swallowed hard.
Then Dallas turned. Her shoulder bumped his chest and she jerked reflexively toward him, her eyes wide and uncertain. She looked away.
But not before he caught the raw hunger in her eyes.
The feel of her shoulder against his chest branded through his shirt. He caught the faint whiff of her after-dinner mint, the fresh scent of her shampoo. His gaze dropped to her breasts. They rose and fell rapidly beneath her long-sleeved black T-shirt. She wanted him. He tried to push away the thought even as his gaze slid upward to her lips, now parted and moist.
She didn't move. Her arm burned down his torso and belly. Teasing, torturing. Primitive, savage hunger roared through him. He took a step back. She leaned into him.
His mind blanked. Breasts pressed against him. Strong, slender thighs brushed his. Her hips… He could feel her hips nudging his arousal.
Her gaze locked on his—pleading, uncertain, hungry.
If he'd ever had any control, it unraveled on the spot. Her lips touched his and heat spiked his veins. This… This was what he'd missed, what he wanted. This was Dallas, the woman who'd turned him inside out. The only woman who could.
She moaned low in her throat and every thought in his head disintegrated like ash in water. She pressed against him, her breasts full, round, unleashing a fierceness in him he'd never known.
He hooked one finger into the belt loop of her jeans and tugged her to him. She made a begging sound that ripped right through his caution, his common sense. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, and impatient, aching to taste her, he plunged his tongue inside her mouth. She was hot and sleek and tasted of her peppermint and coffee.
He kissed her slowly, awed, disbelieving, savoring the feel of her against his body, the heat of her soaking through his clothes, the sweet lushness of her mouth. Her hands curled around his neck. Her short nails scraped lightly over his skin and a shudder ripped through him.
He released her belt loop, curved his hand over her high, tight butt. He widened his stance, urging her into his arousal. She shifted, straddling his thigh. Heat pulsed from the core of her and burned through his jeans, branding his leg, making him fevered and desperate.
Some voice, barely audible in the back of his head, shouted that he was an idiot, but the desire, the need drowned the sound.
His chest ached. He needed to breathe, but didn't want to stop kissing her. She made an impatient noise in the back of her throat, which fired something dark and savage inside him. He tore his lips from hers and she clutched at his shoulders, pulling him back hard, greedily, more tightly against her.
He nibbled along her jawline and down her neck.
She arched into him. "Yes, yes."
Her nipples were hard, drilling his chest now. He cupped her rear with both hands, anchoring her to him. His arousal strained against the fly of his jeans. Her thighs tightened around his leg and he felt a moist heat. Knowing she was as excited as he was nearly sent him over the edge.
"Sam," she gasped, her voice strained.
He heard the raw hunger, he felt it. He wanted to peel off her clothes and take her right here on the kitchen table. And even while his blood heated to boiling, some part of his brain registered what he was doing. And with whom. Dallas.
The memories razored in. Her sweet lips moved from his neck to his ear and all he could remember was how she'd hurt him a year and a half ago. He couldn't open that wound again. A tremor racked his body. His hands shook, but somehow he found the strength to grip her wrists, try to draw a full breath. His heart pounded as if he'd just sprinted up a hill.
Wanting to sink into her, knowing that would be the biggest mistake of all, he tightened his grip on her wrists. Finally, she drew back, her eyes opening, cloudy with a naked desire that nearly made his knees buckle. She swayed toward him.
"Stop." His voice sounded harsh, broken. He tried to breathe.
"What—" Realization bloomed in her eyes, then horror.
That pissed him off royally. He shoved his face into hers. "I'm not Brad. Do you hear me? And I'm not getting sucked in by you again."
"I don't know what I was thinking." She yanked away from him. "Obviously I wasn't."
"I was." His chest burned. He couldn't stop the words. He didn't want to. "I was thinking about how you planned to leave without telling me. How you used me."
She looked away.
"How you looked right through me after we made love."
She winced.
"We—made—love," he said slowly, precisely. Daring her to deny it. Daring her to walk out.
Hoping she would. Hoping she wouldn't. He wanted her to look at him.
She lifted her chin, her gaze slicing to his. "Stop."
"We did it. We can't change it."
"Don't act like you're proud of it. I know you're not."
Had he imagined that crack in her voice? "I'm not! It's just another scar, another mistake I made, another hurt against Brad."
She flinched, even though she didn't disagree with one thing he said. "Then stop talking about it—"
"We made love, but we're not going to do it again."
"I wasn't trying— I didn't think we should." She folded her arms across her chest, wishing she had on her gun, her coat, something to protect her from his searing gaze. She took a deep breath. "I kissed you and I'm not sorry."
"Was it what you wanted, what you thought? What you remembered? What were you trying to prove this time?"
"Nothing." Tears burned her throat, but she glared, anger and hurt merging inside her. "Not one thing."
"Think that's going to keep you warm at night? Do you ever lie in bed and remember that time? Snuggle up with that godforsaken memory? Memories, that's all we have. And damn sorry ones at that."
For one brief instant, he thought he saw the glimmer of a tear. He'd hurt her and he suddenly wanted to pull her to him, swear he hadn't meant anything he'd said. But he had to mean it. She was killing him, slowly chiseling away at his defenses, making him forget what she'd done. What they'd done.
And suddenly he was wasted, hollowed out by fatigue and sadness. He scrubbed at his face. "We've done all there is to do on this case. Go back to Denver. When I get something, I'll let you know."
"I'm not leaving until this killer is caught."
"You're only in the way here."
Hurt brightened her eyes, but she quickly masked it. "Forget it, Garrett. You're stuck with me until we get a killer."
"Kittridge!" he roared, his patience snapping. "I'm not kidding! I don't need you. We've gone over everything a million times. There's nothing else there!"