Long Time Gone: Konigsburg, Book 4

by Meg Benjamin

  Nah!

  She reached for his belt buckle as he unfastened her bra in front.

  He caught her around the waist again, pulling her tight against him, her breasts pressed to his chest, so that she felt crinkling hair rubbing her nipples.

  “Slow down, Bambi,” he murmured, “we’ve got all night.”

  Morgan stared up at him, the fog in her brain suddenly clearing. All night. She had him all night.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Trouble?”

  She shook her head. “No. Anything but.”

  He gave her a slow grin that made her want to pull him down on the floor where he stood. “Good. That’s just the way I feel.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Erik sat cross-legged in Morgan’s bed, eating mango ice cream out of the carton. Morgan lay stretched beside him on her back, her head resting on her folded hands. He tried not to notice how that position raised her breasts and made her nipples look tantalizingly hard. She was watching him, those luminous brown eyes running quickly over his chest.

  She looked hungry. He hoped it wasn’t just for food.

  “Want a bite?” He extended his spoon, careful not to drip melted ice cream on her belly.

  She grinned at him. “You mean ice cream?”

  Erik felt a quick jolt of heat, blood running straight to his groin. The woman was pure aphrodisiac. “Unfair. You’re supposed to give me time to recover here.”

  After what they’d been doing for the past hour, he’d half-expected her to drop into an exhausted nap. Hell, he should have needed a little rest too. Instead, he could already feel the arousal beginning again.

  “How long does it take you to recover, Chief? Personally, I’m feeling fine.”

  He squinted at her. “You look overheated to me.” He turned the spoon so that it dribbled a few drops of melted ice cream over her navel.

  Morgan arched her back, squeaking. “Geez, that’s cold! At least you could have warned me.”

  Erik placed the ice-cream carton on the bedside table next to the plate of cheese and fruit from the tasting room refrigerator. Handy thing, tasting rooms.

  “Let me take care of that.” He leaned down, running his tongue into her navel. She tasted of cream, salt and woman, with hints of fruit. “Nice vintage you got here, ma’am.”

  “Fair is fair.” She sounded slightly breathless. “I get to dribble some on you, too.”

  He handed her the carton. “Go to it.”

  Morgan pushed his shoulder lightly until he was lying flat, her hand cool against his skin. Then she picked up the spoon. “Let me think…”

  He watched her hand move over his stomach, silver spoon flashing in the lamplight, then felt an icy thread from his breastbone to his lower abdomen. A moment later her tongue rasped down his body, turning ice to fire.

  Every muscle in his torso went rigid. Recovery time was officially over. “Holy crap!” he gasped.

  She grinned at him. “Definitely seems to be some revival going on here, Chief.”

  He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her down on her back again, reclaiming the carton and spoon. Scooping up some melted cream, he held the spoon above her left breast for a moment, until he had her complete attention. “Ready?”

  Her lips tightened. She nodded.

  He turned the tip of the spoon down. Peach-colored cream dribbled in a spiral around her areola.

  Morgan sucked in her breath with a hiss.

  Erik leaned over, taking the areola into his mouth. His tongue slid across beaded skin and a nipple as hard as a diamond. He sucked, tasting her again, feeling her fingers dig into his shoulders. He was rock hard already, but he had a feeling she was just getting started.

  Time to suck it up, so to speak. He reached toward her hips, only to find himself rolling onto his back.

  Morgan pushed hard against his shoulder. She moved to straddle the top of his thighs, her legs brushing the underside of his shaft. Curls danced around her face in wild disarray, a sexy, brandy-haired Harpo Marx. She pulled the carton and spoon out of his hands. And then she was dribbling ice cream across the top of his groin.

  He caught his breath. “Watch it, there, Bambi,” he croaked, “that’s cold. You don’t want to undo all that recovery, do you?”

  She looked down at his rampant cock, grinning. “You don’t look in any danger of wilting, Chief.”

  Well, damn. He felt a sudden thread of cold against the top of his pubic hair and braced himself. Then her mouth was sliding down his shaft, her tongue encircling the head, running down the cleft. Her cool hands cupped his balls, while her warm mouth engulfed him.

  Erik dug in his heels and gritted his teeth. If he didn’t want to explode, he should probably think about something else.

  Right. Like that was even a possibility.

  “Morgan,” he gasped. He could feel his body tightening, feel himself at the edge, moving closer and closer to the cliff. “Sweet Jesus, please…”

  She raised her head again, her smile an impish v. “Begging?”

  He blew out a breath. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Good.” Morgan sat up slowly, batting his hands away as he reached for her. “Just wait.”

  “Wait?” he panted.

  She pulled a condom off the bedside stand and sheathed him, before raising her body slightly. After a moment, she lowered herself over his cock, inch by agonizing inch.

  He suddenly had an idea of what Chinese water torture must have felt like. He closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

  Inch by inch by inch…

  “Morgan, dear lord above!” he groaned.

  He felt her palms brace against his chest, and then she was moving up, then down, still slowly, her inner muscles pulling him in and releasing him as she moved.

  “Witch,” he gasped.

  “Come on, Chief,” she whispered. “Hang in there. Make me proud.”

  He slid his fists into her hair, pulling her mouth down to his, ramming his tongue deep, in and out in the same rhythm she moved against him.

  She moaned against his mouth, her hips moving more quickly.

  He dropped his hands to her buttocks, squeezing.

  She moaned again. “If you keep doing that you’ll mess up my concentration.”

  “God forbid.” He slid his hands around her thighs and between them, rubbing his thumb across her clit and downward to press against the place where they were joined.

  She cried out, her body spasming around his shaft. Erik rolled her gently onto her back, thrusting home as he moved above her again. Her heels pressed against his buttocks, her feet sliding down his legs. Then he was coming, his body thrusting deep within hers, release like a wave rising up his backbone.

  His breath came in gasps, his body moving without any rhythm, wild thrusts into her heat and wetness until his bones seemed to liquify. He collapsed over her in a loose heap, so limp he could hardly leverage himself off her body before he crushed her.

  After what seemed like a long time, he was able to pull himself up so that he could drop beside her and feel the cool night air against his damp chest. “Holy mother of god.”

  After a moment, she snuggled against him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Still hungry?”

  He had enough breath left to laugh—barely. “No ma’am. I do believe you’ve taken care of it.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “For the time being, that is.”

  At eight the next morning, Erik walked into the station to find that Helen and Nando had beaten him there. Nando sat at his desk tapping at the keyboard of his computer.

  Technically, it wasn’t his desk or his computer. It was a desk that was available to any of the police officers who needed a desk. And since there were only three computers—Helen’s, Erik’s and everyone else’s—that meant any officer who wanted to use a computer had to use that one, unless they wanted to risk Helen’s wrath.

  Only a fool wanted to risk Helen’s wrath.

  But Erik had banned Ham Linklatter fro
m touching the computer without supervision after he’d almost wiped out a year’s worth of data. Peavey was always afraid he’d screw something up and just used it for occasional word processing. The desk and computer were Nando’s whenever he was in the office.

  Erik knew he looked sort of rumpled—he still hadn’t had time to get his other uniform back from the cleaner’s. A button was missing on his shirt and his pants needed pressing. He suspected Nando was hiding a smirk.

  Helen gave him a once-over and raised her eyebrows. “Got the paperwork on the Wine and Food Festival for you to look over.”

  Erik frowned. “What Wine and Food Festival?”

  “The one at the end of the month.” She shrugged. “So far as I know, that’s the only one there is.”

  He took the papers from her hand, glancing through them, his face grim. “Doesn’t this town ever have a month when there isn’t a festival?”

  Nando grinned. “Better hope not, Chief. We’re in the festival business here. A month without a festival is a month without suckers, also known as tourists.”

  Erik sighed. “Is this another one like the biker rally?”

  Nando shook his head. “More people but quieter. Wine drinkers don’t usually end up barfing in the parking lots or picking fights, and it’s only one afternoon, not the whole weekend. Plus it’s all in the park—food booths, wine tent, bandstand. People mostly sit around and get mellow.”

  “Everybody’ll need to be on duty, then.” Erik rubbed the back of his neck. “More overtime.”

  Helen gave them both an evil grin. “Pittman’s gonna shit blood.”

  “Don’t tell me. Olema didn’t police it, right?”

  Helen shrugged. “He sent Linklatter over. Same thing, I guess.”

  Briefly, Erik wondered if the festival honchos had bribed Brody like the bikers had. He’d have to ask around—his brothers most likely wouldn’t know, but Nando might be able to find out from his winery contacts.

  “Low-stress job, Chief.” Nando grinned again. “Lots of people sitting around in the sun, listening to Frankie Belasco play his accordion and drinking wine.”

  Erik dropped the papers back into his inbox. “You find anything more about dumpers?”

  Nando grabbed a stack of printouts. “Yeah, Texas Commission on Environmental Quality has a bunch of stuff. There’s a number to call.”

  “Good.” Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve got another one.”

  Ciro demonstrated his command of both Spanish and English obscenities when Morgan showed him the dump site.

  “I called TCEQ. They’re supposed to be here later this morning.” She stared down at the black oval, telling herself it hadn’t gotten any bigger overnight while she was frolicking with Erik.

  Ciro’s lips thinned. “You should have asked me first.”

  “Sorry. I thought we’d want them here ASAP. Wasn’t that a good idea?”

  He shrugged. “The more people who know, the more likely news is to get out. Might make customers think twice about our wine.”

  She took a deep breath. One problem at a time. “We might need to test the grapes, make sure they haven’t been affected.”

  His scowl was instantly darker. “Nothing’s wrong with the damn grapes, Morgan.”

  “I know. Probably that’s true. But if we have the official okay, we can counter any bad publicity.” She tried to keep her voice soothing.

  He raised an eyebrow. “And if we don’t get the okay?”

  “If there’s a problem with the grapes, we’ll have to destroy them, won’t we?” Morgan felt her hands balling into fists at her sides. “We can’t take any chances with turning out bad wine.”

  “Right. You’d know all about that. You’re a goddamn winemaking expert.” Ciro’s mouth was a hard line. He turned on his heel and stalked back toward the winery.

  He was going to call her father. And Dad would climb all over her for this even though she had nothing to do with it. And it didn’t matter a damn what she thought about any of it.

  Morgan rubbed the back of her neck again, trying to block the headache that was starting at the base of her skull. She wondered idly if a good rainstorm would take care of all the problems. Wash it all downhill for somebody else to deal with.

  Right, Morgan. Very responsible of you.

  She dropped her hands, suddenly. When had the last rainstorm come? Surely the dumping had to have been after that. If they’d had rain, the ground wouldn’t still be so black, would it? If they knew when it had rained maybe they could pinpoint the time the dumper had been on the property. And whether it had really been two nights ago.

  “Morgan?” Kit stood on the stairs outside the tasting room. “Phone call for you. I think it’s your dad.”

  Morgan sighed. Oh yeah, this day was going to be a beaut.

  At least her father listened quietly while she explained the situation, then told her to call him as soon as the TCEQ had left. He also told her he’d be driving to the winery by the end of the week.

  Of course he would. Obviously, she’d reached the tipping point. Her father wouldn’t stay away any longer, wouldn’t leave her to make any more mistakes. Morgan couldn’t decide if she was resentful or glad. Maybe some of both.

  The TCEQ team arrived an hour later. Andy Wells, sturdy and blonde, like somebody’s mom, took soil samples. She gave Morgan a reassuring smile. “We’ll get these analyzed. It’ll take a little more time than the water samples from the stock tank did. My guess is, though, you’ve got the same mixture as Mr. Powell—it smells the same.”

  Morgan leaned down and sniffed the soil, then stood up quickly. “Pew! Don’t know how I missed it.”

  “The smell dissipates. Eventually.” Wells began packing up her equipment.

  Morgan took a deep breath. “What do we do now? Should we have the grapes tested?”

  Wells shrugged. “If you want—for your own peace of mind. But I’d be very surprised if you find anything. The ditch is downhill from the vineyard, so unless you’re pumping water uphill, the ground water should flow away from the field.”

  “What about cleanup?”

  “That’s tougher. You’ll probably have to have this excavated, depending on what we find when we test. There are grants available to help with the expense—you won’t have to pay for it all yourselves.”

  Morgan’s lips thinned. “Good news, bad news I guess.” Her hands clenched at her sides again. “God, I’d like to know who did this to us.”

  Wells nodded. “Believe me, you’re not alone. When we find this guy, we’ll throw the book at him.”

  Hilton Pittman sat in his office pretending to do paperwork. In reality, he was thinking about the police problem. Hell, in reality, he was thinking about Erik Toleffson. Correction—he was thinking about how to get rid of Erik Toleffson.

  Sheriff Friesenhahn probably fell all over himself laughing whenever he thought about how he’d dropped Toleffson on Konigsburg. Of course, it wasn’t like Hilton had had much choice—the city council was clearly not ready to accept Ham Linklatter as the new chief of police.

  Hilton sighed. Linklatter might be a moron, but he followed orders just fine. Toleffson didn’t appear to take orders from anybody. Hilton had to figure out some way to get rid of him, preferably without waiting through the entire two-month probationary period. Preferably, in fact, before the Wine and Food Festival. Firing Erik Toleffson within the next couple of weeks would definitely make Hilton’s summer.

  The office door swung open, and Hilton frowned. His secretary, Doralee, really needed to learn how to knock. Somebody else who didn’t follow orders.

  “Mr. Pittman, Mr. Powell wants to see you.”

  Hilton frowned harder, trying to remember if Powell had contributed to his campaign. Before he could check the contributors list that Brinkman had prepared for quick reference, Powell barreled past Doralee.

  “Goddamn it, Pittman, you got to do something about that pissant Toleffson!”

  Hilton sat
up straight, instantly giving Powell his full attention and his most dazzling smile. “Come on in, Joe. Tell me all about it.”

  At noon, Erik snuck home and changed his uniform. Clara DeWitt at the laundry told him she could sew the button back on his shirt, which meant he’d at least have a change of clothes later in the week. He probably needed a third uniform, but he hated to spend the money until he had the job for real.

  In two months. More like one, when you considered time served.

  For a few moments, Erik allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to be the full-fledged chief of police in Konigsburg. He could buy a house, settle down. Or something.

  He shook his head. Two months. No telling if they’d keep him on after that. And if they didn’t, he’d have to move on to someplace else. Because there was no way in hell he was serving under Ham Linklatter.

  Someplace else. The chief in Davenport had told him he could come back anytime. Back to Iowa. Back to what he used to be. He shook his head. One problem at a time.

  He checked over the paperwork for the Konigsburg First Crush Wine and Food Festival. At least the winery association was paying for private security in the wine tent. He and his men would have to keep an eye on the rest of the park and the downtown traffic, but the rent-a-cops could take care of any drunks at the source.

  Erik stared down at the permits, wondering if he could make up an excuse to go out to Cedar Creek. He’d left Morgan early in the morning, when both of them were still half-asleep. Maybe he could take her to dinner at Brenner’s or something.

  Loud voices from the outer office snapped him out of it. He stepped through the door to see Joe Powell and Helen, more or less nose-to-nose.

  “And I say I gotta see the chief now,” Powell was snarling. “You tell him to get on out here.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Powell?” Erik kept his voice quiet. It usually made people drop their own voices down an octave so that they could hear him.

  Powell’s face was the color of a wicked sunburn. His jaw looked like granite. “Nothing you can do for me, goddamn it! You already done it!”