That she’d managed to get up without waking him was surprising. Then again, maybe not. After last night, perhaps he should be surprised he woke up at all. Despite how many times he’d turned to her, or more gut slamming, she to him, in between he’d slept better than he had in years.
The air was a bit chilly, since he’d forgotten to set the old baseboard heater last night. He’d forgotten everything last night except the woman in his arms and, eventually, in his bed. Small wonder. He’d felt things last night that were incredible, more incredible than believing he’d lived better than forty years before finding out they were possible.
He listened for a moment, thinking he might hear the shower running. And regretting that the stall was far too small to share. He barely fit in it by himself. The gouge on the forehead he’d garnered the first week he’d lived here had taken a long time to heal and it had been a bit embarrassing to admit he’d been whacked by his own showerhead.
The cabin was silent.
No sounds even from the kitchen, so the coffeemaker hadn’t drawn her. But her clothes, the ones he’d practically clawed off her, were gone. His own were now across the chair by the bed, not strewn across the great room along the path they’d followed to end up here. She must have picked them up. The thought made him edgy for reasons he couldn’t explain.
She couldn’t have just left—they’d come in his car. Not that walking five or so miles would stop Sloan Burke, not if she was determined. Did she want to avoid facing him this morning that much? He knew she had even less experience than he did in the proverbial morning after, but he also knew she had more nerve than he did. She must have; after all, she’d made the decision last night. And he knew on some deep level he couldn’t doubt that there wasn’t an ounce of run in her.
Belatedly it hit him that Sloan wasn’t the only one missing.
Cutter.
He rolled out and dressed hurriedly in the jeans that were on the chair. The moment he cleared the alcove wall, he saw the cabin was indeed empty.
“So she ran off with Cutter?” he mused aloud, his mouth quirking. No sooner had he said it than he heard a faint light laugh coming from outside.
He hadn’t really been worried, not deep down, so there was no explanation for the burst of relief he felt to hear her, to know that she was still here. But then, there was no explanation for a lot of things just now.
He went to the door and pulled it open. What he saw inexplicably tightened his chest. Sloan was throwing a ball for Cutter straight upward, and the nimble dog was catching it neatly, sometimes leaping high into the air as if the ball wasn’t coming down fast enough to suit him.
He walked quietly out onto the porch, leaned a shoulder against one of the rough wood poles that supported the roof. And watched.
Her hair was dampened from the heavy mist this morning, her shoes were soaking, and the ball the dog brought her again and again had to be wet itself, but she didn’t seem to care. She just laughed and crooned to the delighted animal and threw the now-more-gray-than-yellow ball again.
That she could be like this, after all she’d been through, was a testament to her character, he supposed. And in that moment he wanted nothing more than for this to go on forever. To stand here and watch woman and dog play with a sweet innocence he’d not seen in a very long time.
But the dog wasn’t his.
And despite last night, neither was the woman. He wasn’t fool enough to jump down that rabbit hole. She may have wanted, needed, the closeness, the joy they’d found last night, just as he had. But the bottom line hadn’t changed. This was a woman who came with ties, and he was a man with a job that too often destroyed them.
On the next midair catch, Cutter spun even as he landed and headed for the cabin at a run, wet, muddy ball firmly gripped in his teeth. He ran past Sloan and straight for Brett. She turned, a wide smile on her face, clearly as delighted as the dog was at the play. But something changed when she spotted him; something softer yet more heated came into her eyes as she looked at him.
He should have put a shirt on, he thought as her eyes ran over his bare chest. Then again, maybe not, he amended quickly as she followed the dog toward him, looking at him almost hungrily. Involuntarily his gut tightened; that look was like a caress.
“Sorry if we woke you,” she said as she came up beside him. “He just looked so hopeful holding that ball that I couldn’t say no.”
Cutter didn’t seem the least bit sorry. In fact, if a dog could look smug as he glanced at the two of them, he did. As if he’d orchestrated everything himself. As perhaps he had, Brett thought, remembering that first day the dog had arbitrarily chosen to make the turn that had led them to her.
“Don’t be. It was worth it to watch you two. Besides, I slept better than I have in ages.”
“But not much,” she said. Then color flooded her cheeks and she looked as if she regretted the words.
“Sometimes,” he said, “it’s not the quantity but the quality.” He reached out then, lifting her chin with a gentle finger. “And sometimes it’s both.”
She smiled. Lifted a hand to cup his. The heat of her seared him.
“Sloan, I—”
“Don’t.”
He stopped, his brows furrowing.
“Look,” she said, “I know this changes things. I know we’re in a new place and we both need to figure out what it is and isn’t. But not yet. Please?”
He drew back, feeling the oddest urge to grin at her as he said, “You’re asking me, the guy, to dodge the morning-after talk?”
That color rose in her cheeks once more. He resisted the temptation to tease her, because he very much wanted to do exactly what he’d said, dodge the morning-after talk. Because he couldn’t help thinking that as glorious as it had been, they’d only complicated things last night. Because they were both people with complicated lives and even more complicated pasts.
Not to mention that he suspected she was still very much in love with her husband. And that was something he understood too well. Even now he couldn’t think of Angie without a pang of loss and sadness.
But at least she hadn’t run. She hadn’t vanished without a word this morning, swept away on a tide of second thoughts. Which he seemed to be full of. He guessed that meant he was a real adult now, past the stage where he could be just happy about a night of hot, unexpectedly spectacular sex and just be hoping for a repeat rather than thinking about all this.
At least he knew Sloan wasn’t the type of woman who would make assumptions he wasn’t ready to live up to. She’d said it herself, that they needed to figure out what this was. And, perhaps more important, wasn’t. They had to—
The sound of his cell phone ringing cut off his thoughts. Probably just as well. He was getting damned close to having that morning-after talk with himself.
He went back inside, smothering a jolt of heat as he looked for his jacket, then found it where she had apparently hung it on the rack near the door. Sloan and Cutter followed him in, but she grabbed one of the towels he’d taken to keeping by the door and was drying the dripping dog off. She needed one herself, he thought, strangely pleased by the fact that she didn’t seem concerned about her own appearance before the welfare of the dog.
He pulled out the phone and glanced at the screen. It was a new number he hadn’t seen before, but it had his same prefix, so he tapped the talk button.
“Dunbar.”
“Detective!” The bluster was unmistakable. Harcourt Mead.
He glanced at Sloan, then walked into the bedroom alcove to cut down on any background noise from Cutter. Tried not to notice how wildly tangled the bed was. Thinking about last night and the incredible things that had happened between them wasn’t going to help, not when he needed to concentrate.
“Sir,” he said, able to put more respect in his voice when he could op
enly frown without being seen.
“Sorry to call you on Saturday, but Perkins tells me you did a great job yesterday clearing out that nuisance of a woman and her cohorts.”
It was all he could do to keep his tone steady as he fought the instant surge of protectiveness that hit him at the man’s denigrating words. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve gotten some new information on her. She could be a real problem. She’s caused trouble before, a lot of trouble.”
Brett felt a chill creeping over him. He’d discovered who she was. The big guy, he guessed. He’d known. He was more certain than ever now.
She’s caused trouble before, a lot of trouble.
Those were the two sides in what Sloan had done, those who thought she had caused trouble and those who thought she had done something heroic. “Has she?”
“My friend the governor is all too familiar with her.”
The governor? Not the big guy? Brett was getting that pit-of-the-stomach feeling that never boded well. And Sloan was right here now, looking at him. Mead? she mouthed. He nodded. He held up one finger, hoping she’d realize it meant he was fishing.
“She mentioned something about knowing the governor, even working with him.”
“Oh, that’s the front he has to put on, because she got some heavy hitters on her side somehow. The support of the military nut jobs.”
“She seems harmless enough,” he said. Unless she’s in bed with you, driving you crazier than you’ve ever been in your life.
“Don’t kid yourself. She’s a malicious piece of work. And I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d continue to keep an eye on her.”
“My pleasure,” Brett said, putting as much oil in his tone as he could manage. “Anything in particular you’re concerned about?”
“Just keep her out of county business. If you can convince her—whatever you have to do—to give up on this silly zoning thing, I’d consider it an even larger favor. And believe me, Detective, I know how to repay a favor.”
“Good to know, sir.”
His mind was racing as he ended the call. Things were starting to happen. He’d obviously succeeded in earning the man’s trust. He could use that. Mead had talked to the governor about Sloan. That made him uneasy.
But nothing made him more uneasy than the words that kept echoing in his mind repeatedly.
Whatever you have to do...
Sloan wasn’t just on their radar now.
She was a target.
Chapter 26
“They can’t do anything to me, not really. I’m too high profile, even after all this time.” Sloan sat on the edge of the bed as Brett put away the clothes she’d helped him out of last night. She tried to keep her mind on the matter at hand. And tried to convince herself that getting him out of his clothes again wasn’t the matter at hand.
“Even heroes die in ordinary accidents,” Brett answered, tossing socks on top of the damp towel she’d used on Cutter, who was sitting quietly now, watching them. “Or at least, that’s what we’re told they are.”
Lord, she even had him looking for conspiracies now. She felt ridiculous. But last night... She had no words for how she’d felt last night. She was afraid it must be showing in her face, afraid he’d read there that she’d like nothing more than to go right back to bed with him, and spoke hastily.
“You don’t really think they’d—”
“I’m not positive they wouldn’t,” he said. “A fine line, but one I’m not willing to ignore when your safety’s in question.”
It sounded so much something Jason would have said that it took her aback for a moment. And her own thought came back to her.
The only kind of man who stirred her.
And stir her he did. In ways she’d never realized she was capable of being stirred. With Jason, sex had been a warm, rocking, home-at-last kind of thing. With Brett Dunbar, it was nothing less than explosive. And telling herself it was that way because they’d both been alone for so long wasn’t very convincing. Maybe if they kept at it for a few weeks, took the edge off, then—
“Whatever you’re thinking, hang on to it.”
His voice was low, rough edged and sounded exactly as it had in the dark last night when he’d asked her to take the lead, to do whatever she wanted, whatever gave her pleasure. And she had, exploring his lean, rangy body until he was gasping under her hands and mouth.
She nearly moaned aloud at the memory.
“Damn,” he muttered. And reached for her.
* * *
He’d never been much for lying in bed all day, but he could learn. With this woman in his arms, he could learn. Would happily learn.
Sloan snuggled against him and let out a long, relaxed breath. It brushed over the skin of his chest, not quite a tickle, almost another caress. Then she went still except for an odd motion with her right foot.
“I think I found your phone.”
“Oh.” He’d dropped it on the bed when he’d finished with Mead, feeling oddly as if it were burning his fingers. She reached down and fumbled for a moment, then came up with the phone. It still felt warm, but differently, this time from her, and it made all the difference.
“Don’t look now, but you’re being watched.”
He drew his head back, giving her a puzzled look. Then he followed her gaze and saw Cutter, his chin resting on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on them intently. Ridiculously, he wondered what the dog thought of such human antics. At least he was sure human sex wasn’t an oddity to him. After all, he belonged to Quinn and Hayley.
He put down the phone beside him and lifted a brow. “What do you want, dog?”
“You mean you can’t read his mind?”
“That’s his trick, not mine,” he said, his mouth quirking. “And he’s uncomfortably good at it.”
“He shouldn’t want out again so soon, should he?”
“It’s not that look,” Brett said.
“So you can read his expressions, then.”
He glanced at Sloan, wondering if she was making fun. There wasn’t a trace of teasing in her own expression, so he took her seriously.
“I’m learning.”
Cutter reached out and nudged the phone with his nose. Sloan laughed. “He wants you to call someone?”
“I don’t know. Rafe, maybe?”
At the name, Cutter let out a soft woof.
“Okay, now I get it,” Sloan said, reaching out to ruffle the dog’s fur. “You’ve gotten some message on the ether? Or you can hear the phone ring before it does? Your people are about to call?”
The dog took no offense at her teasing tone and gave her a quick nuzzling but went right back to the phone.
“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Brett said drily, “and I’m supposed to call them.”
“Is there something you need to tell them?”
He started to shake his head but then remembered. “I do want to send them a photo. See if they can match it with a name.”
“Who?”
“The guy who was with Mead and Franklin. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him.”
“And you think they can?”
“Tyler has some pretty amazing face-recognition capabilities.” He gave her a sideways look. “And he doesn’t need a case as an excuse to run it.”
“And he doesn’t have to worry about stirring up a hornet’s nest in the process?” she asked.
“Exactly,” he said to the woman who knew a little something about stirring up more than just hornets. Dragons, maybe. And he wondered when he’d started thinking in such fanciful terms.
He called up the photos he’d taken of the men coming down the outside stairs from Mead’s office. He selected the clearest, closest one of the tall blond. He
was about to tap the mail option, figuring he’d send it to Rafe to forward to Tyler since he didn’t have the kid’s email or number, when Sloan shifted beside him to look. She went very still.
“You don’t need to send it,” she said, her voice low.
“What?”
“I know who it is.”
He stopped the motion of his finger to stare at her. He angled the phone to give her a better look. “This guy?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
She shifted her gaze to his face. “Governor Ogilvie’s bodyguard.”
Brett blinked. “The guy who threatened you?”
She nodded. “Ramsey Emmet. Believe me, dear Rams is not a face I’d forget.”
Brett looked back to the image on the small screen. He’d categorized him as a bully by body language and expression alone, so he supposed there was some satisfaction in learning he’d been right.
“So what would these guys have to talk about that’s imperative enough the governor’s consigliere comes to them?”
Sloan let out a sigh. “I’m trying not to fall prey to the idea that it’s all about me.”
He glanced at her. “As far as I’m concerned, it is, until I can prove differently.”
She gave him a smile that had him thinking about postponing any thought at all for a while. Again. He made himself look back at the photo.
“Nice trio,” he muttered. “Quite a power play we’ve got going here. One guy who knows he’s not important so tries to make everyone think he is, another who’s got a little power and uses it like a club, and a guy run by the most officially powerful man in the state.”
“Officially?” she asked, apparently caught by the qualification.
He shrugged. “If you go by efficiency and connections and getting things done, I’m not sure Quinn Foxworth isn’t really the most powerful guy around.”
Cutter made a soft whuffing sound at the name, while Sloan studied him for a moment. “I’d like to meet them sometime.”
Operation Power Play Page 18