The urge to take Savannah into his arms and comfort her was so strong that it held Sam in check for a moment. Overcoming it, he took the message from her and placed the paper back in the pocket. The entire package was going to the police lab for analysis.
Maybe this was the break they needed. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to set your mind at ease about Aimee,” he said to Savannah.
“A considerate kidnapper.” Rusty rolled the thought over in his mind. “Isn’t that some kind of contradiction in terms?”
It was, from where Sam was standing.
“It’s an oxymoron,” he agreed.
He looked at Savannah. She’d taken the sweatshirt out of the box again and was hugging it to her, as if by holding it, she was somehow holding Aimee again. Sam could feel his heart twisting in pain for her.
“Savannah, we need to give that to Underwood.” Gently, he coaxed the sweatshirt from her hands
“I know.” Her eyes were brighter when she raised them to look at him. Aimee was alive—that was all that mattered. That, and getting her back. “Elliott was right,” she realized suddenly.
“Yes, he was.”
For now—because Savannah had gotten the front seat on the roller coaster and just plunged down a steep incline before being dragged back up again—Sam let it alone. But there was something that didn’t sit right with him about the other man. Maybe a part of him didn’t like the closeness that appeared to exist between Savannah and Elliott. He didn’t know. He did know that he had no right to that feeling.
It lingered just the same.
Rusty stood waiting. “Still want me to canvas the area?”
“More than ever.” Sam closed the box carefully. Ready, he looked at Savannah, knowing there was no way that he could talk her into staying here until he got back. “Let’s go back to see Underwood.”
Ben Underwood dropped into a chair within the room he’d commandeered for his task force. He was exhausted and needed a quick break before meeting with the others to discuss further strategy.
Just five minutes, that’s all he wanted. Five quiet minutes to himself.
He needed more than ten times that, but he would settle for what he could get. In the last seven weeks, as summer came to the sunny coastal city, there had been what seemed a rash of abductions to shake them up.
Closing his eyes, Ben rocked back in the chair. It squeaked a protest, which he ignored. He couldn’t clearly remember when he’d slept last. Probably in another lifetime.
About as long as it’d been since he’d slept beside a warm body. His wife had long since left him—his own personal casualty in the city’s ongoing war against crime Ben sighed.
It irritated him beyond words that he didn’t have nearly as many men working these cases as he would have wanted.
Not enough men, not enough time. By all rights, it should have been a slogan written across each police blotter so the new recruits coming in would know exactly what they were up against.
They’d all learn in time.
It vaguely occurred to Ben that he was making noises just like Sam Walters had just before Sam had left the force. At the time, he’d thought that Sam was a fool to throw away his career so soon after earning his detective’s shield.
Now he wasn’t all that sure.
Opening his eyes, Ben took out his own shield. He cradled it in the palm of his hand and studied it thoughtfully.
He’d traded his life for a piece of tin—a piece of tin and all the things it represented. But once in a while, he actually solved a case, actually made someone feel safe. Actually foiled a crime before it had a deadly consequence.
Maybe it wasn’t such a bad trade after all.
A noise at the door caught his attention. Quickly pocketing his shield, Ben turned his chair to look toward the doorway. It surprised him to see that Sam was back.
Rousing himself, Ben got to his feet. “You again? You don’t stop hanging around here, people’ll starttalking about us being an item.”
The quirky smile faded from Ben’s face when he realized that Sam was carrying a large brown box and that Savannah had come in behind him. He couldn’t read her expression.
Because it was in his nature, he braced himself for the worst.
Aside from letting Underwood know about this latest development, the more Savannah thought about it, the more she saw no reason for giving him the sweatshirt. She wanted to hold on to it. Having it kept Aimee alive for her.
But she kept her questions to herself until after she and Sam were back in the parking lot in front of the police station. Underwood apparently didn’t like having his methods questioned. He seemed like a dedicated enough police detective, but it was clear that he viewed her as an intruder, and, as such, he wasn’t about to share anything with her.
That was for Sam to do.
“What good is sending Aimee’s sweatshirt to the lab?” she wanted to know. “You can’t get a decent set of prints off an article of clothing, can you?”
Taking her elbow, Sam ushered her toward his car. “Not usually, no, but there are other things they can find. Like samples of hair embedded in the weave, traces of things that might be in the area where they’re holding her. A trace of systemic insecticide she might have brushed against before the sweatshirt was taken from her, for instance, might mean she’s in or near a nursery of some sort. You’d be surprised what they can piece together in those labs.”
“So there is hope.” It was so slippery a thing, constantly sliding through her fingers. She needed to hear Sam reassure her. She was becoming increasingly dependent on his support. And him.
Chapter 11
Sam looked at her pointedly over the hood of the car. “There is always hope.” He got in, and after a beat, she followed suit.
He waited until she buckled up before starting the car.
Savannah felt tired and wired at the same time. They’d put in a long day, but like the situation she found herself in, there seemed to be no end in sight. She turned her head toward Sam. “So where do we go from here?”
“Right now, we go get something to eat.” He began to back out of the space. From the corner of his eye, he could see a protest forming on her lips. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”
Before he could finish backing out, his cell phone rang. He put his foot on the brake.
It seemed to Savannah that everything else stopped as well. The car, the air. Time. There could be a million reasons why his phone rang, a million people calling him. She could only focus on one.
She held her breath, waiting.
Sam had flipped the phone open and was holding it against his ear. “This is Sam.”
“Sam, I’ve got to knock off for now.” Rusty’s voice filled his ear. “But I can get started again early tomorrow morning. I don’t have classes until one.”
Sam glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Rusty had been at it approximately two hours. That wasn’t much time. “How many houses did you get to?”
Rusty paused to gauge. “About a third, I’d guess. I wrote all the addresses down.”
“Nothing?” Sam knew the answer before he asked, but there was always a chance that Rusty was saving this to be dramatic.
When he heard Rusty sigh, Sam knew the chance had faded away. “Nothing.”
“All right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Sam flipped the phone shut. Throughout the exchange, he’d felt Savannah’s eyes on him. “That was Rusty, he’s got—”
“Nothing, yes, I heard.” She took a deep breath as if she were bracing herself for another plunge down on the roller coaster. As soon as he finished backing out of the parking space, she turned to face him. “Be honest with me, Sam. What are the chances of finding her?” Savannah couldn’t bring herself to add the word alive.
But it haunted her.
Sam knew he could be brutally blunt and quote statistics, but what good would that do her? Besides, it wasn’t his way. For one thing, statistics didn’t take miracles into acc
ount. And he was a very firm believer in miracles. He had to be. The job wouldn’t have been bearable if he wasn’t.
Sam was careful to weave enthusiasm into his voice. “Still very good.” He took the car onto the road. From here, the drive could be either quaint or scenic. With her in mind, he chose quaint. She needed distractions. “What do you feel like?”
That was easy. “As if everywhere I turn, there’s ground glass.”
He hurt for her, and that wasn’t a good sign. It meant his objectivity was still slipping through his fingers, no matter how hard he tried to hold on to it. He was going to have to try harder.
Sam shook his head. “No, I mean what do you feel like having to eat?”
Her mouth felt like disembodied cardboard. The slight growl coming from her stomach might as well have belonged to someone else, for all the impression it made on her.
Savannah lifted one shoulder in a vague shrug. The last thing on her mind was food. “I don’t care. Surprise me.”
He thought of driving over to his favorite restaurant. It wasn’t far from here. Built to resemble a little grass hut, its best tables faced the ocean. But it didn’t take a detective to figure out that Savannah wasn’t up to sitting in a restaurant, exchanging small talk while she waited for a dinner that she didn’t want.
That left the ever-popular alternative. “How about takeout?”
The same uninterested shrug met his suggestion. “Sounds good.”
He stopped by a place he frequented where the portions were a decent size and the prices left something in your pockets for another time. He figured there had to be something here she liked. If not, he did. One way or another, the food wouldn’t go to waste.
Armed with a teeming large white bag with a red dragon breathing even redder fire embossed on the side, he returned to the car and drove Savannah to her house.
She hardly seemed aware of the trip.
He was worried about her.
Moving back and forth from the cupboard to the counter, Savannah put out several bowls and a handful of napkins. They’d gotten Chinese food. Because she’d left the choice entirely up to him, Savannah noticed he’d bought an assortment of entrees.
Unpacking the cartons, Sam looked at the napkins that she placed beside the bowls. “Expecting me to be sloppy?”
“I like to be prepared.”
He didn’t doubt it. He’d already gathered that Savannah King liked being in control of things, liked to be able to at least predict, if not actually call, the shots. Being in this sort of situation—both ends of the tunnel blocked off and no light coming in from anywhere—had to be torture for her.
He crumpled up the bag to throw away, and saw her reaching for the silverware. “No, leave them.”
“How are we supposed to eat this?” she asked.
“Why don’t you try using chopsticks?” On a whim, he’d picked up two sets at the restaurant. Holding them up now, he offered her a pair. She made no attempt to take them from him. “Have you ever eaten with them before?”
“No.” She eyed the long white sticks, and picked up a few more napkins. This was going to get messy. “All right,” she said gamely. “I’ll try them. I’m not really hungry anyway.”
He laughed at her expression. “It’s easier than you think.”
Sitting down, she pulled a carton of sweet-and-sour pork to her and emptied some into a bowl. “It would have to be.”
She picked up the chopsticks and tried to eat, but it was like trying to coordinate small knitting needles with a mind of their own. More than half a dozen tries later, every bit of food that she picked up still rained down to the bowl before it reached her lips.
With a sigh, she put the chopsticks down.
Sam had little success in hiding his amusement. “Looking at you, I would have thought you’d have much better hand-eye coordination.”
Savannah frowned at the offending utensils. “I do, when I’m not trying to eat with narrow knitting needles.”
“It’s all in the fingers,” he coached, holding up his own pair. Hungry, he’d made short work of his servings.
She raised an eyebrow at the statement. “And how many years in detective school did it take for you to come up with that?”
So, she still had a sense of humor. It was an encouraging sign.
“Wise guy.” Putting the chopsticks down, Sam picked them up again for her benefit, showing her just where to place her fingers. “You hold them like this.”
Attempts to mimic him failed. With a laugh, she surrendered and retired her chopsticks to the counter. “This is definitely not good for my self-esteem.”
“Can’t have that.” Sliding off his stool, Sam came around behind her. “Here, you do it like this.” He covered her fingers with his own and guided her through the steps in slow motion. “You pick up some rice—”
“And then you drop it,” she said, watching the grains fall.
“No, then you eat it. Try again.” This time, he was successful in getting a small bit of chicken to her mouth. His breath caught as he watched it slip between her lips. Heat came from nowhere, enveloping him like a quick blast from a suddenly opened furnace. Sam’s eyes met hers.
Something tightened in his gut.
He’d always put a lot of stock in intuition. And his was telling him to back away.
This time, he didn’t listen.
“And we have liftoff,” he pronounced in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
The smile on Savannah’s lips melted slowly as triumph gave way to feelings that had nothing to do with mastering chopsticks.
Without a word, Savannah placed the chopsticks on the table and turned her stool so that she was directly facing him.
Sam was afraid to take the first step.
Afraid not to.
He knew that once he did, there would be no road to lead him back. No bridge to shimmy across on his belly and deny that any of this had ever happened.
There would be only forward. And forward was a place without parameters, without borders. An unknown place.
It was best to stay clear.
But forward beckoned to him with a fierce pull that he found impossible to resist.
And so he didn’t.
Sam took Savannah into his arms and kissed her. The tangy taste that seeped into his consciousness had nothing to do with the small, opened cartons that stood littering her kitchen counter. It was something that he knew belonged to her alone. A way to brand her in his mind.
If his mind was ever operational again.
A tangle of emotions swept through him—emotions he was not up to dealing with. Emotions he didn’t think he’d ever have to deal with again. Desire, passion, urges—all the things he’d kept so well under wraps were now trying to burst free.
Were bursting free.
It was as if every semblance of control was being ripped out of his hands, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
But if he couldn’t, she’d have to. Drawing back, Sam looked at her. “You’re making it very hard to remember all the rules.”
She liked that. Jarred had given her flowery words to make her head spin Sam was giving her something better. He was giving her his honesty. Somewhere in the recesses of that part of her heart that still beat, that still clung to hope, she’d always known that would be her undoing.
An honest man.
“Just for tonight—” she raised her eyes to his “—couldn’t you forget that there are rules?”
That was just the trouble. He was already forgetting. Forgetting everything except the way she heated his blood, the way she made him want to make love to every inch of her.
The way she looked at him took his very breath away. He pressed a kiss to her throat, to the outline of her ear, to her neck. When she twisted against him, a soft, surrendering moan escaping her lips, Sam felt his pulse jump.
“Are you sure?” he whispered into her hair, praying that she’d answer “yes” If she drew away from him now,
at this last possible moment, he wasn’t sure that he could stand it.
That’s what they have cold showers for. The thought echoed through his brain, mocking him.
There wasn’t enough cold water in the world.
But Savannah didn’t draw away. Instead, she turned her face up to his again, her answer in her eyes. Very slowly, he ran his hands along her body, caressing her. Memorizing her.
He hadn’t realized just how beautiful she was—and how very much he wanted her—until this minute.
“I’m sure,” she whispered. The words feathered along his skin, tantalizing him. Breaking the very last strand of control he had left to reel himself in.
This couldn’t go anywhere, he told himself. Wouldn’t go anywhere. He couldn’t do this...
Without another word, her breath warming his skin, he brought his mouth down to hers.
One kiss flowered into another and then another, each with a little more passion, a little more eagerness, than the last. His pulse began to accelerate, the rhythm soon rivaling the engine of a jet.
The depth of his desire surprised him.
The magnitude of her response surprised him more.
With each kiss, Savannah became more pliant, more giving. More hungry. As he molded her to him, she sealed herself against him, her arms twisting about his neck, her mouth questing his.
It was a dance, just inches short of a competition. For every step he took, every movement he made, she matched him and did one better. Exciting him. Exciting herself.
It was as if, for this one magic night, two kindred souls had somehow managed to find one another in a world full of lost souls.
He couldn’t get enough of her. Couldn’t touch her enough, kiss her enough, breath in her scent enough. It was as if he’d taken leave of any senses he’d ever professed to have.
And he didn’t care. All that mattered was making love with her. Pleasuring her.
Maybe this was crazy, Savannah thought, but at this moment she desperately needed crazy. Needed to have her mind swirl and her feelings chum. Needed not to think at all, but only to feel. To stop taking one step after another and finally feel the ground beneath her feet, the sky above her head. If only for one moment, one hour. One night.
A Hero for All Seasons Page 13