by Jaci Burton
"Yeah."
"I pulled his file and brought it into this case, claiming his murder was exactly the same type, in the same location."
"Do you think it's a good idea to bring that connection into play?"
"If I didn't, someone else would. And then I'd be asked why I didn't bring it up since I had been questioned about his murder."
"You could always say you were sixteen at the time and you forgot."
She shot him a look. "That's right. I forgot the time I was questioned about a murder. Come on, Dante. I'm a detective. It's my job to make that connection. Especially having been a part of the file."
He sighed. "I guess you're right. I don't like it, though. It drags the past into the now."
She shrugged. "Unavoidable. It's already here."
He laid his arm over her chair, the heat from his body making her all too aware of him.
"That must have been hard on you, having to answer questions, pretending you had no idea what had happened that night."
She shrugged. "I got through it."
"I'm sorry--again--for you having to do it alone."
"I wasn't alone. My dad helped me through it."
"I'm glad he was there for you."
Because I wasn't were the words he hadn't said. But they'd already been said before. No reason to keep repeating them.
She went back to trying to focus.
"Anything in particular you're looking for?"
"Not really. I talked to my dad today. He said to pull the files and look again."
Dante leaned back in the chair. "What else did your dad have to say?"
She lifted her gaze to Dante's. "About the murders, or about you coming back?"
"Both, I guess."
"He was surprised to find out you were here, agreed the timing of the murders might have something to do with your return. The killer might have wanted us all here at the same time, and that's why he waited for you to come back."
Dante nodded.
"He also thinks maybe I missed something the first time I looked at Tony Maclin's file, so I should look again."
"I can't imagine you overlooking anything."
She shrugged. "It's possible. I wasn't investigating a case the first time I took a look at it. Or the second, or the third. I kept going back to it, but it's not like I went over it with a fine-tooth comb. It was more of a cursory overview. Morbid curiosity, you know?"
And she'd never really given Maclin's file the detailed look she needed to give it, because every time she opened it up it reminded her of that night.
"Yeah." He shifted his focus to the file folders spread out on the table. "Okay, so what should we be on the lookout for?"
"I don't know. Anything that might give us a clue or help us with the current case. Something the original investigators might have missed. Interviews, photos, evidence, something I might have missed when I looked at it."
He pulled a folder and opened it up. "Let's start digging."
They both went silent and perused the files. She opened the envelope containing the crime scene photographs and wrinkled her nose.
Looking at Maclin's bloody, beaten body again conjured up memories she'd tried so hard to eradicate. It was like being back there again. She could still smell the humid night, the blood, could still feel his hands on her, touching her, ripping at her clothes.
Try as she might, she couldn't suppress the shudder.
Dante glanced over. "Hard to look at?"
"Not really."
"Liar."
She shot him a glare. "Hard for you to look at?"
"No. He deserved what happened to him. I don't feel remorse. But I wasn't a victim that night. You were. It's easy for me to look back at that night and feel nothing but hatred for him, and sadness for what you had to go through."
She studied him, his relaxed posture, the lack of tension on his face and in his body. He wasn't lying. Then again, in his line of work he was probably good at masking his true feelings. "He wasn't the last person you killed."
He didn't flinch. "No. And you've seen a lot of dead bodies since Tony Maclin," he reminded her. "Yes."
"So just look at those photos like any other crime scene. Let it go, Anna."
He was right. She had to take the emotion out of it--had to take herself out of it and look on Tony Maclin as just another victim.
Even though she'd been his victim, even though he'd tried to rape her, would have likely killed her. She stared down at the photos of his body and felt the familiar stirrings of tension swirling around her.
She closed the file. Just as she had every other time she'd gone through it, looking at it without really seeing what was in there because it reminded her too much of that night.
"Useless," she whispered.
"Maybe you should let me look through these instead," Dante said.
She shook her head. "I should be able to do this."
She hated feeling weak. Twelve years later and Tony Maclin still held her prisoner. Even in death he still terrorized her.
"You can't help but feel close to his case. He traumatized you. Are you supposed to forget it ever happened?"
"I want to. I want to be over it. I want it to not bother me anymore." She tilted her head toward him. "For God's sake, Dante, it's been twelve years."
"And you still carry a scar--not just psychological, but an actual, physical scar--from what he did to you. I don't think there are timelines for just getting over that."
She turned away from him. "There should be. Many women get over attacks like that and go on to be--"
"What? Normal? You think you're not normal?"
She snorted. "Those panic attacks I have are totally normal."
"Face it, babe. You didn't exactly choose the best career to distance yourself from the dregs of humanity. You remind yourself every day of the evil out there. Facing down rapists, drug dealers and killers isn't exactly the best way to get over trauma, ya know?"
She allowed a smile. "You may have a point."
"And you work yourself almost nonstop, so it's not a surprise you're always so tense. You don't give yourself time to relax."
She shrugged. "I figured if I worked all the time, I wouldn't have to think about it."
"Sometimes you have to face it. It's the only way to let go of it."
"I like my method better."
She lifted her shoulders, then dropped them again, the tension mounting.
"Yeah, your way is working great. I'll bet you're just a bundle of knots back here."
He slid his fingers into her hair. Her ponytail holder had started to bother her, so she'd taken it out and slid it on her wrist, leaving her hair loose. His fingers running rampant along the back of her neck and along the tenderness of her scalp was not good for her concentration. Not that she was really focusing on the Maclin files anymore anyway.
He rubbed the base of her neck, the area that was always so sore.
Oh, yeah. Right there. She dropped her chin to her chest and gave up. He swept her hair over one shoulder and stood, moving behind her to use both hands now, digging into those tight spots with his thumbs.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No. Harder."
"Your muscles are like bricks here."
"Tell me about it."
He alternated between hard and soft, and she yielded to the mastery of his hands. She was such a sucker for a good neck massage. Dante had strong, firm hands, and he didn't seem to be in any hurry to stop.
Most men couldn't handle her tough muscles, stopping after only a few minutes and flexing their fingers as if her muscles had caused them pain.
Wimps.
Dante kept going, digging at the tight spots until they melted under his sweetly brutal assault. He knew exactly how far to push, how much pain she could take, when to back off and move somewhere else. He never stopped. She almost felt guilty.
Almost.
"You a licensed massage therapist or something? You're really good at that."
/>
He laughed, the deep sound vibrating through his fingertips and skittering through her nerve endings to all her sensitive feminine parts.
"No. You have a high pain tolerance."
"Mmm. Lucky me."
She wondered how long she was going to let this go on before she put a stop to it. The Maclin files lay scattered across her kitchen table, forgotten. She really should get back to--
But then he hit a tight knot and dug at it, and she melted.
"Oh, that's really good, Dante. God, your hands are like magic. Right there."
She heard his harsh intake of breath and stilled. "What?"
"You do realize that's sex talk."
She laughed. "Sorry."
He moved his hands across her muscles again. "I don't think you're sorry at all. I think you're trying to torture me."
"You keep rubbing my shoulders like that and I'm likely to start moaning."
"You start moaning and I won't just be rubbing your shoulders."
She enjoyed this easy banter, especially the sexual undertones. And what was wrong with that? They knew each other. She probably knew Dante better than any other man she'd actually had sex with.
Maybe it was time to find out what she'd been missing all these years.
His touch glided across her neck and down to her shoulders, his fingertips light now instead of firm. Admittedly, she liked the butterflies dancing around in her stomach.
If their relationship came with a past, so what? He had to know they had no future. She knew it. He belonged...somewhere else, was just hanging around because of the case. When it was over and they caught the killer, he'd be on his way, and she'd go back to her life the way it was.
But the thought of exploring with him was tempting. It was a new feeling, one rich with promise.
She liked his hands on her, and wanted more than just a back rub.
She tilted her head back to peer up at him, not at all shocked to see the dark desire in his eyes as he stared down at her.
Nor was she surprised when he cradled her head in the palm of his hand and bent to take her lips in a soft, searing kiss. She melted into the kiss, losing herself as his lips swept across hers, his tongue sliding inside to claim hers.
He moved to the front of her chair, lifting her to draw her against him. Plastered against his hard, hot body, she could only moan and clutch his shirt while his hands roamed over her back, his fingers tangling in her hair to angle her head for a deeper kiss.
His passion ignited hers and she wanted to get closer to him. Standing wasn't going to cut it. She broke the kiss, shocked at the raw hunger she saw in his eyes, at the same time needing to see it there, desperate to know what she felt wasn't one-sided.
"Come on," she said, sliding her hand in his so she could take him to her bedroom.
He tugged on her hand to pull her back. "No. Right here. I've been thinking a lot about right here."
He would, wouldn't he? The thought of it shot her desire up to the ceiling.
He lifted her and placed her on the kitchen counter, jerking her tank top out of the waistband of her shorts. She lifted her arms and he drew the shirt over her head, his mouth coming down on hers at the same time his hands pressed against the bare flesh of her belly. Her abdomen quivered at his touch, the idea of surrendering totally to him both thrilling and utterly terrifying.
Oh, no. That wasn't going to work. She had to touch him, had to feel his skin, too, had to take control. She pulled at his shirt and he lifted it out of his pants.
She took a moment to appreciate his broad shoulders, lean waist and tanned skin, then reached out to let her fingertips wander over his chest where a fine sprinkling of dark hair was scattered, then disappeared, only to reappear lower by his belt buckle.
She lifted her gaze to his. He wasn't smiling, his eyes a half-lidded dark, stormy blue, his jaw clenched. She knew he was at the boiling point, which made her want to push his buttons. She reached for his belt buckle and pulled the flap out.
"Later," he growled and pulled her to edge of the counter before cupping the back of her neck and putting his mouth on hers again.
She gasped at the contact of her skin to his that was both joy and shock. She hadn't been close to a man in so long, and never one who exuded as much passion as Dante. She purposely chose men she could dominate so she could set the pace, so she could be in control. With Dante, she knew that wouldn't be the case.
She'd have to surrender, and she'd never done that before.
Could she do it?
Dante released Anna from the kiss.
God, she had a stranglehold on his body, and damn if it took every ounce of restraint to hold back, when what he really wanted was to strip her naked and be inside her right now.
But while he saw passion flare hot in the honey-brown depths of her eyes, he also saw a flicker of fear, and that meant he was going to have to slow things down. Because she could put on whatever show of bravado or tough act she wanted to, but he knew better. He felt the tension when he kissed her. He'd been with enough women in his lifetime to read the easy yield versus the hesitant one.
Anna was hesitant, and that meant things weren't a go.
She might think she was ready, and maybe her body was willing, but her mind hadn't yet come along for the ride.
He laid his hands on the counter on either side of her thighs and took a deep, cleansing breath, then raised his gaze to hers and offered up a smile, one that let her know how much he wanted her. Because he really did want her. His cock was hard and his whole body ached for her. But this wasn't about what he wanted.
She arched a brow. "You're kidding, right? I'm half-naked here, Dante."
He took a long, slow look at her, from her messed-up hair that made her look sexy as hell, to her lips, swollen from his kisses, to her bra that barely covered her spectacular breasts, to her flat belly and those barely there shorts and her oh-so-hot long legs.
"You're still dressed. All the important parts of you, anyway. I think we need to talk about this before we jump into having sex."
"Are you fucking kidding me? Isn't that usually the woman's line?" She grabbed her tank top and pushed him away, leaping off the counter at the same time.
He turned. "Anna."
"Don't. Just don't." She pulled her shirt back on, then grabbed his and shoved it in his chest. "You're angry."
She whirled around to face him. "You think? I've just been rejected."
"I didn't reject you. I just want to talk."
"Manspeak for I-don't-think-you're-hot-enough-to-fuck." She stormed off into the living room.
He laughed and followed. "That's not what I said. You are definitely hot enough to fuck."
She stopped in the middle of the room and narrowed her gaze at him.
Okay, maybe laughing had been the wrong move. Good thing her gun was in the other room. Then again, she did have that hidden Glock in here somewhere.
"Don't you dare laugh about this. You don't get a woman all hot and bothered, then say you want to talk. Are you some kind of moron?"
"I guess I am. Look, you seemed tense."
She threw her hands in the air. "Of course I was tense. You were kissing and touching me and I was turned on like crazy. Also, I haven't had a decent orgasm in like six freaking months. Are you reading my lips here? Six. Months. You'd be tense, too, wouldn't you?"
Dante gaped at her. Anna threw him a murderous glare.
"Are all men this dense or just you? Jesus, Dante, do I have to draw you a road map to my vagina, or are you grabbing a clue?"
He finally lost the smile. "I'm beginning to."
"Good. So can we get down to the sex so we can get back to work, or do we just want to scrap the whole idea?"
She wanted to get it over with? Really? Was sex a chore for her, a task to get through so she could get back to the exciting part of her life--her job?
Who the hell had she been having sex with, anyway? Was it the men she'd been with, or was it the past that h
ad gotten her all screwed up?
This was going to take some finessing, and a hell of a lot of patience.
"Anna."
She narrowed her gaze at him as he approached.
"What?"
"You see sex as a battle to be won."
She backed away. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" He caught up to her, took her hand and pulled her toward the sofa, dragging her on top of him. She went willingly, but damn she was stiff as a board.
"It's not ridiculous. You're tense. All my hard work massaging those tight muscles just went down the drain."
She sat astride him, pressing her hands on his chest--keeping distance. "That's because you pissed me off. We were doing fine in the kitchen--until you stopped."
"Because I could tell you weren't ready."
She cocked a brow. "Really. And how could you tell?"
"It was in your eyes. Your body was saying yes, but the rest of you wasn't on board."
She fisted his shirt in her hands. He wasn't sure if she was frustrated, turned on or preparing to take a swing at him.
"Psychoanalyzing me, Renaldi?"
"No, just reading some clear signals that told me to back off. When we have sex it's going to be because you're ready for it. Totally ready for it."
She surged against him and his cock roared to life. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let her control the game. "Seems to me you're totally ready."
"We aren't talking about me. We're talking about you."
She leaned forward, her hair loose and draped around her beautiful face. "I am ready." She rocked against him again and he thought for a few seconds about giving up and throwing her to the sofa and taking what she was offering. Why bother worrying about whether or not she was psychologically ready? Physically she was totally in the game, right? She was offering, and it had been a long time since he'd been inside a hot woman. It would be easy, they could both get off and ease some of the tension. Then they could concentrate on finding a killer.
But this was Anna, and something was off with her. He didn't just want to fuck her, he wanted to make love to her, wanted her to be with him--really with him. Not just two bodies grinding together, but engaged in a way that went beyond just the physical.
And he didn't think he'd get that if all they did was rip each other's clothes off and go at it.
Not right now, anyway.
She needed a slow, seductive dance. He intended to break down her barriers no matter how long it took, no matter how painful it was going to be--for both of them.
And the one thing he knew about her was that she liked to be in control. He'd bet that extended to the bedroom, too, where maybe the average guy wouldn't notice that she wanted to be in charge so she could playact the game of sex.