“Ooh, honey.” He rubbed
his hands along her back and pressed her closer. “It feels that way
now, but things will get better.”
“You can clean up and
scrub away the physical reminders of what’s happened to my family,
but the images live in my mind.” Leaning away from him a little,
she swiped her hands under her eyes. “I’ll never completely get
over the feeling of being violated.”
“Good.” His gentle eyes
contradicted his harsh tone. “You don’t get over what’s happened,
Mags.”
“Very encouraging,
Harte.”
He smiled and traced his
thumb along her cheek. “You don’t get over it. You embrace it. You
move past it. You let it make you stronger and smarter.”
Let it make you stronger
and smarter.
Closing her eyes, she thought
about his advice. She’d survived a year of single-motherhood and
grief. She could survive this. She’d grown stronger during her
pregnancy and dealing with the day-to-day details of being a widow
and single mom.
Stronger. Smarter. Braver.
Breathing deep, she opened
her eyes and rested a palm on his cheek. “You cleaned my
house.”
He lowered his gaze and
shrugged. “It was no big deal.”
“It is to me, and you know
that. I’m losing my grip.” Her grip on the control she’d fought for
to survive was slowly eroding as if it was being worn like
seashells on an ocean’s shore.
“You’ve been faced with a
lot in a few days. You’ll be fine.” He cradled her in his arms as
if she weighed nothing and meant everything.
Resisting him grew tougher. Falling for him
became a real possibility, and she was too vulnerable to deal with
it when he left. Still, she craved the intimacy of the closeness
they shared in these moments.
Before she could register what he was doing,
he repositioned his arms with one behind her back and the other
beneath her legs and picked her up. Letting herself enjoy this
moment, she rested her head on his shoulder, inhaled his spicy
scent and wrapped her arms around his neck. A sigh of happiness
escaped, but she didn’t care.
His strength seeped into
her. Something bigger was coming, but she’d take a few more moments
of peace. “Where are you taking me?”
“To take a
bath.”
Her eyes popped open.
“H—”
“By yourself. You need to
relax and forget about everything for awhile longer.”
He stepped into her bathroom. Her mouth gaped
at the scene he’d set. Lit pink and white candles lined her vanity
and the sauna tub she so rarely got to use. The room smelled of her
two favorite scents—vanilla and roses. The tub was full and the
book she’d been reading in his room waited on the edge, beckoning
her with promises of relaxation.
“You don’t fight
fair.”
“
This
isn’t a
battle, Mags.”
Maybe not, but they would
have one before much longer. He sat her on her feet and walked over
to her iPod dock. When he pushed play, the soulful melodies of Hans
Zimmer floated into the room, bringing to mind an
almost
irresistible
image.
Harte would pick her up and carry her to the
high part of the vanity, and gently put her down. After a
lingering, tender kiss, an exploration into the recesses of her
mouth, he would lower to his knees and remove her shoes. Holding
her gaze, his hands would travel up her legs and he’d unbutton her
slacks before she’d lift up so he could slide her pants over her
hips and down, until she sat before him in her blouse and
panties.
Slowly, with passion darkening his eyes and
the most tender of touches he would run his hands up her legs until
he stood before her. His long, strong fingers would glide over her
hips to the hem of her shirt and then over her sides as he eased it
up her body and over her head.
Sitting before him in nothing more than her
bra and thong, never breaking eye contact, she’d move her hands
over his hard, rippling chest. The soft dusting of hair tickling
her palms as she followed the narrowing trail down his stomach to
the waist of his pants. She’d dip her fingers into the elastic and
push them down.
“…
be right
back.”
“What?” Maggie jerked
herself away from her thoughts and looked at Harte. What had she
missed? Fire raged through her veins, her system revved from the
intensely intimate fantasy. A fantasy she
really
wanted to embrace, if only
she thought she could handle it.
Swallowing the desire,
hoping like hell she sounded fairly intelligent, she stepped
forward. “Harte…”
He took her face in his big
warm hands and smiled. “You need this.”
“I…”
Cutting off any argument, he grasped her
waist, lifted her off the floor and carried her to the vanity
before he knelt and pulled her shoes and socks off.
Sucking in a breath, she waited.
Would he kiss her? Would her fantasy turn
into reality? She wanted it to, but if it did, if he touched her as
she’d pictured, if he kissed her, control would soar out the
window. She’d lose her soul to him.
He sat her shoes neatly beside the vanity,
stood and grabbed her waist to help her stand again. Disorientation
and dizziness slammed into her before she realized she held air
trapped in her lungs.
Keeping her gaze steady on his, she slowly
exhaled and became aware of her tingling skin and damp panties. She
didn’t have a chance of holding out against any move he made. And
while she wanted him to devour her, wanted to devour him in return,
she needed him to go away.
She couldn’t think with him
so close, smelling spicy and hot with his half-naked, muscled body
close enough to touch.
“You’re too tense. Relax.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and left the
bathroom.
What?
She’d missed something. She just couldn’t think of what it
might be, not that it mattered. He’d left. She had space, except
his scent lingered. She gave in to her shaking knees and leaned
against the counter. She’d thought for a second she would be lucky
enough to have her fantasy. Her naked and sweaty
fantasy.
“Snap out of it.” Slapping
her hands against her heated cheeks cleared her mind. A little.
Enough that she could get undressed for her bath. Sex, no matter
how tempting, wasn’t happening.
She would take the opportunity he’d presented
and enjoy the soft music, scented candles, and a long bath.
Anything else would wait. Easing another button free, she assured
herself she shouldn’t feel guilty for anticipating the pleasure of
no interruptions while she indulged in her own slice of
Paradise.
“Oh hell.”
With her fingers releasing the next button,
she glanced up. Harte stood in the doorway with flames of awareness
that sliced through her and relit the fire she’d barely begun to
extinguish ablaze in his gaze.
Following his eyes, she looked down at her
shirt gaping open to her belly button and the fire red, lace bra
that echoed her thoughts.
Come and get me.
BD’s eyes popped wide. The gentle swell of
Maggie’s breasts peeking over the take-me red bra begged for his
touch. Her rigid nipples standing at attention pleaded for his
mouth to suck on them, taste their honey. He nearly swallowed his
tongue and barely withstood the desire to tip back the bottle of
wine he held and chug it.
“Do you need something?”
Her sultry whisper and the sight of the flush blooming over her
flawless skin had the remaining blood in his head rushing
south.
To spread you across the
vanity and sample you like a buffet. To know if your panties are a
thong matching your bra.
He lifted the wine and a
glass. “I brought you this. I said I’d be right back.”
Why the hell did you start undressing?
“You… I…” She drew her
lips together with a soft sucking sound, sealing her luscious mouth
closed.
Her shirt still hung open.
The pain of his swelling dick reminded him he was close to crossing
a line he couldn’t step back from.
Don’t
go there.
“I’ll just…”
Get the hell out. Now!
He sat the wine on the counter and stepped back, pointing
over his shoulder to the door. “Um… I’ll…”
He backed toward the door.
She stepped forward, tongue poking between the corner of her lips.
The urge to bury himself in her, to lose himself in the pleasure
without thought of the consequences sizzled in his veins.
The job comes first. Involvement is
dangerous.
Like a spineless coward, he moved fast across
the house. The more distance he put between him and her, the less
likely he was to find out how perfectly her breasts would fit in
his hands. He started to detour to the kitchen for a beer, but
under the circumstances one would lead to two…he needed a clear
head. Not that the image of rose petal soft skin and red lace
indelibly lodged in his brain made clarity an immediate
possibility. Or a distant one.
He walked the house, searched the living room
bookshelves for anything of potential interest for Adalia, and
checked all the locks before getting his laptop from the kitchen
and going back to his room.
All the while his skin vibrated with the
knowledge of Maggie submerged in warm, frothy water. Naked.
Pinching his nose did nothing to ease the
pressure of the images pushing against his mind or make focusing on
work easier.
Pulling a metal box from beneath his bed, he
took out copies of Adalia’s files and the notes she’d left at each
scene. Something tied the murders and Maggie together. More
accurately something tied the previous murders and whatever papers
Mike had had together. The clue had to be in the notes.
Pen and paper in hand, he spread the notes
out on the floor in the order they’d been left and began analyzing
them. Separately, together or shifted around, he would find
whatever answer they held. He would discover the links.
Alicia Daniels, victim one. BD jotted notes
on the pad. She’d been an investment adviser. Known as a young
shark in a competitive business. Several people in her field had
fought for her client list after her death. Her note had been left
in an open wall safe.
“Venerated among Greek Gods, they knew true
power.”
It stood to reason Adalia had taken money or
bonds from the safe. Nothing had turned up to prove the theory, but
she’d have money stashed.
Victim number two was found a week later. A
retired cartographer, Brent Porter had led a solitary life since
his wife’s passing a few months before his murder. The note had
been pinned to his naked, half-mutilated body like a nametag.
“They hid the black conductor, but the
guardian will not keep it from me.”
Presumably,
they
referred to
whomever Adalia spoke of in her first note. The trouble was knowing
who they were and what the black conductor was. The guardian part
was obvious. Someone was protecting whatever she wanted. Maybe
that’s how she chose her victims. Maybe they all had something to
do with the conductor she was after.
An archeology professor at the University of
Texas at Dallas had been the third victim. Simon Hodges, an
intellectual, bow-tie type who’d reportedly buried himself in books
when he wasn’t at dig sites.
“Burdensome buried relics live through
history. I know who has the answers.”
Professor at UT. He should have seen it
before. That had to be where the connection to Mike began. The men
had taught at the same school. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to
believe they would collaborate on something like ancient papers.
Some relics were believed to have powers, control curses or a ton
of other nonsense. Burying them wouldn’t erase their legends or
histories, but it could vanish or diminish the power.
If Adalia was after an actual relic, was it
for a power she thought was hidden or something else entirely?
Money?
There had been no note for Mike’s death, so
they had thought the connection was more personal. Without him, the
other notes hadn’t made sense. Now, taking them all in a new
context, there had to be a common tie to whatever ancient papers
Mike had seemingly been translating. Discovery was their only hope
to learning why Adalia wanted the papers.
But why Michelle Dane? She
hadn’t been at the university while Mike was there, which meant she
wouldn’t likely know about the papers.
BD pulled out crime scene photos of each
victim and placed them above the notes side-by-side.
Michelle Dane’s photo sat beside the
archeology professor. They had both worked at UT, had collaborated
on a few projects, but there was another connection.
“No way.” He flipped
through her file and skimmed notes from interviews before he
grabbed his phone and dialed. Craig picked up on the second
ring.
“Yeah.”
“Michelle Dane. What do we
know about her family history?”
Craig sighed, clearly
holding back an announcement of what time it was. “She was an only
child. Adopted. Never married.”
“We need to confirm it,”
BD tapped the two pictures holding his interest. “But I’m pretty
sure I just found her bioligical father.”
He wrapped up with Craig and made more notes
on his pad. It couldn’t be coincidental that she’d been in the same
field as her birth father, worked at the same university, and had
been killed by the same woman.