Unable to help himself, he sank to the leather couch beside her and drew her into his arms. Regret hit him like a sidewinder. He shouldn’t be doing this—holding her, comforting her, getting too damn close for his own good.
Her hair was damp from the shower and smelled of flowery shampoo. The intoxicating scent soon combined with the rustle of black silk pajamas skimming her curves and drove him wild. Whoa. He brushed his lips against her temple and his groin twitched up a notch. She must have felt it, yet she snuggled deeper into his shoulder as she sobbed her heart out.
Lord have mercy.
He broke into a cold sweat; the significance of Jack’s parting words topped the “Keep-Your-Hands-Off” list of reasons why he could not have sex with an assault victim. And as if it wasn’t enough, there was also Breeana’s son sleeping upstairs, the woman’s total vulnerability, and the full-scale police investigation he conducted.
Maybe he should also add she wasn’t a one-night stand. This woman came with a convoy of baggage, permanency in a relationship, and one lanky teenager being the obvious parts of the equation.
And didn’t
that
put a man’s brakes on in one hell of a hurry? Yep, permanency was a totally foreign concept to him. Protecting the innocent and solving homicides took too much out of him. He had nothing left to give a woman.
“Cookie? You okay now?” He needed to separate their bodies by the length of a football field. Maybe two.
“I’m fine,” she said with a muffled voice. Yet, she didn’t pull away from him.
It was okay. No harm—no foul. None of it was a problem because he hadn’t crossed the line. He was a sucker for a damsel in distress, that’s all.
He could still protect her. And when she was out of danger, he had enough willpower to walk away. The important thing was to maintain his professional distance until then, to keep his edge and keep her alive. Otherwise, she could well be the next victim of a nutcase.
Joelle may have hit the nail on the head when she said the psycho would go insane if his plans were thwarted. His plan to kill Breeana had just failed, big time. Would the killer come after her again? He’d bet his last dollar on it.
“I never cry,” Breeana snuffled into his shoulder, knuckling tears from her eyes. “So don’t think I’m crying now, because I’m not. It’s an allergic reaction to the smoke. That’s all it is.”
“Hey, I believe you.” Sully rubbed her back in slow, lazy circles. Hell, most people would be mainlining tranquilizers after being baptized by the fire. Not this lady. Nope. Instead, she put on a brave face and stiffened her backbone. He could not help but admire her tenacity. Who would have thought the heart of a warrior beat in such a womanly chest?
“Okay, tell me one more time. Are you sure you didn’t recognize your assailant?”
She tossed him a glare that spoke volumes. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve already told you. It was so dark in the storeroom I could barely make out an outline of the guy. And even when he did use his flashlight, he was shining it
at
me.”
“Well, you’re going to tell me again. What about height?”
Breeana shifted to study his face, her breath hitching in her lungs. “I was standing on a ladder staring down at him, Sully. I have no idea about height, or anything else, for that matter. But he seemed really tall to me, larger than life.”
“What about the voice, Bree? Think hard. Was there anything familiar about it?”
“An evil hiss,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I would recognize it again. I could barely hear over the music.”
“Music? After the power was cut? What—”
Breeana touched a finger to his lips. “Sully,
please
, I have a terrible headache. Can we finish this in the morning?”
He focused on her trembling mouth. Impossible to resist, he leaned in close and slid his lips along hers. She tasted sweet, warm, and vulnerable. He regretted the impulse because he wanted more. Like a man starving at a banquet table, he wanted Breeana as the main course. Naked.
Back the hell off and get yourself under control, asshole.
“We’re done for tonight.”
“Yes…done.” Breeana seemed dazed by his kiss, not that he blamed her. It sure wasn’t standard operating procedure for him. Her eyelids lowered to half-mast, probably more from confusion than exhaustion.
He fought the urge. He really did, but still managed to pull her against him and tuck her head under his chin. Then her fingers strayed on a journey of their own, along his shoulders to the longish hair at the back of his neck. He tugged her hands down, his lips again brushing the sweetness of her mouth, alarm bells bonging inside his head.
He almost lost it when her lips parted for him, his tongue slicking their velvety interior.
Enough
. He sighed with regret while forcing his mouth away from her open invitation.
What the hell?
He never got this close to women in the line of duty.
Man-oh-man, the police ethics board will have a field day if I don’t stomp on the brakes with both feet. I’ll be FUBARed and fried. I can see the headline—‘Death by Professional Suicide.’
He set her slightly away from him, ran his hands through the russet curls at her shoulders, and frowned into the forest depths of her eyes. “Bree, I need to back off.”
“I know,” she sighed.
She leaned into his side again, her breath squeaking in her throat. He kissed the top of her head, smoothed a loose strand of hair behind an ear, and gave her a gentle nudge.
“A man can only take so much, cookie. Let’s get some sleep before I change my mind and we do something we’ll both regret in the morning.”
Sully camped on the sofa after taking a long, very cold shower. The protectiveness he felt for Breeana was out of character. Lust he understood. But, the sappy need to coddle and touch her in non-sexual ways was new to him. Maybe he had a raging fever.
All he knew for sure was he burned from the inside out. He suspected he wanted a lot more from the woman than a romp in a king-size.
****
The Shepherd crept along the stone retaining wall to get a closer look at the living room—Breeana and the cop on the couch. Touching and kissing.
He spat on the ground, his mind seething with anger and disgust. The woman was a slut, a lousy whore. She was all over the police lieutenant like fleas on a dog. Even a man of strength was powerless to stop her.
The Shepherd wanted inside the house to punish her.
Too bad it couldn’t happen tonight, not with super cop on the job. He’d checked the man out, knew the lieutenant was military trained, Special Ops trained, and still on the active reserve list.
Hell, the man dodged bullets for fun. He liked playing with guns and other bang, bang toys. And, oh yeah, he mixed it up with his fists like Rocky on steroids.
I won’t go up against him, not yet.
Especially not with the Rottweiler staring out the window as if it knows I’m here.
The dog wants me dead. That much is clear. Another time. Another place.
He watched Breeana and the cop climb the stairs with their arms wrapped around each other—probably headed to her bedroom to sweat up the sheets.
He lowered the binoculars, checking for passers-by before dropping from the retaining wall to the well-worn path below. Keeping to the shadows, he followed the shoreline to his car parked near the marina.
Rage ate holes in his gut. Burning was too good for her, the pain too quick. It came to him then, a message from the Lord, Himself.
He needed to step up the pace. He knew the kid’s schedule, only had a few days to put his plan together.
Why not? He’d use her son to draw her out.
Too bad, so sad, Breeana. Satan’s got you by the throat, but not for much longer.
Chapter Five
The alarm beeped. Breeana hit the snooze button, rolled over, and covered her head with a pillow. She hadn’t slept well, wanted to stay in bed. Still, Cody had an exam today. Would he get up on his own and be ready to leave on time?
The sound of someone moving around downstairs sharpened her focus. Way too early for Cody’s feet to hit the floor. And she remembered. Sully.
Crap
.
Did the fire have something to do with her restless sleep? Sure. But holy, holy cow, her grieving widow’s restraint slipped big time last night, singing
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
while she crawled all over Sully on the couch. She groaned. When had her need for comfort shifted to lusting after him? Thank God he’d pushed her away and slept on the couch.
The front door opened and closed. Breeana crept to the window and peeked out. Below in the driveway, Sully spoke with the uniforms in a police cruiser parked in front of the house. He glanced up at her window, saw her standing there, nodded as he unlocked his Tahoe, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway.
Embarrassment flooded her system.
Congratulations, Bree. Not only does he think you’re a sex starved idiot, but you’re a freaking voyeur as well.
An hour later, she was showered, dressed in apple-green capris with a matching tank top, and headed back upstairs with coffee in hand. Fortified after two cups, she swept her unruly hair into a tail on top of her head and applied some lip gloss. Not a bad way to start the day, considering her experiences of the night before.
She grimaced into the vanity mirror and stuck her tongue out at her reflection as her wayward actions on the couch last night came flooding back. Good grief, she had practically jumped Sully’s bones when he had comforted her.
Her cheeks flamed at the memory of her reckless behavior. For some reason, she was more than attracted to Sullivan Sauvage. He’d captured her attention. And no matter how hard she fought the pull, he drew her like metal to a magnet. The mysterious hold unsettled her, making her want to run in the opposite direction.
Life after her husband’s death was still unchartered territory. Uncertain how to begin again, Breeana had buried her female desires right alongside Tom’s body. She had barely managed to survive his death and go through the day-to-day motions of living without him.
It had taken months for her to pull back from the raw edge of despair. Another year before she could stand on her own two feet again. These were hard won victories, ones she couldn’t throw away by having an affair with any man, not even Sully, tempting as he might be.
So, why did she feel like a lovelorn spinster in some historical novel? Because Sully made her feel. He made her want things she had not felt in a very long time. But, she refused to indulge and invite pain back into her life. No, her best friend was, and would stay, her vibrator—something impersonal and without emotional ties.
The doorbell rang.
Grabbing her mug, she took a sip of coffee and headed for the front entrance. Following Sully’s orders, she looked through the side window.
There he was, the object of her sexy ruminations back on her doorstep, and he wasn’t alone. Taking a breath, she flipped the deadbolt and opened the door.
“Morning.” Sully inclined his head toward the woman and man standing beside him, both of them carrying bulky silver cases. “May we come in?”
“Yes, of course.” She stood to the side, allowing them to enter.
“I’d like you to meet Denise and Pete from the crime lab. They’ll be spending some time here today searching for possible evidence.”
“Evidence? Evidence of what? I was attacked at the clinic, not here. You’re at the wrong address, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Sully drew her aside and motioned to the staircase. The two criminalists hoisted their cases and headed for the second floor. “Start in the master bedroom. I’ll join you there after I’ve had a chance to explain things to Dr. McGill.”
As the techs reached the upstairs landing, Breeana allowed herself to be hustled through the sunroom and into the kitchen, all the while working up a full head of steam.
As ridiculous as it felt, she worried the crime scene techs would find the vibrator tucked away in one of her bureau drawers. Her
purple
vibrator—the deluxe model with extra batteries—a joke gift from Miranda and Rainey for her last birthday.
The thought sobered.
What is the matter with me?
Her friends were dead, someone had tried to kill her last night, and all she could think about was the looming discovery of a vibrator? How ridiculous was that on a scale of one to ten?
She tugged her arm out of Sully’s grasp the instant the kitchen door swung closed behind them. He must have gone home to shower. Dressed in crisp black slacks, shirt and tie, this was not a good omen in her book. The only color relief was the oatmeal jacket he wore over a gun holstered at his waist. She could see the telltale bulge of it.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
“I’m okay, but that’s not the issue here. Do you mind telling me what those people are doing in my home? And why are they in my bedroom? I want the truth and I want it now.”
Sully met her urgent plea for information without a hint of emotion on his face. Instead, he straddled a kitchen chair and pointed to the coffeemaker; the passionate, compelling man who had comforted her in his arms last night had been erased. The man was all business.
“You really want to know, cookie? Then make us a fresh pot of coffee and I’ll tell you. And I wouldn’t say no to a muffin to go along with the coffee. I missed breakfast this morning.”
At those callous words, Breeana glared at Sully as if he were something unpleasant clinging to the bottom of her shoe. But, staring at him only flooded her with memories of the night before, the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her, the knowledge of what she’d wanted to do in those arms. Thinking about the closeness they had shared only made the moment worse. She marched to the table and sank into the chair opposite his.
“If you want coffee and a muffin so badly, you can get them yourself. This isn’t a restaurant and I’m not Rachael Ray.”
“Sure, turn me loose on the coffeepot,” he said, his voice soft and even. He unfolded his large frame from the chair and moved to the counter to grind coffee beans.