Illicit (15 page)

“Look,” he started.

Her gaze flicked up. The skin under her eyes was puffy and red, a sign she’d been crying.

“It’s okay, Peter. We were both emotional. We can chalk up what happened to letting the situation getting away from us. We don’t need to talk about it.”

She was giving him an out, one he should take.

“After I take care of Grady, I’m leaving. What happened last night can’t happen again. Won’t happen again. If you turn up pregnant,” his chest tightened at the thought, “then you’ll come to Montana. I won’t do to my child what my father did to me. We can still fuck if you want, but it won’t be sweet and tender. I’m a ride ‘em hard and fast kind of a guy.”

Eva set her coffee cup to the table, slow, steady, a pretense of calm. Rage danced in her eyes and changed her scent to something dark and alluring.

“Thank you,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “For what?”

“For reminding me that you are a complete and utter bastard.” She rose from the table. The hand she pressed to her lower stomach shook. “I’ll be in the car when you’re done deluding yourself into thinking you’d have any part in my child’s life, or that for one minute, I’d let you take care of me. Fuck you, Peter.”

Stretching his legs out under the table, he pressed his mug to his lips and watched her walk away. The instinct to chase warred with his need for distance. The front door slammed shut and he sipped his coffee, allowing himself just a few more minutes.

All of this would be over in a few hours. An ugly truth that had his jaw popping. Walking out on Eva might quite possibly fuck him up more than it would her.

Eva stared blankly out the truck’s window, barely saw the trees whizzing past. Every breath fogged the glass, obscuring her view to the outside world. The cold nipping at her ungloved fingers was inconsequential. She didn’t hear the radio. Even the ache in her chest and the slow burn in her belly didn’t distract.

Her stupidity was the only thing of matter. How had she managed to fall for the one man in the entire universe who was unwilling to accept love? If she were pregnant—nope. She wasn’t going to think about the life growing inside her. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Emotion gripped her heart, squeezed, and threatened to send her into cardiac arrest.

The heartache snapped into rage. Her throat burned with the unsaid words she wanted to hurl, the blame she so desperately wanted to lay at Peter’s feet. He’d done this. He’d made her feel this way. She was such a fucking liar. He hadn’t done anything to ensnare her heart. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead against the smooth, cold window. The frigid stabs penetrating her skin helped.

The cognizant part of Eva’s brain told her she was being irrational. There’d been no romance between them. No flowers. No false pretenses. Only a hot, branding lust she’d never forget. He’d deceived her. Humiliated her. Hell, at almost every turn, he’d been an asshole.

And, that’s when it hit her. Almost.

He’d let just enough emotion slip through his control to leave her grasping at straws. Classic. Peter, the big tough man with his scars that ran deep, had revealed just enough vulnerability for her girl hormones to grab hold and make her think she could fix him. She was probably one of many who’d tried and failed. She almost laughed, would have if she weren’t afraid she might cry.

“We’ll park at
Lost Isle
, cross from there and break into the police station.” Peter’s deep, husky voice penetrated her internal monologue. “We should be able to get inside through one of the windows in the back.”

She didn’t bother to look at him. “Fine.” Her voice cracked.

The truck rolled to a stop in the empty, shadowed parking lot of the town’s only bar.

“Eva,” Peter started.

She held up her hand. “Don’t.” He’d already said everything that needed covering.

Without another word she and Peter stepped into the cold. Her untamed hair blew in her face, the still slightly damp strands freezing in thin icicles. She’d forgotten her hat and, as the chill stole across her neck, she realized, a scarf as well. A shiver danced through her, chattering her teeth.

“Here,” Peter growled.

She looked up, watched with confusion as he tore off his black, lightweight beanie. He stepped close. She wanted to snuggle into the heat of his body’s warmth. Their legs brushed. Her curls blew across his chest. His gaze met hers and it was the first time he’d really looked at her since the kitchen. She expected remorse, or some other lingering emotion from their intimacy last night.

His eyes were cold and distant, directly opposing the way he carefully settled the knitted cap over her hair and ears. The dull ache in her chest sharpened. He stepped back and shoved his hands into the pockets of the black jeans encasing his long, muscular legs.

She should be focusing on what a stupid plan breaking into Grady’s office was. Instead, the only thing she could think about was why it hurt to breathe when it wasn’t her chest that was broken. The rapid, swirling snow concealed their footsteps, leading them across the street. Through shadows, they made their way down the deserted street to the police station at the end of the block.

The building was empty and still, much like the rest of the main street at two o’clock in the morning. Peter pressed his ear against the wall, listened, his enhanced hearing presumably scanning for life. He pulled away with a nod. “We’re clear.”

Not bothering with stealth, she moved to the back of the building. She trailed her hand across the cold, brown brick, its rough texture a nice distraction. Behind her, Peter moved silently, the heat radiating from his body the only clue he was there. She passed four windows countersunk into the wall, stopped under the one in Grady’s office.

“Now what?” she asked, looked up at their only chance inside the building.

He stepped forward, his shoulder brushing hers, and glanced at the window. Her heart sped. She drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes as if it would keep his scent from invading.

“I’ll boost you up,” he said, his voice snapping her eyes open.

Hands cupped together, he motioned for her to put her boot into the step he made. With no other real way to scale the wall, she reluctantly pressed one hand on his shoulder, the other against the wall. The moment she placed her foot in his outstretched palms he pushed her up, into the air.

“Shit,” she yelped at the unexpected force of his thrust.

She teetered at the loss of balance. The hand she’d had on his shoulder slipped free. Before she could fall, he caught her around the waist and stepped forward until her breasts pressed against the brick.

“You all right?” he asked.

She glared down at him, wondered what the retribution would be if she kicked him the face. “Oh, I’m just peachy, thanks for asking. Next time, maybe don’t heave me into the air.”

Their gazes clashed, heat igniting. His tongue swiped over his lower lip. Her eyes dipped to the sight, remembered the wicked pleasure his mouth had brought her. Her thoughts vanished when he smirked, casually remarked, “You’re not as heavy as you look.”

Her eyes narrowed at his attempt to tease. “Let’s just get this over with.”

His jaw clenched. “Open the window.”

Pushing at the window, she silently prayed it would open so she could crawl through. She wanted away from Peter and the feel of his hands gripping her hips. Of course the glass pane didn’t budge. “It’s locked.”

Peter’s low, rolling growl moved up the back of her spine. “Who locks anything in this town? Grady is hiding something.” Without warning, Peter shoved her forward, against the building, a single hand on the middle of her back the only thing keeping her from falling.

“Oomf.” The air left her lungs and she grabbed the lip of the cold brick sill with both hands to help keep her grounded.

A long, flat rod found its way under her palm and the pressure against her back vanished as Peter lifted and then set her so she sat on his shoulders. She gripped the top of his head and refused to dwell on how silky soft his hair was. Refused to contemplate the feel of his hands, hot and strong on the outside of her thighs where he gripped her in position. Instead, she concentrated on the object he’d given her. A metal brace from a hanging file folder.

“You really put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?” she asked.

He scoffed, as if she’d insulted his intelligence. “Hardly. These locks are old and simple, hook and eyelet.” Letting go of her legs, he used his hands to gesture at what he wanted her to do with the tool. “Put the metal through the crack between the panes—”

“I’m not an idiot,” she snapped. “I can figure it out.”

Biting her lip, she moved the tool through the divide in the glass, felt the resistance of the lock. Applying just a little more force, the hook released.

“Got it,” she whispered triumphantly.

He squeezed her thigh. “Good, girl. Now, crawl inside. I’ll be right behind you.”

She braced her weight with her hands on the sill. Peter lifted her from his shoulders, pushed with a hand on her ass. In an ungraceful heap, she tumbled through the open window into the pitch-black office. A desk broke her fall along with the sharp end of a pencil, damn near stabbing her back.

“Graceful,” Peter said as he lifted first his head, then shoulders into the window, his bulk eclipsing the outside world. She wondered for a moment if he’d even fit.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, and then added, “There isn’t anything under the window, so brace yourself for a fall.” Ha. She hoped he fell on his face.

Picking herself up, she crawled off Grady’s desk. In the darkness, the only things she could make out were heaps of paper and the silhouette of a large desk phone. She looked around, tried to gauge if anything was different from the last time she’d been there several months ago. The office was small, not much to forget. In the dark, she made out a large, single standing filing cabinet and the half wood, half glass door leading toward the main hall of offices.

Against the wall next to the door, she flipped the light switch in time to watch Peter land soundlessly on the desk in a lethal-looking crouch.

“Show-off,” she muttered.

Without having to say it aloud, they split up, staying at opposites ends of the room. Peter took the desk and she looked through the filing cabinet. Numbers and letters stared at her on shiny, plastic-protected labels. Where were the names? The dates? The folders were arranged by some sort of numbering system she didn’t understand. How in the hell was she supposed to figure out where Greg’s uncensored file was? Surely the folder she’d been given was missing information.

Behind her, drawers opened, closed, papers rustled together. All noise stopped, as if Peter had frozen in place.

Her heart stilled. Peter had found something. Enough to convict Grady without a trial. Could he have killed Becca and Greg? Eva felt sick.

“Isn’t this sweet.” The venomous note in Peter’s voice said it was anything but.

She turned slowly. In his hand, he held up a framed photo. Taken years ago, the prom photo depicted a time in her life where Grady’s entire world rose and set at her feet. A beardless Grady, ten years younger, stared at her with stars in his eyes. And she...Eva looked ahead at the camera. She’d never realized how isolated she’d been until Greg’s death. She had no friends. No one accept Grady and even him she’d held at arm’s length.

Pathetic insight aside, the photo Peter had found was hardly incriminating. The breath she’d been holding whooshed free.

Peter glanced from her to the photo, back to her. “Is this the night you let him pop your cherry? Did he tell you he loved you? Is that how he got you on your back? Because honestly, you look less than thrilled in this picture.”

She had been less than thrilled. “Screw you, Peter. Not everyone wants to go through life alone. There isn’t anything wrong with letting someone love you.”

“Really? I can see Grady loving you turned out really well.” He threw the frame onto the desk, laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the detective’s chair as if it were his own. “How’s your face feel? No.” He paused. “How do you think Greg feels about Grady’s love for you?” Peter dropped his arms, slammed his feet to the floor. “Oh wait, he’s dead.”

“He didn’t kill him,” she said, and turned to resume proving Grady’s innocence.

The town’s boring history played before her in pictures and in files, and she was grateful for something other than Peter to concentrate on. She caught only glances of the files’ content, but soon discovered most of the town’s crime consisted of public disturbances, and a few drunken brawls. The time passed slowly and silently, neither productive for her spinning thoughts.

“Found the file,” Peter said.

“Where was it?” she asked, moving to stand behind him so she could read over his shoulder.

“Taped under the desk. Paranoid fucker.”

“Well, he has reason. We broke in here, didn’t we?”

Peter opened the folder, scanned through documents they’d already seen.

“There has to be more,” he muttered, flipped through the papers once more.

He was right, there had to be more. Eva glanced around Grady’s desk, ruffled through loose Post-its and receipts Peter had pulled from the drawers. She looked closer, squinted at a boarding pass and tried to remember when Grady had gone out of town.

The date stamp was faded, hard to read.

“What is it?” Peter asked, looking up from the file.

He spun the chair around, put them almost nose to nose. She swallowed, tried to look anywhere except his mouth, or his eyes. She shoved the ticket against his chest, stepped back.

“Grady wasn’t in town the night Greg was killed, or I guess he was just getting in. Check the arrival time on this plane ticket. Five PM. He couldn’t have met Greg in the woods. Hell, he must have come to the clinic to investigate the murder right from the airport.”

Peter sat back in the chair, studied the evidence. He was silent for a full minute.

“Maybe this is his alibi.” Suspicion still filled his tone.

“Look at the stamp, ‘ID Checked.’”

He threw the stub to the desk. “Fuck.”

A victorious smile filled her face. “I told you he didn’t do it.”

Teeth clenched, Peter said slowly, unhappily, “He didn’t do it. But, his scent was all over the forest. It was fresh. He is guilty of something.”

“Someone set him—”

She cut off mid sentence when Peter stiffened, his head cocking toward the door. Without preternatural senses she could hear the sound too—boot steps. A shadow approached the door. A figure appeared through the glass. Eva grimaced at the murderous look on Grady’s face. It was too late to jump through the window; they’d already been seen.

The detective threw open the door hard enough for it to crash against the wall. “What in the hell are you two doing in here?” he growled.