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She leaned back, a smile curling her lips. “And my past doesn’t bother me. I don’t have sleepless nights and I don’t imagine Shadow Eyes following me around.”
He paused, the sandwich inches from his lips. “Shadow Eyes?”
She shrugged. “Makes no sense.”
“I’m all ears.” He bit into the sandwich, his gaze on her.
“The guy who took me and killed my family is dead. I know that. But in my dreams, there is the other man.”
“What other man?”
Frustration snapped quick and sharp. “That’s the thing, there is no other man. Ronnie Dupree acted alone.”
“But you believe he didn’t?”
“I’ve no proof. No hard and fast memories. Just a gut feeling, which I think is way off base.”
He finished his sandwich and as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, reached for his coffee. “What if there were two men?”
“Wouldn’t they have found him?”
“Not necessarily.” He sipped his coffee. “I spoke to Ronnie Dupree’s mother. As I understand you did too?”
A shrug. “She was a piece of the puzzle.”
“She said Ronnie had a friend. Billy.”
“I remember.”
“Name ring a bell?”
“No. I wish it did. But I was just a kid. So much floated right over my head.”
“Saying Ronnie didn’t act alone. Saying there was another person there. He or she would have left evidence behind that should have been destroyed by the fire that didn’t take.”
“I’m assuming there was quite a bit of forensic data collected. Maybe Billy or this mystery person left something behind.”
“I’ve thought about that. It all boils down to time and sifting and retesting what was collected.”
She nodded. “Time and money. Seems it always comes to that.”
“Yeah.” He took another sip of coffee. “You’ve got to be tired.”
Since he’d entered the room, she’d wanted to touch him. That desire now sent energy snapping through her body. “Par for the course when you have insomnia.”
“Let me show you to your room.”
“Thanks.”
He rose and led her through a door off the kitchen that connected to a staircase up to a small room. He flipped on the light. The room was small and furnished with a brass bed that looked as if it was a century old. A worn, well-made quilt warmed the top along with several extra blankets. On the wall were paintings of the countryside.
“Who was the artist?”
“My grandmother. My mother was her only child and she had time to paint. Mom always said she’d have painted if she had less chaos in her life.”
“Sounds like you kept her fairly busy.”
“More than anyone has a right to.”
She set her purse beside the bed, not wanting the smoky scent to spread. “It’s a nice room. I don’t see why you’d renovate.”
“The bathroom doesn’t have a shower. Be nice if it did so guests wouldn’t have to go to the main house to bathe.”
“Makes sense.”
“Stay as long as you want. Like I said, the place is huge and its just Georgia and me.”
“Thanks.”
She looked at him and something inside of her released, as if she’d had an iron grip on her life for as long as she could remember.
She moved toward him, closing the gap in seconds. Inches separated them. Her heat mingled with his as she waited for him to step back or give her some sign that he didn’t want this kind of attention. He didn’t move.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him gently on the lips. For a moment he didn’t move, as if giving her the chance to back out. She deepened the kiss and this time his arm banded around her waist. Though he still made no move to kiss her, as he watched as she moistened her lips and savored his salty taste. She kissed him again. A brush of her body against his told her he wanted her.
None of this would change anything, she told herself as she pressed her breasts against his chest. She needed to feel human contact. To feel alive. She would not get attached and she would not care.
She slid her hand up under his shirt, against his flat belly. Energy thrummed in her veins as she kissed him harder. He backed her up to the bed until her knees touched the mattress and then slowly he lowered her to a mattress that sagged under their weight.
His hand slid up her sweatshirt to her breast. When calloused fingers rubbed against her bare breast she hissed in a breath.
Neither spoke as each tugged free of their clothes, which landed in scattered piles beside the bed. She traced her hand over his broad back and over his buttocks seconds before he pushed into her. She savored the sensation of being full and alive, as all the nerve endings in her body danced. Slowly, he moved inside her, building into a fever pitch until both found their release.
He collapsed beside her, his breathing labored and fast. Her heart thrummed. He pulled a blanket over them and spooned his body next to hers, tucking her bare butt next to him.
There was probably a lot they had to talk about. She wasn’t sure what she’d say exactly but, at this moment, she wasn’t worried about words. Her eyes drifted closed and in his arms she fell into a deep, fitful, dreamless sleep.
Susan was preparing for the midmorning newsbreak when Andy approached her. She glanced up, wondering if today was going to be her last day. She rose, deciding she’d face her executioner.
“Did you hear? Jenna Thompson’s house burned last night.”
Her heart jumped a beat but she kept her voice even and steady. “Is she all right?”
“She escaped. House is a loss.”
Her mind started spinning, not with worry but stories. “Do they have a suspect?”
“Word is they think it might be the mother of that girl that was found dead.”
“Loyola Briggs.”
He arched a brow. “You’re on your game.”
“Pays to know. Want me to cover the story?”
“Already sent Brandy.”
“Brandy?”
“Like I said before, she polls better than you.”
Anger didn’t bubble but simmered. This day had been coming for a long time. Still, she couldn’t resist mentioning, “I started this story.”
“And Brandy is going to finish it.”
Susan glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to airtime. As she opened her desk drawer and removed her purse, she realized in thirty years she’d never missed a cue or broadcast. Today would be a day of firsts. “Andy, I quit.”
He cocked a brow. “You have a broadcast.”
When Jenna had refused her story idea, she’d known her time on the job was dwindling. She’d cleaned out her desk yesterday, knowing when the time came, she’d walk out with her head held high. “I’m sure you’ve got some nice young thing waiting in the wings.”
When Jenna woke the afternoon sun shone through lace curtains and sunlight slashed across the bed. For a moment she didn’t know where she was and then she remembered the fire and . . . Rick. They’d made love twice, the first time heated and quick, each surrendering to an animal need. When the storm had passed, Rick had traced his hand up her belly and circled his callou
sed finger against the hollow of her neck. She’d sucked in a breath, heat and fire reigniting. She’d arched her back. Her lips had parted and his name had escaped on the wings of a soft moan.
Jenna smiled at the memory. She’d liked making love to Rick Morgan. Liked it a lot. Twenty-four hours ago, the threads holding her to Nashville had been fraying, but now . . . well, she still had three weeks. She couldn’t make promises beyond that, but there was now.
As she sat up in bed, she searched for a feeling inside her that might be akin to belonging. She’d never had that feeling in Baltimore and not in Nashville either.
The moments in Rick’s arms, there’d been no worries about past, present, or future. No dreams of Shadow Eyes. No insomnia. Simply safe.
She glanced around at the empty, rumpled bedsheets. The impression of his head in the pillow remained a hollow reminder of what they’d shared.
She looked around the room, listening for any indication that he might be in the adjoining bathroom or nearby. When there was no sign of him, she dressed, and moved into the kitchen. She found no note from Rick.
She’d gone out of her way to remind him that she was leaving soon. That Nashville was not her home. Made sense he’d not leave a note. Why did it tweak her that he’d not?
In the kitchen, it took her time to find the coffee and to figure out the coffee machine. The process, which should have been automatic, was a time-consuming reminder that, despite great sex, she was an outsider. Normally, she accepted that status with grace, but this time, regret burned. For the first time she wanted to belong.
Rick arrived at his desk with Tracker, and a strong cup of coffee in hand. Tracker eased down on a pad by his desk. It was three in the afternoon and there was no sign of Bishop. Jenna had mentioned that her sister had had a boyfriend and that her teen years had been troubled. He’d made a few calls very early this morning to a friend who worked in juvenile records, hoping to get more information on Jenna’s sister, Sara.
Sipping the coffee, he opened the file. Sara’s trouble with the law had begun when she was fourteen. She’d been arrested for shoplifting, a charge that was dismissed thanks to her father’s intervention. Sara didn’t stay out of trouble long. Three months later, she shoplifted again. And two months after that, she was in the car when her boyfriend was arrested for driving one hundred miles an hour on I-40. The social worker on the case wrote several notes. “Problems began when Sara started dating her new boyfriend, Billy Martinez. Sara defends boyfriend. Sara expresses a desire to leave home.” Comments like this continued throughout the file.
