Page 67 of Lock ’N’ Load

For the next ten minutes, she struggled to find the password or a back door to get her into the files. At some point, she realized Sheba was snoring and the shower in the bathroom had been turned off. Granted, there were two queen-size beds in the room, but the idea of sleeping in the same room with Matt was…

Exciting.

But it shouldn’t be.

Trista let her head fall back onto the bed pillows. Okay, so he kissed me. More than once, and not always a chaste, proper kiss. There’d been tongue. Lots of tongue, and she’d loved it. Loved what it did to her, how it made her body go warm and tingly in places that had never been warm and tingly. But that didn’t mean he thought of her in that way. Did it?

He was there with her—in the same room—to protect her, not to make love to her. The thought of him holding her, stroking her naked body with those big hands, then entering her was both intoxicating and frightening.

The screen suddenly filled, and she bolted upright, upsetting Sheba, who jerked her head and took quick, snorting breaths.

“Sorry, girl. Easy there.” She rested a hand on Sheba’s belly until the dog calmed and lowered her head back to the mattress, seemingly satisfied there were no threats in the room.

I got in.

This file was a scanned copy of a newspaper article detailing a homicide in Ridgeway, West Virginia. William Sands, 25, was found dead in his house from a fatal stab wound. His wife, Erica Sands, and son, William Sands Jr., were missing. Mrs. Sands was wanted for questioning. The article was over forty years old.

“Interesting,” she mumbled to herself, her heart beating a little faster as she used the same password to open up the next document, a police report, also forty years old. Some of the sections were redacted, completely obscured by thick black lines, but from what she could read, Sands had been found dead in his kitchen, lying in a pool of blood. The murder weapon, a large deer-gutting knife, had also been discovered. An all-points bulletin had been issued for Mrs. Sands and her son.

The next two files she cracked into were both West Virginia FOIA—Freedom of Information Act—requests, the second one specifically requesting the redacted portions of the Berkeley County Sheriff’s Department report on the Sands murder.

For the next few minutes, she tried unsuccessfully to open another file, this one labeled Article-Third Draft and dated yesterday. But the password she’d used to open the other files wasn’t working on this one.

Taking a break, she absently stroked Sheba’s belly, smiling when the dog began kicking her hind legs in a jerky motion, tangling her paws in the bed’s comforter.

“You are such a pretty girl.”

Sheba opened her jaws. Arrrr, arrrr, arrrr.

“Yes, you are,” she murmured, locking gazes with the dog’s, giving her one more belly rub.

“What the hell are you doing?” Matt shouted.

“Nothing.” Startled, she sat upright on the bed, as did Sheba. “What’s wrong?”

“Sheba, kemne!” Matt pointed to the floor at his left side, and the dog bolted from the bed and sat obediently at his left side, leaning her head against his thigh, looking totally forlorn.

Trista guessed that by the heated tone in his voice, he was berating Sheba for some doggie transgression, but she didn’t really hear the words. How could she?

Though she’d seen him wearing nothing but jockey shorts before, her mouth went dry nonetheless. Sgt. Matt Connors stood before her wearing nothing more than low-slung jeans and a short towel draped around his neck.

He. Is. Beautiful.

Broad, thick shoulders tapered down to a slim, taut waist. Beads of water ran in rivulets through the grooves separating the six or eight or ten different packs of abdominal muscles. But it was the dark V of hair arrowing down from his abs to just above the button of his jeans that had her breath catching in her throat.

“Did you hear me?” He gripped both ends of the towel, his biceps flexing.

“Huh?” She shook her head to clear it of the X-rated thoughts racing through her mind. “What are you talking about?”

“My dog does not sleep on the bed.”

Sheba looked up adoringly at Matt, who ignored her, his eyes blazing into Trista’s. It was screamingly obvious all Sheba wanted was Matt’s forgiveness, and it was breaking her heart when he didn’t give it.

“Why not, Mr. Grumpy Pants?” Rising to her knees, she planted her fists on her hips. “She was keeping me company.”

“She can just as easily keep you company if she’s on the floor. Lehni,” he said, and Sheba slunk to her belly, resting her muzzle between her front paws, still looking up at Matt with the saddest eyes she’d ever seen on a dog. Not that she’d ever been brave enough to look into a dog’s eyes before Sheba. “I don’t want her going soft. The last time I let her up on my bed, it threw her off her game for two weeks. Instead of working, all she wanted to do was lounge around and get tummy rubs all day.”

“Don’t be mad at her.” She looked regretfully at Sheba. “It’s my fault.”