She looked up to find him staring at her expectantly. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t, rising to clear the table. Mojo stuck to his heels, hoping for a handout, but all David gave him was a scratch behind the ears. “He’s a nice dog.”
“Not as smart as the average bear, but he’s mine. He keeps this place from getting too lonely.” She wanted to look away, but wouldn’t let herself. “So. Now what?”
“Now, I believe you said you were going to sleep.” His words were mild, but his eyes were still hot. Shivers danced across her skin.
“That had been my plan, yes.”
“Then come on.” He led her to her sofa and pulled her down in his lap. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up in time for your meeting.”
It was surreal, sitting there cradled in his arms, but it felt natural to rest her head on his shoulder, so she did. “I have to leave early, take Mojo to day care,” she mumbled.
“I’ll take him.”
“Okay. I need to be downtown at oh-nine. Was oh-eight, but CSU needed more time to process Tomlinson’s office.” She yawned. “It was a nasty scene.”
“I know,” he said quietly and she knew that he did.
“Maybe Tomlinson was the target all along. Maybe the condo fire was just a red herring, to distract us from Tomlinson’s murder.”
“Maybe. Except they weren’t trying to hide his murder.” His fingers gently unwound her braid, combing through her hair.
She pulled back to see his face. “They weren’t?”
“No. Barlow and I went back in to look at the office again. There were no signs of gas around or on the walls of the office. If they’d meant the fire to hide Tomlinson’s murder, they’d have destroyed his body to destroy the evidence of his gunshot, right?”
“Right.”
“They should have dumped gas on his body, his desk, his papers. But they didn’t.”
“You’re right. Why didn’t they?”
He pulled her head to his shoulder. “You’ll figure it out after you’ve had some rest.”
“You’re tired, too. How will you wake up?”
“I set my cell phone alarm.”
“When did you do that?”
“When I was sitting on your front porch waiting for you.”
So he’d planned this. She wanted to be annoyed, but his hand was massaging her scalp again. She closed her eyes, drifting. “That should be illegal. Feels too good.”
He kissed the top of her head. “There is no such thing as feeling too good, Olivia.”
She wanted to know what that meant, but fatigue dragged her down. “Promise?”
“Oh yes.” His words rumbled against her ear. “I definitely promise. Now sleep.”
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday, September 21, 6:45 a.m.
Eric woke up with a start. He’d been dreaming of the girl in the window. Her name was Tracey Mullen. She’d only been sixteen. He hadn’t wanted to know that. Of all the dead, she was the one he owned. Her blood was on his hands. But he’d be blamed for the other two as well. The guard and Tomlinson. If we’re caught, that is.
He lay staring up at the ceiling, hating the goddamn blackmailer, hating goddamn Joel. Hating himself. And he might as well throw Albert in there, too. He’d been taken. Duped. Played for the fool I am. He’d cared for Albert, but he’d been used.
And Albert actually thought he could draw this blackmailer out. Idiot.
Eric knew better. The moment he’d seen the video sent to his phone last night, he’d known it was useless. Albert had stalked off, intent on his own plan after telling Mary that Eric had first considered running to France. Mary had followed Albert in a huff.
They were angry that Eric had the money to start over, anywhere in the world. Mary and Albert didn’t. Albert wanted to play hockey, and he couldn’t do that as a fugitive. Mary… Who knew what that chick wanted? One minute she wanted the blackmailer’s blood. The next, she was sobbing over poor Joel. She was an emotional basket case.
And I’m not much better. His hand heavy with dread, he picked up the disposable cell. There were no new texts, but there would be. It was just a matter of time.
I have to get out of here, while I still can.
Tuesday, September 21, 6:55 a.m.
He had a few minutes before he opened the doors for the morning’s first customers, so he logged in to his offshore account. No payment from Mr. Dorian Blunt. Well, he had given the man twelve hours. Dorian had until noon to pay up.
He checked on Dorian’s account, just to make sure it was all there. It still was-two million, cleverly embezzled over five years, Dorian’s employers none the wiser. And I might never have been the wiser had Dorian not felt the need to log into his account while eating his lunch, staring longingly at the zeroes and commas on his screen. He’d obviously thought himself unobserved, but no one ever goes unobserved in my shop.
He was about to open the shop doors when an e-mail alert popped up on his screen, making him frown. Eric, you sly dog. He’d made a rather sizable bank-card purchase of a specific amount, $1,322.65, but to whom? He quickly logged on to Eric’s account.
Air France. Dumbass. And only one ticket. He wondered how Albert would take that news. He logged out and stowed his laptop beneath the counter.
The bell on the door jingled, signaling his first customers of the day. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
Tuesday, September 21, 7:50 a.m.
Fell asleep in the Gorskis’ garden again, David thought groggily, breathing in the scent of flowers. Sweet, but a little smoky. Abruptly he woke, realizing in the same moment that he sat on Olivia’s sofa and that she was straddling him, her hands in his hair and her mouth busy on his. Arousal smacked him like a club and his hands streaked under her shirt, roaming her back, drawing her throaty murmur of approval.
In a flash he had her on her back, her surprised laugh breaking into a strangled groan when his mouth found her breast through her thin cotton blouse.
“God. Don’t stop.” Her hands pulled his head closer. “Please.” It was a gasp as her body arched like a bow, the staccato jerks of her hips against him begging for more.
His blood pounding in his head, he yanked at the buttons on her blouse. “Hurry,” was all she said as he managed the front clasp of her bra.
Mine, was all he could think as his mouth closed over her breast again, sucking hard as she twisted against him, making reality out of what had been a damn frustrating vague recollection. He pulled at the button on her waistband, unzipped her slacks and, his own hand shaking, touched her and groaned. She was wet, dripping wet.
He worked a finger up into her, her little whimper of relief stoking the fire in his blood. God. She was tight. Wet and tight and he wanted nothing more than to drive himself into her, feel her around him. But he’d fucked up twice before and he wasn’t going to make it three times. When he took her, it would be the right way. Slow and sensual, so that she’d have no doubts about being first string.
But now… now her hips were lifting, reaching. Needing. Needing me.
“David. Please.” The harsh plea made him smile fiercely as he took her other breast into his mouth, suckling as he worked her higher. The cries coming from her throat sounded exactly as they had in his dreams. He added a second finger to the first, pressed his thumb hard against her and she wrapped her arms around his head, pulling him closer to her breast as she went taut, completely silent as she came.
Her breath came shuddering out and she collapsed. In his pocket, his cell phone buzzed three times. His alarm clock. Her body tightened and he knew she’d felt it, too.
“Good morning, Olivia,” he murmured and she laughed breathlessly.