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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Afraid to Die
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Her throat tightened. The room seemed to shrink. She knew he was talking about their brief time together, that white-hot summer in California. It would take so little to rekindle that flame ... so damned little. And that would be a big mistake. “I know,” she said, her voice a little deeper than she'd intended, “but then when it's over, you have to let it go.”
“
If
it's over,” he clarified. “Not when.”
She was staring at him, her gaze lost in his, and she forced herself to look away, to clear her head, to push away the thoughts of the time they shared, the kisses under the palm trees, the stolen moments in the shadows of the buildings, the night they'd been in the shower together. She remembered all too clearly the feel of his hands against her wet skin. Oh, damn. “It's the only sane thing to do,” she whispered.
“Sometimes sanity doesn't enter into the equation.”
“It always should,” she insisted.
“Always.”
To her dismay, he reached forward and touched the crook of her arm. “Selena?” he whispered and something around her heart, that hard shell she tried so desperately to protect, started to crack. The long week, the loss of her dog, the knowledge that her son was out there, in the freezing cold, so near, yet so far, and Dylan O'Keefe, here in her apartment ... She didn't resist when he folded her into his arms though she told herself she was every kind of fool. He placed a finger under her chin, lifted her face and kissed her. Hard. With a passion she remembered all too well.
Hot tears burned the back of her eyelids as his mouth moved over hers and she felt the roughness of his beard shadow against her skin.
A dozen memories flooded her brain. In that swift moment, she remembered laughing with him in a sudden rain shower and dashing to his pickup. Her blouse was so wet, it clung to her skin, becoming see-through, her bra visible. Inside the truck, they continued kissing and touching, the blood rushing in Alvarez's brain, her body trembling with desire. The windows of his old truck steamed on the inside while rain drizzled down the windshield and lightning sizzled across the sky. As thunder had rolled through empty streets, she'd flashed back to another time, another place, another car and the smell of cigarettes and beer, the rough fumbling hands of her cousin Emilio, the hard plastic seat of the El Camino.
“Don't,” she'd said, meaning it as he'd thrown himself upon her. “Get off me!”
But he, fueled by alcohol and a need to dominate, hadn't listened. She'd screamed. She'd fought. She'd pulled the knife from his back pocket and threatened him with it, to no avail. The slice she'd made in his shoulder had only enraged him and made him more determined than ever.
No amount of kicking or screaming or spitting or crying could stop him, and there, in his father's El Camino, he'd raped her, taken her virginity and impregnated her, all in ten minutes of brutal, soul-destroying hell.
She'd never been able to make love since.
Not in the pickup in the middle of a rainstorm in San Bernardino.
Not in O'Keefe's shower.
And not, she expected, now, in her town house.
She lifted her head and stared into his eyes. “I ... I don't think this is a good idea.” Her voice was a whisper and she extracted herself from his embrace.
“You're right.” Shoving a hand through his hair, he stepped away from her. “I was out of line.”
“No more than I was.” She let out her breath slowly. “Look, we just have a lot of work to do and anything else might blur the lines, change the focus. Right now, we have to find Gabe.”
The brackets around his mouth tightened and she felt her muscles tense as if she might have to battle him. His stare was intense, but she saw something shift in his gaze. “Agreed,” he finally said. “But let's grab something to eat first and then get to it.” She opened her mouth to protest and he held up a hand. “For the record, this is
not
a date. Okay?” He hesitated and added, “But I'm starved and I think we need a break, now that we've established the ground rules.”
“Not a date.”
“Definitely not,” he said.
“Then how about we just order a pizza?”
“Again?”
“Chinese doesn't deliver in this neighborhood,” she said. “Besides we both like it. And we can have it here. Then we can get to work. Dino's delivers. In any kind of weather.”
“Like the U.S. post office?”
“Oh, yeah, right. Except the drivers are kids. Teenagers. Don't look old enough to have a license. And the cars they drive? More dents than you can find in a demolition derby.”
“But the pizza is good? Hot?”
“Best in town. And certainly as good as what you brought over the other night. So ... You still like an all-meat combo?” She was already sliding her cell phone from a pocket in her purse and saw him nod. “Then we'll split a medium. I'll get the veggie special on my half.”
“Broccoli should never be anywhere near a pizza pie.”
“Glad you feel that way. Then I don't have to worry about you stealing any of mine, do I?” Grateful that the atmosphere had lightened a bit, she offered him a smile as she hit a number on the keypad and Dino's number flashed on the screen as it connected.
“You have the pizza parlor on speed dial?” he asked, apparently surprised.
“Of course, O'Keefe!” She actually laughed. “Doesn't everyone?”
Chapter 16
“I
wondered if you'd show,” Santana said as he closed the door to his cabin behind Pescoli. Inside, the smell of wood smoke mingled with the tangy scent of roasting pork.
“Been a little busy. New Christmas whacko on the loose. Just in case you hadn't heard.”
“I did. It's all anyone in town is talking about. The ice mummy.”
“She's a little more than that to me,” Pescoli admitted, and couldn't help wondering about the other missing women, Lissa Parsons and Brenda Sutherland. She felt the clock ticking, each second a reminder that those women, too, could be in the hands of the nut job with the affinity for ice chisels and saws. She'd already run down the rap sheets on the two violent ice sculptors for the winter festival in Missoula and discovered they had each already arrived and had picked up their entrance information from the registrar.
The first, Hank Yardley, had brought his latest wife and kids along and checked into a Missoula motel not far from the event. Hank had, according to records and his parole officer, kept his nose clean since the domestic abuse charge stemming from a bitter divorce. He'd been in no trouble in the past six years.
However, the second guy, George Flanders, lived around here, just outside of town on a farm. His first offense had been getting into a squabble with his neighbors that had escalated over the years and had turned violent, the neighbor ending up in ICU for three weeks, compliments of George and his ice pick. George pled to a lesser charge and spent a few years in the slammer. Now he was married, attended church irregularly, and was a member of a local lodge. He seemed to now be able to keep his legendary temper in check. Since he'd been out of prison, his only offense was rear-ending a woman with his pickup at a stoplight. The woman had claimed it was intentional, the result of road rage as George had thought she'd cut him off while merging into traffic. She'd said he turned “nasty” and looked as if he might “kill her” when he'd gotten out of his car and approached her at the stop sign. It had “freaked her out.” As he'd stepped closer to her open window, she'd thought better of talking to him and punched it, “afraid for her life.” Later, she'd filed a complaint and an insurance claim, insisting she was suffering from neck injuries and psychological trauma. The case had been settled out of court.
“Hey?” Santana said, bringing Pescoli to the present. “Need a drink?”
“At least one. Maybe six.”
He chuckled and Pescoli felt her tense muscles begin to relax a bit. At least she had a few hours to unwind. Both kids were out with friends for the entire night, and though that still made her a little nervous, she let it go. She'd keep her cell phone on ... just in case they needed her.
Oh, yeah, if they're in trouble, you're the first one they'd call, their mother, the cop.
Nonetheless, she threw her keys and wallet onto a scratched table near the front door and wondered why this drafty three-room cabin with a sleeping loft tucked under the roof felt more like home—a haven—than her own house did. Over a hundred years old, the place had been the original homestead of the Long family, Santana's employer. Santana already had plans to build a larger home on the property he'd inherited, but so far, the construction crew hadn't broken ground on the home he'd invited her, and her children and dog, to share.
Pescoli started walking toward the warmth of the woodstove when he caught the crook of her elbow. “Hey, you forgot something.”
“What?” She looked up just as he grabbed her, dragged her body against his and kissed her hard. As if of their own accord, her bones felt as if they could melt and she wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her mouth willingly. He just felt so damned good. One of his hands grabbed hold of her rump, and that old, familiar heat, the one that got her into trouble, began to sing through her veins. Even through her jeans, his fingertips brushing the split between her buttocks, and erotic images filled her mind.
“You're bad,” she whispered. “The worst.”
“And you love it.”
“Mmm. That I do.” As he pressed her up against the wall, the back of her leg hit the small table where her keys had been tossed. They slid off the surface and, jangling, landed on the floor. From his position near the fire, Nakita, Santana's husky, let out a soft woof.
“Guard dog,” Santana joked, lifting his head for a second and looking into her eyes. His hand found the zipper of her jeans while she pushed the flannel shirt off his shoulders and pulled the hem of his T-shirt from his battered jeans. He moaned softly as her fingers found his skin.
“Jesus, woman!” he said, and picked her up off her feet.
“Hey!” Startled, she started to protest. “What're you doing?”
“You'll see.”
She wasn't a petite woman, had played college basketball, but he carried her as if she weighed little and hauled her up the stairs to the room under the eaves and tumbled with her onto the big bed with the creaking mattress. “I, uh, I thought you promised me a drink.”
“You want me to stop?” he teased as he lifted her sweater over her head. He tossed it, along with both his shirts, to a darkened corner of the room.
Lying on her back, a pillow that smelled of his aftershave supporting her head, she felt her throat catch. “Never.”
“That's what I thought.” Straddling her, he unclasped the front opening of her bra, letting her breasts spill out. Cold air caressed her skin, causing her nipples to pucker. Even in the half-light, she saw his smile, a crooked slash of white. “You
are
beautiful,” he whispered, then began to suckle at one breast while he skimmed the jeans down her legs, his fingers scraping the skin of her thighs and calves.
Pescoli lost herself in the feel of him, in the pure animal sensations of his body against hers. Closing her eyes, her fingers tangled in his hair, she tingled at the feel of his calloused hands and his wet, hot tongue. They would pleasure each other for hours, bringing each other to the brink over and over again, and she couldn't think of anywhere she'd rather be than in this cowboy's bed.
 
 
They'd made little progress, O'Keefe thought as he scraped his chair away from the table, then carried his three empties into the kitchen, where Alvarez was tidying up.
The clock mounted near the stove indicated it was ten past midnight.
After going through all the information each of them had on Gabriel Reeve, they weren't any closer to finding him than they had been before the damned pizza had arrived. Alvarez had used all of her connections, including some contacts with the state guys. O'Keefe had touched base with Trey Williams, conference calling with Alvarez included, but the kid was a ghost.
The trouble was there were lots of places to get lost in this part of Montana—forest, streams, caves, hills—and worse yet, there were lots of areas where, if a person wasn't equipped to battle the elements, he could die of exposure, his remains going undiscovered until the spring thaw, if then.
“He must've left town,” Alvarez said as she rinsed their two plates under the tap, then set the wet dishes onto a tray in the dishwasher.
“Maybe, but he seemed dead set on coming here. To your place.”
“So we're back to that?” Wiping her hands on a towel, she shoved the dishwasher shut with a foot just as her cat hopped onto the counter from a bar stool. “Hey, you ... down!” Alvarez admonished and the cat proceeded to sit, black tail curling over her white toes, before she began to wash her face. “Great. That's it! You're outta here.” She lifted Jane from the counter, only to set her on the floor. Miffed, with a dark glare cast over one sleek shoulder to Alvarez, Jane slunk out of the kitchen, padding quickly to the living room.
“I never figured you for a cat person.”
“Or a dog person, whatever that is?”
“Neither,” he admitted. “You just didn't seem the type.”
“And why's that?” She swiped at a bit of dirt on the counter, glared at it, then swiped again.
“Animals are messy. You know, litter boxes and nose and paw prints on windows, torn-up cushions.”
“I do know and you're right. I never really thought I needed ... or wanted an animal. But ...” She glanced over her shoulder at him as she folded her towel neatly and placed it over the handle of the stove. “... people change.”
“Do they?” He wasn't convinced, but he let it slide. Damn, she looked good. A few hours ago, while sitting at her laptop, studying the birth records Selena had surrendered, she'd taken the rubber band from her hair and shaken it free. So black it nearly shined blue in the lamplight, it had fallen to the middle of her back. Unconsciously, she'd tossed a wayward hank over her shoulders, showing off the long column of her throat as she'd worked.
So engrossed in her computer screen, she'd adjusted the rubber band and snapped it back into place, lifting her hands behind her head, and again, without realizing it, stretching her sweater across her breasts.
He'd caught the motion and looked away quickly, suddenly uncomfortable as he'd remembered how her coppery skin had looked against the white sheets of the bed, and the perfectly round disks of her dark nipples.
Now he said, “I'd better go. If you hear anything more or find out anything, give me a call.”
“You, too.” Her dark gaze met his for an instant, before she walked him to the door, where he found himself wanting to kiss her good night.
Idiot.
Selena Alvarez is the last woman you need to think about kissing—the very last!
After grabbing his jacket, he walked outside and he noticed the snow hadn't started falling yet; the night was bitter cold, but clouds were gathering, blocking the moon and stars. Once inside his Ford, he fired up the engine and blew on his hands.
The heater would take a while, so he grudgingly pulled on a pair of gloves as she turned out the porch light. What was it about her that had such a hold on him? From the minute he'd first laid eyes on her years ago in San Bernardino, he'd found her fascinating; a combination of fire and ice, she could be coldly calculating one minute and passionately volatile the next. Of course she was beautiful, but he'd met lots of beautiful women in his life. None, unfortunately, had touched him the way Alvarez had.
As he did a quick U-turn, avoiding other cars parked on the snowy streets, he wondered about the son she'd borne. What kind of coincidence was it that a fugitive sixteen-year-old had led him straight to Alvarez's home? Not one to believe in kismet or fate or any of that other idealistic crap, he couldn't help but believe that Gabe had run here thinking his birth mother could shelter him when his adoptive parents wouldn't. But how would he have found her?
He slowed for a traffic light, watching the red glow reflect on the snow and ice in the road.
So who was the mystery man who had fathered her child? When he'd asked about Gabe's father, he'd been met with a frosty rebuff. She'd insinuated it wasn't any of O'Keefe's business, which, considering the circumstances, was a flat-out lie and they'd both known it, but he hadn't pressed the issue tonight, preferring to let her come around to telling him the truth. If he had to, he'd find out himself. He knew she grew up in Woodburn, Oregon, and that her family was still there.
Some
one knew the full story and it wouldn't take too much talking to pry it out of the local gossips. Families resided for generations in a small town the size of Woodburn, or Grizzly Falls, for that matter. And people had long memories when it came to gossip.
She'd acted as if the father didn't even know that he'd sired a kid. Maybe that was true. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, he thought as the light turned green and he noticed headlights behind him, identifying Gabe's biological father could stir up a whole new hornet's nest.
 
 
Alvarez ignored the tugs on her heart.
A tug because she was so close to meeting her son and now was worried about the boy she'd never met.
A tug because she missed the rambunctious puppy.
A tug because Dylan O'Keefe brought back memories of a happiness that was almost within her reach and yet she'd let it slip between her fingers.
Disgusted at the turn of her thoughts, she snapped off the lights and reminded herself that even though tomorrow was Saturday, she had to go into the office.
But tonight her town house seemed empty. “Well, come on,” she said to the cat as she mounted the stairs.
O'Keefe was still good-looking, sexy in a rough-and-tumble kind of way. He was also the man to whom she'd nearly bared her soul and given her body, the one to whom she'd gotten way too close and had definitely gotten burned. Her irresponsibility in San Bernardino had nearly gotten herself and O'Keefe killed. He had the visible scars to prove it and she the night terrors. Her rashness had cost him his job.

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