Caught (4 page)

Not the smartest thing, she knew, but it turned her on. It really turned her on, the way he was on the verge of losing control. Nordstrom was a master of appearances, of control, always outwardly cool, outwardly composed, but now—her nipples pricked in excitement and even though it wasn't the moment, her body didn't care.

After being so scared, her hormones were raging, she was on overdrive, over-sensitized. The place between her legs clenched with wanting. The adrenaline coursing through her veins seemed to have summoned other hormones into play, and she was aching everywhere. She wanted to be touched. Held.

Suddenly sexual frustration and fear needed some outlet, and she trembled with the need for release.

Seething with another kind of tumultuous energy, Cody set her coat on the bed, opened his chest of drawers, and yanked out a folded white shirt. Immediately he brought it to her, lowering his voice as he offered it for her to wear. “Did you see his face?”

“He was wearing some kind of hood,” she murmured, cradling his shirt to her chest, trying not to think of how good it smelled.

Cody glanced over at the window and restlessly plunged a hand through his blond hair. He wiped the back of his mouth and then yanked open the closet door, inspecting for differences inside.

“Perp was hiding here when you came in?”

She nodded.

He traced the steps to the bed, the exact same steps the man had taken. She didn't know how he knew, but she was glad she didn't have to explain the events that had transpired here, word for word.

“Was there a struggle?” he inquired, his brows furrowed. God, he was so handsome when he was all business.

Megan tried to remember what happened but only recalled the hands, the stench, the blackness that had enveloped her. She was still breathing loudly, and for the first time, she realized, so was Cody. The discovery brought a fresh pang of longing to her heart.

She'd imagined how they would sound, their breaths, as they made love.

Now she wanted to die when she realized she'd never find out.

This had been such a bad idea. She was such a needy, foolish little slut, she wanted to whack herself with a stick.

When she'd been tied on the bed, afraid, and had seen Cody, a little part of her had still gotten aroused. For a nanosecond, she hadn't wanted him to set her free. She'd wanted him to take her. Like that. Caught and trapped, take her, all of her.

But he didn't. He hadn't.

He was so obsessed with protecting her, he never would, which was the saddest thing of all.

Cody sighed and came over. “Tell me what happened, Meg.”

His delicious scent teased her nostrils as he dropped down beside her and it made her want to erase that horrible name from her skin, made her want to forget the past hour entirely.

She furiously scraped the first I, but Cody caught her hands, stilling their movements. Her lashes rose, and their gazes held. He squeezed her fingers in reassurance, and the exquisite contact made her shiver with need. Solid. Warm. That was what his touch felt like.
What I've always wanted.

She surveyed his expression, but there was no lust in his eyes, only anger. “Don't scrape it off yet—” He urged her into his shirt and his face hardened, his jaw tightened as he explained, “Evidence.”

He gazed at her stomach with indecipherable eyes, but when he lifted his hand to trace her chin with the pad of his thumb, the touch was sensual. Lush. Sexual.

As the adrenaline left her body, something else arrived in its stead, something hot and wanting.

She caught her breath as he lowered his hand and, with that same callused thumb, grazed his brother's name on her navel.

“Is it tender, does it hurt?” he asked in a low voice.

She didn't know how to interpret the gruff emotion there, but his timbre wasn't cold, and she knew that he was not unaffected. Was it her nearness that made him seem on edge? Unlike himself?

No. It was the fact that she had his brother's name over her underwear.

“It's sensitive,” she admitted, just a whisper at the blond top of his head.
Sensitive because you're touching it.

His finger trailed the last word, and then stopped, somehow, at the edge of her leopard panties. She felt so stupid all of a sudden, like this, with his shirt hanging at her sides, her red heels, her failed plan. She'd dressed for the perfect evening to seduce the man of her dreams, and instead, another man had seen her. Another man had tied her to Cody's bed, and it had not been the man she wanted, nor quite in the way she'd dreamed.

She shuddered involuntarily, feeling vulnerable.

He sat back and stared at her beneath his eyebrows, his golden-tipped lashes so heavy his eyes appeared slits now.

His voice became so rough it scraped through her like sandpaper. “What the hell were you doing here dressed like this?” he murmured, pinning her on the spot with a penetrating stare.

She wanted to tell him the truth, and at the same time, she was still chicken enough to want to lie and say that she
had
been dressed and all her misery tonight was that criminal's fault! But Cody was a detective, and he'd know it was a lie. There were no womanly clothes scattered about, and at the moment, she feared that he was already realizing that her being in a panty and bra had been deliberate.

She could see, by the way he slowed down his breathing, the way he did not look up while he was composing himself, that it was just dawning on him why she had come here. Tonight. For him.

“I'm going to assume,” he said, and cleared his throat when his voice got too thick to speak, “that your state of undress was a one-time thing, not to happen again?”

He raised his eyes, and, was there disappointment there? Or, God,
please don't let it be pity.

Megan flicked her eyes down at his tie, unable to look at him, her dearest friend, the man she wanted.

“I wanted to show you my acquisition, all right? No big deal.” She had to say that. Just had to save face somehow.

His brows flew upward, and he almost coughed. “You wanted me to see the underwear you bought?”

“You're my friend, aren't you?” she countered.

He looked flabbergasted, his mouth hanging open for a moment. “I happen to know shit about women's underwear!”

She said nothing, and Cody glanced at the door, then back at her. Slowly, as though he feared he would detonate with a touch, he set a big, cautious hand on her shoulder, and his voice went raspier by the second. “Aren't women supposed to wear that kind of thing to their dates?”

Because she still wouldn't look at him, and he continued touching her shoulder, a touch she was sure was not meant to be sensual but
was
, her blood sang—and this feeling of being alive after thinking she would die was exhilarating.

Megan wanted to wrap her arms around his thick neck, draw his plush lips against hers and bite and lick them. She was about to just kiss him, throw caution to the wind, when he asked, with a gentle squeeze, “Did he hurt you?”

This time he did not allow her silence, but tipped her head back until she answered,

“No. He—he put a rag over my nose, and I blacked out. That asshole!” she exploded.

Suddenly furious at herself, at the criminal, hell, at
Cody,
she stood and tossed Cody's shirt aside, angrily pushing her arms into her coat. It had been an awful idea, to come here. Awful.

This sick intruder had ruined her perfect evening. He'd ruined the rest of her life! Now when was she going to gather the courage to try this again? Damn him. And damn Cody for acting like a detective when what she needed was …
what you need is to leave, Megan Banks!

“Whoa there, where do you think you're going?”

When Cody pulled out a camera—no doubt intending to take pictures of the “evidence” on her stomach—Megan closed her trench coat tight, knotted the belt around her waist, and shot him a scowl that could melt an ice pyramid. “Put that thing away. Last thing I heard, you needed to be dead to become one of your cases!”

“Meg,” Cody stopped her, his forehead creased in annoyance, “I understand you're in shock and want to submerge yourself in hot water so there's not a mark left on you, and I promise you when it's time for you to leave, I'll be the first to drive you home and scrub it off. But I'm afraid the procedure—”

And for the first time since they'd known each other, Megan let Cody know what she thought of him and his rules and procedures. She went around him, and from the door, said, “
Fuck
the procedure!”

*   *   *

It took Cody five seconds to register, digest, and act upon Megan's parting words.

And no, he never, ever, fucked with his procedures. Or, okay, almost never.

He caught up with her on the stairs, his grip firm on her elbow. “Next time you invite me over for Christmas, I'm going to tell your mama all about that mouth of yours and all the words it can say. But for now, you're going to put it to good use and tell me exactly what happened.”

Megan pulled away and jumped the remaining two steps to the first floor, then whirled around and shot him an acid smile. “I'm not saying another word to you, so arrest me if you must.”

She slammed the front door in his face, an inch away from his nose, and Cody was really, really reaching the end of his patience here.

Suddenly it dawned on him that Megan was the worst victim, the worst damned witness, Cody had encountered in all his years at the force. He yanked the door open.

“Megan Banks! I represent the law, and as a representative of the law, it's in
your
best interest that
I
remain informed—if we screw up the evidence you screw with your chances in court. Now get back here and talk, dammit.”

She stormed back, but she was fuming. “I can't believe all you care about is taking pictures of his … argh, forget it.” She poked a finger into his chest, her cheeks flaming bright red in fury. “But next time a woman gets accosted in your bedroom, do yourself a favor and drop the questions, ditch the stupid camera, and just
hug her,
you idiot!”

She dashed across the street.

“Goddamit, Meg!”

He chased two steps after her, then he stopped, torn between staying put for the team he'd summoned to arrive or following her. His male instinct said follow her. Chase her down and then—no, he wouldn't pursue that train of thought.

Procedure told him to remain on the scene. He could gather the evidence himself, but that meant paperwork and a whole lot of trouble for a case that may or may not be treated with the importance it was due.

No. Damn procedure—this was one time when Cody had to trust his instincts. He could arrest the little chit for jaywalking but she knew damned well he wouldn't do that. Maybe he should show her that he had the balls to—oh yeah, he had the balls all right. But she had them in her tight little grip, damn it.

Charging up the stairs for what he needed, he determined that this invasion of his home, his girl, was personal. If that murdering sonofabitch Ivan was out, then yeah, it was personal.

Nordstrom had a vacation week, but he had not even planned to rest. He had, by circumstances and tragedy, become filthy rich—so Cody didn't need to work to make a living.

He'd inherited his mother's money, substantial from the sales of some produce farms down in Texas, and his father's savings, which had amounted to a couple of million. He didn't need to work to live; but he needed to work to feel alive.

Nobody could give him back his father or mother. Nothing could give him back all the time he'd lost, all the mistakes he'd made, not even all the millions the family had in the bank. And no matter how many cases he nailed, or how many women he took to bed instead of one, he felt empty, discontent, like fucking shit. But at least now he had a purpose.

Get that motherfucker once and for all.

He might even relish the chase, if he hadn't messed with Megan tonight.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he remembered her words. “Next time just hug her, you idiot!”

Megan.

If I hug you I'll lose control.

No. He wouldn't hug her. But he'd die before another guy ever set a finger on her.

Heart pumping as adrenaline rushed through his veins, he grabbed his duffel with his spare guns, his knives, a set of extra clothes, passport, cell phones, laptop, and then drove like a shot over to her home, only a few minutes away. He called her cell phone the whole ten minutes it took him to get ready, leaving three messages ranging from, “Meg, call me, you're in danger,” to, “Meg, pack your bags. I'm on my way.”

He checked the perimeter of her home as he arrived, then rang the doorbell three times. Relief assailed him when she called out through the intercom, “Who is it?”

“The damned hug patrol, come on! Open up.”

Meg opened, and for a moment he lost his breath, for the moonlight cast her face in an almost angelic glow. The flaring streetlights seemed to work entirely in her favor, casting a captivating shine to the lighter streaks of her hair, damp from a recent shower. The scent of peach shampoo drifted to his nostrils.

She still smelled like his childhood. And she looked like his dreams. Her hair was perfectly combed back, all wet and slick. The perfect symmetry of her face, the innocence in her eyes. She looked … like a goddess.

Like a virgin goddess that you could never have, never touch.

But he could protect her.

He could try to make up for what she'd seen, try to make sure no crazed fuck ever got near her. She would never know he loved her. He loved her so badly his gut ached.

A raging thirst to drink from her mouth consumed him. A rampant hunger to bite her skin and taste how soft and sweet it was.
Calm the monster, calm the fucking monster—now.