Cold Case Affair (9 page)

And Muirinn couldn’t focus on anything other than the pure sensation of his touch. To finally feel his hands on her body—to feel him wanting her, to know he always had—went beyond words, beyond her wildest dreams. Beyond all logical thought.

Shaking against his control, Jett drew her even closer, and Muirinn slid her hand up the back of his neck and guided his mouth down to hers. A groan escaped Jett as his lips met hers.

And something inside him snapped. He yanked her tight against him, thrusting his fingers up into the thick hair at the nape of her neck, as he crushed his mouth down hard onto hers.

Hunger blinded Muirinn as she felt him forcing her lips open, his tongue tangling, warm, salty with hers. He slid his hand up her thigh, under her robe, cupping her buttocks under her nightgown as he pulled her even tighter against his hard, hot body. Against the length of his erection.

An exhilarating wild heat coursed through Muirinn as this man who’d fought so hard to control his feelings for her finally lost it in her arms, moving faster. She hooked her leg around him, as he cupped her buttocks, lifting her up into himself as he kissed her deeper. Muirinn placed her hand between his thighs, relishing the rigidity of his erection under the rough denim of his jeans, oblivious to anything but the desperate, sweet, aching urge to have him inside her, all of him, as close to him as she could possibly get. She began to fumble urgently with his zipper.

He pulled back suddenly, eyelids heavy. “Muirinn—” his voice was hoarse, intense. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

J
ett eased Muirinn back onto the mattress of his double bed. She was naked, hair spreading out in a fiery halo of curls over his pillows.

Soft summer sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows in his bedroom, warming his bare skin as he stood over her, staring down at her with tenderness and wonderment in his heart. He couldn’t believe that she was actually here, in his bed,
all his,
beautiful in the glow of her pregnancy. And the lost years between them seemed to melt into a liquid sensation that knew no time.

Jett needed to take her hard, hot, fast—he needed to possess her—but he was afraid. He didn’t want to hurt her.

And he wanted this to last.

She smiled up at him, lowering her lids as she studied his naked body unabashedly, drinking in every inch of him. His
arousal grew hotter, heavier between his thighs as her scrutiny lingered there.

Lust shifted her features, glazing her eyes. She sat up, reaching out for his hands, the movement parting her legs, deepening her cleavage. Jett’s mouth went bone dry as she took his hands, drew him closer.

She rolled a condom onto him, her movements smooth, tortuous, teasing, along the length of his erection. Jett’s eyes rolled back and his vision swam with swirls of scarlet and black as she coaxed him with rhythmic strokes. He wasn’t going to be able to make this last.

Quickly, he got to his knees, and gently placing a hand on each knee, he parted her thighs.

Muirinn felt his tongue, lips, and a silent cry swelled in her chest. Pregnancy had changed things in her. Everything felt fuller, more swollen, nerve endings heightened to excruciating sensitivity. She began to shake almost instantly as his tongue entered her, pressure, blood, building low inside her.

And she shattered, gasping between breaths and rolling contractions.

His control snapped. He flipped her quickly onto her side and, spooning his body against her back, he entered her from behind. The penetration in this position was shallow, but still she gasped as her body accommodated his size.

He moved, slowly at first, then faster, harder, hotter.

Muirinn clamped her hands down on the mattress, nails digging deep into the sheets as she came again, exquisite rolling waves of contractions seizing hold of her body. But she wanted more, the orgasms just seeming to increase her need, not satisfying something deeper. Because even in his hunger, Jett was being careful, not going deep enough.

Breathless, her skin now slick with perspiration, she swung
around, and pushed him onto his back. Holding his wrists above his head, she straddled him, and eased slowly down onto him, controlling the depth of penetration herself.

Muirinn threw her head back, and closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of Jett inside her.

She began to rock her pelvis against his, feeling the swell of her tummy rub against the rough hair low on his abdomen. He clamped his hands suddenly on her hips, guiding her. Faster, urgent.

Bracing her hands on his shoulders, hair tumbling forward over her face, he rocked her faster, harder. She grew breathless, dizzy.

The wind outside increased, branches tapping on the windows.

His fingers suddenly dug hard into her hips, and he stilled. She looked down into his eyes, and he bucked up in one hard thrust, releasing. And she came again, this time powerful, blinding.

She sank down onto him in a pile of loose, jellylike limbs. And she saw that he had tears in his eyes.

Muirinn gently kissed away a salty drop as it tried to escape down a tanned crease at the corner of one eye. He smiled at her—so open, so warm, as if all barriers between them had crumbled.

But they hadn’t.

Because the pressure to tell him about the baby she’d given away had just mounted intensely inside her, but the prospect of his reaction was now even more daunting.

This thing between them was so precious, so gossamer fragile, she was absolutely terrified to shatter it right now.

And that fear of losing it all again made her feel especially vulnerable.

But he wrapped himself protectively around her, nose
nuzzling into her hair, breathing in her scent, and they lay like that, listening to the branches tick on against the window. “Sounds like another storm coming,” he murmured against her neck.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “I feel safe here.”

Jett grinned, but inside he felt suddenly edgy.

Never had he been so fulfilled by the act of sex, but neither had he been left so empty, needing so much more. Because he wanted it all now.

He wanted Muirinn to stay with him and Troy, for them to finally be the family they were always supposed to be. But he had to do this right. He had to find a way to carefully broach the subject of Troy, and the thought daunted him.

The last thing he wanted was a major confrontation with Muirinn. The last time they’d fought it had cost them both. Dearly.

Because he could see now just how much she’d suffered, too.

But the longer he hid the truth from Muirinn, the worse it was going to be.

He closed his eyes, thinking, imagining how it could all still go so wrong.

The wind was picking up outside, beginning to buffet the branches of a pine against the deck railing. Jett got up, wrapping a towel around his waist. He stood at the windows.

Whitecaps were flecking the inlet, and he wondered if he should bring his boat on shore. He reached for the binoculars he kept on the dresser, and scanned the water and mountains in the distance. It looked like bad weather ahead, judging by a dense band of cloud beyond the peaks.

“What are you doing?” Muirinn said from the bed, her voice husky, warm.

“Just looking.”

“For bad guys?”

He laughed, his chest expanding with affection, warmth. He glanced back at her.

Muirinn’s fire-gold hair tumbled in a mass of tangled curls over creamy white shoulders and breasts, and her cheeks were flushed, eyes glowing. He couldn’t let her go again. Not ever.

He turned back to the window, tension whispering inside him, a movement from Gus’s house next door suddenly catching his eye. Jett panned his scopes over to the property next door. “Lydia Wilkie’s on your deck again,” he said, adjusting the focus.

Muirinn sighed. “She’s
always
in that house.” She got out of bed, wrapping the sheet around herself, and came to stand by his side. “I guess my grandfather liked the company.”

“Does she bother you?”

“Maybe. No. I don’t know.” Muirinn hesitated. “I was going to tell her that I didn’t want her housekeeping services. Then again, once the baby comes…” her voice trailed off.

Jett’s hands tightened around the scopes. “Are you really going to stay?” He made sure there was no emotion, no inflection in the question.

She bumped him playfully. “How could I not, after that.”

He grinned. “I’m serious.”

Her smile sobered. “My roots are here, Jett. I don’t have any family left, but this is where I feel a sense of belonging more than anywhere else. I had to leave to learn this, and I want my daughter to feel that same sense of identity.”

He inhaled deeply, a fragile hope flaring like a burning coal inside him. So much could still go haywire. They needed time. They needed less pressure. But this case, Gus’s files, Tolkin, their own secrets—it was all putting the delicate beginnings of this new into a pressure cooker, with a timer set to blow.

He thought again about the prints in the dark mud, and it hit him suddenly. “You know, I have an idea. Do you remember Trapper Joe?”

She frowned, pulling the sheet higher over her breasts. “You mean that old hermit who used to live way out in the bush?”

“That’s the one. He still lives in the bush, and if
anyone
can tell us anything at all about those prints, it’s Trapper Joe.”

“He’s a nut job, Jett.”

“Yes, but his tracking ability is also borderline psychic, Muirinn. Last year he helped our SAR crew track down a missing twelve-year-old boy who got separated from his family on a hunting trip. For three weeks we found no sign of him at all. Everyone had given up. Even the family. And then one night old Trapper Joe shows up like a shadow out of the forest, and he just walks into the woods, and starts tracking. He found that kid in two days. Alive.”

“Maybe Joe had something to do with the kid going missing in the first place. I wouldn’t put anything past him. He always reminded me of an old stray wolf preying around the outskirts of town, looking to steal anything anyone left out.”

Jett shook his head. “I’ve seen what he can do, Muirinn. Sometimes he comes into town, goes to the outfitters store on Main Street. He doesn’t talk to anyone, but he watches them. He studies the way people move, the way they dress, what shoes they wear. I’d swear he can identify the prints of just about everyone in Safe Harbor.”

“Okay, so he found a kid, and you’re sold, but—”

“He was also at Gus’s funeral, Muirinn. I think helping us will mean something to him.”

She went dead still, color leaching from her face. “Why didn’t you tell me he was at the service?” she whispered.

“You didn’t ask. I saw Joe at the back of the church
during the ceremony. When I looked again, he was gone, like a ghost.”

“Why?” she asked softly. “Why do you think Trapper Joe came to the funeral?”

“Because Gus was one of the few villagers Joe actually did communicate with. I saw him at Gus’s house a couple of times over the years. I figured they were friends, in some weird way. Well, as much as Joe could be a friend to anyone.”

“Where’s Joe now?”

“He runs a trapline up north, has a camp out there.”

“Maybe we should go see him, Jett. Even if Joe can’t tell us anything about those prints, I’d like to know why he really came to the funeral. Maybe Gus spoke to him about his suspicions.”

Jett nodded. “I’ll fly us in, as soon as you’re dressed.” He tilted his head toward the window. “We should go before that weather behind the peaks rolls in. It’ll also give us an opportunity to check out those ATV tracks from the air. Besides—” Jett wavered suddenly, then smiled. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

“What?” Eyes so clear and green and open looked into his.

“You’ll see.”

A smile ghosted her lips. “A secret?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m tired of secrets, Muirinn.”

She swallowed, forcing a smile that never quite reached into her eyes, nodded and left the room.

And Jett’s whispering unease intensified.

Perspiration beaded the woman’s lip. She swiped it away angrily with the base of her thumb. “What part about making it look like an accident did you not understand?”

“It was supposed to seem like a
hunting accident
—”

“Shooting up an entire shed, blowing up a truck?” She swore at him.

He jabbed his finger at her. “Do not swear at me. I am not a goddamn
murderer.
The woman is pregnant. Besides, we’ve got the laptop and photographs—”

“She’s seen them!”

“So? She won’t be able to prove a damn thing without them.”

“But she can
talk.
And the fact that she hasn’t reported the theft of the laptop,
or
the shootout at the mine, tells me she doesn’t trust the cops. And that in turn tells me she’s read the old man’s files.”

Panic shot across the man’s features. “Do you think she’s told Rutledge?”

“Of course she has.” She inhaled shakily, pressing her hand against her sternum. “We’ve
got
to do something. This can’t get out. We cannot be exposed.”

“What do you propose we do, then?”

Her eyes darted, bright, manic. “The only thing we
can
do. We nip this in the bud. Now. We take them
both
out of the picture.”

The man shook his head. “For God’s sake, no. I can’t do this. I am not a killer.”

“Oh yes you are,” she said. “Twelve men died in that mine because of
you
—”

“But I didn’t—”

She held up her hand. “It doesn’t matter. If this gets out, you
will
spend the rest of your life in prison.”

She gripped his shoulders with both hands, perspiration shining on her forehead. “Think ahead. Think clearly. Think of the future.” She paused, her mind racing. “It’ll be easier to go after her alone, first. We find a way to abduct her, quietly. We take her out to the cabin, alive. And we use her to lure
Rutledge out into the bush. Then we make them both vanish.” She clicked her fingers near his ear. “Into the wild, a trip into the bush gone wrong. It happens often enough.”

Nausea roiled in his stomach.

He couldn’t look at her, be with her. He went to the bathroom instead, and threw up.

Leaning on the basin, he stared into the mirror, no longer recognizing the man who stared back at him. He swore, swiped his hand hard across the back of his mouth.

Twenty years had passed. And it still wasn’t over.