Cold Shot (3 page)

Grabbing the thermos he’d filled with coffee and tucking two plastic mugs in his oversized hand-warming pocket, he
headed out of the station and up the well-worn path to Little Round Top.

He crested the ridge and found her sketching the initial scene. Her precision was impeccable.

She jumped at his approach.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She brushed her auburn hair back. “It’s fine. I was just . . . concentrating.”

He lifted the caffeine-filled thermos. “I brought fuel.” It was going to be a loooonnnng night—at least she was going to change out of the killer dress. “And”—he lifted the pile of clothes—“a change of attire.” He’d tried to talk her into waiting inside the warm ranger station until the CSI and Declan arrived, but she refused to leave the scene.

“Thanks.” She took the sweatpants and sweatshirt and moved behind the giant oak that had been holding him up earlier.

Was she . . . ? Heat rushed his cheeks, and he quickly turned his back, though the twenty-hand span of the trunk fully shielded her. “Don’t you want to use the restroom or ranger station?” The woman never ceased to surprise him. Talk about unnerving and captivating. Good thing she’d be gone in a day.

“I can put the new outfit on before taking my dress off.”

How on earth
 . . .
 ?

“I swam growing up. You had to learn to change at all sorts of meets with all sorts of accommodations—or lack thereof.” She stepped from behind the tree and draped her dress over a low-lying tree limb—now clad fully in his clothes. They dwarfed her petite frame, but she looked no less striking. Something about her in his clothes . . . Attraction pulsed through him.
Great.

She kicked off her heels, took the coffee mug he offered, and sank to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest and perch
ing the sketchbook against her thighs. “Thanks.” She glanced around, her big blue eyes a bit wider than usual. “Lots of strange sounds out here at night.”

“A lot of critters call the park home.” He yanked a couple packets of his homemade trail mix from his pocket and offered her one as he sank to the ground beside her—having laid out a second tarp to keep them dry. “Wasn’t sure how much of your date I interrupted.”

“We had dinner, but I’m still famished.” She opened the trail mix with one hand while cupping the mug in her other. “I hate places that serve miniscule food and call it gourmet. I mean, who actually eats like that?” She tilted her head back and tapped some trail mix into her mouth. “Wow,” she said after swallowing. “This is good. Where’d you get it?” She jiggled some more out of the bag.

“I made it.” He popped a handful into his own mouth.

“Really. Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh. Just didn’t picture you as the cooking sort, but I suppose trail mix isn’t cooking exactly, and it does fit well with the whole outdoorsy thing you’ve got going on.”

He arched a brow. “Outdoorsy thing?”

“You know . . . I can tell you enjoy spending time outside, and you’re built like someone who . . .” She swallowed hard.

“Someone who?” he pressed.

“Is . . . athletic . . .” She cleared her throat. “Fit.” She tried to shrug off the embarrassment flushing her face in the harsh glow of the floodlights.

He popped a handful of trail mix in his mouth, smothering a grin. So Finley Scott thought
him
attractive. The feeling was absolutely mutual, but it didn’t make any sense, which yet
again proved his instincts were bunk. Such a shame. The woman was . . .
enchanting
.

She spent the next two hours making chitchat, clearly not a fan of the dark or the silence. Two things he loved.

“I’m guessing you’re not a fan of camping?” he said.

Her brows arched. “Why do you say that?”

“You don’t seem to be enjoying the atmosphere—crime scene aside, of course.”

She picked at what remained of her trail mix. “Never camped growing up, but we did spent a lot of nights on our sailboat. I loved sleeping up on deck under the stars.” A soft smile curled on her lips at the remembrance.

Interesting
. So why the palpable unease? With her profession she had to be used to crime scenes. Was it him that was making her so uncomfortable?

The distinct throaty wail of a Triumph’s exhaust rasped in the distance, coiling Griffin’s muscles. It couldn’t be. “The CSI guy you called . . .”

“Yeah?”

The motorcycle pulled into the lot on the back side of Little Round Top.

“His name wasn’t, by any chance, Parker Mitchell, was it?”

Her brows furrowed. “Yeah. . . . How’d you know?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Of all the possible crime scene investigators . . .

4

F
inley shifted to stand, and Griffin offered his hand. She took it, her fingers dainty in his hold.

She looked up at him, something shifting in her gaze, but he couldn’t read what.

How was that possible? He could read
everyone
. Well, everyone but . . .

Parker stepped over the rise.

Finley slipped her hand from Griffin’s and moved to greet him. “Ranger McCray, this is—”

“Hey, Griff.” Parker’s lilting Irish brogue tugged a million memories to the surface.

He greeted Parker with a nod, ignoring the surge of adrenaline burning his limbs at the sight of his other “brother.”

Finley glanced between them, and he prayed somehow the tension remained hidden. He didn’t want to go there.

“You two know each other?” she asked.

That cocky smile he hated curled on Parker’s lips, above the
ridiculous goatee the man had grown since they’d last seen each other. “Now that’s a loaded question.”

Griffin swallowed.
Misdirect. Quick
. “Declan’s on his way,” he said.

“Declan.” Parker’s smile widened. “A Pirates reunion, then. Minus one, of course.”

Minus the one who’d held them all together after . . . He choked that thought.

Finley’s blue eyes blinked up at him. “Pirates?”

He exhaled. So much for keeping memories in the past. “It was the name of our Little League baseball team.”

“Little League?” Her brows furrowed. “You two grew up together?”

Griffin sloughed his balled fist into his jacket pocket. “Afraid so.”

Parker stepped to Finley. “How you doing, whiz kid?” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and Griffin’s gut knotted.

“Whiz kid?” he asked, trying to ignore the irrational jealousy flaming inside.

Parker draped his arm around Finley’s shoulders, only stoking the fire. “Finley is amazingly brilliant.”

Coming from Parker, that was saying a lot. Not that he’d ever need to utter those words. Parker was cocky enough without any comments on his intelligence. If only he possessed common sense, responsibility, trustworthiness . . .

“She was the youngest doctoral graduate in her field at Penn State,” Parker said, finally releasing hold of Finley.

The grip on Griffin’s chest eased as Parker stepped away from her. “Really?”

Finley shrugged. “I went into my undergrad with a lot of AP credits. I’m what you’d call a knowledge nerd.”

She was the sexiest nerd he’d ever seen.

He’d known she was intelligent but hadn’t bothered looking into her past. He didn’t like people judging him by his, so he figured it only fair to extend others the same grace. He judged on what he saw—or tried his best to stick to that. Unfortunately
his
best had cost someone her life.

Finley sat cross-legged, her back against the rough tree trunk, observing the palpable strain between Griffin and Parker as the night passed uncomfortably. She hated the dark surrounding her, but Griffin and Parker’s presence brought her a measure of comfort, made the fear itching to burst open remain beneath the surface.

Please, Father, don’t let Griffin, of all people, see me freak out. Settle the fear. He’s not here, and I’m not alone. I’m safe.

She mentally repeated the phrase over and over until the burgeoning panic simmered. She was safe. She didn’t really believe the words, but they worked enough to keep the façade in place.

Taking a deep breath, she shifted her attention to the two men with her.

What was the deal with them?

She’d known Parker for a year, ever since he’d been called in on the case that nearly destroyed her. He’d been the freelance investigator hired by the deceased’s family to help solve their daughter’s cold case when the county-appointed one had completely dropped the ball.

She’d only met Griffin a few months ago, but she felt she knew the straight-laced ranger better. And yet . . .

She gazed between the two men, startled at the depth of
emotion welling on Ranger McCray’s pinched face. She wondered if she really knew him at all.

He stood. “Since we can’t do anything until dawn and you two are here to keep the site secure, I’m going to finish my rounds.”

She got to her feet, thankful Parker had swung by her office just down the hall from his at the medical examiner’s and grabbed her extra pair of tennis shoes. “I’ll go with you.”

Griffin quirked a brow.

“I’m getting restless just sitting. Parker can keep an eye on things. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked.

Parker lifted the hand casually draped across his knee in assent. “Of course not, love.”

Dark brown hair, deep green eyes, and a dynamic smile. Most women went nuts over the handsome man, and his gorgeous Irish accent only made him more attractive to most. But she’d never been attracted to him in that way. She appreciated his good looks and intellect but wasn’t drawn to them like a moth to a flame.

Griffin stiffened beside her.
Curious.
Was his discomfort because she was interrupting his solitude by joining him or because of Parker’s term of affection? Either way it didn’t matter. Walking would help ease the tightness in her belly. It always did.

She moved to Griffin’s side. “I’ll follow your lead.”

He hesitated a moment but then nodded and glanced over his shoulder at Parker. “Back in an hour.”

Parker lifted his chin.

Seriously. What was going on between these guys?

Griffin kept his stride firm, steadfast, the release of adrenaline a welcome relief. He hadn’t expected Finley showing up with
a date to bug him so much. Regardless of his attraction, he’d never pursue her. The fact that his gut told him to go for it was proof enough not to.

But then hearing Parker call her “love”?
Ugh
. It had burrowed like a chigger under his skin—constant inflamed irritation gnawing at the surface.

“So . . .” she said, “ . . . you and Parker grew up together?”

The lady didn’t waste any time. He kept his stride brisk. “Yep.”

“Small world.”

He moved through the trees, darkness wrapping around them as the floodlights faded in the distance. “Yep.” Warmth filled his limbs as they wove through the narrow trunks lining the shallow gulley.

Reaching the top of the small ravine, the hairs along the nape of his neck pricked. Instinct kicked in and he snaked an arm around Finley’s waist, pulling her to him.

Panic surged in her eyes, and she struggled against his hold.

He quickly released her. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I heard something.” He gestured to the tree line.

“Oh.” Pink flushed her cheeks in the flashlight’s beam.

He held his finger to his lip, indicating silence, and cut the light.

She hovered beside him as he scoured the tree line, the distinct sensation of being watched raking over him.

He didn’t see anyone or hear anything further, but something held fast to his gut. Lowering his mouth, he whispered in her ear. “Take my hand.” He reached out for her.

She placed her palm against his, and he wrapped his fingers around hers, biting back a groan. Why did she have to feel so perfect?

Fixing his focus where it needed to be, he stalked toward the copse of trees, Finley fastened to his side.

Leaves crunched to the south of them—just the briefest whisper of sound, but distinct. Pulling his weapon, he ignored the concern on Finley’s face and continued forward. Twenty more strides and he stopped to listen again.