Cold Touch (32 page)

pretty calm, deliberate person. She didn’t like to make snap judgments and preferred to analyze the reasons for things that

happened.

He’d said, “It was a mistake.” Not “I wish I hadn’t kissed you,” or “I didn’t enjoy it.”

Which didn’t necessarily mean he
did
wish he hadn’t kissed her, and she would lay money he
had
enjoyed it. The way he wouldn’t meet her eye told her that much.

So if he had liked it but didn’t want to repeat it, there had to be a reason. “Is it because of who I am?”

He didn’t answer right away and stil wouldn’t look at her, preferring to shuffle papers from one corner of the table to another.

Which was answer enough.

She stepped back, hurt—devastated, actual y—but determined not to show it. Her grandmother would have been proud as

the unemotional, aloof, proper Southerner in her responded, “Wel , thank you for being so candid.” Then, to her annoyance, the

emotional, nonaloof, nonproper woman seized her vocal cords. “I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time my freak quotient has

driven a man away.”

His jaw dropped, and his green eyes flashed. Gabe grabbed her upper arms, forcing her to remain stil . He pressed closer,

so close one thick jean-clad leg slid between her legs, bare under her summery skirt. The contact made her a little weak in the

knees.

“Don’t ever say such a thing again. It’s got nothing to do with that.”

“You just said . . .”

“I said it was because of
who
you are, not
what
you do.”

He wasn’t making sense. “And who am I, other than the weird psychic investigator who gets her jol ies by repeatedly getting

murdered?”

“Damn it, Olivia,” he said, his fingers tightening on her arms. Not painful y, just providing evidence of his frustration. “I meant

your name. You’re a Wainwright, a senator’s cousin, for Christ’s sake.”

“Not by choice, believe me,” she muttered.

He ignored her. “You live in a house that’s about ten times bigger than my condo.”

Relief suddenly washed over her. It was about the money, the difference in their backgrounds. She found such things ridiculous in this day and age but knew others did not, especial y in the South. Gabe didn’t seem like the type who would be

bothered by such things. But if he was, she needed to make him understand that just because she’d been raised a certain

way didn’t mean she had the same lifestyle now. “I live in that house not because I could afford to buy it but because my

grandmother left it to me.”

He rol ed his eyes and dropped his hands, freeing her arms. His eyes flashed, and she suddenly realized that had been the

wrong thing to say.

“Want to know what I stand to inherit from my grandfather, my only living relative? Nothing but the strap he used to beat me

with.”

She froze, hearing in that one sentence so much more than he had probably meant to say. Her heart ached, and a sudden

hot anger flashed through her to think of him being treated that way by anyone, especial y somebody who was supposed to

love him. What the hel was the matter with this world, anyway? “He’s stil alive then?”

“He’s too mean to die,” he muttered.

“And your parents?”

Sounding weary, as if he wished he hadn’t opened this can of worms, he rubbed his hand over his jaw and admitted, “I

never knew my father. My mama died when I was a kid. It was just me and the old man, living in a farm shack for a whole lotta

years.”

She didn’t even want to picture it, wondering how on earth this thoughtful, kindhearted man could have turned out to be so

good after being raised in those circumstances. Talk about rising above your past. He was living proof that determination and

a good soul could triumph over adversity. Of course, she’d witnessed that once before. Poor little Jack—Zachary—had been

raised by a monster yet had saved her life.

Unable to resist, needing to connect with Gabe, she lifted a hand and brushed it against his face in a simple gesture of

tenderness and empathy. His cheek felt a bit rough—he hadn’t shaved today—and the result was a sexy, sandpapery feeling.

An image flashed through her mind, and she wondered what that hint of roughness would feel like against her skin—her neck,

her breasts. Elsewhere.

He al owed it for a moment. Then he turned away from her, his jaw as stiff as granite. “Look, Olivia, I’m not playing the poor-

little-poor-kid card here, okay? I’m fine. I have a good life, and I’m happy with it. But the point remains, you and me, with our

histories, our backgrounds? We’re worlds apart.”

“Yes, of course, because my life’s been so utterly charmed,” she murmured.

He lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes. “Hel , I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

She held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t be. I wasn’t saying it to play the poor-little-rich-girl card. I merely wanted to remind

you that we have a lot more in common than you think.” She stepped close again. This time, his back was to the table, and he

couldn’t evade her. “Okay, other than that, is there any particular reason you don’t want me to kiss you again right now?”

“There is the fact that you’re a witness.”

“Come on, we’re way past that point. Anything else?”

He eyed her warily. Opened his mouth. Then snapped it closed.

“I thought not.”

She didn’t ask, wasn’t tentative about it, she simply looped her arms around his neck and pressed her body firmly against

his. Leaning up on her toes, she brushed her mouth against his. Their lips met softly, tasting, caressing, and then widening so

they could deepen the kiss.

Liv tilted her head, loving the way he started slowly sliding his tongue in and out of her mouth, tasting her, sharing each

breath and making secret promises about how much pleasure he could give to her. Not that she had any doubt of that, not

considering she felt weak and boneless yet stil electrified and excited at the feel of his mouth on hers.

He slid his hands to her hips, cupping them, tugging her more firmly against his hard body. They lined up perfectly, her

sensitive breasts scraping that brawny chest, the hol ow in her thighs cupping his rising erection.

Olivia moaned, and he pul ed his mouth away, sucking in a deep breath. She feared he was going to stop—
oh, God, please

don’t stop
—but instead he kissed his way down her jaw to her neck. He tasted her skin, sampling her in little nibbles al the way to the hol ow of her throat, holding her in his strong hands as she leaned back to urge him on.

Tangling her fingers in his thick hair, she turned, drawing him with her, until her back was to the conference table. Gabe lifted

her by the hips until she sat on the table’s edge. He covered her mouth again, this time kissing her hard and deep, his tongue

possessive and demanding. Olivia’s legs shifted apart instinctively, and he stepped between them, and that was instinctive,

too. Like he belonged there.

Oh, she wanted him to belong there, wanted him to stay there. Wanted him to pul off her clothes and make love to her right

there, on top of the table. She wanted the pleasure of it, the eroticism of it, the wickedness of it. And the mindlessness, she

wanted that, too. Wanted to forget everything else except how good and right it felt to be here, with him, like this.

As a knocking sound blasted through the cloud of hazy pleasure in her brain, however, she realized she wasn’t going to get

what she wanted.

He pul ed away from her, lurching back, staring at her, breathing heavily. Olivia did the same, feeling breathless and dizzy.

Not so dizzy, though, that she didn’t hear the voice cal ing from the hal outside the office suite. “Livvie? It’s me, Brooke.

Come let me in!”

Gabe straightened, shook his head, adjusted his jeans, then muttered, “That sister of yours. She’s got some timing.”

Indeed she did. But at least this time she’d knocked.

Though the old barn that had once served as a prison for a young girl had been torn down at some point over the years, Julia

and Derek didn’t expect to have any trouble finding the spot on which it had once stood.

Using GPS and police reports from the case, they made their way through the thick woods and scrub. Typical of Georgia,

the woods ranged from dry and piney, to boggy and wet, to tangled and thick, with old, creaking oaks and wild plum trees. And

moss, everywhere the moss, which some thought was pretty but which most locals knew was a virus, a blight on the

landscape. Julia loathed the stuff; it looked like big clumps of witch’s hair strewn over everything.

There had been no real road, just the hint of a path. Maybe even the same one the kidnapper had used to haul his camper

back here, with a dozen years’ added growth. It would have been hard to spot now, maybe even more so then, if someone

had taken pains to conceal it.

“Almost there,” she said, tapping him on the back. Julia rode behind Derek on his motorcycle, clinging to his broad back,

her legs locked around his lean hips.

Not an unfamiliar position, actual y.

Ducking a low-hanging branch, she found herself glad for the helmet, which had probably spared her from a nasty scratch.

She’d thought that at least they might have a respite from the brutal heat here in the shade. But the trees overhead merely

locked in the hot air and humidity until it felt like they were in the bowels of an enormous greenhouse. Oppressive didn’t begin

to describe it.

She spotted their intended destination first, pointing to a few remaining boards and the hint of a foundation on the ground.

“There it is,” she said, leaning close and raising her voice to be heard over the whistling wind and the motor.

Nodding once, Derek stopped the bike about ten yards away, skidding a little in the dirt. Julia took it in stride, not worrying

that they’d fal over. Derek knew how to handle his machine; he just liked to live dangerously, to walk on the edge.

Cutting the engine, he pul ed off his helmet. Julia did the same, then stepped off the bike. Her legs shook a little, the vibration of the powerful machine seeming to have seeped into her limbs. “Do you see it?” she asked.

When he didn’t reply, she glanced at him and realized he wasn’t looking toward the remnants of the old barn at al . He

wasn’t even pretending to listen to her, his avid attention focused to the left, where there was another smal clearing. Perhaps

where the camper had stood?

“Jesus,” he whispered, the word sounding like it had come from a tight, dry throat.

That was when she knew their trip out here had been worthwhile.

He cleared his throat, took a deep breath that made his broad chest move, then turned his head about thirty degrees to the

left. He stared intently at nothing that she could see, stil and silent as the grave. Then came another quarter turn of the head.

Now she could see his face clearly, noting the blaze of anger in his dark brown eyes and the disgusted twist of his lips.

Oh, yeah. They’d hit pay dirt.

“How many?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know.

“Three so far.”

Three people murdered in this smal , innocent-looking patch of woods. And those were just the ones Derek could see from

here on the bike.

What a strange world he must live in and how cautiously he had to tread in it. Derek never knew when he rounded a corner

if he was going to be presented with the violent images of a phantom body flying through a car windshield or someone being

flung back after being shot in the chest. Deaths happened everywhere. The quiet ones eluded his sight, but the violent ones,

oh, they left their mark.

“Are you al right?” she asked.

“Yeah, fine.” Shaking his head as if to clear it, Derek final y turned to look at the ruins of the old barn, which she’d pointed

out to him.

That didn’t help. His whole body stiffened, his head jerked and a smal groan emerged from his throat before he muttered,

“Wel fuck me.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Liv,” he said, his deep voice not much more than a whisper. “Young. Just a kid. But it’s her, no doubt about it.”

Shocked, Julia fol owed his stare, even though she knew she’d see nothing.

But Derek definitely did. He was focused on what had once been the side of the barn. Where, she knew from hearing Olivia’s story, there had once stood a large barrel ful of water. His eyes were narrowed, his teeth clenched, judging by the

stiffness of his jaw, but he wouldn’t look away.

“I don’t understand. She’s not dead,” Julia said, confused, as she often was by the abilities of these people she worked with

day in and day out.

“No, but she was,” he replied evenly, not a hint of doubt in his voice. “Remember, these aren’t ghosts, they’re visible memories of violent deaths. She might have been brought back, but I’m tel ing you, I am watching her being murdered . . .” He

lifted a hand and pointed. “ . . . right over there.”

The horror of it hit her: Olivia was someone he knew, someone he worked with and liked. “Wil you be able to focus in spite

of that?” she asked. “I mean, is it going to stop?”

He final y dropped his hand, then turned his head to look at her. “No, it won’t stop. It’s like the world’s most gruesome instant

replay, a loop, happening over and over again.”

His friend. Their friend. Being murdered. And he was the eternal witness.

Awful
. Oh, God, it was so awful, she didn’t know how he stood it. How did any of them stand it? Mick was exposed to every

ugly thought that had crossed the minds of every person who’d touched anything he touched. Derek had to watch people die.