Illicit (12 page)

“Apparently so are you,” he said.

She rose from her crouch and reached for the decanter of Greg’s favored whiskey he kept on the mantel. Pouring two glasses, she faced Peter.

He held up the folder. “Do I want to know what you did to get a copy of the police file on Greg’s murder investigation?” An edge crept into his voice, one she planned to ignore.

With a causal lift of her shoulder, she said, “As you can see, they haven’t ruled it as a murder. The coroner thinks it was a suicide. You know how the long, dark winters affect people.”

Peter dropped the folder to the desk, sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. He might look relaxed, confident, but the tightening lines around his eyes told the truth. “How’d you get the file, Eva?”

She set his liquor on the table, backed away to the far side of the room. The more distance between them, the better. Settling in front of the fireplace, she sat and pulled her legs to her chest. Heat washed over her skin, loosening the tension holding her body stiff. The burning log popped, sent embers dancing. She sipped her firewater, appreciated the burn.

“Answer me,” Peter demanded.

“Grady wanted to give me flowers. I told him to give me a copy of the file instead.”

Two days ago, a plan to get Peter out of town formed in her mind. An epiphany during an endless night without sleep. Peter was here, and wouldn’t leave because of the murder. If she found out who’d killed Greg, then Peter would go home, to Montana. Simple. Until she’d gotten the damn file. The lack of evidence was appalling. No leads. No evidence. The only papers were her statement and a few gruesome photos she’d rather not see ever again.

“Where is the rest of it?” he asked.

She turned her head to him. “That is all they have. Pathetic, huh?”

Silence fell between them, and she was almost glad he didn’t respond. Looking away from him, she rested her head on her knees and let her lids droop. The crackling fire in front of her soothed her like a lullaby. It had been so long since she’d slept. Too long.

“The motherfucker,” Peter growled, his sharp words snapping her awake.

“What’s the matter?” she asked with a yawn big enough to crack her jaw. She rose, stretching the lethargy from her muscles, wondering how long she’d dozed.

Long enough for Peter to empty the crystal glass at his elbow and push his sleeves up his well-built forearms. Partially hiding a scowl, he held the folder near his face, so close she wondered how he could even focus on the words.

“In your statement you mention a blood trail.”

“Okay,” she said, tried not to visualize the sprinkling drops so vivid against the white snow. “What’s your point?”

He threw the folder down, flipped through photos, each grainy snapshot coaxing the vomit into her throat. “My point is that there isn’t a picture of it. The blood would have been vital to the investigation. It should have been documented, especially where it led. Suicide my ass. Greg couldn’t have shot himself in the head, walked across the parking lot, settled himself in his truck, and then died.”

Eva blinked, and then blinked again. Why hadn’t she come to that conclusion? She picked up the file, frantically searched her statement, remembering Grady writing it down word for word. She paused on the photos. Dull, glazed eyes. Blue skin. The puckered hole with its dark stream of blood. There were a few other photos of the inside of her truck, the bloodstains, and a smeared handprint on the steering wheel, but she didn’t find pictures of the blood on the ground.

“Did you notice anything else that isn’t in here? Footprints, tire tracks? Greg isn’t a small man, someone would have either had to drop him off via vehicle or carry him.”

She bit her lip, tried to think. “No, I can’t remember seeing anything like that. Not a lot of cars come in and out of the parking lot, so the treads stay until more snow falls. I should call James, he might remember.”

Peter’s head shot up so quickly, he almost cracked her in the jaw. “You didn’t mention James was with you.”

“He was the first person I called. I figured he’d know what to do. There was the note to think about. I didn’t want to expose the Pard.”

“The police never took his statement.”

“He was gone before they got there, went out through the woods to see if he could catch a scent.” She shrugged. “He said he couldn’t pick anything up.”

Peter shook his head. Rage simmered in his eyes. “Either the good detective purposely withheld evidence, the blood trail, footprints, and tire treads, or he’s a piss-poor detective.”

“He didn’t do it, Peter.” She rose, paced back and forth in front of the fire. Thoughts whirled in her head, too quick to grab. Then, it hit her. She stopped abruptly, looked at Peter. Raising her hand and shaping it into a gun, she pointed her imaginary weapon at his head.

“Shifters are quick, and Greg, despite his age, was in excellent physical condition.”

Peter frowned, but sat up a little straighter as if he understood what she was trying to say. She met his gaze, slowly compressed her index finger on the make-believe trigger. Peter moved with lightning speed. He was across the room, hand over hers, before she could have ejected a bullet from the barrel of the gun and shot him.

He looked into her eyes, slid his fingers over her skin. Her outstretched hand trembled, his slow caress tightening her stomach. He gripped her wrist, tugged her close.

Licking her suddenly dry lips, she said, “The bullet hit him from the front, right between the eyes. He wouldn’t have let himself get shot in the head. Not by Grady or anyone else.”

Peter loosened his grip and slid his palm up her arm, over her shoulder, and down her back. Cupping her waist, he pulled until the fronts of their bodies touched. She sucked in a small breath. No longer protected by a bulky coat, her thin slacks and even thinner blouse absorbed his heat.

“Maybe he wasn’t expecting Grady to pull out a gun. Your theory only proves he wasn’t expecting to be shot or else he would have moved,” he said, his voice husky and rich with the promise of pleasure, a strange combination considering their topic.

He drew her onto the tips of her toes, bent and brushed his nose against hers. She pressed a shaky hand against his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart raced. The instinct to pull him close warred with self-preservation. This man could hurt her, had hurt her, in so many ways. At the last minute, before his lips could descend upon hers, she pushed away from him.

“What’s our next step?” she asked in a breathless voice, stepped farther back to put a few more feet of distance between them.

How could they find out who’d killed Greg? And how quickly could they uncover the truth? She needed Peter gone before she did something stupid like have sex with him again. Even now, calculation gleamed in his eyes. He wanted to fuck and her saying no wasn’t a possibility. The thought of him on top of her, his weight pressing into her, his cock driving in and out, demolished any vow she’d taken to keep him out of her bed. Moisture slicked her sex, and a needy ache pulsed at her core.

His nostrils flared as if he could smell her arousal. The primitive need darkened his irises.

When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Last question, Eva, before I have you naked and on your knees. Did Greg have a meeting the day he died?”

She swallowed, struggling to process what he’d said after “naked and on your knees.” Meeting. Murder. Right. On shaky legs, she crossed to Greg’s desk. She rummaged around in the middle drawer until her hand closed around a leather-bound appointment book. Pulling it free, she flipped page after page. The moment she saw the red ink, the date of Greg’s death circled, her arousal vanished.

“What did you find?” Peter asked.

He moved behind her and wrapped a hand around her waist. Pulling her tight against his hard body, he looked over her shoulder at the letters and number.

“I don’t know what it means. ‘SF 6,’” she said, shook her head. “This was the day I found Greg’s body.”

Peter reached around her and flipped back and forth through pages, scanning for any reference. She inhaled his scent, immediately held her breath the moment she realized what she was doing.

“South Forest, 6 a.m.,” Peter said and stood. He took a few steps back, leaving her cold and alone.

She turned around to face him and pressed back against the desk with her arms over her chest. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “He’s my father, I knew him for fifteen years. SF, or south forest, it’s what he and my mother used to call the hunting cabin up near the southern edge of the...” He trailed off. A vicious hardening of his mouth and eyes changed his features into someone she didn’t recognize, frightening and unfamiliar.

“What?” she asked on a swallow, straightening to step forward.

She pressed a hand against his chest, looked up at him. Pain filled his gaze and broke her heart. The emotion he let her see was as clear as the sky on a blue summer day.

“SF was where my mother was murdered.”

Emotions battered at the walls Peter had built since childhood. Alphas didn’t feel pain. They didn’t feel loss. They sure as hell didn’t show it. He’d needed to get away from the leather binder lying open on the desk and the dark recollections it stirred.

Memories wrapped around his throat like fingers, tightening into a slow choke. As if it were yesterday, not thirty-some-odd years ago, he shuffled into this very same office and stopped at the sight of silent tears tracking down his father’s unshaven face. One by one, drops splattered onto his mother’s photo. Greg looked up at the sound of his approach, eyes red and instantly furious. Peter stood straighter, holding his father’s gaze despite what he’d been taught.

Features hardening and fists balling, his father went into a rage. The first of many to come. He pushed up from his chair, his bulk and height an imposing force. Growling low in his throat, Greg hurled the nearly empty whiskey bottle he clutched. Heavy glass collided and shattered at the wall a few feet from where Peter stood. Liquid splashed to the ground, kicking up and soaking through his thin, blue pajamas. The bitter scent drowned out his father’s grief.

“Get out!”
Greg’s bellowed demand made him jump, was more startling than the breaking of the bottle. Taught never to show fear, Peter backed up silently. His worn blanket dragged on the ground, snagging on jagged shards.

“This is your fault! I lost her because of you!” Something else slammed against the wall, a crystal tumbler. “I said get out! Never come in here again, do you hear me boy? Never.”

Peter forced the memory away, shoved his feelings back into a tight, black ball and let it settle in the pit of his stomach. He needed a distraction before spilled his guts.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She blinked up at him. “Food? Who cares about food? Peter—”

She ran her hand up his chest, her touch coaxing feelings to the surface. He gripped her wrist and pulled her palm away. He didn’t want or need her comfort. Saying nothing, he pulled her from the office, through the living room, and all but forced her into a chair in the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, he sat across from her at the dinner table, the prepared food he’d thawed from the freezer untouched. They hadn’t spoken, had barely looked at each other since his admission in the office. The quiet gave him time to formulate a plan.

“I’m leaving tonight,” he said, distilling the heavy silence.

Eva looked up at his announcement. Apparently, his statement was more interesting than her untouched dinner. He’d been seconds away from forcing the food, among other things, down her throat if she didn’t start eating.

God, he had to get out of this house.

“Leaving...as in going back to Montana?” Something brightened in her eyes, the emotion matching the hopefulness tone in her voice and the eager perking of her shoulders.

He might have been offended if he hadn’t known how badly she wanted him, and how badly she didn’t
want
to want him. The rich scents of her arousal lingered, sneaking inside him with every breath. Desire hardened his cock, made it difficult to focus on what he needed to be doing. Catching Greg’s killer and keeping Eva safe. He’d do neither if he stayed in this house. He was too on edge, too restless.

Her honeyed-sunshine fragrance had changed since he’d left her in her bedroom three days ago. The difference was intoxicating, distracting, and damning. She was ovulating despite her little white anti-pregnancy pills. If she were leopard, he’d say she was in heat.

Her ripened body begged him to pluck her. When she’d jumped from her truck and stalked toward him like an angry lioness, the only thing he’d been able to focus on was fucking her, claiming her, planting his seed deep within. His distraction was the only reason she’d gotten the better of him.

Inside, barely restrained, his leopard pushed the boundary of his self-control. The animal demanded to mate, to sink his teeth into the back of Eva’s neck and procreate. Screw that. He didn’t want kids, didn’t want the responsibility of messing up someone else’s life. The knowledge that he hadn’t already gotten her pregnant should have been a relief, would have been if the instinct to the finish the job wasn’t tearing him apart.

Shoving another tasteless bite of food into his mouth, he wrestled the feline into submission. “Not Montana. I’m going to the hunting cabin. If Greg had a meeting there the morning he died, and no one saw him after, it stands to reason it’s where he was murdered. Death and violence leaves a scent, I’ll get a good idea who killed him and who’s been threatening you.”

She straightened in her seat, the fatigue vanishing. “I’m going with you.”

He gripped his fork tighter, the only thing stopping him from swiping the plates to the floor and ripping off her clothes. He wanted her naked, legs spread, head thrown back on a scream when he plunged inside over and over again. Not going to happen. Undeterred, his cock took over his brain. Images of her pink pussy glistening and swollen filled him. He remembered the sweet taste of her arousal, her honey scent, knew how tight and hot she was.

If he fucked her tonight, came inside her, he’d get her pregnant.

A rogue thought swept his arousal to the side and chilled him. Is that what James was doing here tonight? Had he been drawn to Eva’s need? Shit. Peter couldn’t stay with her, but he sure as hell couldn’t leave her alone either.

Through clenched teeth, he spoke, “My ‘I’m leaving tonight’ wasn’t an invitation. When’s the last time you slept?”

“I could ask you the same thing. We’ll go in the morning. If he was killed there,” she swallowed, “I need to see it, Peter.”

“No.”

Her eyes narrowed. She set her pristine fork down next to her plate and leaned forward, all pretense of eating gone. “You owe me, Peter.”

“Are we bartering now? Because there are more than a few things you could do to change my mind.” He ran his thumb across her lower lip. Lust gripped him, forced everything else away. How easy it would be to lose himself inside her again.

She slapped his hand away. “Keep dreaming. I’m not having sex with you tonight, or any other night, so stop looking at me like you’re seconds from tearing off my clothes. It’s not happening.”

Oh, it was happening. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his head. He stared at her and almost smiled at her denial. She wanted him. The inky circles of her pupils dilated, eclipsing the brown. A flush colored her cheeks. Hard nipples pressed against her thin shirt, all but invited him to take a taste. He wouldn’t comment on the subtle way she shifted and pressed her thighs together. She probably had no idea why her hormones were so out of control.

Eva’s silent challenge spurred him on, broke his control.

“Care to make a wager?” he said.

Her desire spiked; waves of the scent filled the air and flooded his mouth. She tasted much better than the food he’d been trying to force down. No other woman had ever affected him like this. Without warning, she pushed back from the table and stood. Her gaze jerked toward the living room, back to him, and then toward the back door leading into the forest. Escape. He could sense she wanted to run, but Eva kept her composure. Lower lip tucked between her teeth, she inched back a step. He’d let her have a three-second head start, just to liven things up.

“I’m going to bed. You can pick me up tomorrow at seven.” She backed out of the kitchen, made it half way through the living room before he chased.

Coming up behind her, he slid his hand around her waist and cupped the soft swell of her stomach. He drew her warm body against him, his insistent cock nestling against her ass. Inhaling, he breathed in her liquid arousal and grunted his approval.

“Peter,” she gasped.

He pressed a hand under her shirt, glided up over silky flesh and cupped her full breast. She arched, a low moan escaping when he pinched the hard, sensitive bud of her nipple between his fingers. “You aren’t going to bed alone,” he purred against her ear, nipped.

“No,” she said, her voice wavering. “We aren’t doing this.”

He spun her around to face him and pushed his hand through her hair. Cupping the back of Eva’s head, he tugged her close. He bent, licked the bow of her upper lip. “Your token protest means nothing to me, not when I can smell how hungry your sweet pussy is. Are you hungry for my cock, angel? Do you want my hard dick sliding inside you? I’ll fuck you all night long, ease your ache.” His mouth descended upon hers in a kiss he didn’t give her the option of accepting.

Their tongues parried in a rhythmic slide, wet and erotic. Muscles low in his stomach clenched. He craved more. With an ass cheek in each hand, he lifted and urged her to wrap her legs around his waist. Accommodating his silent request, her thighs squeezed tight around him as she clutched him close. The victory, however small, sent a shot of lust straight to his cock. Never breaking their kiss, he carried her up the stairs, stopping just inside the bedroom.

The need to be closer to her, to feel her skin, to taste her, ripped him apart. He growled, gripped her tight and took. His possession of her was a compulsion, a driving instinct he had no control over. It was as if her blood ran in his veins, a powerful aphrodisiac that hadn’t faded with his forced distance. Pure stubbornness had kept him away, raw need drove him home and blind lust would seal his fate.

He set her on to her feet, only pulled back enough to grab her shirt and rip the thin material. Limbs and clothes tangled, both of them trying to undress at the same time. She stepped forward, subtly pushed him back one step at a time. He might have noticed if Eva hadn’t chosen that moment to reach inside his pants and wrap her hand around his dick. His erection jerked in her palm. Stroking upward, she stole all rational thought.

Breathless and wanton, she stared up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Her mouth was swollen, her cheeks flushed. Messy curls fell around her face, framing her angelic features. He had seconds to admire her breasts in the white lacy bra. The sheer material exposed the dark buds of nipples. Every inhale and exhale she took heaved the creamy mounds, beckoned him.

It all happened so fast. The hand inside his pants vanished. The hand on his chest shoved. And then the bedroom door was slammed in his face. He blinked, staring at the closed door from where he now stood alone in the hall. His cock pulsed, trapped in his denims. His heart beat furiously, and his brain, ten steps behind, struggled to comprehend.

His saucy minx had backed him into the hall. Damn her sexy, conniving ass all to hell. He tried the knob, found the door locked. Oh, she was going to pay for this.

“Sweet dreams,” Eva called out, her voice muffled through the wood separating them.

Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. He imagined Eva doing something similar on the other side.

“Right back at you, babe,” he said and backed away.

Her attempt to avoid the inevitable was laughable and more than arousing. As if something as simple as a lock would keep him away. He’d wait until she fell asleep and then he’d teach her a lesson she wasn’t soon to forget. A slow grin spread over his face, the anticipation almost worth his temporary frustration.

* * * * *

A warm, wet trail of moisture tickled the inside of Eva’s thigh, slowly drawing her from a deep sleep. Another rasp, another bolt of decadent sensation, each action amplified by the fact she wasn’t quite awake. She hovered on the brink, a dark abyss where the only thing that mattered was the wicked pleasure tightening her body.

“Time to wake up,” a deep voice murmured, pulled her from sleep.

“Umm...not yet,” she murmured. She wasn’t ready to give up her erotic dream, a fantasy where Peter pressed two fingers inside of her pussy and drew a moan of bliss.

In a lazy rhythm, the thrust and retreat drew another gasp. Heat gathered in her lower stomach, the first stirrings of climax washing over her. Eva’s hips writhed, a silent plea for more. Her sex clenched. So close. She needed more, craved something harder thrusting into her.

In. Out. In. Out. Still slow, the patient pace captured her breath. God, how she ached. Restless, still on the cusp of sleep, she shifted her legs in an attempt to alleviate the pulsating arousal. Something hot and pleasurable fanned across her intimate parts, a breath of air, and then, another trail of wet fire circled her throbbing clit.

Her moan of ecstasy echoed in her fogged mind. Had any dream ever felt this real? She spread her legs wider wanting more of whatever her dream lover was doing to her. She angled her hips, searching for more of the wet heat. A languorous orgasm built from the depths of her core, pleasure coaxed by a patient lover who knew her body better than herself.

No. This wasn’t what she craved. She needed hard, and fast, a quick burst of euphoria to ease the ache she hadn’t been able to shake since her night with Peter. Ready to do it herself, she tried to lower the hand stretched above her head, and found she couldn’t. She tried again, jolted at the fabric chafing her wrists.

Her eyes snapped open, sleep vanishing.

Between her spread legs, Peter looked up the line of her body, his gaze glistening with both amusement and desire. “I was wondering how long it would take before you woke up.”