Mean Streak(104)

Not only because whenever he all but pulled out, she worked the tip of his penis with seductive belly-dance motions until he couldn’t stand it any longer and had to again sheathe himself completely.

Not only because her hands caressed him with flawless intuition. And not only because, when she climaxed, he felt every convulsive squeeze, but also saw the tears in her eyes that attested to the overflowing emotion behind them.

All that contributed. But what made him come harder, longer, and more meaningfully than he ever had in his life, was that in those moments when he lost himself in her, she closed her arms around his head, and held it close, and said on a sigh, as though it was the dearest word in her vocabulary, “Hayes.”

For a long time after, neither of them moved. Eventually, his mind cleared enough for him to have that oh shit instant of realization: he’d come inside her without anything between them. Which was also why it had been so good, and why he didn’t regret it enough to disengage himself quite yet.

When he finally did move, he came up on one elbow and looked into her face. She smiled drowsily. He cupped her chin in his free hand and kissed her, taking his time, mating his mouth with hers, lecherously and leisurely.

When at last he angled his head back, he said, “Lucky for me, you don’t scare easily.”

“Lucky for me too.”

“But you’re still in danger, Doc. So be scared. Just not of me.”

“I know.”

“Never of me.”

“I’m not.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “I don’t know everything, but one thing I do know. You weren’t responsible for the deaths of eight innocent people.”

Like the mellow glow of a lantern suddenly extinguished, his soul became dark and cold again.

He pulled out of her and rolled onto his back. Staring at the ceiling, he said, “You’re right. Only seven of them were innocent.”





Chapter 36



The aroma of fresh coffee woke her. It was still dark. She switched on the lamp beside the bed. Her clothes, which had been so haphazardly discarded the night before, were folded and stacked on a chair. She gathered them and her boots and slipped into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later when she walked into the main room, Hayes looked up at her from the dining table where he sat drinking coffee. He’d slept beside her through the night, but they hadn’t exchanged a word or touched since his startling statement: Only seven of them were innocent.

It had created an intangible barrier that neither had breached during the night. It seemed even more impenetrable this morning. As though last night’s intimacies hadn’t happened, his eyes were flat, his expression impassive.

He said, “Mugs are in the cabinet to the right of the sink.”

She filled one with coffee and sat down across from him at the table, pretending there wasn’t a pistol within reach of his right hand.

Noticing her damp hair, he said, “Sorry. I don’t have a hair dryer.”

“It’ll dry on its own.”

“Did I leave you enough hot water?”

“Yes, thank you. How do you manage to fit into that shower?”

“It’s an acquired skill.”

So much for small talk. She sipped her coffee.

He said, “I’ve made a decision.”

She looked at him, listening.

“I’m not going to give Connell the satisfaction of catching me.”

“You’re going to surrender?”

“Not exactly.”

He avoided looking her in the eye, and that made her distinctly uneasy. “Then what are you going to do? Exactly.”

“Deliver you to him.”

Unsure how to respond, she waited to hear him out.

His eyes moved to the row of faint red marks on the side of her neck. “It’s up to you how much or how little you tell him about those. And everything else.” He motioned toward the bedroom. “Be as graphic or as coy as you want. He’ll be discreet. And, anyway, he’ll be interested in me, not us. He’ll question you about my state of mind. Plans. Things like that.”

“He already has.”

“He’ll keep at you to remember the smallest detail. Things I said, things you observed. While he’s taking it all in and figuring out his next course of action, I’ll be making myself scarce.”

“You’ll run.”

He raised his shoulder, a nonverbal, uncommitted answer.

She stared into her coffee. “You may get away, but you’ll never outrun the deaths of those people.”

“Well, that’ll give you and Connell plenty to chat about.”

Voice faltering, she asked, “Why’d you do it?”

He picked up his mug, then returned it to the table without having drunk from it. Disregarding her question, he said, “Tell Connell what you know about Jeff. He’ll see to it that he’s thoroughly investigated. Hopefully that will result in his cold ass landing in prison.”

“How do you know Connell will see to an investigation?”

“He’s an FBI agent. It’s his duty.”

“But it isn’t his case. Won’t he leave it to the sheriff’s office?”

“No.”

“What makes you so certain?”