Overkill(39)



Theo looked worried. “That’s double jeopardy.”

“See? That’s what I thought, but apparently not. Up says probably nothing will come of it. Any further due process will fall by the wayside because Rebecca Pratt still lives. But, you know…”

He shrugged. “If there was to be a reopening of the case, you, Cal, and I might recollect things about that night a little differently than we did at the first trial. Shit,” he chortled, “we were so wasted, even the following morning at the police station when we were being questioned, I couldn’t clearly recall how it went down.

“After all this time, who could accurately remember who said this, who said that, or who did what to whom?” He pinned Theo to his chair with a knowing stare. “It would be better all around if our memories stayed foggy, don’t you agree?”

He let the question settle. Then he sighed again. “This prosecutor obviously has a bee up her butt. I can just see her, can’t you? Saggy tits, thick ankles, mannish hands. Probably an unsightly wart somewhere.

“I’d like to look her up on Google or something, but I’m rusty as hell on the computer. I don’t want to ask anybody in the company to research her because my curiosity would inevitably get back to my old man and Up, and they’re already overwrought. So I thought of you. You’re a librarian! Libraries are chock-full of information, right? You could dig where nobody else could.”

It was obvious to Eban that Theo had read between the lines of everything he’d said. His brow was furrowed. His leg was jiggling. He was gnawing the inside of his cheek. “What kind of information do you want on her?”

“That’s my man!” Eban slapped his thigh. “I knew I could count on you. I want to know every fucking thing, even the location of that unsightly wart.”

Theo swallowed. Nodded. “Okay. In my spare time, I could—”

Eban made the quiz show buzzer sound. “No good. Give it top priority.”

Theo’s grin was lopsided, visibly forced and uneasy, but, as expected, acquiescent. “What’s her name?”





Chapter 17





Zach woke up and cursed himself even before opening his eyes.

He’d just had to go and do it, hadn’t he? He’d kissed her, which, in their situation, had been a violation of ethics, plus piling on another complication that this situation did not need.

Fool that he was, he’d thought that a little experimentation would satisfy his curiosity and that would be the end of it. But her willing response to his feeler had shot that hypothesis all to hell.

Swearing under his breath, he threw back the covers and got up. He pulled on his hiking gear in stages while scrambling a couple of eggs and brewing strong coffee, which he consumed quickly. He was eager to get on the trail, burn off some pent-up frustration, and clear his head.

But even as he watched for the familiar landmarks along his path, his mind continued to rewind to the thrill of that first—and technically only—kiss. The tentative lips-to-lips touch had led to a tempered exploration of tongues, which had rapidly escalated into a deeper, wetter, hungrier merging of mouths.

She’d come up on her tiptoes and curled one arm around his neck. He’d bracketed her hips between his hands and had drawn her up higher and closer. Then against him. Then right there.

But the perfect match-up had lasted for only for a few fragmented heartbeats before she’d moaned as she’d slid her arm from around his neck, stood flat-footed again, and planted her hand in the center of his chest. “Zach, we can’t.”

“We’ve established that.” But even as he’d said it, he’d moved in for more.

“We can’t.” She’d applied more pressure to his chest.

They’d held like that for a moment, then he’d given a curt nod, released her, and stepped away. “Get inside. Lock your door.”

“On the matter of Rebecca, I’ll wait to hear from you.”

He’d bobbed his head.

“Good night, Zach.”

“Night.”

He hadn’t had the wherewithal to say anything more. Once Kate was safely inside the cottage, he’d plunged into the downpour, clambered into his truck, and driven home. His windshield wipers had labored at top speed, but they were ineffectual against the hard rainfall, which drummed against the roof of the cab. Hardly a soothing sound, it set his teeth on edge.

He’d arrived home wearing sodden clothes, his skin feverish with lust, his cock iron-hard, and mad as hell.

Had Bing known about his condition, he would have had a field day, railing at him for being out of line, out of his mind, and out of luck. “Because,” Bing would’ve said, “this Kathryn Cartwright Lennon sounds like a gal with an unshakable sense of purpose and uncompromising integrity.” And Bing would’ve been right.

Which is why, when Bing had asked him what the state prosecutor was like, Zach had kept his answer factual, but had said nothing that would lead Bing to suspect that Zach would sacrifice his sound judgment, much less his pride, for one kiss.

One kiss straight out of a wet dream, but still.

During his descent, he’d been so preoccupied with recollections of that consequential kiss, that now, when he reached the rocky riverbed at the foot of the mountain, it came almost as a surprise that he’d arrived.

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