Come Hell or High Desire (12 page)

“You drive this, baby.”

She bent down to kiss his belly to hide the wetness that sprang to her eyes. His ab
wall was firm, hot, and jumpy beneath her lips, and her eyes soon dried. She spread
her palms to touch as much of his landscape as she could, her tongue broad and salty
with his taste. She turned her head to rub her cheek against the thin trail of hair
spearing down to his groin, smiling to see his fist grip the bed covers.

Safe, solid ice?
So far he’d proven that his word was good. He’d been inside her head, and nothing
bad had happened to him.

Yet.

Stop it.

Okay.
Her whole body seemed to sigh. She pressed one last kiss to his belly before sitting
up. His eyes were closed, lids fluttering, his whole body taut. She smiled, heart
expanding until her smile started to fade.

Don’t. Think
.

She moved up his body to straddle his legs, easing forward until his erection grazed
her, and she gasped at the electrifying contact. His eyes opened, his fingers inching
up, curling into her thighs as she rose over him, the wide tip of him pulsing against
her heat. His nostrils flared, his mouth opening on a guttural groan to receive her
kiss the moment she slid down his length.

She sucked in her breath, neck curving back until strands of her hair brushed the
swell of her buttocks. She could feel him, feel him
everywhere
. Hot mouth at her breasts, thumb of one hand beguiling her clit, fingernails of his
other hand digging in her ass to enjoy her movement—
her
movement—because, oh yeah, she was driving this thing.

Ssssssafe ice
.

Swelling inside.
More.

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her, hands climbing her neck to tangle
in her hair and pull.

Her nerve endings sizzled.
Faster.
Open mouths, fingers entwined behind her back. A soul exposed.
Yes.

She watched their joining. Inhaled the tang of their mating.

Impossibly erotic.

The last inhibition fell and with it, incoherent words of…

Love.

Her heart stuttered.
No!

“Zack!”

Sweat at his temples, his eyes liquid green, so achingly intense. “Let go, baby. I’ve
got you.”

That’s what I fear
.

But the blade cut through the humid air. And untethered like never before, she soared.

Chapter Seventeen

Zack cut the A/C and rolled his window down. It was only ten-fourteen p.m., but night
had fallen uneasily. The streets remained dry, though lightning bucked restlessly
in the clouds. More unsettled weather for the third day in a row.

Suited his state of mind perfectly.

With every mile he put between Sloane and himself, his chest wound tighter. They’d
spent the whole day together, going through the motions of monitoring their individual
workplaces, feeding Ann’s stray cat, checking up on his dogs, reading the alternating
anguish and joy in Ann’s journal that left them no closer to any answers, and after
the five o’clock news, fielding the inevitable phone calls from people expressing
their horror over Tori and the now publicly missing Ann.

Less than an hour ago, they’d shared a quiet meal at Sloane’s and had fallen asleep
on the couch, too exhausted to function any longer. He’d slept maybe thirty minutes
before his mind started spinning again. She had murmured when he gently moved away
from her, tucking a blanket around her and leaving one last kiss on her lips before
he left, double checking the lock behind him.

He would never forget this morning in her arms. It was one of the most generous gifts
he’d ever received because he’d never felt closer to another human being. He
felt
her. Felt her down deep where he didn’t know if he’d ever get her out.

It was a dangerous path to tread.

She’s nothing like Kasey.

No, but he’d only known Sloane for a couple days.

Extraordinary days, though. Christ, he’d practically crawled around in her head.

But still.
Two days.

Jesus
.

Being with her messed with his mind. Even so, he hadn’t wanted to leave her, but one
of her questions kept nagging at him.

What if there was a second journal? One that continued where the first one left off?
In the first one, Ann hadn’t known she was pregnant. At least she hadn’t written about
it yet.

But…if there was a second journal, why would she have thrown away only the first one?
Why
did
she throw it away? Or did someone else?

If there was a second journal, he had to find it.

He stopped a few condos down from Ann’s and killed the headlights. Before he even
stepped foot on the grass, the back of his neck tingled. A faint light spilled through
her picture window, but he hadn’t left any lights on this afternoon. He was sure of
it. He switched off the truck’s dome lights, retrieved a Bradley butterfly knife from
the glove box, and clipped the sheath to his jeans before slipping into the smothering
night.

He crept around to the back of Ann’s condo and peered into the darkened window of
the guest room. The light was coming from Ann’s room. His breathing kicked up another
notch. Was she back? He ducked down and shifted in the bushes by the house until he
was positioned next to the patio door. The shades were drawn. Something she would
surely do. Someone was banging drawers as though putting clean laundry away.

Or looking for something.

He stood upright in front of her patio door, his hand raised in midair to pound on
the glass when an icy sensation drifted through him.

Sloane?
He felt her presence strongly. He spun, expecting to see her standing there, eyes
spitting sparks, but in the next flash of lightning he saw nothing but manicured lawn,
the grass spikes silvery.

The banging stopped. Zack stepped away from the door and pressed himself against the
cool stucco, straining to hear. The sudden crack of a bullet blistered his ears. A
scream.

A man’s scream.

Zack pulled his knife and dove for the ground as two more shots followed in quick
succession. He squeezed the knife’s handle in his fist, making himself take large,
quiet gulps of air.

Was Ann in there, too? He felt for his cell to dial 911, but it wasn’t on him.
Shit.
Must’ve gotten snagged in the bushes.

He positioned himself next to the guest bedroom window again and used the knife to
jimmy the window open wide enough that he could shred the screen. He reached in and
turned the lever to open the window. Suddenly he heard a dull scraping noise.

Adrenaline kicked through his veins. He’d heard the sound before. Like a body being
dragged across the floor. He slid through the window, dropping quietly to the floor
in the dark room. He edged toward the door as a ski-masked figure clad in head-to-toe
black moved in the hallway. The person was tall, but he had maybe twenty pounds on
the guy. Zack lunged, taking them both to the ground. The intruder grunted, his gun
skittering across the wood floor to slide under a heavy credenza.

Zack grappled for the ski mask, but the man gave a fierce thrust with powerful legs.
Zack flew back, cracking his head against the wall. He didn’t have time to catch his
breath before his assailant came at him, landing a bruising round house to his ribs
and then bending low to charge him.

Zack bent in half at the explosion of pain in his chest and brought his knee up with
everything he had. The man grunted and briefly grabbed his midsection before quickly
recovering.

Zack reached for his knife but the sheath was empty. He slid to the credenza, fingers
sweeping the floor for the gun. Feeling the cool metal in his hands, he rolled away,
narrowly missing a bludgeoning by a heavy silver sculpture.

The intruder came at him again, and Zack scrambled to his haunches, sighting the pistol
between the bastard’s eyes. His finger tightened on the trigger in an agony of indecision.
He’d fought so much during his life. Would he never be free of it?

Survive or surrender?

Survive.
Sloane’s word whispered through his mind as the man’s yell tore through the hall.
The black-clothed figure lunged and then spun about, flailing his arms to dislodge
a gray mass on his back. The cat!

Zack angled the gun down for a non-critical wound and fired. The intruder crumpled
against the wall, and Zack ran into the fully lit bedroom, blinking against the sudden
brightness.

“Ann! Ann!” Her room was torn asunder. The dresser spewed drawers, the mattress sagged
off the box spring, and the bottom half of the closet was ransacked where John had
told Ann to store the four gray totes he went to the grave without explaining to either
of them. Papers spewed onto the carpeted floor from one of the totes, but he left
it lying there and nearly tripped over a body when he came around the other side of
the closet island.

A man. Insensate brown eyes gaped at the ceiling, three holes marring his pressed
ivory dress shirt.

Distant thunder rumbled through Zack’s chest. In death the handsome man looked so
young—his smooth, clean nails and callous-free palms so unlike his own. Zack gripped
the edge of the island to steady himself. This was the man who’d driven up to Divine
Shepherd Lutheran in a Lexus.

The man who’d likely fathered Ann’s baby.
Dallan O’Neill.

What was he doing here? And who was the guy in the hall? What had either of them been
looking for?

And where, God, is Ann?

He inhaled deeply, feeling pain in his ribs. He brought his arm up gingerly to test
the movement when a sick feeling washed over him. What if he’d hit a major artery
in the intruder’s leg and all the answers bled out with him?

He rushed back into the hallway, finding nothing but some faint drops of blood leading
outside.

He stood at the door, peering out into the darkness. No!
How?

He needed to call someone. But who? The police? How the hell was he supposed to explain
all this?

But the time for thinking was over.

Police cars screamed down the street, sirens blaring, lights spinning, the red and
blue an oddly beautiful accompaniment to the pulses of lightning that arced through
the sky.

Zack stood in the doorway, backlit from the carnage of Ann’s house. Police officers
drew their guns behind cover of their car doors and yelled for him to drop his weapon.

Only then did he remember he still held the gun.

A profound stillness gripped him.

The gun clattered to the floor.

He said nothing—did nothing—when they tackled him and yanked his arms behind his back.
The metal cuffs that pulled at his wrists were cold. Unyielding. But nothing compared
to the fire in his ribs.

In his conscience.

Ann…John…Sloane. I’m sorry
.

Somehow he felt Sloane’s presence again, but this time, he blocked her, shame burning
a wasteland through his hope.

One of the officers, bow-legged and with heavy lines bracketing his mouth, stood watch
over him as the others briskly went through the rooms. Zack could hear him radio for
the crime scene techs. His mind grasped for options, but he couldn’t seem to free
himself from a fathomless well of negativity. Why bother trying to explain? It hadn’t
worked last time.

This time, they’ll lock you away forever
.

He’d rather die trying to escape than waste away in prison. Feeling cold all over,
he looked around the room, assessing his options.

…

Sloane nearly went on two wheels around the corner, but hell if she was going to slow
down. If the cops were following her, all the better. Tears ran down her cheeks, and
she blinked hard to clear her vision.

She’d woken up alone, a deep, inexplicable fear beating at her. Mindlessly, she’d
raced into her bedroom closet and pulled down a carved mahogany chest. Inside was
a black tourmaline nestled in red felt. It was supposed to help focus her telepathic
energies. She hadn’t given it a second look since the day her mother had presented
it to her on her twentieth birthday.

Without thinking, she’d grabbed the smooth stone and gasped at the images that suddenly
exploded in her mind. Zack going through Ann’s window. Struggling for his life. Finding
the body. The police coming… Oh God, he’d reached out to her.

Don’t be sorry, Zack! Please don’t give up!

And then…nothing. Try as she might, she couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t
feel
him.

She squinted through the windshield, flew through a red light, and prayed that somehow
she’d be able to help in time. Two more blocks. Her heart stuttered when she turned
the final corner and saw the circus of police vehicles and nervous neighbors.

She flew out of her SUV without bothering to shut the door and bolted across two lawns
to Ann’s. They’d already set up the yellow tape with police stationed to keep people
away. She ducked under and ran until she was clothes-lined by an officer.

“Zack! Zack!” She scrambled off grass, trying to peel the officer’s fingers from her
arm. “Let me go! I have information!”

“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Zack staggered to his feet, lips twisting in a snarl,
triceps bulging as he struggled against the handcuffs behind his back.

Another cop stepped in front of him, addressing the officer who held her. “Giles,
bring her here.”

Sloane hurried into the living room to stand in front of Zack. She took in the gashes
on his face, the empty look in his eyes. How she ached to take him in her arms.

He looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Pain in her midsection made her gasp. “You’re hurt!”

“Don’t cry for me, Goldie.”

“Someone has to!”

He hung his head. That scared her more than anything.

“Ready to talk, eh, Goldman?” It was the officer who’d intercepted her.

“He needs a doctor!” She reached out to touch the sleeve of the wiry officer who was
clearly in charge of guarding Zack. “Officer…Janklow. Please help him.” In her heeled
sandals she had about seven inches on him, and by God, she’d send him packing if he
didn’t help Zack.

The lines around Janklow’s mouth deepened. He patted her hand. “Listen, Ms…”

“Sloane.”

“Ms. Sloane. Mr. Goldman will receive medical attention soon.”

“Not soon enough! Making him sit here and suffer after all he’s been through is barbaric.”

“Sloane, it’s just a bruise. You need to go. Right now.”

She swung to face Zack. “You shut up since you can’t seem to help yourself.” She turned
back to Janklow, who was saved a second tongue lashing when another officer came into
the room. His assessing blue eyes swept over the scene, lingering on Zack. He turned
toward Janklow and jerked his head at Zack. “Take him back to the station.”

“Yes, sir.” Janklow took Zack’s arm. Sloane’s heart stuttered and then pounded against
her chest like it was ready to burst free of its skin and bone captivity. “No, wait!
Sergeant Bradley. I know what happened here. You
must
listen!”

He raised an eyebrow, and Sloane could have sworn he was about to smile, but he only
nodded. “Your name?”

“Sloane Swift. I own Ski—ah, I’m a business owner in town. My father is Dr. Henry
Swift, and my mother is Veronica Bell Swift. She works with the FBI…as a psychic.”
Her face heated, but she pressed on. “I can…see things, too, and I’d like to help
here.” Her tongue felt like fly paper. She noted the swelling around Zack’s eyes,
the cuts on the lips that had made her body sing, and felt her backbone slide into
place. She swallowed hard and met Bradley’s eyes. “Please. Hear me out.”

A tech came into the living room to take pictures of the blood streaks on the floor.
Sergeant Bradley gave Sloane his attention. “How long have you known Mr. Goldman?”

She blanched. “Since Sunday morning, sir, but Ann works for me and—”

Bradley held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Ms. Swift, but I have other things to do here.
If you’ll follow Officer Giles, he’ll take your statement.”

“No! You aren’t
listening.
There’s a killer out there. I saw him! He’s got to be the same man who killed Tori
Daily!”

“Enough, Ms. Swift. Mr. Goldman was holding the gun that took the life of Pastor—”
He stopped abruptly, realizing his blunder. “Ah, shit. Take her—”