Find Me (27 page)

He shrugged those broad shoulders. "I do what I do to take care of my family, not to run away from my past."

"Really?" He was so damned blind. "Then why not go back to school when your brother finishes? Let him take the helm for a while." When he would have argued with her suggestion, she added, "Or are you afraid you can't do it?" She had to laugh. "Why not let Deputy Brighton, or the chief's secretary, make an honest man out of you? Are you afraid of personal commitment, too?" He had no right to throw stones.

"You're right." He held up his hands in surrender. "I put my life on hold to take care of other obligations. Eventually I need to get back to my own goals." He shook his head. "But you, you're the one who's scared. You have no excuse for running away from your life. You have no family obligations. You have choices. Choices I didn't have. And you're pretending they don't exist. It's all about work. It's all about hiding from the emotions that scare the hell out of you."

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm all about work." She glared at him. "And that's the way I like it. Work is my life. That
is
my choice."

He looked away, shook his head. "You don't want to see what you're missing." He stared deep into her eyes then. "Will you feel better about yourself if you solve the mystery every time? Will that make you happy?"

"You want to make me happy, Conner?" She set her hands back on her hips. "Tell me about Alicia Appleton." He wouldn't look at Sarah now. Good. "The killer used the same MO as before." Ramming a hand through his hair, he surrendered to her demand. "Cause of death was exactly the same."

Renewed anticipation pushed all the other bullshit aside. "Exactly the same?"

He nodded. "The sick bastard sewed her eyes shut and wrote 'snob' on her torso. She was restrained with glue, just like Valerie."

"Anything else?" Dammit. They had to catch a break here. "Was there something in her throat?"

He continued to look anywhere but at her. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension obviously getting to him. "Yeah, the missing crown." His eyes met hers then, showed the horror mere words could not convey. "Broken into four pieces. He… ah… stuffed the pieces into her throat and then taped her mouth shut."

Sarah mentally blocked the images for the moment. It was the only way to maintain her objectivity. "No other evidence, nothing?"

"There was something different this time." He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Like her, he was exhausted. "A drug. They found a beta blocker in the preliminary tox screen. Oh, yeah, and bleach on her skin. It turns out both victims had been washed with a solution containing bleach."

A beta blocker? She frowned. Considered the implications of that strategy. The bleach was a no-brainer. "He was making sure there was no trace evidence left behind." Which meant, he didn't want to get caught any time soon.

Sarah could only imagine what Rachel Appleton was going through right now after hearing the details. Damn this bastard!

"You're sure you're okay?" He searched her eyes, her face. "After what happened?"

They were back to that again. "You mean with Lex?" What did it take to show this guy she didn't need him taking care of her?

Conner nodded.

Sarah grappled for patience. "No, Conner. I'm not okay about it." These people just didn't understand how the game was played. "But I recognize that Lex accomplished his goal and that seriously pisses me off."

Confusion lined his too-handsome face. "I don't understand."

"He ensured that there's no chance in hell the chief is going to allow me even close to the investigation. He's got you second-guessing my stability and feeling all sorry for me. He manipulated all of you and you don't even know it." When Conner still didn't look convinced, she went on, "Trust me, every move Lex August makes, every word that comes out of his mouth, is a tactical maneuver. He eats, sleeps, and breathes this shit."

Fury tightened Conner's jaw. "I should have beaten the hell out of him."

"For what?" She should be flattered that he wanted to protect her honor, but she wasn't. She didn't need anyone taking care of her. "For using me to accomplish his goal?" Conner's gaze collided with hers. "This isn't over. I'll have my move and then he'll be the one pissed off."

A halfhearted shrug lifted one shoulder. Conner suddenly seemed at a loss as to what to say next. "I just needed to be sure you were okay."

How did she get this through his head? "I'll never be okay, Conner, but I can live with it."

"Well." He reached for his coat. "I guess I should go… then."

She hated this. She didn't want him sorry or worried. How did she get the old Conner back? The one who respected her ability and wasn't scared to death she'd crack? The one who had sex with her in a car… in the cemetery of all places.

"You're leaving?"

He hesitated. "You want me to stay?"

What the hell? Was this guy for real? This was the part that was supposed to be easy. Burn off some of the tension with hot, frantic sex.

She held up her hands. "Fine. Go." This was too complicated.

More of that suffocating silence elapsed between them.

"Well… good night."

He really was leaving. Stupidly, her chest tightened… ached. What the hell was wrong with her?

Pausing before he reached the door, he turned back to her. "I've never met anyone like you, Sarah." Again he seemed to rummage for the words he wanted to say next. "I…" A weary sigh hissed past his lips. "I don't know how to reach you." He searched her eyes, allowed her to see the uncertainty in his. "The crazy thing is, I want to more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."

This was nuts. She walked straight up to him and looked him square in the eyes. "Stop. Just stop. Don't pretend this is something it's not, Conner." That ache deepened, spread through her torso like a raging fever.

"That's the point." He reached out, caressed her cheek. Sarah flinched in spite of the heat his touch generated. "You think you're protecting yourself by keeping your distance but you're wrong. You don't need to be afraid of me." Those warm fingers traced the line of her jaw. "I want to know you. To really know you."

She couldn't move. She could only stare into his eyes, her entire being yearning for more of his touch. For more of those sweet words.

His coat fell to the floor. He cupped her face in both hands. The pad of his thumb slid across her bottom lip.

The air abandoned her lungs. She licked her lips… tried to catch her breath. "There's nothing to know."

He leaned down, kissed her cheek so softly, so tenderly she wanted to push him away… to stop this rush of intense feelings. She squeezed her eyes shut, told herself to make him go.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered as his lips brushed each closed lid. "I wanted to pound August when he said those things. I wanted to protect you."

Her eyes fluttered open, she searched his. Before she could say anything, he kissed her. Slowly… with infinite tenderness. She shivered. Those firm, warm lips left a trail of kisses along her temple, across her forehead.

He pressed his forehead to hers, slid his hand down the column of her throat and toyed with the necklace Matilda had given her. "I don't want to leave you alone tonight."

The ache that had started in her chest and expanded along her torso banded tighter around her heart. She closed her eyes and confessed the truth. "I need you to stay. That's the only way I'll be okay tonight."

If she were lucky he would never know just how honest that final statement was.

He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Settling there, he held her like a child, rocking her gently. She rested her cheek against his broad shoulder, snuggled against his powerful chest. The sound of his heart beating made her feel… safe. Made her want to surrender… to trust him.

She lifted her hand to his face, caressed his jaw, trembled at the feel of soft skin and prickly stubble. How long had it been since she'd touched a man this way? Just a touch. She couldn't remember when she'd been held like this… as if she really mattered… to him.

He kissed the top of her head, then her forehead. She looked up at him and he smiled. "I could hold you like this all night."

Again, she asked herself if this guy was for real.

As if he understood her need for proof, he kissed her again. Even slower, if that was possible. Deeper.

He pulled her back onto the bed with him, rolled to his side and started a fiery path of kisses along the line of her jaw and then down the column of her throat. With more of that painstaking slowness, he undressed her, caressed and kissed every inch of skin he revealed. She let him. Ail she wanted to do was to feel.

He kissed her hip and she gasped.

"What's this?" He touched the scar on her right side.

The question jarred her from the sweet sensations he'd elicited. She shuddered when the cold, harsh memories invaded the moment.

"Battle scar," she murmured and trembled again. She looked directly into his eyes; saw the same need she felt staring back at her. Need she understood, but there was more in his eyes. And that scared her to death.

"One of your cases?"

She watched his lips as he spoke. Didn't want to talk about
that
but understood he needed to know. "I got too close." Like now, she realized. She looked away from those mesmerizing eyes. "Too personally involved."

What was she doing? Before she could come up with an answer to that question, he started to unbutton his shirt. He took her hand and urged her to assist him. He prompted and teased until she got lost in the task. Together they shoved it off his shoulders and arms. He peeled off the undershirt and her body quivered. He had the most gorgeous body. The boots, the socks, the jeans and boxers, all landed on the floor. The musky smell of hard, masculine muscle triggered another surge of sheer desperation.

He started those slow, sweet kisses again, smoothed his palms over her skin so softly… as if she was as fragile as glass and he feared breaking her. More of that confusing tension distracted her. This was…

Stop. Sarah closed her eyes.
Just feel
.

He whispered sweet words. Told her over and over how beautiful she was as he explored every curve and hollow of her body. She followed his example, touching, learning… tasting. By the time he settled between her thighs she was already on the verge of coming. He pushed fully into her. She arched her back, pressed her breasts against his muscled chest. Her nails dug into his bare back. For long moments just having him inside her was enough. Her entire being throbbed with pleasure.

Then he started to move. Like his kisses, he kept it unhurried. She felt every inch of him with each slow, attentive thrust and flex. Sweat slickened their skin. Their bodies melded with the building tension until Sarah couldn't resist. She came hard. One last thrust and he came, too.

He collapsed on the bed next to her, pulled her against him, hot, damp flesh to hot, damp flesh, and held her that way. Their frantic breathing calmed… their heart rates slowed and the chilly air dried their cooling skin.

Feeling warm, safe, and content, Sarah fell asleep in his arms.

2312
Beauchamp Road
, 11:09 P.M.

From the mudroom door Jerald watched his daughter preparing a late-night snack in the kitchen. Hadn't she said that she had dinner with her friends after the grief session? Agony pierced him.

He did not want to believe this was possible. Sarah Newton hadn't become her mother… she hadn't killed anyone. Each time new evidence emerged or new research was released on any type of genetic connection, he rushed to digest it. Each time, his worry deepened. What had he done?

He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Watched his daughter skillfully peel and slice the apple, the knife far larger than necessary for the task.

Could she have inherited his weaknesses? This nightmare he had lived with for so, so long?

His teeth clenched. Surely fate would not be that cruel. For years he had been free… he had struggled but he'd overcome the urges for the most part.

Every day his daughter had grown into a more intelligent, more beautiful young woman and he had been certain that it wouldn't happen to her. But now he wasn't so sure.

Lynda insisted she was afraid of her own daughter… that something was very, very wrong with her. Jerald had told himself that his wife exaggerated… that she was wrong. That her jealousy of his relationship with their daughter was the motive for her insinuations.

He closed his eyes a moment. Who was he kidding? He knew. Damn it.
He knew
.

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

He opened his eyes, met his beautiful daughter's worried gaze.

"Are you all right?" She placed the knife on the counter.

He nodded, stepped into the kitchen. "Would you like some of your mother's lobster bisque? It was"—he pressed his fingertips to his lips and kissed them—"
perfetto
."

Jerri Lynn giggled. "No, thank you. Just an apple." She popped a chunk into her mouth.

He needed to confront her with his concerns. His anguish surged again. He had dreaded this moment from the time she'd taken her first breath fresh from her mother's womb.

His hands slid into the pockets of his trousers as he strolled to the kitchen island and propped a hip against it. "You've been going out at night."

She paused in her chewing, then continued. "It's no big deal. Just having fun."

"Your philosophy professor left a message for me." Maybe Lynda had been right. Perhaps they should have sent her away to school. But he just hadn't been able to let her go.

Her fingers stilled on the next chunk of apple. "Really?"

"Look at me."

She lifted her gaze to his.

"He said you'd missed four classes in the past four weeks. One more absence and he's going to take disciplinary action."

Whether to avoid a response or simply because she was hungry, she bit into another piece of apple.

"Who are these friends you've been so preoccupied with?" All through school she'd had such a difficult time making friends. She never seemed to fit in. Without effort she had been an honor student. She hadn't won any awards, those had always gone to the Gerard girl, but Jerald hadn't cared. He hadn't needed any plaques or certificates to tell him how smart his daughter was. Nor had he needed any crowns to show how beautiful she was. She was perfect.

Jerri Lynn shrugged. Sliced off another piece of apple. "The usual crowd."

There was no usual crowd. She was lying to him. That hurt almost as much as the idea that his fears may have materialized. "Who?" he repeated.

She toyed with the piece of apple. "Just Tamara Gilbert." She lifted an uncertain gaze to her father. "Reverend Mahaney's niece. She's cool. She likes me. And I feel sorry for her."

Jerald had to admit that he was glad to hear that she'd made a friend who appeared to want to stick by her, but… "Your snow boots are crusted in mud." He wouldn't say the rest. But he knew blood when he saw it. "Have you and Tamara been playing games in the woods?"

Jerri Lynn frowned. "No." She shook her head. "I haven't worn my boots lately."

He motioned for her to follow him.

In the mudroom, tucked behind the woodbox, were her Sorels.

She frowned as she picked up one and checked the boot size. He'd already done that. She and her mother had a matching pair, but Lynda's were a size seven. These—he stared at the damning boots—were an eight. Jerri Lynn's size.

Jerri Lynn peered up at him and shrugged. "Mom must have worn my boots. You know I leave them in here all the time. Maybe Mom didn't want to go upstairs for hers." His daughter made one of those barely tolerant sounds. "Geez, Dad, what's the big deal? It's just mud."

If only that were the case. But it was more than just mud and Lynda hated this time of year. She rarely left the house and certainly didn't traipse around in the woods or muck. Her heart condition prevented her from such risks. Jerri Lynn knew this.

Jerald knew this.

"Come on." She tugged at his arm. "I want to finish my apple and then we'll have some of that bisque. I guess I'm hungrier than I thought."

"You go ahead." He swallowed at the tightness in his throat. "I'll be along in a moment."

When Jerri Lynn had returned to the kitchen, he lingered in the mudroom.

Was he making too much of this? He really had no valid reason for his concerns. Perhaps Lynda was making him paranoid.

"Ouch."

His daughter's distressed sound caused him to move back to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway in time to see her throw the knife onto the counter. She stared at her left forefinger. Blood oozed and slid downward. She'd cut herself.

When he would have asked if she needed him to fetch a Band-Aid, he hesitated. He couldn't say why he hesitated. Instinct perhaps.

She continued staring, seemingly intrigued, then she licked the drop that slithered into her palm.

His heart began to pound.

She licked again, trailing her tongue all the way up her finger. Then she stuck her finger into her mouth and sucked.

Emotion warred inside him.

As he watched she picked up the knife, studied the crimson smear on the shiny blade. She thrust out her tongue, let it slide carefully over the blade…

His breath evacuated his lungs even as he licked his lips.