Rising Heat (64 page)

Normal. Easy for him to say. Nothing was normal, at least not now. Not only did I have an apparent stalker watching me, I was frazzled to no end by this charismatic private eye who made me feel things that I had never felt before.

Before I could say anything else, he walked to his truck, climbed in, and drove off. As the dust settled over the gravel driveway, I sighed. There was nothing to do but go back inside, lock the doors, and try to focus on work.

*

I didn’t stop work until dinner time, but my thoughts constantly strayed from focusing on graphic layouts, sidebars, and text boxes. I continually found myself thinking about “my stalker” if that was indeed what was going on. I hadn’t heard a sound all afternoon, nor seen anything out of the ordinary. I had checked, getting up about every ten minutes or so to peek out the windows. My thoughts strayed to Hawk; to his handsome profile, the strength that oozed from every pore in his body. It wasn’t just his musculature that made him appear strong to me, but his character.

I ventured into the kitchen, thinking to maybe cut a couple of slices of cheese and sausage, maybe grab some crackers, just put something in my stomach. I wasn’t really hungry, but I know I needed brain food. I had a feeling that I would have trouble going to sleep tonight, so I planned to work into the night after I took a little break. I made myself what I liked to call a nibble plate and a cup of tea and then headed back to my office, thinking that I would peruse the local news on the Internet.

I had just taken a bite of one of my crackers when I saw on the sidebar that there had been another murder. I clicked on the link. To my surprise, there was a picture of a young woman and a young man, both smiling happily into the camera. It looked like a wedding picture.

My gaze kept roving from the text in the article to the image of the woman. She could’ve been my sister. Once again my heart began to pound. My palms grew clammy and I couldn’t swallow my bite of the cracker. Washing the cracker down with a sip of tea, I continued to read the article. The woman, from a town about forty miles east of Seneca, had been found in her bathroom. The article wasn’t terribly detailed, but did mention that the woman had been found stabbed numerous times.

I swallowed, clicked off of the article, and tried not to get ahead of myself. Other than the fact that both of the dead women had been brunettes, there was nothing, at least that was mentioned in the newspaper, that suggested a link between the two cases. Most women were brunettes anyway, weren’t they?

Trying to distract myself, I googled David Lance Hawk. I found surprisingly little. He wasn’t much for taking advantage of social media. No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. And, not surprisingly, no website.

How did he generate business without marketing himself? Then I thought about Detective Cutter. Maybe Detective Cutter, being Hawk’s obvious friend or at least one who trusted him, referred clients to him. Was that legal? Wasn’t that a conflict of interest? I wasn’t sure.

I did a little more digging and did find Hawk’s P.I. business listed with the Better Business Bureau. No complaints. I even went so far as to check local newspaper archives. Bingo. Hawk had been truthful. He was a bit of a bad boy. I found his name in several articles within county or local newspapers over the past few years. Fights and one misdemeanor arrest, with the charges dropped. He’d been accused once or twice of “overly forceful citizen’s arrest” tactics and once for threatening.

Details were frustratingly sparse. I supposed if I wanted to know about these incidents, I would have to ask him myself. Did I want to? Maybe I did need a bad boy. Maybe I did need someone who wasn’t afraid of being politically incorrect, or even of a threatening demeanor when it was warranted. After all, stalking, if that’s what my case involved, required someone who wasn’t afraid to push the boundaries.

After I googled Hawk, I went back to the article about the murdered woman. Was there a connection, a link between the two women? Could there possibly be a link to me?

I found Hawk’s business card on my desk under the day’s work clutter and dialed his number. It was only eight o’clock, so it wasn’t
too
late, but it was definitely passed normal business hours. He was probably at home, not at his office. I was somewhat surprised when the call was answered after only two rings.

“Hawk.”

“Hawk, it’s me, Tracy… Tracy Whitcomb. I just read an article online about another woman who was murdered. Another brunette. I read about an earlier one the day before too. Is that normal for around here?”

“Murders happen every day, no matter where you live, Tracy,” he replied. “Your doors locked?”

“Yes, but—”

“You’re frightened.”

“Yes.” No use in lying. I’m sure he knew I was frightened. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be? He said nothing for several moments.

“You want me to come over?”

The question surprised me. Did I want him to come over? Yes and no. Yes, because I definitely felt safer with him around. No, because… well, because I was slightly, no make that a lot, uncertain about my own physical reaction to him. I’d never had my body respond so instantly to a man.

Was this what they called animal magnetism? Sexual attraction? Sexual tension? Whatever you wanted to call it, I was feeling it. Just being near him disconcerted me. I had no idea how he felt. Of course, I had felt him in his most private parts, had felt his cock hardening when my hand had landed there, but that was natural for a guy, wasn’t it?

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said into the silence. “I’ll stay for a little while, take a look around, and then maybe camp out in the woods for the night. Keep an eye on things.”

I felt guilty over the relief that surged through me. “Thank you, Hawk,” I said. “I’m trying not to overreact, but I can’t help it. This has never happened to me before.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tracy,” he said. “I’ll be there in just a bit.”

Was I overreacting? After all, I was from Boston. People were murdered in Boston on a weekly basis. I hadn’t expected that up here in rural Vermont. Added to that was my mysterious ‘secret admirer’ and sure, my nerves were on alert.

True to his word, I saw the headlights of Hawk’s Jeep as they make their way down my gravel driveway about twenty minutes later. I turned and walked down the short hallway and turned off the lights in my office. Drew the curtains. When I heard the gravel crunching near the porch, I stood at the darkened living room window and watched until his Jeep pulled up to my porch, just to make sure it was him. I hurried toward the front door and turned on the porch light just as he was about to knock.

I opened the door and stepped back, gesturing for him to come inside. As soon as the front door was closed, I stepped to the kitchen and flipped on the light switch. It filled the kitchen and hallway-foyer with a soft glow.

“Thanks for coming over, Hawk,” I said.

He said nothing, but moved into the living room, peering through the half drawn curtains. I was about to turn on the light in the living room when he gestured.

“Leave it off.”

I did and stood in the doorway to the living room, watching him look outside. His bulk was a large, black shadow in front of the window, standing there in the wan moonlight. He seemed so impressive, so imposing. There was something about his presence that calmed me. It wasn’t just his size, but his demeanor. The way he carried himself. For a second, I wondered if it was his Native American ancestry. Was I just infatuated? Was I assuming that just because he was Native American that he was different than any other man?

And then, to my surprise, he reached for his pants. My eyes widened in alarm.

“I want you to have this, at least for now,” he said.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Well actually, yes, I did know, but shame on me. To my surprise, he pulled a small, semi-automatic gun from his waistband. I immediately began to shake my head.

“It’s a Ruger,” he explained. “It belonged to my mother. It’s small and easy for a woman’s hand, but it’s a nine-millimeter, so it’s got some stopping power.”

“I’ve never handled a gun, Hawk,” I stammered. “I don’t know how to shoot one.”

“Basically, you just point and pull the trigger. It’s lightweight and carries an extended nine-round magazine.”

I continued to shake my head. “I don’t think—”

“Tracy, I’m not going to be around all the time. A woman living alone should have a weapon and know how to use it, whether you like guns or not. What else do you have around here to defend yourself with? A knife allows someone to get too close. A baseball bat requires room to deliver a solid, striking blow. Unless you’re trained in self-defense, some sort of martial arts?”

“No,” I said. “But I don’t know if I could ever shoot someone,” I sighed.

“If someone was coming at you bent on doing you harm, believe me, it’s not hard to pull a trigger.” He paused. “Now you may not need it, but until we get the situation resolved, I strongly recommend it. And keep it where you spend most of your time. When you’re working in your office, keep it near your desk. When you’re sleeping, put it by your bed.”

I continued to stare at his shadow, and then he moved.

“Come here, let me show you how to hold it.”

Hesitantly, I approached. He reached out his arm, grabbed my hand and guided me in front of him. My backside was nearly pressed up against his groin. That’s the only thought that occupied my mind until he suddenly pressed the grip of the gun into my right hand.

“Now just hold it. Get comfortable with the grip.”

It was lighter than I imagined. I held the gun in my right hand, pointing it toward the living room window and the yard beyond, dimly lit by the circle of porch light. Hawk shifted his feet so that his legs straddled mine. He reached his other hand around me and cupped my hands.

“You can go with a one-handed grip or two-handed grip. A one-handed grip is adequate for emergency situations, but a two-handed grip will provide you with greater stability.”

He shifted his left hand and showed me how to hold the gun with a one-handed and a two-handed grip. As I re-positioned my grip with my right hand, he showed me how to place my left hand to brace my right. The muzzle of the gun trembled slightly, but it wasn’t nervousness that caused that. It was his proximity. My buttocks was now pressed up against his groin. I tried to ignore the fact that his cock was coming to life. He made a noise in his throat.

“Ignore that,” he grunted. “It has a mind of its own sometimes.”

Easier said than done. While Hawk was explaining how to balance the gun, how to focus my eyes on the end of the muzzle, all I could think about was the intense sensations thrumming through me. In a matter of seconds, my panties felt damp. My breathing accelerated. I was rather stupefied by the physical reaction he had on me. Then, I heard him sigh, his breath warm against my ear.

“Tracy…”

I’m not a loose woman. I don’t sleep with every man I meet. Which made my reaction to Hawk especially alarming. What the hell was it about him that got me so hot and bothered? Was there such a thing as instant attraction? If I succumbed to it, would I purge this feeling? This intense desire?

It was obvious that he was feeling it too. His cock was hard, and I don’t know if it was accidental or not, probably not, but his hips shifted forward. His cock was perfectly aligned with my butt crack. To my horror, I instinctively pressed backward. That was all it took.

I turned around. Suddenly, the gun disappeared from my hand. I had no idea what happened to it, but in the next moment, my arms were wrapped around Hawk and his hands were on each of my shoulders. He leaned over me and then his lips were on mine. Firm. Demanding, but not harsh or painful. I wondered if he fought the same sexual attraction as I did. I heard him growl low in his throat. In the next instant, his lips left mine and he clasped both sides of my head in his huge hands. He stared down at me as I stared wide-eyed up at him.

“You feel it too?” I whispered.

He groaned in answer. Then his lips were on mine again and our tongues were playing hide and seek. My heart pounded. My breath came in sharp gasps. I reveled at how comfortable I felt with him. I felt like a wanton, yet free at the same time. Excitement stimulated my sexual attraction to him. I felt
naughty.

I leaned backward and his strong left forearm held me upright. With his right hand, he lifted the bottom of my T-shirt and my bra right along with it. In the next instant, his massive right hand covered my left breast. Now, I’m not small breasted, but I’m not pendulous either, but his hand perfectly fit the plump roundness, his thumb circling, then tweaking my nipple. Both of them grew hard in an instant.

Before I could gasp in pleasure, his mouth and hot tongue replaced his thumb. I groaned, clutching onto his back in near desperation. My pussy throbbed and clenched, aching for him. As his tongue circled my nipple, his lips suckled and then pulled gently on the hard nub as his hand inched its way down along my abdomen to the waistband of my lounge pants. They had an elastic waistband. More like pajama bottoms, but at this moment, none of that mattered.

His hand dipped beneath the waistband. Warm, seeking. Exquisitely gentle as his fingers probed my mound, my shaved pubis. The tip of his index finger follow the line of hair from the top of my mound down to the center of my being. I was wet already, my lips aching instinctively for his touch.

While his mouth paid service to my nipple, his finger dipped inside my wetness. My internal muscles clenched around it immediately and he made another sound in his throat. His finger began to move, first delving slightly deeper and then the fingertip slowly moving, as if exploring. As his finger surged deeper, his thumb found my clitoris, began to circle it with the same attention that his tongue focused on my nipple.

I felt like I was going to explode in a matter of seconds. His tongue, his finger, his palm, all worked together to bring me exquisite, powerful, and excruciating pleasure. My hips began to move. I heard myself making mewling sounds in my throat. I arched my back, thrusting my breasts upward. I wanted more. He obliged. His finger delved deeper, then began to stroke slowly in and out. Oh my God, I could hardly stand it.