Run Wild (10 page)

“Execution?”

Trent put down the picture he’d been holding up for her to see and picked up the next shot. Natasha’s gut was turning. She’d had a heavier breakfast than usual; since it was part of the price of the room she’d taken advantage of the full breakfast spread Matilda offered her guests. At the moment, Natasha was regretting the sausage and cantaloupe that had tasted so good earlier that morning.

She almost gagged at the sight of the next picture. It was a head, or at least she was pretty sure it was, and it appeared to have been stuck on the end of a wooden post. As if knowing she didn’t quite understand what she was seeing, Trent pulled that picture away, held up another of the head from a different angle, put that one down, then offered a third angle until Natasha had a pretty good idea of what had happened.

“Someone decapitated this man, tied his arms and legs to posts to stretch him out, then took his head and stuffed it on another post,” she mumbled, not really making it a question but letting Trent know she got it.

Natasha slumped into her chair, forgetting all about trying to stay one up on the sheriff with his manipulative actions. She stared at the edge of the desk, ignoring Trent when he walked around the desk and stood next to her. She was too numb to get the images out of her head. And they were too grotesque for her brain to work around them.

“I’ll get you some water.” He spoke so gently his words didn’t register for a moment.

Natasha continued staring ahead until Trent reappeared at her side, nudging her with a Styrofoam cup filled with tap water. She stared at it a moment, guessing it was tepid, and although she didn’t want it, she had a feeling it would help settle her stomach.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, accepting the cup and sipping. Natasha downed the water and set the cup on his desk, then dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her face. “What happened?” she began, then sucked in a breath and cleared her throat. “It’s so terrible. Why would someone do that?”

Trent believed her father had done this. Just thinking about the fact that anyone might think her father would kill someone like this made her so furious, the nausea in her gut stilled. She was instantly filled with a cold, hard intent. It was absolutely imperative she find her dad, with whatever means possible. She turned slowly, staring up at Trent and wondering if he was as competent as she’d assumed he was when she’d first arrived in Weaverville.

“The news mentioned you had some evidence,” she began, fighting not to shake with fury and an almost panicked sense of desperation.

Trent still stood alongside her. She didn’t want to look at the pictures spread out on his desk any longer. So she stood and faced him.

“There is evidence,” he said, watching her carefully.

If he thought she might do something stupid, like attack him for being an idiot, then let him worry. “Against my father?” she demanded.

“Yes.”

She stared at him, waiting. He didn’t say anything.

Trent watched Natasha’s eyes turn a harder, flat tan shade. He’d barely known her a day and already saw how her eye color was a reflection of her emotions. Yesterday, when they’d sparred in the parking lot behind Pearl’s, Natasha’s eyes had glowed like gold. Now they were a flat, solid shade of tan, hard and piercing as she stared at him. She didn’t break the silence but instead maintained eye contact. He got the impression she was trying to tear down his resilience. There was no way he’d comment on her father, though. There weren’t any other clues pointing any direction other than toward George King.

Natasha worked in a law-enforcement line of work. She had to know Trent wasn’t going to give her details on the case. He didn’t ask her to come to Weaverville to brainstorm with her and work the case with her. Maybe she was used to her uncle talking openly about people who had bounties on them. That wasn’t Trent’s style, though. And it was especially not with a lady so gorgeous she could fog his brain with lust simply by entering the room.

He didn’t trust himself around Natasha. Trent wouldn’t jump her bones or put the moves on until she lowered her shield of resistance. Although the thought was definitely on his mind. If he spent too much time with this hot, sultry woman, he’d start sparring with her, or maybe some good old-fashioned flirting. Yesterday was proof he could do neither with Natasha. Not while working this case. Definitely not when he hadn’t cleared her father’s name, if he was innocent.

Trent needed to know where George King was. He was the only one who had disappeared after the murder. And he was the only one whose fingerprints were on the corpse once they pulled him down.

“Where’s your father, Natasha?” Trent asked quietly, ready for her to explode the moment the words were out of his mouth.

Her expression shifted. It hadn’t been what she’d expected him to say. That much was obvious. Her lips parted and she blinked. He’d give her this: Natasha was good at concealing her immediate reaction. Although she fisted and unfisted her hands, she gave no other indication that his question pissed her off. He’d bet a month’s salary it did just that, though. What he needed to know was why it pissed her off. Was it because she believed she had him convinced she was completely ignorant of all details of this case, other than what she’d learned since arriving here? Or did she really not know where George King was?

“I have no idea,” she told him, her body tightening. She moved her hands to her hips and narrowed her gaze on his. “I didn’t even know he was here.”

“Really.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “I thought it was easier to see when a person told the truth when you spoke to them in person,” she mocked him. “Try this on for size. You’ve known where he was in the recent past, which is more than I knew. But even I know he’s not capable of an insane crime like this. Either you’ve never met my father or you’re a really lousy judge of character.”

Natasha shoved him out of her way. Trent stood to the side, watching her storm out of his office. He was tempted to believe she didn’t know where her father was. As soon as Trent had a chance, he’d figure out why he was inclined to believe her. Other than her word, he had no solid proof as to what kind of relationship she had with her father. Trent couldn’t ask her family, since they would probably cover for George King. So far, Trent hadn’t found a neutral party who knew Natasha and her father.

For now, Trent would take her word. He had heard the pain in her voice when she told him she didn’t know her father had been here. One thing he believed: Natasha cared for her dad. Trent would be curious to find out if her father cared as much for her. Until he had more answers, he wasn’t going to let her walk out on him.

Chapter Five

“Natasha.” Trent’s boots made heavy sounds against the tiled floor as he came up behind her.

She was at the door, staring outside at the peaceful-looking town. The atmosphere of this quaint community was a direct contradiction to the grotesque scene he’d painted for her in his office.

When his hand came down on her shoulder, she realized she’d stopped at the sound of her name, her hand on the doorknob, yet she hadn’t opened the door to leave.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his body close behind hers.

Natasha looked over her shoulder and forgot to breathe. Trent was tall. Not as tall as her uncle or cousins, but a lot taller than her. A strand of black hair draped over his forehead, pushed the wrong way possibly in a moment of frustration. The cold determination that had made his gaze harsh was gone. In a different world Natasha would have easily reached up and brushed that strand of hair back in place. Sheriff Trent Oakley wasn’t a man she could mess with, though.

Hell, she shouldn’t want to mess with him, or even care about a single hair on his head. He’d more or less just suggested he believed her father responsible for Carl Williams’ brutal murder. Worse yet, a moment ago Trent’s cold glare made her think he believed she knew more than she was telling him.

Yet now he apologized?

“What for?” she asked, diverting her attention from those smoldering green eyes. He was back to being as dangerous as she believed him to be yesterday. And he was standing way too close.

“For upsetting you.”

“You thought you could tell me you believe my father is somehow mixed up in that murder and it wouldn’t upset me?”

He brushed his fingers over the length of her shoulder before dropping his hand. His scalding touch heightened too many sensations in her body. She almost exhaled in relief when he quit touching her. If he’d kept his hand on her she would have had to cry foul. Especially the way he was watching her now.

“I know he’s mixed up with this murder, Natasha.” Again Trent’s voice was gentle, soothing, as if he knew what would trigger a beast inside her and manipulated her so she wouldn’t strike.

Natasha turned and faced him. “How exactly do you know that?”

He studied her a moment, not backing up, which forced her to tilt her head in order to watch his face.

“There was evidence around the crime scene proving George King had been there shortly before we arrived.”

“What evidence?”

He started to shake his head.

“Damn it.” She fought the urge to shove him out of her way a second time. Somehow she knew putting her hands on him wouldn’t be a wise move at the moment. “You asked me to come up here. I drove for over nine hours. Why do you want me here if you refuse to share what you’ve learned about this murder?”

Natasha lowered her gaze, which at eye level had her staring at the opening of his shirt and his tanned skin next to his collar. At the same time she let out a breath and when she inhaled dragged Trent’s scent deep into her lungs. If they didn’t put some space between the two of them, she’d do something she shouldn’t. She wasn’t egotistical and always considered herself rather levelheaded. She needed that matter-of-fact nature she used when brainstorming with her family to kick in now.

“Your being here has already helped me.” He finally moved.

Natasha remained where she was, her feet planted and her back to the door. If someone were to enter the sheriff’s office right now, she could go sprawling to the floor. Yet for some reason, she couldn’t move.

“How have I helped you?”

“You’ve confirmed your father is a drifter.”

“You didn’t already know that?”

“I’ve faxed King’s picture and the MO I worked up on him to every sheriff’s office and police station in Northern California. No one has seen him.”

It wouldn’t surprise her if her dad was on the other side of the country by now.

“Natasha.” Trent started toward her again. He had a way of saying her name that made her heart stop beating. She’d like to think he was all business, that solving this murder would consume his thoughts and he didn’t have room to focus on her other than being George King’s daughter. And maybe Trent was all business and she was simply torturing herself by thinking otherwise.

It would make all of this a lot easier if she only had to maintain her own desires. Unfortunately, she knew it was two-sided.

Natasha knew men. She knew when they were interested and when they weren’t. When they were interested, she knew when they just wanted sex and when they were interested in a longer-term relationship. Trent’s sexual desire for her was raw, hot, and stronger than anything she’d ever experienced with any other man. The carnal, almost savage lust sizzling in the air between them caused a tightening deep inside her that would swell dangerously out of control if she didn’t get out of there soon. Because as well as she knew men, she also knew herself.

It sucked that this man believed her father was guilty. It annoyed her that he wouldn’t share whatever evidence he’d compiled against her dad. It made her mad because in spite of his desire to find her father so he could bring him in on murder charges, Natasha still wanted him.

Trent stared at her and his green eyes darkened. His attention dropped down her body and her flesh sizzled as the ache for him swelled.

“You’re talking about my father,” she began, pulling her thoughts back in order and forcing his attention to her face. “I told you on the phone before I came up here I hadn’t been in contact with him. Yet you needed me up here to learn he was a drifter?”

Natasha remembered the phone call she’d received previous to Trent calling her. “Why did you have someone else call me asking about Dad before you called me?” she threw out, watching for his reaction.

“Someone else called you?” The fogged look of desire in his eyes cleared. “What are you talking about?”

“Before you called me.” She already suspected it wasn’t Trent. The first caller had sounded older, and with more of an accent than Trent had. But if it wasn’t Trent and he hadn’t asked someone to make the call, who had called? And why would anyone else want to know where her father was?

“I only called you once.” He turned away from her and walked around the desk, where he began searching through some papers. “Who else called you?” he asked, without looking up.

“He didn’t identify himself.” She was very professional, knew her job well, and had a good grasp on investigative methods. If there had been anything to learn from that first phone call, she would have reported it already. “He wanted to know if I knew George King. When I said I did, he asked where he was. When I said I didn’t know, he hung up.”