Run Wild (33 page)

“And if they insist you leave their property since you’re George King’s daughter?” He raised one eyebrow, giving her a scrutinizing once-over. “Are you going to tear into them the way you’re tempted to do with me now?”

“No,” she informed him sweetly. “I would leave.” She’d already thought this through and had to accept it might be a possibility. But not if she handled the situation right. “I hope if I approach them properly, as I did Sandra Burrows and her daughter, they’ll allow me into their home.”

“We’ll see.” Trent patted his pocket, making his keys jingle. “I’ve already put a call out there. Jim won’t be back to the house for a good hour or so. There is an errand I have to run first.”

“What’s that?” she asked. “I’ll go with you.”

“Are you sure you want to run it with me?” he asked, narrowing his gaze on hers but then letting it run down her body. “Seems to me the only time you’re willing to follow my instructions without looking fit to be tied is when my dick is inside you.”

“How dare you!” she yelled, about to lose it. “There is one hell of a difference between following instructions and bullying someone into doing what you say,” she informed him, stopping within inches of him and fighting the urge to flip him flat on his back. Maybe that would knock some sense into him. “You’ve made it quite clear you want me to submit, apparently in and out of the bedroom. Mister, that isn’t going to happen, ever.”

Trent stared at her without saying a word. He nodded once and turned his back to her, returning to his desk and leaning over to pull something out of one of the drawers. Natasha watched him, wary, tense, and ready to take him on.

It was probably best that he remained silent. She was right. He’d been pushing and pushing, making subtle comments, and especially during sex. In spite of what he might think she had never voiced her consent, or given him any indication she enjoyed his domination.

Trent pulled a small notebook out of the drawer, then opened another drawer and grabbed a pen. Then straightening, he slid the pen in his shirt pocket and tapped the notepad against his thigh as he walked around his desk toward her again.

“MaryAnn Piney, who owns the safe-deposit box the key belongs to that we found at the cabin, returned my call this morning. She’s given her consent. I had a new key ordered, and need to head over to the bank and see if there’s anything in that box.”

“Good.” Apparently, he didn’t want to talk about his behavior toward her personally, which was fine with her.

The smartest move was to view their time together as earth-shattering good sex and not try to make more out of it than it ever could be.

“I’ve been giving some thought to that cabin Midnight and I stumbled upon yesterday. Maybe you and I could ride out there again soon. It might not be a bad idea to take another look at it.”

Trent turned and messed with something on his desk. “Actually I already rode back out there.”

“What? When?”

He actually looked sheepish when he looked at her. “During the night. I couldn’t sleep. You were sound asleep and my options were waking you up and making love to you again or getting up and pacing the house.” He held up an open brown paper bag. “I got the clothes.”

A spooked sensation rushed over her skin as she stared at the clothes. “You brought them back?”

“It was dark, but I’m glad I did. You said they were stained and I guess that piqued my curiosity. Old clothes long forgotten probably wouldn’t stink as bad as you’d said unless some animal had been in there, in which case I think you would have known that smell.” Trent folded the top of the paper bag and rolled it down. “I’m sending them off to a forensics lab in Redding. They’ll have the clothes first thing in the morning. They’re pretty fast. I’ll know everything there is to know about these clothes really soon.”

He walked around her without touching her and stepped inside his personal office, where he’d first met with her and shown her all the pictures of Carl Williams’ gruesome murder. Flipping off the light, Trent then closed the office door and turned the doorknob, making sure it was locked.

It wasn’t surprising Trent was closing up the sheriff’s office because he was leaving. It might be barely early afternoon, but Natasha had learned a thing or two about the sheriff of Trinity County since being here, one of them being he’d rather uphold the law in Weaverville and surrounding areas in his truck than sit behind a desk.

The sheriff’s office was so plain because it was about Trent’s least favorite place to be. As he’d told her, there would probably never be a crime committed there. If he was to uphold the law, his job was best done in town interacting with the people who lived there.

Trent grabbed his coat off one of several pegs by the door leading to the street but then paused, his hand on the doorknob, and turned, staring down at her.

“We need an understanding, Natasha,” he said quietly. His green eyes were flat, not glowing as they usually did when he looked down at her. “You may ride along with me to the bank.”

“Good. Hopefully there will be something in that safe-deposit box that will shed light on who put those things in the cabin. Or better yet, a strong lead toward who killed Carl Williams would be a godsend.”

Trent held up his hand and Natasha snapped her mouth shut. She fought not to fist her hands or inform him she was definitely not the one who needed to be taught some manners. Unfortunately, remembering how he’d said that to her yesterday in the barn caused an immediate swelling deep inside her. Suddenly her coat was hot and too heavy. She itched to take it off but stood there, staring at him. It was a good thing he didn’t want her talking. She didn’t trust what might come out of her mouth next.

“I’ve been sheriff here for six years. My reputation is sound and I have the citizens of Weaverville’s respect. That isn’t going to change. And I didn’t earn it by allowing anyone to walk all over me.”

Did he think she was trying to walk all over him?

“When you’re with me you will remain by my side, remain quiet, and not speak unless you’re asked a question. You aren’t being bullied. But you are being protected. It’s my job, and I’m not going to treat you any differently than I would any other stranger entering my town. I’m going to conduct a murder investigation, and that is all I’m going to do.”

Chapter Fifteen

Trent held the door for Natasha when they entered the bank. They’d endured an awkward silence during the drive over, which thankfully was a short one. What he had said before leaving was necessary, though, and true. He had to remind himself that in spite of working for one of the most successful bounty-hunting offices in the country, Natasha ran the office. She didn’t work out in the field. She was in charge of paperwork and phone calls and possibly brainstormed with the bounty hunters. She wasn’t an investigator, though.

She’d arrived like a whirlwind into Weaverville and was better at fighting with him than casually flirting. Natasha was beautiful, sensual, an incredibly erotic woman, yet she’d barricaded herself off from him the moment they met. And it wasn’t for lack of interest. He’d seen it simmering in her eyes.

If she wanted the world to see her as tough, all business, able to kick ass, with the black belt to prove it, that was certainly her prerogative. But she wouldn’t lie to him, and to herself, by suggesting he’d forced her into something she didn’t want. Bully, his ass! Then to inform him she would never submit to him when she already had, Trent shook his head. Maybe the wall Natasha had built up around her was based on denial. But if she continued denying what had so quickly ignited between them, she would make both of them miserable. Trent grew up with a father whose heart belonged to a woman who had left when Trent was ten. He saw the sadness well in his father’s eyes from time to time. Trent wouldn’t live his life that way. It was going to be all or nothing. If Natasha didn’t start trusting him and understand submitting didn’t make her any less of a person, that it allowed him to protect and care for her, then he would have to back out all the way. No way would he allow her to stomp on his heart the way Trent’s mother had done to his father.

“Sheriff, how are you doing today?” Porter Vaskins wore a baggy, itchy-looking gray suit today. He extended his hand and shook Trent’s but focused on Natasha.

“Doing good, Porter.” Trent nodded his head to Natasha, who’d pretty much captured everyone’s attention in the bank.

Two of the tellers were ladies Trent had known most of his life. Although one was now married, both had tried getting him to go out with them in the past. And both scowled at Natasha. The other bank employees, including Merv Conroy, the bank president, looked on with interest.

Natasha didn’t seem to notice. She glanced up at Trent, but didn’t say anything while Porter waited for his introduction. Maybe Trent was reading her wrong, but he swore he saw concern, possibly worry, in her pretty eyes.

“Porter, this is Natasha King. She and I wish to look at the contents of the safe-deposit box now,” Trent said matter-of-factly, keeping his voice low.

“Yes. Of course. I received paperwork showing a new key was made. And Mrs. Piney has given her consent for it to be opened.”

“Good, I’m ready when you are,” Trent prompted.

Porter was more cooperative today than most days, which was a damn good thing. Trent didn’t want to admit preoccupation with Natasha, but she remained close, brushing against him every few seconds or so. She was quiet, polite, and moved with the elegance and grace of a princess. He wasn’t sure if he’d reached her with what he’d said at the office or if she was simply keeping it all bottled in and would let him have it once they were alone. He’d give thanks for small favors when he got them. Within five minutes he and Natasha were downstairs and once again he was facing the safe-deposit box. This time, however, Trent and Natasha were left alone in a small room with the box.

Trent slid the new key into the keyhole. It turned easily. He opened the box and Natasha leaned in with him to stare at its contents.

“Damn, that’s a lot of cash,” Natasha gasped, leaning over the box with her head next to his.

“No shit. Don’t touch anything.” He straightened and reached inside his coat. “Gloves and evidence bags,” he announced, pulling a stash of rolled bags and two pairs of gloves from his inside pocket.

“I wonder how much is here?” Natasha pulled the latex gloves onto her hands, then began lifting out bills wrapped in groups of one-hundred- and fifty-dollar bills. “From what I see, all of these bills are dated before 1950, just like the other money we found in the cabin.”

“What do we have here?” From underneath a couple stacks of bills Trent lifted out a picture, enclosed in a frame. The glass was smoggy and the picture difficult to see. “I think it’s a woman.”

“Looks like it. Huh,” Natasha grunted, reaching into the box and doing her best to pull out the remaining stacks of cash and slide them into evidence bags. “Wait, there’s something at the bottom.”

“You’re right.” Trent didn’t have a clue what to think of everything in the safe-deposit box. Had MaryAnn Piney put all of this here, then forgotten she’d stored it away, then later forgotten about the safe-deposit box? “Maybe Mrs. Piney can shed some light on who is in the picture.”

“It’s definitely an old snapshot.” Natasha was gingerly lifting material from the bottom of the box. It was a pale pink gauzy-type material with a design on it, although the fabric was so deteriorated it was impossible to determine what it was.

“Wait a minute!” Natasha held up the material and looked over it at him, grinning as if she’d just solved the mystery of the contents of the box.

“What?” He frowned.

She continued smiling and held the material up, backing away from the table as she did until the pink gauzy stuff hung down the front of her.

“It’s a dress,” he said, stating the obvious when Natasha held it against her body.

“The same dress the woman in the picture is wearing.” Natasha folded the dress in half, folded it again, and managed to neatly place it in an evidence bag. “Do you think you can take the picture out of the frame? A lot of times people write on the back saying who is in the shot and what year, even a location.”

“Let’s see.” Trent put the picture on the table next to the box and full evidence bags, then pulled his Swiss Army knife out of his back pocket.

When Natasha made a face, then shook her head when he looked at her, he grunted. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She was incredibly amused.

“If it weren’t for this knife I have on me, you’d be risking breaking one of those fingernails trying to get the picture out of the frame.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she informed him, raising her eyebrows in a silent challenge, suggesting he try to prove her wrong.

“Curiosity kills more than the cat, darling,” he drawled, but then focused on his task. Toying with Natasha when she pushed every bit of her ornery personality in his face was damn near impossible not to do.

Natasha didn’t say anything but hovered close, her long black hair brushing against his arm as he worked to pry open the back of the frame. One of the thin metal pieces snapped, breaking, as he pried it open. The other three bent without breaking. He lifted the cardboard backing from the picture frame. It deteriorated in his hands.