My Killer Vacation

Does that mean he’s not coming back?

I nod absently, trying to hide my immense disappointment that he’s no longer touching me. My body is hot and exposed and I’m twisted up in knots in the most intimate of places. And he’s leaving. My brain tells me there is no other choice. He’s right. I can’t just have a fling with a bounty hunter. A mean one who looks—and acts—like he just escaped hell, no less. Maybe I’m overestimating my ability to have a wild fling? Maybe I’m just on a high from this new courageous behavior, but I’m not actually built for meaningless sex?

“The neighbor won’t bother you again. Sing Kelly Clarkson as loud as you want.” He looks like he feels stupid for saying that, cursing under his breath and wheeling around on a booted heel to leave the room. A moment later, the door slams downstairs. Without thinking, I cross to the window and look down, watching Myles climb onto his bike—a Harley Davidson, I notice now—and strap a helmet on. He looks up at me and kicks the engine to life, and God help me, I have to cross my legs, the ensuing clench of my sex is so intense and prolonged.

Finally, he breaks eye contact and roars off down the street.

I drop down on the bed and stare blankly into space, willing my libido to shrink back down to the usual, reasonable level. Something is off in the room, but I don’t quite realize what it is for several moments. Not until Jude walks in to check on me and I automatically reach for the suitcase lid to close it, so I don’t have to explain my frivolous purchase twice in one day.

And that’s when I realize the red panties are gone.

Myles’s business card sits in their place.





Chapter 5





Myles





* * *




I’m missing something.

Not quite sure what it is, but I’ll know when I see it.

It’s just after sunrise on Friday morning and I’m back at Oscar Stanley’s house. Last night, I took a ride to Worcester to lay my own set of questions on Judd Forrester, the trucker who assaulted Stanley, but he was on a long-haul job and won’t be back until late this afternoon. From my motel room last night, I made a preliminary timeline, ran a few background checks on the neighbors on Coriander Lane and any known associates of Stanley from the postal service—though he mostly kept to himself. I went through the guest book and determined that yeah, Taylor was right, Stanley had been living in his own rental for ten months prior to the group of girls arriving. No prior issues with any renters. All stellar reviews.

There’s just something…off. Can’t put my finger on it.

Tossing an antacid into my mouth, I circle the living room, my eyes straying toward Taylor’s place. Not for the first time. Far from it. A few more trips to this window and I’m going to wear a path in the floorboards.

Half a day has passed since I licked that smooth, sun-kissed belly of hers and my cock is still standing at half-mast for it. God, she tasted like a candy apple. Of course I bit her.

I bet she’d have wrapped around me like hot caramel, too.

Stop thinking about how she whispered your name. Trembled. Definitely don’t think about how you’ve been carrying around her panties since yesterday.

Damn. How did this woman get in my head so fast? Because that’s where she is. Might as well admit it. If I was just in heat, I’d have tossed her up onto the bed yesterday and given her exactly what she asked for. I’d like to be manhandled once in a while. Just sort of thrown down and told who is boss, you know?

Fuck.

Shocking me isn’t an easy thing to do and I did not see that coming.

The nosy little schoolteacher wants it down and dirty.

Walking out of the room after she admitted that to me? Hell. Pure, torturous hell. Because down and dirty is the only way I know. But this intuition of mine? Apparently it doesn’t only operate on crime-related matters. No, my gut told me to get out of that bedroom fast or I’d never want to leave—and that just isn’t happening.

There is a crime to solve here.

Keep your damn head in the game.

If my past has taught me anything it’s that distractions lead to mistakes. I have firsthand knowledge of what can happen, the lives that can be destroyed, when a detective takes his eye off the ball. I may have turned in my badge three years ago, but for all intents and purposes, I am an investigator on this case. I’m handling one job for an old friend. If I can’t wrap one single case up without a blunder, I never should have graduated from the academy.

Focus.

With a final glance across the street, I go out back to the shed. Look for the tool used to create those peepholes, hoping to get some kind of idea how long they’ve been there. But there’s nothing. Nothing but beach chairs and a flattened bike wheel. A box of mouse traps.

I go back into the house and immediately stop short.

Humming.

Someone is humming. A woman. And I have a pretty good idea who it is.

The fact that my stomach tightens like a drum doesn’t bode well for my concentration.

Rounding the corner into the living room, I find Taylor on hands and knees, using the flashlight app on her phone to search beneath the couch. “Looking for something?”

A scream rips out of her. Thankfully, it cuts off somewhere in the middle when she catches sight of my reflection in the window behind the couch. Hand pressed to her heaving chest, she twists around and slumps back against the blue and white striped furniture. “I didn’t see your bike outside.”

“I parked it down the block.”

“Why?”

“So you wouldn’t see it and scurry over here to bother me.”

That’s a bald-faced lie. I stopped for coffee down the street and it was a short walk to the house from there, not worth moving the bike over.

“Oh,” she says, her mouth turning down at the corners. “I see.”

I almost tell her the truth. Almost. Just to get her to stop frowning. Who am I becoming?

Definitely not the kind of person who wants to tell her she looks pretty in her blue jumpsuit thing.