“You have no idea.” Dipping his head, he leans close and presses his mouth to mine. Shock and pleasure vibrate through my body on contact. His lips are firm and warm. I feel his quickened breaths against my cheek. I’m tempted to open and take this to the next level, but some ingrained protective instinct I’ve developed over the years won’t let me. In terms of passion, the kiss doesn’t amount to much. But with regard to impact, I feel as if I’ve just been hit with a burst of machine gun fire.
I don’t remember reaching for him, but my arms find their way around his shoulders. Tension quivers in the hard mass of muscle beneath my hands. He deepens the kiss, his tongue probing, sliding between my lips. I take him in and revel in his taste. I smell the pine and musk scent of his aftershave. Need coils and flexes inside me. I’m keenly aware of the hard length of his penis against my pelvis, and I go wet between my legs.
I’m not totally inexperienced when it comes to intimacy. When I lived in Columbus I had a couple of tepid relationships and one serious, ill-fated affair. But it’s been a while and I’m more than a little rusty. He doesn’t seem to notice.
He slides his hands to the sides of my face. I open my eyes to find him staring at me. His expression is a mix of surprise and perplexity. His calloused palms cradle my cheeks. We’re breathing hard, as if we’ve both just finished a marathon.
He runs his knuckles down my cheek, a touch so feather-soft that I shiver. “That was unexpected,” he says.
“But nice.”
“Better than nice.”
Reaching up, I take his hands from my face, but I can’t stop looking at him. My mouth still tingles from his kiss. “The timing could be better.”
“I’ll have to work on that.”
A knock on the door interrupts the moment. Tomasetti steps quickly back. “Expecting company?”
“No.”
Leaving the kitchen, I cross to the front door and check the peephole. Surprise ripples through me when I see Glock on the porch, his hat pulled low against the wind. My first thought is that they’ve discovered another body. I open the door. “What happened?” I ask, motioning him inside.
“Chief.” Glock’s eyes widen when he spots Tomasetti. “Detrick just made an arrest.”
“What?” I say. “Who?”
“Jonas Hershberger.”
Disbelief rears inside me. I know Jonas. I went to school with him. Up until the eighth grade, anyway, when the Amish stop going to school. He lives in a ramshackle pig farm a few miles from where Amanda Horner’s body was found.
“He’s one of the most gentle people I’ve ever known,” I say.
“We’ve got evidence, Chief.”
“What evidence?” Tomasetti chimes in.
“Blood. At Hershberger’s farm.”
“How did the arrest come about?” I ask.
“We were canvassing the area. Detrick saw a suspicious stain. He did a field test for blood, got a positive. He asked for permission to search and Jonas agreed.” Glock shrugs. “One of Detrick’s deputies found a piece of clothing that might have belonged to one of the vics. Detrick has the whole place cordoned off and they’re looking for more. There’s a BCI crime scene tech out there right now. Detrick and the SAC have Hershberger in the interrogation room. It looks like he’s our guy.”
John looks at me. “I’ve got to get down there.”
I desperately want to go with him. That need is an agony that goes beyond physical. I begin to pace, every nerve in my body jumping. I’m aware of Tomasetti pulling on his coat. “Goddamnit,” I mutter.
He crosses to me and sets his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
I’m too upset to speak, so I nod.
Glock is already out the door. Giving me a final look over his shoulder, Tomasetti follows. I trail them as far as the front porch. I barely feel the cold as I watch both men climb into their vehicles and pull away.
“Damnit,” I whisper.
And I wonder if, after all these years, God has finally seen fit to punish me for what I did. And for what I did not.
CHAPTER 29
Some nights are darker and colder and longer than others. This is one of those nights. It’s only eight P.M., but it feels like midnight. I’m hungover and so unsettled I can’t stand being in my own skin. After Tomasetti and Glock left earlier, I had another drink. Not to mention a good old-fashioned cry. But crying and drinking myself into a stupor aren’t my style. I’m more proactive than that. Yet here I am, pacing the house, bawling like some high school girl, doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t: feeling sorry for myself.
I should be relieved a suspect has been arrested. I should be elated knowing no more women will die. My career might be in the toilet, but there are worse fates. So why the hell do I feel like someone has just ripped out my guts?