“He didn’t crash his car, Mr. Otterman. He was murdered at home.”
“Jesus! When you said he’d been killed, I assumed… Jesus.”
“During his paranoid rambling, did he mention having any enemies?”
“No, but apparently he had at least one.” He let that resonate before continuing. “Did he have family?”
“He was a bachelor. Lived alone.”
Otterman didn’t remark on that. He didn’t ask if there had been any witnesses or if any evidence had been found at the scene because he wasn’t troubled about the crime being traced back to him. Men he used for jobs like this didn’t make mistakes. If they did, it was their last one. Case in point: Pat Connor.
After another stretch of silence, Lester said, “I understand you’ll be back on Monday.”
“Around noon.”
“You were one of the last known persons to talk to Connor. Would you come to headquarters so we can get an official statement?”
“Of course.” Then, “Forgive me, Sergeant Lester, before you go, I must ask.” He rolled the coin across the backs of his fingers. “Do you have any reason to believe that this officer was another casualty of the courthouse incident? I mean, is it possible that he was silenced for something he knew or saw?”
Stiffly Lester replied, “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Right. Of course.”
“I’ll see you on Monday, Mr. Otterman. Until then, what’s a good number for me to call if I need to contact you?”
“Use the number at the camp. Someone there always knows how to reach me.”
He hung up before the detective could say anything more. He caught the coin in his fist and banged it down on the table. “The final nail,” he said around a smile. It was now only a matter of time.
Crawford came awake with Holly curled beside him, facing him, her face close to his on the pillow, her thigh snug between his. They still lay on top of the duvet, but at some point after he’d fallen asleep, she had pulled a throw over them.
When she did, he had awoken, lifted her thigh over his hip, and slid into her. Being sheathed in her had brought a drowsy erection to a full one. Invitingly, she moved against him, took him deeper. He exerted just enough motion to create an erotic ebb and flow until they came together. Instead of fireworks, it had been as comforting as a warm bath.
He hadn’t even opened his eyes. Not a word had been spoken. But it had been intensely intimate, and, beyond feeling good sexually, he had felt an inner contentment that he’d missed during the years of sleeping in an empty bed and waking up alone.
Now, gazing into Holly’s face, looking incredibly peaceful and trustful in sleep, he felt a welling of tenderness for her and, with it, a primal surge of ownership. He wanted this woman. He wanted to claim her. He wanted to keep her. He couldn’t.
But he was here now.
He pulled back the throw. The daylight limning the window shutters was new and fragile, but he could see well enough, and all the parts of her that he’d imagined or felt in the dark were prettier than he’d envisioned.
Dipping his head to her breast, he gently sucked the delicate pink tip into his mouth. As he tested the texture of it with his tongue, she stirred, sighed his name, and rested her hand on his head.
“I finally get to see you naked in the light.”
“And?”
“I wish I’d burned all your clothes while you were asleep.”
She laughed softly. “You’re not so bad looking, either.”
She leaned over him and kissed the center of his chest, his navel. Scooting down, she ran her hands over his thighs and when she found the two scars on his calf marking the entry and exit wounds of the bullet that had passed through, she kissed them and spoke softly of how grateful she was that it hadn’t been worse.
“What if you had died that day?” she asked, looking up at him with liquid green eyes. “I’d have never met you.”
The emotional catch in her voice touched him deeply. “Come here.” He cupped her underarms and pulled her up over him until his mouth could take hers in a ravenous kiss. Gradually, mouths still eating at each other, he rolled her onto her back and stretched her arms above her head.
He kissed his way down the undersides of both arms as his hand reshaped her breasts, then rode the contours of her rib cage down to her abdomen. Her breath stuttered against his lips when he trailed his fingers back and forth across the hollow between her hip bones, then through her pubic hair. It was blond and soft. And beneath it, she was silky and wet.
He sank his fingers into the fluid heat and returned his mouth to her breasts. Noticing a rosy abrasion, he asked, “Is that a whisker burn? You should have told me.”
“I didn’t care.”
“Now?”
“I don’t care.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
The merest flick of his tongue elicited a reaction. “Okay?”
“Yes,” she gasped.
“Again?”