“Because you’re not in love with me?”
She met his eyes. “No, I’m not. I’m sorry.”
“Yet.” He leaned toward her, cupped her face in his palms. “You’re not in love with me … yet.”
She laughed and gave in, laying her hands on his chest, caressing. “Confidence. I like that, partner.”
“An optimist,” he teased, then grew serious. “I’m a patient man, Miranda. As long as it takes, no pressure.”
A lump formed in her throat. Last night he’d said ‘I love you’ and she’d believed he thought he did. They were pretty words, but words—pretty or not—were cheap. Thrown easily about, no need to be backed up with action. Most often they weren’t.
But he was backing his words up, offering to wait for her. To give her time and space. No one had ever done that for her before.
She kissed him. Tenderly. Deeply. Drawing him into her. Offering him something more precious than what she shared the night before.
They made love again, slowly this time. Taking time to linger on one sweet spot, then another. To taste. And savor.
His hands, then tongue, were magical instruments that made her body sing. She arched up against him with a cry of release as he entered her. The motion extended her pleasure, one spasm after another rocking her until he joined her. Finding her mouth, he captured their joint cries and rolled onto his back, bringing her with him.
Miranda rested her forehead against his shoulder, fighting to catch her breath. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Mind. Blown.”
He laughed softly and wrapped a strand of her hair around his finger. “You did seem to enjoy that.”
His heart thundered against her breast, and Miranda smiled. “You, too.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Not sure what we could do for an encore.”
“I’ll think of something.”
She smiled. “I bet you will.”
Her cell went off and she groaned. “That’s just rude.”
He retrieved it from the nightstand and handed it to her. She looked at the number and frowned. A five-zero-four area code. New Orleans. The number seemed to pluck at her memory, but she didn’t know from where.
“Not the chief,” she said.
“Who?”
“Don’t know. New Orleans number.” She tossed the phone. “If it’s important, they can leave a message.”
“Did you happen to notice the time?”
She didn’t want to let go of this moment, not yet. “Did you?”
“Unfortunately.” He eased her off him. “I guess I blew my exit strategy.”
“That’s not the only thing you blew.”
He made a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a snort. “I can’t believe you said that. Maybe you are a bad girl after all.”
A bad girl. Clint Wheeler’s voice, from that night in June, sounded in her head. “You’re a bad girl, Randi Rader. And everyone ’round here knows it.”
“What did you say?”
His face fell. “I didn’t mean anything by that. It was supposed to be funny.”
What had she been thinking? Sleeping with her partner? Falling right back into the mold folks around here expected her to fill?
“You were right, you better go.” She climbed out of bed and grabbed her panties and T-shirt and started for the bathroom. Stopping at the door, she looked back at him. “This is a small town, we’re partners, and what we’re doing is not okay. I’ll see you at headquarters.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That night in June
2002
Sobbing, Randi stumbled through the underbrush, branches and thorns tearing at her bare legs. She tripped on a root and went skidding forward, landing on her hands and knees. Pain shot up her arms, but she scrambled to her feet and started forward again, hoping and praying she was on her way to somewhere. A house or road. Someplace, anyplace, that had a phone or a driver willing to take her to the police.
Her prayers were answered—the forest thinned then opened up to a road. Two lane, deserted. No lights, no buildings. Like a sadistic trick one of her brothers would play on her. She looked left, then right, no idea where she was or which way to go.
Something her mother used to say popped into her head: “Stay on the right path, Randi. It’s hard for women out there, you’ll see.”
A hysterical sound passed her lips. Why hadn’t she listened? Now it was too late …
Randi started to run, the slap of her sandals on the pavement morphing, becoming the other girl’s screams. How could she still hear them? What was he doing to her?
What if he killed her?
No, please God … not that. It’s not too late.
She pushed harder. Her chest burned; she was lightheaded, her legs trembling, feet in agony. She couldn’t go much farther, she thought, hysteria rising up in her. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t.
And then, a miracle. Headlights, cutting across the curve in the road ahead. She tripped, righted herself, and darted forward, waving her arms wildly.
Cherry lights; the short scream of a siren.
A police cruiser. Her legs nearly buckled in relief and she stumbled toward it.
A cop emerged, gun drawn. “Stop where you are! Hands above your head!”
She reacted automatically, hands shooting into the air. And then she saw who it was and her heart sank to her toes. Wheeler. Why’d it have to be Wheeler?
“Well, if it isn’t Randi Rader, out past curfew on a Friday night.”
“I need help. This guy … he picked me up and—”
“Slow down, Missy. What’re you up to?”
“Back there,” she said, turning and pointing, “there’s another girl. This guy, he tied her up and—”
“The guy’s name?”
“Steve. He said his name was Steve.”
“Last name?”
“I didn’t ask. I—” She saw by his expression that he didn’t buy it so she made a name up. “Smith.”
“Steve Smith?”
“Yes, Billy-Bo kicked me out of his—”
He holstered his gun. “Billy Boman?”
Why wouldn’t he let her finish a sentence? She wanted to scream in frustration. “Yes! Just listen to me!”
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew it was the wrong thing to say.
She was right. “You’ve got that backwards, Missy. You listen to me. Have you been drinking?”
The lie slipped automatically past her lips. “No.”
“See that center line? I want you to walk it.”
Her legs shook so badly she could hardly stand, let alone walk a straight line.
“I can’t.”
“Finally, something true from that lying mouth of yours.” He shined the light directly into her eyes. “Empty your pockets.”
“We’re wasting time! The other girl … Cathy … she’s in trouble. He tied her up … he raped her.… I got away and—” Her voice broke. “I promised I’d get help!”
“Cathy who?”
She grabbed the first name that popped into her head. “Smith.”
“Steve Smith and Cathy Smith? You sayin’ he raped his sister?”
“I meant Stevens! Cathy Stevens. That’s why I got confused.”
“I’ve got another theory on that. You want to know what it is? Weed makes you stupid. Empty your pockets, one at a time.”
She emptied the first, revealing a piece of Trident gum and two quarters. She stuck her hand in the second and froze, stomach dropping to her toes. The bag of weed she’d lifted from Billy-Bo.