Clay Bowman stood outside the small brick rancher, taking note of Riley Tatum’s police cruiser parked in her driveway. The house was dark, but there was enough light from the sliver of moon to tell him something about the woman who had spent the better part of the day tracking in the woods. The lawn was cut and shrubs trimmed, but the three flowerpots clustered on the side of the house were an empty testament to a failed gardening attempt. He never imagined her tending flowers or a vegetable garden. Domesticity wasn’t her style.
A second car in the driveway had him wondering if that car was hers or if she lived with someone. When he conjured up her image, he always pictured her single, but a woman like her didn’t stay alone long. When he had spoken to her in the woods, she’d looked at him as if she recognized him, but the situation hadn’t allowed room for the past. Not that it mattered. He’d had a chance to love her once and had tossed it away.
Yesterday’s mission was to track her in the woods. Keep her safe. And he had done it, glad he was there for the takedown, which had sent a thrill of much-needed adrenaline through his body. Retirement, as it turned out, didn’t suit him. Lazy days on the front porch, fixing up the old house, savoring sunsets—all sounded good when he was part of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team hoofing it through the woods, carrying a one-hundred-pound pack, and chasing fugitives. When he’d turned in his badge, he thought he was done with the cops-and-robbers shit.
But three weeks of downtime was his limit. When Shield Security had offered him the job, he took it on the spot.
He was back in the game. So what the hell was he doing standing outside Riley’s house like a crazed stalker?
As he turned to leave, a light clicked on in the house and he drew back toward the shadows. He checked his watch: 3:00 a.m. A silhouette of a woman passed in front of a window, and he recognized her long, lean frame.
She moved into the kitchen, dressed in a running top and jogging shorts. She switched on the coffeepot and threaded her fingers through her long dark hair, arching back slightly as she knotted it all into a ponytail. Minutes later she was sipping coffee, leaning against the counter and staring into the night. He took another step back.
Bowman had first met Riley five years ago. It had been six months after his wife died and he was training a group of police officers in search-and-rescue techniques at Quantico. Riley was one of his best students, and he noticed her the first day of class. He also caught her stealing glances at him. Several times she asked questions about the training, and it took effort for him to keep his gaze off the rise and swell of her breasts under the regulation T-shirt.
But they kept their distance until her last night at the school. She showed up at his motel room. Kissed him. And they fell into bed, pulling off clothes and going at it as if possessed. He drove into her, savoring the feel of her. She was so passionate.
He still remembered when he woke up, Riley nestled by his side, feeling happy for the first time since Karen’s diagnosis. However, on the heels of this happiness was guilt. He felt disloyal to a dead wife who had loved him unconditionally.
When Riley awoke later, he was standing fully dressed by the window of his drab motel room. She came up behind him, pressing her full breasts against his back. His body responded immediately to her and he wanted to lean back, savor her touch, and go back to bed. But guilt shuddered through him as he glanced at his ring finger, which still bore the faint tan lines of the wedding band he’d worn for a decade.
Instead of loving Riley, he found himself resenting her vibrant health. She was full of life, and Karen was dead. And in the hours they’d been together, he’d forgotten about Karen and cared only about Riley and himself. How could he so easily abandon precious memories of a woman he’d cherished?
Unable to face Riley, he told her to leave. He had work, he said. He could sense the tension and confusion rippling through her body. She lingered another beat as if hoping she’d heard him wrong.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
She drew away, detecting the cut underscoring the words. Without any discussion, she reached for her clothes. He heard the jerk of jeans sliding up over her long legs and her rooting for the shirt and boots.
“I don’t know why, but I thought this was more than a casual hookup.” Under the formal tone simmered sadness. “I thought we had something,” she said in a controlled, clear voice.
He dared a glance at her and saw raw pain glistening in her eyes. “I can’t do this.”
She didn’t beg, plead, or make a case for them. A shrug of her shoulders and she tugged on her boots. “Right.”
That was the last time he’d seen her until yesterday on the mountain.
Bowman wasn’t sure why he’d tracked Riley to her home. She sure didn’t need his help after the stunt he’d pulled at Quantico five years ago. She owned a home and had one hell of a job and a life. She had her shit together better than him.
And yet, here he stood in the shadows craving what he’d recklessly tossed away.
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, September 13, 2:00 p.m.
A body had been found in a field. Riley had received the radio call fifteen minutes ago. The dispatcher didn’t have much more information, noting the caller sounded distraught.
Her lights flashing, she nosed her state police SUV onto the shoulder behind an old red Chevy pickup truck. She was the first officer at the scene.
She glanced in the rearview mirror at an alert Cooper. “Ready?” He thumped his tail and barked. Yesterday’s chase had left her with slightly sunburned skin and briar scrapes, but she was good for duty today.
Out of the car, she glanced back toward the off-ramp leading from I-95. With no traffic approaching, she went to the passenger-side back door and hooked Cooper’s tracking line. “Come on, boy, let’s go to work.”
Pulling her shoulders back, she settled her cap on her head and searched the truck for signs of the man who called in the report. To leave fingerprints and physical proof of contact, she touched the tailgate and rooftop with her hand, then peered in the driver’s-side window. Seeing no signs of him, she and Cooper moved toward the scrub of trees bordering the roadside.
Beyond the trees was a field filled with tall grass. A flicker of plaid and denim flashed to her right and she turned, hand on her weapon. An older man with a thick shock of white hair moved toward her, his shoulders stooped and his eyes wide with worry. A short, scruffy beard covered his angled jaw.
“About time,” he said. “I called a half hour ago.”
“I’m Trooper Tatum. Can you tell me what you found?” Cooper sat next to her, staring with a keen gaze at the man.