ONE SILENT NIGHT Read online

  "It shouldn't take you too long to finish up here," his brother said. "See you in the morning for Christmas?"

  "Yeah."

  Mace clapped him on the shoulder, then slipped on his coat, walking the few feet to Dallas. "I'm really glad you're okay, Dallas."

  "Thanks to your brother." Over Mace's shoulder, she found Sam's gaze.

  His heart squeezed. He'd come close to losing her. The realization still gripped him like a cold fist. He wanted nothing more than to take her home and hold her all night, but he still had to interview Richie Lewis. And they had paperwork to do.

  Sam, his gaze still riveted on Dallas, heard Mace as if from a distance.

  "Merry Christmas," Dallas returned, walking toward Sam.

  He reached out and pulled her to him, his heart pounding in his throat. Since the bust had gone down, they hadn't had a minute alone.

  Dallas laid her head on his shoulder and wrapped her free arm around his waist. "I'm okay," she said quietly.

  His throat closed up. "That was a close one."

  "Yes."

  He couldn't voice the desperate fear, the paralyzing horror he'd felt upon seeing her lying motionless on that floor with that chain wrapped around her neck. It had flashed through his mind in a microsecond that God wouldn't be so cruel as to take her when she'd only come back into his life.

  And that was when he'd known—she was his. He wanted her to stay. Somehow. They needed to work it out.

  Resting his chin on her head, he closed his eyes and gave thanks that she was all right. The sweet, scent of her hair and the spice of her perfume tickled his nostrils, reassuring him that she was here. That she was safe.

  For a long moment, they simply held each other. Sam wanted to get her out of here. He pressed a kiss to her temple and drew back. "Let's finish this up and go home."

  "Okay."

  He left her sitting at his desk, starting on her report, while he went into Interview Room Three and talked to Richie Lewis.

  It didn't take long to wring a confession out of the guy, who was blubbering like a baby.

  Raised by a single mother who had been seduced and abandoned by his father, Richie had suffered from her rage over that. He'd been abused and neglected. By killing women and having sex with them, he'd been acting out his own rage against his mother. Sam didn't understand the twistings of the human mind, but a part of him felt some compassion for the man.

  "Sick bastard," Sam muttered as he and Dallas finished up the last of their reports. Their empty coffee cups littered his desk. Looking up, he realized they'd been here all night.

  Pink, watery dawn light streamed into the second-floor windows. Sam stood and arched his back, stretching out the kinks. He gathered up his paperwork and Dallas's, too.

  She gave him a grateful look, massaging her shoulder.

  "I'll be right back and we can leave."

  "Okay."

  He took the reports in and put them on his lieutenant's desk. When he returned, Dallas was on her cell phone. "Really, I'm fine, Mom. Yes, I'm still coming. I'll see you—" she glanced at her watch "—in about fourteen hours. My plane gets in just after eight."

  Sam's heart sank. They'd worked straight through Christmas Eve. He hadn't asked her to spend Christmas Day with him, but he'd been hoping she would. Of course, she would make plans to be with her family. And then what? Sam didn't want to say goodbye to her.

  She hung up, smiling at him as she slid her cell phone into the pocket of her coat. "Ready?"

  "Yeah." He reached for his coat, slipped it on, feeling dissatisfied. The case was over, but how could he let her leave? Things were unfinished between them, because of him. At the possibility of her walking out of his life for good, emptiness consumed him. Different from what he'd felt when Brad had died, it was somehow even more bleak, more unthinkable.

  He cupped her nape and rubbed a thumb over her soft skin. "I don't want you to go."

  "To my parents'?"

  "There. Denver. Anywhere."

  "Sam—"

  "I know things have been overwhelming the last twenty-four hours, but we need to talk."

  "Yes." Her gaze, uncertain and expectant, held his. "I'd like to get out of these clothes and shower first. How about you?"

  "Sounds good."

  Invitation darkened her tired eyes. "Come with me."

  His heart slammed into his ribs. "Carrie—"

  Dallas glanced at her watch. "She's probably already at her mother's for the day."

  They needed to talk, but he also wanted to hold her, feel her body come alive beneath his. "Are you sure?"

  She nodded.

  "And you're okay?" His thumb grazed the red marks on her neck.

  She caught his hand and squeezed it. "Yes, Sam."

  "Thank goodness," he said gruffly, relief stretching tight across his chest. And anticipation hammering low in his body.

  "Won't your parents be expecting you?"

  "I'll give them a call. They'll understand." She'd said nothing about staying, nothing about her plans at all. But he needed to tell her how he felt; needed to be with her, even if it was for the last time.

  * * *

  Once inside Carrie's house, Dallas turned into his arms. Early-morning sunlight slanted into the room, chasing away the shadows.

  "I'm so glad you were there," she said against his chest, holding him close.

  His arms went around her and he said hoarsely, "I was afraid I'd screw it up."

  "I knew you wouldn't." She looked into his eyes, trusting, certain, sincere.

  His conversation with Mace had initiated the process of sorting through the guilt, the shame, and separating those emotions from his feelings for Dallas. But her words helped him to finally accept that he hadn't been responsible for Brad's death.

  Now he knew it was all right for them to be together. If only she would stay. "Dallas—"

  "Shh, I know." Her eyes welled with tears and her voice was a papery rasp. "I know. Hold me, Sam. Don't let go."

  Her lips touched his and he tasted the salt of a tear. His hands splayed on her back, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss.

  Dallas clutched him to her. She was alive. She was safe. And she was with Sam. A sense of completeness spread through her and an ache bloomed in her chest. He kissed her tenderly, softly, with a hint of desperation. She understood that all too well. They'd come close to losing everything of themselves. They had a second chance. She wasn't going to blow it.

  His lips moved over hers, seducing, giving, demanding. She felt his vulnerability in the quivering of his muscles. Felt it when he at last opened his heart fully to her. Another tear seeped out, then another.

  She wanted to give him all of herself, too. Dragging her lips from his, she pulled away and looked into his beautiful, searing blue eyes. She took him by the hand and led him through her bedroom and into the bath. After turning on the shower, she faced him.

  Soft morning light revealed the tender hunger in his gaze. They undressed each other slowly, savoring each second, each newly bared patch of flesh.

  She peeled away his shirt, running her hands over his sculpted, well-defined chest, his rock-solid biceps. The feel of his smooth warm skin intoxicated her.

  He unbuttoned her red-and-white shirt and pushed it to the floor. She was magnificent. A transparent satin-and-lace bra covered her full breasts, now flushed a delicate rose and quivering. His throat burned as he brushed a kiss on the swell of one breast.

  She was his, really his.

  She drew in a breath, her nipples peaking beneath the silky fabric. A fierce tenderness crossed his features and her heart dropped to her stomach. Unhooking her bra, she let it fall, baring herself to him.

  His eyes darkened with hunger and awe, touching something deep inside her.

  "I don't think I can make it through a shower," he said roughly, his hands skimming up her rib cage, then cupping her breasts.

  Loving the feel of his hands on her, she smiled and flicked open the button
of his jeans. "Try."

  She stepped toward him, her breasts brushing his chest. The sensation of her soft fullness against his crisp hair and hard muscle weakened her knees. She kissed him, pulling his bottom lip into her mouth and sucking gently.

  His arms, hard and warm, went around her, and he took control of the kiss. She gladly let him. After a long, drugging moment, they parted. White heat pooled in her belly, between her legs. Dallas took his hand and led him into the shower.

  His gaze burned into her, intense, loyal, forgiving. For the first time, she saw no shadows of the past, felt no hint of Brad. Or guilt. Or regret.

  She took the soap and lathered her hands, starting at his shoulders, dragging her hands over the sleek lines of his belly, his legs, anticipating the moment when she finally cupped him tenderly. Her hand closed around him.

  Desire slashed across his features, and muscles corded in his neck. "Be still," he whispered, reaching behind her for the soap.

  Anticipation quivered in her belly and when his hands reverently cupped her breasts, she arched her head and gave herself over to the tender pleasure he worked on her body. He soaped her calves and up her thighs, moving gently between her legs, then over her bottom and up her back.

  Her knees wobbled. His touch sparked a restlessness, a searing need to have him inside her. His hands returned to her breasts, slipping sleekly over their fullness, kneading them, plucking at her nipples.

  She moaned and pulled his head down to hers. The soap hit the floor. Shower spray pounded her back as Sam pulled her against him. His arousal pulsed heavy and wet at the juncture of her thighs.

  She needed him, desperately, wildly, immediately. He guided her toward the wall so the water sluiced down between them, washing away the suds. Cool tile met her shoulder blades. Warm, taut flesh pressed her front. His tongue delved deep into her mouth, stroking, claiming. She met him stroke for stroke, the languor of her body burned away by the rising need.

  Suddenly he reached over, slammed off the faucet and shoved open the door. "Bed," he rasped.

  She climbed out with him and each of them grabbed a towel, drying themselves, each other, not wanting to let go. Sam's hand was strong and damp in hers, his body magnificently aroused. Liquid fire curled through her.

  They hurriedly toweled off, then came together in a heated, impatient kiss. Somehow he got her to the bed—she didn't remember taking the steps—and his weight pressed her back into the mattress. It was glorious. Still slick with water, she reached down and guided him to her.

  "Now, Sam. I want you inside me."

  Sunlight filtered through the curtains, softening the hard edge of his jaw. Pale gold light feathered his shoulders. His gaze burned into hers and he pushed inside slowly, prolonging the agonizing ecstasy for both of them. He filled her, huge and pulsing and hot. This time, their eyes were wide-open, locked on each other.

  She looped her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, and stared into his eyes. He began to move, in slow, sure, measured strokes, and she moved with him, her breath catching at each thrust. Her heart surrendered more completely with each movement.

  The whole time, they held on to each other fiercely, the way they should have from the beginning. It was leisurely and deliberate; not making up for lost time, but promising a chance.

  Her heart swelled and her throat tightened. This was Sam. He was hers—finally, really hers. And it was all right.

  Tears stung her eyes and Sam's turned suspiciously bright. His body pushed into hers, taking her higher, smoothing out the battered edges of her soul, bridging the past with love and surrender and forgiveness.

  On his chiseled features, she read tenderness and a fierce possession. Even if he'd never said it, he loved her. And now he was claiming her, just as she was claiming him.

  The measured movements of his body spurred an urgency in her. Sleek fire licked at her and she clutched him tighter, urging him on. They moved faster, straining together, fighting for the future with feelings they'd finally realized.

  His gaze never left hers. Their hands grasped, twined over her head as she gave herself to him, as he gave himself to her. Binding, promising, cleansing.

  When she climaxed, his name spilled out of her throat in a vow of trust and need and loyalty that made his gut cave.

  "I love you," he panted against her mouth.

  Her heartbeat skipped at the naked emotion in his eyes. Tears burned her throat and she whispered, "I love you, too."

  His mouth covered hers and she felt him let go then. He pumped into her and she arched off the bed, meeting him. And when it was over, she held him close, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  He buried his face in her neck, his breathing ragged, their bodies now misted with sweat. After a long while, he shifted to the side and pulled her against him.

  "Don't go," he mumbled as he fell asleep. "Don't go anywhere."

  She didn't want to, ever again. But as she lay there listening to the steady thump of his heart, she knew there was something she had to do before she could make that promise.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^

  Sam jerked awake suddenly. Bright sunlight streamed through the curtains. As he sat up in bed, he strained to hear a noise, something that would explain the abrupt prickling of his instincts, something strong enough to rouse him out of a sound sleep.

  Then he registered the empty bed, the still silence of the room.

  Panic squeezed like a vise around his chest. Where was Dallas? Even as he slid to the edge of the mattress and scanned the room, he wondered if what they'd shared had been a dream.

  No. He could smell her on the pillow, smell the sultry scent of sex. Where was she?

  He moved off the bed, jerked up one of the towels they'd dropped and wrapped it around his hips, striding out into the hall. "Dallas?"

  There was no answer. The house was completely silent. She wouldn't just leave. She wouldn't do this to him. He knew that.

  Even so, he couldn't halt the fear that she had. He'd told her he loved her, but there was more. How she was the only woman who completed him. Who challenged him to be better. Who anchored him. He should have told her all of that, he thought, as he realized the full impact of what they'd shared.

  Their lovemaking had been profound and right and between them only. There was no more guilt over Brad, just a deep gratitude that he and Dallas had a second chance. Where was she?

  Striding back into the bedroom, he dressed quickly. He glanced at the clock. It was just before noon. Her plane wasn't scheduled to leave until five-thirty. Where could she be? Why hadn't she woken him?

  She'd surrendered completely to him during their lovemaking. Her beautiful eyes had held no shadows of Brad, no ghosts of regret or of the past. Surrounded by the mingled scents of their bodies, he stared down at the rumpled sheets.

  And then he knew where she was.

  * * *

  Dallas set the potted poinsettia next to Brad's headstone and crossed her arms against the cold. She considered the gray granite for a moment, then squinted into the noonday sun. "It's time for me to move on, Brad. I'd like to do it with Sam."

  Of course, there was no answer. But neither was there condemnation. Just a peaceful sense that she'd finally come full circle, finally come home. She knew that Brad, of all people, would be the last to deny her the chance at happiness.

  After making love to Sam, she'd made a decision and she'd already taken steps to follow it through. All that remained was telling him.

  He loved her. He'd admitted that. And while her heart warmed, she was reminded that he hadn't said he was ready to let go of the past.

  She fished Brad's silver dollar out of her pocket and studied the coin in her palm. For a long time, she stood at his grave, feeling that old connection to him, but with a difference this time. It was a bond of love acknowledged and released, one of acceptance.

  In the chill air, she felt a rightness she hadn't felt since her marriage to Brad
. Being with Sam was right. Brad would want her to slough off the past, move toward the future.

  She'd made her decision. How long would she have to wait for Sam to make his?

  She closed a fist over the silver dollar. Pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles, she touched the cold stone that represented her husband. "Bye," she whispered.

  Head bowed against the cold, she returned the silver dollar to her pocket as she walked back to her car. She saw his boots first.

  "I thought I might find you here." Framed by the sun, Sam leaned against her car.

  She hadn't heard him drive up, but she wasn't surprised he'd found her. Her heart swelled.

  "Saying your goodbyes?" His voice was rusty with uncertainty.

  She stepped aside, half turning toward him with a smile and gesturing toward Brad's grave. "Did you want to—"

  "I was here the other night." He jammed his hands into the pockets of his sheepskin coat. "I've come to some kind of peace with him. I don't blame myself anymore, but I might always feel some responsibility, because I'm here and he's not."

  "I understand that."

  He took a deep breath. "I was looking for you. There are some things I should've said—"

  "Me, too."

  Their gazes met, their breath curling like smoke in the chill air.

  At his pause, she blurted out, "I've requested a transfer, Sam."

  For a moment, he simply stared at her. Pain ripped through him. And disbelief. And a raging bitterness that he didn't even try to disguise. "Another one? Where to this time?"

  "Here," she said softly, her gaze searching his.

  "Oklahoma City?" He blinked, taken totally off guard.

  She nodded. "I want to come home. Maybe you're not ready to let go of Brad, but I am. And I want to do it here."

  He cocked his head and his breath whooshed out in surprise. "Are you doing this for me?" he asked roughly. "Or for him?"

  "For me," she said firmly. "I miss it here. And I miss you. I know you said you weren't ready to move on, but I think we're making progress. I'm not running anymore, Sam. And I'll be here when you stop."

  Hope flickered. "That's what I came to tell you. I am ready."