ONE SILENT NIGHT Read online

  Sam nodded, knowing Lieutenant Roberts would be well up on the information involving all three cases.

  Devon returned with more chili and the talk turned to basketball games and family; in particular, Linc and his new wife, Jenna.

  Sam tried to keep his mind on the conversation, but he kept replaying that scene with Dallas at Calhoun's over and over in his mind.

  Then it hit him. That zing of awareness he'd felt upon seeing her at Calhoun's was the same zing he'd experienced at the crime scene.

  His breath jammed in his chest. No! Dallas couldn't have been at the crime scene. Could she?

  Denial surged through him, but he couldn't rule out anything that pertained to her. On the other hand, why would she have been there? It didn't make any sense.

  But neither did her appearing out of nowhere like a ghost after all this time. Now that the haze of shock had passed, he recalled that there hadn't been one iota of surprise in her eyes upon seeing him at Calhoun's—almost as if she'd known he would be there.

  There was no reason at all why she would have been at the crime scene, but Sam couldn't dismiss the growing certainty and apprehension that she had been there, at least for a moment.

  He recalled the tension in his back, that split-second sense he'd had that someone was watching him outside Audrey Hayes's house. Had that someone been Dallas?

  He shoved away from the table, his chair scraping loudly across the floor.

  "Whoa!" Mace looked up, startled.

  Sam glanced at his half-eaten bowl of chili, then at Devon. "I've got to go."

  Devon nodded, though she looked surprised.

  "What gives?" Mace watched him carefully.

  Sam shook his head. "Just a feeling. Doesn't make any sense," he mumbled, brushing a kiss across Devon's dark hair. "Thanks for supper."

  "You're welcome." She frowned up at him. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine." He shot her a reassuring smile as he stepped into the living room.

  Mace rose, coming around the table. "Is it Dallas? Or the murder?"

  Sam shook his head. "If she were really meeting someone from the FTC, why at Calhoun's?"

  "Well, who knows why the marshals do anything the way they do?"

  Sam shrugged in agreement. "Still … I don't know! Something's not right, here." He pulled on his coat and strode for the door.

  His brother followed. "Where exactly are you going?"

  "Back to the crime scene."

  "Why?"

  Sam paused at the door, searching through a jumble of unease and resentment and suspicion. "I don't know. Something feels off. I just want to check it out."

  "Want me to go with you?"

  Sam considered for a minute, then shook his head. "Naw. It's probably nothing."

  Mace's gaze turned steely. "You don't really think Dallas is involved in this?"

  "I don't know. I wouldn't bet she's not. Somehow." His brother stepped onto the porch with him, lowering his voice. What else is going on?"

  "I told you, I just want to check things out." Sam closed his coat against the slicing wind.

  Mace shouldered his way in front of him. "I mean between you and Dallas."

  Sam paused on the middle button of his sheepskin coat. "Nothing. How could there he? She hasn't even been here."

  "Look, you never said, but I know something happened before she left a year and a half ago." Mace leveled his gaze on Sam. "You never talk about her or Brad."

  Sam fought the urge to look away. He'd never told a soul about the night he and Dallas had spent together.

  "Well?" Mace prompted.

  Sam looked out into the night. "I don't want to go there." After a pause, Mace nodded and his hand descended on Sam's shoulder. "All right, but if you need someone—"

  "Yeah, I know." He grinned and walked down the steps. "I'll call you, Dr. Freud."

  "Ha-ha," Mace grumbled behind him, laughter tracing his voice.

  Sam chuckled.

  "Let me know if you find anything at the crime scene!" Mace yelled from the open doorway.

  "All right!" Sam reached his truck, his grin fading.

  As he turned the key and drove off, he tried to dismiss the dread pinching at his gut.

  He told himself Dallas Kittridge had nothing to do with Audrey Hayes. He reminded himself that U.S. Marshals did not catch bad guys; they dealt with the scum once they were sentenced.

  But Sam's instincts continued to scream. For the first time since he'd become a cop, he hoped they were wrong. He hoped he found nothing—and no one—at the crime scene. He especially hoped he didn't find Dallas Kittridge.

  * * *

  Raw emotion boiled through her and Dallas resented it. Just one look at Sam had resurrected that crush of physical need and guilt and anger she'd tried to escape by leaving Oklahoma City in the first place.

  And that apology! Grudgingly she admitted it had sounded sincere, but it was too late, she told herself. Their relationship had been irreparably damaged, and after a year and a half of silence, one charming little speech wasn't going to make it right.

  Resentment and frustration jumbled inside her, bordered with a sly stroke of guilt, edging in, twisting its way through her ambivalence. He'd looked like nine kinds of sin, sounded welcoming and familiar. Even now, a warmth still lingered in her belly, and she hated it.

  She'd moved on. She knew how to handle Sam Garrett. She had to remember that. Not the way his lips on her body burned away every last restraint, not the way that encounter outside Calhoun's had revealed a numbness she'd thought long gone. Not the fact that he was the only man who'd ever gotten to her so fast.

  She needed him to help her with Valeria. That was all. And she wasn't going to let their past—or the maverick reactions her body seemed to have in his presence—get in the way of that. She was here to find a killer, period.

  Dallas fumed all the way back to Valeria's, automatically parking her rented car some distance down the street and moving through the shadows toward the house, avoiding the floodlight. A light rain still fell, misting her face. She flipped up the collar of her black coat and dipped her chin, blending into the night as she slipped up the front walk.

  Why did Sam Garrett have to look so good? Why did she want to curl up next to him, get a piece of that warmth, spark that old laughter? She was crazy, that was why.

  For months, she'd tried to forget that seductive baritone, those blue eyes that could make a woman beg for mercy. One look at him and she was a walking hormone. Tension knotted her right shoulder and she reached up impatiently to rub it.

  Those moments with Sam in the parking lot haunted her, but she reined in her jumbled emotions and focused her mind on the yard as she crossed to the front porch.

  If there had been any footprints, the police would have found them. With the rain and all the earlier activity at the scene, Dallas would have no hope of getting a viable print. Instead she would concentrate on the interior of the house.

  Glancing around to make sure she was unobserved, she slipped under the yellow police tape and approached the front door. She shone her slender penlight along the frame, but could detect no signs of forced entry. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of light and doused her own, backing into the corner with her head bowed.

  Car lights swept across the street and shone on the yard, then disappeared as the car passed. After a few seconds, she stepped off the porch and walked toward the rear of the brick home.

  The marshals operated on a need-to-know basis. As her boss in Denver had so archly reminded her this afternoon before she'd taken some vacation time and hopped a plane to Oklahoma City, Dallas did not have a "need to know."

  She couldn't investigate this case—not officially, anyway. It was not the duty of deputy United States Marshals to investigate murder. Dallas was not in the business of gathering evidence.

  But this was different. Personal. When she'd left Oklahoma City, she'd turned Valeria over to another marshal. The woman might still be
alive if Dallas had stayed. If she hadn't run away from what had happened with Sam.

  She never let herself think, even indirectly, about the day she'd left Oklahoma City. Sam had asked her a question that day and she hadn't been able to answer it. She still couldn't.

  A check of the back door of Valeria's house revealed no sign of forced entry; neither did the windows, which Dallas slowly scanned. Returning to the door, she clicked on her penlight and stuck it between her teeth, aiming the light at the lock. She slid her tension bar and a sheep's-foot pick out of the pocket of her trench coat. Working both picks in unison, she closed her eyes, feeling for the sensitive catch through her fingers.

  The lock gave. She grinned and pushed inside, closing the door quietly behind her. She slid the tools back into her pocket, but kept her gloves on, directing her penlight into the murky light. She was in the kitchen.

  Light-colored tile gleamed on the floor and countertops. A small glass bowl, filled with wrapped cinnamon candies, sat in the middle of the light oak dining table. Dallas scanned the counters, taking in a small, neat stack of cookbooks, an electric can opener and an under-the-cabinet coffeemaker.

  She moved slowly through the room, noting nothing out of order. Stepping into the doorway that led to the living area, she paused, then blackness rippled through the room, parted by the wavering light of the flood lamps outside. Dallas made her way into the room, skirting the couch, which faced the fireplace. She shone her penlight over the carpet and saw a faint indentation in the plush carpet where Valeria's body might have lain.

  Guilt surged through her, hot and vicious. She told herself it wasn't her fault Valeria was dead, but Dallas couldn't shake the sense of responsibility. She shouldn't have bailed out on the woman. Knowing Valeria would never have held Dallas responsible only made the guilt more bitter.

  And Dallas partly blamed Sam. If he hadn't been such a jerk, she might have turned down the transfer and stayed. Taking in the gleaming wood of the mantel, Dallas admitted that was unfair. She had felt suffocated by memories of Brad— And later she'd been devastated by what she and Sam had done—horrified by the emotions she'd felt while making love with him. In truth, she probably would have left even if Sam hadn't turned to another woman.

  Only in the last six months, had the numbness started to wear off. Her house, and Kevin, her next door neighbor, had helped with that. Kevin was fun and easy to be with. They'd dated a few times and he'd helped her lay the new tile in her kitchen.

  Dallas shifted her thoughts back to Valeria. She knew the woman had been strangled—Dallas's boss had told her that much. But that was all she knew. She couldn't contact the marshal who now had Valeria's case because Dallas had been ordered by her boss to stay away from the homicide investigation.

  Wondering if the killer had used a weapon to first subdue Valeria, Dallas checked the floor and walls for signs of bullets or knives, but found no evidence of any. She wondered if the murderer had used something other than his hands to strangle Valeria. Sam would know.

  Tortured by seesawing thoughts of Sam and Valeria, Dallas moved silently through the rest of the house, scanning the walls, the bookcases and finally the kitchen one more time. She clicked off her penlight, slipped it into her pocket and looked around, sighing.

  Drat. She would have to ask Sam what he'd found. Impatient to learn something, anything, about Valeria's case, Dallas considered tracking Sam down tonight, squeezing out of him every scrap of information she could. But she'd had all of Sam Garrett she could handle today. After seeing him at Calhoun's, she knew her emotions were too close to the surface.

  She'd had the advantage at the bar, and she hadn't needed to worry about him showing up here. Tomorrow she'd be fresh and ready to take him on. She hoped. Anyway, she had another stop to make tonight. The cemetery.

  Dallas soundlessly opened the door. And looked straight into the black eye of a gun barrel.

  A masculine voice—unmistakably, irritatingly familiar—ordered, "Police! Freeze!"

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  A pale thread of moonlight limned the gun's barrel. Sam's heart sank even while rage boiled through him.

  Dammit! He'd known she was here. But why?

  He'd almost missed her black sports car, tucked neatly into a pocket of shadows. But he'd seen a small glimmer of light inside the house—so small, so brief, it could have been a trick of his eyes—and he'd known. Which was why he'd left on the safety of his Smith & Wesson.

  He didn't even wonder how she'd gotten in. She could pick any lock, anywhere, usually with the most rudimentary of tools.

  As he stared into her gray eyes, which were at first startled, then relieved, his rage settled into icy fury.

  "Oh, for crying out loud! Put that gun up," she ordered, using a gloved hand to shove the weapon away. Her smoky voice was steady, as if he'd walked in on a back-room poker game instead of her casing a crime scene.

  Sam's blood went from a simmer to a boil. At Calhoun's, she'd acted so damn distant and cool while he'd been torn between kissing her and begging for forgiveness, neither of which he cared about right now. Right now he wanted to throttle her.

  "Up against the wall!"

  "I will not!"

  He stormed into the house, backing her up, kicking the door shut as he moved. A savagery he'd never experienced rose inside him. "Do it!"

  He jammed his .45 into his waistband. In one practiced move, she pushed aside the flap on her coat, went for the Taurus at her hip. Instantly, he snagged her wrist.

  "Uh-uh. Give me the gun."

  "You have no right to take it!"

  "You're trespassing!" He pressed forward, forcing her back, ignoring the heat that pulsed from her like sweet summer rain, her spicy floral scent. "You've probably screwed up all kinds of evidence."

  "Don't give me that. I know Forensics has already swept this place. Even your department can't be that sloppy." Even as she retreated, her gray eyes bored into his. Anger and determination stiffened her body.

  He nudged her chest with his, still keeping a tight grip on her wrist. "Hand over your weapon and get up against the wall."

  Disbelief flared in her eyes. Her gaze clashed with his—measuring, challenging. He tightened his grip on her and they stood in a silent war, each looking for a weakness in the other. In this instance, rage made him stronger and finally he felt her resistance give. She withdrew her Taurus and held it out, murder blazing in her eyes.

  Sam checked the safety, then shoved her gun into the waistband at his back, shifting so that his weight was planted solidly in front of her.

  "Now, the wall," he said softly, torn between wrapping his fingers around her throat and slamming his lips against hers.

  Her chest heaved against his; her breath burned his cheek. And her eyes— There was such fury, such betrayal there, he should have felt ashamed. But he'd felt his own fury, his own betrayal too often since that night a year and a half ago. She got to him in ways no other woman ever had. She knew every button to push and she pushed them mercilessly.

  Their silent standoff seemed to drag on forever, but Sam knew it was only a few seconds.

  "Do it, Kittridge!"

  She glared, making a strangled sound of rage as she backed toward the wall. "I don't know what you think you're doing, you big jerk!"

  "That's Detective Jerk to you." He matched her back steps with forward steps of his own. "Face the wall."

  He could see the debate on her face and when she finally, slowly, turned, he knew she was here because she needed something from him. She wouldn't have backed down otherwise.

  He was suddenly aware of the darkness weaving around them, the spicy tantalizing heat of Dallas, the sense of intimate aloneness. His blood stirred and he fought it, ordering, "Hands up where I can see them."

  "Give me a break," she muttered.

  "Now!"

  She glared over her shoulder and raised her hands to eye level. He snapped on a cuff over her right
wrist, and even as she twisted around with a strangled gasp, he tugged her arm behind her back, forcing her against the wall again. He reached for her left wrist and snapped the second cuff.

  "You son of a—" She bucked against him, her hip knocking into his groin. "Get these things off me!"

  "Not until I get what I want." He ignored the slow burn inching under his skin, the unmistakable shift from anger to arousal.

  "Which is what, Detective Jerk? What do you want?"

  "Why are you here, Dallas? Not just in Oklahoma City, but here, at my crime scene."

  She clamped her mouth shut and looked back at the wall. Clearly, she wasn't about to tell him anything—not voluntarily, anyway. Regardless of what she needed from him.

  The realization stoked Sam's anger higher. "Spread your legs."

  Her head whipped around. "Just a damn minute—"

  "Turn around and do it." He leaned his face right into hers. Hurt glimmered behind the fury in her eyes and she turned away, her lithe body rigid, unyielding.

  "Spread 'em, Dallas," he barked.

  Resistance lashed her body. She stood tall and proud, not one ounce of give in her.

  Laying his forearm across her shoulders, he flattened her against the wall, immobilizing her, then jammed his thigh between her legs and pushed.

  She turned her head, glaring at him. Her breath brushed his cheek. They were so close that if either of them moved, their lips would touch. And he actually thought about it. Then he pressed harder against her shoulders and she faced the wall again.

  Anger and resentment simmered between them and as Sam slid his hands beneath her coat and began to systematically run his hands over her body, desire, hot and edgy, clawed through him.

  He petted her shoulders and down the taut line of her back, pushing away memories of the bare, velvety skin that he had touched so long ago. His hands moved toward her buttocks and his palms itched to cup them.

  As if she'd read his thoughts, Dallas jerked. Fury vibrated in every line of her body.

  "Hold still. I'd hate to add resisting arrest to the trespassing charge."