ONE SILENT NIGHT Read online

  She muttered a strangled curse.

  He continued on down, forcing himself to concentrate on finding another weapon, though he knew he wouldn't. If he were honest, he'd admit this search was his revenge on her for showing up here, for coming back into his life. And for leaving in the first place. It—she—reminded him of everything between them; of how he'd been useful only as a substitute for Brad, of how she'd cut him to the core.

  A breath shuddered out of her. "Sam, this has gone on long enough."

  She was right. It had. But he couldn't stop his hand from gliding down the inside of her jeans-clad thigh. He moved quickly and still, heat licked through him in a slow torturous stroke. He grew hard and stepped back, irritated that he'd let his emotions rule him. "Now tell me what you're doing here."

  "You can go to hell."

  "I've already been there," he said hoarsely, thinking of all the times he'd replayed that night in his head.

  She spun, her gaze frigid. "Take these cuffs off!"

  He folded his arms across his chest. "Not until I get what I want."

  "What is that, Detective?" she taunted roughly. "You've got me cuffed. Wanna play a little sex game with me? You be the big bad cop and I'll be the weak prisoner?"

  She infuriated him. It took all his willpower, but he eased down calmly onto the edge of the table. He let his gaze deliberately rake her body. "There's nothing weak about you, doll."

  Her jaw tightened so fast and hard he thought it would snap. "Uncuff me."

  "Why are you trespassing here? Murders aren't your jurisdiction."

  "At the moment, I'm a civilian and I can do what I want."

  "That doesn't include breaking and entering."

  "I was curious, so I decided to look around."

  "A civilian can't 'look around' a murder scene," Sam countered drolly.

  She pursed her lips and studied him.

  He sighed, weariness fingering through him. "What are you doing here, Dallas?"

  "I'd leave if you'd let me out of these bracelets."

  "I know you want something, but what? Why here? Why Audrey Hayes?"

  If Sam hadn't known Dallas so well, he might have missed the flicker of pain on her features. And the … guilt? Had that been guilt? His gut tickled. "You knew her, didn't you?"

  Dallas stared straight at him, her wide gray eyes revealing nothing, her compelling features blank.

  Sam straightened, realization spinning through him. "She was one of your witnesses!"

  Still she said nothing. Just stared at him as if he were the slime she dealt with every day in her job.

  Even if Audrey Hayes had been one of Dallas's protected witnesses, it didn't explain why she was snooping around a crime scene.

  He relaxed on the edge of the table. If Dallas wanted to stay here all night, it was fine by him. "You must like those cuffs."

  "All right!" she exploded. "I … knew her."

  "You knew her? As in, she was a friend? Or one of your witnesses?"

  "A friend."

  Though she didn't hesitate, Sam remembered the earlier guilt that had crossed her face. He gave a rueful smile. "You're lying. I could charge you with interfering."

  "That's crap!" She angled her chin at him. "I haven't done anything to hinder your process here."

  He shrugged. "Let's see… Trespassing, resisting, interfering. Those charges'll keep you in jail for a while."

  "You—" She sighed and her shoulders sagged slightly. "Yes, she was one of my witnesses."

  "I don't get it. Why would you want to investigate her murder?"

  "I told you, she's a friend—"

  "You have no jurisdiction in a murder case, Dallas. We both know it."

  "Will you take these cuffs off now?"

  "Answer my question."

  "What are you doing out of Vice anyway?" Resentment darkened her clean features. Turning her back to him, she raised her cuffed hands. "I'm not here officially."

  "Meaning your warrant supervisor in Denver doesn't know what you're doing."

  "How did you know I was in Denver?"

  "Don't change the subject." He hadn't moved and to be honest, he enjoyed the sight of her trim back facing him, the metal cuffs shining in the dim light. "Start talking or I make a call to my lieutenant—and your boss."

  "I put her here." Her voice sliced through the room like the prick of a sharp wind. "I made sure she was safe, then I ran out on her."

  "Ran out on her? What are you talking about—" Sam stopped, comprehension knotting his gut. "You mean when you left Oklahoma City for Denver?"

  She gave a jerky nod.

  Sam knew Dallas's strong sense of responsibility—her dedication to her job—and he could see that she held herself liable for this woman's death. He pushed away from the table, stepped toward her and smoothly unlocked the cuffs.

  She faced him, her gray eyes glittering in the dim light.

  "How can you blame yourself?"

  She winced, so slightly he would have discounted it, had it been anyone else. For a long moment, she stared at him, holding the cuffs in one hand, nudging the hem of her glove down to massage her wrist with the other.

  Then she said in a low rusty voice, "I should have been here for her."

  If there was one thing Sam understood, it was guilt. It didn't have to be logical; oftentimes it wasn't. It sawed at your gut relentlessly, tediously, until you wore it like a scar.

  Dallas had left Oklahoma City because of guilt. And Sam had pushed her away because of the guilt he'd felt over finally having her, after having wanted her for so long.

  Yes, he knew guilt all too well. He said gently, "I know your boss couldn't have approved this."

  Her features were still sharp with wariness. "I'm taking personal time."

  Sam snorted. "Like he bought that. Come on, what did you tell him?"

  Her gaze sliced to him and she said testily, "That I was going hunting."

  "Which is the absolute truth," Sam muttered, feeling an involuntary surge of admiration—and that old awareness. Annoyed by the gathering heat in his body, he added roughly, "I don't imagine you found much here."

  "I didn't." She moved toward him—only a step, but closing the distance enough that he could smell rain and leather and that exotic scent she brandished like a weapon. The cuffs jangled in the stillness.

  He watched her carefully, his senses prickling with a mix of anticipation and apprehension as she eyed him the way a hawk would a mouse.

  "What did you find, Sam? Anything?"

  He grinned. "You know I'm not at liberty to discuss that."

  "You can tell me."

  Sam tried to ignore the frisson of sensation that hummed up his spine, the tingle in his blood as she inched closer. "Civilians can't expect information like that from the police department."

  "I'm not a civilian. I'm law enforcement. I need your help, Sam."

  The wariness in her voice was gone. Instead, that velveteen voice was soft with sincerity, deep with a plea. Something he knew she would never do on her own behalf.

  He shook his head. "You know I can't tell you anything. You of all people should understand the need-to-know rule."

  Her face didn't change; her gaze locked with his, revealing an urgency he found hard to dismiss. "You're my only hope down here, Sam. If I go to your lieutenant, I won't get anything."

  "That's right." He still sat on the edge of the table, but his body was tensed as if braced for a blow. He weighed the pleasure of working this case with her against the anguish that same pleasure would cause. "Your hunting trip's over. Go back to Colorado," he said bluntly. "When we get something, I'll let you know."

  "I can't. I'm going to find the person who did this and you're going to help me."

  "Dallas—"

  He rose, but she stepped in front of him, forcing him to sit back on the table. Her coat brushed his jeans-clad thigh, sending a spark of heat to his belly. She didn't touch him, but her spice-scented heat wrapped around him, shocking ner
ve endings that already vibrated raw from her presence.

  Very lightly, she laid the cuffs beside him on the table. The sleeve of her coat brushed his leg and he stiffened. He stared straight ahead, willing her to move away.

  She didn't. Her gaze fastened on his face, and against his better judgment, he looked at her.

  Her features were too strong to be called beautiful, but they were certainly compelling. Her short blond hair set off to perfection the angles of her face—the strong jaw, the prominent cheekbones, the stubborn chin. Her eyes could be soft, but when they weren't, they defined her as shrewd and streetwise.

  Now her voice was misty with memories. "Brad always said you were the best cop on the force. He said no one had instincts like yours."

  The air whooshed right out of him. He couldn't believe what she was doing.

  "Brad said you were the only one he would ever want to help him out. I agree."

  Regret and resentment clashed. Sam surged off the table and pushed past her, putting some distance between him and her damn taunting scent. "You've got some nerve trying to guilt me into helping you."

  She turned toward him. "What I said was true."

  "What you said was emotional blackmail."

  "Which you used yourself, not two hours ago." Her gaze met his, unflinching yet somehow vulnerable. She glided toward him in one long stride and leaned in until her breath brushed his ear. "You owe me, Sam. And you know it."

  "Damn!" He grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back, bringing her up against him. Full breasts pressed into his chest and her thigh burned against his. His gaze dropped to her lips. For one brief, hellacious instant, he thought about kissing her. No, it would be like poison to his soul. "You are one cold piece of work, Dallas Kittridge."

  "I ran out on my witness and someone killed her. If I'd been here, that might not have happened. But I left and she's dead, and I'm going to find out who killed her. If you were in my place, you'd do the same thing." She stared straight into his eyes, her own dark with fervor, desperation.

  Sam's chest heaved with anger. A perverse desire overwhelmed him to throw her on the kitchen table and rip off her clothes. But sex wasn't anywhere close to what she was thinking. He could tell by the savage intensity in her eyes, the way her breath stilled in her body as she waited, focused and rigid, gauging her next move.

  How could he work with her and not be tortured by it?

  Yet, how could he deny her? He did owe her, but no more than she owed him. He knew she wasn't asking for his help out of any desire to be close to him, but only because she had to.

  Rock had the flu, as did a lot of the department. Sam could use the help. But he didn't know if he could survive being this close to Dallas. "Why would you want to work together? You've made it pretty clear what you think about me."

  "I told you, you owe me. And I don't have a choice."

  "You don't even trust me."

  "I trust you'll find this killer. That's all that matters right now."

  "If we're going to be partners—"

  "We're not. We're just working this case together." He studied her for a moment, looking for a crack in her unflinching facade.

  "If you really meant that pretty apology back at Calhoun's—"

  "I did," he growled.

  "Then help me."

  Sam relinquished his hold on her and stepped back. Doubt and foreboding churned in his gut. He did owe her, but would he have to pay the price with his soul?

  He'd finally managed to live with what she'd done to him—as well as what he'd done in return—and now she was here, stirring up all the sludge he'd buried for so long.

  "Well?" Her gaze never wavered, though he could sense how much this meant to her. "Do you pay up or not?"

  "All right. Let's get started." He stuck out his hand.

  The gray depths of her eyes turned cool and unreadable. She glanced at his hand, then moved in a lightning-quick motion to pluck her Taurus from the small of his back.

  "Lead the way, Garrett. We've got work to do."

  He dropped his hand, his lips twisting ruefully.

  She opened the door and stepped outside. He grabbed up his cuffs and followed in the wake of her rain-misted scent, eyeing the silvery shimmer of her hair and the gentle sway of her hips.

  Tearing his gaze away, he set his jaw against the old desire that tickled his belly. He'd opened himself up to her once before and he wasn't going to make that mistake again.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. "What have you got?"

  "I'll tell you on the way back to Calhoun's." Sam closed the door behind him and caught up with her on the steps.

  "Ah, yes. The other bartender whose shift starts at eleven."

  His gaze sliced to hers. "I knew you were there. I felt it."

  "But you didn't see me until I wanted you to," she said smugly.

  "No." A reluctant smile twisted his lips. "Not until then." They walked down the steps and rounded the corner of the house. Sam glanced at her. "So, you think you can trust me to watch your back?"

  "I do."

  "And that's all?"

  "That's all there is. We'll be working together, Sam. Nothing else. If you've got anything else in mind, you can forget it."

  She strode off and he stared after her, common sense battling with the gathering heat in his body. He refused to acknowledge that the heat was due to anything other than frustration and resentment. She'd moved on. So had he. And he wasn't going back.

  * * *

  She'd gotten what she wanted. Sam was going to help her. Not because she wanted it that way, she told herself, but because he was the only one who could. Her skin still burned from his touch, and sensation still skittered along her nerves from the confrontation at the crime scene.

  Dallas shoved her car into gear and blitzed onto the highway behind Sam, following him to Calhoun's.

  Back there in Valeria's kitchen—Dallas couldn't think of her as Audrey Hayes—Sam's hands had gone from efficiently indifferent to blisteringly personal. Dallas had been infuriated by his macho police tactics, but what had driven her crazy was how her body had melted like heated silver when his hand slid between her thighs.

  The change in him had been subtle, almost imperceptible, but she'd felt it. His touch had gentled, turned … knowing. She'd felt it through her jeans, in the cartwheel of her pulse. An old need had answered with a low tug in her belly.

  As much as she resented her body's response to him, Dallas told herself it was only because Sam had surprised her. First at the door with his gun, then with that rare display of rage. Mr. Easygoing had shown a temper she'd never seen in the six years she'd known him.

  He waited for her outside the bar as she eased into a parking space opposite his and crossed the wet pavement to the door. She shoved her fingers through her short damp hair as she joined him.

  They both reached for the door at the same time, but Sam beat her, swinging it wide so they could go inside. She preceded him into the smoky interior, where the loud throb of a local band called Foggy Creek overwhelmed the large room.

  The song, unfamiliar to Dallas, had a compelling beat—low and insistent—that wound through her, kicking up her pulse. She and Sam made their way to the bar, edging around to the end. When the bartender saw Sam, recognition swept the man's features and he acknowledged Sam with a bob of his head.

  As they waited for the bartender to reach them, Sam shrugged out of his sheepskin coat and laid it on a stool beside him. Dallas didn't miss the bunching of muscles beneath the worn denim of his shirt. Immediately she was ambushed by memories of touching those bare, broad shoulders, feeling the power roll through his body as he moved over her—

  Slamming the door on those thoughts, she grabbed a handful of peanuts and crammed them into her mouth.

  Sam sank down onto a barstool and drummed his long, lean fingers on the scratched wood.

  Dallas remained standing, her back to the bar as she scanned the huge room, now crowded with peopl
e moving around the scuffed dance floor. The scents of perfume and liquor twined with body heat and smoke. Beneath it all she could smell the rain-spritzed woodsy scent—sultry with an edge—that belonged to Sam.

  She could tell by his rigid posture that he was still good and mad. He was also different now. More guarded, reserved. But only with her, it appeared. She glanced over, saw him flash that careless flirty grin at a couple of waitresses who winked at him. She pursed her lips.

  His gaze met hers briefly, then wandered down the line of her black duster. She shifted and directed her gaze back to the people in the bar, but she was all too conscious of Sam.

  He was leaner. Harder. She'd noticed that in his eyes earlier tonight, but now she could see it in his other features—the grim line of lips that were saved from being too full by the unforgiving squareness of his jaw and chin, his long straight nose. Even the laugh lines that bracketed his mouth seemed deeper, more serious.

  He turned as the bartender walked up. Theo's overdeveloped upper torso identified him as a bodybuilder. His facial features were as hard and set as the weights he lifted. Steroid-induced shoulders and arms strained at the seams of a skintight black T-shirt.

  The bald man held out a hand. "Detective Garrett, isn't it?"

  Sam shook the man's hand, nodding.

  Theo planted his beefy hands on the bar, emphasizing thick forearms more suited to a world heavyweight wrestler. "Have you found that lady's killer yet?"

  "Not yet, but I'd like to show you another picture."

  Dallas frowned. Sam had been here about another murdered woman? She turned, her gaze assessing the bartender.

  The man sized her up quickly and a gleam of admiration lit his eyes, but he dipped his head respectfully. "Can I get something for you, ma'am?"

  "Vodka tonic," Sam interjected.

  Dallas arched a brow, annoyed that he acted as if nothing had changed, as if that night a year and a half ago hadn't changed everything. "Actually, make that a club soda with a twist of lime."

  The bartender grinned. "Coming right up." Theo turned to Sam. "Same for you?"

  "No, I'll have a beer. Whatever's on tap."

  The man nodded and moved off down the bar to get their drinks.

  Sam glanced up at Dallas. "You changed your drink?"