ONE SILENT NIGHT Page 8

  "I'm comin'," he yelled, reaching the door and popping the dead bolt. He swung the door open and his brothers walked inside.

  Like Sam and their father, Mace had near-black hair and blue eyes, whereas Linc's hair was sandy brown and his eyes were a clear gray like their mom's.

  "What's going on?" Mace, three years older than Sam and about two inches taller, closed the door. "Why aren't you ready?"

  "You were going to meet us for dinner, remember?" Linc, Sam's middle brother and the one who'd chosen medicine over law enforcement, arched his dark brows slightly at the sight of Sam's unbuttoned shirt, his boots tossed around haphazardly, his coat dangling over the recliner. "You okay?"

  "I got in late." Sam moved to stand beside the recliner. "Why didn't you just call me?"

  "We did. No answer." Mace's gaze zeroed in on the tumbler Sam held, then shifted to the half-empty decanter on the coffee table.

  "We figured you probably forgot anyway." Linc grinned. "Or found some excuse to weasel out of the party."

  "Humph."

  Mace strode over and picked up the whiskey decanter. "How long have you been at it?"

  "Not long." Sam bristled. Being so close in age to his brothers, he'd never been able to get anything past them.

  Linc's gray gaze scoured Sam's features. "Hmm, slurred speech, delayed reflexes, red eyes—"

  "I'm not one of your patients." Sam turned away, then swayed.

  Linc chuckled. "Definitely intoxicated. What's going on? Did something happen?"

  "No."

  "Something with the case?" Mace frowned, exchanged a look with Linc. "Is that what you've been doing all day? Working?"

  "Yes."

  "How's Rock?"

  "Still sick," Sam said darkly.

  "What could possibly—Dallas Kittridge." Mace folded his arms. "She rolls into town and one night later, you're hammered."

  "I'm not … hammers." Sam frowned at the glass in his hand. He didn't think he'd had more than one or two drinks. Three, tops. Had he?

  Linc's eyebrows shot up and he eased down onto the arm of the recliner. "What's this about Dallas?"

  "Nothing."

  His middle brother grinned. "How is she?"

  "She's back," Mace said.

  "Shut up," Sam growled.

  "For good?" Linc spoke to Mace as if Sam hadn't made a sound.

  Sam's head started clanging like hail on a metal roof. "I don't see anything good about it," he muttered.

  Mace slapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go, little brother. Mom will have our hides if we miss Greg's party."

  "If she knew there were going to be strippers there, she'd hang us all for going," Sam argued. "I don't want to go."

  "If we have to go, so do you." Linc rose from the recliner, giving Sam a light shove on the back.

  Sam turned, his drink sloshing onto his bare torso. Cursing softly, he swiped at the liquor. "Y'all go without me."

  "Oh, no!" Linc and Mace said together.

  "You have to go," Mace insisted with a grin. "You're the only one who can get the strippers to stay and … do stuff. You do have a way with women, little brother."

  "Yeah, right."

  "Besides," Linc added, "Dallas won't be there. You're safe for a few hours."

  "You're so funny. This doesn't have anythin' to do with her."

  "Oh, really?" Mace shot a look at Linc over Sam's head.

  "She… I did not kiss her."

  "Whoa!" Linc's voice sounded choked.

  Mace chuckled. "Whatever happened, baby brother, you've got to get your clothes on. They're expecting us at Greg's party."

  "I hate happy people. They make me sick."

  "Me, too," Linc muttered, grabbing one of Sam's arms and slinging it over his shoulder.

  Mace rescued the glass tilting from Sam's fingers and grabbed his other arm. "Let's get you sobered up."

  "Don't wanna."

  "Women are hell, aren't they?"

  "No, just her." Sam couldn't make his feet work so his brothers dragged him across the hall to his bedroom.

  "You'll feel better after a cold shower."

  "Not taking one."

  "Oh, yes, you are." Mace and Linc hauled him into the navy-and-white bath off his bedroom. They exchanged looks over Sam's head.

  "I hate it when y'all do that."

  They both chuckled and as they reached the shower stall, Mace turned on the water. "In you go."

  "No!" Sam tried to wrench away from them, but his reflexes were sluggish, his mind fuzzy.

  His brothers shoved him inside and frigid water jetted his face. He howled, catching himself on the opposite wall.

  The water cleared his head—fast. Before his brothers could move, Sam lunged and grabbed them both around the neck. He stumbled back, pulling them with him.

  Mace gripped the shower door and Linc braced himself against the wall. Sam was forced to release them, but not before they'd gotten wet, too.

  They stood crammed into the shower doorway, their crisp long-sleeved shirts drenched, their hair straggling across their foreheads.

  Sam laughed, the deep sound echoing off the shower walls. For a moment, taut silence boomed.

  Then Mace laughed. "You jerk."

  "Brat." Linc wiped water out of his eyes and stepped back, grabbing a towel from a brass bar on the wall.

  Mace reached in and turned off the water. "So, now do you want to tell us what's going on with Dallas?"

  Sam pushed out of the shower stall, unbuttoning his wet Levi's as he squeezed through the door past Linc.

  "When did she get back?" His middle brother followed him, dripping water all over the clean white tile and the taupe carpet.

  "I don't know. I first saw her last night."

  Mace followed them into the room, toweling at his hair. "Was she at your crime scene?"

  Sam gave a terse nod of his head.

  "No kiddin'." Mace peeled out of his wet clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist.

  Linc rubbed at his hair, then unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of the soaked material. "What was she doing there?"

  "Sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong," Sam answered shortly.

  "That would hack me off, too." Mace gathered up their clothes and went down the hall toward the dryer.

  Linc nodded, studying Sam carefully. "That's not really why you're mad, is it, Sam?"

  Mace returned and Sam glared at both his brothers, then turned to pull on a pair of dry jeans. He stood in front of his dresser mirror, combing his hair. A headache throbbed in the back of his skull and his legs felt unsteady. He sank down on the edge of the bed, its headboard made of the same rustic oak as his dresser and nightstand.

  Mace took a cane-back chair in the corner while Linc sat on Sam's bed.

  "So are you going to tell us about Dallas, little brother?" Mace asked.

  Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He'd nearly managed to forget about that kiss and the burning sting of rejection. But he shouldn't let himself forget. He should never forget the pain she'd caused him.

  "Well?" Linc asked quietly.

  Sam fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "She's here because one of her witnesses was killed."

  "That plays into the homicide you're working?" Mace asked.

  Linc smoothed back his wet, towel-tousled hair. "She's working with you?"

  "Not exactly. Not officially, anyway." Sam slanted a glance at Mace.

  His oldest brother held up his hands. "Hey, I'm off duty. I ain't reportin' nothing. I heard nothing."

  "Thanks." Sam sat up, funneling his fingers through his wet hair.

  "How'd you run into her?" Linc draped his towel around his neck.

  "Oh, she found me," Sam drawled.

  "Well, that's good, isn't it? I mean, you guys haven't really talked much since she left, right?"

  "Right," Sam said tightly. He still couldn't confide in his brothers about what had happened between him and Dallas. He surged off the bed and walked into his
closet for a clean shirt.

  Taut silence weighted the air behind him. He knew his brothers wanted to know what was going on, but no way was he telling them about that kiss. Or anything else. "We're working together on this case, then she'll be going back to Denver."

  Linc slid a speculative look at Mace, annoying Sam.

  Mace eyed Sam. "Is that what you want?"

  Dallas's studied lack of response to his kiss had warned Sam to leave things alone. Not let his ego get caught up in trying to prove that her "unaffected" act was just that—an act. He'd been drawn in by her once. He wasn't going there again.

  He thought about the photo stuffed between the cushions of his couch. He thought about the night they'd spent together and how they'd suffered for it ever since.

  "Yeah, that's what I want." But the words sounded unconvincing, even to him. Especially to him.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Seven or eight years had passed since the last time Sam had been through the Atlanta airport. It was larger, but well marked and easy to maneuver. The sun, a fiery gold, dipped low in the sky as he and Dallas boarded their return flight home just after five o'clock. He took the window seat, recalling from the years he'd known her that she vehemently preferred the aisle. A brief flash of relief sketched her features as she sat down and buckled her seat belt. Sam did the same.

  They'd maintained a polite, professional distance all day and Sam was relieved. He'd thought about apologizing for that kiss last night, then decided he wasn't sorry. Besides he saw no reason to bring it up. She certainly wouldn't. He'd lay money on that.

  She'd felt something when he'd kissed her. Anger maybe? Arousal? But not indifference. Whatever it had been, he flatly denied the curiosity that urged him to find out. He refused to be drawn in by her again.

  Still, he couldn't seem to stop looking at her. After watching her handle Petey Luciano, Sam had developed a whole new respect for her. Seeing her in action with the Mob boss had spurred a fascination Sam had never felt for her or any other woman. Her tough edginess during the interview hid the heat and softness he'd seen her display often with Brad. Hell, even with him.

  They sat closer on the plane than he would have liked, but they had no choice. Coach seating was all the department paid for. Dallas's spicy floral scent webbed around him, tickling his nerves. Her knee pressed against his. Their arms touched from shoulder to waist.

  She glanced at him, her mouth lifting in a bemused smile.

  "What's funny?" he asked, leaning close to be heard over the starting rumble of the aircraft.

  She motioned to his sunglasses. "You've had those on all day."

  He snorted, looking out the window. Dusk began to settle in layers of red and golden pink.

  "Looks like someone had a late night."

  He shifted in the cramped quarters, cursing when his ankle hit the metal bar beneath the seat in front of him.

  "Looks like someone probably has a hangover."

  "Looks like someone needs to be quiet," he growled, dipping his right shoulder in search of a more comfortable position.

  She chuckled. The whining roar of the jet increased, then leveled as the engines drowned out the words she muttered.

  He winced as the noise merged with the dull throbbing behind his ears. He did indeed have a hangover—he'd had it before he'd gone to Greg's bachelor party—but he wasn't admitting it to Dallas.

  Folding his arms across his chest, he tried to find a comfortable position. Crammed into the seat like a pop-up toy, he would have a crick in his neck in the two and a half hours it took to reach Oklahoma City. He had no hope of getting rid of this nagging headache. Or the taunting awareness of the woman next to him.

  They hadn't spoken much today and when they had, their conversation had remained restricted to the case. Sam had gotten her message last night about meeting him at the airport and had been relieved. After that stupid stunt he'd pulled in the truck, he had no desire to be seated within feet of her. Of course, space on the plane was even more limited, but at least they weren't alone.

  Dressing for their trip, he'd worn his camel-hair jacket, white shirt and navy slacks with dress shoes. His navy tie was patterned with a camel-and-burgundy geometric design. Dallas wore plum pants with a thigh-skimming plum jacket, and Sam tried not to notice how the deep purple color warmed her eyes to silver, gave her hair the luster of a newly minted coin.

  She glanced at him, then out the window. A flush crept up her neck and he knew she was aware of his regard. She pulled a magazine out of the pocket in front of her and flipped it open. Sam's gaze shifted to the rapid tap-tap of her pulse in the hollow of her throat.

  Work. That was where he needed to keep his focus. "You did a good job with Luciano today."

  "Thanks."

  She kept her nose buried in the magazine, but her easy reply took him aback. It reminded him of the way things used to be between them—uncomplicated, friendly. It made him wish fiercely that Brad were the one sitting next to him. He would give up every forbidden moment with Dallas to have Brad back. Especially when she'd never wanted Sam in the first place.

  He scrubbed hard at his face. "What do you think? Did Luciano have anything to do with Valeria's killing?"

  "No."

  Sam replayed the moment when Dallas had bluntly accused Petey Luciano of his wife's murder. The guy had stood eye to eye with Dallas, but he was built like a bull, twice as wide, twice as heavy as she was.

  The middle-aged man had moved faster than Sam would have thought possible, but Dallas was ready. She had his arm twisted behind him and his face pressed into the wall before he could lay a hand on her. "Now tell me, Petey," she'd said.

  The man had denied any involvement, and once he'd settled back into his chair, had given them some background on his wife.

  Sam grinned at the memory of Dallas strong-arming the guy. "Yeah, Petey wasn't in on it. I agree."

  "You do?" The surprise in her voice brought his gaze to her.

  Their heads nearly touched and Dallas's hair brushed his cheek. The scent of flesh-warmed perfume had his throat tightening. They kept their voices low, which created a false sense of intimacy on the roaring jet.

  Sam swallowed past a painful lump and nodded. "Because you'd already pegged Valeria as part of the serial murders?"

  "Not only that." He shrugged. "Your instincts are right about him. Petey was furious that Valeria turned evidence on him, but I think he was pretty torn up that she was dead. You never really believed he had her taken out, did you?"

  "It was a definite possibility at first." Dallas pushed her blond hair out of her face, away from Sam's cheek. "Now, I think she was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  Her eyes glowed with that excitement again, the thrill of solving a case. He felt it himself every time, but now he found himself wondering what it would be like if she looked at him that way.

  "Our tie between all these women is the dancing. And the bars."

  "Country-western bars," Sam reminded.

  "Right."

  Sam figured Dallas would have shared that information if she'd traveled to Atlanta by herself. It was what she wouldn't have told him—what he'd witnessed with his own eyes—that made him doubly glad he'd come.

  "Now we have to find this creep who's seen them all."

  "And we have to do it pretty darn fast." Four women were, dead. Sam didn't want there to be five.

  If he hadn't come to Atlanta with Dallas, he wouldn't have seen this whole new side of her. She'd been steel ballet in motion. She'd seemed to know exactly when to back off and when to go to the wall with Luciano.

  He'd known she was tough-minded, cool under pressure, but actually seeing her in action was different. It had impressed him, intrigued him. Aroused him.

  He shook off the low throb of need that had drummed through his body since he'd seen her dismantle Luciano like a bad engine. She had spine and spunk and she was sexy as hell.

  Annoyed
with himself, he forced his mind to what they'd learned from the mobster and he realized he trusted her feelings about the man. "Brad always said you had key instincts about people. After seeing you in action, I'd have to agree."

  Her smile seemed forced. "Thanks."

  His mention of Brad spiked the air with tension, and the past spiraled in. He saw agony flit through her eyes, then she fixed her gaze intently on the ragged seat back in front of her.

  She massaged her shoulder. "It's sad, isn't it?"

  "What?"

  "That Valeria lived in a loveless marriage. I guess a lot of women do. I was lucky."

  He barely caught that last. She turned her head away and her words were swallowed up by the roar of the engines. But he did catch it. Even though pain and regret sheared through him, Sam said what he wanted, what he needed to: "Brad loved you very much. The two of you had a good marriage."

  "We did." Her voice was tight, hoarse. "And then I—" He heard the guilt creep in, saw the shame burn in her cheeks. All because of him, because of what they'd done. And if Sam hadn't been responsible for getting Brad killed, he and Dallas would never have spent the night together at all. It made him sick to his stomach. Sam hauled in a breath, bile rising in his throat. "He was lucky to have you."

  She turned her head, her eyes searching, uncertain.

  Uncomfortable with the need for reassurance in her eyes, Sam shrugged and forced a smile. "He said it often enough."

  "He felt that way about you, too. You were a good friend."

  Sam clenched his jaw and turned to stare out the window. He felt her lean over, felt the weight of her breast through his jacket sleeve and desire axed his middle. His face tightened, grew hot. Sweat broke out on his nape.

  "That's why he would hate that you hold yourself responsible for what happened."

  "Dallas—"

  "I know you'd like me to shut up so you can go on punishing yourself, but Brad wouldn't. And he wouldn't want you to blame yourself, either."

  "And you?"

  "I already told you—"

  "Are you saying you haven't once wished I'd been the one who died instead of him?" His mouth went dry; his throat hurt as if he'd swallowed broken glass. This was what he really wanted to know, what had haunted him since the day Brad had died. It was enough that he wished he'd been the one to take that bullet, but if Dallas thought the same thing—