The Trouble with Temptation (11 page)

The whole thing was a fucking mess. Grumbling under his breath, he tried to clear up the chaos of his brain.

“Sir?”

Deatrick cocked a straight brow up, a puzzled look on his thin, aesthetic face. Deatrick looked like he belonged behind a podium, teaching in-depth lectures on chemistry or physics—or maybe in a robe, with a wand in hand. He looked … scholarly, with his narrow face and big dark eyes set under those slashing brows. He was tall and thin and the man had been born a cop.

Now he was back in McKay’s Treasure and he had the case of a lifetime on his hands.

It was, Gideon knew, the kind of puzzle that would keep a cop like Deatrick working and working until he’d solved it.

Gideon understood that because he was the same way.

But the case was getting more complicated by the minute and they barely had the manpower to take care of the small town as it was. Now they had a murder to solve and the list of suspects was getting longer and longer.

“It’s a mess,” he said, clarifying his thoughts for Deatrick. “I realize that Shayla didn’t go and get herself murdered to complicate my life, but she went and complicated it nonetheless.”

A sardonic smile lit Deatrick’s dark face. “I’m sure that will give her soul some pause, chief.”

Gideon snorted. Then he looked up at the clock. “We’re going to have to call it a night.”

Deatrick frowned, but nodded. They’d already decided they were going to have to keep this between themselves for as long as they could, although realistically, they were probably at the point now to where they’d be bringing in at least one or two others soon.

People knew something was going on. Specifics? Nah, they didn’t have those, but while Treasure had its share of idiots, most of the people in town weren’t stupid and they had put two and two together.

Something wasn’t right.

That Gideon and Deatrick had kept things quiet as long as they had was saying something.

But people were getting restless, curious
and
scared and once that happened, it would be harder—and more dangerous—to hide shit.

“I heard Hannah Parker’s name go out on the radio.” Deatrick eyed him across the table.

Gideon grimaced. Reason
numero uno
why he was calling it quits. He had to check on her, check with his officer, check on … hell, every damn thing that could possibly be related to Hannah Parker.

Out of habit, he looked out his window, able to see the front of Treasure Island and nearby, the front of Brannon McKay’s loft. Across the street, but out of his sight, was Hannah’s place. She’d been discharged that morning and although it had burned his gut, he’d been forced to let her leave the hospital.

Her cousin had taken the day off and Gideon knew for a fact that Griffin had been watching her throughout the day. At least when Brannon wasn’t with her.

But night was rolling around and she’d be alone soon. Unless she gave into Griffin nagging her. That could go either way, Gideon knew, because the Parkers were stubborn people.

Aware that Deatrick was still watching him, he nodded. “It was handled, but apparently she butted heads with that asshole Hansen again.” He blew out a breath and studied his notes. “We need to figure out where he was the night Hannah wrecked.”

“You think he might have had something to do with it?” Deatrick’s lip curled. “That boy doesn’t have the brains God gave a goat.”

“Oh, I’m aware. But we don’t get the job done unless we investigate everything.” He took his time and looked around the quiet station. The small town of McKay’s Treasure didn’t need a heavy police force and nights were almost always peaceful. Weekends changed things up some and summers changed it up even more.

But nothing felt peaceful right now and Gideon had already advised all of his officers that if anything felt unusual, if anything was out of the ordinary, nobody was to wait—he was to be called
immediately
. He wished he had it in the budget to hire some more people. Even one more person, but that wasn’t going to happen.

“But you think Doc Briscoe’s idea … you’re thinking it’s maybe on the money.” Deatrick watched him narrowly.

“I’m thinking that there’s too much we don’t know.” He looked up then and met the younger cop’s eyes. “Now you and I both know what we’re looking at here—Shayla Hardee was just plain stupid and that likely led to her death. I can only hope we can find who it was that did her. But…” The grim reality of the past few weeks set in and it showed in his voice, showed on his face and in his eyes. “You saw her body. So did I. What he did was cold. Whoever did that is a thinker. He didn’t let emotion get in the way and he didn’t hurry. He had a job to do and he did it.”

Gideon riffled through his files and found the list of Shayla Hardee’s personal effects. Clothes, make-up, jewelry. No phone. No camera. “Then he cleaned up. Most of the video was shot on a fairly recent Sony model. I’m going to reach out to the state, see if they can’t narrow it down more for me.” So far, they hadn’t been able to locate the camera. Her husband had told them they’d bought one a couple of years ago, right before an anniversary trip, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it. And it was a Sony.

That camera wasn’t in the house.

It hadn’t been in her car.

It hadn’t been found during the search.

“It wasn’t her husband. We’ve already ruled him out and we’ve got no leads. So we’re dealing with somebody cool enough, collected enough,
cold
enough to kill a woman and then clean up and leave next to no evidence behind. There were a few fibers on her body, but they were cotton. There was no DNA, nothing to actually tie our killer to our vic. Cold. Smart.”

“Not her husband, that’s for damn sure,” Deatrick muttered. Roger Hardee had been a fucking mess ever since his wife’s death. Usually the husband—spouse—was the most likely suspect, but they hadn’t had to look at him long to know he wasn’t the man they were looking for, even aside from the alibi he’d provided.

“Roger can’t clean his own ass without help,” Gideon said, aggravation chewing at him. Again, he looked out the window, to the apartment he couldn’t see.

“You think our perp might be waiting to do that now—clean up again?”

Gideon lifted a shoulder. “I don’t want to take that chance.”

They both shared another quiet look.

*   *   *

People had come throughout the course of the day.

Most of them had since gone, although she’d had to all but throw a few of her visitors out the door.

It was down to two now, her cousin Griffin and Brannon. She could almost have forgotten Brannon. Okay, well maybe
forgotten
wasn’t the right word, but he wasn’t a harsh, abrasive rub against her senses the way everybody else was right now.

Including her cousin.

If Griffin didn’t leave soon, she thought she just might rip her hair out. Although she suspected she’d feel better if she ripped out
his
.

“I’m tired,” she announced to the room in general.

Neither of the men said much of anything.

She started to beat out a tattoo on the arm of her chair, staring at the screen of the television without really seeing anything. As the beat of her fingers got harder and louder, she could feel their attention shift her way, linger, then move away. Every few minutes, their gazes would return.

Finally, she shot a look at Griffin and tried again. “I am
tired
.”

“You can go to bed, honey.” He smiled at her.

That made her feel bad—and
that
pissed her off.

“I’ll lock up for you,” Griffin said. He shoved upright and gave Brannon a smile that would have looked more at home on a caged hyena—teeth all bared and his hackles raised.

Man, these two didn’t like each other.

“You have a good night now, Brannon.” Griffin made a show of being overly polite with the words. Southern women weren’t the
only
ones who knew how to kill with kindness.

“Brannon doesn’t have to go,” Hannah said, the words escaping her before she knew what she was going to say.

Griffin whipped his head around, staring at her.

Brannon was surprised, too, but she barely noticed that.

She stared at her cousin for a long moment and then looked down at her feet. Sometime earlier in the day, Brannon had painted her toenails. Brannon McKay had painted her toenails, all because she’d said she couldn’t remember if she’d liked pedicures and he’d told her he knew she did. Then he’d painted her toenails a bright, cherry red.

The sight of the cheerful color now made a knot settle in her throat and she looked at her cousin. “I need him to stay. We…” There was hurt in Griffin’s eyes. She hadn’t meant to do that. She didn’t want to hurt anybody, but most especially him. Although her memories were still vague, somehow she knew the two of them had been there for each other when nobody else had been.

“You two really did decide to try and work things out, didn’t you?” Griffin said. He looked over at Brannon.

Brannon jerked a shoulder in a shrug. “She’s stuck up in my head all the time. I couldn’t keep fighting it.”

His eyes strayed to Hannah’s and lingered and she felt her heart skip a few beats in that moment.

“Hell. That’s romantic,” Griffin said. Then he blew out a breath. His eyes narrowed on Brannon and he studied the other man for a long moment.

When he held out a hand, Hannah felt something in her chest knot up.

Watching the two men make some move toward friendship had her feeling all stupid and sappy and weepy.

She was going to claim pregnancy hormones.

She was right at one month.

She could do that, right?

It took just a few more minutes for them to be alone and Hannah found herself more self-conscious than she could ever remember feeling. Of course, there was still plenty she didn’t remember, so that wasn’t saying much. Still, as Brannon finished locking up the door, she busied herself in the kitchen with stupid little things that didn’t need doing—like washing her hands, again, and wiping down a counter that didn’t need to be wiped down.

Her head was a muzzy, hazy mess and her body ached with fatigue. She was worn out.

Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that she was still struggling to recover from the crash, the coma … coming to grips with the baby, the amnesia. All of the above.

The reality of it all crashed into her and she turned, leaning back against the counter. Covering her belly with her hands, she lifted her gaze to Brannon’s and just stared at him.

“I don’t even know what’s going on with my life right now,” she said bluntly. “My head is spinning so fast, I don’t know what to make of anything.”

He came to her.

She held still as he cupped her face in his long-fingered hands.

His touch made her want to shiver.

His touch made her want to sigh.

Then he brushed his lips across her forehead and she wanted to curl herself around him, cling tight and never, ever let him go.

“Six days ago, you were in a coma. A few weeks ago, you were in a wreck that could have killed you. I think you just need to tell your head to slow down so the rest of you can catch up.”

She laughed and the half-manic edge in it had her cringing. “You think that will work?”

Instead of answering, Brannon brought her in closer. “Just slow down,” he murmured against her brow. “Let yourself catch up.”

“I think…” She held onto his waist. “I’ll just stay right here.”

“That sounds good.”

*   *   *

Brannon closed his eyes and rested his head against the soft silk of her hair.

She relaxed against him and he was able to push the guilt away. She wanted him there. She’d said as much.

She seemed less … haunted.

Yeah.

That word fit.

She’d hidden it well, but during the day, as people came and went, she had been tense and on edge. But now, as the quiet wrapped around the two of them, that tension began to drain away. Smoothing a hand up and down her back, he closed his eyes and turned his face into the softness of her hair.

How had he thought he didn’t want this?

He must have been crazy. Or stupid. Both.

Her lips brushed against his neck as she sighed and it sent a rush of heat through him, but he shoved it down. He thought maybe he’d ask her if she wanted him to spend the night. On the couch, that was all. But she might feel better if he was there, right? Yeah, maybe—

Her lips brushed against his neck again and he couldn’t stop the low, unsteady breath that escaped him.

Hannah eased away, looking at him from under her lashes.

Her tongue slid out, wet her lips and he had to clench his jaw, remind himself of just how fragile she was right now—not just physically, either. He could still see fading bruises on her face, the fading pink marks on her hands from where she’d been cut when the car wrecked.

It got so much harder to remember that when she reached up and touched his mouth.

“I know we’ve kissed,” she said, her voice low and husky. “Sometimes, I almost think I remember it. But then it’s gone. And it’s driving me crazy.”

“Hannah…”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, lingered there a moment, and then she looked back at him.

Her eyes were huge and dark, a heat burning there that threatened to consume him—and damn if he’d mind.

“I want that memory back, Brannon. I want to know how you taste, how your mouth feels on mine. Will you kiss me?”

Well, hell. It would take a stronger man than him to walk away from that.

Cupping her face in his hands, he arched her head back. Their first kiss had been a mix of fury and frustrated passion. This one wouldn’t be like that. He’d kiss her the way he should have kissed her to begin with.

Slowly, he lowered his head, brushing his mouth against hers, once, twice.

Her lips parted on a sigh.

But he didn’t take that offering just yet.

Instead, he caught her lower lip between his and sucked lightly, listening as her breathing hitched. Her hands came up to grasp his waist and he moved in closer, letting his body rest against the powerhouse curves of hers.