My Killer Vacation

I’m not interested in anything else.

Doing my best to put the green-eyed menace out of my mind, I kick open the door to the house and stomp inside. The scent of decay lingers in the air, but not strong enough to require a face covering. Nice place. Not the kind of rental that would put a person on guard against peepholes or hidden cameras. First, I head to the laundry room, camera app at the ready. Blood spatter on the wall indicates the victim was shot in this location, as does the black pool of bodily substances on the ground. Perp would have likely entered through the back door of the house, so I go there next. Lock is intact, not broken, but that doesn’t mean anything. It could have been unlocked at the time of the murder. No breaking and entering required.

I make my way upstairs to the master bedroom, and irritatingly, I find myself wondering if I’m looking at the bed where she planned to sleep. Damn thing would have swallowed her up. Now if I was sleeping in it with her…

A pulse travels through my dick at the thought of it. Us in bed together. She’d have to ride me, though. I couldn’t just get on top and go for broke. Not with our size difference. I’m not gentle in bed and she’d…she’d need that. Tenderness. Wouldn’t she?

“She’s sure as shit not getting it from you,” I mutter, scrubbing at the back of my neck, unable to find the itch that’s plaguing me. I’m probably just unsettled because there is a piece of evidence I should have at my disposal and someone has stolen it. Right out from under the noses of the cops, too.

Huh.

She might come across innocent, but she’s got a rebellious streak, doesn’t she?

Don’t think about that. Don’t think about what that streak might lead her to do.

Like hook up with a rough, unmannered bounty hunter while on vacation.

“Not my type,” I rasp, raising my camera to get a shot of the peepholes—

I stop. Tilt my chin and lean closer.

The woodgrain at the edges of both holes points outward, toward the bedroom

The holes were drilled from inside the crawl space.

“Goddammit.”

Oscar Stanley was a big man. It would have taken serious maneuvering to drill those holes without physically being inside the crawl space. And yeah, fine, why would he need two holes unless he planned on looking through them?

I’m nowhere near abandoning the cut and dried theory that Oscar Stanley is a peeping Tom who spied on his guests, but the woodgrain is throwing me off a little. Despite wanting to wrap up this job as quickly as possible, I am not and will never be the type to leave questions unanswered or close a case with the finger pointed at the wrong suspect, all in the name of expediency.

According to Paul, the cops already spoke to the father—Judd Forrester. He denies shooting and killing Oscar Stanley. Only admits to the fistfight days before. But I need to speak with him myself to determine whether or not he’s telling the truth.

Beyond that…

Who else had—or has—access to this place?

“I don’t know, do I?” I grit out, striding down the staircase. “Because I don’t have the goddamn guest book.”

When I open the front door of the house, she’s watching me from the front window of her house, lip caught between her teeth. She starts to duck out of sight, but I shake my head, crooking my finger at her. Now it’s her turn to shake her head. I keep going until I’ve climbed the porch and knocked on the door.

“Are you going to keep me informed?” she calls through the door.

“No.”

“I’d really just like to be kept in the loop.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

I’m about to state my intentions to kick the door off the hinges, but my mouth snaps shut on the word “please.” I don’t know why. It’s just a word. But coming from her, it makes me sweat. Who says no to this woman? Especially when she asks in that hopeful princess voice? Me continuing to say no is disappointing her. I can hear her growing less and less optimistic and…that doesn’t sit right. In fact, disappointing her is like broken glass digging into my stomach lining. Am I going to say yes just to make her happy? Hell, I don’t know. But I find myself very unwilling to do the opposite.

“Why?” I say, crossing my arms. “Why is this so important to you?”

A tick passes and then the door opens. Slowly. There’s her face, appearing in the opening, and I won’t acknowledge how my ribcage seems to shrink-wrap around my heart, throwing off the steady beat. Damn, she is a beautiful woman. Soft. The kind of woman who makes a man want to be a hero.

Other men. Not me, obviously.