Nonetheless, she threw her keys and wallet onto a scratched table near the front door and wondered why this drafty three-room cabin with a sleeping loft tucked under the roof felt more like home—a haven—than her own house did. Over a hundred years old, the place had been the original homestead of the Long family, Santana’s employer. Santana already had plans to build a larger home on the property he’d inherited, but so far, the construction crew hadn’t broken ground on the home he’d invited her, and her children and dog, to share.
Pescoli started walking toward the warmth of the woodstove when he caught the crook of her elbow. “Hey, you forgot something.”
“What?” She looked up just as he grabbed her, dragged her body against his and kissed her hard. As if of their own accord, her bones felt as if they could melt and she wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her mouth willingly. He just felt so damned good. One of his hands grabbed hold of her rump, and that old, familiar heat, the one that got her into trouble, began to sing through her veins. Even through her jeans, his fingertips brushing the split between her buttocks, and erotic images filled her mind.
“You’re bad,” she whispered. “The worst.”
“And you love it.”
“Mmm. That I do.” As he pressed her up against the wall, the back of her leg hit the small table where her keys had been tossed. They slid off the surface and, jangling, landed on the floor. From his position near the fire, Nakita, Santana’s husky, let out a soft woof.
“Guard dog,” Santana joked, lifting his head for a second and looking into her eyes. His hand found the zipper of her jeans while she pushed the flannel shirt off his shoulders and pulled the hem of his T-shirt from his battered jeans. He moaned softly as her fingers found his skin.
“Jesus, woman!” he said, and picked her up off her feet.
“Hey!” Startled, she started to protest. “What’re you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
She wasn’t a petite woman, had played college basketball, but he carried her as if she weighed little and hauled her up the stairs to the room under the eaves and tumbled with her onto the big bed with the creaking mattress. “I, uh, I thought you promised me a drink.”
“You want me to stop?” he teased as he lifted her sweater over her head. He tossed it, along with both his shirts, to a darkened corner of the room.
Lying on her back, a pillow that smelled of his aftershave supporting her head, she felt her throat catch. “Never.”
“That’s what I thought.” Straddling her, he unclasped the front opening of her bra, letting her breasts spill out. Cold air caressed her skin, causing her nipples to pucker. Even in the half-light, she saw his smile, a crooked slash of white. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, then began to suckle at one breast while he skimmed the jeans down her legs, his fingers scraping the skin of her thighs and calves.
Pescoli lost herself in the feel of him, in the pure animal sensations of his body against hers. Closing her eyes, her fingers tangled in his hair, she tingled at the feel of his calloused hands and his wet, hot tongue. They would pleasure each other for hours, bringing each other to the brink over and over again, and she couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be than in this cowboy’s bed.
They’d made little progress, O’Keefe thought as he scraped his chair away from the table, then carried his three empties into the kitchen, where Alvarez was tidying up.
The clock mounted near the stove indicated it was ten past midnight.
After going through all the information each of them had on Gabriel Reeve, they weren’t any closer to finding him than they had been before the damned pizza had arrived. Alvarez had used all of her connections, including some contacts with the state guys. O’Keefe had touched base with Trey Williams, conference calling with Alvarez included, but the kid was a ghost.
The trouble was there were lots of places to get lost in this part of Montana—forest, streams, caves, hills—and worse yet, there were lots of areas where, if a person wasn’t equipped to battle the elements, he could die of exposure, his remains going undiscovered until the spring thaw, if then.
“He must’ve left town,” Alvarez said as she rinsed their two plates under the tap, then set the wet dishes onto a tray in the dishwasher.
“Maybe, but he seemed dead set on coming here. To your place.”
“So we’re back to that?” Wiping her hands on a towel, she shoved the dishwasher shut with a foot just as her cat hopped onto the counter from a bar stool. “Hey, you ... down!” Alvarez admonished and the cat proceeded to sit, black tail curling over her white toes, before she began to wash her face. “Great. That’s it! You’re outta here.” She lifted Jane from the counter, only to set her on the floor. Miffed, with a dark glare cast over one sleek shoulder to Alvarez, Jane slunk out of the kitchen, padding quickly to the living room.
“I never figured you for a cat person.”
“Or a dog person, whatever that is?”
“Neither,” he admitted. “You just didn’t seem the type.”
“And why’s that?” She swiped at a bit of dirt on the counter, glared at it, then swiped again.
“Animals are messy. You know, litter boxes and nose and paw prints on windows, torn-up cushions.”
“I do know and you’re right. I never really thought I needed ... or wanted an animal. But ...” She glanced over her shoulder at him as she folded her towel neatly and placed it over the handle of the stove. “... people change.”
“Do they?” He wasn’t convinced, but he let it slide. Damn, she looked good. A few hours ago, while sitting at her laptop, studying the birth records Selena had surrendered, she’d taken the rubber band from her hair and shaken it free. So black it nearly shined blue in the lamplight, it had fallen to the middle of her back. Unconsciously, she’d tossed a wayward hank over her shoulders, showing off the long column of her throat as she’d worked.
So engrossed in her computer screen, she’d adjusted the rubber band and snapped it back into place, lifting her hands behind her head, and again, without realizing it, stretching her sweater across her breasts.