She awoke to the smell of coffee and the feeling that something had shifted in her life. She moved, felt a tenderness between her legs, and smiled. She and Shane Carter had made love for hours and now…she glanced at the clock and groaned. It was barely seven, and he was already up, the first hint of morning light filtering through the closed blinds.
Rubbing a hand over her face, she thought about the events leading up to Carter’s arrival and some of her fear returned. Wes Allen. The police think Wes Allen has been terrorizing you. She still couldn’t believe it. Although she wouldn’t discount Wes for some of the things, she couldn’t see him as a murderer, and if her case was connected to the missing women, then whoever was behind it was a cruel killer.
Though no other bodies had been found, Mavis Gette’s decomposing corpse led everyone to fear that Sonja Hatchell, Roxie Olmstead, and now even Lynnetta Swaggert had met the same horrid end.
Carter was on the telephone. She heard the soft, steady sound of his voice and, after throwing on her wrinkled clothes, she peeked into the den, saw that her girls were still sleeping soundly, then padded barefoot into the kitchen.
He took one look at her and, bless him, he seemed to blush. “Morning, gorgeous,” he said, setting down his cup. Before she could respond, he folded her into his arms, kissed her as if he never intended to stop, then lifted his head and with their noses nearly touching, winked at her.
Her silly heart fluttered out of control and her lips tingled where they’d touched his. Breathlessly, she placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart. “My goodness, Sheriff. You really know how to say ‘Good morning’ to a girl, don’t you?”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“That’s the way I’d like to wake up every day,” she admitted, and he chuckled, one thick eyebrow lifting as if he, too, were mentally picturing what had transpired between them the night before.
She felt a flush rise on the back of her neck as she, too, saw their entwined, panting bodies, the sinewy strands of his muscles straining, the way his hair fell over his eyes as he let out a last, violent gasp and clutched her as if he’d never let go. Ridiculously, she wondered what it would be like to live with Sheriff Shane Carter with his gruff, hard-to-crack demeanor, long hours, the danger that often came with his job. But the nights, Lord, the nights would be spectacular.
Dear God, what kind of fantasy was she conjuring up?
“Coffee?” he asked, eyeing her as if reading her thoughts, and she reined in her too-fertile imagination, swiftly closing her mind to such silly fantasies.
“Mmm. Sounds like heaven.”
As he lifted the pot from its holder and poured a stream of coffee into a mug, she glanced down at the way his slacks hugged his tight rear end, remembered how her fingers had dug into those taut muscles as he’d made love to her. Her throat went dry and she glanced at the slope of his back, the way his shoulders stretched his jacket, and thought of the taut skin and muscle beneath the insulated fabric. They’d had one night together, she reminded herself. That was it. A few hours of sexual release, nothing more. Don’t do this to yourself, Jenna. You and Carter are trapped in an excruciatingly tense situation; you reached for each other last night. End of story.
He handed her a cup, caught her eye, and as if he guessed what she was thinking, sensed the turn of her thoughts, he turned the conversation to the here and now. All business. “I’ve got to go in to the office, but I’ll call you later.”
“Do that,” she said.
“And I’ll let you know if we arrest Wes.”
Shuddering, she took a sip of her coffee. “I can’t imagine.”
“I’ve talked to Larry Sparks. Someone’s following Wes Allen until we can get a search warrant for his house. You and the girls should be safe here with Turnquist. I’ll have patrols drive by and if anything bothers you, anything feels wrong, call me on my cell.”
“I will,” she said. “Promise.”
He checked his watch. “Okay, I’ve got to run. I’ll stop and talk to Turnquist on my way out.”
She set down her cup and tugged on his hand, dragging h
im back to the guest room. Once there, she put her hands in the pockets of his jacket, pulled him close, and tilted her face up to kiss him again.
“Jenna,” he protested.
“What, no kiss good-bye?”
“Maybe one.” With a groan, he placed his arms around her and slanted his mouth over hers. She kissed him back, feeling a thrill race through her blood, desire bloom lightning-quick, her legs wanting to fold as she drew him to the floor.
“I really have to go,” he said, and slowly released her.
“Spoilsport.” As she withdrew her left hand, her fingertips brushed against the corner of something—cardboard?—in his pocket. Snapshots fluttered to the floor, and she felt his body freeze. He reached down and swept the photographs into his palm, but not before she saw the images of a woman—a beautiful, sexy, voluptuous woman, dressed scantily in a gold thong and holding her hands over her breasts as she visually made love to the camera. Another picture showed her on rumpled sheets, and this time she was completely nude, her hair mussed, her skin flushed as if from recent lovemaking.
Jenna took a step back. Her heart crumbled into a billion painful pieces. What in the world had she been thinking, with all her stupid fantasies about this man she barely knew? Dear God, what an idiot she was! Her gaze found Shane’s, and a spurt of hot fury surged through her bloodstream.
“Oops,” she said.
“I can explain.”