A Madness of Sunshine

If a man wanted to ­self-­medicate to escape the nightmares, who the fuck was Will to stop him?

He might not have made the same call as a shiny young cop, but now he knew that a man could be broken. Sometimes, oblivion was a gift.

But if Matthew’s information was right, Will had to follow it up all the way to the horrific end. A teenage boy who’d murdered three women and gotten away with it wouldn’t have stopped. No, he’d just have gotten smarter, slyer. And maybe stopped hunting on home ground.

Jesus Christ, how many bodies were buried in the bush?

He pulled into the supermarket lot on the heels of that thought, ran in to grab a ­six-­pack of beer from the chiller, though he was unlikely to have more than a single one. The town was too unsettled for him to be incapaci­tated. Whether he even had one would depend on whether or not Anahera was in the mood to let him stay the night.

“Any news?” Shan Lee asked him at the checkout, the man’s face smooth and without wrinkles but his eyes worn.

“No. Nothing.” He paid, picked up the beer. “Your daughter’s a smart woman, Shan, and she knows to be careful.”

“Never thought I’d have to worry about those things here.”

No, neither had Will.

The front door to Anahera’s cabin was open when he went up to the porch, and he could hear rock music within. “Anahera,” he called out.

When she didn’t answer, he stepped in, looked around, his shoulders tight and his abdomen clenched. A pot sat bubbling on the makeshift stove, while ­half-­chopped vegetables lay on the cutting board. Listening harder, he heard the sound of water running nearby.

Anahera appeared from around the corner seconds later. “Had to go wash off some dirt. A sparrow slammed into the window and when I went to see if it was okay, I managed to stumble into muck.” She made a face. “Didn’t want to wash in the sink, not when I’m cooking.”

Will wasn’t ­listening—­he was too focused on the fact that she was wearing only a towel, hitched around her breasts. Yellow and short, it made her skin glow. “You left the door open.” The words shoved out.

“You did message to say you were on the road out of town,” she pointed out. “Can you watch the stove?” Turning on her heel, she walked off toward her bedroom. “I was in the middle of changing.”

Will wasn’t sure he took a breath until he heard the click of her bedroom door closing. “Fuck.”

The woman packed a punch.

Closing the front door, he kicked off his boots before heading in and putting the beer in her small ­fridge—­it appeared secondhand, was probably a loaner from Josie and Tom. When he looked at the pot, he thought she might be making stew. Whatever it was, it smelled damn good. After making sure it wasn’t going to bubble over, he turned to the cutting board. A wash of his hands, then he finished chopping up the vegetables on the board.

He’d just put down the knife when she walked back into the room, having changed into a slinky black dress with long sleeves that hit her midthigh and exposed her shoulders. Her only accessory was a greenstone pendant worn on a braided black cord. Her feet were bare, her hair down.

Not saying a word, Will went to the fire and stoked it up to a blaze.

Anahera laughed, the sound big and husky. “Does that mean you like the dress?”

Shrugging off the shirt he wore on top of a white T-­shirt, Will hung it on the back of a chair. “That’s not a dress that inspires a simple like.” It was too punch-­in-­the-­gut sexy for that.

Anahera didn’t answer until she’d scraped the vegetables into the stew pot. “It will taste good,” she said. “I know not everyone’s a fan of stew, but you’ll have to trust me on this.”

“Oh,” Will said, “I didn’t realize you were talking about the food.”

Another laugh. “I didn’t know you could flirt, cop.”

Neither had Will. It had been an age since he’d done it, since he’d wanted to do it. “Should I have a beer?” he asked.

She took one of the beers from the fridge and, pulling back the tab to open the can, placed it on the counter. “You could pour me a glass of wine.”

Spotting the bottle of red she’d opened the other night, Will did as asked. Then he leaned back against the wall and watched her move around the kitchen. It was a small space and she filled it to overflowing, her energy intense.

He took a swallow of his beer, ran his eyes over the elegant curves of her body. She caught him at it. “Somehow, cop, I don’t think your mind is on food.”

“I am thinking of eating something.”

Anahera turned off the stove. “Food’s done.” She prowled over to him until her breasts touched his chest, her bare feet against his. When she tilted up her head, it was with unhidden challenge in her eyes.

Will slid his free hand behind her neck, under the dark heaviness of her hair, and massaged. “You like the taste of beer?”

“I don’t mind it.”

Keeping his hand where it was, he leaned down to kiss her. She rose up into the kiss, no passive receiver but an active participant. If his mouth tasted like beer, hers was rich red wine and something deeper, more potent, intrinsically Anahera.

He knew already she’d never be an easy woman to be ­with—­if tonight wasn’t the only night they were to spend together. Anahera was complicated and strong and apt to be difficult at times. Of course, Will wasn’t exactly easy himself.

Sinking deeper into the kiss, he fisted his hand in her hair but drew back before it could go any further. “How about a bed?” He leaned around her to put his beer on the counter.

“It’s a single,” she warned.

Will looked to the fireplace. “Hold that thought.”

Leaving her with an amused look on her face, he went into the bedroom and hauled off the mattress to put it in front of the fireplace. She padded across to him as he was throwing the sheet over it. He’d just finished tucking it in when she reached back and undid the zipper on her dress. “Protection’s in the bedside drawer,” she said as the dress slid down her body, the firelight flickering over her proudly naked form.

“I got us covered.” Pulling the foil packets from his jeans pocket and throwing them down beside the mattress, he put his hands on this woman who made him remember he was alive.

Anahera felt as if she was coming out of a long winter. That winter hadn’t begun with Edward’s death; it had started in the years prior, when they’d slowly become strangers to one another.

Will’s hands, rough and large, were as different from Edward’s as she was from the girl who’d once run wild on the beach below the cliffs. Sinking into the sensations, she pushed up his T-­shirt until he tore it off, then ran her own hands over the hard ridges and hollows of his chest and around to his back.

The ridges there were unexpected, the skin coarse.

“Burns,” he said, breaking the kiss. “They bother you?”

Anahera devoured his mouth in response. A few scars didn’t bother her. Not when her nerves crackled with an electric heat. All she wanted was to feel more and more and more. Like a prisoner who’d been starved, she wanted to gorge.

The firelight pulsed against Will’s body as he rose to strip off the rest of his clothing, and she had the best view in the house. When he came down over her, she picked up one of the flat packets beside the mattress and slapped it to his chest. “Put it on. We can do the foreplay later.”