Thunder Moon (Nightcreature 8)

“Feel free to rack up the overtime,” Claire said.

“Oh, I’d planned on it.”

I headed down the hill where the sheriff’s department shared a square of land with town hall. Instead of turning into the parking lot, I continued on to where the moving van had been parked earlier but was no longer. The front door of the store stood open, so I walked in.

I probably should have called out, but the place was empty. Had the moving van been taking things away rather than delivering them?

Smart thieves usually pretended they belonged somewhere, that what they were taking was theirs by right, and few people questioned them. What better way to clean out a place than to hire a moving van and dress like a mover?

I’d just turned, determined to find out if anyone had bought this place, when a floorboard creaked upstairs. Slowly I lifted my head. I’d forgotten an apartment occupied the second floor.

Through the back door of the shop, in a small space that used to be a called a mudroom, lay a staircase. The stairs led up to a long, shadowed hallway full of closed doors, except for the last one at the opposite end, which gaped open. As I headed in that direction, I had the sudden sensation of being watched. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed nothing.

One door, two, three doors, four—I opened my mouth to announce myself and a whisper of air brushed the back of my neck.

Impatiently I turned, trying to stop my overactive imagination from harassing me by giving it a full view of an empty hallway.

The man was so close my breasts brushed his chest.

Chapter 4

Instinct took over, and I reached for my gun. He grabbed my wrist before I was halfway there. My left hand swung for his head, and he caught that one, too. Then we stared at each other, him grasping my wrists tight enough to bruise, our bodies so close every breath skimmed the front of me against the front of him.

He wore a black suit and tie with a shirt so white it glowed even in the dim light. But the suit wasn’t what threw me—it was the long hair adorned with a single braid and an eagle feather.

At least I hadn’t imagined him.

He didn’t look Indian in this light, except for the feather. His skin was much fairer than mine, and his eyes were an oddly light shade—not brown, not green, not gray, but a swirling combination of all three.

“Hey!” I tugged on my hands.

He didn’t budge; he didn’t speak as his gaze wandered over my face. I struggled; I couldn’t help it. Ever since my oldest brother, George, had held me down while Greg painted my face with maple syrup, I got a little wiggy when trapped.

I continued to thrash. He continued to ignore me. The friction created by all that rubbing started to feel better than it should. My nipples, despite the protection of a padded bra, responded, which only made my breathing and the subsequent friction increase.

I considered kicking him in the shin, but from the strength of his grip and the expression on his face, he’d continue to hold me anyway.

“You often sneak into private property and pull a gun on people?” he asked.

“Only when I see a previously abandoned storefront with an open door and then someone creeps up on me. You’re asking for trouble.”

“I hear that a lot.”

“You’re gonna hear more than that if you don’t let me go. Catchy phrases like ‘assaulting an officer’ and ‘held without bond.’ “

His only response was a smile that flashed his slightly crooked but very white teeth. However, he did release his hold. I backed up, absently rubbing first one wrist and then the other.

My gaze caught on the eagle feather. In Cherokee tradition, only great warriors dared to wear the trappings of the sacred bird. Did he know that? Did he care?

“How’s your head?” he asked.

“About to explode.”

“It shouldn’t hurt that badly still.”

He moved so quickly I co

uldn’t think, let alone escape, yanking me so close my nose scraped against his shirt as he began to probe my skull.