Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane 2)

“We do have complicated lives,” he admitted.

“I don’t want to wait for anything. I want to seize the moment.” She smiled. “Or something.”

He loved the powerful look in her eyes, and the confident tone of her voice was a huge turn on.

“I could really use a hot shower.” She lifted the hem of her sweater, exposing another inch of gray lace. His heart skipped second gear and shifted into third. He ripped his eyes from her tantalizing striptease and focused on her eyes. As much as he wanted her body, he craved the rest of her just as much.

There was no other woman like her. Not for him.

She tugged off her scarf. The bruises around her neck were the color of ripe plums. Lance pictured Tyler Green with his hands around her throat. The quick surge of anger was followed by a cold dash of fear. She could have been killed, that lovely and slender neck broken.

His heart stammered at the thought.

“What’s the matter?” Her confidence faltered. She lifted the scarf, as if to put it back on and cover the bruises. She licked her lips. Was she nervous?

The thought disconcerted him. It had been a long time for her, he supposed, but she was so capable that he often forgot about her vulnerabilities.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He cupped her face in both hands. Her hair smelled of rain and lemons. “This is perfect.”

He tilted her head and touched his lips to hers. God, the taste of her . . .

It would never be enough.

With a soft moan, she dropped the scarf, and it fell to the floor at their feet. She slipped her arms around his waist and splayed her fingers across his bare back. She pressed her body against his, all her softness lining up with his hard planes and angles.

He lifted his head. “You’re perfect.”

“Keep talking like that, mister, and you might get lucky.” Her eyes shone with desire, humor—and yes . . . nerves.

“I’m already the luckiest man in the world.”

“You asked for it.” She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss her again.

He moved from her mouth to the curve of her neck, nipping lightly at her ear before tasting her collarbone. She groaned, a heady sound of need that slammed him in the gut. Well, below the gut.

“Let’s get out of the laundry room.” Moving backward, he tugged her into the hallway with him.

He walked backward all the way to the bedroom. Her hands were busy, stroking his back and shoulders. He slid his hands under her sweater and up her back. Her skin was smooth and soft. The backs of his legs hit the bed. He took his hands out from under her sweater to unsnap the holster at his waist. Reaching behind him, he set the gun and holster on the nightstand then got his hands back on her body and his lips on her mouth.

He tugged her sweater off, tossing it over his shoulder. She pressed against him, her skin warm and soft. Reaching behind her, he opened the clasp of her bra. The straps slid down her shoulders. He leaned back, letting it fall to the floor between them and exposing two absolutely perfect breasts. He cupped one, his thumb grazing her nipple. Her eyes drifted closed, and she moaned from deep in her throat.

Lance closed the inches between them, his mouth crushing down on hers. Her hands were at the snap of his pants. This time he helped her. They could not get naked fast enough. There were too many parts of her he wanted to touch and taste.

He lifted his lips from Morgan’s, disbelief flooding him. Her eyes opened, the blue of them dark and needy. Finally.

This was actually going to happen.

Annnnnnd the Magnum PI theme song sounded from his pocket.

No.

No. No. No.

He froze. The absurdity of the situation rolled over him like a wave of ridiculousness.

They just couldn’t get a break.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his chest and laughing under her breath.

“That’s Sharp. I don’t want to answer it.” He really, really didn’t want to answer that call. Stupid conscience. “But he usually texts unless it’s important.”

“You have to get it.” Morgan sighed, taking a step backward. She rubbed her arms, as if suddenly cold. “What does your phone play when I call?”

“Charlie’s Angels.” He pulled the phone from his pocket and accepted the call. “What is it, Sharp?”

“Is Morgan with you?” Sharp asked. “She didn’t answer her phone.”

Lance sighed. “She is.”

Her phone was in her bag in the laundry room.

“Put me on speaker,” Sharp said.

Lance held the phone between him and Morgan.

“Tim Clark just called looking for you,” Sharp said. “There’s a deputy at his house. He wants to take him down to the station. Tim sounded upset.”

Anger flickered in her eyes. “I don’t suppose the deputy told Tim why?”

“No,” Sharp answered.

“I’ll call Tim right now.” She propped a hand on her hip. In just a pair of silk panties, the cocky pose was unbelievably hot.

Nothing short of ice in his shorts was going to cool him off, and Lance lamented the invention of the cell phone.

She ended the call and hurried for the laundry room. She returned a minute later, garment bag in one hand, giant purse in the other. She fished her phone out of her purse. “Tim called five minutes ago.”

“You’re allowed to have your phone out of reach for five minutes,” Lance said.

“I know.” But she still felt guilty. Morgan took responsibilities seriously. “It was just bad timing.”

“You can say that again.” Lance went to the closet for clean clothes. He exited wearing cargo pants and pulling a T-shirt over his head. Morgan put her phone on the bed and unzipped her garment bag while she used voice commands to dial Tim’s number.

Lance swallowed with regret as she dressed—stepping into a maroon skirt, tugging a white shirt over her head, and then flipping her hair out of the neck.

“Hello,” Tim answered. More than one child cried in the background. The sound set Lance’s nerves on edge.

Something major must have happened if the sheriff wanted Tim at the station.

Chapter Eighteen

“What’s going on, Tim?” Morgan zipped her skirt.

Still flushed and hot from Lance’s touch, she bottled up her irritation. But really, why couldn’t the sheriff just work and play well with others? Dressed, she picked up the phone and turned off the speaker.

“I don’t know what to do.” Desperation raised the pitch of Tim’s voice.

“Slow down, Tim,” Morgan said in a firm voice. Her client wasn’t thinking straight. He needed direction. “What’s going on?”

“The sheriff wants me at the station. He refuses to say why.” Tim’s words were nearly drowned out by crying, too much crying to be made by one baby.

“Who’s crying?” Morgan asked.

“Both the kids,” Tim answered. “The deputy scared Bella. She thinks he wants to take me away.”

Temper heated the back of Morgan’s neck. “Where is he now?”

“In the foyer. I’m in the living room, trying to calm down the kids. My in-laws went out to have more flyers printed. They’re not answering their cell phones. I told him I needed to wait until they came home, but he said he could call child services to take care of the kids. What am I going to do? Can they really take my kids away?”

Morgan blew a hard breath through her nostrils.