Get A Clue

  When they stood in front of the closed cellar door, Breanne shuddered at the thought of Edward in there. Alone.

  Dead.

  The two doors on the right were open. In the first bedroom was a neatly made bed, a dresser, and a pair of strappy high heels on the floor—Lariana’s. The second room had the same dresser, an unmade bed, and no personal effects.

  Across the hall, the first bedroom looked untouched. The second . . . locked. This was the one from which Breanne had heard humming. There was no sound behind that door now, and no one answered their knock.

  Cooper looked intrigued. “Wonder why that one is locked and not the others?”

  Breanne thought about every cop show she’d ever seen and imagined him kicking down the door and drawing his gun to search the place. “Should we break in?” she whispered when he didn’t move.

  “No.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.” She glanced at the cellar door, glad when Cooper led her back down the hall.

  Back in the foyer, there was a glow from the fireplace across the way, and Breanne breathed a sigh of relief. “I know you’re probably used to this tense, overwhelming stress,” she said, “but I’m not.”

  “I never get used to the stress.”

  When their gazes met, she could see that was true. He’d seen a lot, done a lot, and it got to him. He wasn’t invincible, wasn’t immune to the fear; reaching out, she took his hand.

  He squeezed hers. “I know how we’re going to get out of here tomorrow. Want to see?”

  “Are you kidding? Yes.”

  He turned and shined his flashlight around the foyer. The daylight had gone completely now, and from the long windows on either side of the front door came only an inky blackness, a fact that had Breanne’s stomach tumbling hard.

  Another long night . . .

  Then she saw it, the door behind the reception desk that she’d never noticed before. Cooper opened it, and flashed the light inside.

  It was a huge garage. They stepped in and Cooper shut the door behind them. Breanne couldn’t see much beyond a cavernous, dark, drywalled room, three garage doors, and several vehicles. She could smell oil, faint gasoline, and tires. Then Cooper held up the flashlight, highlighting the clean concrete floor, on which sat a Toyota truck, an SUV, and . . .

  A trailer, with two snowmobiles on it.

  Cooper walked toward them, stroking his hand along the hull of one. “They don’t have any gas—I already checked. My guess is that it’s early enough in the season that no one’s used them yet. The engines look good, though.”

  She smiled. “What does a vice cop from San Francisco know about snowmobiles?”

  He flicked open the hood of the first snowmobile and peered inside. “I know a little about mechanics.”

  The man fascinated her, no getting around that. He seemed such a contradiction, and she wanted to know more. “From what?”

  “It goes back to that wild kid thing. I used to take everything apart.” He fiddled with something in the open compartment. “It sort of stuck with me.”

  “What do you take apart now?”

  “Cars sometimes. I rebuild them for fun. Or I used to. Haven’t had time in a while.”

  “Because of your cop work?”

  He shrugged, but she knew that was probably true. He’d worked so long and hard, he’d burned out. He’d probably desperately needed this week, and she’d wanted him to leave. She hated the selfishness of that. “I’m sorry.”

  Lifting his head, he looked at her. “For what?”

  “For your time here being ruined. For me, for—”

  He smiled at her. “I’m not complaining.”

  “Are you going to go back to being a cop?”

  That got her another shrug.

  “You know, you really talk waaay too much,” she teased lightly.

  His eyes lit with humor but he didn’t respond to the bait as she would have. Instead he went back to looking in the engine compartment.

  “How come you don’t talk about yourself?”

  “I’m just not into dwelling.”

  A throwaway comment, but she could read between the lines, and could well imagine how it’d been for him and his brother without a mom. With a tough-ass dad. With no softness.

  And yet he’d taken any helplessness and channeled it into something worthwhile. He’d become a cop, of all things, a vice cop, where he’d seen things that she couldn’t even imagine.

  Maybe he was on to something. Maybe not dwelling was the secret to surviving not only this madness, but life in general. For instance, if she didn’t dwell on her family and friends’ reactions to what had happened to her yesterday, then she couldn’t be mortified. If she didn’t dwell on being left at the altar three times, she wouldn’t have to have that no-more-men rule.

  Dangerous thoughts here in the middle of nowhere, with no electricity and nothing to do but look at him.

  And holy smokes, was he something to look at! He’d shoved up his sleeves now and was doing something there beneath the hood, and looking sexy as hell while he was at it.

  She wondered at this insatiable attraction she had for him. Was it the sexy clothes she wore making her feel so . . . horny?

  No.

  Was it merely because she’d told herself she could have him?

  No.

  Was it because he was strong and smart and didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him? That he had no problem showing whatever he felt, whether it be frustration at their situation, hunger for her body, or a shimmering anger at the sight of a dead man?

  Or how about the way he’d protected her without question, putting her safety ahead of his at all times?

  Oh, yeah.

  And damn if that utter selflessness of his wasn’t the biggest aphrodisiac she’d ever experienced. It made her want to do things to him, things that involved a lot less clothing than they had on. She wanted to see him, lost in the throes of passion, vulnerable and open, and when she had him like that, she wanted to take care of him in a way she suspected he didn’t often let anyone do. “Aren’t the snowmobiles useless to us without gasoline?”

  “Yep.” Turning, he walked to a large wall shelving unit, randomly opening one, then going very still. “Shit,” he said softly.

  “What—” She broke off when she saw what he saw.

  A shoe.

  The matching shoe to the one Edward wore, just set innocuously on a shelf all by itself. “Oh, no.”

  Cooper stared at it, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I’m not happy about this.”

  Neither was she. Her heart had leapt into her throat.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “The whole fucking house is a crime scene.”

  She put a hand on his tense spine, felt the heat and strength there. “Cooper? I really, really want out of here.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said tightly, and opened another cabinet. “Bingo,” he said at the sight of the cans of gasoline. “Without power, we’ll have to open the garage doors manually, and that’s not going to be easy—I’ve tried. They’re heavy from the large snowdrift that’s probably up against it.”

  “We can shovel—”

  That got a smile.

  “What?”

  “I’m seeing you shoveling in that shirt and skirt. With those knives tucked into your boots.” His expression heated. “Nice picture, actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he said huskily, looking at her, really looking at her, as if he could see inside and hear her thoughts, which were pretty much going down a path to dangerous waters.

  “This is crazy,” she whispered, and backed up a step. She lifted her hand to swipe her damp forehead and nearly poked out her own eye with the knives. “This whole thing is crazy. The wedding, the storm, this house—the dead body.”

  His smile faded. “I know.”

  “I’m just so damned jumpy. And we both know I hate trusting you, but the truth is . . . I guess I do. A little, anyway.”


  He held out a hand. “Enough to give me those knives before you lose a body part?”

  She held them out. “I can take care of myself.” False bravado and they both knew it. She hadn’t taken care of herself; he had.

  He stepped toward her, searing blue eyes gleaming, invading her personal space in that way he had. Instead of annoying her, it backed the air up in her lungs and made her skin feel too tight.

  Oh, and it also made her nipples go happy.

  Damn nipples.

  “You wouldn’t kill a spider,” he said softly. “So I’m guessing that if it came to using a knife on a real-life, flesh-and-blood person, you might have a hard time.”

  She quivered. “I’d be fine.”

  “That tough outer shell again.” He traced her jaw with a finger, a gesture that might have been casual if he’d let his hand fall away, but he stroked that finger over her throat.

  She shivered. A nice shiver. A goose bump-inducing shiver.

  “I nearly had heart failure when I couldn’t find you before,” he said very quietly. “I thought you’d stay in the great room.”

  “I don’t stay very well.”

  “I just want you safe.”

  She swallowed hard at that. This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t about her pride. This was about far more than herself, and she wanted to stay safe, too. Very much. “I thought maybe there’d be safety in numbers. But then Shelly and I heard those noises.”

  “And you went after it.”

  “Not my finest decision, granted,” she admitted.

  His gaze flickered to the wall, where they could very faintly hear the water running through the pipes.

  Lariana and Patrick in the shower.

  “I do think it’s sweet that they’re using their fear for the greater good,” she quipped.

  “As long as it isn’t murder that got their adrenaline flowing.”

  Suddenly Breanne needed more BBQ chips.

  Cooper set the confiscated knives on a wooden workbench along the back of the garage. Then he straightened and looked at her, his eyes dark, his intent clear in that fierce, hot expression. Her knees wobbled, and she took a step back, only to come up against the wall.

  His hands settled on either side of her head as he leaned in, trapping her within the confines of his body.

  “Why do cops do that?” she asked, her voice steady even though her entire body reacted to his nearness—and not in fear.

  “Do what?”

  “Feel the need to intimidate with their superior bulk?”

  He arched a brow. “You think I’m trying to intimidate you?” Bending his head, he ran the tip of his nose over her earlobe, a move that shocked her like a bolt of electricity. “Do you feel intimidated?” he murmured.

  “Uh . . .”

  “How about now?” he asked softly, and put his lips to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

  She’d expected a quick assault on her senses, a deep, intoxicating kiss—not this light, almost sweet, touch.

  “Bree?”

  “N-not intimidated,” she gasped.

  “Aroused, then?” He went after her other ear.

  “Um . . . God. I can’t think when you do that.”

  “I’m trying to remind you that we have a thing going on,” he said in that voice, the one that melted her resolve—and far too many brain cells, while he was at it.

  “Not a thing—”

  “A thing,” he went on, undeterred, “that you’re afraid of—”

  “I’m not afraid—”

  “A thing that makes you soft and sweet, a thing that makes you hot for me.”

  “I’m not . . . hot for you.”

  His low laugh in her ear sent goose bumps dancing over her skin, and more than just her nipples did the happy dance this time. “Sure about that?” he murmured, and sank his teeth gently into her earlobe, lightly tugging.

  She nearly slid to the floor in a boneless heap of desire. Instead she locked her knees and gritted her teeth, flattening her hands against the cold wall to remind herself to keep them off of his body. “Absolutely sure,” she managed.

  “I could prove you wrong.” He nuzzled her some more.

  Who’d have thought that little patch of skin beneath her jaw was a direct line to her erogenous zones, but she felt the tug all the way to her womb. “No need.”

  Another low laugh huffed out of him as he made his way down her neck now, with wet, open-mouthed kisses, and then—oh, my God—licked the spot where surely her pulse was going to burst right out of the base of her throat. “Stop.”

  “Say it like you mean it, and I will.”

  Damn it. “We’re going to shovel,” she said weakly.

  “Not now. In the morning.”

  “But another night—”

  “Even if we got out and I got one of these snowmobiles started, I need daylight to find my way to the road and then into town.”

  “Dante or Patrick—”

  “Even they’ll need daylight. Getting lost out here at night . . . Bad idea. It’ll have to wait until morning.” He scraped his jaw over her collarbone, dragging the red stretchy material off her shoulder.

  “Okay, but I am not hot for you.”

  “I know, baby. I know.” He kissed her shoulder and her eyes crossed with lust. “It’s all me.”

  “Yes, it’s all you—”

  He nipped at her as he tugged the shirt down further, baring her breasts. Her head thunked back against the wall, her body a quivering mass of need that she didn’t understand. To gather herself and some desperately needed strength, she twisted around. Facing the wall now, she put her hot cheek to the cold drywall and dragged air into her taxed lungs.

  “Say the word,” he murmured, undeterred by her back as he slowly glided his hands down her body. “And I’ll stop.”

  She opened her mouth to do it but nothing came out.

  “Breanne?”

  When she didn’t answer, he dropped to his knees and kissed the back of a thigh. The feel of his mouth on her bare skin sent heat and desire leaping through her. Oh, God. She was hot for him, so hot she couldn’t stand it, and she rolled her forehead over the cold wall trying to cool down.

  Just sex, she told herself. Just sex. Just sex—

  “You going to stop me?”

  Yep, any minute now.

  He slipped his hands around to her belly, which jumped and jerked like it was full of butterflies. Then he cupped her breasts, flicking his thumbs over her nipples, ripping a moan from her that was shocking in its neediness.

  Still on his knees behind her, he lightly bit the curve of her bottom through her skirt; then, with his jaw, he pushed the material up out of his way, leaving her vulnerable in the most basic sense of the word.

  “God, you take my breath.”

  She could have stopped him. He expected her to. Instead, she pressed her hot face to the cool wall, squeezing her eyes shut against the image she must have made with her skirt shoved high, revealing her skimpy panties, the do-me boots, knowing he was going