Have You Seen Her?

  In answer he took her mouth again, hotter, harder, and in two big steps backed her against the refrigerator, pressing hard between her thighs. Against the place that throbbed and wept for him. She thrust back, as hard as she could, leaning into the refrigerator for leverage.

  It was a strangely erotic mix of sensations. Cold, hard machine at her back, hot, hard man at her front. Hard big hands against her, kneading, pulling her closer. Then one of his big hands freed its hold on her butt, and she wriggled against him in protest, making him groan, so deep she could feel the vibrations rattle against her breasts. But a moment later the groan was hers as he covered her breast with his hand.

  But not enough. Not nearly enough.

  His other hand left her butt, but instead of claiming the other breast that felt like it would burst, he pulled at her dress, straining the buttons. Some released. The others made a clatter as they rained to the floor. She pressed her head back against the refrigerator as his mouth moved from her bruised lips down her throat and his hands fumbled with the front clasp on her bra.

  Yes. Please.

  If she said the words aloud, she didn’t hear them over the panting. Hers. His.

  With a curse he gave another yank, tearing the delicate lace and her breasts fell free. Into his hands. And into his mouth.

  The strangled cry was hers as he sucked, lashing the nipple with his tongue. All feeling clenched between her thighs and she felt her body tighten with need. Greed.

  Oh, my God.

  She was almost there and he hadn’t even touched her yet. There. Hadn’t slid his hand up her thigh and into the fragile lace panties that were now soaked with wanting him. Hadn’t pressed his thumb against her clitoris or slid his finger up inside her. She was almost there and he hadn’t done any of those things.

  Not yet. Please.

  Please.

  More. More. More.

  She looked down, the sight of his golden head at her breast more erotic than anything she’d ever seen. “Please,” she whispered. “Steven.”

  He pulled back far enough to look up, his lips wet, his eyes almost black. Without saying a word he took the other breast in his mouth and his hand fell to her hip, ran down her thigh as she bent her knee, trying to get closer, her legs wider.

  Closer.

  His hand pushed at her dress, up her stocking to the bare inch of thigh between her garter and her soaked panties. Then his palm was on bare skin, cupping her ass and she cried out.

  His hand froze on her butt and he pulled back from her breast, his eyes taking in the sight of her bare breasts, wet and swollen from his suckling mouth.

  Then they lifted to her eyes and Jenna felt her body go cold in an instant.

  He was angry.

  His jaw clenched until a muscle in his cheek spasmed. He pulled his hand away and pushed at her thigh, straightening her leg, pulling her dress back in place.

  “No,” he ground out from behind clenched teeth and stepped away, leaving her trembling against the refrigerator, her legs barely supporting her weight, her breasts wet and cold.

  Her senses frozen.

  She said nothing as he marched into the dining room and grabbed his holster and coat from the back of the chair with jerky movements.

  She flinched at the sound of the slamming front door. Then unable to stand a moment longer on legs that felt like jelly, she pressed her back against the cold refrigerator and slid to the floor.

  FIFTEEN

  Wednesday, October 5, 12:15 A.M.

  “NOW LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” Mike said, refilling Steven’s empty jelly jar with iced tea he’d pulled from the refrigerator in the rectory. Steven scowled at the refrigerator. He’d never be able to look at a refrigerator the same way again.

  Dammit all to hell.

  “You kissed her,” Mike said, sitting across from him and propping his chin on his folded hands. It was a very priestlike pose and should have completely quieted the lust that still throbbed in Steven’s veins.

  Should have.

  Didn’t.

  “She kissed you back, maybe did a few things that you probably won’t confess.” He lifted a black, bushy brow. “Am I on target?”

  You shouldn’t have touched her, Thatcher, Steven thought fiercely. Shouldn’t have laid a hand on her. Shouldn’t have turned from the wall. Should’ve kept your eyes on her diplomas and patents and “I love you, Aunt Jenna” certificates.

  But, nooo. He just had to look over into the kitchen. Had to watch her bend over looking for that damn pizza wheel. The sight of her black dress stretching over her incredible round ass... something had simply snapped, letting all the pent-up frustration come rushing out.

  I shouldn’t have touched her. But he had.

  And it had been more incredible than he’d imagined. Dammit, he was still imagining.

  So, was he angry he’d kissed her? Hell, yes. Was he angry she’d kissed him back?

  She’d done a helluva lot more than kiss him back. But the fault was squarely his own. He’d started it. And dammit, he’d finished it, too. And with such sensitivity and regard for her feelings.

  Thatcher, you are a dickhead.

  Furious with himself and with Mike for being so right, Steven drained his glass and set it back on the table. Hard. Mike picked up the glass and checked the bottom to make sure it wasn’t broken, which just made Steven angrier. “Yes,” Steven hissed. “Right on target, as usual, Father Leone.”

  “Don’t break my glassware,” Mike cautioned. “Mrs. Hennesey gave me blackberry jam in that one and if I don’t return the glass, I don’t get any more jam.”

  “Dammit, Mike,” Steven gritted and Mike pursed his lips. “Mrs. Hennesey makes very good jam. And please don’t swear.” His lips twitched. “My son.”

  Steven just glared and Mike laughed. “I don’t see the problem, Steven. She’s beautiful. And she seems to like you, which I personally don’t understand, but a basic understanding of women is unfortunately not taught at seminary. She has to be smart to have a Ph.D., although book learning does not necessarily equate to wisdom, which goes back to my not understanding why she likes you. She seems compassionate and articulate and has a sense of humor. She wanted to take care of you, for heaven’s sake.” He shrugged. “So you let things get out of hand tonight. Understandable, I suppose. Just don’t let it happen again.”

  Steven looked away, focusing on the rosary that hung on the wall, wishing it would have the deflating effect he needed it to have. He’d been rock-hard since he’d stormed out of Jenna’s apartment, an hour before, leaving her standing there shocked and openmouthed.

  And bare-breasted. God, she was beautiful. Beautiful and passionate and . . . Mine, mine, mine.

  His body throbbed painfully and he knew it was nothing less than he deserved.

  Steven blew out a frustrated breath. “You just don’t understand.”

  Mike spread his hands out wide, palms forward. “So enlighten me. Explain to me why you’re so upset that a smart, pretty woman desires you. I may not have a Ph.D., but I do have wisdom, which, incidentally, was taught at seminary. Too bad you didn’t go. Looks like a good dose of wisdom is what you need right now.” He folded his hands and resettled his chin. “I’m listening. Go ahead. Explain.”

  Explain. How? How could he explain when he didn’t even understand it himself? When he didn’t understand why he was so angry. Why he’d left Jenna standing alone without a single word of explanation. She probably hated him by now and would never see him again, so he may have solved his problem by default.

  Not a particularly cheering thought.

  “I don’t know, Mike.” Steven slumped down in his chair and closed his eyes. “It’s just too much. Too fast.”

  “Meaning your relationship with Miss Marshall isn’t molding itself into the little space you’ve made for it.” Mike gestured with his hands, forming a box in the air. “Not a tidy package. Can’t put on the lid because it’s a lousy fit. No ribbons or bows.” Mike frowned. “Yo
u, Steven Thatcher, are a stupid control freak.”

  Steven’s eyes flew open. “I am not a control freak.”

  “But you’ll admit to stupid?”

  Steven ground his teeth. “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s some progress I suppose,” Mike said thoughtfully. “You want my opinion?”

  Steven narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Mike shrugged. “Tough beans, you came here, tore me away from Sports Center, so you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

  Steven folded his arms across his chest. “Okay,” he said, his agreement sounding belligerent even to his own ears. He sounded like one of the boys, for God’s sake.

  Mike rolled his eyes. “And I can see from your body language how much you value my opinion. No matter. As for Miss Marshall. You like her.” He lifted a brow. “You really like her.”

  Steven rolled his eyes and felt his cheeks heat. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Now tell me who killed Professor Plum in the study?”

  Mike grinned. “Miss Peacock with the rope because she caught him cheating with Miss Scarlet in the study but that’s not important now. Pay attention, Steven. You like her. A lot. She likes you. A lot. You want to get to know her better, so you ask her out to dinner. Just dinner, nothing else. You plan to work your way up to a physical relationship only a little at a time, because as soon as it gets physical, the floodgates open because it’s been four years, and then you have to marry her. But you can’t marry her until you prove to yourself that she’s not another Melissa, but all this proving takes time. I bet you laid out a timetable that allowed you to kiss her when? Next month? On the fifteenth?”

  “This month,” Steven muttered, then looked away. “On the fifteenth.”

  Mike’s laughter boomed. “Control freak. You always have been.” Mike reached across the table and patted the table in front of Steven. “Look at me, Steven. I’m your best friend. I care about you.” Steven looked at him and felt his heart squeeze. Gone was the laughter in Mike’s dark eyes, replaced by a caring so fundamental . . .

  “I’m listening.”

  Mike nodded. “Good. It’s about time. Lose the timetable, Steven. Let life happen as it happens. Stop trying to make everything happen to your specification. Enjoy your life. Your children. The possibility of a woman who can complete you.”

  Steven swallowed. “It sounds like you’re telling me to marry her tonight.”

  Mike sighed. “You know that’s not true. Your problem . . . well, one of your many problems,” he amended, “is that you only see life in black and white. Good, evil. Right, wrong.”

  “I have to. That’s my job.” Steven glared. “I thought it was yours, too.”

  Mike shook his head. “That’s the point, Steven. Life is not black or white. One or two. Yes or no. On or off. Nothing is safe. Nothing is guaranteed. Only the essence of life itself is on or off. You either wake up in the morning or you don’t. You’re breathing or you’re not. I feel sorry for you.”

  Steven felt his gut tighten. “Why?”

  “You’ve forgotten what love is about. You are so afraid of losing it that you push it away.”

  Steven’s eyes widened. “I do not.”

  “Yes. You do. Melissa left you, hurt your ego, made you choose to lie to your children, so you set up every possible barrier to avoid being hurt again. It’s not abnormal, Steven. It’s human nature. But it won’t make you happy.”

  Steven picked up Mrs. Hennesey’s jam jar and swished the melting ice around and around. “I don’t even remember what that feels like,” he murmured.

  Mike sat back in his chair. “What? Being happy?” Steven met his eyes and nodded. “Yeah.”

  Mike thinned his lips. “Then get off your butt and do something about it. You have a chance for happiness staring you in the face.”

  Steven sighed. “Your point. This time.”

  Mike looked amused. “My point every time, but sometimes I let you think it’s yours.”

  Steven took an ice cube from the jam jar and tossed it in Mike’s face. “You’re so full of it.” He ducked when Mike returned the lob, then sobered. “I don’t know if she’ll see me again. I left kind of abruptly tonight.”

  “Call her. The worst thing she can do is tell you what you deserve to hear.”

  Steven didn’t have a thing to say to that, so he stood up and shrugged into his coat. “I’ll give you a call.”

  Mike walked him to the door. “Steven, how close are you coming to catching the monster who stole our girls?”

  Steven shook his head. “How close are you to taking a wife?”

  Mike sighed. “I thought so. I’ll pray.”

  “We’re going to check out the McDonald’s, but I doubt we’ll find anything. It’s been too long.”

  “If only Serena had come forward sooner,” Mike said sadly.

  “Pray for her, too, Mike. She’s got a hard row ahead of her for the next eighty years or so.”

  Wednesday, October 5, 5:45 A.M.

  They’d found out where he’d met Samantha. Dear, sweet Samantha. How pretty she’d been.

  He frowned thoughtfully. Until he’d shaved her head. Women were decidedly unattractive without hair. Just one more way men were different from women he supposed, sipping coffee from the McDonald’s cup he’d just picked up at the drive-through. Men could get away with being bald.

  Women just looked revolting.

  He considered the two uniformed policemen standing next to the bright yellow police tape. They were bent over the tape, looking into the grass. The sun was just coming up and the police car had been there all night, guarding the “crime scene.”

  Hell, it was no crime scene. Not there anyway. True, Samantha Eggleston had met him there, but no crime had been committed. She’d voluntarily climbed into the car with him.

  Little slut. She’d deserved what she’d gotten. His only regret was that she’d . . . expired... before he was completely finished.

  Next time. He’d do all he’d planned next time. With the next one.

  He took another sip of coffee and grimaced. He hated coffee, but he hadn’t wanted to call attention to himself by getting a Coke at six A.M. For now he was just another guy enjoying his cup of joe as the sun came up. Just another guy planning the next girl he’d lure from her bed. He hadn’t yet figured out who she’d be, but he had a short list.

  He watched as another car drove up. Out hopped Detective Steven Thatcher, resident Columbo. Hah. The man couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag. Thatcher hadn’t even found Samantha’s body yet. He’d have to make another anonymous phone call to the police before the critters did to Samantha what they’d done to poor Lorraine.

  Shame, that. The critters had eaten half of the perfectly good tattoo he’d applied himself.

  Thatcher strode over to the two uniformed cops and began pointing. The cops nodded and Thatcher stood back, arms crossed over his chest as another, younger man in a trenchcoat approached and ducked under the yellow tape, a black bag under his arm.

  He wasn’t terribly worried. There would be no physical evidence linking him to this place. The cops might find Samantha’s hair or some such, but nothing from him.

  He’d been careful.

  He’d been smart.

  Next time he’d be even smarter.

  Wednesday, October 5, 7:40 A.M.

  “Now let me get this straight,” Casey said, her lips turned down in a frown as they hurried from the parking lot to the school. “You were making him dinner and he was being boring and then all of a sudden he became Mr. Frantic Hands? And then he left you in the lurch?”

  Jenna nodded. She still felt numb. “He just . . .” She shrugged inside her jacket. “Walked away.”

  Casey pushed the door open and led the way in. “How rude.”

  Jenna’s lips quirked up at the understatement. “That would be one word for it,” she returned dryly. “I had a few others in mind.”

  Casey snickered. “Go, girl.”

  ?
??But I of course didn’t think of them until after he’d gone.” “Typical,” Casey agreed, then muttered, “Look out, fearless leader at two o’clock.”

  Blackman. She couldn’t take another brow-beating over Rudy Lutz this morning. “Maybe he didn’t see me,” Jenna whispered. But then he turned, met her eyes, and started walking toward her. “Shit. As if my life isn’t already filled with too much fun.” She stopped walking, Casey paused beside her as Blackman approached, his step faster than normal.

  “Dr. Marshall,” he said tightly and Jenna saw his mouth frown under his prim mustache.

  “Dr. Blackman,” she returned. She certainly wouldn’t make it any easier for him.

  “There’s been another incident in your classroom.”

  Jenna sucked in her cheeks. “Now why does that not surprise me, Dr. Blackman?” she asked.

  Blackman glared a moment. “This time it’s worse, Dr. Marshall.”

  Jenna just looked at him. “How can it be worse? They’ve painted graffiti on every blackboard, white board, and blank wall, spray-painted my periodic table and my posters, and super-glued all the Erlenmeyer flasks to my lab tables. They’ve slashed my tires and poured water down my gas tank. What more can they possibly do?”

  “Come with me,” was all he said before turning on his heel and walking crisply up the stairs.

  Jenna exchanged looks with Casey and followed him. Five or six of her students gathered around her classroom door, held back by Lucas who looked angry enough to . . . Jenna stared at him, her gut twisting. Mad enough to kill, as the saying went.

  “What is it, Lucas?” she murmured.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Lucas growled, then lifted his arm to let her through. Then held her shoulders to keep her upright.

  “Oh, God.” Immediate terror clutched her heart. “Lucas.” The last was little more than a whimper. She lifted her hand to her mouth and . . . stared. Up.

  To where the carcass of . . . something . . . swung from a rope tied to a hook mounted in the ceiling tiles, a grotesque piñata.

  Swinging.