Hoo boy.
Emma needed to regroup. This was not the way it usually worked with her. She was usually slow to build, slow to burn—but there was nothing slow in the way she responded to Thomas. It was hard and fast and hot and like nothing she'd ever felt before in her life. Not with Aaron. Not with anyone.
And the kicker was he hadn't even touched her. She'd been rendered stupid just from looking at him. Being near him. Thinking about what it would be like to press her lips against his, place her palms against that muscled wall of a chest.
Thomas captured her eyes with his, so penetrating, and the corner of his mouth hitched up. Her head began to spin—had she really ever thought him cold and unfeeling? Had she called him "Robot Boy"? Hadn't she seen right from the start that this man was burning, scorching alive?
Of course she had. But she'd been protecting herself, staying smart, considerations that were apparently no longer important because the only thing that mattered to Emma was that he touch her. Now.
"Thomas?" she whispered, not sure what she was asking for, just that she was asking for it.
He scooted forward another notch and balanced his weight on his hands as he leaned in. Emma found herself doing the same, the inside of her wrists widening her legs as she leaned closer to him. She was buzzing with awareness and knowledge—of the proximity, the heat of him.
He moved closer, and Emma took in the masculine contours of his face in the low light, the solemn look in his eyes, and bit down on her lower lip in anticipation of his kiss—because kissing was exactly what was going to happen now and she damn well knew it.
Then Thomas narrowed his right eye—taking aim—and slowly dipped his head. His lips parted, showing a hint of his white teeth.
And he fired—his mouth was hot and smooth and as soon as his lips covered Emma's, she was lost.
Thomas shook, his whole body tensing and shuddering from the power of the kiss. For a blissful moment, he slipped his tongue along the seam of her sweet mouth, taking it, taking her, as if he was absolutely certain this was the right thing to do.
But the certainty was soon replaced by a sickening panic. She was a woman! He didn't trust women! And even if he could, she wouldn't want him. How could he have forgotten that little detail?
But then Emma parted her lips to receive him and the response was so earnest and trusting and female that he lost his train of thought. He moved his mouth against hers mindlessly, blindly, trying to remember what it was that he was concerned about, what was at the crux of his hesitation.
Right. This woman deserved the best. She deserved it all. And he'd never be able to give it to her.
He tried to pull away, but Emma's soft hands slipped up the sides of his neck and her fingers eased into his hair and a small gasp of need flowed from her mouth into his.
And that's when it happened—a great surge of confidence came over Thomas, clearing the way to her, disintegrating all his doubts, shouting a resounding "Yes!" to everything that was Emma. He didn't know where it came from, but he thanked God for it and rode the crest of this baffling force, feeling himself grow hotter, stronger, harder, until it took everything he had not to attack her like a platter of buffalo wings at a Super Bowl party.
God, she tasted sweet and smooth. She felt like wet silk, as soft as he knew she would. And somehow, for some reason, he was suddenly sure this would all work out in the end. It would be all right. It would be great. No doubt about it.
Thomas's kiss left Emma dizzy.
His lips were firm but gentle, and they slipped delicately, lovingly, over hers. His tongue was doing all kinds of remarkable things—sliding along her bottom lip, tasting, tempting, pushing, flicking. It was almost as if he was sampling a delicacy he'd never had before, something exotic. Then she heard him breathe her name against her mouth—"Emma"—and it sounded profoundly carnal, so much desperate need packed into two simple syllables. She was going down fast.
He pulled his lips away and hovered just inches from her face.
"I need you closer. I need to get my hands on you or I'm going to die."
His voice was strained, the look on his face pure need, and she found that all she could do was nod and swallow. Instantly, he cupped her bottom in his two big hands and pulled her to him, closing the gap between them with decisiveness. She fell forward, her hands slapping down onto the tops of his thighs. The worn denim did nothing to hide the muscle and heat beneath.
Then—oh, damn. His hands began to move over her bottom, stroking up and around, lifting from underneath with wicked fingers, squeezing, then finally coming to rest on her hips. It was a thoroughly possessive gesture that stunned her, and though somewhere in the back of her mind she realized she should be worrying about the fact that his hands were on the biggest asset she had, it didn't matter.
Her self-consciousness had melted in the heat of his gaze, his touch. His hands and eyes stayed locked where they were for a very long moment, enough time to pass a message to Emma: there was no turning back.
Then he grabbed her thighs and pulled her legs up and over his, scooping her up in his arms. She thudded against the hard, muscled front of his body and her head fell back from the force of it. He arched over her. He took her with his mouth.
Now this was some kiss, and Emma felt her body dissolve and become profoundly alive at the same instant. She held on through the shock wave of wonder and pleasure that came from being clasped in his powerful arms, prodded by his slick tongue. This was nothing but pure sensation, complete sensory overload, and she brought her arms around his rock-solid back and heard herself groan.
God, he was amazing! So big and dense and her hands wouldn't stay put on just one spot—they pushed down his hard biceps to his elbows, across his back and into the nape of his neck, and oh, she needed to feel his skin—skin on skin! Her fingers wiggled underneath his shirt, smoothed up his stomach, and landed on the scorching surface of his chest.
Oh, daddy!
Never in her life had she had anything remotely like Thomas Tobin in her hands. She could hardly believe he was real, and a single word throbbed through her brain like a mantra: More. More. More.
Then he hoisted her up onto his lap and there was no mistaking what had just jammed between her legs and she nearly screamed with the thrill of it. Thomas was a big man—just as she'd hypothesized—and the knowledge of that caused her brain to short-circuit.
So she pushed her sundress up around her waist.
Then she felt her hips begin a slow rotation, back and forth, up and down, side to side against his fabulous erection, as though—if she wiggled in just the right way, rubbed up against him in just the right spot—she could get through the barriers of silk, denim, and zipper to what she really wanted.
Him.
It slowly dawned on her that she was acting like a crazy woman.
Then she felt his hands travel up under the back of her sundress and toward the front of her body, where his palms spread wide over her bare breasts and he growled—there was no other word for it—he growled into her mouth as he drew big circles over her nipples with the flat of his palms, then pinched, rolled, until they stung with need.
Her lungs began to burn. Her toes began to curl. It was the beginning of the end.
"You want me right here, right now, don't you?" Thomas had freed his mouth from hers long enough to gasp into her ear. "Tell me what you want, Emma. I'll do it."
It occurred to her that unless something seriously huge happened in the next few seconds—on the scale of earthquake, fire, flood, or asteroid impact—she was about to drag Thomas Tobin to the barn, where she'd tell him exactly what she wanted and expect to get it. Big time.
Then she had the oddest sensation that they weren't alone.
She stopped her gyrations. She stilled her hands. "Stop," she whispered to him. "Please. God. No."
Emma eased away from Thomas's body and turned her head.
Leelee stood behind the screen door, framed in the hall light, her face wra
cked with horror and rage. A small cry escaped her mouth. Then she whipped around, her summer nightgown swinging at her shins, and raced up the stairs.
"Oh, shit!" Emma extricated herself from Thomas's grasp and stood on the porch, hugging herself, then hiding her face. After a few gulps of air she looked back at Thomas, still on the railing, somewhat hunched over and gasping for breath.
What had she done?
"I've got to go to her." Emma could feel the heat flying off the surface of her skin into the evening air. She was coming down from her high, away from the edge. She was seeing things the way a mature adult woman responsible for a child should see them, not some sex-crazed maniac.
Thomas was experiencing a slowdown of his own, but he also felt in shock—not just from the sudden loss of her heat and passion—but from the otherworldly power in just that one taste of Emma Jenkins.
He'd been right—this was going to work out. It had to. Because nothing in his life had ever felt that real, and suddenly Thomas felt compelled to claim her, mark her for his own so that no other man in the world could ever touch her.
All from just one kiss.
"Emma, I—"
"I know," she snapped. "You are absolutely right."
Thomas frowned and eased down off the railing. "I didn't even say anything." He took a careful step toward her.
She straight-armed him in the chest. "Yeah, but you were going to say it was a mistake, and I completely agree. I'm glad we're on the same page."
"Dammit, I was not going to say that!" Thomas grabbed her outstretched hand and pulled it to his lips. "Emma. That was not a mistake." He kissed her little clenched fist and made eye contact. In a soothing voice he said, "Baby, that was a lot of things—wild, surprising, amazing—but a mistake it wasn't."
"Okay. No. Wait. I can't talk with you about this because I've got to go to Leelee. Do you understand? I have to go to her—now. She's the most important thing in the world to me."
The instant Emma withdrew her hand from his grasp her knees gave out. She started to fall, but Thomas caught her in his arms.
"No!" Emma went rigid and twisted away toward the door. "Oh God—I've screwed up so bad." She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. "Leelee's in there! My dad's in there! And I'm out here behaving like a—" She let out a frustrated groan. "We should forget this ever happened. I'll help you with Hairy, but this—whatever this thing is between us—it's just not the right time for me. Good night."
"Stop right there." Thomas spun her around, and before she could protest, he put his mouth on hers again, calming, stroking, sealing the understanding between them.
"There are no mistakes between us, Emma." He kissed her forehead. "Take care of Leelee. We'll talk tomorrow."
She was already gone. The screen made a sharp crack when it closed, followed by the deep thud of the old oak panel door and the slide of the dead bolt.
Thomas stood on the porch, still erect, still in shock, still trying to get his bearings. He felt a soft brush against his ankle, and saw Hairy gazing up at him.
Thomas let go with a sharp laugh. "That sure sucks, doesn't it, pal?"
No kidding, Big Alpha. What are we going to do now?
"We'll figure something out." As Thomas bent down to retrieve the dog, Hairy leaped into the air to meet him halfway, as if making it easier for him.
Thomas smiled and cocked his head, taking a moment to study the dog. "Huh." Then he tucked Hairy under his arm and headed down the front steps.
Thomas dropped the dog on the passenger seat towel. "When am I gonna catch a break with that woman, Hairy? When monkeys fly out of my butt?"
If Hairy had been physiologically capable, he would have laughed. Poor Big Alpha.
"Let's go home, little buddy."
Hairy grinned up at him. Yeah. Let's go home.
* * *
Aaron woke up gagging.
His arms were imprisoned painfully at his sides. His head was tilted back at an unnatural angle. The metal felt cold and hard in his mouth and he could taste the blood pooling in the soft upper palate.
Dimly, he realized he could choke to death on his own blood in this position.
He felt his eyes fly wide in terror, but he couldn't see much—other than the open-pored, scarred skin of the Ugly One, too close in the light of the motel reading lamp. The Ugly One must be holding the gun. Aaron couldn't see the other man at all, the one who held his arms.
"Time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it?" The Ugly One's breath was sickeningly sweet, like peppermint over rotted flesh. "We get every fucking penny, or you die. We get half of it Friday or we torch your precious little Z. Do you understand?"
Aaron tried to nod but the gun barrel scraped against the tender flesh of his mouth with the slight movement. Another stab of pain ripped through him. All he could think was, Not the Z! Anything but the Z!
Aaron felt himself being turned on his side. He heard the cracking thud on the back of his head just as the world went black.
* * *
Chapter 10
I Feel for You
« ^ »
"What are you, friggin' nuts?" Stephano's laugh nearly shook the picture frames off his desk. "You want me to authorize the payment of eight thousand dollars to a pet psychic?"
"For God's sake, Vinny—I said psychiatrist, not psychic!" Thomas looked to his captain, then Lieutenant Regina Massey, then back to his boss. "She's a doctor of veterinary medicine who specializes in animal behavior. It's a new and very specialized field of study."
"Uh-huh." The captain's eyes glazed over. "You know, Tobin, I think I'd have a better chance of justifying eight grand so me and the wife could go to Bermuda and sit around drinking banana daiquiris. The answer would have to be no."
"Then I'll pay her myself."
In truth, it was a possibility Thomas had already considered. He owed Slick everything he could do for him. Besides, he saw it as an investment in his future—his future with Emma.
"So would that be a problem? Kind of like my own private consultant?"
Stephano's two eyebrows bunched together over the bridge of his nose until they formed a unibrow of thick, black consternation. "What? Are you doing her or something?"
Thomas straightened in his chair. "Jesus, Vinny. You're a pig."
Stephano's expression relaxed. "Oh. She's an ugly pet psychic."
"No!" Thomas shot up out of his chair, then sat back down, bewildered by his own behavior and painfully aware of Reg's amused expression.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Look. She's a lovely lady and she's damn smart and she thinks there's a chance we can get Slick's dog to tell us what he knows about the murder."
The captain smiled with sudden understanding. "Oh, I think I've got it now—a 'Ruh-roh-Shaggy' Scooby-Doo thing, right?"
Massey and Stephano cracked up.
Thomas knew going in that this wouldn't be easy. He was prepared for this. He took a deep breath.
"The dog was there. He's, the only material witness we have." Thomas ignored the ongoing laughter. "The dog probably saw everything, heard everything, smelled everything. We just need to find a way to find out what he knows. Dr. Jenkins can do that."
Regina cleared her throat before she spoke in that smooth, hot-chocolate voice of hers. "All right, counselor." She grinned at Thomas. "Let's just say your pretty Dr. Dolittle can perform this miracle. But just think for a minute—how in heaven's name can we introduce any of it as evidence? Are we going to put the puppy on the stand? Have him put his paw on the Bible and swear to tell the truth so help him…"—she started to snicker—"dog?"
"Very funny, Reg." Thomas had to wait a moment for the guffaws to die down. "Work with me here—you got witnesses lining up and begging to talk to you about the Slick homicide?"
"No," she said, giving him the look he knew from experience translated into smartass. She sighed. "The three other residents in the building were at work. Nobody in the area saw or heard anything."
&nb
sp; "All right." Thomas felt he was getting somewhere. "So, what if the dog can lead us to someone—something—that is admissible in a court of law? What if he can narrow it down enough that we get a break in the case?"
"It's still a lot of money out of your pocket." She cocked her head and frowned. "You still think you're responsible for Slick's death, Tommy?"
He hissed. "There's a good chance I am."
Thomas left his chair and retreated to the window. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out over the lush green lawn of the state police headquarters.
After a quick glance back at Stephano, he said, "I forced the guy to stay in the game when he wanted out—a few days later, he got himself killed."
"But his murder may have had nothing to do with him being an informant," Regina said. "We're still pursuing the domestic dispute angle."
"But there's a chance it was related to his being my informant." Thomas spun on his heels to face Regina. "What if the real reason he wanted out was that he feared for his life? What if someone had found out what he was doing for us and started blackmailing him?"
After a moment, Thomas returned to his chair and sat down heavily. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked up at Regina.
"So, yeah, Reg—it's worth it to me. You know my dad left behind a decent estate and that I'm no slouch when it comes to the market. I won't miss the money. It's the least I can do for Slick. He was a decent guy…"—Thomas looked down at his hands—"and the best informant the team ever had."
Regina smiled wistfully. "Must be nice to be able to throw away a wad of cash like that."
"It won't be thrown away."
"Okay. Fine." Stephano waved his hand around impatiently. "I don't see how it would violate departmental policy, but Jesus, Tobin, you don't usually do crazy shit like this."
Thomas smiled. "Tell me about it."