Sheriff’s Runaway Witness

you. So I don’t know what you had to be sorry about, unless it’s because you didn’t kiss me back. Is that what you were apologizing for? ‘Sorry, but I just don’t find you appealing enough to kiss.’ Was that it?”

He muttered, “For God’s sake, Rachel.” But she wasn’t through.

“Not that I blame you. I know I’m a fat, flabby mess, and you haven’t exactly seen me at my best, and I wouldn’t blame you for being completely turned off. So if you don’t want to kiss me, or…anything else, I completely-”

He hadn’t been aware of moving toward her, but suddenly there he was, close enough to her to take the ball cap from her hand and hook it over the horn of the saddle right behind her. He put his hands on her arms and heard a faint gasp escape her lips.

“You want me to kiss you?” he growled, from deep down in his chest where the emotions lay hidden. “Is that what you want? Because let me tell you, lady, I find you incredibly appealing. More appealing than you can possibly imagine. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more than kiss you-among other things. You understand?”

She just looked at him. He gave her a little shake, and her lips parted. She whispered, “Then why don’t you?”

He groaned and looked up into a canopy of pine branches. “Why don’t I? Because you have enough crap to deal with, that’s why. You’re vulnerable and confused. And because you don’t know me. You don’t know who I am, or what I want from you.”

He could hear the faint sound of her swallow. Then her chin lifted and she looked straight into his eyes. “I know you care about me. You care enough to get on a horse for me. Which I think is huge. And maybe I’m not as confused as you think I am. Not anymore. Because I know Nicky would never have done such a thing for me. Never.”

For a long moment he stared down at her, hating what had to happen, knowing it had to be now, and that it had to be final. Then he muttered, “Remember, you asked for this.” Then he lowered his head and kissed her.

Kissed her. He had in mind something quick and hard, when he started it-something that would send her a message, clear and simple: Beware of me, little girl, because I’m only going to hurt you. But then he felt her mouth tremble and soften and open to him, and he knew the only message was the one he was getting, which was that kissing her was what he wanted more than his next breath, and the person most likely to wind up hurt was Jethro Jefferson Fox, the Third.

He hadn’t meant to fold her into his arms, which meant raising her up so that her legs just naturally came around him and her arms lifted to twine around his neck. He felt her fingers in the damp hair on the back of his neck, then a rush of coolness as she took off his hat, and somewhere in the back of his mind was an awareness that losing the hat was something like losing a bit of his own armor.

And for that moment, at least, he didn’t care. The thinking part of his brain had gone silent, overwhelmed by the part that only felt. Felt and wanted more. Felt the firm, full press of her breasts against his thumping heart and wanted her skin touching his skin. Tasted the sweet, hot wine of her mouth and longed to taste every inch of her with his mouth. Felt the most tender and womanly part of her body nestled against the hardest and most manly part of his and yearned for the barriers of denim and zippers and buttons that separated them to be gone.

It was that yearning that brought him back from the brink. When the swelling of his body became agony, the desire fogging his brain thinned just enough so he could hear the thinking part shrieking at him: What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you crazy?

He tried to ignore it for another moment or two, knowing it was going to hurt like bloody hell to tear himself away from her. And it was knowing how he was hurting her that made it possible for him, finally, to let her go. He eased her down until her feet were on solid ground again, then took hold of her arms and pulled them away from his neck. Then, he lifted his mouth from hers. Still holding her arms, he gave her a little shake, breathing like a marathon runner. “There-is that what you wanted?”

Her eyes, luminous and wounded, stared up at him. He forced himself to look at her, to see the effects of what he was doing to her-the panting, whimpering breaths, the bruised lips and tear-shimmer-remembering how he’d once wanted to kill the person who’d left bruises on her face, knowing the ones he was leaving were far worse because they were the kind that don’t fade.

“You think that’s what you want?” He caught several rasping breaths of his own. “Then let me tell you about me. Let me tell you who I am.”

Chapter 12

“I know who you are,” Rachel whispered. Her mind filled with images of his face, his smile as he gazed down at Sean.

He closed his eyes and shook her again, his fingers hard on her arms. She was sure there would be bruises. “You don’t,” he said harshly. “You only think you do.”

“Then I…don’t understand.”

“I’m a cop-you got that? A cop. And you, lady, are the widow of a crime kingpin’s son, who happened to be present when your husband was shot along with a couple of federal agents. You were there. You’re a witness. Get it?”

“But I don’t-”

He shook her again, and she stopped and just stared at him, wishing she could block out these images: the cold glitter of his eyes, the hard, unyielding line of his mouth. A moment ago I was kissing that mouth. How could it have felt so good?

“You’re a witness. You’re my witness. You are the witness who is going to break this case for me. The witness who’s going to get me my old job back. Now-do you understand what I want from you?”

She nodded. Her body had gone cold and still. He must have felt it, because he let go of her arms, exhaled and muttered, “Good…” He bent down to pick up his hat from the mossy creek bank where she’d tossed it.

She cleared her throat. “You want me to testify,” she said carefully, feeling nothing at all, except cold. “You want me to say I saw who killed those two feds.”

He turned to her, having jammed his hat back on his head, and she saw his eyes glint from the deep shadow of the hat’s brim. “I want you to tell what you saw. What you remember.”

Rachel drew a deep breath and pulled together the remnants of her strength, self-respect and pride. “Then I’m going to have to disappoint you,” she said, in a voice that didn’t shake. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this for nothing, but I didn’t see anything. Nicky shoved me down behind a Dumpster. I don’t know who killed the law officers. Do you get it? I don’t even know who killed Nick.” She sucked in another breath. “So, you can go home now.”

She plucked the pink cap Josie had given her from the saddle horn, lifted her foot into the stirrup and, ignoring twinges in tender parts of her body, lifted herself into the saddle. From that height she looked down at the man she’d once thought looked like a hero from an old Western movie. He no longer made her think of John Wayne, or anybody else; now, he was just J.J. And, looking down at him, she still didn’t feel anything. But she knew the pain was out there, gathering like a tsunami wave, heading straight for her. And she knew that when it hit her she wanted to be far away from the man who had caused it.

“Do you understand?”

He lifted his head and looked at her, his face stony.

“I can’t help you. I don’t have anything for you, so you don’t have any reason to stay.”

“Carlos-”

“Sage will protect me. He can hire someone. This is my grandfather’s place, and I want you gone.”

She tugged on the appaloosa’s reins and turned her head toward home. She dug her heels into the mare’s sides and leaned forward over her neck. She saw J.J. leap back out of the way as the mare’s hooves bit into the moist earth, and then she was surging up the shaded slope and into the meadow. Once on the open ground, she gave the horse her head and took what comfort she could from what should have been one of her greatest pleasures-riding a