what it took to make her smile. It took getting hit in the face.
As they left the bar, a cool breeze loosened tendrils of blond hair from Hope’s ponytail and blew them across her smooth cheeks. His gaze lowered from her face to her arms and the very distinct points in the front of her top. Dylan’s chest got tight, his left eye throbbed, and he looked away.
He helped her into the sheriff’s Blazer, and on the short drive to Timberline Road, he wondered what kind of woman dressed in spandex, walked into a redneck bar, and provoked a man like Emmett.
Someone who thought she was a badass. The Terminator.
“Who was that woman in the bar?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“There were several women in the bar. Which one do you mean?”
“Blond. Big hair. Big breasts.”
His brows lifted and he winced. “Dixie Howe,” he answered and gingerly touched his cheekbone just beneath his eye.
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No.” Damn, his face had started to swell. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.”
He looked over at her, the light from the switch panel illuminating half her face. Her ponytail was a bit ragged. She smelled strongly of beer. “Curious if I have a girlfriend?”
“No, curious about what she offered you.”
He turned the Blazer onto Timberline Road and said, “Now, that would be telling.”
“I bet I can guess.”
He laughed and pulled the Chevy into her dark drive. “Maybe she just wanted to talk.”
“Yeah, maybe through the bone phone?”
He slammed on the brakes, and if the vehicle hadn’t already been slowing, he would have put her through the windshield. “What?”
She put her hands on the dash to stop herself. “Maybe she wants to talk through-”
“Jesus H. I heard you the first time.” He stared at her and suddenly it all made perfect sense. Her glassy eyes, easy smiles, and the stench of beer he’d assumed had spilled
“Hmm? Well, usually I’m not much of a drinker, but it was twofer night.”
“How many?”
“I must have had four.”
“In how many hours?”
“Two.” She reached for the door handle and was out of the car before he’d even shut off the engine. “I probably should have eaten dinner before I had anything to drink,” she continued as she walked across the dirt yard.
Dylan tossed his hat on the passenger seat and followed. The house was completely dark. No light spilled into the yard from the porch or windows. The full moon provided the only illumination, and it shone on Hope’s hair, turning it gold. She stopped at the top of the steps and stared at her front door.
“Where is your key?” he asked as he came to stand behind her.
“I wasn’t going to be gone long, so I didn’t leave any lights on.” She fished around in her fanny pack and said, “This is kind of spooky.”
Dylan unhooked the MAG-LITE from his duty belt and shined it on the front door. It was slightly ajar. “Did you leave your door open?”
She looked up, and with the keys in her palm said, “No, I always lock it when I leave.”
“It’s still locked, so you probably just didn’t pull it shut all the way.” He stepped back and trained the light on the windows and the front of the house. Nothing was broken. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walked around the house and shined the flashlight on the windows. He checked the back door, but it was locked and there didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary. “Yeah, I think you just didn’t shut the door tight,” he said after he’d once again moved to stand beside her.
“Yeah, maybe.” She quickly stepped behind him. “You first.”
He’d already planned on checking out the house for her, but what he hadn’t planned on was her hooking her hand around the back of his belt and urging him forward like a human shield. Now, there were times in Dylan’s life when he hadn’t minded women using his body, but they’d always been naked at the time. He didn’t know how he felt about being used as a target so Hope could run like hell if anything hit him first.
Her knuckles poked the small of his back and urged him forward. He entered the house and flipped on the lights. “Anything out of place?”
She raised up on her toes and her breasts pressed into his back as she looked over his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” she said right next to his left ear.
Her breath warmed the side of his neck and turned his blood hot. “Jesus.”
She dropped to her heels and her knuckles once again urged him forward. She steered him toward the dining room and he turned on the light. The room had been buffed and polished and on the long table sat a closed laptop, a printer, a scanner, and a fax machine. Stacks of books and magazines and newspapers sat next to a computer. Things Dylan imagined a writer would need, but to write
“Everything okay in here?”
This time she leaned to the right and peeked around his shoulder. “Yes.” Her knuckles poked his spine again and they headed to the kitchen. Like the dining room, it, too, was spotless. The pots and pans hanging on the rack had been polished, the floor buffed, and the windows cleaned. All the furniture had been placed in the house recently.
One of the last times he’d been standing in the kitchen, the FBI had been here, too. They’d swarmed the place shortly after Hiram killed himself, and they’d taken most everything that hadn’t been nailed down. Dylan wondered what Hope would think if he told her that when they’d found Hiram dead, they’d also found red crotchless panties and a bullwhip hanging from that rack. The significance of those items became clear only after viewing the photographs and videotapes Hiram Donnelly had made of himself.
The thud of Dylan’s bootheels and the squeak of Hope’s running shoes directly behind him were the only sounds on their way to the back door. For her peace of mind, he checked it again; then they moved into the living room. When he turned on the lights, she did that raising-on-her-toes thing and pressed into his back again. Pure fire shot straight to his groin and he went from semi to stiff in less than a second. He wondered what she would do if he slid one hand around her waist, and stuck his tongue down her throat. His blood throbbed in his veins and he wondered if she’d melt into him. If she’d let him touch her breasts and feel between her legs. If he took her hand and pressed her palm into his erection.
“Everything looks good from here,” she said and dropped to her heels. “Let’s go upstairs.”
He knew he should step away, put his hands in the air, and leave the area, but he couldn’t quite force himself to do what he knew he should. Not yet. “You stay down here.”
“Don’t you think I should go with you?”
He looked over his shoulder and into her upturned face a few inches from his own. His gaze slid over her smooth forehead and perfect blond brows to her big, slightly out-of-focus blue eyes. He studied the bow of her top lip, and he said, just above her mouth, “Do you want me to check out your bed?”
“Yes,” she said and he about popped a vessel. “And then look behind the shower curtain in the bathroom. I don’t want to take a shower and get stabbed by Norman Bates.”
“Jesus, stay here.” His head spinning, he removed her hand from the back of his belt and walked away. “You should definitely stay here.”
He moved upstairs and quickly checked for intruders. He couldn’t say why, but he was glad to see that she hadn’t chosen the master bedroom. Glad she wasn’t sleeping in the same room where old Hiram had been tied up and spanked. Perhaps if he hadn’t seen the videos, hadn’t seen the faces of teenage girls, he wouldn’t see the taint of it now.
When Dylan came to the room she’d chosen for her bedroom, he stopped in his tracks. The way she’d decorated, it was obvious the woman lived alone. Everything was covered in white lace and purple flowers, like she slept in some sort of overrun garden. He seriously doubted the realtor who rented the property had placed that stuff in the house.
