Miranda awoke with a start.
She’d heard his voice.
Sweat poured from her body. She sat up and blinked, swallowing a scream, surprised to find her gun in her hand. When had she grabbed it? In her sleep?
His voice.
No, it was her nightmare. The damn nightmare. He was in her head, taunting her. She had escaped. She had lived. But Sharon was dead. Shot in the back. And Rebecca, hunted down and killed, her neck sliced open like game.
Miranda blinked again, her hands shaking as she forced herself to put down the gun. Moonlight cascaded through the skylights, casting blue-gray shadows across her room.
Her bed was in shambles, the sheets twisted and damp, blankets on the floor. Her flannel pajamas were drenched in her perspiration, the tangible scent of her memories on her skin.
It wasn’t even two in the morning. Four hours of sleep-she was surprised she’d collapsed so quickly after coming home. But she doubted she’d sleep another minute tonight.
She showered the sweat of fear off her skin, dressed in jeans, a turtleneck, and her heavy parka since the May nights were still cool, then left for the Lodge, Gray’s famous pecan pie beckoning her.
She walked in through the side door, which was illuminated by a spotlight. The door was locked, but she had a master key. She crossed the dining hall and was about to enter the kitchen when she heard something.
She paused, her heart beating almost as fast as it had after her nightmare.
Silence.
Someone was in the kitchen. Though the moonlight illuminated the Lodge through picture windows, no lights were on. If it were a guest, her father, or an employee, they’d have switched on the lights.
An intruder.
She reached for the gun she’d stuffed in her fanny pack. She hadn’t left home without a gun for twelve years. Cautious but determined, she approached the main kitchen door.
Bracing herself just inside the door, she reached for the light switch with her left hand while holding her right arm-the one with the gun-steady in front of her.
She mentally counted to three, then hit the switch and cocked her revolver.
A tall, half-naked man spun around, a fork toppling off his plate onto the floor.
“Shit, Miranda! Put the gun down.”
She did, as her mouth fell open. No words came out.
The last person she expected to see creeping around the kitchen was Quinn Peterson.
CHAPTER 14
Miranda stuffed the gun back into the waistband of her jeans and stared at Quinn. “What are you doing here?”
“I called your dad from the road and he had a room. I didn’t think we’d run into each other. I figured I’d maybe be here four, five hours sleeping.” He put his plate down on the table. Pecan pie.
“That had better not be the last piece of pie,” Miranda mumbled. Why had she said that? She’d meant to tell him to get the hell off her property.
He smiled, and Miranda blinked. She kept forgetting how good-looking Quinn really was. When she’d seen him the other day, she was so filled with rage and sadness and conflicting emotions she didn’t dwell on his appearance. But seeing him now, his lean, tanned chest bare, his muscles clearly defined even though he was at ease, the scar on his upper right shoulder from a gunshot wound early in his career-it brought back memories. Good memories. Of waking up with Quinn and kissing that hard chest. And his hands-he had the most incredible hands. Large hands, callused palms, with surprisingly elegant fingers. Very talented fingers…
She glanced down to where a narrow trail of dark blond hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his gray sweats. She quickly averted her gaze, already feeling flushed from the adrenaline released when she’d thought he was an intruder.
Having Quinn here, in her kitchen, without the security of work, jerked the rug out from under her. He’d invaded her town, her investigation, and now her home. She hadn’t thought about that day at Quantico- consciously-in years, and wham! The dam broke and she could think of nothing but.
She had no idea what he’d done in the last ten years. He could be married for all she knew. That thought disturbed her and she frowned. Brushing past him, she went to the cupboard where Gray kept his pies.
Sure enough, there was half a pecan pie sitting there, calling her name. She couldn’t help but smile.
She took her time cutting a slice, feeling Quinn’s eyes burrowing into her back. She really didn’t want to sit down and talk to him. Outside of the Lodge, in the woods, with Nick and the others around-that was one thing. But here, alone? No. It reminded her of their former intimacy. Reminded her how she once loved him. Reminded her of what could have been.
But she couldn’t keep her back to him forever. She put her pie on the table, then crossed over to the large, walk-in refrigerator and retrieved a gallon of milk. She set it on the table, along with two glasses. She poured one for herself and one for Quinn, then sat across from him.
“Thanks,” he said. His dark eyes were unreadable. What was he thinking? About her? About them?
She drank her milk, then dug into her pie. If her mouth was full she wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t say something stupid.
He continued to watch her.
She resisted the urge to squirm. During the past several years she’d regained control over her life, built a sense of relative peace. She had a job she loved, a job that did some good, even if she hadn’t been able to find Rebecca before she was killed.
She had a few good friends. Nick. She still kept in touch with Rowan and Olivia, though she hadn’t actually seen them in years. They e-mailed and talked on the phone, but for Miranda it was hard to get away. Impossible. She couldn’t just up and leave Montana when
She loved Rowan and Liv like sisters, but how could she abandon those who needed her? Particularly the dead. Rowan and Liv understood that-they might be the only people who did.
“I should have told you I was staying here,” Quinn said, breaking the silence.
She looked up from her pie. She noted he’d taken the bandage off his forehead. A thin, dark red scab remained, a reminder of his last assignment. She wanted to ask him about it, but didn’t. She didn’t want to care.
His firm, set jaw reminded her of his strength. He had been steadfast when she first met him. Resolved to find Sharon’s killer. She’d helped him because she needed to do something to find the bastard who hurt her and killed Sharon. And then she’d fallen in love.
It didn’t happen overnight. Time to heal, time to get beyond the pain-Quinn gave her everything she needed and more.
Then he ripped it all away.
“The techs preserved everything they could at the shack, and it’s headed out to Helena tomorrow. I decided to call Olivia and ask her to oversee the laboratory tests.”
“Liv? She’s coming here?”
“To Helena, if she can get away.” He grinned. “Sometimes, threatening to take over an investigation will light some fires. They’d much rather take care of the tests themselves, even with a Fed looking over their shoulder, than have everything shipped to Virginia.”
