Carnal Sin

have time to analyze-and didn’t know if she wanted to.

She cleared her throat and grabbed a water bottle off the counter, drained half of it in one long gulp, then handed the rest to Rafe.

A knock on the door had her sighing in relief.

“Duty calls,” she said.

Rafe looked through the peephole. “It’s Jackson.”

“Twenty-nine minutes,” she said as Rafe opened the door. “Right on time.”

SIXTEEN

It was after eleven by the time Grant finished the report on Nadine Anson’s death and started for home. He’d written most of it while sitting outside the Palomar. He didn’t know why he thought those two from Santa Louisa would be up to something, but he didn’t feel right leaving them on their own. He hoped they’d screw like rabbits and leave his case alone.

Grant didn’t consciously make the detour toward Velocity. It wasn’t out of his way, since he lived just the other side of the 405 in West L.A. He was so exhausted he was practically asleep on his feet, but he wanted to talk to Julie about Nadine. He wished he could have told her in person, but he’d been tied up on the scene, then wanted to make sure Moira O’Donnell and her boyfriend actually checked into the hotel as they said they would. He had a dozen questions and every time he thought he had an answer, another ten questions popped up.

He squirmed at the thought of the two of them in a solitary hotel room. He didn’t particularly like Raphael Cooper. He was too quiet, for one thing, and watched everything with sharp eyes. Grant didn’t like being scrutinized by anyone, particularly Cooper. And he was always standing just behind Moira, like a bodyguard ready to pounce on any man who wandered too close.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wondered where that thought had come from. Moira was certainly his type, all that thick wavy hair and athletic body and sarcastic mouth. But he didn’t go after attached women. He shouldn’t even be thinking about getting her naked beneath him, but it had been on his mind since he’d met her, though that didn’t mean much. Grant usually assessed women as potential lovers. But when he’d seen Moira unconscious and vulnerable in the alley behind Velocity … he’d wanted her.

The line outside Velocity was long, but as a regular and a cop Grant had access whenever he wanted and he used his privilege tonight.

He looked around for Julie but didn’t see her. Sitting at the bar, as far from the dance floor as he could get, he rubbed his temples. A bitch of a migraine had solidified its position dead center after he watched Nadine Anson lose her mind, then her life. It made no sense, and he had been running through the scene over and over again trying to understand what happened to her. But all it did was make his migraine worse.

He should feel elated-she’d confessed right there with witnesses that she’d killed “them.” Not specifically who, but Nadine’s prints were all over George Erickson’s house. It was enough that his chief would close the case and tell him to pick up one of the other fifty case files sitting on his desk.

But Grant didn’t feel satisfied with closing the case with so many unanswered questions. This case-these cases-disturbed him. He was a good cop, but he cut corners like most. Knew what lines he could cross and which he couldn’t. Had he cut a corner he shouldn’t have? Had he let his friendship with the staff here at Velocity cloud his judgment?

“On the house,” Ike said, sliding over Grant’s off-duty beverage of choice, a bottle of Heineken. “You look like you need a couple shots of whiskey.” He nodded toward the bandage on Grant’s face. “I heard what happened.”

“I had paperwork up the ass, otherwise I would have come in earlier.”

Ike waved off his apology. “You want to get good and drunk, I’ll get you a cab, no problem.”

He shook his head. “Nah. Just this one for me. Early morning. I wanted to talk to Julie. Is she still here?”

“Yeah. Wendy let some of the girls off early, but Julie said she’d stay. I think she’s waiting for you.”

Grant shifted on the stool. His and Julie’s on-again/ off-again relationship wasn’t doing either of them any good, but he couldn’t say goodbye. Sure, they weren’t together anymore-they screwed around with others-but neither of them had claimed they wanted to keep their friendship strictly platonic. Grant didn’t want a relationship with anyone. He already had one failed marriage and more failed relationships than he could count on his fingers and toes combined. What he and Julie had was an agreement, though he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. She deserved better. He hoped she found someone who treated her with the respect and love she deserved. Grant cared for her-but she was too good for him. Most women were. Fortunately for his libido, they didn’t seem to know it.

“Tell her I’m here, okay?”

Ike gave him a thumbs-up and walked away. Thank God; Grant didn’t want to talk anymore. The throbbing dance music, which he could usually push to the back of his mind, was punishing with its heavy bass. He tried to focus on the eye candy that filled the trendy club. Like that blonde at the bar being hit on by two guys. Early twenties, small but perky tits, a little chunky around the hips, but he didn’t mind. She caught his eye and he winked. She smiled, enjoying putting on the show, touching one of the men flirting with her.

Slut.

Another blonde walked by and hesitated beside him. He ignored her, though she was hotter than Ms. Perky- Tits. His thoughts disturbed him. He never thought of women as sluts. Some were too loose for his tastes, but they were few and far between. He didn’t expect them to behave better than he did.

Sheriff Skye McPherson was a blonde. Quite a looker, too, better than most of the women in his division. But she was a cop. Physically, Grant would be happy to have her in his bed, but he didn’t date anyone in law enforcement. Period. They were either man-haters or too damn competitive. He wanted someone who was strong and self-sufficient, but also soft and feminine. Gorgeous, but unpretentious; independent, but affectionate.

Someone like Moira O’Donnell. Someone exactly like Moira O’Donnell.

She’d been on his mind since Grant saw her in the morgue early in the afternoon. Gorgeous, check. Definitely not conceited or pretentious. Didn’t flaunt her good looks like the sluts who frequented Velocity. In fact, Grant suspected that Moira wouldn’t set foot in Velocity for fun. He imagined that she enjoyed beer by the pint and rowdy laughter and would know exactly how to please him. She was physically sculpted-he’d seen her muscles, her lean, hard, flat stomach, and pictured what it would be like to have her ride him all night long. No strings attached.

Self-sufficient and independent, check. But he saw her lean on that long-haired jerk who wouldn’t leave her side. Raphael Cooper. What kind of name was Raphael? Or Rafe? A sissy name. And he let her just run the show. Overprotective. She could do so much better than that loser. He didn’t even have a job. Grant had checked on him. He’d been in a fucking coma until two weeks ago. She probably felt sorry for him; that’s why she was at his side. Maybe they weren’t involved.

They’re sharing a hotel room.

Grant pushed that thought aside, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling hot and cold at the same time, trying not to picture Moira O’Donnell screwing the too quiet, pompous, overprotective asshole.

She needed someone like Grant.

He would show Moira O’Donnell who was on top, and she’d enjoy every minute.

“Grant?”

He blinked, then saw Julie standing next to him, concern on her face. Guilt coursed through his body; he’d been thinking about fucking another woman while waiting for the one he’d been screwing most every weekend for the last six months. He had a flash of Julie and Moira in his bed, and his cock tightened uncomfortably.

He flushed. Why was he here?

Nadine.

“What’s wrong?” Julie’s voice cracked.

Wrong. “You heard about Nadine.” He cleared his throat and focused. He was a cop first. “I’m so sorry, Julie.”