Читать книгу Rocky Mountain Valor - Jennifer D. Bokal - Страница 15
ОглавлениеPetra’s words surrounded Ian like smoke.
The last time they spoke, his job had been the topic. She’d cried. He’d yelled. The accusations had been plentiful on both sides. And now she wanted to hire him? In a day that was anything but smooth, this was the last wrinkle he’d expected.
A bolt of anger shot through Ian. She was the one who’d left—and now she was back, asking for help? Damn her!
He checked his emotions and cleared his throat. “You can’t hire me,” he said. His stomach clenched into a hard ball of resolve. “I closed Rocky Mountain Justice today.”
Petra recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “What do you mean? I thought you were working with the FBI. I heard something on the news this morning that made me think of you...”
“There was a raid,” he said, “and we were working together, but we got sacked.” Before she could ask why, he added, “I got caught trying to steal evidence.”
“I know you, Ian. You’re impulsive, but not careless. What’s going on?”
He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and even if he did, Ian hardly knew what he would say. Nikolai Mateev was out there and Ian was going to find him. He didn’t need this distraction.
“I’m sorry, Petra. I can’t help. It’s too complicated for me to explain, but without my license, anything I do will be considered illegal. It won’t be admissible in court and could send me to jail. And I certainly wouldn’t be of much use to you, under the circumstances.”
“Sure, I get it,” she said. And then added, “I should go.” Her gaze traveled from his face to the door. “The media was at my condo, so I’ll need to find someplace to stay for the night.”
Ian’s chest tightened. He knew Petra, knew she’d already be thinking about the next steps in her case. Should she plea-bargain for minimal jail time?
No, Ian couldn’t turn her out, not if he could help—even if it was only to hear what she had to say. Maybe he could add some perspective.
“Stay,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”
“One of my clients was attacked in his home,” she said. “The police think I did it.”
“And did you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Shock?” he asked.
“No. It was a migraine.”
Ian had been in business long enough to know that most crimes had as much to do with the victim as the perpetrator. “Which client?” he asked.
“Joe Owens,” she said.
“The Mustangs’ quarterback?”
“You know him? I thought you didn’t really follow American sports,” she said, surprised.
“I live in Denver,” Ian said pointedly. “The name Joe Owens is hard to avoid.”
He paused. Was this all she wanted from him—help? Then again, hadn’t he imagined this exact moment time and again where he got a chance to face her, to find out what had led her to walk out on him? She was asking for his help—but looking at her, he was forced to admit all the time she’d called to him from his dreams since she’d left. Although in his fantasies, she had rushed into his arms for solace...and passion.
In the reality of the moment, she remained rooted by the stairs, and the past two years stretched out around him like a desert. It seemed as though little of their once-blazing desire for each other had survived.
Ian studied her face, trying to catalog what had changed since he’d seen her last. There was a scrape on her chin and a bruise to her cheek. But those differences were superficial.
She wore her hair longer than when they’d been together, and even in the baggy clothes, she was still toned with well-defined muscles, he could tell. There were fine lines around her eyes and slight furrows between her brows. Far from the changes making her less attractive, she had gained gravitas and wisdom. In fact, she was more beautiful than before.
Then that begged the question—what changes did she see in him?
“What happened?” he asked, bringing the conversation around to the reason she was in his home.
Petra’s fingers trailed along the railing. His gaze followed her touch. Ian’s mouth went dry.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Like I said, I don’t remember.”
Ian wasn’t in the mood for a mystery—not tonight. “What do you know?”
Petra spent the next several minutes telling him about the events of the morning. The interview. The call. The migraine. The blackout. Finding the body, the arrest and getting bail. “I couldn’t think of anyplace else to go,” she concluded. “I hope you aren’t upset.”
For Ian, there were several questions—some more important than the others. He began with one of the most benign. “How about we talk about this over a cup of tea?” He’d never gotten into the coffee habit, despite his colleagues’ ribbing him about his British tastes.
“Actually,” she said with a sigh, “that’d be nice.”
The kitchen was beyond the foyer, and for the first time, Ian saw it as a sterile place—one without use or meaning. The granite countertops and cherry cabinets were wiped clean and sparkled as if in a commercial for lemon-scented cleanser.
It was completely opposite from when he’d lived with Petra. When she was here, the aroma of coffee always filled the house. The island in the center of the kitchen was covered with dishes, a smudge or two on the appliances. At the time, he’d found it too chaotic. And now? He missed the disorder, the sense of home she’d brought to his life.
Who was he kidding? She’d been his home—and he’d been too focused, too obsessed with his target to appreciate everything he had with her.
He set the pot to boil. “You’re in a mess,” he said. “But why come to me? This isn’t exactly the type of case that RMJ handles.”
“Like you said. I am in a mess and isn’t that your specialty? People with problems?”
It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Ian needed to hear Petra say that she needed him. Yet she hadn’t.
She sighed, “I’m not trying to escape the consequences, even if it means some time in jail.”
Ian tried to admire her bravery, her character. Still, this was Petra, the woman he loved. Had once loved, he corrected, if only to himself.
“Some time in jail?” he echoed her sentiment, each word dripping in incredulity. “You can end up spending your life behind bars. Or worse. Colorado is a death penalty state, you know.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. It was the first sign of vulnerability and it cut Ian to the core.
“I’m scared,” she said. “Scared I did something horrible. Scared that I’ll be prosecuted for something I didn’t do—or worse, that I did but can’t remember doing. Scared that I’ll never know the truth.”
Her words trailed off. Ian wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms, to keep her fears at bay. Yet he couldn’t—shouldn’t—touch her.
He asked instead, “Why did you come to me, Petra?”
“I want to know what happened,” she said. “No matter what, you can find the truth.”
The kettle began to boil. At least he could offer her the comfort of a cup of tea. He filled a cup with water and a tea bag before handing it to Petra. “Sugar,” he said. “No cream.”
She looked down and smiled, as if to herself. “You remembered.”
How could he not? Everything about Petra was unforgettable.
Petra scooped in sugar and stirred her tea. The silver spoon hit the side of the china cup, filling the room with a tinny chime. “I guess what really bothers me is that I feel like a ticking time bomb. I’m worried that I’m actually dangerous to everyone—my clients, my friends, my family.”
Ian reached for her wrist, stilling her hand. “I’ll be honest, I have a hard time picturing you being violent—even if your job was at stake and you were frustrated.”
Petra kept her eyes on the counter. “I’m not so sure I agree with you.”
“Here’s the way I see it. Joe Owens is a big bloke—you’re easily half his size. He’s strong and not likely to let you stab him without a fight. Where are your wounds? Why aren’t you bruised from head to toe?”
“But what if I surprised him?”
“What? While stumbling through his house, blind with a migraine? It’s not in your nature to attack someone for no reason.”
“I had a reason,” she insisted. “My boss threatened to fire me because of Joe.”
“Granted, you’re driven—but a life for a job? It hardly seems like an equal trade.”
She pressed her lips together. “I wasn’t exactly in control. There’s no telling what I might have done and no way to gauge my actual strength in that fugue state.”
A tremor ran down his spine. Petra’s honest nature might well be her undoing.
“You didn’t point any of this out to the police, did you?” Ian continued with a warning, “Remember those Miranda rights. Anything you say is likely to be used against you.”
“Are you telling me to lie?” she asked.
“I’m telling you not to make it too easy.”
“Understood,” she said with a nod.
Petra’s situation was like a puzzle box, with only one way to solve it, and thousands of ways to be wrong. His mind began to work and he lighted on a rather simple fact. “You never saw or spoke to Joe after you arrived, correct? He could’ve been attacked and then left for dead.”
“But if I didn’t attack Joe, who did?” she asked.
“Who else might want him dead?”
She shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone. Everyone loved Joe Owens. He was a hometown hero. Championship MVP.”
“Obviously, someone didn’t.”
Petra took a sip of her tea. A bead of tea collected on her lip. She licked it away.
God help him, an image of his lips on hers, his mouth claiming her, their tongues intertwined, came to Ian and left him wanting more than a memory.
He picked up his own tea and gulped down a swallow. The liquid scalded him. Then again, he’d been burned by her before. Passion and pain were opposite sides of the same coin, and in that regard, with Petra, he’d been a wealthy man.
“You said you were on the radio talking about Joe and his most recent scandal...” He let his words trail off so that Petra could fill in the facts.
“He threw a punch at a reporter for asking an embarrassing question at yesterday’s press conference. Last week he yelled at a waitress and his tirade ended up on the internet. Then the week before, he was arrested for disturbing the peace at a nightclub.”
“Was the reporter seriously hurt? Any reason to want vengeance?”
Petra shook her head. “Joe only got in a punch or two before being dragged out of the room. The incident made the reporter famous. He was contacted by a cable sports channel and called our agency for representation. The waitress was given twenty-thousand dollars by the team and she enrolled in college. No one wants to get even.”
“And the police wouldn’t try to kill someone who got rowdy at a club.”
“Doubtful,” Petra agreed.
“There has to be something else. Nobody is completely beloved. What about his personal life?”
“Joe’s wife moved out of their house at the beginning of the summer and took their daughters with her,” she said, leaning back in her seat, her hands wrapped around the cup of tea. “There were rumors that she was having an affair, but he was fighting any divorce proceedings.”
“She wouldn’t be the first woman to want an estranged husband dead so she could be with her lover.”
“It’s more than that,” said Petra. “Joe’s wife, Larissa, was supposedly seeing Arnie Hatch, the team’s owner.”
“Is there any truth to the stories?”
Petra nodded absently. “It’s one of the worst kept secrets in Denver’s sports scene.”
“Then I say we have two suspects—Arnie Hatch and Larissa Owens.”
“We? Does that mean I can hire you?”
“Like I said—RMJ is closed.”
What Ian said was true, but that was only in a technical sense. He was still in business, still able to take cases. And while he wanted to help Petra, he needed to find Mateev. Making the mistake of listening to his conscience, he added, “It doesn’t mean I can’t look into the case a little bit tonight. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know. You can turn it over to your lawyer.”
Petra gave a long exhalation, slumping in her seat. “You don’t know how relieved I am. So, what do we do now?” she asked.
“You are going to finish your tea and then you can sleep in the guest room. I’ll do some research on Hatch.”
Petra took another drink and pushed her cup to the center of the island. “Thanks for everything, Ian. You’re a lifesaver and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He picked up both cups and turned to the sink. He ran water from the tap, scrubbing away the residue. Glancing at the window, he watched Petra in the reflection. “There are some of your things in the dresser upstairs.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. He dropped his eyes to the faucet and turned off the water. “You left them and I never got around to returning them or putting them out with the rubbish.”
“Lucky me.”
“Always a little sarcastic. I still don’t know what to make of you.”
She rounded the island and stood behind him, her breath warming his back. He turned. Petra was close—so close that he could touch her if he just reached out. And if he did, what would she do?
“I truly am lucky,” she said. Her voice was sultry, like a night too hot and humid for sleep. “Because you’re right. I am in a mess, and before I showed up here, I worried that I was guilty. And now there’s some hope that I’m not.”
“You’re welcome, then,” he said, before adding, “I know our relationship didn’t end well, but I’m glad you came to me. I’m happy to help, even if it’s just a little.”
He reached out, his hand grazing her wrist. She stiffened but didn’t pull away. Ian took that as a good sign and let his fingers trail up her arm. His hands remembered the feel of her flesh. His lips remembered her kisses. His body remembered what it was like to be with hers.
Then again, did he want to get involved with Petra? Hadn’t they had their shot at happiness and wholly missed the mark? Beyond the breakup, there was the aftermath. Two years and nothing—not even a damn email. Could he relive those dark days after she’d left, when Scotch was his only friend?
No, Ian could not—would not—let himself stumble off that cliff a second time.
And yet his fingers burned with the need to touch her.
He bent his head, his mouth brushing her cheek. She exhaled, a quiver in her breath. It was all the encouragement he needed. His lips found hers and he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. For Ian, Petra was the best bad choice he could ever make.
* * *
Petra pressed her body into Ian’s. His strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He was an intoxicating mix of commanding and dangerous; and tonight, Petra intended to get drunk on her former lover.
She parted her lips and his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Too soon, too fast, she was consumed by the kiss.
Ian gripped her neck and pulled back, exposing her throat as he covered her with kisses. With his other hand, he cupped her breast. His touch was light and her nipple hardened at once. He deepened the kiss, claiming her, making Petra a captive of her own unchecked lust.
Head bent, he kissed her breast, wetting the cotton fabric, his tongue dancing over her nipple. She moaned with ecstasy that she could no longer contain. How long had it been since someone had had this effect on her? How long had it been since her desires had been so ignited?
The questions weren’t hard to answer. It was when she’d last been with Ian. He was something she’d promised never to do again, and yet—here she was.
When his hand skimmed her waistband, Petra quit thinking. Flesh on flesh, his fingers moved lower and lower. He touched the silky fabric of her panties. She was wet, and her innermost muscles clenched with longing and desire. Even though in the back of her mind, she knew this was the worst kind of mistake.
He rubbed the top of her sex, filling her with molten gold, and she no longer cared.
“Ian,” she moaned. “Oh, Ian, I’ve missed you—I’ve missed us.”
He broke away from the kiss and lifted her onto the island before situating himself between her parted thighs. He was already hard. She arched her back, pressing herself into him. Even with the layers of clothes separating them, the feeling was delicious.
“Do you want me?” he asked, his voice husky. “Tell me you want me.”
It would be so easy to love Ian again, especially since she’d never really stopped caring. Then again, what was love if they didn’t want the same life? She already knew the answer—it was an empty sentiment that led to heartache and loneliness.
She placed her hands on his chest and pushed firmly. Sliding from the island to the floor, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, not trapping the kiss, not wiping it away. Her fingers trembled. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. I should leave.”
“And go where? You said yourself that the media has camped out at your apartment. Don’t be daft,” he said, his voice without a shred of emotion. “Stay.”
Petra gritted her teeth at his calm. She was nothing more than feelings and second-guesses. “Do you always have a stiff upper lip?”
“I suppose so. It goes with the tea and the affinity for British cars.”
“And your dry sense of humor.”
“There’s that, too. By the way, I was wondering—how did you get in?”
The kiss and the passion and the dreams of the future—or rather, the past—were gone for Ian. She needed to drive them all from her mind and her heart, too. “You hadn’t changed the code for the lock,” she said. “I supposed that since I could still get in, you might be willing to help me...”
Ian shrugged. “I guess I never thought that you’d come back.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She wanted Ian to confess that he’d kept the same code deliberately, all the while hoping for her return. Sure, he wanted her, even now—the kiss had proved that. But sex and passion had never been their problem. It was the emotional connection she craved, the knowing that he would be there if she needed him. “I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask for help. Will you,” she asked, “still help me? Even after...” She paused, not sure how to characterize what had just happened. “Even after everything?”
“Like I said, I’ll do some digging tonight and see what turns up. From there, you go to your attorney. Agreed?”
She paused again. This time it was for another indelicate subject—money. After all, he was a professional and well paid for his services. She knew; she used to live with him.
Sure, Petra had her own job. But while she was far from poor, she’d emptied her savings account to retain her attorney. She swallowed. “How much will it cost?”
Ian waved her question away. “Don’t even mention that to me. Now go upstairs and try to get some rest.”
Rest? She could hardly imagine sitting down, much less sleeping. “You said you have some of my clothes?”
Ian raked his hair back. “In the dresser, upstairs guest room.”
Oh yes, he had told her that already. “Then I guess I better...” Her throat burned and tightened, her words trailing off.
“I’ll let you know what I’ve found out about Arnie Hatch’s background in the morning.”
To Petra, it seemed as if the events that led her here had happened years ago and not mere hours. Yet there had been a brief instant while Ian held her that transcended time. In those short moments, Petra had truly felt safe, as if nothing could hurt her.
Ian was now at the sink, rinsing out the teacups. She regarded his form, his broad shoulders and narrow waist—and that rock-hard butt. Without question, he was gorgeous.
But it was what Petra knew about him that made Ian more than appealing. His hair wasn’t just blond, with golden and copper strands woven throughout. His eyes, a stormy gray, actually began as silver near his iris and darkened to charcoal at the edge of his pupil. He had a dimple on his lower back that she had kissed countless times and a scar atop his foot.
Even more important than his looks were his character and unwavering confidence, his dedication and strength. Ian was the kind of man women wanted and men wanted to be.
“Can I help with Arnie? I’ve met him before and—”
Ian didn’t turn around. “I work better alone.”
Alone.
There it was again. She should have known better than to offer. “Thank you, then,” she said, “for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Petra waited a moment for him to glance her way. She wanted to look him in the eyes so he’d know...what? Well, that was a question she couldn’t answer.
Without another word, she left the kitchen. The guest room was just as it had been when she’d lived in the house. Thick tan carpet covered the floor. One wall was navy blue and the rest painted an unblemished white. There was a matching navy-and-white comforter on the bed, along with a dresser, a TV on a stand and a bedside table with a lamp. In fact, it was almost as if it hadn’t been used since she left.
She opened the top drawer of the dresser and found half a dozen pairs of her underwear and a few bras, neatly folded. The next drawer held several shirts, two pairs of jeans and a sundress. In the closet, she found an old pair of her ballet flats.
When she’d walked out, she’d forgotten that she’d been doing laundry, until she went to put on her favorite shoes and couldn’t find them. And Ian? He’d never called, either. Never wrote, never texted. In fact, she’d wondered many times if he’d found her clothes—even though they were left in the dryer and hardly something he’d miss.
Petra shut the closet door and went to the adjoining bathroom. She flipped on the light. A face stared at her. She looked over her shoulder, a ready scream on her lips, but found no one there. She looked back and, sadly, recognized the reflection was hers—but not.
Her hair was a tangled mess; her eyes were lost to the dark circles that surrounded them. Her skin was pale and washed-out. Droplets of red lined her cheek—blood? Basically, she looked as feral as she felt.
She turned on the shower, as hot as the tap allowed. Steam rolling out the open glass door collected on the mirror, finally obscuring her image. After stripping off the bulky sweatpants and T-shirt, Petra wondered if burning the outfit would be overly dramatic. With a wry smile, she decided that, yes, it would be a bit much, and she stepped into the spray.
The water was scalding, turning her skin bright red. She jumped back with a yelp, before easing under the shower. The heat didn’t bother Petra then. It was minor compared to the burn she still felt for Ian. She grabbed a bar of soap and worked it into a lather, sliding her foamy hands over her body. Why had she pulled away from him when he’d offered what she wanted? Wouldn’t the comfort she found in his arms be the best salve for her wounded soul?
