Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Page 15

  “I’ll do it.” The sheriff bit each word off like a piece of beef jerky.

  “Do you have a sample of Chelsea’s DNA?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes.” The sheriff nodded. “Her husband submitted it when he filled out the missing persons report.”

  “Is there anything else we can do to help?” she offered.

  “No.” The sheriff sighed. “You’ve done more than enough.”

  Morgan rose and offered the sheriff her hand over his desk. King shook it gently and thanked her for her help. But all Lance got was a gruff nod that all but said Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

  Lance and Morgan exited the station. The storm had followed them and pounded the parking lot with heavy rain. The Jeep was parked just twenty-five feet away. Yet Lance’s hair and clothes got a fresh soaking as they raced for the vehicle.

  Inside the vehicle, Morgan’s teeth chattered. “Where to next?”

  He started the engine and then turned the heater on high.

  Lance checked the time on the dashboard block. “Dry clothes are next. Then we regroup. Want to make a quick stop at your house?”

  “No.” She held her hands out to the heat vents. “I have a change of clothes at the office.”

  “We can update Sharp while we’re there. He’s going to want to know about the necklace. We’ve found the first real evidence that Chelsea was forcibly taken.”

  “I almost wish we hadn’t.” Morgan’s voice was quiet.

  “I know.” Because now they knew that Chelsea was either being held captive or dead.

  The rain stopped as Lance drove to the office. He parked at the curb, and sun burst from the sky in biblical fashion. “Sharp’s not here.”

  “I’ll grab my bag.” Morgan ran inside and emerged a minute later, garment bag in hand.

  Lance had a two-bedroom house in town just six blocks from Sharp Investigations. They went in through the garage, passing piles of hockey equipment.

  “How’s your team?” Morgan asked.

  Lance had coached a team of at-risk youths when he was a patrol officer with the Scarlet Falls PD. He’d bonded with the teens and stayed on after he’d left the police force. “Their skills are improving, their self-control not so much. They could start winning if I could keep them out of the penalty box.”

  They placed their shoes on the heating vent in the laundry room to dry. Hooking the top of her garment bag over the doorknob, Morgan hung her coat on a peg and then stripped off her socks.

  Lance stripped off his flannel shirt and tee. He tossed both into the washer.

  “Oh.” Morgan was staring at his chest.

  “Do you want a hanger for your clothes?”

  And would you like me to help you take them off?

  She turned to face him.

  “You have man candy abs?” She grinned.

  Heat rushed to Lance’s face. And elsewhere.

  She stepped forward, her gaze roaming over his chest, her eyes hungry. With slow, deliberate motions, she unsnapped her pants and slipped out of them. Her sweater hung past her hips, but he could see the lace edges of her dark-gray panties. She held out her pants by a belt loop. “You offered to hang these up.”

  Holy . . .

  Lance’s breath caught in his throat. Her legs were slender and long enough to wrap—

  You’re getting ahead of yourself. Be cool.

  Right. He’d been waiting to put his hands, and other body parts, on her skin for months. There was nothing cool about his desire. He shifted his gaze to her face. There was nothing cool about the playful heat in her eyes either.

  He took the pants. Without taking his eyes off hers, he grabbed a hanger from the bar over the washer, draped them over it, and hung them from the bar.

  “You should get out of those wet pants.” She moved closer, her hand reaching for the snap of his cargo pants. He flinched at the brush of her fingers against his belly.

  “Are you sure?” He grabbed her hand.

  Her face turned serious. “Very. We’ve been clearheaded and logical about whatever this is between us for weeks. Where has that gotten us?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with waiting for the right moment.”

  She smiled. “The right moment is the one that’s happening right now. Life isn’t perfect. If we wait for all our ducks to be lined up, we’ll be waiting for a very long time. My little ducks are tough to herd.”

  “We do have complicated lives,” he admitted.

  “I don’t want to wait for anything. I want to seize the moment.” She smiled. “Or something.”

  He loved the powerful look in her eyes, and the confident tone of her voice was a huge turn on.

  “I could really use a hot shower.” She lifted the hem of her sweater, exposing another inch of gray lace. His heart skipped second gear and shifted into third. He ripped his eyes from her tantalizing striptease and focused on her eyes. As much as he wanted her body, he craved the rest of her just as much.

  There was no other woman like her. Not for him.

  She tugged off her scarf. The bruises around her neck were the color of ripe plums. Lance pictured Tyler Green with his hands around her throat. The quick surge of anger was followed by a cold dash of fear. She could have been killed, that lovely and slender neck broken.

  His heart stammered at the thought.

  “What’s the matter?” Her confidence faltered. She lifted the scarf, as if to put it back on and cover the bruises. She licked her lips. Was she nervous?

  The thought disconcerted him. It had been a long time for her, he supposed, but she was so capable that he often forgot about her vulnerabilities.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He cupped her face in both hands. Her hair smelled of rain and lemons. “This is perfect.”

  He tilted her head and touched his lips to hers. God, the taste of her . . .

  It would never be enough.

  With a soft moan, she dropped the scarf, and it fell to the floor at their feet. She slipped her arms around his waist and splayed her fingers across his bare back. She pressed her body against his, all her softness lining up with his hard planes and angles.

  He lifted his head. “You’re perfect.”

  “Keep talking like that, mister, and you might get lucky.” Her eyes shone with desire, humor—and yes . . . nerves.

  “I’m already the luckiest man in the world.”

  “You asked for it.” She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss her again.

  He moved from her mouth to the curve of her neck, nipping lightly at her ear before tasting her collarbone. She groaned, a heady sound of need that slammed him in the gut. Well, below the gut.

  “Let’s get out of the laundry room.” Moving backward, he tugged her into the hallway with him.

  He walked backward all the way to the bedroom. Her hands were busy, stroking his back and shoulders. He slid his hands under her sweater and up her back. Her skin was smooth and soft. The backs of his legs hit the bed. He took his hands out from under her sweater to unsnap the holster at his waist. Reaching behind him, he set the gun and holster on the nightstand then got his hands back on her body and his lips on her mouth.

  He tugged her sweater off, tossing it over his shoulder. She pressed against him, her skin warm and soft. Reaching behind her, he opened the clasp of her bra. The straps slid down her shoulders. He leaned back, letting it fall to the floor between them and exposing two absolutely perfect breasts. He cupped one, his thumb grazing her nipple. Her eyes drifted closed, and she moaned from deep in her throat.

  Lance closed the inches between them, his mouth crushing down on hers. Her hands were at the snap of his pants. This time he helped her. They could not get naked fast enough. There were too many parts of her he wanted to touch and taste.

  He lifted his lips from Morgan’s, disbelief flooding him. Her eyes opened, the blue of them dark and needy. Finally.

  This was actually going to happen.

/>   Annnnnnd the Magnum PI theme song sounded from his pocket.

  No.

  No. No. No.

  He froze. The absurdity of the situation rolled over him like a wave of ridiculousness.

  They just couldn’t get a break.

  She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his chest and laughing under her breath.

  “That’s Sharp. I don’t want to answer it.” He really, really didn’t want to answer that call. Stupid conscience. “But he usually texts unless it’s important.”

  “You have to get it.” Morgan sighed, taking a step backward. She rubbed her arms, as if suddenly cold. “What does your phone play when I call?”

  “Charlie’s Angels.” He pulled the phone from his pocket and accepted the call. “What is it, Sharp?”

  “Is Morgan with you?” Sharp asked. “She didn’t answer her phone.”

  Lance sighed. “She is.”

  Her phone was in her bag in the laundry room.

  “Put me on speaker,” Sharp said.

  Lance held the phone between him and Morgan.

  “Tim Clark just called looking for you,” Sharp said. “There’s a deputy at his house. He wants to take him down to the station. Tim sounded upset.”

  Anger flickered in her eyes. “I don’t suppose the deputy told Tim why?”

  “No,” Sharp answered.

  “I’ll call Tim right now.” She propped a hand on her hip. In just a pair of silk panties, the cocky pose was unbelievably hot.

  Nothing short of ice in his shorts was going to cool him off, and Lance lamented the invention of the cell phone.

  She ended the call and hurried for the laundry room. She returned a minute later, garment bag in one hand, giant purse in the other. She fished her phone out of her purse. “Tim called five minutes ago.”

  “You’re allowed to have your phone out of reach for five minutes,” Lance said.

  “I know.” But she still felt guilty. Morgan took responsibilities seriously. “It was just bad timing.”

  “You can say that again.” Lance went to the closet for clean clothes. He exited wearing cargo pants and pulling a T-shirt over his head. Morgan put her phone on the bed and unzipped her garment bag while she used voice commands to dial Tim’s number.

  Lance swallowed with regret as she dressed—stepping into a maroon skirt, tugging a white shirt over her head, and then flipping her hair out of the neck.

  “Hello,” Tim answered. More than one child cried in the background. The sound set Lance’s nerves on edge.

  Something major must have happened if the sheriff wanted Tim at the station.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What’s going on, Tim?” Morgan zipped her skirt.

  Still flushed and hot from Lance’s touch, she bottled up her irritation. But really, why couldn’t the sheriff just work and play well with others? Dressed, she picked up the phone and turned off the speaker.

  “I don’t know what to do.” Desperation raised the pitch of Tim’s voice.

  “Slow down, Tim,” Morgan said in a firm voice. Her client wasn’t thinking straight. He needed direction. “What’s going on?”

  “The sheriff wants me at the station. He refuses to say why.” Tim’s words were nearly drowned out by crying, too much crying to be made by one baby.

  “Who’s crying?” Morgan asked.

  “Both the kids,” Tim answered. “The deputy scared Bella. She thinks he wants to take me away.”

  Temper heated the back of Morgan’s neck. “Where is he now?”

  “In the foyer. I’m in the living room, trying to calm down the kids. My in-laws went out to have more flyers printed. They’re not answering their cell phones. I told him I needed to wait until they came home, but he said he could call child services to take care of the kids. What am I going to do? Can they really take my kids away?”

  Morgan blew a hard breath through her nostrils.

  “I want you to ask the deputy if you are under arrest.” She seethed. Either the sheriff was holding back a giant piece of information or he was merely trying to intimidate the harried father. Either way, she was done playing nice.

  “What?” Tim sounded shocked.

  Morgan repeated her instructions in a louder voice. “Trust me. Do it now.”

  Over the connection, a little girl wailed, “Don’t take my daddy!”

  Morgan assumed Tim had joined the deputy in the foyer. The baby’s cries intensified, each child feeding on the other’s hysteria. She barely heard Tim shouting the question. The deputy’s reply was drowned out.

  “He says no,” Tim yelled into the phone.

  “Tell him you will meet him at the station as soon as your in-laws come home. Then tell him to leave your house. Be polite but firm.”

  “Are you sure?” Tim asked.

  Morgan answered, “Completely sure.”

  A few seconds later, a door slammed, the little girl’s wails quieted to whimpers, and the baby’s cries diminished.

  “Thank you.” Tim sounded stunned. “I didn’t know I could do that.”

  “Most people don’t.”

  In Morgan’s experience, law-abiding citizens didn’t know their rights. Criminals, however, were well versed in the legal process.

  Morgan said, “I’m on my way over. Don’t talk to anyone or do anything without me.”

  She ended the call. After slipping her feet into her heels, she grabbed her tote bag and headed for the laundry room. “Can I collect my wet shoes when they’re dry?”

  Fully dressed, Lance was right behind her. “Of course.”

  She turned. “I wish . . .”

  “Yeah. Me too.” He leaned down and kissed her softly on the mouth. “At some point, we will have an hour to ourselves. I promise.”

  “I know.” The sigh rolled through her. “But I really wanted it to be today.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Me too.”

  She snagged her trench coat from the peg, then slid her arms into the sleeves.

  Lance grabbed a jacket from a peg. He was wearing his gun again. “Are we going straight to Tim’s?”

  “Yes.” In the car, she flipped down the mirror in the visor. Her hair was a disaster. She finger-combed it and wound it into a quick twist, digging a few hairpins from the bottom of her bag. She applied fresh lipstick and flipped the mirror closed. “Ready.”

  “You certainly are.” Lance drove to Tim’s house.

  Tim’s in-laws had returned and were in the kitchen with the children when Tim let Morgan and Lance into the house. Chelsea’s parents looked shell-shocked.

  Patricia shifted the baby over her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Morgan said.

  Bella cried when Tim said goodbye.

  He crouched down and hugged her. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Promise?” She sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  “Promise.” Tim kissed his daughter on the head then straightened. “Let’s go.”

  He kept his eyes forward until they were outside. They got into the Jeep, and Tim stared at his house from the back seat. “Why would he treat me like this?”

  “I don’t know.” In the passenger seat, Morgan turned to face him. “Here are the rules. If I tell you not to answer a question, don’t. You not only cooperated in the sheriff’s investigation; you initiated it. In fact, you are the one who is unsatisfied with the way he is handling your wife’s disappearance. You’ve hired a private firm because he hasn’t made satisfactory progress on the case.”

  “OK,” Tim said. “But I don’t understand. All I want to do is find my wife. Why won’t he look for her?”

  “I’m sure he is.” Morgan tapped a finger on her leg. The sheriff should be sharing more of his investigation with the family, but she suspected something had happened to initiate the sheriff’s call to Tim.

  Once at the sheriff’s station, Morgan, Lance, and Tim were escorted to an int
erview room by a deputy.

  “The sheriff will be back soon,” the deputy said.

  Sheriff King isn’t even here?

  Seeing the deputy’s grim face as he closed the door sent a chill rippling up Morgan’s arms.

  What had happened?

  Had they found Chelsea?

  “I’ll get us some coffee.” Lance left the room for a few minutes, returning with three Styrofoam cups.

  Tim didn’t drink his, but he held it between his palms and stared into the cup, barely moving, while they waited. Ten minutes later, the sheriff opened the door and walked in. Tim jumped, the feet of his plastic chair squeaking on the floor with the jerk of his body. His coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup, and he set it down on the table.

  The sheriff’s boots were muddy, and his hair mussed, as if he’d been outside. The grim set of his face put Morgan on alert.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He settled his bulk in the chair across from Tim. Though his eyes flickered at Morgan with annoyance—no doubt he didn’t appreciate her challenging his authority—when his gaze settled on Tim, it was with empathy. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Clark.” He sighed, his big chest expanding and deflating. “I want you to brace yourself.”

  Morgan stiffened. Next to her, Tim’s hands curled around the arms of his chair.

  The sheriff continued. “This afternoon, the body of a woman was found by a pair of hikers.”

  Oh, no.

  Morgan’s mind spun. Keeping her ears tuned to the sheriff, she turned to her client. Tim blinked. His head shook slightly, as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “The first thing you need to know is that we have not identified her yet. We do not know for certain if this woman is your wife,” the sheriff continued.

  Tim’s features were frozen, the color draining from his face until he was the pale gray of day-old snow. When he finally opened his mouth, his voice was a tight rasp. “But it could be?”

  “It’s possible,” the sheriff said. “The age bracket fits, and she was blonde.”

  The air whooshed out of Tim’s body with an almost inaudible moan.

  Morgan touched his forearm. His hands clenched his armrests tightly enough to raise the tendons on the backs of them and turn his knuckles white. She leaned closer. “Are you all right?”