so tender and caring, completely disarmed her. She could have melted right against him, let his strong arms enfold her. So easy and what a relief to—
“Ky,” he said.
The sigh in his voice had the same effect as if he’d placed a chisel on the crack in her defenses and tapped with a hammer. Alarmed, she tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, and the bare skin of her arm started to burn where his long fingers almost completely encircled it.
“Let go,” she said.
Her cheeks heated at how she’d sounded. Like she was choking. Oh, God, she was so close to losing it. Right in front of him. But that . . . thing, it was just like the one that shattered her dreams. And someone, some twisted bastard , was using it against her. Why? Why the hell . . . why ? And Chase . . . God, Chase, was right here. Watching her every move, her every expression and reaction, analyzing and scrutinizing. What the hell was he looking for anyway?
Chase dropped his hand to his side, and the tight muscles in his face visibly relaxed. “I’m not trying to upset you, Ky.”
He used the even, conciliatory tone of a cop dealing with a hostile witness, and it hit her like a slap that he was trying to manage her. As she snapped her spine straight, she bit back the urge to snipe at him. It wouldn’t accomplish anything but make her feel bitchy. And none of this was his fault. He was just there to do his job.
“So what do we do now?” she asked. “Do you have to gather evidence before I call someone to come fix my windshield or what?”
His expression gave nothing away as he pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call in the crime scene unit.”
12
QUINN JOGGED TOWARD KYLIE, WHO STOOD ON the sidewalk facing her SUV, arms wrapped around her middle as though chilled. An official-looking black woman with glossy, close-cropped hair and gold hoop earrings snapped pictures of Kylie’s Liberty from all angles. Chase Manning, down on one knee at the head of the truck, scribbled on what looked like a sandwich-size Ziploc bag. Several other small Ziplocs littered the asphalt around him.
Quinn’s stomach seized at the sight of the truck’s windshield. Sam had told him what had happened, but knowing didn’t blunt the shock of seeing.
“Hey,” he called to Kylie when he was still several feet away. She could be so jumpy, and he didn’t want to startle her.
She turned to greet him with a smile he recognized as plastered on only because he’d seen her give that same smile to the well-wishers at their father’s funeral. Not too big as to look fake, not too small as to look forced. Christ, she was so good at it that it scared him sometimes.
When he spotted the aluminum bat on the ground, his gut flipped. He hadn’t quite believed Sam, but there it was, the sun shooting blinding blue sparks off it.
Kylie’s voice broke through his shock. “They’re gathering evidence.” She indicated the woman with the camera. “That’s Sylvia Jensen, a forensics expert.”
He glanced sharply at his sister. She sounded as though they were at a party, for Christ’s sake—hey, that’s my buddy Sylvia over there; you’d like her—when a normal person would have been huddled on the curb shaking her ass off. Hell, he was shaking, and he hadn’t been attacked.
Guilt added to the queasiness in his stomach. He should have gotten his butt out here as soon as Sam told him, but the detective had had a bunch of questions about the video surveillance, and then Quinn had had to set him up with the equipment so Sam could find what he was looking for. Meanwhile, his sister had stood in the hot sun with who knows what kind of crap circling in her head.
He gently grasped her elbow, felt tension instantly infuse her already rigid muscles. She didn’t pull away, though, and he didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign. “Why don’t you come in while they finish up?” he said. “It’s too hot out here.”
She relented without a word, and he led her
“Ky,” he said.
The sigh in his voice had the same effect as if he’d placed a chisel on the crack in her defenses and tapped with a hammer. Alarmed, she tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, and the bare skin of her arm started to burn where his long fingers almost completely encircled it.
“Let go,” she said.
Her cheeks heated at how she’d sounded. Like she was choking. Oh, God, she was so close to losing it. Right in front of him. But that . . . thing, it was just like the one that shattered her dreams. And someone, some twisted bastard , was using it against her. Why? Why the hell . . . why ? And Chase . . . God, Chase, was right here. Watching her every move, her every expression and reaction, analyzing and scrutinizing. What the hell was he looking for anyway?
Chase dropped his hand to his side, and the tight muscles in his face visibly relaxed. “I’m not trying to upset you, Ky.”
He used the even, conciliatory tone of a cop dealing with a hostile witness, and it hit her like a slap that he was trying to manage her. As she snapped her spine straight, she bit back the urge to snipe at him. It wouldn’t accomplish anything but make her feel bitchy. And none of this was his fault. He was just there to do his job.
“So what do we do now?” she asked. “Do you have to gather evidence before I call someone to come fix my windshield or what?”
His expression gave nothing away as he pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call in the crime scene unit.”
12
QUINN JOGGED TOWARD KYLIE, WHO STOOD ON the sidewalk facing her SUV, arms wrapped around her middle as though chilled. An official-looking black woman with glossy, close-cropped hair and gold hoop earrings snapped pictures of Kylie’s Liberty from all angles. Chase Manning, down on one knee at the head of the truck, scribbled on what looked like a sandwich-size Ziploc bag. Several other small Ziplocs littered the asphalt around him.
Quinn’s stomach seized at the sight of the truck’s windshield. Sam had told him what had happened, but knowing didn’t blunt the shock of seeing.
“Hey,” he called to Kylie when he was still several feet away. She could be so jumpy, and he didn’t want to startle her.
She turned to greet him with a smile he recognized as plastered on only because he’d seen her give that same smile to the well-wishers at their father’s funeral. Not too big as to look fake, not too small as to look forced. Christ, she was so good at it that it scared him sometimes.
When he spotted the aluminum bat on the ground, his gut flipped. He hadn’t quite believed Sam, but there it was, the sun shooting blinding blue sparks off it.
Kylie’s voice broke through his shock. “They’re gathering evidence.” She indicated the woman with the camera. “That’s Sylvia Jensen, a forensics expert.”
He glanced sharply at his sister. She sounded as though they were at a party, for Christ’s sake—hey, that’s my buddy Sylvia over there; you’d like her—when a normal person would have been huddled on the curb shaking her ass off. Hell, he was shaking, and he hadn’t been attacked.
Guilt added to the queasiness in his stomach. He should have gotten his butt out here as soon as Sam told him, but the detective had had a bunch of questions about the video surveillance, and then Quinn had had to set him up with the equipment so Sam could find what he was looking for. Meanwhile, his sister had stood in the hot sun with who knows what kind of crap circling in her head.
He gently grasped her elbow, felt tension instantly infuse her already rigid muscles. She didn’t pull away, though, and he didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign. “Why don’t you come in while they finish up?” he said. “It’s too hot out here.”
She relented without a word, and he led her
Similar Books
