Read Online Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel by Irene Hannon - Free Book Online

as the clock in the living room emitted a muted bong to mark the half hour, he opened his eyes. Better. He could think again.
    He lowered the dress to one side of the queen-sized bed, straightening the skirt so it ran the length of the mattress. Then he hesitated and looked toward the door. Should he lock it?
    No need.
    No one would bother him this night.
    He left the garment to finish his preparations for bed, finally padding back barefoot in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Pausing beside the dress, he traced the scalloped edge of the sweetheart neckline. Stroked his fingers down the long, smooth, white satin skirt studded with glistening beads. Touched the buttons, one by one, at the bottom of the delicate alencon lace sleeve.
    The gown was perfect.
    And ready.
    All it needed was a deserving occupant.
    After circling the bed to the other side, Mark slathered lotion on his hands, tugged on a pair of cotton gloves, and turned out the lamp on the nightstand. He slipped under the covers, shifting onto his side to gaze at the gown shimmering beside him in the moonlight from the window.
    Maybe this time.

4
     
    T he trip to the shelter was a bust.
    From his spot at the far end of the room, Dev gave the basement-turned-dormitory a final scan. Every cot had been claimed, and his walk-through with Laura had confirmed Darcy wasn’t among the occupants. Not a single guest had professed any recollection of the teen after studying her picture. None of the volunteers on duty had worked either weekend night. And even though he and Laura had hung around for a couple of hours, Darcy hadn’t shown.
    So much for a quick and easy solution to this case.
    Laura rose from the molded plastic chair a few feet from the now-deserted registration desk and joined him, her expression disheartened. “I guess there’s no reason to wait any longer.”
    “No. It’s late and they’re full up. The chances of her showing at this hour are nil.”
    “That’s what I figured.” She sighed and started toward the pegged wall that held their cold-weather gear.
    He followed, reaching around her to retrieve her wool coat.
    “Thanks.” She sent him a weary smile. “Your mother raised you well.”
    “I’ll tell her you said that. She sometimes thinks all her effort to turn me into a gentleman came to naught.” He positioned the coat so she could slip her arms into the sleeves.
    “One sec.” She grabbed for the knitted scarf draped over anadjacent hook and tugged. When it stretched but didn’t give, she tipped her chin up to inspect the snag—revealing a purple tinge on her jaw that hadn’t been there in his office this morning.
    “Hey.” Dev caught her arm, and she sent him a questioning look as she pulled her scarf free. “What’s this?” He was tempted to touch her chin, but tapped his own instead.
    “Oh.” She lifted her hand to the bruise, her lips quirking in a rueful twist. “I was attacked by a can of chicken noodle soup.”
    Holding up her coat, he arched an eyebrow. “That’s a new one. Care to explain?”
    She turned her back to him and slid her arms into the sleeves. “I was reaching for the soup when you called this afternoon. The ring startled me, I fumbled, and the can hurtled out at me.”
    His smile faded. “So this was my fault?”
    Tossing the scarf around her neck, she swiveled back to him. “Hardly. Just chalk it up to frayed nerves and my klutziness.”
    “The nerves I can buy. The klutziness—not a chance.”
    Their gazes met. Held. Eyes the same hue as her azure scarf and framed by the longest sweep of lashes he’d ever seen sucked him in. His lungs stalled, and the background hum of voices receded.
    Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a warning bell began to ring.
    He ignored it.
    Lifting his hand to her jaw, he gently angled her head for a better look at the mar on her creamy complexion. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his fingertips, and a powerful temptation to cup her cheek in his palm swept over