“You’re not asking about the ranch, are you?” Deacon didn’t talk about his personal affairs with anyone, not even his siblings. He’d always been the quiet one.
“No.” She studied him and he felt like she was looking right through him.
“I’d rather discuss Elijah Henry,” he said honestly.
“I see your points and I agree with you wholeheartedly,” she said. Observing the detective standing there, leaning a slender hip against her vehicle, brought emotions to the surface that Deacon had no desire to deal with. Again, he reminded himself that any woman with a kid was off-limits. Losing two people he loved—albeit in very different ways—was one of those no-recover situations. Trust him.
Deacon shoved those thoughts down deep. A sense of pride hit him in the chest that she respected his thinking. That’s as far as he could let it go. “What’s next?”
“You met the lead detective on the case.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and the natural red blush was even more attractive.
Way to keep those feelings in check, Deacon.
“Does he think he’s already arrested his man?” Charles Dougherty was a bull in a china shop. There was no way he would change his mind on a case once it was set. Deacon had dealt with that type of person before.
“That’s my impression.” She hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “He’s not a hundred percent jerk and he’s not a bad detective.”
“He’s just not especially thrilled that you don’t trust his judgment,” he finished for her. “Us going to the coroner made it clear to him that we have questions about the case and the suspect.”
“That’s my trail. I jog there every night at about that same time. I can’t—won’t!—look over my shoulder every time I put on my jogging shoes.” She said that last part so emphatically that it could only mean there was a story there.
Her gaze locked on to his and he could see fire in her eyes. He saw something else, too, and it was dangerous as hell because he was barely containing his attraction as it was.
She took a step toward him, eyes on him as though asking permission or maybe it was just hope that she wouldn’t be denied.
There was no way he could turn her down. If she started something, he would finish it. It was already taking all his willpower not to haul her against his chest and capture that little freckle a fraction of an inch above her top lip in the corner.
“Deacon. Would it be a bad idea to get any closer?” She never broke eye contact. Her voice was a little deeper, a little sexier.
“Yep.”
She brought her hands up to his chest where she splayed her fingers. He could feel her hands trembling with the same need welling up inside of him. Electricity pulsed as he dropped his hands to either side of her hips. He didn’t pull her toward him and he didn’t push her away. Logically, he knew he should take a step back but his body didn’t listen to reason. He brought his hands up to her shoulders and then he caressed the back of her neck.
Even with a foot and a half of space between them, he could feel heat radiating from her. She fisted his shirt, her knuckles against his chest now. Her pulse raced, thumping against his thumb at the base. The tempo was a pretty darn close match to his.
“Kiss me, Deacon,” was all she said, was all she needed to say as she looped her arms around his neck and tunneled her fingers in his hair.
Deacon took in a slow breath. There was a point when he could have stopped himself from moving forward, from doing what they both knew would take them down a path neither seemed ready to take.
But then she looked up at him and her eyes were all glittery with desire. There was something else there, too. Fear? Was she afraid that he wasn’t attracted to her?
Deacon took a step toward her, dipped his head and brushed his mouth against hers. The taste of dark roast coffee still on her lips. He took in a deep breath, heady with the scent that was her, a mix of citrus and flowers and fresh-from-a-spring-rain clean.
She parted her lips, an invitation to deepen the kiss.
Deacon thrust his tongue inside her mouth and swallowed her mewl. He dropped his hands to loop around her waist and she pressed her body flush with his.
In the space of a few seconds, they’d gone from reasonable restraint to hands touching, mouths fusing and bodies pressed together. He could feel her generous breasts against his chest and all blood flew south. He was hit with a thunderclap of need—a feeling so out of the blue it was like lightning striking on a sunny beach day with not a cloud in the sky.
Okay, sure, he’d been attracted to the smart and beautiful detective from the get-go. There was no denying that. He wanted to believe it was his sense of chivalry that had him making sure she was all right after the scare the other night. But if he were being honest, it was something much more primal than that.
Leah Cordon was no pushover but she awakened protective instincts he’d long since believed were dead.
The only thing he could think about now was how amazing she felt pressed up against him. Her soft curves to his hard body. Her hands dropped to his shoulders and she dug her fingers in. If kissing her was this all-consuming, he could only imagine what sex would be like...
Hold on, right there. He needed to stop this right now. The detective was most likely in a vulnerable state and needed reassurance that life would still go on. She’d been traumatized, whether she’d admit it or not, by Jillian Mitchell’s murder.
Deacon almost had himself talked into pulling back when she did it for them. Her eyes were wild and her lips so damn inviting. Her breathing was as ragged as his.
“We can’t do that again,” she said.
“I know.” Well, hell. If they agreed this couldn’t happen again, he might as well enjoy it for right now. He brought his hand up and tilted her head for better access. “Just so we’re clear, this is the last time.”
She cracked a smile.
“Agreed.”
This time, he kissed her so thoroughly he couldn’t be sure how long they stood there in the parking lot making out. But he was certain that he’d never experienced a kiss like the ones they were sharing.
When they broke apart, she leaned into him like she was listening to his rapid heartbeat through his rib cage. And he held her, reminding his heart that this was a temporary situation.
Which worked right until the point she tugged at his shirt and looked up at him with eyes that said she wanted him.
DEACON STOPPED THE next kiss before Leah was ready. But she also knew he’d made the right call. She leaned into him until her head rested against him. She could hear his heart pound under his ribs; the rhythm matched her staccato tempo. All her senses were heightened.
It was oddly comforting to listen, so she stood there. It should have felt awkward to kiss a practical stranger, but it hadn’t. There was no way she could let her feelings run away from her with Deacon. Seeing Charles at the diner was a stark reminder of how a relationship could deteriorate in an instant, and of the consequences when it did. With Charles, she was now uncomfortable at work. He had a higher rank than her and could make her life miserable. A fact he seemed to realize and acted on.
The feeling she had with Deacon was different than that. The scale was off. There was something about Deacon that made her think she wouldn’t survive losing him. It was odd because, again, they’d barely just met. Although, the shot she had taken to the heart made her realize instantly that there was something different about Deacon Kent.
Besides, he’d be a good ally to have and one she couldn’t afford to lose because of overwrought hormones. Amazing sex with a man she deeply cared about was something she’d never experienced.
“What happened in your past that makes you so afraid?” he asked quietly in her ear, so quietly it wasn’t more than a breeze.
Part of her wanted to open up and tell him the horror she’d lived since losing her best friend, the sadness she felt in her parents turning their backs on her. And then the loss she felt when her husband, Wyatt, had died. But that’s where she stopped. What good would come from talking about any of those things? Feeling good came when she could give answers to families, real answers to what had happened in a loved one’s last hours. That’s all she could let herself think about.
“Jillian Mitchell’s family deserves to know the truth about what happened to her. She has a mother and father, a brother. They deserve to know who took her from them or they’ll never recover.” She thought about Millie. Leah wondered how much of that fateful night caused her parents to shut down on her. Never knowing what had actually happened to her best friend had changed Leah. Had it changed them, too?
Everyone dealt with grief differently. Did they realize how easily that could’ve been her out that night? Did they know how close she’d come to meeting up with her best friend? If she hadn’t been studying for finals so hard and then fell asleep on her desk, waiting for the meet-up time, she might’ve saved her best friend’s life.
Her parents had never understood that. The self-blame. The grief. When she couldn’t buck up a year later, they had seemed to give up on her ever trying.
But those were things she didn’t talk about with anyone. Surprisingly, she wanted to tell Deacon. It was too much, too soon and they had another case to focus on. Find the answers to the Mitchell murder and then she’d tell him.
Leah’s cell buzzed.
She avoided eye contact with Deacon. She knew better than to look at him when she was feeling so vulnerable—a state she didn’t normally visit and sure as hell didn’t wallow in.
“It’s from Charles.” She stared at the text on the screen.
Deacon’s muscles tensed and she wondered if it was because he realized Charles was having a hard time letting go or if he just didn’t like the man.
Either way, he wasn’t going to be thrilled with the message on her screen. Deacon Kent’s fingerprints have been lifted from the crime scene.