Jill Sorenson - Set The Dark On Fire

His eyes darkened and his nostrils flared.

It was a pleasant fragrance, she supposed. Better than skunk anyway. “Do you want some?” Twisting off another sprig, she held it out to him, moistening her dry lips.

He moved so fast she gasped. Ignoring the sage, he took her upper arms in his hands, pressing the full length of his body against hers. When the hard wall of his chest met her lace-covered breasts, the sprig of sage fell from her hand, forgotten. “Do you always get what you ask for?” he said, his eyes on her mouth.

He was breathing hard, and she could feel tension in his pectoral muscles and the tautness of his abdomen. More to the point, she could feel the exciting proof of his arousal, nudging the sweet spot between her legs.

“Yes,” she said, brushing her lips over his, answering the question his body was asking rather than the one his mouth had posed.

He let her go as quickly as he’d grabbed her, denying them both.

Muttering a curse, he stalked over to the tree branch where his pants were hanging and proceeded to put them on. In his condition, the damp fabric must have been twice as unforgiving, because he had some trouble with the zipper.

While she sat there, feeling confused and dejected, he wrestled into his shirt and strapped on his gun belt.

Then she finally understood. The signs had been right there in front of her face all day, but she hadn’t seen them. Now the answer to that question she’d asked was as clear as tracks in the snow: Luke Meza liked women, all right. He just didn’t like her.

The hike back to Luke’s pickup really sucked. Shay was hungry, tired, and uncomfortable. Each step she took was an agony of damp, form-fitting denim. The adrenaline that had been driving her since sunup fled, leaving her running on empty.

Every few moments a fresh wave of humiliation washed over her. She wanted nothing more than to stop and rest, to collapse in a pathetic little heap, to curl up in a ball and wrap her arms around her head.

Instead she straightened her shoulders and lengthened her stride. On the downhill grade, she went faster than she should, and was pleased to hear him stumble a few times in an effort to keep up with her, sending a spray of loose pebbles down the trail.

What had possessed her to throw herself at him? Even at her lowest, loneliest moments, she’d never come on to a stranger. She’d never had a one night stand. She’d never picked up a guy at a bar and gone home with him.

So why had she acted like such a desperate slut after one touch from Luke Meza? God! He hadn’t even kissed her.

Clenching her hands into fists, she rounded the last bend to the clearing where his truck was parked, torn between wanting to punch him and wanting to punch herself.

“I need to talk to your neighbor,” he said as he got behind the steering wheel. He consulted a small wire-bound notebook that had been resting on the dash. “Fernando Martinez?”

Frowning, she pulled on her seat belt. “Why?”

“He found the body.”

“Oh.”

He gave her an assessing glance. “You’re State Parks, right?”

She nodded, catching his drift. A lot of park employees were also trained peace officers, assigned to serve and protect the people as well as the land, but Shay was a field biologist, not a ranger. Dark Canyon State Preserve didn’t get many visitors, and she had no law enforcement experience. Nor did she want any.

The last thing she felt like doing was spending more time with Luke, extending what had already been an excruciating, exhausting, embarrassing day.

“I really shouldn’t do a drop-in interview alone,” he said.

Sighing, she furrowed a hand through her drying hair. It was hanging loose down her back, keeping her shirt damp and her neck cool. At early evening, the Santa Ana winds were still blowing, warming the night air.

Although she wanted to refuse, she’d engaged in enough unprofessional behavior today. “What do I have to do?”

“Nothing, really. Just come along and let me do the talking.”

“Fine,” she muttered, annoyed with his ability to focus. After what had transpired between them, she felt painfully self-conscious. How could he act so unaffected?

With Hamlet gone, the immediate threat had been taken care of, but the work had only just begun. Weeks of study would be dedicated to sorting through the particulars of the attack. If Shay could discover a reason for the lion’s behavior, she would do her damnedest to prevent another tragedy from occurring.

Because Hamlet had been her baby, her lion, her research experiment, Shay felt as though she had Yesenia Montes’s blood on her hands. Maybe Fernando had seen something she hadn’t, a track she’d overlooked, a detail she’d missed. The sooner they talked to him the better, because once word got out about Yesenia’s death, rumors would fly.

There were no secrets in Tenaja Falls.

Fernando Martinez lived a quarter of a mile down the road from Shay. Like hers, and most of the residences on Calle Remolino, his was a ranch-style adobe, flat-roofed and low to the ground. In the summer, when temperatures soared above 100 degrees on a regular basis, this type of building stayed relatively cool.

As Luke parked his truck in Fernando’s driveway, two brown-skinned boys came flying around the side of the house wielding super-soaker squirt guns. Smiling at their antics, Shay pulled on her sweatshirt before she exited the vehicle.

She knew the boys’ names, if not which was which. Fernando had two kids in grade school, another teenager besides Angel, and the sweetest little curly-haired kindergartener you’d ever seen. Shay had often wondered what kind of mother would leave so many children behind, especially one so young.

She’d often wondered how her own mother could have done the same, but never came up with a satisfying answer to that question, either.

“Dad!” the taller boy yelled in the direction of the screen door, lowering his water gun. His younger brother took that as an invitation to soak his T-shirt, and they were off, laughing and chasing each other through the lengthening shadows.

Angel opened the door, a harried expression on her pretty face. Her long black hair was caught up in a ratty-looking ponytail. Unlike Shay’s, this style appeared deliberate. She also had circles under her eyes, a half-dozen rings in her ears, and a metal-studded leather bracelet around her wrist.

No wonder Dylan had a crush on her.

Clinging like a vine to Angel’s jean-clad legs, there was a small girl with chocolate-colored curls. Her eyes widened when she saw Luke’s badge.

“Hi there,” he said, looking down at the little girl. “What’s your name?”

Too shy to answer, she hid behind her older sister.

“I’m Sheriff Meza,” he offered politely.

Angel stared at him in mute defiance, her hand on the doorknob, as if she was thinking about barring him entry.

“Do you know Miss Phillips?”

“Yes,” Angel said, nodding at Shay.

“Can we speak with your father?”

When panic crossed over Angel’s features, Shay realized the girl thought this visit was regarding her late-night tryst. Fernando must not have told his daughter about the gruesome discovery he’d made this morning.

“It’s not about Dylan,” Shay said to reassure her.

Luke arched a questioning glance in Shay’s direction, and Angel relaxed immediately. “Come on in,” she said, putting her hand on the top of her sister’s head to guide her forward. “He’s just out back.” Angel led them past a family room that looked well used and through a kitchen that smelled of good things to eat. There were chopped vegetables on the countertop and simmering pots on the stove.