Barb Han - Ambushed At Christmas

Either way, this guy could be trampling on evidence.

“Detective Cordon,” she relented, leaving off the bit about being a newly minted detective. She lowered her weapon. “Identify yourself now or they’ll do it for you at Tarrant County Jail.”

He turned around and she nodded toward the badge clipped to the waistline of her jogging pants.

His eyes lingered there a little longer than she was comfortable and heat flushed her cheeks. That was the great part about having skin the color of milk. It was near impossible to hide her emotions.

“Deacon Kent,” he said. Why did that name sound familiar?

“Do you have any knowledge of the crime committed here last night?”

“Only what I read in the Fort Worth Star Telegram this morning.” His voice was calm.

There could be benefits to publicity on a case. Leah didn’t like it in this instance. Stories spawned copycats and brought out all kinds of wackos. In Mr. Kent, she saw neither and that could mean he was close to Jillian Mitchell, looking for vigilante justice.

This case set Leah’s nerves on edge. The brutality of the attack made it look like a revenge killing. Not to mention this had happened on her trail. Leah matched the description of the victim, which had happened in cases before but always gave her the prickly sensation of a cat walking over a grave.

She couldn’t count how many times her well-being had been threatened by jerks she’d arrested while on the job. But the thought of someone actually trying to make good didn’t sit well.

“The Telegram reports on crime every day. You show up at every crime scene?” she asked Mr. Kent.

He hesitated in answering and that meant one thing.

Deacon Kent was hiding something.

DEACON FIGURED HE’D better come clean with the detective. The woman picked him apart with her gaze. “That’s the only reason I’m here. The story in the paper. And, no, I don’t show up at crime scenes uninvited.”

Her brow shot up. The detective’s long wavy hair—the color of richly blended coffee—fell well past her shoulders, framing a face too delicate for the badge clipped on her hip. At a little more than five and a half feet tall, wearing jogging pants that hugged a taut figure, her gaze said she was a force to be reckoned with.

“What made you come out tonight?” she asked.

He let that one go.

“I can drag you down to the station to talk if you’d be more comfortable,” she said in more of a hiss.

That may be true, but Deacon wasn’t doing anything wrong. He hadn’t technically trespassed on a crime scene. He’d made certain not to cross the obvious area cordoned off with police tape. Even he could see that being there feeling around on the ground made him look suspicious.

“Before you get any ideas—” he paused to double-check that she wasn’t a trigger-happy detective “—can I put my hands down now?”

“No. In fact, up against the tree. Hands where I can see ’em,” she said, using that authoritative law enforcement voice he was all too familiar with, considering his cousin was the sheriff of Broward County. Experience had taught him not to argue with that voice and he couldn’t deny that he had been crawling around in the bushes at a crime scene. He’d known getting caught would be a possibility, even though he thought he’d checked out the area well enough before dropping down on all fours.

“Okay.” He kept his hands high as he walked toward the nearest tree trunk. “Let’s take it easy. I’m not the guy you’re looking for, so there’s no need to get hysterical.”

Detective Cordon issued a grunt sound.

For a split second he thought she might have been involved in a sting operation. The detective matched the basic description of the woman who’d been attacked at this very spot last night.

He glanced around for any signs of a stakeout. But then, wouldn’t another officer have made him or herself known by now?

“Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?” he asked, figuring it couldn’t hurt.

“Right now? I’m patting you down,” she countered. Her voice had a throaty note and he detected the shift in tone the moment she put her hands on him—hands that sent inappropriate sensations firing from each point of contact.

In this cold, and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees in the last fifteen minutes, he should have been shivering. Warmth shot through him and it had everything to do with the electricity coming from the detective’s touch.

“I’d noticed.” She’d figure it out but he decided to add, “I’m not packing heat and I don’t have any other weapons.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He’d expected her response to be something to that effect.

As she resumed patting him down, more annoying sensations fired up. They had no business in this situation so he ignored them.

“Turn around,” she stated, using that cop voice again.

This also wasn’t the time to notice the perfume she wore as he wheeled around to face her. At least, he guessed it was cologne. He’d never smelled anything like it before. If he were pressed for a description, he might have said it was like walking in the meadow after a cool spring shower with the first rays of sun hitting the land, waking the flowers.

Deacon mentally shook off the head trip.

“Keep your hands where I can see ’em.” She studied him. Their gazes held for a second longer than courtesy dictated. A blush crawled across her cheeks and it was damn sexy when her cheeks flamed.

Way to stay focused.

Finished with the weapons check, she took a step back. “You’re cleared.”

“Like I already told you.” Deacon wanted this over with so he could get back to searching the area.

“This is the scene of a murder investigation.” The detective almost leveled him with her stare, which took some doing with someone as hardened as him.

“Why are you really here?”

This conversation wasted valuable time. It was late. Days on the ranch started early. Deacon had often joked with his brothers and sister that he could remember a time when 4:00 a.m. was the time to end the night, not begin a day. Being a Kent was a privilege, make no mistake about it, but one that came with obligations.

Deacon figured he could tap dance around the subject with the detective all night but decided to get to the point. As far as the murder, he considered it ranch business. “That’s exactly why I came, to see the crime scene.”

“You taking pictures on your phone?” Disgust came through clearly as soon as she unclenched her back teeth to speak. She’d probably seen just about everything in her line of work, including crazy folks who had morbid obsessions with death and murder sites.

“Check for yourself.” He gave her a look before fishing his cell from his pocket and holding it between them.

She took the offering and scrolled through his photo log. He hoped the offer would buy a little trust. Instead, as she scanned the pictures, she started rocking her head. “I know why your name sounded familiar now. Your family owns half of Texas, Wyoming and Idaho.”

“That’s an exaggeration.” She had the states right, just not the quantity of land.

“Cattle ranchers,” she continued, ignoring his comment, seeming like she was on a roll and would connect the dots as to why he was really there at any minute.

“That’s right.” They were cattle ranchers but owning mineral rights to their land had made his family fortune. It had also freed them from some of the pressures of cattle ranching. A bad year or a severe drought wouldn’t put them out of business. It also gave them ample space to take risks and create innovation. They’d been pioneers in the organic beef market.