Jenna Mills - A Kiss In The Dark

No one was quite sure why.

But now the golden boy was dead; murdered, she thought with a sharp stab, and the media he’d used so shamelessly wanted to know why.

“I have no comment,” Beth said. No intention of telling them anything. Even words of innocence could be twisted into stones of condemnation.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, trying to push through the tight circle of reporters.

“Did you kill him?”

The question stopped Beth cold. Yvonne Kelly, an investigative reporter whose love of going for the jugular Lance had always admired, pushed her way to the front. The wind blew pale hair into her face. Her eyes glittered.

“Was it a crime of passion?” she asked icily. “Is that how you ended up with blood on your hands?”

Control shattered. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you—” she started, but the crowd erupted into a frenzy of shouts and curses and shoving before she could finish. Someone screamed. Flashes of light ricocheted through the darkness. She heard a low roar, then the sound of something smashing violently to the concrete.

“You can’t do that!” a reporter shouted.

“Watch me.” Dylan broke from the throng and pushed to her side, hooked an arm around her waist without breaking his stride. “Sorry, folks, but this feeding frenzy is over. Ms. St. Croix has no comment.”

Disappointment tittered through the reporters, but the swarm instantly loosened, obeying Dylan’s command like he was some fallen deity and the price of going against him was eternal damnation. He led her down the steps, his stride long and purposeful. Determined. She almost had to run to keep up with him. He never looked back, just kept his arm around her waist and guided her to the dark SUV at the curb.

He opened the passenger door and grabbed a bulging file from the bucket seat. “Get in.”

Beth hesitated. The interior of the black Bronco looked as dark and isolating as a cave, and once inside, they’d be completely alone. Just the two of them. No outside interference. Just like that cold night at the cabin, the terrible mistake that still had her jerking awake in the middle of the night, heart hammering, chest tight, body burning from his touch.

She didn’t want that. Lance was dead. She was a suspect. There was no room for the chaos that was Dylan in her world. Hadn’t been for a long time. She’d worked hard to carve him from her life, her dreams. But God help her, because of one mindless slip, he’d stepped out of those shadowy, forbidden images and into the worst nightmare of her life.

And Yvonne Kelly was closing in fast.

“We don’t have all night,” Dylan prompted.

Beth cut him a sharp look then slipped into the Bronco. In a heartbeat he had the door closed and was sliding into the driver’s seat, effectively shutting them off from the world. Through the tinted windows, Beth saw Yvonne Kelly hit the sidewalk at a run, but the engine purred to life and they tore from the curb with a shriek of tires.

Her heart raced as fast as the blur of buildings and cars they passed. He took a right curve too fast, then another, then swerved onto the side of the deserted road and threw the gear into park. A few cars lined the street, but no activity, and very little light. They were behind the police station, she realized. Not far away, but completely out of sight.

“You sure do know how to attract a crowd, sweetheart.”

The insolent words brought her back to familiar territory. Or at least, remembered territory. For a few dizzying minutes, Dylan had seemed more stranger than one-man wrecking crew. In his touch, she’d felt a protectiveness she didn’t remember. In his rough-hewn voice, she’d heard a strain she hadn’t understood. This bold, in-your-face proclamation was much more suited to the man she’d foolishly given her heart so long ago.

Little light made its way from the street lamp through the tinted windows, leaving only the blue glow from the dashboard to cast his face in shadow. He watched her intently, his six-foot-two frame dominating the front seat. She could hardly move without touching him.

She didn’t want to touch him.

She hadn’t wanted to spend the night at the cabin with him, either. She’d driven to the mountains after an emotional appointment with her doctor, in search of peace and quiet, to clear her mind. Instead, she’d found Dylan. She hadn’t realized he spent weekends there, at the St. Croix retreat. She hadn’t known the snow would make the roads impassable. She hadn’t anticipated all the memories closing in on her, the nightmare that had pinned her to the bed, waking up to find Dylan by her side, so big and strong, so…gentle. That had been new. Or maybe just an illusion. A dream. A wish. Regardless, it had shredded every remaining particle of her defenses.

Until she’d awoken just before sunrise, sprawled over his big hot body, their legs tangled, his arm draped possessively over her waist.

She’d wanted to cry.

Even now, weeks later, she could hardly believe the gravity of her mistake. She should have been able to tell him no. Tell herself no. She should have been able to resist that keening deep inside, the acute longing to feel his arms around her. It was tempting to make up some excuse like she’d been confused, hadn’t realized what she was doing. But that was a lie, and she knew it. She’d known. And she’d wanted. Badly. That was the problem. Being with Dylan went against everything she believed in, violated the life she’d built. And still, she’d given herself to him.

Still, she’d given.

Never again, she’d promised herself on the cold, slick drive down the mountain. Never, never again would she let herself give in to the kind of desire that burned everything in its path. Passion was intoxicating, but it never, never lasted.

Believing otherwise only led to pain.

She had to focus on Lance now, couldn’t let her irrational reaction to Dylan blur her focus all over again.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“Good old-fashioned H 2O,” he said, offering her the plastic bottle from his cup holder. “It’s nothing fancy and a little warm now, but it’s better than you passing out on me.”

She stared at his big, scarred hand, but rather than seeing those capable fingers wrapped around clear plastic, she saw them closed around her wrist. She’d felt the strength of his grip, but an unmistakable tenderness, as well.

It had been the tenderness that made her lash out.

Now she forced herself to look from the hand that could play her body like a song, to the hard line of his mouth and those eyes so deep and dark. And for a shattering moment, she didn’t see the uncompromising man who wanted to know if she’d killed the cousin who shared his last name but not his life.

She saw what she’d remembered on the mountain, the reckless boy he’d been, the one who’d coaxed her from her safe little world and made her want to be a little bad. Daring. To take chances she’d never even considered. And from that mirage came the crazy desire to lean closer and soak up the warmth of his body, to feel his arms close around her and hear his rough-hewn voice promise everything would be okay.

But that was impossible, and she knew it.

With Dylan St. Croix, nothing was ever okay.

“No, thanks,” she said, reaching for the door. “I don’t need you charging in and playing hero.” She’d learned the hard way that leaning on Dylan St. Croix was like leaning on a volcano ready to blow. And if she forgot, she had only to drive thirty minutes south of town, where two cold tombstones stood in silent reminder. “I can take care of myself.”

Curling her fingers around the handle, she pulled.

But the door didn’t budge.

“This isn’t a game,” came Dylan’s dangerously quiet voice from behind her. He reached across the passenger’s seat and pulled her hand from the door. “And I’m sure as hell not doing this for fun.”