Jenna Ryan - Raven's Hollow

Common sense and a hard slap of memory would keep those reactions in check, but it would still take every scrap of restraint he possessed not to jump her.

When he realized she was watching him, he shrugged off her last remark. “You want to talk fear factor, your great-grandfather’s got it all over Rooney. What is he now, ninety-five?”

“Ninety-nine.” Sweeping around behind him, she ran a teasing finger over his hair. “Hot on Rooney’s colorful heels.”

With a silent curse, Eli caught her hand. Coming smoothly to his feet, he murmured, “This sleepover thing actually might not be such a good idea. We’re standing here talking about weird cousins and Hezekiah, a man people think is a ghost, and what I’m really wondering is why the hell we’re talking at all.”

She resisted ever so slightly as he drew her toward him. “We agreed back at your truck not to do this.”

“I remember the conversation.” He held her gaze. “And you can stop me any time. We both know there’s nowhere for it to go. Cops and relationships don’t work. Trust me, I’ve been there and back again.”

With his thumb and fingers, he captured her chin, tipping her head up until he saw the glimmer in her eyes. He recognized the challenge in them, but right then he didn’t care. He wanted his mouth on hers, and screw the consequences. The moment for any last chance objections came and went as he brought her lips slowly up to meet his.

He’d keep it brief, he promised himself, hot and fast, a flash of desire satisfied.

It would have worked if she’d been another woman. Any woman other than the one he’d met and danced with in Boston.

Her fingers curled into his hair, and she moved against him in a kind of sinuous samba. He let his hands roam over her ribs, then around them so his palms cupped her breasts. He breathed in the scent of her while his tongue explored her mouth. She smelled like wild roses. She tasted like sin. She felt like the answer to a prayer.

If there were answers.

If he’d had prayers.

Easing back a tempting inch, she regarded him through her lashes. “I can feel the conflict in you, Eli. I know what it’s like to want but know you can’t or shouldn’t have. I think.”

“That’s part of our problem, isn’t it?” His eyes traveled over her face. “We’re always thinking.”

Her smile widened. “Not sure I’d say that, Lieutenant.” And yanking his mouth back down onto hers, she blasted everything that didn’t have its roots in need from his head.

It might have been lightning or the glow from the taper that caused the darkness to shift. Whatever the source, when he spotted a shadow that shouldn’t be there, his body stilled.

Sensing the change, Sadie drew back. “What is it?”

“Not sure.” He scanned the spread of black rocks that led to the edge of the cliff. “No, don’t look.” He held her in place when she started to turn. “Pretend we’re talking.”

“We are talking.” But she gave the ends of his hair a playful flick with one hand, and skimmed the fingers of her other across his cheek. “What do you see?”

He kissed her forehead. “Unless Molly’s taking a late night stroll, someone’s out there.”

“Wonderful. Can you tell if ‘someone’s’ carrying a gun?”

“I’ll need more than a glimpse for that. The light’s pretty much nonexistent.”

“I am so getting a generator.”

Ten seconds ticked by. “There it is.” He drew his own gun from the back of his jeans. “Considering its remote location, Bellam Manor’s a busy place tonight. Is there a side door?”

“Through the pantry. Eli, are you sure...?”

“Dead raven,” he reminded her, and she held up her hands in surrender.

A feeble streak of lightning flashed as the storm limped grudgingly out to sea. With his gun pointed skyward, and his eyes alert, Eli inched the pantry door open, waited a beat, then stepped out into the gusting rain.

“Come on,” he muttered to the shadowy caller. “Give me a target.”

He got one ten seconds later in the form of a barely there movement that indicated the caller was creeping along the back of the house.

Whoever it was wore a long coat and had one hand pressed to the outer wall. The other hand—he couldn’t tell. Might be carrying a weapon, might be holding something else. Like another dead bird?

Able to just make out the flat rocks ahead, he jammed the gun in his waistband and went for a takedown. When the shadow lost its balance on the slippery ground, Eli knew it was over.

One solid tackle was all it took. Surprised by the ease of the capture, rather than plant a knee, he flipped his quarry over. And found himself face-to-face with a writhing, swearing female.

Even fully pinned, she bucked, thrashed and squirmed, twisting her head from side to side. At length, she settled for spitting at him.

“Stop fighting me,” he shouted above the wind. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

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