Her knuckles poked the small of his back and urged him forward. He entered the house and flipped on the lights. “Anything out of place?”
She raised up on her toes and her breasts pressed into his back as she looked over his shoulder. “I don’t think so,” she said right next to his left ear.
Her breath warmed the side of his neck and turned his blood hot. “Jesus.”
She dropped to her heels and her knuckles once again urged him forward. She steered him toward the dining room and he turned on the light. The room had been buffed and polished and on the long table sat a closed laptop, a printer, a scanner, and a fax machine. Stacks of books and magazines and newspapers sat next to a computer. Things Dylan imagined a writer would need, but to write what was still the question.
“Everything okay in here?”
This time she leaned to the right and peeked around his shoulder. “Yes.” Her knuckles poked his spine again and they headed to the kitchen. Like the dining room, it, too, was spotless. The pots and pans hanging on the rack had been polished, the floor buffed, and the windows cleaned. All the furniture had been placed in the house recently.
One of the last times he’d been standing in the kitchen, the FBI had been here, too. They’d swarmed the place shortly after Hiram killed himself, and they’d taken most everything that hadn’t been nailed down. Dylan wondered what Hope would think if he told her that when they’d found Hiram dead, they’d also found red crotchless panties and a bullwhip hanging from that rack. The significance of those items became clear only after viewing the photographs and videotapes Hiram Donnelly had made of himself.
The thud of Dylan’s bootheels and the squeak of Hope’s running shoes directly behind him were the only sounds on their way to the back door. For her peace of mind, he checked it again; then they moved into the living room. When he turned on the lights, she did that raising-on-her-toes thing and pressed into his back again. Pure fire shot straight to his groin and he went from semi to stiff in less than a second. He wondered what she would do if he slid one hand around her waist, and stuck his tongue down her throat. His blood throbbed in his veins and he wondered if she’d melt into him. If she’d let him touch her breasts and feel between her legs. If he took her hand and pressed her palm into his erection.
“Everything looks good from here,” she said and dropped to her heels. “Let’s go upstairs.”
He knew he should step away, put his hands in the air, and leave the area, but he couldn’t quite force himself to do what he knew he should. Not yet. “You stay down here.”
“Don’t you think I should go with you?”
He looked over his shoulder and into her upturned face a few inches from his own. His gaze slid over her smooth forehead and perfect blond brows to her big, slightly out-of-focus blue eyes. He studied the bow of her top lip, and he said, just above her mouth, “Do you want me to check out your bed?”
“Yes,” she said and he about popped a vessel. “And then look behind the shower curtain in the bathroom. I don’t want to take a shower and get stabbed by Norman Bates.”
“Jesus, stay here.” His head spinning, he removed her hand from the back of his belt and walked away. “You should definitely stay here.”
He moved upstairs and quickly checked for intruders. He couldn’t say why, but he was glad to see that she hadn’t chosen the master bedroom. Glad she wasn’t sleeping in the same room where old Hiram had been tied up and spanked. Perhaps if he hadn’t seen the videos, hadn’t seen the faces of teenage girls, he wouldn’t see the taint of it now.
When Dylan came to the room she’d chosen for her bedroom, he stopped in his tracks. The way she’d decorated, it was obvious the woman lived alone. Everything was covered in white lace and purple flowers, like she slept in some sort of overrun garden. He seriously doubted the realtor who rented the property had placed that stuff in the house.
He shut the door before he started picturing her naked, on the white downy comforter, her hair all tousled, her lips parted and wet from his kiss, and her legs all tangled with his. He walked down the hall to the bathroom and looked behind the shower curtain as she’d asked. He turned to the mirror above the sink and stared at the deep red splotch beneath his left eye. The center was already beginning to turn blue. He touched it and carefully pulled down his bottom lid to look at his eyeball.
While he had absolutely no problem imagining Hope naked, any kind of involvement was out of the question. She was beautiful and the way she filled out spandex had to be a sin, but there were a lot of beautiful women in the world. Women who didn’t threaten the life he’d made and the security of his son.
He knew little about Hope, other than she had a rare talent for pissing people off and, in all likelihood, had lied about why she’d moved to Gospel. Ms. Hope Spencer was a mystery he had no intention of solving. If she kept her nose clean, she could keep her secrets from him and everyone else. Just as he intended to keep his-especially from her.
He’d seen another side of Hope tonight. She was more relaxed, less uptight, more approachable. Softer. Drunk. And in all honesty, he had to say he preferred the drunk. His attraction to her was purely physical and turned his thoughts to hot, sweaty things that were never going to happen. The way his body reacted to her didn’t worry him. It made him uncomfortable, yes, but it didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it.
Dylan moved out into the hall. He’d bet by morning, everyone in town would know he’d given Hope a ride home. They’d likely start placing bets on how long he’d stayed. Dylan had to be very careful where he parked his truck, which was probably the reason that he hadn’t parked it in a long time.
Growing up, he’d had a wild reputation. A reputation he’d deserved, but he was the sheriff now. An elected official. The father of a young son, and he could no longer afford negative gossip or speculation about his sex life. He had his own past to live down, as well as that of the former sheriff’s. Sometimes he wondered if the citizens of Gospel were all watching, waiting for him to mess up.
When he returned downstairs, he found Hope in the kitchen, wrapping a towel around a bag of ice.
Her back was to him; he let his gaze slide down her spine to the curve of her sweet spandex-covered butt. Maybe Iona was right. Maybe MZBHAVN wore thong undies.
She turned and smiled at him again and he felt it tighten his chest. “How’s your eye?”
It was obviously past time for him to go home. “It hurts like a bitch.”
She handed him the towel, and he figured since she’d gone to such trouble for him, he could stay a minute or two. “I thought this might help.”
Dylan leaned his behind against the counter and crossed one foot over the other. “You’ve really cleaned the place up. It looks nice.”
She shrugged her bare shoulders. “It took me a few days to get rid of all the dust and dirt.”
He raised the towel to the corner of his eye. “And bats.”
“And bats.” She nodded.
“Shelly told me about the bloodstain. Did you know the late Sheriff Donnelly?”
“Sure. I was one of his deputies.”
“Then you know why he killed himself?”
“Yep.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she prompted, “Well… why?”
He figured that anything he told her, she could probably find out if she dug deep enough. “He had a fondness for kinky sex. Real dominance-and-submission stuff. He liked women to dress up in red lace and stilettos, and he’d videotape himself getting his droopy butt flogged.”