Chapter Seventeen
Lance watched Morgan work the sheriff. She faced Sheriff King over his desk, all big blue eyes and sincerity. She folded her hands in her lap. Her expression was attentive, her posture ladylike, and yet her presence powerful in a way that Lance couldn’t quite quantify.
It was confidence, he decided. Every word she spoke rang with truth but was delivered in a quiet way that had King leaning forward to listen. Yes, she had the big, badass sheriff hanging on her every word.
She was good. Very good.
No doubt when she’d been a prosecutor, she’d commanded the jury’s attention just as naturally.
King leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his cleanly shaven chin. His eyes drifted to Lance, narrowed just a hair, then returned to Morgan.
Yeah. Lance was not one of his favorite people, which was why he sat back and kept his mouth shut. He would have stayed in the car if he didn’t know he needed to sign a statement about the discovery of evidence. Lance wasn’t as skilled at hiding his anger as Morgan. Frankly, his disposition was more like the sheriff’s.
King dangled the Ziploc bag containing the bird pendant over his desk. “So you found this in the weeds where Chelsea’s car was left?”
“Yes. It was buried in the tall grass.” Morgan nodded solemnly.
Which was a nice way of saying his men blew it while simultaneously offering an excuse.
The sheriff grunted. Lance had no doubt he was irritated at his department being shown up, by a woman no less, but Morgan was so polite and professional and pleasant about the fuckup that King couldn’t get mad, at least not at her.
But his eyes telegraphed his mood. His deputies were going to suffer the blowback from Morgan’s discovery.
“We don’t know that it belongs to Chelsea Clark,” the sheriff said. “Her husband wasn’t very specific when he gave us a list of what she’d been wearing when she left the house. He said he only saw her for a couple of minutes, and he was preoccupied with the kids. He couldn’t even tell me what color her boots were.”
Morgan nodded. “Actually, I called Tim and asked him if Chelsea was wearing any jewelry Friday night. He said she has a silver bird pendant that she wore all the time. I messaged him a photo. He positively identified the necklace as belonging to his wife. He says he has snapshots of her wearing it. He’s looking for one now.”
King grunted. “Would have been nice if he’d mentioned it to me.”
“I’m sure he just forgot. That night was very stressful.” Morgan continued. “The hairs have roots attached and would therefore contain DNA. Are you going to have DNA tests run or would you prefer I send the hairs to a private lab?”
Hair shafts were composed of dead cells and did not contain DNA. Only the portion of a hair that was located below the skin was connected to the blood stream.
“I’ll do it.” The sheriff bit each word off like a piece of beef jerky.
“Do you have a sample of Chelsea’s DNA?” Morgan asked.
“Yes.” The sheriff nodded. “Her husband submitted it when he filled out the missing persons report.”
“Is there anything else we can do to help?” she offered.
“No.” The sheriff sighed. “You’ve done more than enough.”
Morgan rose and offered the sheriff her hand over his desk. King shook it gently and thanked her for her help. But all Lance got was a gruff nod that all but said Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.
Lance and Morgan exited the station. The storm had followed them and pounded the parking lot with heavy rain. The Jeep was parked just twenty-five feet away. Yet Lance’s hair and clothes got a fresh soaking as they raced for the vehicle.
Inside the vehicle, Morgan’s teeth chattered. “Where to next?”
He started the engine and then turned the heater on high.
Lance checked the time on the dashboard block. “Dry clothes are next. Then we regroup. Want to make a quick stop at your house?”
“No.” She held her hands out to the heat vents. “I have a change of clothes at the office.”
“We can update Sharp while we’re there. He’s going to want to know about the necklace. We’ve found the first real evidence that Chelsea was forcibly taken.”
“I almost wish we hadn’t.” Morgan’s voice was quiet.
“I know.” Because now they knew that Chelsea was either being held captive or dead.
The rain stopped as Lance drove to the office. He parked at the curb, and sun burst from the sky in biblical fashion. “Sharp’s not here.”
“I’ll grab my bag.” Morgan ran inside and emerged a minute later, garment bag in hand.
Lance had a two-bedroom house in town just six blocks from Sharp Investigations. They went in through the garage, passing piles of hockey equipment.
“How’s your team?” Morgan asked.
Lance had coached a team of at-risk youths when he was a patrol officer with the Scarlet Falls PD. He’d bonded with the teens and stayed on after he’d left the police force. “Their skills are improving, their self-control not so much. They could start winning if I could keep them out of the penalty box.”
They placed their shoes on the heating vent in the laundry room to dry. Hooking the top of her garment bag over the doorknob, Morgan hung her coat on a peg and then stripped off her socks.
Lance stripped off his flannel shirt and tee. He tossed both into the washer.
“Oh.” Morgan was staring at his chest.
“Do you want a hanger for your clothes?”
And would you like me to help you take them off?
She turned to face him.
“You have man candy abs?” She grinned.
Heat rushed to Lance’s face. And elsewhere.
She stepped forward, her gaze roaming over his chest, her eyes hungry. With slow, deliberate motions, she unsnapped her pants and slipped out of them. Her sweater hung past her hips, but he could see the lace edges of her dark-gray panties. She held out her pants by a belt loop. “You offered to hang these up.”
Holy . . .
Lance’s breath caught in his throat. Her legs were slender and long enough to wrap—
You’re getting ahead of yourself. Be cool.
Right. He’d been waiting to put his hands, and other body parts, on her skin for months. There was nothing cool about his desire. He shifted his gaze to her face. There was nothing cool about the playful heat in her eyes either.
He took the pants. Without taking his eyes off hers, he grabbed a hanger from the bar over the washer, draped them over it, and hung them from the bar.
“You should get out of those wet pants.” She moved closer, her hand reaching for the snap of his cargo pants. He flinched at the brush of her fingers against his belly.
“Are you sure?” He grabbed her hand.
Her face turned serious. “Very. We’ve been clearheaded and logical about whatever this is between us for weeks. Where has that gotten us?”
“There’s nothing wrong with waiting for the right moment.”
She smiled. “The right moment is the one that’s happening right now. Life isn’t perfect. If we wait for all our ducks to be lined up, we’ll be waiting for a very long time. My little ducks are tough to herd.”
“We do have complicated lives,” he admitted.
“I don’t want to wait for anything. I want to seize the moment.” She smiled. “Or something.”
He loved the powerful look in her eyes, and the confident tone of her voice was a huge turn on.
“I could really use a hot shower.” She lifted the hem of her sweater, exposing another inch of gray lace. His heart skipped second gear and shifted into third. He ripped his eyes from her tantalizing striptease and focused on her eyes. As much as he wanted her body, he craved the rest of her just as much.
There was no other woman like her. Not for him.
She tugged off her scarf. The bruises around her neck were the color of ripe plums. Lance pictured Tyler Green with his hands around her throat. The quick surge of anger was followed by a cold dash of fear. She could have been killed, that lovely and slender neck broken.
His heart stammered at the thought.
“What’s the matter?” Her confidence faltered. She lifted the scarf, as if to put it back on and cover the bruises. She licked her lips. Was she nervous?
The thought disconcerted him. It had been a long time for her, he supposed, but she was so capable that he often forgot about her vulnerabilities.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He cupped her face in both hands. Her hair smelled of rain and lemons. “This is perfect.”
He tilted her head and touched his lips to hers. God, the taste of her . . .
It would never be enough.
With a soft moan, she dropped the scarf, and it fell to the floor at their feet. She slipped her arms around his waist and splayed her fingers across his bare back. She pressed her body against his, all her softness lining up with his hard planes and angles.
He lifted his head. “You’re perfect.”
“Keep talking like that, mister, and you might get lucky.” Her eyes shone with desire, humor—and yes . . . nerves.
“I’m already the luckiest man in the world.”
“You asked for it.” She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to kiss her again.
He moved from her mouth to the curve of her neck, nipping lightly at her ear before tasting her collarbone. She groaned, a heady sound of need that slammed him in the gut. Well, below the gut.
“Let’s get out of the laundry room.” Moving backward, he tugged her into the hallway with him.
He walked backward all the way to the bedroom. Her hands were busy, stroking his back and shoulders. He slid his hands under her sweater and up her back. Her skin was smooth and soft. The backs of his legs hit the bed. He took his hands out from under her sweater to unsnap the holster at his waist. Reaching behind him, he set the gun and holster on the nightstand then got his hands back on her body and his lips on her mouth.
He tugged her sweater off, tossing it over his shoulder. She pressed against him, her skin warm and soft. Reaching behind her, he opened the clasp of her bra. The straps slid down her shoulders. He leaned back, letting it fall to the floor between them and exposing two absolutely perfect breasts. He cupped one, his thumb grazing her nipple. Her eyes drifted closed, and she moaned from deep in her throat.
Lance closed the inches between them, his mouth crushing down on hers. Her hands were at the snap of his pants. This time he helped her. They could not get naked fast enough. There were too many parts of her he wanted to touch and taste.
He lifted his lips from Morgan’s, disbelief flooding him. Her eyes opened, the blue of them dark and needy. Finally.
This was actually going to happen.
Annnnnnd the Magnum PI theme song sounded from his pocket.
No.
No. No. No.
He froze. The absurdity of the situation rolled over him like a wave of ridiculousness.
They just couldn’t get a break.
She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his chest and laughing under her breath.
“That’s Sharp. I don’t want to answer it.” He really, really didn’t want to answer that call. Stupid conscience. “But he usually texts unless it’s important.”
“You have to get it.” Morgan sighed, taking a step backward. She rubbed her arms, as if suddenly cold. “What does your phone play when I call?”
“Charlie’s Angels.” He pulled the phone from his pocket and accepted the call. “What is it, Sharp?”
“Is Morgan with you?” Sharp asked. “She didn’t answer her phone.”
Lance sighed. “She is.”
Her phone was in her bag in the laundry room.
“Put me on speaker,” Sharp said.
Lance held the phone between him and Morgan.
“Tim Clark just called looking for you,” Sharp said. “There’s a deputy at his house. He wants to take him down to the station. Tim sounded upset.”
Anger flickered in her eyes. “I don’t suppose the deputy told Tim why?”
“No,” Sharp answered.
“I’ll call Tim right now.” She propped a hand on her hip. In just a pair of silk panties, the cocky pose was unbelievably hot.
Nothing short of ice in his shorts was going to cool him off, and Lance lamented the invention of the cell phone.
She ended the call and hurried for the laundry room. She returned a minute later, garment bag in one hand, giant purse in the other. She fished her phone out of her purse. “Tim called five minutes ago.”
“You’re allowed to have your phone out of reach for five minutes,” Lance said.
“I know.” But she still felt guilty. Morgan took responsibilities seriously. “It was just bad timing.”
“You can say that again.” Lance went to the closet for clean clothes. He exited wearing cargo pants and pulling a T-shirt over his head. Morgan put her phone on the bed and unzipped her garment bag while she used voice commands to dial Tim’s number.
Lance swallowed with regret as she dressed—stepping into a maroon skirt, tugging a white shirt over her head, and then flipping her hair out of the neck.
“Hello,” Tim answered. More than one child cried in the background. The sound set Lance’s nerves on edge.
Something major must have happened if the sheriff wanted Tim at the station.