No Escape

His tongue glided over her bottom lip, and she slid her hands into his damp hair, making sure he wouldn’t pull away again. Against her belly, she felt him grow hard, and it thrilled her to know she could do that to him.



She kissed him deep, sighing into his mouth. His big hands slid down to cup her butt and fit them more closely together. His erection jerked against her, hot and hard, and just like that, she was wet and ready for him, dying to feel him push inside her.



“The kitchen floor works for me,” she told him as she reached for the top button on his jeans. She kissed her way over his wide jaw and down his neck, where it was easier for her to reach. Her hands shook, making the job of undoing his jeans much harder than it should have been.



“Wait,” Grant rasped out, covering her hands with his to stop her. “We can’t.”



His hands shook with restraint, but they held firm.



No way was she going to let him stop her now. Not when her body was hot and ready and she knew he wanted her just as much as she did him. “Yes, we can. I won’t cling or cry when you go. I swear it.”



He gathered her wrists in his hand, holding her tight. His chest worked hard as he tried to catch his breath, and a fine sweat dampened his brow. “We can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”



“What wouldn’t be fair is to leave me hanging on the edge like this.”



He closed his eyes and dragged in a ragged breath. “I’d do just about anything to have the chance to make you come, honey, but not like this. Not unless you’ve had time to make sure it’s what you want.”



“I’m sure.”



He stroked the back of her hand with one thumb as if trying to soothe her. It didn’t work. She was aching inside, almost frantic to force him to keep going. “You and me have the kind of chemistry that could set a house on fire, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be sorry later. I want you, but I care about you too much to hurt you.”



“It’s just sex.”



He lifted a blond brow. “So you do this with men all the time?”



“You are not all men.”



“That’s my point. Who was the last man you slept with?”



“My last boyfriend.”



“Did you love him?” he asked with a blunt directness that made her believe he already knew the answer.



“I don’t see how that matt—”



“Did you love him?” he asked again.



Isabelle forced herself to look him in the eye. “Yes.”



“And that’s why we can’t do this. I don’t have enough friends to risk losing you, Isabelle. Not you.”



“But you wouldn’t lose me. I’m a grown woman, perfectly capable of making rational decisions about who to sleep with.”



“And when you were rational, you told me no.”



“I changed my mind.”



“Fine. If that’s still the way you feel about it after you cool off, then we’ll talk. But for now you need to get to work. And so do I. The sooner we find the killer, the sooner we can stop tempting each other with a fantasy we both know would never work.”



He was right. Isabelle hated it, but she knew he was right.



Detective Mathews stared at the man hanging lifelessly from his own ceiling fan and felt nothing. A couple of years ago, he would have cared that some mild-mannered accountant had been murdered, but a lot could happen in a couple of years.



“Another suicide?” asked the photographer as he captured yet another angle of the scene. “Is there something in the water?”



“It’s not a suicide,” said Mathews, his voice harsh and rough from too much worry and not enough sleep.



“What makes you so sure?”



“Forced entry. There were signs the lock on the back door lock had been tampered with.” That, and the fact that the man hanging by his neck was the next person on the list some special forces hotshot had given the police.



Mathews had checked out Grant Kent and found plenty of interesting reading material. Kent had already murdered one man before he went into the military. Chances were he’d done it again now that he was out and back in his old hometown, free to do whatever he pleased.



Mathews didn’t care how clean his military record was. Once a killer, always a killer. He had Kent’s prints on file, both from his juvenile record and his military one. Maybe the guy was cocky enough not to have worn gloves. And even if he had, all Mathews needed to bring the bastard in was a scrap of evidence, just one sign that Kent had been here.



As spotless as the accountant’s home was, Mathews didn’t think they’d have any trouble finding something out of place.



CHAPTER TWELVE



Isabelle was already late for work when Grant pushed her out the door. He felt like a pansy for getting all sappy at her like that. He never should have told her how he felt about his dad. He’d never told anyone else, so why her? It was only going to make her think he was weak when she needed to be able to depend on him to be strong.



What Grant needed to do was suck it up, keep his dick in his pants, and do his job.



Easier said than done.



He never should have kissed her, though he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not something as good as that. How could he regret a kiss that was so hot it made him hard, yet so sweet it made him ache that it had to end?



Grant shook his head and tried not to think about it.



He rinsed off the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher, then straightened up the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to come home to a mess.



He’d told her that if she still wanted him, they could talk about it. Maybe she’d come home and do just that. Sex didn’t have to be about love—he knew that without a doubt. Maybe Isabelle could learn the same thing. They could enjoy each other while he was here, then part ways. No problem.



Hell, he’d even consider doing a long-distance relationship with her if she wanted. Nothing serious or binding, since he was sure she’d still want to be on the lookout for husband material, but he could live with that if it meant they could be together some of the time.



Couldn’t he?



His stomach started to burn at the notion of sharing her, and he knew then that it wouldn’t work. They were both better off if he learned not to think of her as a woman. He could do that. He’d done it with Noelle as soon as he’d found out she was David’s woman.



In fact, it had proved surprisingly easy. David loved her, and that was enough to make Grant keep his distance. All he had to do was find a way to feel the same with Isabelle.



No problem. He could do it. He wasn’t sure how, but he’d figure out something, for Isabelle’s sake.



After five minutes of scrambling for ideas and coming up blank, a sick sense of panic settled in his chest. He needed advice from someone whose head wasn’t quite so fucked up.



He checked his watch. It was still early, but Caleb would be up. He’d know what to do. Caleb always knew what to do.



Grant dialed his friend’s cell phone.



It took four rings for Caleb to answer, and when he did, it was in a whisper. “Hey, Grant.”



“Did I wake you?”



He heard the sound of a door clicking shut, then Caleb cleared his throat. He sounded awful, like he was sick. “I was up late, taking care of Lana.”



That didn’t sound good. “What’s wrong?”



“She’s got the flu, bad.”



“Oh, man. That sucks. Is there anything I can do?”



“Get David off my back. He needs an extra pair of hands, but I can’t leave Lana until she’s over this crap.”



“I wish I could do that, but there’s some serious shit going down here and I can’t leave, either.”



“I thought you were just going to visit an old friend on the way to Colorado.”



“I was, but it got complicated.”



“Let me guess. Lady trouble?”



“Is there any other kind?”



“Then why are you calling me? Hell, Grant, you’ve got more experience with the ladies than three of me put together.”



“She’s special.”



“Oh. I see. How special?”



“Special enough that I can’t fuck it up.”



Caleb’s rough laugh vibrated the phone. “About damn time you settled down.”



“It’s not like that. She’s just a friend.”



“Yeah, right. You don’t have female friends, just fuck buddies.”



Grant winced at the crude term, though it had never bothered him before. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how to deal with this.”



“Sorry, man. Wish I could help. The only advice I can give you is that if you want her to continue to be your friend, lock your dick in a drawer until you leave.”



That’s pretty much what Grant figured he’d say. At least his instincts were right. Now all he had to do was follow through on them. “I’d better figure this shit out fast, then. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold out.”



“Something other than women troubles?”



Grant wasn’t going to pull Caleb away from his sick wife. Lana was tough, and if she needed him, she really was in bad shape. “Nothing I can’t handle.”



Caleb let out a long, wheezing sigh. “Good. I got my hands full here.”



“I hope you’re not coming down with what Lana’s got. You sound like hell.”



“I’ll survive.”



“Kiss Lana for me.”



“Hell, no. You want to kiss a woman vicariously, find someone else’s wife.”



Grant smiled at the possessive growl in Caleb’s tone. If he wasn’t too sick for that, he’d be fine. “Take care of yourself, man.”



“You, too,” said Caleb and hung up.



So much for an easy answer, and there wasn’t time to look for more advice. He had a meeting with Detective Mathews in half an hour, and he needed to be clear-headed enough to make his case. If he could get the good guys to back him, then they could find the asshole who was killing people, and both he and his grounded dick could be on their way before he did something with Isabelle they’d both regret.



Wyatt had no trouble finding Isabelle’s car in the teachers’ lot. She was nice enough to show up late, and he was already there, watching to see where she parked. Lucky for him, she was on the last row of the lot, farthest away from the building, right between a minivan and an SUV.



He couldn’t have asked for a better setup. No one was going to see a thing, and he’d have plenty of room to work.



It had been a long time since he’d tinkered with a car, but he was pretty sure they hadn’t changed so much he couldn’t do what needed to be done to get his son back.



Detective Mathews greeted Grant with a firm shake and a suspicious glint in his eyes. He had the build of a man who could take a hit and come up swinging so fast you wouldn’t know what hit you back. His shirt was a bit rumpled, as if he’d slept in it, and his tie was already loose around his throat. The red rims of fatigue around his eyes told Grant that he’d either worked or played too hard last night.



From the looks of the stacks of files littering his desk, Grant figured it was the former.