Chapter 17
As he had the night before, Mitchell gave Dove time to get settled in upstairs before taking himself to bed. He’d talked to Peter Welding. But something wasn’t sitting right with him. How would Brad Fletcher have known about that underwater platform at the front edge of the dock?
He’d had Dove draw him a rough likeness of the docks, to take a picture of and send to Welding, and he and the local police officer could both see exactly what she meant by someone being able to get to the ropes that moored Ladybird from in the water.
Overnight, the sea’s constant movement would have taken her from there.
She could have crashed into the other boats.
Floated for miles. Hit a glacier. Or another boat, potentially taking lives.
More likely, she’d have crashed into any of the jutting pieces of land that were an integral part of the landscape in their portion of the world.
What if it wasn’t Brad Fletcher they were after?
Could it be Wes? Even as he had the thought, Mitchell shook it away. He’d known the man most of his life. Not closely but he was good people. Happily married, came from a good family, was raising one of his own.
And he was watching his livelihood sink into the sea because of Whaler’s inability to get control of his grief and quit drinking.
Hating the heartache such news would bring to Dove—and the potential harm that would come to St. James Boats if they were down their only experienced employee—he decided to keep his suspicions to himself until he knew more.
He could be way off base. And didn’t want to hurt Wes’s reputation, either, simply due to a logical supposition.
But he’d keep a closer watch on the docks, until he knew more.
Decision in place, he made quick work of his nightly routine, set his phone where he could see it, checked the gun he’d carried with him that day and lodged it between bed frame and mattress.
Dove had covered herself with the same quilt she’d used before.
Her choice to not get under the covers had been a wise one, but she needed her sleep.
Needed to be comfortable. About to get another blanket to lay over her, he stopped.
She was a grown woman with the right to make her own choices. For all he knew, she’d put on warmer clothes—a wise decision all the way around.
Either way, not his business.
And if she was asleep, he most definitely did not want to risk waking her.
Careful to make as little movement as possible, he slid under the covers and lowered himself to the mattress.
As he had the night before, he closed his eyes, turned off the day and willed himself to a good night’s sleep.
Except that there was a woman lying a foot or so away from him, not quite hugging her side of the bed…and he smelled lavender again. A woman who’d suffered enough.
Who had to have some good coming her way. If there was any truth at all to the karma she believed in.
And… Wes had dropped everything to come help secure Ladybird. Would a man who’d meant to harm her do that?
He’d come after Mitchell had already found her.
A man trying to avoid suspicion would do that. He’d been around his brother enough to know that perps often insinuated themselves into crime scenes. And investigations, too.
Had he told Wes anything about their suspicions regarding Brad Fletcher? He didn’t think so. But couldn’t speak for Dove. She’d known the man much more closely than Mitchell had—over a good period of years. It was feasible that she’d said something.
Welding already believed that Fletcher had been instrumental—had instigated, even—Hal Billows’s surprise departure that week. It stood to good reason that the businessman had approached Wes as well…
“What’s the matter?” Dove’s voice, floating softly to him, carried caution. And hit him like a fist to the gut. He was sleeping alone—not with someone.
They were two individuals in the same bed.
They weren’t together.
“Nothing,” he told her. His train of thought made sense in the dark of the night after a difficult day. He wasn’t going to be an alarmist, and possibly irreparably damage relationships, until he’d entertained them in the light of day.
And had done a little preliminary digging.
“Go to sleep,” he added, as though talking to a child. Hearing himself, too late, he wished he’d just left it at nothing.
Because, other than the current problems in Dove’s life, there was nothing. Could be nothing. Between them.
“That’s the third big sigh you’ve made since you got into bed.”
He didn’t turn his head to see if she was still facing the wall beside her, but neither had he felt her move. Taking that as a good sign he said, “My mind’s on a situation I’m dealing with for a client,” he told her in absolute truth. “Nothing I can discuss.”
“Attorney–client privilege,” she said, helping him out of his mess.
He didn’t say yes. Technically, he’d be lying. Because when the client with whom he was speaking was the one whose case he was pondering, privilege was moot.
But he took care to put work out of his mind. Or to put the client who was consuming him on the back burner. To, at the very least, ensure that he kept his breathing even.
And, in doing so, felt himself relax enough to sleep.
Skin against skin. Brought to a semiconscious state, Dove registered the sensation. Human warmth against her arm. She’d been in a boat on a river in the dark, rowing so she didn’t make any sound and bring danger upon her. Her arms were growing weary.
And there was warmth. She wasn’t alone.
Lying still, she wavered between sleep and consciousness, relaxed and dropped off again. Until movement woke her completely. Then she froze.
She was lying on her back, not on her side as she’d fallen asleep. And not on the edge of the bed, either. Her arm had most definitely met human flesh. Mitchell’s back. A bare portion of it.
And it felt…so incredibly good to be touching him.
Their time together—with no breaks—seemed like weeks, not days, and yet, other than the hug he’d given her the other morning, and the time she’d slid her hand into his at the hospital, they’d never touched.
As though doing so was off-limits.
How could something that brought so much comfort, even just an arm to a back in the night, be wrong?
She wanted to move until her hand was touching him, too. Just to lay her palm against him and go back to sleep, but didn’t want to wake him.
Didn’t want to spoil the moment.
But the more she lay there, wide awake, the more she wanted. Which led to thoughts of how he’d wanted her, too, the other morning.
And the more she thought, the more consumed she became with knowing how it felt to have her hand flat against his back. To absorb the sense of life emanating from his skin. To feel his essence in a physical sense.
Could her touch help him? Maybe instill some positive energy within him? She’d never practiced touch therapy before, but knew others who had. For healing purposes.
But what about just for…comfort? The word came again. Pushing at her. And Dove capitulated. Because…what if she denied herself and lost an opportunity she’d been given? Keeping her movements as imperceptible as possible, she slowly put her hand where her arm had been.
Just lay it there. And smiled. Never in her life had she taken such a large dose of positive energy from another human being. Maybe she hadn’t been as open to doing so.
Or hadn’t needed it so urgently.
Closing her eyes, she lay there, not holding Mitchell, just…feeling him…and drifted back to sleep.
Mitchell awoke abruptly. From an erotic dream that had left him hard as hell, a hand to his penis. A dream that didn’t end with consciousness.
He was hard, all right. And holding a feminine hand that contained the fingers actually covering a part of himself that hadn’t known feminine company in months.
He worked to get his mind in gear. Came up with two things. He’d figured out how Dove had handled her getting-cold-in-the-night situation. She was under the covers with him.
And the second was just more of a wondering. Was she conscious?
Followed by a third. Did he want her to be?
Oh, God help him, he did.
He was about to explode, and she wasn’t even doing anything. Well, she had her hand…there. With his on top of it.
Knowing that embarrassing himself was imminent, he gave an involuntary push against himself, adding pressure to her hand on him, but managed to hold on long enough for the immediate moment to pass.
And breathed a sigh of relief with the victory.
Never in his life had he lost control without his own consent.
All that was left was to extricate himself. Preferably without waking her up.
Unless…very softly he whispered, “You awake?”
The clasp of her fingers around him, a very definite sign of consciousness was his response. And made his exit not so clear-cut.
Most particularly when, of its own accord, his body pressed itself into her palm as a reaction to her hold on it.
Rolling to his back, Mitchell turned his head, meeting her wide-open gaze in the darkness. Pinpricks of light to pinpricks of light.
He thought her head started to move toward him. Knew his head started to move toward her. He was going to kiss her. Just fact.
And when he did, other facts hit home as well.
The woman kissed like a temptress.
And there was no option but to accept that they were going to have sex.
Dove had been dreaming. There’d been clouds. Pleasure.
How her hand had slid from Mitchell’s back to his hard-on beneath the waistband of his silky pajama pants, she had no idea. Didn’t figure it mattered. His hand over hers, holding her there, was all the impetus she needed to hold on. And to open her lips to his when he turned to her.
Nature had her way of directing her course.
Dove’s choice was to follow it.