Chapter 6 #2
He needed to clear his head. Of his fear for Reggie’s safety, of his anger at her abductor and his increasing attraction to his new partner.
God only knew how though. All three emotions were growing in strength with each passing second, and it made his already churning gut churn more. With desire and disgust.
“I have all the details the mechanic could recall of the man last seen with your sister plus a very detailed description of the stolen pick-up.” Yolanda’s sensual heat reached out for Peter all the way from the passenger seat of his car.
“He sounds quite menacing. Tall, dark hair, eyes that may or may not be grey. Irish accent. Lean but muscular. The mechanic described him as…” she referred to a small notebook in her hand, “‘fucking two roos short of the paddock and nastier than a cut snake’. I am assuming he means the suspect is not friendly, yes? The uniform has posted an APB on both the Irishman and the pickup.” She turned her inescapable gaze on him and his skin prickled, making him want to squirm in his own seat.
Instead, he gripped the wheel harder, turning into the quiet street she had directed him to.
Long, slender fingers feathered over his thigh, high, so close to the bulge of his groin he almost swerved off the road. “She will be fine, Peter. I promise.”
He ground his teeth, trying to focus on her words but distracted beyond belief.
There was that touch again. That sensual brush.
Making his body respond on an utterly physical, utterly male level.
Was it innocent? Or calculated? He didn’t like being played, and something about his new partner told him she was doing just that.
But why? He studied her from the corner of his eye.
“Who is the bastard supposedly saving her from?”
Yolanda gave him a blank expression. A practiced blank expression. “I don’t understand.”
Peter accelerated through an amber light, his pulse quick, his knuckles white. “The mechanic said the Irishman claimed to be keeping my sister safe from someone. Who is it?”
A long pause followed, before Yolanda shifted in her seat, fidgeting with the notebook. “The bad guys.”
Taken aback, Peter raised his eyebrows. “The bad guys?”
Another shift in her seat, a dismissive curl of her lips. “The bad guys.”
Peter suppressed a growl of disgust. Damn it. Why didn’t he believe her? “What did Reggie say?”
The hand on his thigh stilled. “Reggie?”
“My sister. What did the mechanic remember her saying?”
“Not much. He said she tried to call you but before she spoke to anyone at the station the Irishman arrived. That is it.”
Peter bit back a curse. Everything felt wrong, but be damned if he knew why.
Yolanda’s hand pressed firmer against his leg, the warmth of its contact making his skin tingle. “We will find her, Peter. We will find her and the Irishman will get what he deserves. I promise.”
Eyes narrowing, he turned a corner. “Tell me why you transferred to Sydney City, Vischka?”
The hand on his thigh stilled. “Why?”
“Because unless you’re after something, I’m buggered if I can figure out why you’re all over me like a rash.”
An unreadable expression flittered across her face, somehow lost and vulnerable, before, with a sharp sniff, she lifted her chin and turned away, looking out the window.
“Maybe my transfer had something to do with the fact I told my captain to fuck off when he suggested a ‘quickie’ in the evidence room.” She fell silent, watching the houses pass.
Ah, fuck. Way to go, dickhead.
“This is it,” she suddenly said, voice distant, as she pointed to a small semi-detached house on the high side of the street.
Peter pulled to the curb, self-contempt bubbling through him like boiling acid.
Damn it. What was going on here? He killed the ignition, staring blankly at Yolanda’s house.
Maybe he’d misread her? Maybe she was one of those touchy-feely people?
Maybe she was more sensitive than she let on?
A fragile female hiding in the vixen, after all?
His ex-wife had spent the last four years of their marriage complaining he was a cold fish.
Perhaps she was right all along? He suppressed a wry sigh.
Fuck. Years of being a cop and he couldn’t tell if a woman was coming on to him or just being friendly.
He shook his head. “Sorry, Yolanda. That wasn’t called for.
I didn’t mean to imply…” He petered off, unsure what to say. He didn’t mean to imply she was a slut?
For a moment his partner didn’t respond, her attention fixed on something outside the car, before she shrugged and turned back to him, expression ambiguous. “Do I intimidate you, Detective? Or intrigue you?”
Peter clenched his jaw, the question throwing him completely.
A slow grin curled one side of glossy red lips, any hint of vulnerability disappearing.
“Because I am hoping the answer is intrigue.” Confident sexuality oozed from her once more.
“I will not be long,” she stated, blue eyes direct.
“I need to change my clothes. Grease is not easy to remove from linen and that gas station was literally painted in it.” The fingers returned to his thigh.
Higher this time. Almost brushing the swell of his crotch through the material of his trousers.
“Do not wait in the car. Not in this heat.”
Peter narrowed his eyes on the immaculate presentation of Yolanda’s small house, fully aware the sweat trickling down his back was caused, not by the summer day, but by her words.
You’re not going in there are you?
Another brush of his thigh, this time high enough to tickle the swell of his balls. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was all an accident. But he did know better. Didn’t he?
He climbed from the car, the mid-morning heat hitting him like a wave, wringing new sweat from his skin.
He followed her up the path to the front door, impatience eating at him, edgy anticipation feeding it.
What he anticipated he didn’t know, but it itched at the back of his mind, in the pit of his gut.
His gaze dropped to Yolanda’s butt and he suppressed a groan. Bloody hell. Concentrate.
Her living room was a study in minimalism.
Black angular sofa, black leather sling chair, a low, glass coffee table and two matching lamp tables on which sat short, fat polished steel lights.
A small plasma screen hung on the wall above a glass shelf displaying a single objet d’art—a sculpture of the ancient Roman babes Remus and Romulus suckling on a wild wolf’s teats. Minimalism at its extreme.
Peter took it all in, unease licking at his gut again. Cozy.
Yolanda stepped past him, trailing warm fingers over his shoulder, setting his skin afire. “Come in.” She cast him a lidded look through the razor-sharp bangs falling over her eyes. “I won’t bite.” Those glossy blood-red lips curled when Peter didn’t move. “Not unless you want me to, that is.”
Maggie looked at him with those large, liquid-chocolate eyes. Puppy-dog eyes, he’d called them, a term Maggie both loathed and loved since she was young enough to understand the pun behind the expression. Except tonight, those puppy-dog eyes were shining with tears. And agony.
“I’m sorry, Dec.” Pain made the words almost indecipherable. Pain and the bloody knifepoint pressed to her throat.
The ground underneath Declan’s paws vibrated with her terror and his body responded. There would be more blood spilt tonight. Just not Maggie’s.
He took a step forward.
“Enough, O’Connell.” McCoy’s hand—the one not holding the knife—curled harder over Maggie’s left breast. Maggie whimpered, a single tear marking her cheek as she cringed against the cruel assault.
Declan bared his teeth, his growl low. Deadly.
“Revenge is but a sweet thing, isn’t it?
” Epoc stepped from the looming darkness surrounding them, his smooth pate gleaming in the silver moonlight.
Even in human form, he stank of deranged insanity.
Eyes glowing with an unnatural power, he stared at Declan, making Declan’s hackles rise.
“How does it feel, knowing your sweet sister is the property of my clan, O’Connell?
That I can taste her whenever I want. That I can do whatever I want to her and there’s nothing you can do about it? ”
White rage tore through Declan but he remained motionless. The knife at Maggie’s throat punctured the skin directly above her jugular. All it would take was one quick slash and she would be dead. He couldn’t risk it.
“Dec…” Maggie’s cry was cut short. McCoy yanked her back against his body, wicked-sharp canines flashing as he laughed a silent laugh.
Epoc’s own laugh wasn’t so silent. He stared at Declan, dominance oozing from him in waves.
“So sweet. So innocent. To think, she actually believed McCoy loved her. To forsake her own clan to be with the werewolf of her dreams…” He laughed again.
“She came willingly, do you know that, O’Connell?
She followed McCoy like a love-sick puppy.
” The laugh turned to a snort. “Not sure she loves him now, though. Not after everything he’s done to her. Everything he’s let be done to her.”
“They shouldn’t have expelled you,” Epoc continued, eyeing Declan closely. “It left her lost, looking for an emotional connection. Someone to love after her brother was removed.”
“Help…” The raw sob burst from Maggie’s lips. McCoy’s fingers sank deeper into her breast, his face as expressionless as a mask.
Fury overwhelmed Declan, made his muscles coil. The screaming desire to tear the Scottish mongrel’s throat out consumed him. In one snap of his muzzle, the bastard would be nothing but a twitching corpse on the ground.
But for the knife…