dark ops 3 - Renegade (14 page)

Jill searched out the truck window for anything to divert her thoughts as she drove alone with Mason down a dimly lit street after they’d dropped Phil off at his place. The sleepy desert neighborhood where she lived had mostly turned in for the night.

She hugged his jacket around her shoulders, chilled from her thoughts as much as the night air. “Thanks for the ride home.”

“You’re right that backtracking to pick up Phil’s car would have wasted a lot of time,” he conceded, even though he still seemed surprised that she’d agreed. “And Phil was in no shape to drive himself or anyone else.”

“He’s not a drunk, but he does have his longneck moments.”

As a keen observer of human nature, Mason hid a canny intuitiveness beneath his slick exterior. It was the kind of quality that made the best investigators, and it intrigued her on any number of levels. Jill wondered how he had gained such skills.

Of course that could be said about a number of aviators who worked around here, and truth be told, she had no reason to suspect he had anything to do with the serial killer. She should say good night and move on.

Should. But couldn’t. Not yet. “I like you, Mason Randolph.”

The dashboard lights sparked off the glint of humor in his green eyes. “The surprise in your voice could be insulting.”

“Good thing your ego can take it.”

He laughed softly as they rolled past the small stucco duplexes, homes old enough to show their age without gaining the quaintness of a historic neighborhood. Sort of like his truck, older but well-loved. His Chevy had been a surprise. She’d expected him to drive some sort of chick magnet sports car.

Mason slowed over a speed bump. “Are you ready to pony up why you initially disliked me on sight?”

Was she? She had to be honest with herself that she’d climbed into his vehicle with him for a reason beyond her job. The attraction she felt around him had gone beyond his perfectly sculpted features to something deeper inside him. “Maybe I just have a problem with guys with double-digit notches on their bedposts.”

“We’ve already established you’ve never seen my bedpost. And since a savvy cop like you knows better than to listen to uncorroborated gossip, I think your problem with me goes deeper.”

Jill took a bracing breath. “My mother went through quite a few men after my dad died.”

“Deadbeats?” His face creased with sympathy.

“Actually, no. For the most part they were really great guys.” And she’d grieved every time one walked out the door for good. “I can’t fault Mom on her impeccable taste or her ability to attract quality men. Most of them even fell in love with her. She just couldn’t love them back. I know it sounds like I’m dissing her, but I really do love my mom. Flaws and all, she loved me and did her best.” She shrugged. “She just never could get past her need to have a man to validate her enough to form a real relationship with anybody else.” Including her own daughter. “After a while I learned it was better not to get too close.”

“Something you did until it became a habit to keep your distance.”

“Wow, you’re really good with the empathy.” She tried to make light rather than let those damn nice words of his sink in too deeply. “No wonder the women fall into your bed.”

Oops. Had she really said that?

His eyes went sleepy-lidded for an assessing heartbeat before he looked back at the road. He didn’t answer, just kept driving.

“Uh, turn here.” She pointed to the left. “Mine is the duplex at the end of the cul-de-sac.” She scratched along a patched tear in the upholstery. “Sorry if I got defensive there.”

“I’m cool with being told to butt out.”

“More like back off just a little.” Seeing the way his shoulders filled out the white cabled sweater offered up enough temptation for one night. “I’m sharing here, not opening my whole life up. Which I guess proves your point about my keeping distance.” She flexed her toes in her silver-studded pumps. “I really got close to her third husband.”

He eased down the brake until the truck stopped in front of her duplex. Mason hitched an elbow on the steering wheel and turned toward her with undiluted attention. “Tell me about him.”

“You’ve met him already, actually.”

The frown cleared from his face. “Yost? Uncle Phil. Of course.”

What was it about this guy that had her babbling so much so fast? “You’ve got to be sick of hearing about my crazy childhood.”

He tugged a strand of her hair, lingering at the end to toy with it. Toy with her? “I’m interested, or I wouldn’t be here.”

Interested? “Don’t waste your pickup lines on me. I’m not falling for your typical smooth act.”

He released her hair. “That’s a hefty assumption you’re jumping to.”

“Your reputation with women has nothing to do with assumptions or even simple gossip.” She couldn’t stop the defensiveness. “You forget I’ve seen you in action in the mess hall.”

“I am who I am. I live life my own way while doing my best to make sure any decisions don’t harm someone else. Maybe that’s why I like Uncle Phil.” His seriousness unsettled her far more than his smile. “Tell me more about him.”

She could end this conversation by getting out of the truck, but for some reason, she wanted to linger, explore this unexpected connection between them. “He was a cop who lived for working security out here. Some unsubstantiated rumors tainted his reputation, so he took an early retirement and started giving tours at the museum.”

“Where’s your mother now?”

“In San Diego with husband number five. The woman has quickie divorces down to an art. When—and if—I ever get married, it will be forever.”

His green eyes darkened for a hint. Then the shadows were gone before she could figure out what he was thinking.

“Yost stayed here, though, in spite of everything.”

“He says nothing will run him away from where he grew up. He seems to enjoy his volunteer work at the museum, and he runs a kennel out at his ranch. He periodically goes to the pound and rescues dogs about to be put down, then trains them for anything from security detail firms to an elderly person needing a companion.” She stroked her door handle. “Thanks for dropping him off tonight and for bringing me home.”

“My pleasure.”

She met his stare, held it, and when he didn’t move to step out of the truck, she wondered if maybe, just maybe he would lean closer to kiss her. Her mouth went dry. She bit her tongue to keep from dampening her lips. Still, he didn’t move, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to throw herself at him.

“Good night, then.” She slipped off his jacket, opened her door, and stepped out just as Mason rounded the hood of the truck to join her. Of course he would be the type to walk her to the porch. He had a way of making old-fashioned manners seem nice rather than over-the-top.

The desert night felt all the colder without his jacket. She followed the split in the walking path to her porch on one end, identical to her neighbor’s at the other end of the duplex. She stopped at the Spanish-style wrought-iron entry gate that closed off her small rock garden beyond the stucco arch. A soothing fountain bubbled from a large terra-cotta pot streaming water down a pile of rocks. Three cacti of varying sizes sprouted from the stones.

Jill turned to face Mason. “Thanks for an, uh, interesting evening.”

“No need to thank me for anything. The plans were Phil’s, not mine.”

“You didn’t judge Phillip. That means a lot to me. Maybe even enough for me to reconsider some of my hefty assumptions.”

He flattened his palm against the stucco arch, his arm right beside her face. “Hey, how can you not like a man who tapes purple cellophane to a spotlight and gets more press than some high-tech piece of machinery?”

She laughed. He laughed. And the sounds tangled up between them in their solitary pocket of space. He stared at her again.

His head lowered.

Only an inch, but enough to telegraph his intent to kiss her while giving her time to refuse. She didn’t say a word because yes, he was coming toward her. Instead, she slid her hand to his chest, warm, even though he must be cold in just jeans and a sweater with only a simple T-shirt beneath.

His head dipped toward hers, slowly, deliberately. He brushed his mouth over hers, his eyes still open, searching her eyes for as long as she could keep looking back. Then sensation surged through her, and her lashes slid closed.

His hand slid from the arch, his knuckles skimming along her cheek. She was so far outside her comfort zone with this man. She took risks in her job on a regular basis, but she kept her relationships safe, little chance of getting her feelings trampled, something that had happened more often in high school than she cared to remember. The past should be the past. She didn’t want to be locked in some adolescent time frame, but damn, some wounds ran deep, catching a person unaware at the most inconvenient of times. And that was enough of thinking. She intended to take charge of the moment and feel.

She clutched a fistful of his sweater, her thumb tracing along the corded pattern. Mason palmed her spine, low and firm, deepening the kiss until the hard planes of his body, the taste and texture of him, the scent of warm leather imprinted in her memory.

Right now, she couldn’t remember all the reasons why she’d thought he was bad for her. She could only feel the heat pumping through her, tingling, tightening her nerves to a peak. The low groan in the back of his throat told her just how into the moment he was, too, a heady, heady notion.

His fingers plunged into her hair, cupping the back of her scalp in a seductive massage. She sagged back against the arch, and he followed along with her, sealing their bodies closer. She slid her hands along his sweater to explore the play of muscles along his chest. Her fingers climbed around and up to his shoulders, savoring the way his muscles jumped and bunched in response to her touch.

God, this was spiraling out of control quicker than she could have expected, and she’d already expected him to be damned good. He tasted like papaya and
man
. Her resistance was fading fast after an evening of surprising peeks at Mason’s depth. He wasn’t the caricature ladies’ man she’d allowed herself to believe, but beyond that, she didn’t know much about him.

He eased his mouth from hers, and she stifled the need to moan a protest. She needed to be strong, because now it would come, the push for more. He would roll out some Romeo suave ways that would douse the heat tingling along her nerves.

Mason brushed his cheek against hers, his late-day beard a seductive abrasion. His fingers continued their gentle circles along her head, and she could have sworn his hand trembled slightly.

“Good night, Jill.” His breath steamed over her ear before he stepped back.

Good night? He was leaving? Not pressing for more? Surprising to say the least, because she didn’t doubt for a second that he wanted her. She’d felt the intimate hard evidence clearly enough when they’d been body locked together.

She braced a steadying hand against the arch, the world shaky under her feet.

“Night, Mason.” She pushed open the creaky iron gate, blinking to clear her eyes and regain her balance.

She kicked a stray landscaping stone back into the garden. And then another stone. Why were so many disturbed? The sensor-activated security lights flickered on. Mason still warm at her back as he waited for her to make it inside, she slid her key halfway in the lock.

The hair prickled along the back of her neck, her cop senses on alert.

Her front door slipped open before she even twisted the dead bolt. Oh God, someone was in there. Or someone
had
been there. She knew without question that she’d locked up earlier. She was relentlessly professional about her safety.

Mason’s hand clamped on her shoulder. “Back up. Now.”

Jill stumbled against him. She needed to get her head together, call the cops, and assess the situation. As she backpedaled away, her eyes fell on the rock garden, now fully lit. Her stomach roiled. More than just a couple of rocks had been kicked aside.

Someone had swept away a whole section to create an unmistakable swirl in the sandy earth beneath.

Jill couldn’t move, could barely even process what she was seeing in her patio garden. She’d reviewed the same dirt swirl in crime scene photos hundreds of times. But she’d certainly never expected to see the serial killer’s signature at her own home.

“Hey, Jill?” Mason pulled her arm. “We need to call the police.”

“I am the police.” Well, sort of. She didn’t work for the police department anymore. Her jurisdiction as a contracted security force extended only to the acreage surrounding Area 51. Still, she couldn’t let a murderer just walk away if he was in her duplex. He could even be in there harming someone else.

But Mason was right. She couldn’t face someone so sadistic half-cocked—and she definitely couldn’t let Mason go in unaware. She would have to warn him and make sure he fully understood the danger.

Jill pointed at the dirt swirl in her garden. “That’s the serial killer’s signature.”

“Shit.” Mason stepped between her and the front door.

She tugged her cell phone out of her purse, her gun still in her other hand. Jill thumbed seven on her phone and waited through two rings.

“Gallardo,” her boss barked from the other end of the line, his voice gruff from sleep.

“It’s me. Jill. Send someone over to my house ASAP. There’s been a break-in, and it looks like it could be our serial killer.”

“Damn it, Jill,” Gallardo snapped from the other end of the line, now sounding completely awake. “Get the hell out.”

“I
am
outside, and I’m with Sergeant Randolph. I’m armed and watching the premises.”

“Good. Good,” he said so loudly that Mason could undoubtedly hear. “Both of you get back in the car and wait. Do not, I repeat, do not go inside without backup, and I don’t consider Randolph legal backup.”