Get a Clue (16 page)

Breanne had never seen a man blush so hard that his face looked like a tomato. But the rest of his long, lean form . . . She'd imagined him like a stick, skinny and scrawny, but the opposite proved to be true. He was thin, but tough and ropey with strength. And quite attractive. In a very naked sort of way.

Shelly was trying not to stare and not having any success with it. “Um . . . yeah. We were just . . . Oh, Patrick.” Closing her eyes, she covered her equally red cheeks. “You were . . .”

“Shh!”
He glanced frantically around the workout room, relaxing only when he saw no one but them. “She'd kill me if she knew you saw me, no doubt about that.” The shower came on, and he relaxed a bit more, hitching up his slipping towel. “Fuck me, but the woman's got eyes in the back of her head. I'm going to be screwed.”

“You already were,” Breanne said, and shocked Shelly into a horrified laugh.

“I'm sorry.” Shelly once again clapped her hand over her mouth. “That wasn't funny.”

Patrick moved past them and toward the showers where Lariana had vanished. That door was locked. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, raising his hand to knock.

He lost his towel.

Shelly gasped but kept her eyes wide open.

Breanne tipped her head upward while Patrick swore and fumbled for the fallen towel, giving Shelly more of an eyeful, if her second and more audible gasp meant anything.

Still swearing, Patrick wrapped the thing back in place and knocked frantically. “Uh, darling? Open up.”

Breanne was trying to look anywhere but at the flustered fix-it man, and while she did, her gaze caught on the doorway of the workout room and the man who'd appeared there, holding a flashlight.

Cooper.

He took in both her and the situation with one sweeping glance, and though he didn't so much as blink, she knew he grasped it all: the humiliated Patrick, the shocked Shelly, the unseen Lariana . . . and herself. He eyed the knives in her hand and arched a brow, but didn't say a word. He didn't have to—his expression said it all.

“We heard a noise,” she said, feeling a little like Lucille Ball.

Patrick whipped around, and with a groan at the sight of Cooper, thunked his head on the door. Unfortunately, at the same moment Lariana opened it and he went stumbling in.

Lariana looked down at the man now sprawled at her feet, then up at the crowd watching. “You idiot,” she said, and they all knew she meant Patrick.

“Aye,” he agreed, still prone.

Lariana sighed, hunkered down, and patted his bare ass. “But you're my idiot, I suppose.”

Patrick lifted his head and stared at her. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

A slow smile replaced his worried frown. “You going to shut the door, darling, and give us some privacy?”

“Oh, yes,” she purred, and did just that.

“That's so romantic,” Shelly said with a sigh, and grinned at Breanne. “Isn't that just the most romantic thing ever?”

“You need to get out more,” Breanne said.

“Yeah. So I've heard.” Shelly turned to Cooper. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, I'm good,” he said. He looked at Breanne.

Breanne found she couldn't tear her gaze away, much as she tried.

“Well, then,” Shelly said into the awkward silence. “I'm going back to the kitchen.” She took the lantern Breanne offered and vanished, leaving Breanne and Cooper alone. Unless one counted Lariana and Patrick in the shower room, which Breanne didn't because she imagined they were very, very occupied.

In the dim room—lit only by his flashlight now—Cooper just stood there, calm as can be, confident in his own skin and sexy as hell, apparently not feeling the need to speak.

Breanne looked around her at the shadows of the exercise equipment, at the smooth, clean floor, anywhere but at him, wondering how long it would be before one of them cracked. Correction—before
she
cracked.

Finally she ran out of things to look at, so she looked at Cooper again. Honestly, she could have looked at him all day long, with those jeans, faded to white in all the stress spots and worn like an old friend. His shirt was snug to his broad shoulders, untucked, and, she suspected, draped over the gun at his hip.

Which reminded her.

Dead body.

Unknown murderer.

Then, as if fate thought this whole thing funny as hell, his flashlight flickered and went out, leaving them in complete darkness.

Breanne's heart clenched and she let out an inadvertent whimper, but before she could really get behind a healthy panic, a hand settled on her shoulder.

She nearly swallowed her tongue, and with a terrified squeak, brought up the knives.

“Whoa, there,” Cooper said softly, as if talking to a spooked horse. “Just me, remember?”

Right. Just him. The only man in her entire life that had—in less than twenty-four hours—made her feel precious, sexy, smart—

“What's up with the knives?”

“Oh, these?” She forced a laugh. “I thought I'd whip up some stir-fry—”

“It's going to be okay, Bree. You know that, right?”

See, now
that
should have rankled. The way he'd shortened her name was pompous, and yet . . . nice. No one had ever called her Bree before. No one had ever thought to.

But damn it, she was independent, fiercely so; she didn't need him. “How, exactly, will it be okay? I'm in a house with a dead body, and probably also the person who made him dead.” She tightened her grip on the knives. “God, I hate this. I so really, really hate this.”

She heard a click, and then there was a small beam of light. Cooper held up another flashlight.

She did enjoy a prepared man, but that usually applied to having a condom in his wallet, not being a flashlight carrier. “Were you an Eagle Scout or something?”

He laughed, a sound that scraped low in her belly. “Or something.”

“A MacGyver type.”

“A troublemaker,” he admitted, leading the way to the door. “Come on, let's get to a warm room.”

“Tell me about this troublemaking.”

“You don't want to hear this now,” he said, towing her along.

She had to run in the teetering heels to keep up with him, and tugged on the silly short skirt with the hand still holding the knives. “Yes, I do want to hear this now.” She needed the distraction. This flashlight was smaller than the other, the beam of light small and narrow. Insubstantial, in her humble opinion.

“What are you doing back there?” he asked, pulling her up beside him.

Concentrating on not freaking out
.

An arm slipped around her waist, and he snugged her to his side. “You hanging in?”

That was debatable. The pictures on the walls of the hallway seemed haunted, the eyes of the people in them following her. “I'd be better if you talked to me.”

He glanced down at her. After a moment he said, “I was a rotten kid. I spent more time in the principal's office than class, and at home . . . don't even ask.”

“Your parents had their hands full?”

“Just my dad, and yeah, he had his hands full. His answer for me and my brother's antics was his belt.”

She looked up at his profile, but in the dark she couldn't see his expression. “Did it work?”

“Only momentarily. We were seriously rotten to the core. My brother and I still laugh that we ended up capturing the bad guys instead of being them.”

It'd been one thing to resist him when he was merely a hot body and an unbelievable kisser. But now, with the picture of him as a kid with no mother to soften his father, she wanted to hug him. That, coupled with the knowledge that he'd grown up with a rebel heart . . .

No! She wasn't even going to go there. “We left Lariana and Patrick in the dark.”

“I think that's where they want to be.”

They were now back in the main hallway, between the foyer and the great room. “You ever been in any of those rooms just outside the cellar?” she asked.

“The servants' quarters?”

“Yeah, I heard someone down there right before I found Edward.”

“Who?”

“I thought it was Shelly, but then she came running from upstairs, so it couldn't have been.”

He studied her for a beat. “You didn't mention that before.”

“I heard humming.”

“You're hearing a lot of things,” he said.

“I know.” She rubbed her temples. “
God
. It gets dark at four o'clock here, and I
hate
the dark! I'm losing it completely, I can feel it.”

“You're not losing anything. Let's go look.”

She didn't exactly want to, but he had the light and the warmth, so she followed him, trying not to hyperventilate at the thought of what lay ahead.

When they stood in front of the closed cellar door, Breanne shuddered at the thought of Edward in there. Alone.

The two doors on the right were open. In the first bedroom was a neatly made bed, a dresser, and a pair of strappy high heels on the floor—Lariana's. The second room had the same dresser, an unmade bed, and no personal effects.

Across the hall, the first bedroom looked untouched. The second . . . locked. This was the one from which Breanne had heard humming. There was no sound behind that door now, and no one answered their knock.

Cooper looked intrigued. “Wonder why that one is locked and not the others?”

Breanne thought about every cop show she'd ever seen and imagined him kicking down the door and drawing his gun to search the place. “Should we break in?” she whispered when he didn't move.

“No.”

“Then let's get out of here.” She glanced at the cellar door, glad when Cooper led her back down the hall.

Back in the foyer, there was a glow from the fireplace across the way, and Breanne breathed a sigh of relief. “I know you're probably used to this tense, overwhelming stress,” she said, “but I'm not.”

“I never get used to the stress.”

When their gazes met, she could see that was true. He'd seen a lot, done a lot, and it got to him. He wasn't invincible, wasn't immune to the fear; reaching out, she took his hand.

He squeezed hers. “I know how we're going to get out of here tomorrow. Want to see?”

“Are you kidding?
Yes
.”

He turned and shined his flashlight around the foyer. The daylight had gone completely now, and from the long windows on either side of the front door came only an inky blackness, a fact that had Breanne's stomach tumbling hard.

Another long night . . .

Then she saw it, the door behind the reception desk that she'd never noticed before. Cooper opened it, and flashed the light inside.

It was a huge garage. They stepped in and Cooper shut the door behind them. Breanne couldn't see much beyond a cavernous, dark, drywalled room, three garage doors, and several vehicles. She could smell oil, faint gasoline, and tires. Then Cooper held up the flashlight, highlighting the clean concrete floor, on which sat a Toyota truck, an SUV, and . . .

A trailer, with two snowmobiles on it.

Cooper walked toward them, stroking his hand along the hull of one. “They don't have any gas—I already checked. My guess is that it's early enough in the season that no one's used them yet. The engines look good, though.”

She smiled. “What does a vice cop from San Francisco know about snowmobiles?”

He flicked open the hood of the first snowmobile and peered inside. “I know a little about mechanics.”

The man fascinated her, no getting around that. He seemed such a contradiction, and she wanted to know more. “From what?”

“It goes back to that wild kid thing. I used to take everything apart.” He fiddled with something in the open compartment. “It sort of stuck with me.”

“What do you take apart now?”

“Cars sometimes. I rebuild them for fun. Or I used to. Haven't had time in a while.”

“Because of your cop work?”

He shrugged, but she knew that was probably true. He'd worked so long and hard, he'd burned out. He'd probably desperately needed this week, and she'd wanted him to leave. She hated the selfishness of that. “I'm sorry.”

Lifting his head, he looked at her. “For what?”

“For your time here being ruined. For me, for—”

He smiled at her. “I'm not complaining.”

“Are you going to go back to being a cop?”

That got her another shrug.

“You know, you really talk waaay too much,” she teased lightly.

His eyes lit with humor but he didn't respond to the bait as she would have. Instead he went back to looking in the engine compartment.

“How come you don't talk about yourself?”

“I'm just not into dwelling.”

A throwaway comment, but she could read between the lines, and could well imagine how it'd been for him and his brother without a mom. With a tough-ass dad. With no softness.

And yet he'd taken any helplessness and channeled it into something worthwhile. He'd become a cop, of all things, a vice cop, where he'd seen things that she couldn't even imagine.

Maybe he was on to something. Maybe not dwelling was the secret to surviving not only this madness, but life in general. For instance, if she didn't dwell on her family and friends' reactions to what had happened to her yesterday, then she couldn't be mortified. If she didn't dwell on being left at the altar three times, she wouldn't have to have that
no-more-men
rule.

Dangerous thoughts here in the middle of nowhere, with no electricity and nothing to do but look at him.

And holy smokes, was he something to look at! He'd shoved up his sleeves now and was doing something there beneath the hood, and looking sexy as hell while he was at it.

She wondered at this insatiable attraction she had for him. Was it the sexy clothes she wore making her feel so . . . horny?

No.

Was it merely because she'd told herself she could have him?

No.

Was it because he was strong and smart and didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him? That he had no problem showing whatever he felt, whether it be frustration at their situation, hunger for her body, or a shimmering anger at the sight of a dead man?

Or how about the way he'd protected her without question, putting her safety ahead of his at all times?

Oh, yeah.

And damn if that utter selflessness of his wasn't the biggest aphrodisiac she'd ever experienced. It made her want to do things to him, things that involved a lot less clothing than they had on. She wanted to see him, lost in the throes of passion, vulnerable and open, and when she had him like that, she wanted to take care of him in a way she suspected he didn't often let anyone do. “Aren't the snowmobiles useless to us without gasoline?”

“Yep.” Turning, he walked to a large wall shelving unit, randomly opening one, then going very still. “Shit,” he said softly.

“What—” She broke off when she saw what he saw.

A shoe.

The matching shoe to the one Edward wore, just set innocuously on a shelf all by itself. “Oh, no.”

Cooper stared at it, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I'm not happy about this.”

Neither was she. Her heart had leapt into her throat.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “The whole fucking house is a crime scene.”

She put a hand on his tense spine, felt the heat and strength there. “Cooper? I really, really want out of here.”

“Tomorrow,” he said tightly, and opened another cabinet. “Bingo,” he said at the sight of the cans of gasoline. “Without power, we'll have to open the garage doors manually, and that's not going to be easy—I've tried. They're heavy from the large snowdrift that's probably up against it.”

“We can shovel—”

That got a smile.

“What?”

“I'm seeing you shoveling in that shirt and skirt. With those knives tucked into your boots.” His expression heated. “Nice picture, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said huskily, looking at her, really looking at her, as if he could see inside and hear her thoughts, which were pretty much going down a path to dangerous waters.

“This is crazy,” she whispered, and backed up a step. She lifted her hand to swipe her damp forehead and nearly poked out her own eye with the knives. “This whole thing is crazy. The wedding, the storm, this house—the dead body.”

His smile faded. “I know.”

“I'm just so damned jumpy. And we both know I hate trusting you, but the truth is . . . I guess I do. A little, anyway.”

He held out a hand. “Enough to give me those knives before you lose a body part?”

She held them out. “I can take care of myself.” False bravado and they both knew it. She hadn't taken care of herself;
he
had.

He stepped toward her, searing blue eyes gleaming, invading her personal space in that way he had. Instead of annoying her, it backed the air up in her lungs and made her skin feel too tight.

Oh, and it also made her nipples go happy.

Damn nipples.

“You wouldn't kill a spider,” he said softly. “So I'm guessing that if it came to using a knife on a real-life, flesh-and-blood person, you might have a hard time.”

She quivered. “I'd be fine.”

“That tough outer shell again.” He traced her jaw with a finger, a gesture that might have been casual if he'd let his hand fall away, but he stroked that finger over her throat.

She shivered. A nice shiver. A goose bump-inducing shiver.

“I nearly had heart failure when I couldn't find you before,” he said very quietly. “I thought you'd stay in the great room.”