Perfect Touch (15 page)

When he could move again, he forced himself to separate from her. The hallway to the bathroom felt cold after her heat. He got rid of the condom quickly and went back to the room, not knowing whether to laugh or swear at the way she had described herself.

“Average,” he said as he walked back in from the bathroom.

She opened her eyes for a second, then closed them and sank back into a boneless kind of languor. “I wasn't talking about you,” she mumbled. “Hell, someone should bronze your dick and—” Her eyes flew open and she slapped a hand over her mouth.

He laughed a low, satisfied male kind of laugh. “Bronze, huh? Bet that would tickle something fierce.”

She groaned. “I'd blush if I had the energy.”

“Save your strength,” he advised.

“For what?”

“Next time is your turn.”

Her eyes opened. “I had my turn. Oh yeah, I had a really good turn.”

“Who said you only get one?”

When dawn stroked gentle fingertips over Jay, he was lying on his stomach, his head turned toward the center of the bed.

No, not dawn. Sara.

He opened his eyes as he arched against the fingers sliding slowly down his spine, probing sensuously, caressing each vertebra.

“All there?” he asked, his voice husky with sleep and desire.

“Twenty-two . . . twenty-three . . . twenty-four,” she murmured. “So
far so good. The last nine are harder to count, even with the curtains open and the sun pouring in. Those are fused in two sections—your vertebrae, not the curtains. Five in the lower back”—her fingers probed less gently—“and four in the coccyx, also called the tailbone. Sometimes a light touch is better for counting there.”

His body tensed as her fingertips slid to the crease in his buttocks and kept going.

“All thirty-three present and accounted for,” she said. “Plus two, oh yeah, two really fine testicles, also called balls.” Her hand massaged slowly as she admired the way his body tightened into clearly defined muscles. “And last but
really
not least”—her hand slid under his body—“we have one penis, which we've already established is truly a bronze-worthy work of art.”

“I don't want to know how many ribs I have,” he warned her, flexing and releasing his buttocks to rub against her fingers.

“Ticklish?”

“Are you?”

“Right. No ribs.”

He rolled to his side, making it easier for her to stroke him—and for him to pet and tease her breasts.

“I could get used to waking up with you in the morning,” he said, admiring the peak he drew from her breast.

“Same goes. I'm going to enjoy you to the max before I go back home.”

His fingers paused, then resumed shaping her. “When do you have to go back?”

“I've been thinking about that since I woke up,” she admitted.

“And?” He rolled her nipple.

Her breath caught. “I think the Custers will show best in Jackson.
There's plenty of high-end traffic there, the kind that will be attracted to the paintings and can afford to buy. Of course, we won't be selling. We'll just be pumping up buzz before a future auction date. There was a space for rent across from the antler park that—”

“Antler park?”

“The place downtown that has antler arches leading to grass.”

He smiled. “Antler park. I like it. There was an empty storefront?”

“Yes. If you rent it for, say, six months, I could set up a display space for the best of the Custers. I know it's hard to rent prime retail space for only six months, but some kind of deal could be worked out.”

“No problem. If we're thinking of the same space,” he said as his fingers probed between her legs, “Vermilion Properties owns the building. It used to be a modern art gallery.”

“Handy,” she said breathlessly.

“Very.” His fingers slid into her. “God, I love the feel of you.”

“We're supposed to be talking business.”

“Multitask.” He lifted her leg and rested it on his hip, opening her for his pleasure. And hers. “So assume that the space is rented. What then?”

“I know two of the best cleaners and”—she shuddered gently—“restorers west of the Mississippi. They—” Her voice broke. “I can't think when you do that.”

“This?”

Fingers sleek with her passion plucked at her clitoris.

“Yes.”

The liquid heat of her response licked over his hand.

“Just wanted to be sure.” He moved his fingers up a bit to her dark, curly hair and began tugging gently. “Clean, restore, and I assume frame?”

She wanted to smack him. The devilish light in his eyes told her that he knew exactly how she felt. Deliberately she began tracing the thick vein on his penis with her fingernails.

“Yes, frame,” she said. “It's very important to present the paintings in a way that states they are”—she squeezed gently—“museum quality.”

His hand moved just enough to press his middle finger deep inside her. “Museum quality, definitely. How long will that take?”

She watched her fingers teasing the broad head of his erection. “As long as necessary.” Her hand shifted until she could cup the warm weight of his balls. “Quality can't be rushed.”

The gentle squeezing of her hand made his whole body flex.

“What next?” he asked hoarsely.

“Depends on how the movie does.” Her hand moved upward, fingers wrapping eagerly around him. “By the time the Custers are buffed and polished, the movie should be generating a lot of buzz.”

Jay closed his eyes, savoring the feminine touch that was making his body hum. “Buzz is good,” he managed. “Really, really good.”

Her thumb pressed against his tip and swirled, spreading moisture. “By then I'll have photos for a catalog and/or a book. Both would be better.”

“Good idea,” he said, sliding his wet fingers up and around her hard, eager bud. “Both at the same time.”

“I can do a lot of the work from here,” she said, bending down to sample with her tongue what her fingers had been caressing. “The atmosphere is”—she licked her lips—“awesome. So I'll shuttle back and forth.”

He reached for a condom. “Back and forth is good. I can do that.”

She took the condom and slid it on him with tormenting care. “You sure?”

“Oh yeah.”

He fitted himself to her and pressed in slowly, deeply. He retreated the same way. And returned. Retreated.

“Incredible,” she said, her breath breaking.

“Of course, there is more than one way to fly.” He rolled onto his back, taking her with him.

She settled onto him, taking him so deep, so good. “Fly, ride. Either works.”

“Then ride me,” he said, plucking at her nipples. “Ride me hard.”

She clenched around him and rose up, then slid down until she could go no farther. She swiveled her hips, seeking the perfect position, clenched, rose, fell, swiveled . . .

And then she rode him to the wild and sweet oblivion both of them wanted.

T
HE SOUND OF
distant helicopter rotors jerked Jay out of his sensual relaxation. He bolted out of bed.

“What's wrong?” Sara asked, half asleep.

“Incoming chopper.”

Not bothering with underwear, he jerked his jeans on. Automatically he clipped the Glock into the belt harness at the small of his back. Boots came next, then he yanked on a dark T-shirt from a dresser drawer.

“What about the cows?” she asked, frantically untangling the T-shirt and flannel shirt she had thrown aside last night.

“I'll send Lightfoot to help Skunk. The dogs will crowd the cattle into a corner of the pasture away from the helo. It's not the first time the cows have seen a metal bird. The dogs know what to do.”

Jay was out the door before Sara even had her T-shirt on.

“Where are you going?” she called out.

“To get the rifle. If it's some sightseeing yahoos, I'll give them something to talk about back home.”

“What if . . . ?” Her voice died.

The thought of the murderers returning was terrifying.

His words came clearly from down the hallway. “I should be so lucky as to see those assholes over my rifle barrel.”

The sound of the rotors came closer.

“Lucky,” she said to herself. “Oh my God.”

She was buttoning her flannel shirt when she heard Jay's piercing whistle giving the dogs new orders. By the time she raced to her room and found her jeans, the sound of the helicopter was shaking the cabin. She yanked on socks, laced her feet into her hiking boots, and ran downstairs.

Jay was in the mudroom, stuffing cartridge boxes from the saddlebags into his jacket pockets.

“What do you want me to do?” Sara asked.

“Make coffee.”

“Excuse me?” From the grim expression on his face, she had expected to be told many things, none of them having to do with coffee.

“Coffee.”

“Coffee,” she said. “Right.”

Automatically she adjusted the damper on the stove, raked the coals together, added kindling, and waited until it caught before she added larger wood.

The increasing racket from the helicopter made her want to scream.

Instead, she put water on to boil and set up the coffeepot.

“Stay inside until I say otherwise,” Jay ordered.

And it was an order. No mistaking it for a polite request. The other Jay had taken over.

He was out the mudroom door and under cover before she could answer.

Outside it was fresh, crisp, beautiful but for the ominous sound of the helicopter that was circling Fish Camp. Jay waited back in the trees, concealing his presence while giving him a view of the possible landing areas for the helo. For now the helicopter was out of sight, finishing the last of its circle behind the trees.

A white Bell 429 came into view. JACKSON COUNTY was printed in bold black letters on the fuselage. The helo dropped down slowly, like a child getting in a pool for the first time. Dirt and pine needles flew up from behind the barn, more than a hundred yards from the pasture.

Jay relaxed a bit. He doubted the murderers would be considerate of any livestock. But he pulled binoculars from beneath his jacket and focused in on the aircraft just in case. The first person he recognized was Sheriff Cooke.

The second was Barton Vermilion.

Damn. My temper's already yanking at the leash,
Jay thought.
I don't want to take it out on Barton just because he came at the wrong time.

Jay had savored being alone with Sara. He knew it had to end sometime, but now was much too soon.

Cursing silently, he went to the mudroom door and called to her. “It's Sheriff Cooke. Come out if you want.”

“I want,” she said clearly.

Moments later she emerged, buttoning her jacket against the brisk morning.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard. “I had other plans for the rest of the day,” he said after he lifted his head.

“So did I.” She nipped his jaw. “Mighty tasty sandpaper you're wearing.”

Rubbing his lower face, he said, “Your fault. There I was, all innocent and sleeping—”

“Naked,” she cut in.

“And the next thing I know you're having your wicked way with me.”

Her smile widened, then slipped. “I don't want it to end this soon.”

“Same here. But it has and the sooner we get through this, the sooner we can do other things.” He gave her an intense, blue-eyed stare. “I have a list.”

“Mmmm, so do I.”

“Can't wait to compare.”

Together, they walked toward the helicopter whose rotors were slowing to a lazy spin,
whap whap whap
. They stopped close enough to feel the rotor wash, but far enough away to avoid the worst of the debris kicked up by the landing.

Sheriff Cooke stepped off first, belly still plain beneath his open jacket. A deputy got out just behind him and so did someone else wearing crisp new blue jeans and a cream-colored jacket. His hair blazed like ruby sparks in the light.

“Barton,” she said.

Jay didn't answer. He simply moved forward, taking her with him.

“Sheriff, Barton,” Jay said, like it was the most natural thing in the world for all of them to be here at once.

Barton nodded, hands in pockets.

“Morning, Jay. How are you doing?” Cooke asked as he shook Jay's hand. “Losing people you've known all your life is hard. Murder makes it harder.”

“I've seen worse,” Jay said. “Sara has been a trooper.”

Cooke nodded to her. “Good for you. The last thing anyone needs is a civilian puking all over the crime scene.”

As he spoke, he motioned to the other men on board to climb out of the helicopter. The first two men were the newest of Vermilion Ranch's cowhands. The third was a crime scene tech.

Willets nodded at Jay as he disembarked. “Hey, boss. Rube and me got this,” he said, pointing at the cows. “You worry about the rest.”

“Glad to see you two on your feet again,” Jay said. “We call it initiation by Penny. We warn everybody and they get sick just the same.”

Willets gave a shamefaced smile.

So did Rube. “I thought my uncle had the best still going in the west. Shit, was I ever wrong.”

“If you see more than thirty-five head of cattle,” Jay said drily, “climb back in the helo and go.”

“Seeing just fine,” Willets said.

“Me, too,” Rube said.

“Good. Whoever rides Jezebel, watch her at any stream crossings. Whoever rides Amble will have to stay alert, period.” He turned to Barton as the cowhands headed toward the herd. “You need something?”

“I have a right to be here,” Barton said.

“No question. But do you need something?”

Barton ducked his head. “I just . . . just wanted to pay my respects.”

Jay put his hand on his half-brother's shoulder and squeezed gently. “Their bodies are in the old storage room off the boathouse, beneath a blue tarp.”

“I'd appreciate it if you wait until we're finished,” the sheriff said to Barton. “Davis won't be too long.”

The crime tech nodded and chewed his gum.

The sheriff looked back at Jay. “I'd appreciate it if you came with us, too. You can fill me in on what you saw before the rains began.”

Jay nodded. “Have to say, I wasn't expecting the helo, what with the rain ruining tracking and all.”

“Barton insisted. And paid,” Cooke added. “Another deputy will pick up the bodies in a truck and take them to the morgue.” He looked at his watch. “In about two hours, give or take. Depends on how muddy the back road is. Davis will ride back down with the deputy if he isn't finished before we are.”

“That was about how I expected the timing to work out, minus the helo,” Jay said.

Sara looked at her boots to hide her smile. Like her, he was still chapped that their time together had been cut short.

Cooke glanced at Barton. “Well, since there were no lives at stake, the county wouldn't foot the bill, but your brother, bless him, said that Vermilion Ranch would pay for a tank and the pilot.”

Jay's eyebrows went up. When the sheriff blessed someone, it wasn't a compliment. Barton must have been wearing on the sheriff's nerves.

“This is my land as much as it's yours,” Barton said, his voice carrying. “Hell, part of Fish Camp is in my quarter of the ranch.”

Jay pointed to the bird, rotors stilled now. “Our land,” he agreed. “But the helicopter is a needless expense. It's not like there is a hot trail to follow.”

“I didn't know that, did I? Nobody bothers to keep me informed. Like I'm invisible or something.”

Sara was standing close enough to Jay to feel him tense. The last thing he needed right now was a useless family wrangle. But whatever she said would only make the situation worse, so she kept her mouth shut.

It was hard.

Why are so many small men defensive? Straight, gay, or undecided, it never fails. If they didn't try so hard, people wouldn't care either way about height or lack of it.

Be fair,
she told herself.
No matter how tall Barton might have been, Jay is a very hard act to follow.

Especially in bed.

She bit her lip and hoped nobody had read her mind or seen the small smile that kept slipping away from her control. A day at the spa had never left her feeling so buffed, polished, and just plain good.

Jay turned to the short, fresh-faced deputy with the tackle box full of crime scene gear. “Evidence trail is going to be cold. Had to cover and secure the scene from bears and check inventory.”

The deputy shrugged and nodded. He chewed some strong, mint-scented gum. “From the report, cause of death isn't much of a mystery.”

“Cause, maybe. The rest of it is wide open.”

Davis nodded and popped his gum.

“So look, Jay,” Barton said.

Sara wondered how anyone could take the man seriously in his new jeans and spotless cream sport coat and silk T-shirt. In San Francisco he wouldn't have drawn a second look. But this was a long way from the city by the sea.

“I'm just trying to take care of things,” Barton said.

“Next time, talk to me,” Jay said neutrally. “We'll save a lot of money that way.”

“Money isn't my problem. I needed to know what was going on.”

“You could have used the radio. Money makes or breaks a business. And that's what Vermilion Ranch is, a business.”

“One quarter
my
business,” Barton shot back.

“No question. Glad to see you're taking an interest in it.”

Barton looked away. “I had to do something. Inge, Ivar, Fish Camp . . . no matter what came later, I have good memories.”

Jay gave him a one-armed hug. “It's hard when life changes so fast. I'm glad you're here. Better that we get this thing done quickly.”

“I remember this place, you know? Some good summers up here, and to suddenly find that they're both murdered . . .” Tears hung on his eyelids. “Who would do this kind of thing to them?”

“I'll find out,” Jay promised.

Barton looked startled.

Cooke looked at Jay sharply but didn't say a word. The sheriff knew the reality: the Fish Camp murders already had cold case written all over them. If similar murders occurred, then money would be available for anything and everything up to a task force. If not . . . not.

But Jay Vermilion wouldn't stop until he had answers. They wouldn't bring back the dead, but they would comfort the living.

The sheriff looked at the helicopter pilot. “You want to wait here or in the house?”

“Here's good,” she said, removing her helmet and revealing a luxurious fall of sun-streaked light brown hair. “I have coffee and a book.”

Jay said quietly to Sara, “Do you want to come with us?”

“Four adults and two bodies is too much for that space. I'll be looking at the files.”

“What files?” Barton asked.

“I found some cartons of old ranch files dating to my mother's time,” Jay said before Sara could speak. “I'm having Sara look them over and give her opinion of whether there's enough for a family history.”

You are?
she thought.

But she didn't show her surprise, simply nodded and tried not to eat Jay up with her eyes.

“Back before Liza?” Barton demanded.

“Yes.”

“Whatever.” He turned to the sheriff. “Let's do this.”

Sheriff Cooke gave Jay a sidelong glance, but said only, “Davis, you have everything you need?”

“Yes sir.”

Cooke began talking to Jay as they started walking together toward the lake. “You say that the two of you were on the trail when the murders took place?”

“Unless Davis tells me different, that's what I believe.”

As soon as the three men were out of hearing, Barton stepped toward Sara. “If you think you're going to milk ranch funds for some phony family history, think again. I won't allow—”

“Three quarters beats one quarter every single time.” Her voice was cool.

“Listen, you—”

“I don't like you,” Sara cut in. “You don't like me. Live with it.”

She turned and headed back to the house.

“Bitch,” he said.

“You better believe it.”

Barton's face flushed red as he stared at her back and the walk that proclaimed her to be a female. Then he hurried after the other men.

“. . . ate lunch on the trail, and we got here well after midday,” Jay was saying when Barton caught up.

“You should wear a watch,” the sheriff grumbled.

“When I got out of the military, the first thing I did was lose my watch.”

“Lucky son of a bitch. So after you took care of the livestock, what did you do?”

“It took some time to get to the boathouse outbuilding,” Jay said. “I had to clear the other buildings first.”