Hidden Fire, Kobo (17 page)

"Do you think you might end up
spending more time doing non-detective stuff?" She couldn't imagine Randy
in a uniform—well, okay, she could and she kind of liked the image, but that
was for an entirely different reason.

"I don't know, Sarah." He took
a long swallow of his whiskey. "One day at a time."

Part of her liked the idea of him being
around more. But one look in his eyes told her she couldn't stand being
responsible for dimming the light. Last night, she'd almost told him he might have
to choose between her and her job. Now, she was glad they hadn't reached that
point.

Because if it wasn't about
her
anymore, but about the new rules—the town council would be the bad guys. Could
he adjust? Or would he stop being the good cop she knew he was and go through
the motions, putting in his eight hours each day, having actual days off?

Thoughts rammed through her head like the
bumper car ride at the fair. A dead man. Hugh Garrigue? Randy's job. That
Special Something. Being scared. Broken merchandise. Randy. Staying in
business. Being scared. Randy.

Tears welled and burned. Lower down,
something else burned. She set her glass on the coffee table.

"Hold me," she whispered.

In a heartbeat he was at her side, arms
around her, drawing her so close she could barely breathe, yet she wanted him
closer. To hold her tighter. To let him do what he wanted. To protect her. To
make everything but the two of them go away. She could be her own Sarah later.
Now, she wanted to be Randy's Sarah.

"Kiss me," she said, lifting
her head. "Touch me. Take me someplace far away."

He slid his hands from her back to her
bottom, cupping her, lifting her as he stood. She wrapped her legs around his
waist, aware of his arousal but more aware of her own. She laced her fingers through
his hair, drew his lips against hers, probed with her tongue, trying to quench
the fire within her and stoke it at the same time. Molten lava pooled between
her legs.

Her heart pounded behind her sternum,
thudded in her ears. Frantic fingers tugged at Randy's shirt. The short hallway
to her bedroom stretched for endless miles. Their bodies caromed off the walls.
Somehow they were on her bed, still kissing. Somehow her clothes came off. Cool
air on bare skin heightened her arousal. Somehow her brain sent a message to
her hands.

She grabbed Randy's belt buckle. "Off.
Off. Off."

And he was lying beside her, bare skin to
bare skin, lips to lips, chest to chest. Her breasts ached and she pressed
harder against him, squirming to provide the friction her nipples begged for.

"Slow down," he murmured.

"No. Now. I need you." She
reached for him, encircling his erection.

He flipped her onto her back. "You
have me."

"Inside."

"Soon enough." His hands, so
large and strong, stroked her neck, caressed her breasts.

She covered his hands with hers. Pressed
them against her skin. "Harder," she gasped. "I want to feel you
touching me. Everywhere."

He kneaded her breasts, thumbed her
sensitized nipples. Stroked. Sucked. She lost herself in the sensation of
fingers, lips and tongue moving down her body, finding those places where there
was nothing but his touch and every touch shot pleasure to her groin. And then
he was there, over her, parting her thighs.

She reached for him, guided him,
thrusting upward even as she took him inside. She grabbed his buttocks, trying
to get him closer, deeper. Her internal muscles clenched. She felt him fill
her, aware of the way all feeling migrated to her core until there was nothing
else and her universe exploded into shards like the bits and pieces on her shop
floor.

From above, Randy gasped with his own
release. With a shudder, he collapsed on top of her. Still boneless, she
wrapped her arms around him aware of nothing beyond wanting the connection to last
forever.

* * * * *

Randy woke to the sound of water running.
Slowly, he drifted up through the fog of sleep. Sarah's bed. No Sarah. Shower.
He smiled. Worked for him. He tossed the covers aside and padded to the
bathroom.

He pulled back the curtain and stepped
into the tub. Sarah didn't jump, so he knew his arrival wasn't a surprise. He
also knew she didn't mind because she leaned into him when he put his arms
around her, wrapping her fingers around his penis, which was growing harder by
the second.

"Morning," he mumbled into the
crook of her neck.

"Not much longer," she said. He
hadn't checked the clock, but the sunlight came through the bathroom window
from high in the sky.

He poured a dollop of shampoo into his
palm, massaged it into Sarah's scalp.

"Mmmm. I'll let you do that, but
only for the next twenty minutes," she said, twisting to face him, still
stroking his erection. "Then you absolutely have to stop."

"Your water heater won't last twenty
minutes." He lathered her hair, the peach scent of her shampoo, as always,
heightening his arousal. Or was it her blue eyes that did him in? No, they were
closed. The constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks? He dabbed a
dollop of suds on the tip of her upturned nose. Or the curve of her ears? He
traced them with a fingertip. The curve of her neck? The peak of her nipples
under the shower spray. His cock throbbed under her touch.

"God, I want you, Sarah." He
circled her areola with a thumb. As he knew she would, she moved his hand to
her nipple. He lowered his mouth to the pebbled nub, reaching for her thigh.
Urging it upward.

"Not like that." She leaned
back under the spray, sending foam swirling down the drain. "Too many
accidents happen in bathrooms."

She hadn't let go of him, her nimble
fingers moving from balls to cock, slippery with soap. He dug for the control
he needed and grabbed her wrist. "You keep doing that and it'll be an
accident, all right."

Her eyes sparkled. Her other hand sneaked
in and took over. His hips bucked involuntarily.

"Sarah. God, Sarah. Stop or—"

"Or what?" she teased, her
hands moving ever faster.

"Or I'll—Oh, God Sarah."
Pressure built and control was as slippery as Sarah's fingers.

"You're always quick in the morning,"
she whispered. "Enjoy it. I'll accept payback after you cook me breakfast.
Or do you really want me to stop?" Her hand slowed, teased, tormented.

"God, Sarah. No. Don't stop."
He closed his eyes and gave in.

Later—much later—after a French toast
brunch, his debt to Sarah paid in full, with interest, followed by a trip to
his house to attend to Starsky and Hutch, they were back at Sarah's shop armed
with cartons, trash bags and his Shop-Vac.

He turned off the ignition, but she didn't
move. "I'm not sure I can look at it again," she said.

Squeezing her hand, he said, "This
was your idea, but if you'd rather not, we can go somewhere else, do anything
you want. I promised you the day and it's your call."

She sighed. "No, I need to do it.
See if there's enough left once I get rid of the unsalvageable." She
turned her eyes toward him, her gaze distant. As if she was looking through
him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She smiled. Shook her head. "Nothing."
She unclicked her seatbelt. "Let's do it."

He got his vacuum from the back of the
truck and she grabbed a broom and dustpan. Inside the door, she stopped. He
rested a hand on her bunched shoulders, kneading the tense muscles. "I
think we should set up your tables and shelves first. Give you a place to put
the good stuff. Separate it from the trash."

Under his touch, her shoulders stiffened
again. He winced. "Sorry. Bad choice of words. Very bad."

"No, you're right. Doesn't make it
less painful, but so much of this is nothing but garbage now. I have to deal
with it." She moved out from under his touch and set the broom against the
wall. "Might as well start with the bookshelf units. They'll hold the
most."

He followed her to the far wall and
hoisted one of the wooden units upright. Another faraway look crossed her face.
Was there sadness mixed in? Stupid question. She was standing in the middle of
the most important thing in her life and it was scattered at her feet like
autumn leaves after a stiff breeze. He moved to the next shelving unit.

They worked into the evening hours, Sarah
examining each piece of merchandise, jotting notes, placing items on shelves while
he did janitor duty. Although they were often mere inches apart, it was as if
they were on two separate planets. Not sure how to fix things with her—hell, he
didn't know what was broken—he merely did what he could to get rid of the mess
as he let his mind ponder the case.

Pottery, especially Hugh Garrigue's
pottery, seemed central, because now it was clearly more than an act of simple
vandalism.

Did thinking about the case count as
overtime? Not that he cared. He had a puzzle and like a terrier with a bone, he
couldn't let go. He made mental lists.

Dental records. Witness reports. Cars
spotted at the scene. The video tapes from the press conference. Pottery. Maybe
Sarah could give him some direction there. Kovak's ViCAP request. Too soon for
DNA. Expand the missing persons reports. The key. Check with the New Jersey
prison warden.

All of which could and would be covered
by the county sheriffs, he realized. To keep the town council from disbanding
the police force, he needed to make some kind of a breakthrough. His stomach
knotted. And growled. They should both eat. Sarah had been moving things around
for the past twenty minutes, but there was nothing left on the floor to add to
the collection, only tiny bits and pieces.

"I'll run the vacuum over the floor
one more time," he said, "and then we should take a break."

She turned, and for the first time, she
looked at him as if she saw him. "I guess." She surveyed the room
once more, moved a book two inches to the right and strode to her office. "One
minute."

After sucking up the last bits and pieces
with his Shop-Vac, he carried it to his truck and hefted the boxes of debris
into the Dumpster. When Sarah didn't appear, he went back inside. She had a
piece of paper in her hand and was carrying it to the front door. Her posture
was straighter, her step more certain.

"What do you have?" he asked.

She held up the sign she'd made. "Watch
For Our Reopening."

He helped her tape it to the inside of
the glass, then nuzzled her hair. "You are going to be just fine, Sarah
Tucker."

Her blue eyes were moist as she met his
gaze. "I hope so."

"Shall we celebrate new beginnings?
I think I have a bottle of champagne in my fridge."

"What the heck." Her enthusiasm
was underwhelming, but he accepted it.

At his house, he popped the cork on the
bottle of champagne and they sipped as they put together a passable meal of
salad, pasta and French bread.

"We could have stopped at Thriftway,"
he said, breaking the quiet as they finished their dinners. "Bought
steaks. Lobster. Something more special than spaghetti."

"We haven't had a lot of luck with
special meals lately, have we?" She finished what was in her champagne
flute and poured herself another. "This is fine."

Her tone said it wasn't.
Enough.
He stood, picked up her glass and took her by the hand. She could have been
sleepwalking as she followed him to the living room couch. He was tired of
skirting issues. "Sit down." She did as he asked. He set the
champagne on the coffee table, then sat in the easy chair. "There's more
going on here than your shop, isn't there? You've been wanting to talk for days
now. Let's do it."

She reached for her champagne and took a
healthy swig. "You know, I think today was the first time you were
involved in my work." She put the glass down and grimaced. "That didn't
come out right."

"Take your time." If there was
one thing he was good at, it was leaving empty silences. People tended to fill
them if you waited long enough.

"We've been seeing each other for a
while. I got scared."

Now he took a drink of his own champagne.
"Of me?"

She shook her head. "No. Not you."

"Then of what?"

"I don't know how to say it. I don't
quite understand it all myself." She wiped her hands on her jeans. "I
love you. I know that."

His heart skipped. There was an unspoken "but"
in there. Again, he waited.

"I wonder if I can love
us
,"
she said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "When I think of
us
, I
keep having memories, images of what I think
us
should be. And you're
not the
us
I see."

His fingers curled into fists. He kept
them between his body and the arms of the chair, hoping Sarah wouldn't see them
as he strove to keep any hurt from showing in his face. The heat at his neck
was a bad sign, but she seemed to be studying a spot on the carpet.