Hidden Fire, Kobo (26 page)

In her apartment, she went straight to
her computer and turned it on, then unwrapped the mugs.

"Hot chocolate?" he asked even
as he filled her kettle for her nightly ritual drink. Someday she'd stop using
the instant packets. "We could drink it out of the Garrigue mugs."

She looked up, her eyes registering a
flash of shock until she realized he was teasing. "You know your way
around a spreadsheet?" she asked.

"Well enough, if you tell me what I'm
looking for."

He leaned over her shoulder as she opened
a file. The peach aroma from her hair was faint, masked by all the other scents
she'd picked up over the course of the day, but he thought even a single
molecule would register with him.

After she explained her data system, he
started sorting and searching. She disappeared through the kitchen to her back
porch and came back with a small red tool kit. He'd sorted the columns, first
by customers and then by her merchandise codes when he glanced up to see her
holding a hammer and putty knife to one of the mugs.

"Whoa," he said, jumping up and
grasping her wrist. "What are you doing?"

"I want to check this repair job."

"Hang on. We should photograph them
first, for reference. Let me get my camera."

Downstairs, he retrieved his evidence kit
from his truck. And his overnight tote. Slinging the canvas strap over his
shoulder was enough trigger a southward turn of his blood supply. From the
corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement from above. He shifted his
attention and saw the curtains pull back from the second floor apartment.
Maggie's apartment. He smiled to himself, then raised his fingers in a quick
salute. The curtain opened wider and she waved. The curtain dropped back into place
and he trotted up the stairs.

Sarah sat at the computer chair he'd
vacated, staring at the screen, a cup of hot chocolate by her side. A second
sat on the kitchen counter and he picked it up. The aroma of hot chocolate used
to recall winter evenings with Gram, but now it ranked right up there with
peaches as a reminder of Sarah.

"Find anything?" he asked,
joining her.

"Not much yet," she said. "We
were so busy, I didn't keep my usual records. I found a couple of sales of more
than one mug, but it's slow going."

"Maybe you need a break." He
kissed the back of her neck.

Her head dropped, giving him more room to
work. His lips migrated around to her earlobe, not missing any real estate
along the way.

"Stop," she whispered even as
she tilted her head giving him greater access to the place above her collarbone
she loved to be kissed.

He didn't. Couldn't. She had to feel the
magic of the night as much as he did. He set his mug next to hers and let his
hands stray to her breast. Gently touching. Asking. Not demanding. Okay, maybe
with a little praying that she'd postpone her pottery quest for half an hour or
so. "I need a shower," she whispered. "I feel like there's a
coating of that interrogation room all over me."

He didn't try to argue. If she felt
unclean, she wasn't going to enjoy herself and she was damn well going to enjoy
herself.

"I'll scrub your back," he
said.

"No." She twisted around in her
chair and snaked an arm around his neck. "I'd rather be alone."

"Being Sarah." Proving to
herself she didn't need his help to rid her of the stench of Neville. He kissed
her forehead. "I'll be waiting."

"Being Randy?" She stood and gripped
his hands.

"Not for long, I hope." He
stared at the spreadsheet after she left, looking at colored highlights Sarah
had added.
Enough.
He minimized the screen and finished his now lukewarm
chocolate. When he heard the shower running, he went into the bedroom.

Sarah had left the lamp on his side of
the bed on, adjusted to the lowest setting of the three-way bulb. He folded the
floral spread and placed it on the wooden rack at the other side of the room.
After stripping off his shirt and tie, he sat at the edge of the bed and
removed his shoes and socks. He eased out of his slacks and briefs and turned off
the light before crawling under the covers.

He lay on his back, hands folded behind
his head and stared into the darkness at the ceiling, his arousal growing as he
imagined Sarah standing under the shower spray, her hands massaging peach-scented
lather through her hair, the suds swirling in circles down the drain as she
rinsed. He envisioned her soaping her body, starting with her neck, then her
shoulders, arms and breasts. She'd move her hands in lazy circles down her
belly, her soapy fingers gliding over her slick skin. She'd balance one leg on
the inner edge of the tub as she worked her way down from thigh to calf to
ankle, then repeat it with the other. The sheet tented above his erection as he
thought of her hands floating down to wash her round buttocks, her curl-covered
mons.

The water stopped. He heard the shower
curtain slide along the metal pole. He pictured her stepping over the tub,
water dripping over her sleek legs. Her hand would reach for the towels. A
small one first, which she'd wrap around her hair and then the larger one to
wrap around herself.

The patterns had become familiar, yet
they filled him with anticipation. So much the same, yet every single time with
her was new. His chest ached. God, he loved her. What would it take for them to
make it work?

The bathroom door opened. Peach-scented
steam floated into the room. She lingered in the doorway. In the glow from the
light, she was more beautiful than in his imagination. He smiled and pulled
back the covers on her side of the bed. "Come to me, Sarah."

She rubbed her head and tossed the turban
away. She ruffled her fingers through her hair, then reached for her chest
where she'd tucked the bath towel together. She gave a quick tug and it slid to
the floor in a heap. One hand reached out and turned off the bathroom light.

She seemed to float across the floor,
comfortable in her nakedness. She slipped under the covers, still damp from her
shower, smelling like soap and peaches, curling into the crook of his arm. They
lay that way, sharing the warmth of their bodies. For a moment, he wondered if
she'd want him to shower too, but then her fingers roamed his chest, toying
with the hair, teasing his nipples and moving lower until she grasped his cock.

He moaned with pleasure as they began
their familiar journey through the layers of ancient delights. Together they
explored, enticed, entwined. Time ceased. Only sensation remained. Crisp
sheets. Lavender soap and peach shampoo. The smoothness of newly shaved legs.
Her wet, tight heat around him. The short, rapid pants of their breathing. The
creak of the headboard. And then nothing. Only ecstasy.

* * * * *

Sarah rubbed her eyes. Sunlight streamed
in through the window. Morning. She lay there a minute with vague recollections
of Randy's goodbye in the pre-dawn hour. She'd meant to get up when he did—heck
she'd never meant to fall asleep, but their lovemaking had left her boneless
and her body had insisted on a total battery recharge. She flung her legs over
the edge of the bed and circled her neck, getting the kinks out.

Working her arms into her robe, she
padded to the kitchen and turned the burner on under the kettle. Her file
folders lay neatly stacked next to her computer and the two mugs were—gone? She
saw the note on the fridge. Randy had taken them. Wanted to shoot them under
lab conditions.

Lab conditions? What the— She knew how to
take a picture. She should never have given in to him last night.

Who was she kidding? She'd given in to
herself, not him. She'd wanted it and she'd enjoyed it. In spades.

She turned on her computer and popped a
bagel into the toaster before reaching for the phone. Randy answered on the
third ring. "Detweiler."

Brusque. Professional. "You're busy."

"Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"

"You can give me those mugs back,
for one."
And make love to me again so the world disappears, for
another.

She heard papers rustle and his pen click
three times. A wisp of guilt swirled through her. She was interrupting a
meeting for all she knew.

"Is six o'clock all right?" he
said.

"I'll look forward to it." She
hung up. Okay, she had the rest of the day to go through her spreadsheets and
photos.

But the puzzle of the mugs wouldn't let
her concentrate. On a whim, she called the Pine Hills Police station. If Randy
wanted lab conditions, they'd be at the lab, right? She asked for Mike Connor.

"Sorry to bother you," she said
when he came on the line, "but did Randy drop off a couple of pottery mugs
this morning? He wanted them photographed."

"Hey, Sarah, I was going to call
you. The note said you needed them for insurance. I've been busy, but I can do
them now if you're in a hurry. I'm about to grab some lunch."

She hesitated. Insurance? Was Randy
sneaking around some rules? "That would be great. If it's not too much
trouble, that is. As a matter of fact, I'm about ready for lunch myself. I
could bring you a sandwich."

She waited, hoping she hadn't said the
wrong thing. Was she bribing a police officer? Then again, Mike Connor wasn't a
sworn police officer the way Randy was. He was in charge of the lab.

"No need. I've got my lunch. But if
you want to come down, that's fine. I'll be around."

She thanked him and threw on a pair of
slacks and a sweater. She grabbed her purse and trotted down the back stairs to
her car. At the station, she signed in at the front desk.

"Randy's not here," the clerk
said. "But you probably know that."

"I've got an appointment with Mike
Connor," she said and hurried down the hall before she and her transparent
face could get bogged down in small talk.

The lab door was open, as usual. She
tapped on the jamb and peeked inside. Rock music from a portable CD player
filled the room. "Mike? It's Sarah."

"Come on in." He sat behind his
desk at the far end of the room. A half-eaten sandwich lay on top of a brown
paper bag next to a huge dill pickle and a can of cola. She stepped inside, the
garlic and vinegar aroma getting stronger as she approached. He wiped his mouth
and stood.

"Don't let me interrupt you,"
she said. "As a matter of fact, I could probably shoot the pictures
myself. Save you some trouble."

He smiled. "No trouble. But I can
show you how we photograph evidence. Probably a little different from art
photography."

"Most of the photography I do is for
store inventory," she said. "But I'd love to see what goes on in
here."

She followed him to the back counter,
where there was what looked like a large three-sided box, painted a neutral
gray. No top or front. He pointed out a measuring tape on the floor of the box
and the other one along the back. The camera was set into a small tripod. After
turning down the music, he switched on a light clamped to a shelf above the
box, illuminating the interior.

"First, we confirm we can see both
sets of measurements, for scale. Then verify any identifying characteristics
are visible." He positioned the mug in the center of the box, turning it
so the pattern faced the front.

"I usually use my camera's flash and
a ruler," she said. "This looks impressive."

"Nothing like a defense lawyer
trying to prove your picture merely bears a resemblance to a piece of evidence.
The more we can pin down the details, the more likely it will stand up in
court. Normally, we'd have an entire series of photos, starting with evidence
the way we find it and then every time we move something, we photograph it
again. If this was evidence, it would have arrived in a sealed bag. We'd have
shot the bag, then opening the bag, the mug inside the bag, then next to the
bag and then in the box and so on."

"Sounds tedious," Sarah said. "I
snap one or two shots and that's it."

"Insurance adjusters aren't as picky
as defense attorneys."

"I don't know. They hate paying
claims." She watched as he set the camera in front of the box, peered into
the viewfinder and snapped the shutter. He checked the image, nodded and
switched mugs.

"That was painless," he said. "How
do you want the images?"

"If you can do a printout now, that
would be fantastic. Otherwise, email is fine."

"It's no big deal. I owe Randy a few
favors. This is nothing."

He unscrewed the camera from the tripod,
connected the cables to the computer and clicked some keys. In no time, she
heard a printer whirr. Mike went to a back room and returned with two sheets of
paper. "Here you go. Anything else?"

She'd debated that one all the way over
and she still hadn't decided. "I guess not. May I take the mugs?"

"Fine by me. It's not like we have
to maintain the chain of custody on these."

Yet
. Randy had explained enough about that one. How evidence
had to be sealed and signed for every step of the way. She glanced around the
lab with bags and envelopes, all sealed with red tape. What if these mugs
turned out to be related to the robbery? Wouldn't it be better to look foolish
now if they weren't than to create legal problems down the road?