Aimpoint by Candace Irving (best mystery novels of all time .TXT) 📗

yet again, towered over her. At five-eight, she wasn't short. But, Lord, he made her feel it.

He made her feel other things too. Things she didn't want to admit, much less act upon. But he did. It was humming in the air between them.

Expectation.

She ignored it. "Well, Captain. Thank you for dinner; it was fantastic."

He shook his head slowly. Firmly.

"Pardon? I don't—"

"John."

That patience he'd warned her about greeted her stubborn silence—and matched it.

Fine. She'd never get out of here otherwise. "John."

The tension spiked, along with that slow smile. That seriously distracting fold. She dragged her focus down, settling it on those three tattling scars that cut into his lightly whiskered jaw and neck. It didn't help. The pulse within was thrumming steadily, causing the tension to thicken.

Desperate to diffuse it, she reached up to trace the surprisingly smooth slivers of flesh, not for the first time wondering, "How did you get these?"

"Shrapnel."

Well, that she'd figured out on her own.

Of course, she'd had help discerning the cause of the thicker pair tangling down his neck, along with the endless, coarser rope that fed up his right arm, not to mention the dozen other scars she couldn't see because they were currently covered by his sweater and jeans. But his bronze star with V device for valor and twin purple heart write-ups hadn't mentioned this particular trio.

She was curious as to why.

He must have accepted that her patience and stubbornness matched his because, eventually, he offered a shrug. "Hindu Kush. I was still a kid. Stupid. Stuck my head up when I should've kept it down and nearly got it blown off. The shrapnel that ricocheted in served as a timely reminder to not do that again. After things cooled off, our medic pulled out the pieces and patched me up. The nicks had already started to close by the time we reached camp, so I never bothered with stitches." His hand found its home at the small of her back as he pulled her close. Very close. "Do they bother you? My scars?"

"No."

But he bothered her. And he shouldn't.

It was time to—

The thought burned away as that hand slid up her spine and smoothly drew her the rest of the way in. A split second later, his mouth was coming down to meet hers. Given his size, she would've expected him to bulldoze his way through the kiss that followed—would've been able to hold out if he had. But he didn't. He used his lips and his tongue to gently tease and torment until, before she realized what she was doing, she was stretching all the way up into the hard cocoon of his body, asking for more. John Garrison was one hell of an amazing kisser, and he tasted even better.

The eight o'clock whiskers beneath her fingers and palm dug in as he groaned and pulled her that much closer. Went deeper.

She didn't care. She wanted him to stay exactly where he was, continue doing exactly what he was doing. So much so, she actually protested and tried to draw him back when he stiffened, then straightened.

Why—

"Well, well. Looks like someone's inherited my taste for fresh meat."

LaCroix.

She couldn't see the man, of course. And it wasn't because of the dark.

It was John. He'd shifted as he'd straightened, those imposing shoulders now effectively shielding her from the sergeant's view. He didn't turn to face LaCroix. Nor did he speak. But the man's emotions were flat-out roaring their protest at the crude interruption. As her palm slid down to his chest, she could feel the fury as it thundered and rolled beneath. She could also feel him working to tame it, until suddenly it was gone, seemingly absorbed. Completely.

It wasn't until John had tucked her keys into her hand and deftly guided her into the Tiguan's driver's seat that she realized he'd taken them from her to open the door. She felt more than heard the click of her safety belt as he latched it, and then his lips were brushing her temple and warming her ear.

"Drive safely. Text me when you get back to the Lodge."

Though gently murmured, it was an order. From the man she'd dined with tonight, not the combat-hardened captain who straightened and stepped back, patiently waiting for her to depart before he risked turning to confront his friend.

Except, she wasn't too sure about the friend part.

Not anymore.

As much as she wanted, needed, to stick around for the coming confrontation, Rachel wouldn't have. So Regan nodded obediently and started the engine as John shut the door. Regan also kept both men in her view for as long as she could as she backed the Tiguan out of the drive before ninety-degree reversing it into the street.

Just before she lost sight of the men, she caught the fury that lashed back in to permeate John's entire body just before it blistered free.

What the hell was he saying?

6

Regan was well into her second cup of morning coffee when her phone rang. Adrenaline kicked in, superseding her desperate need for caffeine as she spotted the number on the screen. It wasn't the call she'd been dreading since dinner had ended the night before; it was Jelly.

She snatched the phone off the tiny table in her room's kitchenette. "Morning, partner. Please tell me you got your hands on a copy of that lease."

"I did. And it says exactly what we want it to say—"

Yes!

"—but that's not why I'm calling."

Just like that, her euphoria burst. The apprehension in Jelly's voice had punctured it. That, and the distinctive rumbling of an engine in the background. A diesel engine. Jelly was in his SUV, driving while using his phone. Something the new paranoid papa in him was loath to do—even with the vehicle's hands-free feature.

"What happened?"

"Got a call from Mikel. That number you memorized off Ertonç's phone?"

"Yeah?"

"He's got nothin'—and it ain't for the lack of tryin'."

Shit. "Are you telling me that number came back to a burner phone?"

"Yep. Not to worry—at least not yet.