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

her back up into his arms, cradling her close as he turned to carry her out of the living room and down the hall.

"Where are we going?"

"To bed." For the first time that night, that disarming dent in his cheek cut in, along with his deeper, arrogantly satisfied grin. "As earth shattering as that was, it barely took the edge off. We're going to do that again. And, this time—" Both dent and arrogance dipped deeper. "I plan on taking my time."

She was trapped.

Regan stared at the solid wall of muscle beneath her left cheek as one of those proprietary hands of John's shifted from the back of her shoulder. It slipped down past her waist, then hip, until it was cupping her entire ass as though it had every right. Which, given how they'd just spent the last three hours, it did.

What the hell had she done?

And how did she extricate herself from this king-sized bed without waking its king-sized owner who, even in his post-grief and endorphin-induced sleep, managed to keep her entire body fused to the length of his?

She refused to rush. It was barely eleven. She had time to figure out her plan of attack.

Make that retreat. A full-on, panic and guilt-driven retreat.

And then she heard it.

Her phone.

The ringtone was faint, but that trilling was definitely hers. This late, there were only a handful of callers who'd be trying to reach her. And only if it was critical that they do so. She had to get out of here to take that call.

In private.

She winced as the phone trilled again—and John's torso shifted. She was now trapped more firmly than before. A thick swath of her hair was caught beneath the man's mammoth shoulder. She tried lifting her head and gently tugging, but that caused his chest to move again. Worse, he'd roused enough to murmur that name she'd come to detest.

"Rachel."

She held her breath and waited for him to settle. He did—until the phone trilled once more, and he shifted once more. One way or another, the slumbering giant was going to rouse. With nothing left to lose, she slipped across the front of that hardened body, tugging her hair from beneath his shoulder as she stood.

He sighed…and drifted into a deeper sleep.

Determined to keep him there, she retrieved the comforter from where it had fallen to the floor and carefully settled it over his legs and torso to help replace the warmth he'd lost when she'd abandoned the bed, and him.

As for her, she was buck naked. Her clothes were still strewn across the floor of the living room with her phone. At the far end of the hall.

Was LaCroix home?

She actually prayed he wasn't.

Either way, her phone was still ringing. Gooseflesh born more of desperation than the surrounding cold rippled over her body as she crept out of the darkened bedroom and down the hardwood slats of the hall. By the time she'd located her phone in the dim light of the single table lamp—beneath John's underwear—it had ceased ringing. She scooped the phone up regardless, along with her own underclothes, sweatshirt, jeans, shoes and leather bag, and headed into the darkened kitchen, once again praying she wouldn't run into LaCroix.

The room was empty. A quick glance out the window beside the back door revealed two cars in the drive, the Tiguan and John's Wrangler. The sergeant was still barhopping with John's buddy then.

Thank God.

She turned away from the window, set her bag on the cooking island and began donning her clothes as rapidly as they'd been removed. Safely dressed, she retrieved her phone to check the caller ID.

Jelly. He'd left an unforgivably pithy text in lieu of voicemail.

Call me!!!

She pushed back at the panic as she stepped into her running shoes. He could be letting her know Brooks had caved, that she was cleared to bring John in on the case.

Though with all that had happened here tonight—in the living room and in that bed down the hall—the possibility of finally coming clean didn't enthuse her nearly as much as it would've earlier in the day. Once John learned the truth, what were the odds he'd believe she hadn't slept with him to make her case? That she'd been as caught up in what'd been happening between them as he?

She tied her shoelaces and faced the kitchen's archway to keep watch for John as she dialed her fellow agent's number.

He picked up on the first ring.

"What's up, Jelly?"

"Rae? I can barely hear you. Is everything okay? Can you talk?"

She raised her voice, but not by much. "Yeah. The captain's…in another room." And she'd like to keep him there for as long as possible—asleep. "What happened?"

"We got a problem."

They were just piling up tonight, weren't they? "Explain."

"You asked me to dig deep into the doc."

Damn. "What popped?"

"Not sure yet, but the issue's not with him. It's the wife. She goes by the name of—" She heard papers rustling. "—Inci Karmandi."

"Goes by?" Dread trickled in at the phrasing.

"That's the problem. At first glance, Inci looks clean. Devoted doctor's wife, stay-at-home mom of a four-year-old boy and a bouncing baby girl. Birth certificates for the kids check out, as does the marriage license for her and the doc. But when I went back further, I found something odd. The trail goes cold. I found a current UK passport and a birth certificate for one Inci Yilmaz, but nothing in between. It's like she doesn't exist for those nineteen intervening years."

Nineteen? The number rattled deep within Regan's brain.

She dropped her gaze to the stainless-steel, motion-activated trash can tucked in the corner near the doorway. A small, yellow sticky note clung near the base of the can. "Inci's British?"

"According to those two records. The only two I found. Anywhere. I can't even get my hands on her visa application for the move to Germany."

That was seriously troubling. So was that number. Nineteen.

Damn, it—why?

The number locked into place. "Shit."

"What?"

"Check the date on the license. How long have Inci