Her Montana Man

“No, not always. He’s in his forties, maybe early fifties. Miss Martel was forty-three. At any rate, he was mature enough to control the first wave of panic and think through corrective steps. He wiped down his fingerprints, then set up the suicide. He was smart enough to use her gun.”

“There’s no record she had one,” Pierce said.

Chelsea shrugged. “The slug was a twenty-two, a caliber a woman would be comfortable with—not too big, but powerful enough for close range, say if a burglar was in the house. He probably gave her the gun and insisted she keep it.”

Pierce was silent for a long minute. “Anything else?”

“He would be drawn to positions of power. If in the army, he’d be an officer. In civilian life, he could be a cop or a CEO. If he owned a company, he’d be a tyrant. To attract a woman like Harriet Martel, he’d have to be intelligent. He’d also be charming. Both are good skills for public office. He’d more likely hold an elective office rather than an appointed one.”

“Why?”

“Self-preservation. Other men would be afraid of him. He’s ambitious and ruthless. Utterly ruthless.”

“A person would have to be without conscience to kill his lover and his child. Is that your conclusion?”

“Yes.”

Pierce grimaced. “I wish I knew what to think. I can’t conceive of a murderer walking around loose in my town. I know everybody within ten miles of the city limits and probably half the rest of the county, too. You and Holt say the man is local. I find that hard to believe.”

Anger blazed from his eyes as he glared at her.

She went on the defensive. “Believe what you wish.

Perhaps you’d like to bring someone else in on the case. I can give you a name. I trained under one of the FBI’s foremost forensic investigators my last year of school.”

“So Kelly said.” He waved a hand in dismissal of her suggestion. “You’re the best, or else I wouldn’t have asked for you.”

Her eyes met his and locked. For an eternity they gazed at each other, questions and awareness rushing in rivers of unappeased hunger between them.

“Damnation,” he muttered.

Then he reached for her.

Chapter Three

Chelsea knew she should tell him no. She ordered her lips to form the word. But she didn’t utter it. This moment was too much like her dreams the past few nights.

Then his mouth met hers and all the wonder and desire of the past rolled over her. She knew he felt it, too. A shudder went through him as he held her closer, and she was instantly aware of the hardness of his body and of his hunger.

She arched her back and pressed against him, eager for completion that had been missing for eight years. Tears burned the back of her eyes as she realized just how much she’d missed this…missed him….

His hands, warm and supple, roamed her back, her hips, along her thighs, up her sides, then paused for an instant before sliding upward once more. He turned slightly so he could cup her breast in one hand while the other slid to her hip to caress in a kneading motion.

“Too long,” he muttered, releasing her mouth and skipping kisses along her jaw and down her throat. “It’s been too long.”

“Yes.” She touched his face, combed her fingers through the thick strands of his hair, loving the feel, the texture of him against her palms. “I’ve missed—”

She stopped the words, not wanting to admit there’d been few dates and no serious relationship in her life since they’d parted.

“This,” he finished for her. “I know. I told myself I wouldn’t want you again.”

“Then don’t. Let me go.”

Anger joined the flames of passion in his eyes. “I can’t. It’s too strong. You have a hold over me….”

He shook his head. She understood the frustration, the longing that wouldn’t let up, the failure of logic and all the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this.

When he lifted her to the railing and pushed between her thighs, fitting their bodies intimately into place, her bones became as pliant as taffy. When he moved against her, her mind went cloudy.

They kissed endlessly, a wildness running through her blood and echoing in the beat of his heart against her breasts. Fighting the tidal wave of hunger was useless. She clung to him, wanting the hot bliss that only he stirred to life in her.

“Why?” he said at one point, his eyes licking over her in restless flames of need. “Why does it have to be you?”

Hurt, she tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let her. She turned her face from his rampaging mouth. He caught her head between his hands and held her face so he could gaze into her eyes.

“It’s always been this way for us, hasn’t it?” he demanded huskily. “Wild and necessary. Primitive and unexplained. The call of blood to blood.”

She shook her head, unable to summon words in her defense but feeling that she should.

“Irresistible,” he whispered.

He took her mouth again, fanning the passion that flowed like lava between them, burning all sense and good intentions to a crisp, leaving only the hunger, the terrible, terrible hunger. She moaned as he caressed her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive tips so that they contracted into hard points of ecstasy.

“I have to see you, all of you,” he told her. “It’s like being starved, then coming upon a feast. I have to have it all.”

“Yes,” she said, knowing exactly what he meant. “Yes.”

With fingers that trembled ever so little, he unfastened her blouse and pulled it from her slacks. Eyes narrowed impatiently, he checked her bra, then slid his hands around her and unfastened the hooks.

Slowly, torturously, he pushed the satin upward, out of the way. Then he simply looked, his lashes lowered sexily over the flaming passion she saw in his gaze.

“Beautiful,” he said, and kissed the yearning tips, then feathered his tongue over each one.

She clutched his shoulders as the world spun out of control. When he lifted her breasts and paid special attention to them with his lips and his hands, she couldn’t keep from crying out as the wonder of his touch filled her.

He lifted her from the railing and set her on her feet. Taking her hand, he said, “Let’s go.”

In the cabin, its air cool compared to the heat of the deck, she tried to think, but her mind refused to cooperate. She realized she didn’t want caution and reason and all the things she’d practiced all her life.

Going into the bedroom with him, she stopped when he did and faced him, her heart rushing its beat at the intensity in his gaze.

“I have protection at my place,” he said softly, his eyes locked with hers. “Would you feel better if we used it?”

She blinked in uncertainty. “I can’t conceive,” she finally said. “I had polyps removed, but there’s scar tissue.”

He laid a finger over her lips, then lingered to caress her gently. “Kelly told me. I’m safe, but I wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

Chelsea looked away from his probing gaze, touched by his consideration in ways she didn’t want to admit. He’d always had the ability to reach inside and touch the lonely places she tried to hide.