Page 133 of Risky Passion

“So are you.” Her fingers brushed through my hair, and her lips grazed mine in a kiss that was soft, sweet, and overflowing with emotion that words could never capture.

We stayed tangled and breathless for what felt like ages as our hearts pounded in sync.

Finally, she shifted back, and her eyes looked heavy. “Now I’m really tired. I think I’ll sleep for a week.”

“Same,” I said, curling a hand over her hair and cupping her cheek.

She leaned into my palm, and her lips curved into a soft smile. “Stay with me tonight.”

My heart swelled, full and almost bursting, and I answered with another deep, crushing kiss.

When she rolled off me, we settled back into our spooning position as if we’d been sleeping together like this for years.

As she relaxed against me, her breathing steady and even, I stayed awake a little longer, holding her close. The warmth of her body pressed against mine as her scent lingered like an invitation, filling me with a quiet, unfamiliar joy.

Tory and I were at the beginning of something that promised to be truly special.

But doubt crept in like poison seeping through a wound. My last relationship had imploded spectacularly . . . I'd never given enough time, enough attention, enough of my fractured self. I'd come to terms with my divided life. The K9 unit consumed my days, Onyx and my family my evenings, and Charlotte's ghost claimed every other moment for twenty years.

Tory deserved someone whole. Someone who could offer her more than fragments of time between shifts and the crushing weight of ourfamily's tragedy. She deserved a man who could build her a future, not one still excavating his past for answers.

With her nestled against me, the steady rhythm of her breaths lured me toward sleep, and a peace I'd never known before washed through me.

Tory was perfect in every way.

Stunning. Sexy. And achingly sweet.

And it terrified me to my core that I was going to destroy her, too.

CHAPTER 31

B

The courier vanjolted down the dirt road, creaking with every pothole and rut I bounced over. The headlights danced erratically over the wild scrub that spilled over the edges of the track, casting jagged shadows that flickered and disappeared as I sped past. The road had been just dirt the last time we’d come to Stanage Bay, and the fact that it hadn’t changed after two decades told me everything I needed to know. The town was remote, forgotten, and perfect.

The moon hung high above, draping the world in a pale silver glow, and the track ahead stretched into darkness, empty and rugged. No houses. No fences. Just endless bushland. When we’d driven along here all those years ago, Alice had leaned out the car window, mooing to the cows and delighted by the horses grazing in the paddocks that had flanked the entrance to Stanage Bay.

The van’s lights highlighted a weathered sign ahead, and I eased off the accelerator.

“Hey, Alice,” I murmured. “They still have the cattle grids over the road.”

I could still hear her laugh, high and sweet, as if she were sitting right beside me. Every time we’d driven over the grids, she’d tried to talk, and when her words wobbled, she’d break into giggles. The smallest things had filled her withso much joy.

God, I missed her laugh. I missed her.

I slowed as I drove the van into what passed for the main street of Stanage Bay. The headlights swept over a handful of weather-beaten buildings huddled together against the emptiness, as if the town itself were bracing against the void. Stanage Bay was still a forgotten hamlet clinging stubbornly to the edge of nowhere. And I had no doubt the locals liked it that way.

The town’s only shop was smack in the middle of town. Its windows were dark, and a faded CLOSED sign hung crookedly on the glass door. Alice and I had ventured into that shop several times . . . back when I was a different person. A happier person. Back when I was looking forward to a quiet vacation with Alice. Away from the world. Away from our cruel memories.

I could still picture the two of us inside that little shop, the old floorboards creaking under our bare feet as we picked out groceries. Alice’s face had lit up as she’d grabbed ice cream, chocolate, and crisps . . . the kind of treats that we didn’t discover until we were in our twenties. I’d tossed wine and cigarettes into the basket, hoping she wouldn’t notice and tried to pretend I wasn’t just as excited.

Damn, I still don’t have any cigarettes.

A bitter laugh slipped out as I glanced over my shoulder.

“Did you plan this, Alice?” I muttered.

She’d hated my addiction, but I used to tell her there were a dozen other addictions that were way worse.

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