Page 42 of Killer on the Homestead
Rosalie told herself this, over and over again, as his truck drove down the highway and a mournful country song twanged around them in the dark of the truck’s interior.
But if shedidsleep with him, then it might eradicate this…this.
Like something had wrapped around her lungs, tight and with thorns. A bramble bush inside of her chest.
It went away when he kissed her. Everything did, except the delicious lick of heat. Her lungs could expand when he kissed her. She didn’tworrywhen his arm banded around her. All those doubts and concerns just evaporated.
So it could just be sex. She could handle just sex. A little fling with the hot neighbor guy. She was good at flings and handling men. She was apro.
Even as he pulled onto the service-road entrance to his family ranch, rather than the main entrance that would lead to his parents’ house. Even as he pulled up to his cabin at the back ofthe property. Even as he turned off the car and hopped out, she told herself it was just a bit of fun.
And once they got a little bit of fun out of their systems, they could just…move on. No harm, no foul.
She slid out of the truck as he did, still not saying anything. She met him at the front of the truck in the little porchlight that barely illuminated the little patch of yard they were in. He was so tall, so handsome, there in the moonlight.
So much potential harm, she knew, as her heart lurched, and beat unsteadily in her chest as they stood there just staring at each other. She managed to swallow, to look away, up at the stars to steady herself.
It was a riot of stars, universes up there, bright and vast. She had only ever lived here, looking up atthissky, without light pollution, without an entire world out there that Duncan had gone out and experienced.
“Miss this out in LA?” she asked, and maybe she meant it as a little dig aimed at his time away, but really, she was curious. What had he missed about home while out in California living his dream?
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. I used to lay out under the stars after every game here—win or lose—and picture myself under the lights of a professional ballpark. People chanting my name.”
“And you got it.”
“I got it, and then there was nowhere to lay outside and watch the stars. I mean there was, but it wasn’t home. I never regretted it. I don’t, even now, even when it didn’t end in a nice little bow like I wanted it to. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss this as much as I enjoyed that.”
It was somehow the perfect answer. A blend of understanding how lucky he was, without losing sight of where he’d come from. Why did that lodge in her chest like physical pain?
At least until he moved closer, drew her into his arms, and kissed her. Soft and sweet at first. A kiss meant for starlight and the chill of a Wyoming night she didn’t feel because his body gave out warmth and stirred up some inside her as well.
But the angle changed, the grip. Everything got a little deeper, hotter, needier, and that was exactly what she needed. Ride the wave, forget about all the messy emotions cluttering up inside of her. She’d deal with those later, alone. Pick them apart, set them away.
They moved toward the cabin, arms wrapped around each other, mouths on each other. A laugh when they tripped, a shuddery exhale when his hand slid under her shirt, spread out on her back. Hot, big, rough.
They somehow managed to stumble up the stairs to his door, and he opened it without even taking his mouth from hers. She would have told him it was impressive, but he nibbled at her bottom lip, taking away all rational thought. He pulled her in, backing them into his living room.
She heard somethingcrunchunder her shoe. Confused, she blinked her eyes open even as Duncan’s mouth took a very interesting tour of her neck.
But the sensual haze faded into cold fear as she saw the room around them. “Oh my God.”
“If you think that’s impressive…”
She choked on a half laugh, even in the midst of the mess. “No, Duncan.” She pushed at his chest. “God. Your place is trashed.”
He turned then and saw what she saw. His face went utterly blank.
All his boxes had been upended. Trophies—some broken, some shattered. Clothes strewn about, drawers opened and emptied.
“What the hell?”
“We need to call the police, Duncan,” she said sharply. She felt a bubble of panic try to burst free, but she pushed it back down. Because this wasn’t murder. They didn’t know what it was, but things could be replaced, so it wasn’tmurder.
But because therehadbeen a murder, it was more terrifying than just a break-in.
When Duncan didn’t move, Rosalie pulled out her own phone, irritated that her hand shook. She hesitated for a moment, not sure what decision to make, then went ahead and dialed Copeland’s cell.
Maybe this didn’t relate to the murder, but how could it not?
