Beyond Innocence Read online

  “He dragged Tate off the truck. He—”

  “Faye!”

  Her head jerked up. “What?”

  “You did it again. Who the hell are we talking about here? Who got dragged off the truck?”

  “Sam.”

  “You said Tate.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Pete looked away and stifled a string of epithets that could have curdled the cream in his coffee. Faye had better get her story straight before she got up on a witness stand or spoke before a DA. But for now, Pete supposed he’d have to let the slips go in order to get the essentials of the story. He kept his voice under strict control. “One more time. Who did Calvin drag off the truck?”

  “Sam,” she said with conviction.

  “Okay. Go on.”

  She frowned as if sorting through conflicting images. “It was a little weird. Even with a bullet in the gut, Sam had been struggling with his bindings and moaning. I was watching him, and I could see it in his face. He hadn’t given up. He was angry as hell at Calvin. If he could have gotten free he would have killed him. But the minute that bullet went into Tate’s head, he stopped struggling. He didn’t fight and he didn’t say a word. His eyes lost their fight. It was kinda like he died right along with Tate. It was kinda spooky.”

  Pete’s stomach clenched. No doubt, in a very real way part of Sam did die with Tate Barton. “Yeah, I’ll bet,” he quietly. “So…” He swallowed dryly, dreading the next question. “How did he actually die?”

  “Calvin beat him into a pulpy mess with a baseball bat and dumped him over a cliff.”

  Pete’s fists slammed on the table and he launched from his seat. Wordless, he strode to the doors and stepped outside into the humid evening air. He breathed deep but nothing could clear the mind-numbing rage that coated his senses. He had to get past it. He had to stop being a friend and start being a cop. Faye’s account was critical. He had to listen to it with a discriminating ear. He had to take it with a grain of salt and discern fact from fiction. If only there was one fact that wasn’t so glaringly accurate. Sam was dead. And he had died horribly, far from home, at the hands of someone who barely walked erect.

  Pete had to go back in there and make Faye’s testimony count for something. He had no doubt that she was guilty as hell as well. Her part in the events was conveniently absent. But he was also certain that Calvin was the instigator. He was the brains of the operation—if one could use that term in association with Calvin’s name with any degree of accuracy. Regardless of Faye’s involvement, Calvin was the key. And Pete was determined that he was going down for this. And he was going down right.

  Two more deep breaths and a glance at the stars fortified him enough to go back into the restaurant. He slid back into his seat and tamped down the rage that hit him like a freight train the moment he rested his eyes on Faye again. She cringed at his penetrating stare but he continued on as if he’d never walked out. “Did he dump Tate’s body too?”

  “Yes, but not at the same place. You’ll need me to find both of them. I have to come to Banff with you. And I want Tanner with me.”

  “Isn’t there family that Tanner can stay with?” Did the kid really have to be present when they uncovered his father’s remains?

  “No. Besides, I want him protected from Calvin.”

  Pete drained the last of his coffee even though his stomach was in no mood to accept any offerings. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about him. If I have my way, he’ll be sitting snug and cozy behind bars before we leave.”

  “How can you arrest him without a body?”

  “That, my dear, is something else you’re going to help me with. We’re going to pay a little visit to the DA.”

  Faye moved as if to protest but he stilled her with a raised hand.

  “This has to go on the record, Faye. But I’ll make sure they understand all the angles. Calvin’s the one we want. I’ll make sure you get a deal. A good one.”

  “I don’t like cops. I won’t deal with anybody but you,” she said stubbornly.

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” he said through a knowing grin. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Kananaskis Region, Alberta

  Marnie cradled the mug in her hands and stepped out onto the porch. The sunrise was behind her—behind the rough-hewn timbers of the house, behind soaring pines and birch trees and hills. She couldn’t see the sun as it peeked above the horizon, but the echo of its journey touched the sky above her and the peaks beyond with a deep, pearly pink. The soft pastel of the sky together with the mist that still clung to the water, and the mountains that loomed above the fog, lent a whimsical, ethereal aura to the scene.

  If it hadn’t been for Luke, she probably wouldn’t have bothered to step outside at such an ungodly hour, and she would have missed the incredible splendor around her.

  As if reading her thoughts and calling for Luke himself, the cry of the loon skimmed across the water and haunted her senses. Nodding approval, she took one sip of the scalding brew before stepping back inside. She passed through the modern kitchen with its pale pine cabinets and porcelain pulls. She passed by the sitting room with the stone hearth and the fireplace that was still warm from the blaze they had stoked and fed late into the night while they sipped on wine and munched on hot buttered popcorn.

  With a whimsical smile, she headed to Luke’s door with the intention of dragging him outside—in his underwear, if necessary—to enjoy the morning with her.

  Actually, the thought of Luke in his underwear brought with it images that kindled in her a strange and wonderful warmth that had nothing to do with fresh, hot popcorn or crackling fires. It brought vivid images of things that for much of her life had been discouraged, even forbidden.

  Thoughts of firm flesh and melding bodies, of deep kisses and exploring hands—these were things that were reserved for the dark of night, in the privacy of the bedroom, between husband and wife. These were things that weren’t discussed. They were tolerated and accepted. They weren’t evil or dirty. They were a gift from God to be enjoyed, but within limits. Subtle clues and comments from her parents had always given Marnie the impression that while sexuality was, indeed, a gift from God, it was one that shouldn’t be enjoyed…too much. One shouldn’t lose oneself in carnality, because it had the potential to lead to other temptations. Almost as if they were mutually exclusive, lust and love, orgasms and intimacy were never discussed in the same context.

  In plain English, one could do it—with a spouse, at night, in bed—but the couple shouldn’t be too noisy about it, and God forbid they actually discuss it openly, or try anything…different.

  A smile passed across her lips as she considered what that thought encompassed. She came to the end of the hall and lifted her hand to tap on Luke’s door. But the action was interrupted by an anguished cry from the other side that prompted her to skip the formality of knocking and burst in unannounced.

  Luke was still in bed, his face comically contorted as he attempted to roll over onto his back and straighten his legs.

  “A little stiff, are we?” she teased.

  He cracked open an eye. “You are evil incarnate.”

  She walked in, set her mug down on the bedside table, and sat on the mattress. She shrugged. “Well, I did warn you. I kept saying we should head back, but you insisted. You had to keep going.” She noticed he had managed to open both eyes now and was regarding her with rare irritation. “Four hours of intense riding for a novice is bound to cause some…” she cocked her head in a cruel mimicry of his habit, “discomfort.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Never.” But her smile gave her away.

  He closed his eyes, his expression smug. “Fine. Seeing as how I’m an invalid again, you can bring me breakfast in bed and wait on me hand-and-foot for the entire day.”

  “Huh! If that’s what you think you can think again.” On an impulse, she r
ipped the covers away and immediately regretted it. She had seen Luke in his underwear before, but the memory didn’t do it justice. “I—uh—” she sputtered.

  He stretched his arms over his head and arched his back, obviously enjoying her discomfort and playing on it for full effect. “Yes?”

  She tore her gaze away from his torso, thighs, and the region in between that was covered, albeit barely, by a pair of intriguingly tight briefs. She set her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You have to get up and move around. That’s the only way to work out the stiffness.”

  “So you claim.” He stacked his hands behind his head and said dreamily, “I can think of another way.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, sex is hardly an effective workout for the muscles.” She stated it matter-of-factly—and far too quickly—in a weak attempt to hide the shivers in her voice.

  He cocked his head. “Sex? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was asking for a massage.”

  “Uh-huh,” she nodded slowly. “Sure you were.”

  “You are a physiotherapist, you know,” he said haughtily. “Would that be so much to ask? My bad leg is killing me, and I figure it’s the least you could do after dragging me around the mountains on a horse and allowing me to work myself into such a state.”

  She stifled the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she considered the request. He was in pain. He was still recovering from his injuries. It was a perfectly valid request. And she was a professional, but still…

  “Are you afraid you won’t be able to control yourself?” he taunted.

  “You flatter yourself.”

  “Do I?”

  “Are you challenging me?”

  “Maybe.” His eyes had turned an even darker shade of blue. He was challenging her, all right, but that challenge had little to do with a massage.

  She cleared her throat. “You know, I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you. Relatively speaking, you’re the innocent one here. I’m the one with all the experience.”

  “Of course. I’ve never given anyone a massage.”

  In spite of herself she let out a little snort of laughter. “All right, invalid. I think there’s some olive oil in the kitchen that I could use.”

  As she walked out she heard him call, “I’d really prefer whipped cream.”

  Still stifling her chuckles, she returned a few moments later to find him sprawled on his stomach, hands dangling over the edges of the bed and his face mashed into a pillow.

  Without ceremony she ripped the pillow away. “That’s not good for your neck. You should lie flat.”

  His head plopped onto the mattress. “Your bedside manner is a lot worse than I remember.”

  “Just remember that if you start getting any funny ideas about what I do around beds.”

  She ignored his chuckle as she knelt beside him amidst the rumpled sheets and poured a dollop of oil onto the small of his back.

  His skin trembled. “Ooh. That makes me shiver.”

  “Wimp. You faced a bullet and a beating and you can’t take a few sore muscles and some cold oil.” She began working in the oil in slow, firm circles.

  “That’s not why I shivered.”

  Her fingers stopped. “Oh.” With determination she resumed the strokes, working her way up either side of his spine and out across his rib cage. “I’ll start with your back and arms and work down to your legs, okay?”

  He just grunted.

  She didn’t have the experience or the expertise of a registered massage therapist, but she knew the basics, and she had to admit she’d never enjoyed being on this end of a massage quite so much. His body would hardly qualify him for Mr. Universe, but he was lean and smooth, with well-defined muscles that responded easily to her coaxing fingers.

  She found a knot between his shoulder blades and a low moan escaped his throat. “Oh God. Right there.”

  She switched to her thumbs to apply a more concentrated pressure.

  “Isn’t it awkward for you to sit like that?” he muttered. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you straddled me.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice but refused to be baited into arguing. He was right. It would work better. It would be much more efficient, and there was no logical reason for her not to do it.

  Wordlessly, she swung her leg over and snuggled herself in the small of his back. She was wearing shorts, and the feel of his skin against hers was a little unnerving. But she stayed focused on the task at hand, working out the knot with patient perseverance and a firm hand.

  Another dollop of oil, and she moved up to his shoulders and upper arms. She paused to trace the dove once again. “I never liked a tattoo before, but I like this one. There’s something special about it.”

  “Mm.” He sounded sleepy, and she smiled with satisfaction.

  She took a few moments to work at his scalp, lacing greasy fingers through his chestnut mop that was still bed-tousled and excruciatingly inviting to curious fingers. He arched his neck as her fingers plowed through the silky strands.

  “Marnie,” he whispered, as her hands trailed back to his deltoids and triceps.

  She was bent low over him, studying the shape and tone of his flesh as she kneaded it with lithe, loving fingers. “Yes?”

  He didn’t respond at first, allowing her hands to work their magic for a few more moments. Her breath fluttered the fine hairs on his shoulders and arms, and to her surprise her lips brushed across his skin. He tasted of olive oil and salt and the sweet freshness of the mountains. She wanted to taste more.

  Her tongue flicked out and he groaned. “Marnie,” he said again.

  Her eyes were closed as she sank more deeply into the experience and him. Her mind refused to dwell on her reservations and concerns. All she could focus on was how good he tasted and how warm his skin was against hers. All she knew was that she wanted—no, needed—to be close to him in a way that she had never craved anything before in her life.

  She allowed her tongue to trail along the crest of his shoulder and up toward his neck. She stopped at last at his ear and nibbled gently, wallowing in the deep guttural sounds that she could feel reverberating through his chest and against her thighs.

  “Let me up,” he whispered. “If you don’t I’m going to throw you off.”

  She giggled and nipped at his ear, then hesitantly swung herself off his back until she was once again kneeling beside him. He turned over and slowly raised himself up on his knees. He drew closer and she looked at his face, feeling as if she were really seeing it for the first time. His features seemed sharper, his eyes more blue. Something passed between them, and at that moment she experienced a connection that was so deep and so intense it felt as if her soul had spliced to his. No matter what happened, there was no turning back now.

  Delicately, he cupped her face in his hands and languished a slow, lazy kiss on her lips. He stopped and withdrew, leaving barely a breath between them. “You’re not going to stop me this time, are you?”

  Eyes closed and skin already dewy, she shook her head. She might as well try and stop a volcano from erupting or the rapids from running. She had always known they would end up here, it had been only a matter of when.

  His hands had already reached toward the knot of hair at the nape of her neck. He slipped off the elastic and worked at the braid, his fingers combing through and freeing the dark tresses to swing about her shoulders. “Better,” he whispered as he made one final run from her scalp out to the wavy ends. “Much better.”

  “We should pull the blinds,” she whispered as he removed her glasses and set them gently on the bedside table.

  “Why?” he asked as his fingers returned to her throat and slipped down to the front of the light cotton shirt she had picked out that morning. “There’s no one to see us, and God knows I want to see you.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said mechanically. She opened her eyes. “My body isn’t much.”

  His ey
ebrows pulled together. “Let me be the judge of that.” He undid one button, and then another. After the third he stopped and traced a finger from her collarbone down to the vee of the clasp of her bra. She silently thanked the gods that she had chosen white lace over her sports bra that morning.

  He pushed the shirt aside and with a touch as light as a breeze off the water, he traced the curve of her breast with the tips of his fingers. She closed her eyes and concentrated on not swooning at the wonder in that touch.

  At last he cupped her and brushed his thumb across the lace where her nipple was already straining at the fabric. “Like I said before, you’re perfect.”

  She lacked the resolve to argue. Or maybe she was finally believing him. It was hard to deny that kind of blatant admiration.

  He undid the last of the buttons and eased the shirt back off her shoulders, kissing each one gently as it was unveiled. He nipped at her throat and distracted her as deft fingers quickly undid the clasp of her bra.

  She didn’t think her heart had ever beat that hard, or her soul had ever been so exposed. Kneeling here, chest to chest, skin to skin with Luke, she felt at once more vulnerable and more secure than she could ever remember. He covered her bare breast with his palm and allowed her to fill his hand. The fit could only be described as…perfect. Tiny shivers radiated out from his touch.

  His mouth returned to hers and found it open and voracious. When their tongues had ceased their duel he pulled away just far enough to gaze down at her body, still partly clad in denim shorts. He bracketed her rib cage with both hands and held her firm. “Do you believe me? Do you feel beautiful?” He whispered it with such reverence that she had no choice but to accept his truth.

  She nodded, but found no words.

  “Good. Then lie down and let me make love to you.”

  She allowed him to ease her back onto the soft mound of pillows. His lips linked with hers in a fevered but brief kiss, before his tongue etched a searing line across her chest and laved her nipple. She arched against him, and her fingers wove through his hair, holding him tight and begging for more. She sighed when, at last, his mouth covered her breast completely and sucked her hard enough to elicit a little yelp of surprise and pleasure.