Mistletoe and Murder. Jenna Ryan
hair from his hand. “You’re a great kisser, Detective Knight—for a man who prefers his own company.”
He ran a thumb over her jaw. “Are you trying to get a rise out of me, Romana?”
She shimmied her hips against his. “I don’t need to try. I already have.” She gave him another quick nip.
His eyes tempted her to do it all again—until she spied the gleam deep inside them.
She took a wise step back. “I need air, Jacob. You’re making me dizzy.”
“Sounds promising.”
In spite of herself, Romana couldn’t resist hooking two fingers in the top of his waistband. Smart was one thing, but there was no need to end the moment in a blind rush.
“You’re such a conundrum,” she murmured as he ran his hands up and down her arms. “I have a feeling I’m going to…” The thought died when she spotted the object several feet in front of her. Rectangular shape, bloodred color and all too familiar to her these days. “Oh, damn,” she breathed.
“What?” Jacob swung his head, followed her gaze to the windshield of his SUV.
“That’s one of Critch’s envelopes.” She made a quick sweep of the lot. “And I swear it wasn’t here a moment ago.”
Jacob yanked it free and handed it to her even as he stuffed his gun into the top of his jeans. His eyes never stopped moving.
Romana regarded the flap, visualized briefly, then opened it. Her hands wanted to tremble, but she sucked it up and steadied her nerves. This was a scare tactic, an effective one, but she’d be damned if she’d play Critch’s game, no matter how rattled she felt.
Still scanning, Jacob drew her into the shelter of his large vehicle. He gave her a few seconds to read the message before he murmured, “Out loud, Romana.”
She frowned at the poorly printed words. “‘If you’re keeping score,’” she read, “‘this is your second threat.’” She turned the paper over, searched for more. “What threat?”
As if cued, a pair of projectiles whizzed past her ear. She heard two soft thwacks, then found herself on her knees in the snow. Jacob held her firmly in place while he combed the shadowy fir trees on the perimeter of the lot.
“Why did I ask?” She pushed at his hands. “I’m not going to jump up, Jacob. Do you see him?”
“No.”
Crawling forward, Romana stole a look around the bumper. “There aren’t any vehicles over here,” she said. Then she raised her sights, and her heart gave a single, hard beat. “Ah—well.”
“What?”
“I found our second threat.”
Still on her knees, she indicated Jacob’s windshield—and the pair of neat, round bullet holes Critch had fired through it.
Chapter Four
Jacob woke with a hiss and an image in his head that had him reaching for his gun before his eyes were fully open.
It was the same dream, always the same—his father shouting, his mother closing doors to keep the worst of it in.
Monsters under the bed had nothing on Jacob’s father in a rage. As a boy, he’d been willing to join the hidden demons so he wouldn’t have to hear what he knew would come next.
He remembered the way his heart had thudded. That helped block the sound. Beside him, Kermit sang in his silly frog voice. He thought it was good to be green. Jacob thought it was better to pretend.
The dream rolled forward. Morning came. Everything seemed fine, back to normal—except his mother wore a long-sleeved, high-necked shirt in mid-July, his father snarled into his coffee cup, and no one spoke, not even Jacob’s chatty Muppet frog.
Then the scene shifted. Cold crept in. Snow blanketed the ground. Jacob’s father dragged a Christmas tree inside through the garage. His mother watered it. She laughed because she had pine needles stuck in her hair when she emerged from under the low branches.
Jacob remembered her laugh most of all. It echoed in his head even as the atmosphere altered and his father entered the house.
He’d had a bad day, they saw it in his face. A police officer had died. The shooter had escaped. His father’s fists were clenched. So was his jaw.
Everything had turned red after that. Red smears on his mother’s face, long red streaks on his father’s hands, drops of red clinging to a Christmas candle beside the freshly watered tree.
It was the same red they’d found on Belinda’s body….
Swearing, Jacob fell back on the mattress and stared at the shadowy ceiling.
New shapes formed in the corners, indistinct people shuffling around in unknown places. Jacob felt his heart slamming, both then and now. Too late, he spied the silhouette behind him. He felt a slash of pain in his skull, remembered O’Keefe yelling, then—nothing.
Still staring upward, he worked the tense muscles in his jaw. He pictured Belinda Critch, a tall rangy blonde, not delicate in feature or demeanor, yet sensual in a way that drew men toward her and drove women away. No matter how he tried, though, Jacob couldn’t hold the shot. His mind kept changing it, refining the features, darkening the hair, softening the expression—and ultimately turning up the sex appeal by a good eighty-five percent.
Frustrated by his thoughts, he rolled from the bed. It was after 5:00 p.m., snowy, cold and, unfortunately, Sunday. He had no official work to do tonight, but he did have a file on his kitchen counter, copies of three recently delivered Christmas cards stuck to his fridge and a memory in his head from yesterday that had started with a kiss and ended with an aborted pageant rehearsal in the park.
The power had failed at the outdoor pond that served as a rink, so Romana hadn’t been able to watch her niece skate, although how a child of seven could be expected to do anything on ice when she was dressed up like a pink-and-white spotted elephant was beyond Jacob. He’d barely been able to stand on skates and hold a hockey stick at that age.
They’d try again tomorrow night, the deputy mayor’s wife had promised a small crowd of onlookers.
While coffee brewed and the radiator made ominous clunking sounds, Jacob paged through Belinda’s file. But, like his mental picture of her, the reports blurred; names and faces ran together. Romana’s winter-lake eyes stared up at him. Her mouth tempted him to taste. The scent of her hair and skin shot straight to his groin.
Losing it, he reflected and seesawed his head to loosen the muscles in his neck.
Someone had murdered Belinda. Did he want to find out who’d done it, or slap the file closed, take O’Keefe’s advice and head out to the airport?
A knock on his door prevented an answer, but if he was honest, he’d admit that New Zealand paled next to the prospect of spending time with Romana Grey. So really, he should be thinking airline ticket all the way, and leave O’Keefe to do what he could surely do better than his former partner to keep Romana safe.
Another knock. “Jacob?” Denny Leech’s raspy voice reached him. “You up yet?”
Jacob let his head drop back. She’d have her granddaughter in tow, he just knew it.
“Yeah, I’m up.”
He used the peephole out of habit, glimpsed a pink ball cap and a movement beside it. This should be uncomfortable.
It was the prolonged squelch of rubber on tile that alerted him. It sounded wrong. The thud that followed it was even more out of place.
The skin on Jacob’s neck prickled. “Denny?”
When she didn’t respond, he reached for his gun in its holster by the jamb. Twisting the latch, he sidestepped. With the barrel pointed upward, he kicked the door open—and