Still the One. Debra Cowan
to bring to life something besides regret and a resentment that should have cooled long ago.
Kit walked to the mantel and took down another framed photograph. “This one of Tony was just taken about a week ago. He sent it to Liz.”
Rafe nodded, careful not to touch her as he took the frame. Valentine had cut his hair, almost a buzz cut. He’d grown a mustache and wore glasses. “I’ll want to make some copies of this.”
“Sure. Let me take it out of the frame.” Her fingers brushed his as she took the picture.
Casually, he turned away, squelching the jolt of electricity that jumped up his arm.
“Tony had some pictures of Liz. When we checked his place earlier, I noticed they weren’t on his refrigerator, where she told me he usually kept them.”
Could’ve been a smart move by Valentine to keep Alexander from getting a good look at Liz. Or it could’ve just been Valentine’s way of disappearing.
The photo Rafe had requested appeared over his shoulder, sans frame, and he took it, too conscious of the way Kit’s breath tickled his neck. His gaze scanned the entertainment center, the collection of CDs that ranged from the Eagles to Elvis Presley. Before it could fully form, Rafe aborted the reminder of his and Kit’s mutual pleasure in Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
More pictures lined the curved-leg table behind the sofa, and Rafe moved toward it. This case was all that mattered. There was a picture of Kit and her sister. Another of Kit in a pale pink satin gown that hugged every curve, bared her gorgeous shoulders. She stood next to Liz, who wore an ivory tea-length wedding gown, her hand on the tuxedo-clad arm of a man whose face was cropped off. Their father? Tony or another groom? Kit’s lover?
That last thought ambushed him, and before he could stop, Rafe wondered how many men Kit had seen since their college days. Had she ever come close to marriage or had she pushed them all away before they could get too close? Was she involved with someone?
Rafe knew he should leave those questions alone, but there was one he had to ask. “Are you seeing anyone now?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Dating anyone?”
A frown snapped her dark brows together. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about anything except this case.”
“That’s the reason I’m asking.” Even while his chest tightened in anticipation of her answer, he managed to sound detached. “I need to speak with anyone who’s had recent contact with your sister. They might know something without being aware of it.”
“Or they might have something to do with her disappearance?”
“Right.”
“I’m not seeing anyone,” she said stiffly, avoiding his eyes. “Haven’t for…a while.”
He nodded, silently cursing the bubble of pleasure that bloomed inside him. “I’d like to take a closer look at Liz’s room.”
“This way.” She walked past him and down the hall.
His gaze slid down the slender line of her back to the taut curve of her butt, the lean line of her thighs. She still had a class-A butt. And beautiful dewy skin. Rafe’s gaze lingered on the soft magnolia flesh of her neck.
He forced himself to look away and rejected the awareness that had started a dim, persistent throb in his pulse after the initial shock of seeing her in his office.
As he’d asked—or rather ordered—she’d kept her conversation limited to answering his questions, nothing about the past. He could do the same.
Stepping into Liz’s bedroom, Rafe took in the unmade full-size bed. Kit walked over and began pulling the leopard print sheet taut, straightening the matching comforter.
A black bra strap hung out of the top of one dresser drawer; three pairs of stiletto heels cluttered the space between the dresser and the wall.
“Are any of her clothes missing?”
Kit stepped over to take a quick look in the closet. “No, I don’t think so. And her suitcase is here.”
He nodded. “Who did Tony work for before he went to prison?”
“Another computer manufacturer. He worked with hardware back then, rather than software.”
“Any friends who kept in touch after he was put away?”
“Not that I know of.” Nervous energy poured off her. Her voice grew quieter with each answer.
Rafe could see that she was trying to stay out of his way. Regret stabbed at that, but he didn’t try to put her at ease. The more distance, the better. “Did Liz go see him?”
“Yes, at first. I don’t think she’s been in the last couple of months.”
In here, it was easier to pretend Kit was just another client. In here, there was no danger of running into the past they shared.
He followed her into the hallway, paused when she halted in front of an open closet that housed a washer and dryer. A laundry basket full of clothes jutted out, and Kit reached to move it out of the door’s path.
“Where does Liz work?”
“At a day-care center. It’s by the airport. We drive to work together sometimes.”
Rafe nodded, not sure how to define the strange heat that pushed under his ribs. Kit had become a woman he didn’t know; she had a life he knew nothing about.
“She’s had this job for more than two years, and I think she’s really getting her life together.”
Liz didn’t sound much different to him than she had when he’d known her ten years ago, but he said nothing. “What number was Tony? Which husband?”
Kit half-turned, eyeing him flatly.
“Number two, three, four?”
“Number three.” She flipped the tail of a shirt into the basket, then suddenly made a strangled sound. Her gaze shot to his.
“Kit?” He stepped toward her, concern spiraling through him. His gaze dropped to the basket then the shirt she fingered. At first he scanned for blood, something to explain why she’d gone so pale. Then he froze as he recognized the crimson-and-white basketball jersey.
His gaze locked on hers. Panic, disbelief, memory rippled across her features. Two bright spots of red crested her cheeks. His stomach flipped like it had the first time he’d taken up a fighter jet.
His thoughts wheeled back to the day after the Oklahoma University basketball team had made the NCAA playoffs. His college team hadn’t had practice that day; he had hoofed it back to the frat house, intending to shower and pick up Kit for supper. But she’d been waiting in his room, wearing his jersey—this jersey—and nothing else. Number twelve.
He swallowed hard, his gaze sliding over her before he could stop himself. Memories burst in his head like popping flashbulbs. The full curve of her breast peeking out from the deep-cut armhole of his jersey, the hem skimming the center of her smooth, bare thighs, the flush of shyness she’d never lost even though they’d been lovers for months.
That fast, he went hard. He could taste the sweet musk of her skin, smell his scent on her. His body quivered like a newly strung bow.
He sucked in a ragged breath, and his gaze went to hers. He saw the way her eyes darkened to purple, the pink that climbed her neck, the frantic tap of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. She remembered, too.
Every touch, every kiss, every whispered forever.
Her reaction only hollowed his gut, sheared the edge off any control he thought he possessed. Involuntarily, he stepped toward her. For one hellacious, gut-twisting instant he wanted to drag her to him, kiss her and prove to both of them that there was nothing left.