“Like I could forget,” Jack muttered. “I don’t like the idea of stashing you anywhere, but it’s the only logical thing to do. Some motels take pets; I’ll call the local Triple A and find one.”
“I don’t have any clothes with me,” she pointed out. “Or books.”
“I’ll send someone by your house to pack some things for you.”
She thought about that. “Send Todd. He’ll know what to get.”
“I told you, Todd isn’t gay.”
“That doesn’t matter. He knows what separates go together, and what makeup to bring.”
“Eva Fay—”
“Todd.”
“All right,” he said under his breath. “I’ll send Todd.”
In the end, he didn’t have to call Triple A to locate a motel that accepted pets; they drove by a new place that had just been built off 1-565, pulled in, and checked, and it did have two rooms allocated for people with small pets. Both rooms were empty at the time, so Jack chose the one that faced the rear. He checked her in under a false name—she was now Julia Patrick, he informed her when he got back into the car and drove around the building to her assigned room.
He unlocked the door and carried in Midas’s things while Daisy let the puppy investigate a patch of grass and chase a butterfly. He was too young to do much chasing; after a few minutes, he flopped on his belly to rest. The heat was almost searing, too hot to let him play outside without any shade to shelter him. She carried him inside the blessedly cool room and gave him some water, and with a tired sigh he settled down on his blanket.
“I’ll be back tonight with your things,” Jack said. “I don’t know what time, but I’ll call first. Don’t open the door to anyone except me.”
She sat down on the king-size bed. “All right.” She wouldn’t beg him to stay, though she wanted to. She had been leaning on those strong shoulders all day long, she realized, letting him handle everything. Of course, murder was his field of expertise, so to speak; he knew exactly what to do.
She wanted to ask him how long she’d have to stay here, but that was a silly question: he had no real idea. Morrison might locate Lemmons and Calvin right away, or the two might have left town. They might locate Sykes, or they might not. Jennifer Nolan’s testimony might be reliable, but everyone in town knew she was an alcoholic; if she’d been drinking this morning, that had to call her statement into question. Everything was up in the air.
Jack had been a rock, Daisy knew she would have managed without him, but it had been nice to have him planning the course of action, taking care of her family, even keeping Midas occupied while she looked through the mountain of mug shots.
He sat down beside her and put his arm around her, hugging her close to his side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m still feeling a little stunned,” she admitted. “This is so . . . unreal. I watched a man die, and I didn’t even realize.”
“You don’t expect to see a murder. Unless there’s a shot or a big fight, most people wouldn’t notice. It’s too far outside their experience.” He tilted her chin up and kissed her. “I’m glad it was outside your experience,” he murmured.
Until he kissed her, she hadn’t realized how much she had been craving him, his taste and touch, the hot male scent. She put her arms around his neck and whispered, “Don’t go just yet.”
“I need to,” he said, but he didn’t get up from the bed. Instead his arm tightened about her and his other hand slid down to her breasts, stroking over them before beginning to unbutton her blouse. Daisy closed her eyes as bliss began unfurling inside her, made all the stronger by the stress of the day. For a little while, so long as he touched her, she could forget and relax.
She tugged his T-shirt free and slid her hands under it, flattening her palms against the heavy muscles of his back.
“All right, you convinced me,” he said, shucking the shirt off over his head and standing to unfasten his belt. Jeans, underwear, socks, and shoes came off in one rough motion, and he left them on the floor, tumbling to the big bed and taking her with him. Her sandals dropped to the carpet. He wrestled her out of her blouse and bra, tossing both garments toward the dresser on the other side of the room.
He pressed kisses to her stomach as he unzipped her denim skirt and peeled it down, then trailed up to her breasts and sucked her nipples until they were hard and flushed with color, sticking out like raspberries. She felt dizzy, but was ravenous for more. She couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t satisfy the urge to touch him, because every texture made her want more.
“It’s my turn,” she said, pushing on his shoulders.
He obediently rolled over onto his back and covered his eyes with a forearm. “This is going to kill me,” he muttered.
“Maybe not.”
Thoroughly delighted with this opportunity, she cupped his testicles in both hands, feeling the weight and softness of his scrotum, the hardness within. She buried her face against him, inhaling the musty scent, darting her tongue out to taste. His penis jerked against her cheek, enticing her, so she turned her head and took him in.
He groaned and his hands fisted in the bedspread.
She had no mercy, not that he asked for any. She tasted and licked and stroked until his powerful body was drawn like a bow, arching on the bed. Then she stopped, sat back, and said, “I think that’s enough.”
An almost inhuman sound rumbled in his chest and he jackknifed, grabbing her and twisting and coming down on top of her. She laughed as he fiercely stripped her panties down and pushed her legs apart, settling between them and positioning himself for the strong, single thrust that took him to the hilt and changed her laughter to a groan. She drew her legs up, clasping them around his hips, trying to contain both the depth of his strokes and the wildness of her response. She wanted to savor every moment, not rush headlong into climax, but already she could feel the tension building.