can be matched to the tox reports,” she cautioned, but the statement was automatic. She could barely restrain the wild leap of anticipation at the news, and impulsively reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “This could be big.”
He covered her hand with one of his, squeezed lightly. “Yeah, well, we’re due, right? I’ll have to be pushier than ever to get the lab to get at this right away, but . . .” He shrugged. “I can do pushy.”
“Don’t I know it.” Belatedly, she became aware that she was still touching him, and withdrew her hand, ignoring the lingering heat on her flesh. A wave of self-consciousness flooded her, and silence stretched, grew awkward.
Ryne relieved it by saying, “I’ll let you know if something else comes up. But right now I have to get back to headquarters.”
“Sure.” A measure of relief surged through her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Abbie watched him as he moved away, considered the fact that maybe she hadn’t changed as much as she thought over the years.
She’d been out of high school a dozen years and men like Ryne Robel still had her running in the opposite direction.
On the way home she dialed her sister’s number again, expecting, and receiving, her voice mail inviting the caller to leave a message. Abbie checked her rearview mirror as she spoke while backing out of the space. “It’s Abbie. I’d really like to talk to you, Callie. Can you call me back tomorrow?”
She hung up, strangely relieved not to have reached her. Callie hadn’t returned her messages for months, so nothing had changed, really. It was probably a stretch to believe her sister had gone from being incommunicado to following Abbie to Savannah. For the first time since she’d searched her house yesterday, she began to give real credence to the possibility that the break-in was exactly what she’d tried to convince the police of—an act of a vandal.
She turned at the light and headed toward her house on a street almost devoid of traffic. It was sad, but she’d find it infinitely preferable to handle a routine B&E than to deal with the unexpected appearance of her sister.
The smoke hung low over the pool tables, and music blasted from the aged jukebox in the corner. Callie Phillips raised her glass and the bartender obediently tipped another two fingers of cheap Tequila into it.
“Hey, baby.” The man plastered against her right side leaned down to bite her neck. “Your ass is ringing.”
She slapped his hand away when it would have reached for the cell phone clipped to the back waistband of her low-rise jeans. “Doesn’t matter. Everyone I want to talk to is right here.”
The man on her left slipped his hand into her tight bra top tank and cupped her breast. “And what if we’re tired of talking?”
She turned to look at him through alcohol-hazed eyes. She’d long since forgotten his name. Or that of the other man. Names didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered but the familiar hunger that was rising, that could only be put to rest one way. Well, any number of ways, actually. And she was betting that the two unshaven tattooed men who’d been buying her drinks all night would be only too willing to help in that area.
“We don’t have to talk, sugar.” He squeezed her breast roughly, and the pain made her catch her breath. Sent excitement humming through her veins. Yeah, these guys would do just fine.
A fight broke out at the pool table in back of them. The bartender leaped over the bar with a club and waded into the fray, swinging indiscriminately.
“Cops’ll be here in a few minutes.” This from the guy on her right. “Time to choose who you’re leaving with, baby. We gotta get out of here.”
A smile curved her lips as she dropped her hands to the crotch of each, squeezed suggestively. “No reason to choose, boys. I can handle both of you.”
She ignored their quick muttered discussion and slid off the bar stool, stretched, then walked toward the exit,
He covered her hand with one of his, squeezed lightly. “Yeah, well, we’re due, right? I’ll have to be pushier than ever to get the lab to get at this right away, but . . .” He shrugged. “I can do pushy.”
“Don’t I know it.” Belatedly, she became aware that she was still touching him, and withdrew her hand, ignoring the lingering heat on her flesh. A wave of self-consciousness flooded her, and silence stretched, grew awkward.
Ryne relieved it by saying, “I’ll let you know if something else comes up. But right now I have to get back to headquarters.”
“Sure.” A measure of relief surged through her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Abbie watched him as he moved away, considered the fact that maybe she hadn’t changed as much as she thought over the years.
She’d been out of high school a dozen years and men like Ryne Robel still had her running in the opposite direction.
On the way home she dialed her sister’s number again, expecting, and receiving, her voice mail inviting the caller to leave a message. Abbie checked her rearview mirror as she spoke while backing out of the space. “It’s Abbie. I’d really like to talk to you, Callie. Can you call me back tomorrow?”
She hung up, strangely relieved not to have reached her. Callie hadn’t returned her messages for months, so nothing had changed, really. It was probably a stretch to believe her sister had gone from being incommunicado to following Abbie to Savannah. For the first time since she’d searched her house yesterday, she began to give real credence to the possibility that the break-in was exactly what she’d tried to convince the police of—an act of a vandal.
She turned at the light and headed toward her house on a street almost devoid of traffic. It was sad, but she’d find it infinitely preferable to handle a routine B&E than to deal with the unexpected appearance of her sister.
The smoke hung low over the pool tables, and music blasted from the aged jukebox in the corner. Callie Phillips raised her glass and the bartender obediently tipped another two fingers of cheap Tequila into it.
“Hey, baby.” The man plastered against her right side leaned down to bite her neck. “Your ass is ringing.”
She slapped his hand away when it would have reached for the cell phone clipped to the back waistband of her low-rise jeans. “Doesn’t matter. Everyone I want to talk to is right here.”
The man on her left slipped his hand into her tight bra top tank and cupped her breast. “And what if we’re tired of talking?”
She turned to look at him through alcohol-hazed eyes. She’d long since forgotten his name. Or that of the other man. Names didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered but the familiar hunger that was rising, that could only be put to rest one way. Well, any number of ways, actually. And she was betting that the two unshaven tattooed men who’d been buying her drinks all night would be only too willing to help in that area.
“We don’t have to talk, sugar.” He squeezed her breast roughly, and the pain made her catch her breath. Sent excitement humming through her veins. Yeah, these guys would do just fine.
A fight broke out at the pool table in back of them. The bartender leaped over the bar with a club and waded into the fray, swinging indiscriminately.
“Cops’ll be here in a few minutes.” This from the guy on her right. “Time to choose who you’re leaving with, baby. We gotta get out of here.”
A smile curved her lips as she dropped her hands to the crotch of each, squeezed suggestively. “No reason to choose, boys. I can handle both of you.”
She ignored their quick muttered discussion and slid off the bar stool, stretched, then walked toward the exit,
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