His hand slid up under the hem of Delilahâs jacket and crept beneath her thermal sweater until his cool fingers traced over the hot skin of her waist. âKiss me.â
She lowered her mouth to his slowly, her heart pounding. His lips were warm and dry, soft at first, but hardening as her mouth met his. She threaded her fingers through his dark hair, slanting his head so that their mouths fit together more completely.
Kissing him still felt like sin and salvation, contradictory and irresistible. She knew she couldnât let herself want him, but she was powerless to resist the pull of attraction. Nothingânot their present danger or their past betrayalsâcould stem the tide of her desireâ¦
Winter had come to Bitterwood, Tennessee, roaring in on a cold, damp wind that poured down the mountain passes and shook the remnants of browning leaves from the sugar maples, sweet gums and dogwoods growing at the middle elevations. Delilah Hammond remembered well from childhood the sharp bite of an Appalachian November and dressed warmly when she headed up the winding mountain road to her motherâs place on Smoky Ridge.
Reesa Hammond was on day three of her latest hop on the sobriety wagon, and withdrawal had hit her hard, killing her appetite and leaving her shaking, angry and suffering from a persistent headache no amount of ibuprofen seemed to relieve. Frankly, Delilah was surprised her mother had bothered trying to stop drinking at all at this point, since her previous eight attempts at sobriety had all ended the same way, five fingers deep in a bottle of Jack Danielâs whiskey.
Delilah didnât kid herself that this time Reesa would win the battle with the bottle. But Reesa had taken a hell of a lot of abuse trying to protect Delilah and her brother, Seth, from their sick creep of a sperm donor, so a little barley soup and a few minutes of company wasnât too much to offer, was it?
Her cell phone beeped as she turned her Camaro into a tight curve. She waited until the road straightened to answer, aware of how dangerous the mountain roads could be, especially at night with rain starting to mix with sleet. âHammond.â
âJust checking to make sure you hadnât changed your mind.â The gruff voice on the other end of the line belonged to a former leatherneck named Jesse Cooper, the man whoâd been her boss for the past few years, until sheâd given her notice two weeks earlier.
âI havenât,â she answered, tamping down the doubts that had harassed her ever since sheâd quit the best job sheâd ever had.
âYouâre overqualified.â
âI know.â
âYouâre no good at small-town politics.â
âI know that, too.â
âYou should have held out for chief of police, at least.â
She grinned at that. âTalk about small-town politics.â
âI can keep the job open for a month or two, but thatâs it. Our caseloadâs growing, and I canât afford to work shorthanded.â
âI know. I appreciate the vote of confidence in me, but Iâm ready for a change.â She tried not to dwell on just how drastic a change sheâd made in the past two weeks. Going from a global security and threat assessment firm to a detective on one of Tennesseeâs tiniest police forces was turning out to be a shock to the system even she hadnât anticipated.
She still wasnât sure why, exactly, sheâd decided to stick around Bitterwood, Tennessee, after so many years away. She only knew that a few weeks ago, when the time had come to go back to work in Alabama after an extended assignment in her old hometown, her feet had planted firmly in the rocky Tennessee soil and refused to budge. Sheâd returned to Maybridge just long enough to work out her two-week notice, talk her landlord into letting her break her long-term lease and gather up her sparse belongings. Two days ago, sheâd moved into a rental house off Vesper Road at the foot of Smoky Ridge. In a week, sheâd start her new job with the Bitterwood Police Department.
âI donât suppose youâve heard anything else about Adam Brand?â she added as the silence between her and her former boss lingered past comfort.
âNothing yet. We have feelers out. I know youâre worried.â
âNot worried,â she denied, though it was a lie. âMore confused than anything. Going AWOL is not an Adam Brand kind of thing to do. And thereâs no way in hell heâs a traitor to this country. Itâs not in his DNA.â