Hot and Haunted (13 page)

Chapter Five

M
IRANDA AWOKE WRAPPED
in a sleeping bag, alone, in front of a dying fire. A grey light was visible through the shades, but that could be anything. She wondered if the snow had stopped.

“Aden?” she called out.

Getting no reply, she peeled herself out of the sleeping bag and was instantly startled by the cold. She found her duffel and struggled into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Walking into the kitchen, she splashed cold water on her face from the faucet. The frigid water was a shock to her system, but Miranda needed it to clear the cobwebs out of her sleepy brain.

She peered out the front door, but what she saw there made her slam the door closed with her heart pounding in her throat. Her stomach churned, and Miranda thought for sure that she was just going to go ahead and puke her heart up from where it lodged in her throat.

In the deep snowdrifts were several trails where someone or something had waded through right up to their door. In some places the drifts would have been chest high on Miranda, and this happened after she and Aden had taken shelter. Because when they’d come to the house, it had only been up to her knees. Something had followed them.

And there, on steps that had been cleared, in an inch of recently accumulated snowfall were the biggest wolf tracks she’d ever seen. Bigger than a man’s foot—and there were only two of them.

As if it were bipedal. Like a werewolf.

There had to be a reasonable explanation. Some fathomable, sensible reason that didn’t twist her worldview in on itself. She was a rational woman. Miranda lived in a world of science and proof the law could define. This case had gotten under her skin, as she knew it would in the beginning. These stupid thoughts were only a side effect of getting into Dean Harvey Webster’s head.

But where the fuck was Aden?

The door swung open, and she yelped, diving for her bag and 9mm. She was on her back sliding across the floor, her gun aimed and ready to shoot the intruder in the head, when she realized it was Aden.

His arms were full of wood for the fire. “Whoa, I come in peace.”

She relaxed, dropping her gun and her head against the polished hardwood floor. “Jesus, don’t do that.”

“Me?” he snorted, stacking the firewood and adding some to the fire.

“Did you see the animal tracks?” Miranda asked without looking up at him. “They looked like a wolf’s.”

“I think it was a bear. In this area, they know smoke and fire means humans, food, and warmth.”

“Bears walk on all fours.”

“Bears have been known to stand upright to get something they want, or to fight. That would explain the prints. Bears are closely related to dogs. It’s why you’d think it was an oversized wolf print.”

A bear. Made perfect sense. Especially with the security measures in place. “What about those tracks through the drifts?”

“That was me. I was trying to see how fucked we are.”

“Yeah? How fucked are we?” This time Miranda sat up.

He shrugged. “Fucked. The Expedition is buried in drifts. I couldn’t get anyone on my phone. Cell service is out.”

“Maybe there’s an emergency radio around here somewhere? And some food; I’m starving.”

“There are Twinkies in the cupboard above the sink.”

“Twinkies?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “Isn’t there anything else?”

“How are you at cooking over a fire?”

“I don’t cook with a microwave, let alone in a cauldron over a fire like some wicked witch.”

“Me either, and cold spam doesn’t sound appetizing.”

“I’m surprised at how warm it is in here.” She crawled up onto the couch, wrapping the sleeping bag around her feet, an action at odds with her statement.

“Some people use the fireplace or even a cookstove to warm their homes here.” Aden built the fire bigger. “So it’s probably built in such a way to do just that.”

“How do you know that?”

“My grandmother lived on Lake Homme Dieu, not too far from here. She used a cookstove.” He sat down next to her on the couch, pulling his boots off. “Now come here, woman. I’m freezing my ass off.”

She slid into his arms easily, enjoying the way he felt wrapped around her. “Yeah, you better stick those little piggies in front of the fire before you try to tuck them under this blanket. I have a 9mm and I know how to use it,” she teased.

Piggies. Little Piggies
. Little pig, little pig . . .
Miranda pushed the thought out of her head. His hand slid up under the blanket, testing her resolve.

“You’ve got a hard heart, Marshal Garrick.”

“Don’t you forget it, Agent Brewster.”

Another chorus of howls began, the sound cutting straight through her flesh into her bones. She didn’t realize she’d thrown herself into his lap until he laughed and held her closer.

“City girl.”

“You bet your sweet ass,” she agreed readily. “God, I feel like I’m in some stupid horror movie.”

“Well don’t worry. I’m not going to say I’ll be right back if I go outside to check on a noise.”

“Why would you need to go outside to check a noise? Look at the size of that dead bolt, and the guns are in here. Problem solved.”

“You have way too many clothes on to be discussing horror flicks.” He tugged at the hem of her shirt underneath the blanket.

“The big-breasted chick always dies. I’m keeping the girls covered.”

“You’ve already had sex, so you die anyway. Didn’t you watch
Scream
?” He cupped her breasts. “Might as well let me enjoy the time
I
have left.”

“Nice,” she drawled.

“You know I wouldn’t let anything get you,” Aden said as he peeled the blanket away from her. “Besides. Anything out there not afraid of me would definitely be afraid of you. You’re a scary bitch, Red.”

She let the nickname slide; Miranda wasn’t at all positive she’d heard him correctly anyway, and his hands were doing the most delicious things to her tits. Her eyes had narrowed to slits as she watched him dip his head to the pink peak he’d bared.

He still had his hat on.

Under any other circumstances, that might have been funny. But not here, not now.

Because with all of his pretty dark hair disguised by the hat, he looked a lot like the pictures of Dean Harvey Webster.

She froze under his touch, her body stiff and unresponsive.

Dear fucking Christ, it couldn’t be. Dean Harvey Webster kept his head shaved, he had thick eyebrows that met in the middle—and yet, she tried to protect herself from the impact of finishing that thought.

She could never unthink it.

It would always be there, waiting to pounce on her like a giant brown recluse.

“What’s wrong, Red?”

“Don’t call me that,” she growled through gritted teeth.

“Why don’t you like it? It’s so apt. And it’s not just your hair. It’s your fire, your temper . . .” He laughed.

Dean Harvey Webster. Dean Harvey Webster . . . the name repeated itself over and over in her head in a damning litany. And the thought that she’d refused to acknowledge stood up and shook the foundations of her world. Aden Brewster. Dean Webster. Practically anagrams. She’d bet her life on the fact they were if she found out Aden’s middle name, but she couldn’t ask him because then he’d know she’d put it together.

She’d never actually inspected his credentials. He’d seemed to know right where to look for the method of escape, but he’d been content to point and hint until she found it, when she’d been about to step off the ledge. It wasn’t preternatural sight he had; he was just familiar with the setting. Why Jimmy Bancroft had submitted when he came on the scene.

It was how he knew these cottages were here.

Because he’d been here before.

Occam’s razor said the simplest explanation was the best. Which was more likely? The various and sundry reasons why he knew things he shouldn’t? His penchant for calling her Red? Or the one reason that explained everything—that he was the serial killer she hunted, and he was right under her goddamn nose laughing at her?

Those glorious hands of his that wrought such pleasure from her body, that played her senses like a well-tuned instrument, they were covered in blood. The mouth that had kissed her had tasted—she almost vomited.

She choked back her bile. Miranda couldn’t let him know that she was on to him or he’d kill her. Fuck, she wondered what he’d done while she slept in his arms.

“I just don’t,” she answered finally. “Every scumbag on both sides of the bars thinks it’s cute.”

“I wonder how long it would take to make you like it.” Aden pushed her back onto the couch, his knee between her thighs.

Miranda let him, God help her, she let him. She could lie to herself and say that she had to play along so he wouldn’t notice the change in her and wonder what had brought it about. That it was some kind of defense mechanism, but it wasn’t.

She still wanted him. Wanted his hands on her, his mouth, his tongue. His cock. It made her sick, but heat flared in her belly in expectation of the pleasure to come.

“I despise it, and even if you call me that every time you make me come, I’ll still hate it.”

“You know I love a challenge.” Aden kissed her neck, grazed his teeth over the delicate pulse in her throat, and she shivered with both fear and desire.

“It’s not a challenge,” she reiterated, but doubted he took her seriously because she pulled him down to her even as she spoke.

“I can’t wait to hear you scream for me again,” he growled, his breath hot against her ear.

Anticipation knotted around the desire, threading it with fear. A million sharp replies about it being his turn to scream for her were on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t make herself say them. She couldn’t make herself say anything.

Not even stop.

She didn’t want to. Miranda was trapped with him, and everything he did to her felt so fucking good. She was safe for now, he wasn’t done playing with her—and then when she walked away from this with him in chains, she could say she didn’t know. He fooled her the way he’d fooled everyone else.

She writhed beneath him and found her voice. “So make me scream, Aden.”

“You have such a wicked little mouth on you.”

“All the better to suck you with.” He groaned, and she reached between them to grasp his cock through his pants, teasing the hard ridge with light fingers.

“That won’t make
you
scream, Miranda. Or make that breathy little sound of pleasure. Or that frustrated growl when I’ve got you so fucking close you can taste it but are stopped just shy of the edge.”

“How do you know it won’t? How do you know I don’t fantasize about being on my knees in front of you with my hand working my pussy while I suck your cock?” She licked her lips to punctuate how much the idea appealed to her. Miranda didn’t like how easily her body responded to him, the power he had over her that just his words made her so wet for him. With only a few syllables, he’d whipped her desire so hot it burned her from the inside out. With her mouth on his cock, she’d control the encounter and all the things that elicited the same storms inside him.

He kissed her neck, softly at first, nosing the tender skin there before biting her gently, swirling his tongue over the flesh he held between her teeth. The pressure of his jaws clamped around her throat made her dizzy, and she arched up into his bite, digging her nails into the rippling musculature of his back in response.

When he released her, the throb there pulsed in time with her heartbeat and the steady thrum of need between her thighs.

“I marked you, Miranda.” He rubbed his erection against her mound, and she pistoned her hips up to meet him. They were dry fucking like two teenagers at a make-out party. Although, she wasn’t dry, she was slick, wet, and ready for him. Even knowing who he was, what he was.

It felt too damn good. She wasn’t about to be outdone. Miranda closed her teeth around his carotid and applied a measured amount of pressure. “Now, I’ve marked you, too.”

“You’re so fierce.”

He had no idea. As soon as she knew she could call backup, she was going to cuff him. For all she knew, what he’d said about not getting any cell service was a lie.

“And you’re distracted.” He pulled back from her. “Last night, I was the only thing in the universe and now . . . so what’s going on?”

She decided to go with a portion of the truth. “Dean Harvey Webster.”

“Aden’s fucking you, not Dean. Think about Dean when he’s fucking you, sweetheart.”

In that moment, Miranda was completely and utterly grateful for whatever mechanism was inside of her that allowed her to moderate her body’s response to stimuli. His tone had been teasing, but remembering Webster’s diagnosis of schizophrenia, she wondered if it really was Aden fucking her right now—if he meant every word of that sentence.

Suddenly, the shrill sound of her phone’s ringing split the silence, but it only ramped up the tension between them. Both of them turned their heads toward her bag. He’d said there was no cell service. It was possible crews had gotten service restored, but with the storm, it was highly unlikely. Yet, if he’d lied, why hadn’t he turned off her cell or destroyed it? It didn’t make sense.

“Looks like service has been restored. Ignore it. There’s nothing we can do right now that won’t keep until just a little later.”

Miranda wanted to make a dash for it, but right now, the playing field was still even. There had been no accusations, and she hadn’t tipped her hand. He was physically stronger than she was, and she knew she’d have to use subterfuge to maneuver him where she wanted him. Keeping the façade in place for a little longer was to her advantage.

“Just for a little while,” she agreed.

He kissed her, his tongue mating with hers. She kept thinking he’d taste different, like death, but that was stupid. No matter what he was, what he’d done, he was still a man with the same parts and pieces as the rest of them.

No, that was a lie. There was something missing in him, something broken that made him this way. Made him a killer.

There was something broken in her too that she wanted him to fuck her, but Miranda decided she wouldn’t chastise herself as long as she did her job. It didn’t matter what went on in her head as long as she came through in the end.