Page 66 of Lock ’N’ Load

“N-no.”

Again, he detected a faint note of deception, and it wasn’t because she’d stammered her response. “You sure?” When she nodded, he hustled her out the front door, pausing to wipe the knob clean of his fingerprints with the hem of his shirt, then shutting the door behind them.

As they walked briskly to his truck, Hentz was nowhere in sight. After settling Sheba in the back, he opened the passenger door for Trista, then went around to his side and got in. Ten blocks away, he grabbed the burner phone from where Trista had dropped it in the console. He punched in 911, reported a disturbance—shouting—at Thomas George’s address, then hung up without giving his name.

“Do you really believe Hentz didn’t kill that reporter?” she asked.

He stared out the windshield for a moment, silently recounting everything Hentz had said and done. “I don’t know for sure, but my gut says he’s telling the truth.” Too bad they waited so long to check on the guy. Then he pulled over onto the side of the road and held out his hand.

She raised her brows. “What?”

He let out an impatient breath. “I know you swiped something back there. Hand it over.”

“How do you know that?” She crossed her arms, twisting on the seat to face him.

“I’m coming to know every expression on your beautiful face. I know when you’re lying, and you were definitely lying to Hentz.”

Her jaw dropped, and she looked at him with something akin to shock. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Very.” He leaned in close, feathering his lips over hers. “You take my breath away.” And he meant it. He took her mouth in a deep, wet kiss that lasted several long, sweet minutes. Then he reached behind her and tugged out a small external hard drive with a short USB cable that she’d tucked into the small of her back. “Where was it?”

She uttered an adorable little huff that made him want to start kissing her all over again, then to lay her out on the bench seat and strip off her clothes. Christ, he was hard as a rock.

“Taped to the underside of the big desk drawer.”

“So you did touch something in the house.” Shit.

“Worrywart.” She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t leave any fingerprints behind. Even when I went outside to puke, the door was still unlatched. All I had to do was shove it open with my forearm.” Her eyes lit with excitement. “I hope you don’t mind, but I grabbed your laptop and packed it in my bag. As soon as we get to the hotel, we can see what’s on this little baby.”

He should have known she wouldn’t go anywhere without a computer. Truth was, he was happy she’d brought one. He was just as eager to discover what was on that hard drive as she was.

Matt looked in the side-view mirror, then pulled back onto the road. He had just broken so many rules of police procedure he’d lost count. But losing his job was the least of his worries. He could be charged with all kinds of shit. Tampering with a crime scene. Stealing evidence. Leaving the scene of a crime—a homicide, no less. The list went on and on.

What he ought to do was haul ass back to George’s house to wait for the police and return the evidence, but the shit going down around Trista stank to high heaven, and it was getting deeper by the second. Keeping her off-radar was paramount. He didn’t know where any of this was going, but the more time he spent with her, the more he understood one thing with unerring certainty.

For her, he’d do just about anything.

Chapter Nineteen

Trista tugged the thick robe around her silk nightie and got under the covers. The digital clock on the hotel’s bedside table read nine p.m., and she was exhausted, yet sleep wouldn’t come. Images of Thomas George’s dead body kept flashing in her mind, making her tremble with anxiety. Focus on something else. Anything else.

An hour after leaving the reporter’s house, they’d stopped at a deli for sandwiches, although she hadn’t been able to eat much. Every time she’d taken a bite, her stomach roiled. Seeing a dead guy had totally taken away her appetite.

Before pulling in to a hotel, they’d found a dog park so Sheba could stretch her legs and do her stuff. Watching the K-9 interact with civilian dogs had been amusing and a welcome distraction from the ugliness of what she’d just seen. Sheba pranced, cavorted, and chased the other dogs as if she were a small child, leaving Trista wondering if the other dogs knew they were playing with a cop.

Despite the humorous thought, she doubted she’d ever forget that blank, dead stare in the reporter’s eyes.

Giving up on sleep, Trista pulled Matt’s laptop from the overnight bag he’d lent her, then lay back against the plush bed pillows, powered it up, and inserted the USB plug for the external hard drive she’d borrowed. As the icons began appearing on the screen, the shower in the bathroom came on, and she tried not to think about the pounding spray dribbling down Matt’s bare shoulders and back, or his ripped abdomen. She swallowed, imagining where that trickling water would go as it headed south below his waist.

The TV droning on about the upcoming presidential election just over a month away was a welcome diversion from her wayward thoughts. A reporter detailed the many interviews and festivities both candidates would be attending, probably many of the events Matt’s friends were detailed to for added security.

The bed started to shake as Sheba rested her head on the edge of the mattress, wagging her tail as she stared directly into Trista’s eyes. She patted the dog’s head, then clicked open the hard drive. Still the bed shook, and she looked down to see Sheba wagging her tail more forcefully, her entire body wriggling. She could no more ignore the dog’s obvious plea than she could drive by a wholesale computer outlet store without stopping.

She patted the mattress once, and Sheba leaped effortlessly onto the bed with the grace and agility of a wolf crossed with a ballerina. After making three tight turns, the dog snuggled against her side with a satisfied hmpf.

At first, she’d been taken aback when Matt had gotten one room for both of them, insisting that it was the only way he could keep her safe. But as he’d grabbed their overnight bags and made a beeline for the shower, something warm and tingly settled deep inside her. With both Matt and Sheba on her side, she’d never felt more protected. Or cared for.

With one forearm resting on the dog’s back, she began clicking open file after file with the same irritating result. Password-protected file. Enter password.