Page 87 of Velvet Vaughn

Chapter Eighteen

Anja woke before sunrise, tangled in sheets that weren’t hers, with Leo’s good arm curled loosely around her shoulders. For a few seconds she let herself breathe him in.

Leo stirred beneath her, his hand trailing down her spine. “Morning.”

She propped herself up on an elbow to look at him, and he smiled sleepily.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m cataloging. There’s a difference.” She traced a slow finger along his jaw. “Making sure all the pieces are still where I left them.”

“They are.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, his eyes darkening in a way she recognized. Then he shifted closer and drew her against him with his good arm. “Come here.”

“Leo.” She planted a hand flat against his chest before he could close the last inch of distance between them. “Your arm—”

“Is fine,” he interrupted.

“You have stitches from a gunshot wound.” She held her ground even as his mouth found the curve of her neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against her skin. It took more discipline than she wanted to admit not to give in. “If you tear those open because you couldn’t control your sex drive, Remi is going to sew you back up with considerably less sympathy than he showed you the first time.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“I won’t.” Her voice cracked despite her best efforts to keep it level. “I keep seeing it. The second before you went down behind that wall, when I didn’t know yet if it was your arm or worse. I need a minute where I’m not asking you to move fast or bleed carefully. Just this.” She rested her head back against his chest, over the reassuring drum of his heart, and felt his good arm tighten around her. “Let me hold you. That’s all I want this morning.”

He didn’t argue. His hand found her hair instead, fingers combing slowly through it. The early light gathered at the edges of the curtains while the house held its breath around them.

It was Anja who reluctantly spoke first. “We should get up before Remi decides we’ve overslept and starts pounding on doors.”

“Five more minutes.”

She pressed a kiss to his sternum and made herself sit up and reach for the shirt draped over the footboard.

By the time they made it downstairs, something electronic was humming in the office down the hall. Remi stood in the doorway, a mug in one hand and an expression that stopped Anja halfway across the kitchen.

“There you are.” He set the mug down. “I was about to come drag you both out of bed. You need to see this.”

“See what?” Leo asked.

“Tyler’s overnight delivery showed up around five. I signed for it so neither of you had to peel yourselves out of bed.” Remi fought a grin, letting her know he knew they’d slept together. Again. “After I set it up, I was doing some research and stumbled onto something.”

“You did?” Anja moved down the hallway, coffee forgotten.

“I think I found our guy.” Remi followed her in, Leo close behind, and dropped into the chair in front of the monitor. “For the heck of it, I culled every red-light and speed camera within a two-mile radius of the hotel in Kansas City where Vic Shaw supposedly committed suicide. Most municipalities archive that footage for citations, and it sits in a database somewhere, waiting for somebody patient enough to go looking.”

Remi’s fingers moved across the keyboard, and a grainy image filled the screen, timestamped in the corner. “This one’s from an intersection four blocks from the hotel. It caught a car running the light at 11:40 that night. The system flags it automatically and snaps a photo of the driver for the citation.”

Anja leaned in to study the image. The photo caught a man behind the wheel, mid-glance toward the rearview mirror. He was dressed in black, his face lit harshly and unflatteringly by the flash. His eyes were wide, his mouth firm, an expression that had nothing to do with getting caught running a light and everything to do with something far worse.

“Same night Vic died.” Remi let that sit for a beat. “Same four-block radius as the hotel where they found him. He looks pretty damn guilty to me.”

Leo stiffened beside her.

“That’s Brad.” The words emerged as a croak, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s Brad Hatton.”

“You’re sure? It’s not a great photo.”

“I’d recognize that face anywhere.” Leo’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the color draining slowly from his face as the implication hit him. “Son of a bitch. He told everyone at the wake that Vic’s death didn’t sit right with him. He stood right there in that courtyard talking about how it made little sense.”

“Misdirection,” Anja murmured. “Or guilt dressed up as concern so nobody would look twice.”