Smoky Ridge Curse. Paula Graves

and covered his hand. “We’re going to get you back there again.”

      He turned his hand over, palm up, and closed his fingers around hers. His hand was hot, the skin of his palm a little rough, reminding her that he’d always been a man who liked working with his hands, even when he was stuck behind a desk. He’d worked with wood, building things like cabinets, tables and, once, for her birthday, a remarkably intricate teakwood jewelry box. She still had it, sitting in a storage unit back in Maybridge, where she’d put most of the stuff from her apartment before moving into this rental house in Bitterwood.

      She wondered if she’d left so many things back in Alabama as a safety net, in case coming back here to Bitterwood didn’t work out.

      “What are you thinking?” he asked in a half whisper that sent a delicious shiver up her spine. She’d always liked his voice, the deep timbre and the leftover hint of coastal Georgia that his years in D.C. hadn’t been able to obliterate.

      “Just wondering if you still do that woodworking you used to do.”

      “Not at the moment,” he said with a lopsided quirk of his mouth. His voice lowered a notch. “But you don’t forget how to work with your hands.”

      Another tremor of sexual awareness rocketed through her, transporting her mind back eight years to a night in a tiny mountain bed-and-breakfast in West Virginia. It had been snowy that night, too, and their case had ended that afternoon with a successful arrest. The storm had delayed their flight, forcing them to stay one more night at the inn.

      What happened that night had changed her life in so many ways.

      She pulled her hand from his and rose, pacing away from the table. “I need to call my mother, see how she’s getting on. Why don’t you go look through my closet? I may have some oversize sweatshirts in there.”

      He stood, cocking his head thoughtfully. “Leftovers from old boyfriends?”

      “Leftovers,” she said simply, leaving it at that.

      He took a deep, sharp breath through his nose and walked past her out of the kitchen, his shoulder brushing against hers.

      She let out a breath and pressed her head against the kitchen wall, hating how rattled and on edge she felt when he was around.

      Hating it—and craving it.

      PURGATORY BRIDGE, STANDING thirty feet above Bitterwood Creek, was one of the only remaining truss bridges in the county, and it had seen better days even when Delilah had been a child, crossing it daily on her walk from Smoky Ridge to school. She’d walked across the span more times than she could remember, but she still felt a little flutter in her belly as the Camaro hit the bridge, wondering if this would be the time the whole thing would come crashing down into the gorge.

      But they made it safely across, and Brand said, “It’s just over there.” He waved his hand toward a narrow path leading into the woods from the road, and Delilah parked the Camaro well off the road, mindful of the bright neon lights of Smoky Joe’s Tavern about fifty yards down Old Purgatory Road. Even on a Monday night, the bar’s parking lot was nearly full, and anyone could drive by at any time, spot the Camaro and stop to see what was going on.

      “We need to hurry,” she whispered as she followed him into the woods.

      “It’s near a fallen tree.” His eyes narrowed as he peered into the gloom. “It was right over—” He pitched forward suddenly and fell to the ground.

      “Brand!” Barely avoiding tripping over him, Delilah crouched beside him as he tried to regain his feet. He groaned as her hand brushed against his injured side. “Sorry!”