he added hastily.
Huh. Who’d have thought swaggering, leather-clad Sammie Jo had a vulnerable underbelly? Intrigued, he climbed into the Bronco without protesting her opening her own door.
“Okay. So you’re Luke’s friend and I’m your …”
“Fiancé,” she filled in promptly.
The wave of pain that slammed into him was so bad it took his breath away. He’d tried over the years to avoid the pain, to ignore it. But he’d learned the only way to survive it was to go straight into the fire, to experience the hellish agony of it head-on. He took a deep breath and let it wash over him. A person would think that, after five years, it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Granted, the waves didn’t slam into him as often now, nor bury him so deep. But they still hurt just as much.
When the worst of it had passed, he glanced over at his companion. She wanted to pose as his fiancée and not just a girlfriend, huh? Interesting. It suggested a level of intimacy that would take their cover story to a whole different place. He ought to be game to go there. He ought to be all for it, in fact. Those curves of hers practically begged to be touched.
Then the larger problem hit him. “How on earth are we going to explain your—” He broke off.
“Reptilian eyes?” she supplied wryly.
“They don’t look reptilian,” he retorted indignantly. “Insectoid, maybe, but not reptilian.”
Thankfully, he’d judged her correctly. She laughed at the remark. “Seriously,” he continued. “We can’t waltz into the police station with your eyes exposed. And at this time of night, they’ll think you’re stoned if you wear sunglasses the whole time.”
That made her giggle. She had a great laugh. “I’ve got it covered, Sparky. I wear brown contact lenses in public.”
“All right, then. You’re not an alien, and we’re getting married. Have we set a date?”
“I doubt the police will ask, but no. We’re trying to figure out where to live first,” she answered thoughtfully. “Are we considering moving to the NRQZ?”
He liked that idea. It would give them an excuse to poke around the local area openly. “Can you pull off a back-to-nature hippie persona?” he asked her.
“I can be anything you want me to be, big guy,” she answered flippantly.
For some reason, the comment set his teeth on edge. “How about you just be yourself with me? I don’t need or want pretense from my women.”
She looked shocked and fell silent as he guided the car to the Spruce Hollow gas station and its no-kidding, working pay phone. He mentally kicked himself for making that “my women” comment. No sense in leading the poor girl on.
He dialed the number of the police placarded on the side of the pay phone and reported Luke’s death. He was not surprised when he was ordered to stay right where he was and wait for a deputy to come meet them.
The remainder of the night went predictably. He and Sammie Jo described arriving at the cabin to find their “friend” gone and his dog bloody. They gave detailed instructions to the sheriff as to where to find Luke’s body. They followed a deputy back to the sheriff’s office in the Bronco and were ordered to come inside and make statements.
Fido had arrived at the police station to be held as evidence until a forensic pathologist from Charleston could come down and collect the dog to examine. He could be seen jumping around inside playing with a deputy, already on his way to being spoiled rotten. As Gray stared at the well-lit building, he glanced over at Sammie Jo in concern. She was in the middle of putting contact lenses in her eyes. “Are you going to be okay in there? It’s pretty bright.”
“Artificial light isn’t as bad as sunlight. I’ll survive. Gemma had these contacts specially made for me. They act like miniature sunglasses. I just can’t wear them for more than a few hours at a time.”
When they stepped inside, he rather missed the odd, but uniquely Sammie Jo, gold color of her eyes. In spite of the lenses, she squinted heavily and looked like she was in pain as they were seated at desks, pads of paper and pens shoved in front of them, and told to write down their statements.
He had a hard time concentrating on his because a deputy spent the whole damned time hitting on Sammie Jo. She rebuffed him steadily, but the guy just wouldn’t catch a clue. By the time Gray laid down his pen, his fist ached to punch something.
When Sammie Jo finished her statement, Gray stood up immediately and moved to her side. “C’mon, sweetheart. It’s been a long night. Let’s get back to our place and get some sleep.” Glaring at the deputy, he placed a possessive arm across her shoulder and pulled her to his side.
She was tall enough that her curves fit against him nicely. Her body was lithe and vibrant against his, softer than he’d expected, and a surge of possessiveness flashed through him. Stunned, he walked her to the Bronco and deposited her in the passenger seat in silence.
As he climbed in and started the car, she asked, “Are you okay?”
“Dim-witted bastard,” he muttered. “Couldn’t he see you were with me?”
As she popped out the lenses and stored them in their little plastic case, she commented, “Why, Grayson Pierce. Are you jealous of Barney?”
“Who?”
“Barney Fife. From The Andy Griffith Show.”
“Not familiar with it.”
“Good grief, man. You’ve lived a freakishly sheltered life! We must rectify this flaw in your upbringing!”
He doubted his grandmother would agree that his upbringing was flawed. At least not until his American mother divorced his British father and hauled herself and her son back to the States to live. He’d gone straight into high school and hadn’t had time or inclination for American television. He’d had enough trouble making the transition to this culture without trying to master that aspect of it.
“Did you get any good pictures of the body?” she asked.
“You tell me. You’re the one with supersight.” He passed her the digital camera and she peered at the pictures closely.
“God almighty, this is nasty,” she muttered. “Somebody really had it in for this guy. I’d love to blow these up on a high-definition computer monitor and have a look at them.”
“At a glance, the wounds strike me as too surgical to have been inflicted in uncontrolled rage. I think the killer wanted to send someone a message.”
She looked up at him sharply. “It would be a heck of message. Who would the killer send it to?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
“Hey, I’m a desk jockey. I don’t do the whole dangerous, chase-after-psychopathic-murderers thing.”
He glanced over at her in surprise. “With your eyesight? I’d think Winston Enterprises would put you out in the field nonstop.”
“Doc Jones has been keeping me close to home for testing, and that’s fine with me. I’m a big ole chicken when it comes to scary stuff.”
Somehow he doubted that. She’d been fearless trekking through the woods earlier. He commented dryly, “Welcome to the big leagues, kid.”
“And what league is that, exactly? You’re a spy, right? Who for? Please tell me you have tons of field experience and aren’t in over your head here.”
“Sorry. I can neither confirm nor—”
“Oh, stop,” she interrupted. “If we’re going to be working together, you might as well tell me. Besides, if my life’s in danger, I have a right to know who I’m depending on to keep me alive.”
Depending on.