On Dangerous Ground. Maggie Price

lab, Pierce.”

      “Dammit, Milano, I’m not questioning your ability,” Grant shot back, then set his jaw. It had been that same confidence and determination that had attracted him to her in the first place. Where her job was concerned, Sky had no equal. She didn’t waver. She was in control. It was her personal life that had splintered into hundreds of pieces, and driven her from him.

      If you care about me, you’ll let me go.

      The memory of the words she’d spoken that night six months ago assaulted him like sniper fire. She had taught him what it was like to want. To feel helpless. To hurt. He stabbed his fingers through his hair. He didn’t need this. He had let her go. He was over her. Why the hell was he even allowing her presence to bother him?

      “All right,” he said, forcing his mind back to the problem at hand. “Whitebear’s DNA was on Benjamin’s dress. Because of that, I doubt Griffin thought his client’s protests of innocence held any weight. But then, we’ll never know since the esteemed public defender died in a car wreck a month after Whitebear got shipped to the pen.”

      Grant settled back in his chair and forced mental chess pieces to move in his Scotch-soaked brain. “There’s another angle we haven’t talked about,” he said after a moment. “Ellis killed Mavis Benjamin. His twin killed Carmen Peña. It’s a stretch, but anything’s possible at this point.”

      Sky nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

      Just then, a grizzled, retired detective with a gray beard stopped by the table. He nodded, then spent a few minutes reminiscing about the time he and Sam cornered a do-wrong inside Uncle Willie’s Donut Shop.

      When the detective moved off, Grant felt the now-familiar drag of grief over his partner’s death. “Dammit, Sam.”

      He wasn’t aware he’d spoken the words until he saw Sky’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, Grant. I know you’re upset about Sam. The last thing you need right now is a mess like this. But both of these cases were yours and Sam’s…yours now. I couldn’t put off coming to you any longer.”

      “Yeah.” Because he was tempted to reach out and smooth his fingers across the strain at the corners of her eyes, Grant balled his hands on the table. She had drawn Whitebear’s blood from the man’s arm, performed tests, testified in court to her findings. Her word had helped put Whitebear on death row. It was now possible a different man should be in that cell, and Carmen Peña was dead because he wasn’t.

      If that was true, the press would have a field day with mistaken-identity stories. Not to mention make chopped liver out of both his and Sky’s careers along the way. For his part, the idea of getting shipped to Larceny to investigate lawnmower thefts held little appeal.

      Grant heard the clatter of more coins going down the jukebox’s slot. A heartbeat later, a low, weepy love song drifted on the air and the dance floor filled.

      As he watched couples glide together in the shadowed light, it hit him that the need to hold Sky in his arms was just as sharp now as it had been six months ago. His jaw locked when he realized he was actually sitting there, thinking about asking her to dance. Damning himself for being the biggest kind of idiot, he tightened his grip on control and shifted his thoughts squarely back to business.

      “What’s your next step on the blood?”

      She met his gaze. “The first thing I need to do is have the suspect samples from both crime scenes checked at another lab,” she said, her voice void of emotion. “I’ll package them in the morning and take them to the OSBI,” she said, referring to the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation.

      “Do you have to tell them what’s going on?”

      “No. We always use code numbers on the evidence that refers to the case, not the suspect’s name. All the OSBI chemist will know is that we need DNA profiles on both samples.”

      “How long will it take to get the results?”

      “Three to four days. Five, max.”

      Grant looked at the Scotch bottle, acknowledging that his mind was too fogged to develop a game plan right now. With an inward sigh, he swept his gaze upward. “Sorry, Sam, the wake’s over.” He pulled his money clip out of his pocket, peeled off a couple of bills, then tossed them on the table.

      “I need to sort this out,” he said, meeting Sky’s waiting gaze. “I’m going home to hot coffee and a cold shower.” And an empty bed. Biting back a swell of frustration, he conceded that what he most needed was to get the hell away from her.

      He shoved back his chair, rose and instantly felt the room spin. “Holy hell.” He slapped a palm against the table to keep his balance and waved his other hand toward the bottle. “Stuff’s as bad as swamp muck.”

      “Worse, I’d say,” Sky countered. “I don’t think swamp muck makes your eyes cross like that.” Rising, she folded his suit coat over her arm while giving him an appraising inspection. “You’re plowed, Pierce.”

      “That was my objective.”

      “And in no shape to drive.”

      He grinned. “Next thing you know, Milano, they’ll be giving you an award for observation.” Dragging in a deep breath, he waited until the room righted itself. It did…barely. “I’ll call a cab.”

      “You don’t need to. I can give you a lift.”

      He stared down at her, surprised she’d offered. They’d been at his house that last time they were together. Grant knew if he slid into a car beside her, the minute they pulled into the gated drive that led to his family’s estate he would remember how her kisses tasted, how soft her cheek felt against his cupped hand. Remember, too, the panic that had shot into her eyes when his arms had tightened around her. The absolute paleness that had settled in her skin. The choked sound of her voice when she’d told him goodbye.

      If you care about me, you’ll let me go.

      Dammit, he had done both.

      Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he took a step forward. “Do you really think your taking me home is a good idea?”

      “I don’t know.” She raised a hand as if to press her palm against his arm. He saw the hesitation in her eyes, then her fingers slowly curled and she lowered her arm. “Grant, I think we should at least try to be friends.”

      “We already made a stab at that,” he said, frustration hardening his voice. She couldn’t even bring herself to touch him. How the hell had he ever expected her to give herself to him? “It didn’t work.”

      “We tried being more than friends.”

      Without thinking, he raised his hand, traced his fingertip along the soft curve of her jaw. Staring into the depths of those blue eyes, he found himself stupidly pleased when she didn’t shrink from his touch.

      “Sweetheart, there’s not a chance I’ll forget what we tried,” he said softly. He saw the instant flush that rose in her cheeks, caught the jump of the pulse in her throat, felt his own pulse respond in kind. He damned himself for giving her the power to shoot such searing need into his system.

      As he lifted his suit coat off her arm, he looked over his shoulder at the bartender. “Mind calling me a cab?”

      “Sure thing.”

      Grant turned back. Sky’s expression was now controlled, emotionless. Her chemist’s face. “I’ll call when I get the results from the OSBI,” she said quietly.

      “Fine.”

      He watched her turn, watched her sleek gait take her around the dance floor and into the alcove. Then she was gone.

      Standing beneath the rotating red beacon of the overhead bubble light, Grant ruthlessly kept control in place to keep from going after her. She was the first woman he had thought about a future with, the first woman who had really mattered. The first to reject him. Pride