Rocky Mountain Valor. Jennifer D. Bokal

to the police, did you?” Ian continued with a warning, “Remember those Miranda rights. Anything you say is likely to be used against you.”

      “Are you telling me to lie?” she asked.

      “I’m telling you not to make it too easy.”

      “Understood,” she said with a nod.

      Petra’s situation was like a puzzle box, with only one way to solve it, and thousands of ways to be wrong. His mind began to work and he lighted on a rather simple fact. “You never saw or spoke to Joe after you arrived, correct? He could’ve been attacked and then left for dead.”

      “But if I didn’t attack Joe, who did?” she asked.

      “Who else might want him dead?”

      She shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone. Everyone loved Joe Owens. He was a hometown hero. Championship MVP.”

      “Obviously, someone didn’t.”

      Petra took a sip of her tea. A bead of tea collected on her lip. She licked it away.

      God help him, an image of his lips on hers, his mouth claiming her, their tongues intertwined, came to Ian and left him wanting more than a memory.

      He picked up his own tea and gulped down a swallow. The liquid scalded him. Then again, he’d been burned by her before. Passion and pain were opposite sides of the same coin, and in that regard, with Petra, he’d been a wealthy man.

      “You said you were on the radio talking about Joe and his most recent scandal...” He let his words trail off so that Petra could fill in the facts.

      “He threw a punch at a reporter for asking an embarrassing question at yesterday’s press conference. Last week he yelled at a waitress and his tirade ended up on the internet. Then the week before, he was arrested for disturbing the peace at a nightclub.”

      “Was the reporter seriously hurt? Any reason to want vengeance?”

      Petra shook her head. “Joe only got in a punch or two before being dragged out of the room. The incident made the reporter famous. He was contacted by a cable sports channel and called our agency for representation. The waitress was given twenty-thousand dollars by the team and she enrolled in college. No one wants to get even.”

      “And the police wouldn’t try to kill someone who got rowdy at a club.”

      “Doubtful,” Petra agreed.

      “There has to be something else. Nobody is completely beloved. What about his personal life?”

      “Joe’s wife moved out of their house at the beginning of the summer and took their daughters with her,” she said, leaning back in her seat, her hands wrapped around the cup of tea. “There were rumors that she was having an affair, but he was fighting any divorce proceedings.”

      “She wouldn’t be the first woman to want an estranged husband dead so she could be with her lover.”

      “It’s more than that,” said Petra. “Joe’s wife, Larissa, was supposedly seeing Arnie Hatch, the team’s owner.”

      “Is there any truth to the stories?”

      Petra nodded absently. “It’s one of the worst kept secrets in Denver’s sports scene.”

      “Then I say we have two suspects—Arnie Hatch and Larissa Owens.”

      “We? Does that mean I can hire you?”

      “Like I said—RMJ is closed.”

      What Ian said was true, but that was only in a technical sense. He was still in business, still able to take cases. And while he wanted to help Petra, he needed to find Mateev. Making the mistake of listening to his conscience, he added, “It doesn’t mean I can’t look into the case a little bit tonight. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know. You can turn it over to your lawyer.”

      Petra gave a long exhalation, slumping in her seat. “You don’t know how relieved I am. So, what do we do now?” she asked.

      “You are going to finish your tea and then you can sleep in the guest room. I’ll do some research on Hatch.”

      Petra took another drink and pushed her cup to the center of the island. “Thanks for everything, Ian. You’re a lifesaver and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

      He picked up both cups and turned to the sink. He ran water from the tap, scrubbing away the residue. Glancing at the window, he watched Petra in the reflection. “There are some of your things in the dresser upstairs.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. He dropped his eyes to the faucet and turned off the water. “You left them and I never got around to returning them or putting them out with the rubbish.”

      “Lucky me.”

      “Always a little sarcastic. I still don’t know what to make of you.”

      She rounded the island and stood behind him, her breath warming his back. He turned. Petra was close—so close that he could touch her if he just reached out. And if he did, what would she do?

      “I truly am lucky,” she said. Her voice was sultry, like a night too hot and humid for sleep. “Because you’re right. I am in a mess, and before I showed up here, I worried that I was guilty. And now there’s some hope that I’m not.”

      “You’re welcome, then,” he said, before adding, “I know our relationship didn’t end well, but I’m glad you came to me. I’m happy to help, even if it’s just a little.”

      He reached out, his hand grazing her wrist. She stiffened but didn’t pull away. Ian took that as a good sign and let his fingers trail up her arm. His hands remembered the feel of her flesh. His lips remembered her kisses. His body remembered what it was like to be with hers.

      Then again, did he want to get involved with Petra? Hadn’t they had their shot at happiness and wholly missed the mark? Beyond the breakup, there was the aftermath. Two years and nothing—not even a damn email. Could he relive those dark days after she’d left, when Scotch was his only friend?

      No, Ian could not—would not—let himself stumble off that cliff a second time.

      And yet his fingers burned with the need to touch her.

      He bent his head, his mouth brushing her cheek. She exhaled, a quiver in her breath. It was all the encouragement he needed. His lips found hers and he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. For Ian, Petra was the best bad choice he could ever make.

      * * *

      Petra pressed her body into Ian’s. His strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He was an intoxicating mix of commanding and dangerous; and tonight, Petra intended to get drunk on her former lover.

      She parted her lips and his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Too soon, too fast, she was consumed by the kiss.

      Ian gripped her neck and pulled back, exposing her throat as he covered her with kisses. With his other hand, he cupped her breast. His touch was light and her nipple hardened at once. He deepened the kiss, claiming her, making Petra a captive of her own unchecked lust.

      Head bent, he kissed her breast, wetting the cotton fabric, his tongue dancing over her nipple. She moaned with ecstasy that she could no longer contain. How long had it been since someone had had this effect on her? How long had it been since her desires had been so ignited?

      The questions weren’t hard to answer. It was when she’d last been with Ian. He was something she’d promised never to do again, and yet—here she was.

      When his hand skimmed her waistband, Petra quit thinking. Flesh on flesh, his fingers moved lower and lower. He touched the silky fabric of her panties. She was wet, and her innermost muscles clenched with longing and desire. Even though in the back of her mind, she knew this was the worst kind of mistake.

      He rubbed the top of her sex, filling her with