Page 45 of Traitor

Chapter Seventeen

Peyton

My heart plummetsto my feet. In the days since I’d witnessed the murder, it had never occurred to me they had seen me in return, at least not as viscerally as it does on the open bank with the cover of trees all around. Anyone could be out there, hiding, watching. Waiting.

“You're kidding, right?" I sputter out. "It was dark. They never looked up at me." Then I recall falling off the dock. Could he have heard me splashing into the water?

"With the way news spreads in this town, he probably knew that night. If not, then the next day for sure, especially if he was local."

"If you're trying to scare me, you're sure as hell doing a great job of it."

"It's about time you got scared. You need to be more careful when you go out on your hikes. Bring someone with you."

"You think it's that serious?"

"I think if someone is going to the trouble of concealing a murder so well that the police can't find a sign, and they knew you saw them, then they have to be worried about what else you may have seen."

"If you're right and they did cover their tracks, then that night, they must have taken the body with them. Hid it somewhere else to make sure the cops wouldn't find any evidence of it."

I stare out over the glassy surface of the lake and shiver. It hadn't occurred to me that night because of the shock of everything going on, but I'd been in that water with the woman when she lost her life. I'd been so close and couldn't save her. Like I hadn't been able to save my parents. The dark depths seem much more ominous than they did the day I arrived in Windy Point. Even though I know her body more than likely isn't among the long, slimy arms of seaweed, their dancing shadows send fingers of fear up and down my spine.

"Then, the body could be anywhere. Lots of places for someone to get lost out here in the mountains. There are other rivers, lakes.”

"That poor woman. No one to know where she went, or even that she's missing. It's like she simply doesn't exist anymore."

Ford steps into my view, blocking the lake. "She does. You saw her, you know what happened. We'll do what we can to make sure we find out what he did with her."

"If he took her body away, we don't have the boat or any other sign of them, then all we have is my word to go on."

"I didn't figure you for a cynic," Ford said, as we began walking the rest of the way around the lake. "Shouldn't artists be all dreamy, hopeless romantic types?"

"I think anything dreamy and romantic about me died a long time ago," I reply with a wry smile.

"I wouldn't say so."

I give him an arched look. "Really? Why not?"

With his eyes on the shoreline in the steady, calculating way of his, Ford simply shrugs. "I looked up some of your work. You can't paint the way you do and say you aren't a romantic. I've seen people who've lost hope, lost the light inside them." He glances back at me, cool and assessing. "You aren't one of them."

"Well, be still my heart, I think you gave me a compliment."

He shrugs, the tips of his ears going a little pink. The sight delights me in ways it shouldn't for someone who wants to keep her distance. "Don't go picking out rings over it."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Well, who'd have thought it? Ford has a soft side. I'd counseled myself out of wanting more than the one night with him, but damn if I don't wish circumstances were different. "I don't think we're going to find anything out here," I say, trying to distract myself from thoughts of his lips on mine again.

"It was a long shot."

"Yeah, probably, but I appreciate you taking the time to come look."

"Anytime. Let me walk you back up to your car."

I reach out and snag his jacket with a hand. "You don't have to do that."

The look he gives me has me releasing my hold. "I'm not going to let you wander around the woods by yourself. Don't make me throw you over my shoulder," he says. When my body heats and my nipples tighten, his eyes go right to the thin material of my shirt. My flimsy bra does nothing to hide my arousal. "Jesus," he murmurs. I don't know if it's an expletive or a plea.

When he steps closer, I don't think I care. All the rationalizing I'd done when I pushed him away evaporates as he pins me against a tree. He thrusts his hands into my hair and as much as I'm intimidated by his size, I realize there are some definite advantages as those wide palms and long fingers cradle and massage my scalp. He overwhelms me, undoes me. Even as his mouth covers mine, I know resistance is useless. Despite my fears, I submit to him, accept the dominant thrust of his tongue. Because when a man like Ford kisses you, it's not a seduction. It's an overtaking.

I moan against his lips and clutch at the material of his shirt to pull him closer. His body crashes into mine and I fall back against the tree, heedless of the bark biting into my flesh. He cages me there, his arms cradling my spine as though to protect it from any discomfort. But it doesn’t matter. The second his hands dip beneath my shirt, I can’t feel anything but the pleasure his touch inspires.