“There were mitigating circumstances,” McAlister said.

“Save ’em for the judge at his arraignment,” the older officer said. He seemed to hold defense attorneys in no higher esteem than he did the lawbreakers they represented.

“Just be glad you’re not being charged with kidnapping,” the younger detective chimed in. “According to Mrs. Speakman, when you explained to her that Rodarte was impeding justice, she went willingly to help you locate Ruiz.”

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on Griff, waiting to see how he would respond. He said, “Without Mrs. Speakman I would never have found him, and without him I would have been falsely charged with murdering her husband. I’ll never be able to repay her trust in me.” He paused, then asked what was in store for Manuelo Ruiz.

“Soon as we clear things up with him, and he’s well enough to travel, he’ll be sent back to El Salvador. He faces charges there. Killed a guy who’d allegedly raped his sister. We figure, let the authorities down there have him. They’ve got first dibs.”

“I wish him well,” Griff said, almost to himself.

“Generous of you,” the older cop said. “If he hadn’t attacked you, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“He also saved my life.” Taking a deep breath, Griff closed his eyes and asked tiredly, “Is that it?”

CHAPTER 39

HIS NEW LAWYER TOOK IT FROM THERE. MCALISTER USHERED the detectives out. He instructed Griff to stay in contact and not to answer any further questions without him present, told him to rest, and then he too left.

Griff closed his eyes, but rest eluded him. Although his body was battered and he was exhausted, his mind wouldn’t shut down. Yesterday, he, along with Manuelo, had been transported by helicopter to the trauma center at Parkland Hospital, where both had undergone surgery.

He had vague recollections of being prepped and a few drug-blurred memories of the recovery room. This morning he had awakened in this private room, a little more than twenty-four hours after he saw Rodarte’s skull split open with the sharp edge of a shovel.

James McAlister, attorney-at-law, had shown up only minutes ahead of the Dallas detectives. He’d barely had time to introduce himself and tell Griff that as soon as Glen Hunnicutt had heard about the events in Itasca, he’d called him on Griff’s behalf.

Now Griff was relieved to have the interrogation behind him. But it had left him more exhausted than before. His body ached from his fight with Rodarte. His shoulder throbbed. But his mind was unsettled over Laura.

As Foster Speakman’s widow, she would once again be in the spotlight while the police and media sorted through the legal detritus left by Burkett, Ruiz, and Rodarte. The speculation that would swirl around her was inevitable. He could only hope for a bigger story to come along that would supplant them as the lead on the nightly news.

But in the meantime, how was she bearing up? Was she well? Beyond the obvious, had she suffered from the miscarriage?

He blamed himself for whatever suffering she had to endure. Things might have turned out differently, her heartbreak might have been avoided entirely, if not for their last afternoon together. If he hadn’t stopped her from leaving, as she’d been about to, could everything that had happened since have been prevented?

But-and now was the time for brutal honesty-if he’d had it to do over, would he have let her leave? Or, acting on her hesitation, would he have reached around her and closed the door as he’d done? Thinking back on it, he wondered, would he have let her go? Even knowing what he did now, would he?

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to that afternoon, to the sick disappointment he’d felt when she told him she was leaving and never coming back. He hadn’t tried to persuade her otherwise. How could he? He had no rights to her. None.

He’d had to stand by helplessly, hopelessly, and watch as she pulled open the door and said, “Depending on circumstances, this could be the last time I’ll see you.”

“Could be.”

“I can’t think of anything to say that seems appropriate.”

“Small talk seems smaller.” Her smile told him she remembered when she’d said those same words to him. “You don’t have to say anything, Laura.”

“Then, good-bye.”

They’d shaken hands, and he’d got the sense that she was as reluctant to let go of his as he was of hers. But she did let go and turned toward the door. When she made no move to go through it, he reached past her and pushed it shut.

He left his hand there for several seconds, giving her time to protest, giving her time to say, What the hell do you think you’re doing? Open the door. I’m leaving.

When she didn’t, he drew his hand back and placed it beneath her chin. With the merest pressure, he brought her around to face him. He looked deeply into her eyes and saw in them the same unspoken, desperate longing he felt, and when he did, he fell on her hungrily, pressing his open mouth against her neck, pinning her to the door with his body. She gave a low moan and reached for him. They kissed wildly, recklessly, with abandon and without finesse.

They brought one month of mental foreplay to this moment.

Her skirt was tight fitting, but he managed to work it up over her hips. He pulled down her panties as far as her knees; then she took over and got rid of them while he dealt with his belt and fly. Cupping her bottom in his hands, he lifted her and positioned her open thighs over his. He touched her. She was ready. In one fluid thrust, he was buried in her completely.

She wrapped her arms around his head and held fast as he fucked her, as much with his mind as with his body. Because of their position, it was impossible to move much, but he rocked against her, pressing as high and hard as he could. Thinking about what they were doing, knowing that he was at last inside her again, made him burn. And the angle was perfect for her. With each stroke, he grazed the erogenous spot. When he came, so did she. And it was crashing.

For what seemed endless minutes, they clung to each other, their breathing loud in the empty house, their bodies giving off incredible heat. Finally he withdrew and gently set her on her feet. Her arms remained wound around his head, his mouth on her neck. Slowly he kissed his way up to her chin and then let his lips hover above hers for agonizing seconds before settling against them. Her lips parted, accepting his tongue.

It was their first real kiss. It was a perfect kiss. Silky and wet and sweet. Intense. Very sexy. When finally they drew apart, he placed his palms on the door on either side of her head, and rested his fevered forehead against hers. “The past thirty days have been the longest of my life,” he said, his voice raspy. “I lived in fear of you calling and saying we wouldn’t need to meet again. I was afraid I would never get to kiss you.”

She placed her fingers lengthwise over his lips. “If we talk, I have to go,” she whispered. “You can’t say anything. I can’t hear anything.”

He pulled back, about to argue, but her expression begged him to understand. And he did. They had to pretend this wasn’t personal. Each knew better. They weren’t fooling themselves. What had just happened had nothing to do with making a baby or anything else except raw desire. But they could not acknowledge it out loud. The only way she could stay was to pretend that she was doing this because her husband demanded it.

Saying nothing more, they went into the bedroom and began removing their clothes. By the time she got out of her shoes and had taken off her top, he was down to his skin. Unwilling to wait another moment to lie down with her, he stretched out on the bed and pulled her down beside him. Gathering her against him, he held the back of her head in his palm and kissed her until they were breathless.