How many times had she masturbated to the image of Denver Black? Quite a few, though she hadn’t kept count. This was so much better, real and messy and hot and a little awkward. He shifted their position so her back was pinned against the wall and he could brace himself with one hand while she kept her legs wrapped tightly around him. The dance took over, the in and out, the deep and shallow, the breath and sigh, the steam and the heat.
He wasn’t shy about the moment his orgasm hit—he let out a sound that might have come straight from his core. That deep growling howl did something to her, sprang some kind of trigger, and suddenly she was coming again, even harder and deeper than the first time.
Afterwards, they let the water stream over them while they disentangled their limbs. Panting, Jack rested his forehead on the tiles above her head. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of him, the faint scent of sweat quickly washed away by the shower.
“Not just about the sex,” he murmured after a few long moments. “Just saying.”
Maybe, but the sex was pretty damn good, she wanted to say. But she didn’t, because the problem was that he was right. This wasn’t about the sex. This was about clicking with someone in the most unexpected, out-of-nowhere kind of way. It was about being unable to remember what it felt like to not know Jack Finnegan. It was about wanting more with him. More of everything.
“We’ll see,” she finally said, putting an end to that line of thought before she got too carried away. Briskly, she reached for the soap. “See, this is why I like shower sex. Easy cleanup, you know? Then you can hop right into bed all freshened up with that sleepy after-sex glow.”
He just smiled lazily and peeled off his condom. “Change the subject all you want, but you know I’m right.”
From somewhere outside of their bubble, her text notification buzzed. Her phone was still in the bedroom, and it must be sometime in the middle of the night. Who was texting her at this hour?
“Must be important,” she murmured to Jack.
“Back to work, huh?”
She quickly soaped herself off, forcing her to look away from Jack as he did the same thing to his magnificently wet and sculpted body. Stepping out of the shower, she gave her hair a quick swipe with the towel and then wrapped it around herself. Not that she minded Jack seeing her naked, since he now had a pretty complete picture of her, smallish breasts and slim hips and all. But somehow it always felt strange being on her phone naked. That was where she drew the line.
The text was from the tech at the Harbortown PD. “Here’s your age progression. Sure hope you enjoyed the margarita.”
If he only knew.
“Jack, get out here! It’s the age progression of that photo of Kate’s kids. I’m about to open it.”
She clicked on the first attachment, which showed Lloyd Mansfield—definitely a dead ringer for Adam/Seth.
“We have our guy,” said Jack, who had joined her, still toweling off his hair. “Open the other one.”
She clicked on the second attachment and found herself staring at a woman in her late thirties, with a delicate beauty set off by her long hair. She was pretty in an unremarkable way. Softly molded cheekbones, light blue eyes, creamy skin that probably sunburned easily, a pointed chin that gave her an elfin look. If she looked vaguely familiar—which she did—it was probably because there were many women who looked like her. The TV and movies were full of conventionally attractive blonds with even features and straight noses.
Tina had grown up watching them, envying them, and wondering what place there was for a short Asian girl who often forgot to smile. She’d found her place in the Harbortown PD.
What place had Linette found? Where had she gone after high school, which was the last time there was any mention of a Linette Mansfield anywhere? What name had she chosen?
She’d gotten married, they knew that much, and she hadn’t invited her mother. Had she cut off all connection with her past and her previous life? Had she married a billionaire the way her school friends had predicted?
“I wonder if she still has long hair,” said Jack. She startled, suddenly hyper-aware of his fresh-shower scent and the brush of his towel against her arm.
She held a finger up to the photo to block the right side of Linette’s hair, just at the chin, like a bob. Jack did the same on her left side.
“Amazing how much a haircut can change your appearance,” Jack murmured.
“Yeah, no kidding. I almost think I’ve seen her before. But where? Maybe in a magazine or something? On TV?” Tina narrowed her eyes at the photo. It tugged strongly at her memory. Age progressions weren’t always completely accurate. People’s lives left marks on their faces, and then there was makeup to consider, and hairstyles, plastic surgery. “I’ve definitely seen her. But she looks different from this image. Her hair is…a little shorter, maybe…”
She moved her finger up, and so did Jack, and suddenly there it was. The pretty kitten face, the hidden calculations, the facade of spoiled trophy wife. She had seen this women before. In fact, she’d arrested her.
“Sweet lord in heaven, I think this is Celine Carmichael.”
22
They barely slept the rest of the night. Both of them hopped on their devices and dove into some internet sleuthing. Jack shared what he’d learned about Mark Peterson, Kate’s ex. She offered him a high-five for that one.
“Score one for the TV detective,” she teased.
He bowed with a flourish. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
