Illicit by Madeline Pryce Page A

of his lips.
    He stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest. “Ms. Marx, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.”
    So, it was Ms. Marx now. “Come on, Grady, you can’t be serious. It’s cold out there. Why don’t you get in?”
    “Out of the truck, Eva.”
    “Why?” There wasn’t a single reasonable explanation she could think of.
    “Because I’m an officer of the law and I’m telling you to step out of the truck.”
    They stared at each other for a full minute before she caved. “Fine,” she snapped.
    Glaring, she threw open the door. If the swinging metal hit him in the balls, well, that was his problem for standing too close. She stepped into the cold and, mirroring his position, crossed her arms over her chest. Around them, snow fell silently.
    “You’ve been drinking,” he stated.
    She knew what his tone meant. They’d dated on and off for the last dozen years. He’d taken her virginity. He’d asked her to marry him. Six times.
    Her jaw tensed. “Yes. Last night after the funeral, I had a couple of drinks. Is that a crime? No. It isn’t. I’m getting back in the truck.”
    “I heard you’ve got a new boyfriend. Where’s the asshole now?”
    She cringed. Peter was probably half way back to Montana, not that she was going to tell him that. She lifted her chin. “I’m not his keeper.”
    “Just his fuck buddy? Must be a real gentleman to let you walk alone, in the dark, with a murderer on the loose.” His words held an edge of accusation. It was the way his eyes darkened and then narrowed. His full, once very kissable lips pinched into an invisible line.
    She’d never seen him like this before. He never lost his cool or his temper. Even sex between them had been sweet and tender. Grady was a consummate lover, slow and thorough. He’d handled her like glass, surely terrified of bringing her home with bruises. No one risked the wrath of Gregory Marx, not even the Sheriff’s son.
    Peter’s hard pounding from the night before stormed through her mind, obliterating Grady from her memory as if he’d never been there. Peter was right, she’d had no idea just how much she’d come to hate him in the morning.
    The simmering anger boiled over. She lashed out. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for some privacy, too much to ask that what I do isn’t topic for town gossip.”
    “You mean who you do?” he shot back. “When the town sweetheart leaves the bar with an outsider, it’s news. Do you have any idea what they’re saying about you? God damn it, Eva, I can’t believe you let him fuck you. What the hell is wrong with you?”
    Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open before snapping shut. “What’s wrong with me ?” She closed the distance between them and shoved her finger against the muscular wall of his chest. “You are way out of line, Trooper . I don’t have to stand here and listen to this.”
    He caught her wrist before she could poke him again. Grady pulled her close, his insistence chilling her more than the bitter wind swirling around her bare legs. She pulled back, meant to dig her heels into the snow, but her boots found ice, slick and unpredictable. Down. She was going down.
    Her arms flailed, reaching for something, anything to keep her head from bashing the frozen ground. His fist shot out, smashed against her cheek. The resounding crack split the air and shattered her confidence that she knew him at all. Reeling back, she clutched the throbbing flesh already swollen beneath her cold hand. Through the instant tears, she stared at him.
    Had he hit her on purpose? Surely not. Grady had never been violent, never lifted a hand to her. He’d been her only true friend outside of Greg. Hell, he’d never even raised his voice. Until now. He’d hit her with a fist. Not an open hand. You didn’t use a fist to help someone. He was already jealous of Peter. Had he been angry she’d pulled away?
    Emotion filled Grady’s eyes, dark and murky, nothing