Stop Me by Brenda Novak

news.”
    “But it’s human nature to believe tragedies only happen to other people.” She watched him carefully, hoping he’d be able to forgive himself, to trust her to some degree, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
    He crossed to the window. “You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing.”
    “I’ve spent my life researching it.”
    He shoved large hands into the pockets of a brown leather bomber jacket. “Yet you haven’t been able to find your own sister.”
    She knew he’d taken that jab simply because she’d dared bring up the past after he’d gone to such elaborate lengths to escape it. But his words still stung.
    Although they’d never made any accusations, her parents blamed her, too—for not being a more vigilant babysitter that day, for being unable to provide a clear description afterward, maybe even for being incapable of filling the hole in their hearts after their cherished “baby” went missing. “I haven’t given up.”
    “It’s nearly Christmas. What are you doing in Cajun country?” he asked gruffly. “Where’s your husband?”
    “I don’t have one.”
    53

    His gaze flicked to her braless chest as if he was so preoccupied by it he could scarcely think of anything else. “Do you have any identification?” She took her purse from the nightstand, flashed him her driver’s license and handed him a business card.
    “Jasmine Stratford, The Last Stand, Victims’ Support and Assistance Nonprofit Organization,” he read.
    She smiled. “That’s me.”
    “Why do you think I can help you?” he asked as he slipped her card in his jacket pocket.
    “I told you. This kidnapper has the same signature as the man who killed your daughter. I want to see if there are other similarities.”
    “But you’re ignoring the most salient point. Moreau’s dead. I shot him myself, in cold blood, and if you think that makes me as much a murderer as he was, you’re taking an incredible risk by bothering me.”
    She raised one eyebrow. “You don’t want to kill me.”
    “And you know this because…”
    “You have something far less painful in mind.”
    The sexual energy emanating from him was so strong Jasmine could feel it lapping around her. His wife had been dead for six years. It was possible—
    considering everything he’d gone through—that he hadn’t been with a woman since.
    Jasmine definitely got the impression it’d been a while. But she didn’t take his interest personally. He was living on the bayou, alone for days, even weeks at a stretch, and she was standing within arm’s reach in her bedclothes, reminding him of what he’d lost. Or some of it, anyway…
    But his heightened awareness didn’t frighten her. There was an unpredictable, even dark quality about Fornier, but it seemed more erotic than threatening.
    “You don’t miss much,” he said, challenging her in return by letting his gaze slide more pointedly over her body.
    Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t cover herself. She wanted to appear unaffected, indifferent, as if the way he looked at her evoked no response whatsoever—but she knew she’d failed when her nipples puckered, displaying proof of the opposite.
    His eyes latched onto that proof and a knowing smile curved his lips.
    “Neither do you,” she said.
    “You’re a beautiful woman. There isn’t a straight man alive who wouldn’t want to touch you.” His voice dropped meaningfully at the end, making it feel like a caress.
    “Especially one who’s been living in a swamp for two years,” she said tartly, fighting to retain hold of logic and objectivity.
    “So…what do you say we make a deal?”
    54

    It was pretty easy to guess what his offer would be. “A deal?”
    “I give you what you want, and you give me what I want.” Jasmine had never been propositioned quite so bluntly. Neither had she ever been with anyone who stirred her in such an instant and primal way. Was she having this reaction because