Page 122 of The Morning After (Savannah 2)

Haven’t you learned your lesson?

Think of Bobbi Jean.

Remember what happened to her. To the baby.

His hands tangled in her hair and he forced her head to loll to one side so that he could brush his mouth across that seductive spot where her neck joined her shoulders, and felt her shudder.

Her arms surrounded him and she sighed loudly. “Reed, I…don’t know…”

“Shh, darlin’,” he whispered into her hair. “I just wanted to say good night.”

“Like hell.” She pulled her face away from his “We both wanted something a lot more than a good night kiss.”

He smiled. “Well, yeah…I suppose.”

“There’s no supposin’ about it, Detective.”

“I can wait.”

“Can you?” Her eyes glittered a sexy shade of green. Her skin was flushed, and for the first time since she’d realized Simone Everly was missing, she showed just the hint of a dimple as she dropped another kiss on his forehead. “Are you sure?” Her voice had taken on a deeper, naughty tone.

“Yeah, but you’re not making it any easier.”

“Which was all part of my diabolical scheme,” she teased, sighing and pushing his hair from his eyes. “You and me? Who woulda thunk?”

“Not me,” he said.

“Me, neither. I wasn’t sure I even liked you.”

“I knew I didn’t like you. Now, I think we should get some sleep. Before we both do something we’ll regret.” As he straightened, he gave her a playful swat on the rump.

“Tease,” she said, opening an antique armoire where she pulled out a quilt and pillow, then tossed them both to him. “Knock yourself out,” she said as she walked into the bedroom. He was left with a lasting impression of her hips moving beneath the white bathrobe and a tangle of strawberry-blond curls hanging past her shoulders. And a hard-on that wouldn’t quit.

She shut the door and Reed heard the latch click. Jesus, what was he thinking? Nearly making love to Nikki Gillette. Not a good idea. Not a good idea at all. He was a fool to consider her as anything but a reporter for that rag, the Sentinel. As she’d so aptly stated earlier, she was, in fact, the enemy. But the image of her leaning over him, flashing him a tantalizing view of her breasts, lingered.

Sleep was bound to be impossible.

He’d never be able to put it out of his mind that she was only a few feet away, lying on a bed with her hair fanned out around that incredible, intelligent face, her tight body naked and willing beneath a thin, gauzy nightgown.

Yep, it was gonna be a long night.

Stacking his hands behind his head, he forced his testosterone-pumped thoughts away from Nikki Gillette to LeRoy Chevalier and his trial twelve years ago.

Chevalier’s lawyer had changed his defendant’s wardrobe. Gone were LeRoy Chevalier’s jeans and work shirts, replaced by a smart navy blue suit, white shirt and conservative tie. Chevalier’s unkempt long hair and straggly beard were suddenly history. He was now clean shaven with a neat, nearly military haircut that framed a newly visible face that included a square jaw, prominent nose and big, expressive eyes beneath a ridge of dark eyebrows. Chevalier had shed a few pounds, losing his gut and slovenly appearance. In the courtroom he looked more like an executive or a member of a country club than an independent trucker with a marred history of barroom fights and domestic violence.

LeRoy Chevalier had once broken a pool cue over a man’s head, another time been arrested for breaking his live-in girlfriend’s nose and collarbone, compliments of his steel-toed boots, and in yet another instance had been hauled in for the attempted rape of a fourteen-year-old girl, another girlfriend’s niece. In each and every case, he’d gotten a slap on the wrist, serving little time.

Chevalier was mean, angry and a brute who, in the murder of Carol Legittel and her children, deserved no less than the death sentence. Between the judge and jury, he’d ended up with three consecutive life sentences for the deaths of Carol, Becky and Marlin Legittel.

At the trial Chevalier’s defense attorney had attempted to blur the facts, insisting the children’s biological father, Stephen, a known cocaine addict with a history of violence all his own, was to blame. Though Stephen hadn’t had much of an alibi—just an old friend who’d insisted they’d been on a hunting trip together—the evidence pointed too strongly toward LeRoy Chevalier.

And Carol’s youngest child, Joey, who had survived with serious wounds that had hospitalized him for several weeks, had haltingly testified against his mother’s boyfriend. On the witness stand, Joey had been embarrassed, afraid to look at Chevalier during the trial, sometimes whispering his testimony so quietly that Judge Ronald Gillette had asked the boy to repeat his answers.

Joey Legittel and Ken Stern’s testimony had hushed the courtroom. Along with Chevalier’s past history, some of which had been documented and allowed “in” the courtroom, and the physical evidence at the crime scene, including a bloody boot print from Chevalier’s work boots, had sealed the bastard’s fate.

Until DNA had proved otherwise.

Well, not really proved, but at least created a reasonable doubt. And that’s all it had taken to set the monster free.

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