Silent Fall

wasn’t the cuddling that had made him run; it was the panicked feeling, and the realization that sex with Catherine could never be just sex. And he didn’t do complicated. She was absolutely the wrong woman for him. He liked things light and easy, simple, everyone on board with the same game plan. With Catherine everything was raw, deep, and completely unpredictable.
    So why wasn’t he leaving now? Why wasn’t he making it clear that what had happened between them wouldn’t happen again? Why was he filled with the desire to ask her for another chance to show that he could stay in bed with her for longer than ten seconds?
    "Which is winning?" Catherine asked lightly. "Your head or your body?"
    He tipped his head. "I can’t hide anything from you, can I?"
    "That’s what you don’t like about me."
    "Is it?" he muttered. He turned away. He knew he wasn’t fighting his head or his body; he was fighting his heart. But he didn’t intend to tell her that. And he hoped to God she wouldn’t figure that one out on her own, because if she got past that wall there’d be no stopping her. She’d own him. Hell, maybe she already did.
    * * *
    Catherine let out a breath as Dylan left the room. For a moment she’d thought he was going to get back into bed with her, and she was disappointed that he hadn’t. She’d never felt so uninhibited, so wild, so free of restriction, but look where it had gotten her. A few minutes of mind-blowing sex and she’d confessed her entire sordid life story and scared the man to death. Although he’d been wary even before she’d started talking. He’d felt the bad energy when they were together. That was why he’d jumped out of bed so fast. The connection between them had been too intense. She hadn’t been able to hide her true self, and Dylan had seen everything.
    She wasn’t surprised that he’d almost run. She had the genes of a murderer running through her. She had demons in her head. She saw evil in her dreams. Who would ever choose to be a part of that?
    Certainly not Dylan. When this was over, when they found whoever was trying to frame him or kill him, he’d go his way and she’d go hers.
    Getting out of bed, she put her clothes back on and straightened the covers. She’d barely glanced at the room when they’d first come in, so caught up had she been in a reckless need to get Dylan naked and inside of her. She’d never felt so swept away, so focused on being with a man. Her body still tingled, and there was a sweet ache between her legs that echoed the not quite satisfied need inside her. She wanted to make love to Dylan again, more slowly, taking time to savor every taste, every touch, but that probably wouldn’t happen now.
    Catherine crossed the room and pulled the edge of the curtain aside so she could see out the window. Their room looked down over the parking lot, and her car was parked where they’d left it. She searched the area for a brown truck, but there were only a few other cars, and none that matched the vehicle Dylan had described. They were hours away from the city. They had to be safe here. But the shooter she’d seen in her head had also been in a motel close to a highway. Who knew just how far away he really was? He certainly hadn’t seemed concerned or worried about the fact that he’d lost them. Why was that? Had he revealed some clue in his conversation that she’d missed? She strained to remember, but nothing significant came to mind.
    Letting the curtain drop, she took the journals out of her purse and sat down on the bed again. She worked the stubborn knot with her fingers until she finally loosened a strand and the ribbon began to unravel. The books slid apart. She opened the first one, nervous anticipation running through her. Something in this journal was important. She’d felt it before, and she felt it even more now. If Dylan’s father was involved, then there had to be a clue here.
    She couldn’t ignore the parallel between Richard Sanders and her own father. Was that where the connection between herself and Dylan originated? Did she feel empathy toward him because of the violence he’d suffered at the hands of his father? Although his father certainly wasn’t a murderer -- at least, not so far.
    The door opened and Dylan reentered the room with a scowl on his face. "You should have put the chain on after