Heat of the Moment by Lori Handeland Page A

Harbors. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, eaten, or showered, and the desire for all three suddenly overwhelmed him.
    Reggie climbed into the cab more slowly than he’d gotten out of it. He was favoring his injury more than Owen had ever seen. When he sat, he did so with his haunches against Owen’s. Reggie only did that when he was overtired, stressed, or ill.
    The tap on his window made Owen jump so high he banged his bad leg on the steering wheel. Becca stood on the other side of the glass.
    â€œI need a ride.”
    He was so tempted to put the truck in gear he actually reached for the shift.
    â€œDon’t you dare.” Becca yanked open the door.
    Damn. If he’d put the vehicle in gear the door would have locked automatically.
    â€œAlways go with your instinct,” he murmured. One of the very first rules in bomb detection.
    â€œI’m not letting go until you agree to give me a ride.” She glanced toward the house. “And if you don’t want to be stuck here answering questions you don’t know the answers to, we’d better move before Deb gets done talking to the station.”
    â€œThen move.” He indicated the passenger side.
    She ran around the front, shooed Reggie, who’d come over to greet her, back to the middle, and hopped in. Owen put the truck into gear, and they lurched toward the trees. Just in time too. In the rearview mirror, Chief Deb emerged from the house. At the sight of his taillights, she kicked the porch railing and it fell into the overgrown flower bed.
    â€œThanks,” Becca said. “I figured you’d drive off the instant I let go of your door and leave me behind.”
    He would have if he’d thought of it. But he wasn’t thinking very clearly or very fast on so little sleep.
    â€œHow’d you get out here?” he asked.
    â€œWogged.”
    Owen blinked.
    â€œThat’s what my brothers call my pathetic attempts at jogging. Faster than a walk, slower than a jog makes—”
    â€œWog,” he finished. He’d always liked her brothers, though not half as much as he’d liked her.
    Owen cast a sideways glance in Becca’s direction, then had to lean forward to actually see her since Reggie’s big fat head was in the way. The dog stared at Becca too, mouth open, tongue lolling. Couldn’t blame him. She was stunning.
    Her hair was long, thick, and fire red. She’d braided it; she always did. Otherwise the heavy mass got into everything—her eyes, her face, her food, his mouth.
    Owen swallowed and dragged his eyes back to the road. He should never have kissed her. Though, to be fair, she had kissed him. It didn’t make the taste of her that still lingered on his tongue, nor the memory of how different things were—how different he was—any easier to bear.
    â€œYou—” he began, and his voice broke. He cleared his throat, tried again. “You always jog in the forest in the dark?”
    â€œNo. I wog.”
    The dirt path had some deep ruts, the result of years of snow and ice and mud with no grading to even it out. The trees and bushes had encroached from the sides, narrowing the trail until branches scraped the truck. He was going to wind up paying for a new paint job by the time he returned it.
    â€œIsn’t that a little dangerous?”
    â€œIn Three Harbors?”
    â€œIf you were jogging—”
    She lifted her eyebrows.
    â€œExcuse me, wogging, in Three Harbors I wouldn’t be worried.”
    â€œYou’re worried?”
    He glanced at her; Reggie tried to lick him in the nose. “You saw my house. There’s something weird going on here.”
    â€œI didn’t know that when I left, and I doubt it has anything to do with me.” She held up a hand. “Or you either. It’s one of those things. Sick, weird, freaky, horrible, all of the above. But in the end, probably stupid kids behaving