Cops and ... Lovers?

by Linda Castillo

  "This will help keep you from going into shock," he said.

  "I know the drill, Chief. But I'm okay. Honest."

  Before he realized he was going to touch her, he raised his hand and pressed his fingers to her cheek. She flinched, but her flesh felt like velvet. Warm. Supple.

  She watched him cautiously, her eyes darkening to the color of a forest at dusk. Her hair was spread out beneath her like shiny scraps of silk. Despite the cut on her temple and the smudge of dirt on her chin, he thought he'd never seen a woman look so thoroughly beautiful.

  Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm glad you're all right, McNeal."

  She smiled up at him. "Thanks for saving my neck."

  "Well, you've got a really nice neck." He tried to smile at her, but failed. "I'm sorry for the things I said to you back at the house. I'm sorry for the way I touched you."

  "Nick, it's okay—"

  "No, it's not. I had no right."

  "I'm a big girl. I knew what I was doing."

  "You were upset when you left my house. I did that to you. I don't know what I would have done if you'd been…" Before he could finish, a choking wave of emotion hit him. He straightened, but suddenly he couldn't speak. His throat locked up. His insides turned to jelly. The shakes hit him with the violence of an earthquake. As the first shivers went through his body, he knew just how deep his feelings for this maddening, recalcitrant woman had become.

  "Nick?"

  He stared at her, aware of the softness of her flesh beneath his fingertips. The slight tremble of her slim body beneath the blanket. She'd come so close to death… His control hovered just beyond his reach. A jab of panic made him pull his hand away from her. His tremors deepened. His stomach clenched. He didn't want her to see him like this.

  Without answering, he rose and walked toward the Suburban. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe. His legs felt wobbly. On reaching the truck, he put both hands against the hood and leaned forward. He felt nauseous, as if someone had kicked him in the gut.

  "Nick."

  He didn't answer. Didn't turn around to look at her. Didn't even have the strength to tell her to stay away. He just stood there breathing hard, sweating, fighting the panic and whatever else gripped him so tightly that he couldn't move without falling into a heap at her feet.

  "Hey," she said gently, "are you okay?"

  He jumped when she came up behind him and put her hand on his shoulder. He wanted to tell her to get back under the blanket. To lie down because she could be in shock and not even realize it. That she could have a spinal injury or a head injury and have yet to feel the pain.

  Instead, he leaned against the truck, shaking, unable to face her because he didn't want her to see the truth his expression held. "Stay away," he said in a low voice.

  "What's wrong?"

  "For crying out loud, McNeal, you shouldn't be up and walking around."

  "I need to know if you're all right," she whispered.

  "I'm fine."

  "You're shaking—"

  "Forget it."

  The wail of a siren in the distance broke the tension that had risen between them. The sound sent a flutter of relief through Nick. He told himself it was because he wanted her to get checked out as soon as possible. But he knew part of the reason he didn't want to be alone with her was because he didn't want her to prod the wound that had just been reopened.

  Knowing he couldn't avoid the inevitable, clamping his jaws to keep his expression neutral, he slowly turned to her. His knees went weak at the sight of her tears. They shook him to his foundation, sent the last of his resistance out the window. With an oath, he crossed the distance between them. He didn't remember reaching for her. He didn't remember enveloping her in his arms. All he knew was that the feel of her against him was so right it brought tears to his own eyes, and made him want to protect her from the world, even if she didn't want it that way.

  "Why are you crying?" he asked, pressing his face against her hair and breathing in her scent. "You're safe. You're with me. Everything's going to be fine."

  "What about you?"

  "I'm fine." He swallowed, fighting for control, hating it that the accident had scraped him raw and left him bleeding.

  "You don't look fine to me."

  "One catastrophe at a time, McNeal, all right?" Pulling back slightly, he looked into her eyes, trying not to tumble into their green depths. "You weren't crying or anything after you left my place, were you?"

  "Nick, this wasn't your fault," she said firmly.

  He wasn't sure he believed her, but he let it slide. He didn't want to take on any guilt. He had enough emotions to deal with just knowing how differently things could have turned out. "What happened?" he asked after a moment.

  Her eyes were luminous and incredibly large in the pale frame of her face. When she opened her mouth to speak, her lips trembled. "I think it was a professional hit."

  * * *

  Nick paced the emergency room hall, high-grade anxiety pumping through him with each beat of his heart.

  I think it was a professional hit.

  Erin's words rang like a death knell in his ears. He wished he was surprised, but he wasn't. Not after the incident at the school. A hundred unanswered questions tumbled through his mind. Simultaneously, the need to protect her rose inside him in a violent tide that threatened his viselike grip on control.

  Who wanted Erin McNeal dead?

  "Chief Ryan?"

  Nick spun at the on-call doctor's voice. "How is she?" The doctor came through the double doors of the emergency room and stopped next to Nick. "She's very lucky. A few bruises and cuts. CAT scan looks good. X rays are normal. We're waiting for blood tests, but I think she's good to go home. You can talk to her now."

  A spiral of relief tunneled through him. "Thanks, Doc." Turning, Nick shoved through the emergency room doors. He scanned the room, his gaze drawn to the woman lying on the gurney in the corner. Something warm loosened in his chest when her gaze met his. Then her mouth curved in a tentative smile, and despite his worry and the questions buzzing around inside his head, he couldn't keep from smiling back.

  Never taking his gaze from hers, he approached the gurney. "Has anyone ever called you a trouble magnet, McNeal?"

  Her smile widened to a grin. "What do you think?"

  "If I wasn't so glad you're all right, I'd probably chew you out just for the hell of it."

  "You actually smiled a little when you saw me. I think that's a good sign." Surprising him, she raised her hand and pressed it to his cheek. "I didn't realize you worried so much."

  Nick winced at the contact, knowing she was referring to his emotional reaction back at the accident scene, but he didn't step back. Every pleasure center in his body focused on that small, warm contact.

  "You have a really nice smile, Chief. You should try it more often."

  Low-level shock rippled through him, mingling with the pleasure of her touch, and went straight to a place he knew better than to acknowledge now. Only then did he notice her slightly dilated pupils and realized the doctor had probably given her something for pain. Just what he needed: a sexy, vulnerable deputy he was attracted to beyond reason in need of protection. Terrific. "You're high as a kite," he grumbled.

  "I may be … medicated, but I can plainly see that you have a nice smile." Sighing, she relaxed back into the pillow. "And you smell really, really good."

  Not knowing what to say to that, feeling the back of his neck heat—and another part of his anatomy follow suit—he grasped her hand and lowered it to the gurney. "We need to talk," he said. "Think you can answer some questions?"

  Her gaze skittered away. "All right."

  Compassion stirred in his chest when he realized she wasn't quite ready to relive the incident. He wished he didn't have to put her through it, but he couldn't let it go. He figured neither of them had a choice in the matter.

  "I need to know what happened," he said. "I also need a descrip
tion of the car so I can notify the highway patrol."

  "Sure." He watched her force her cop's mask into place. "Black Lincoln. Four-door. Maybe a 2000 model. Illinois plates. There's a big dent on the right front quarter panel."

  "Dent?" His interest piqued. "The car hit your cruiser?"

  She nodded. "The bumper, and the rear quarter panel."

  "I'll see if I can get someone out here from the state lab to lift some paint. That might help us nail down the make and model." He grimaced. "What about the driver?"

  "I only saw the passenger."

  "Can you give me a description?"

  "Caucasian male with dark hair. Maybe forty years old. I didn't get a good look. I mean, he had this shotgun aimed right at my head…" Her voice trembled with the last word.

  Nick looked away, giving her a moment to regroup. He didn't like the way this was shaping up. Who would be trying to hurt this woman? Someone from her past? An acquaintance? A crazy? Or was there something more ominous in the works?

  He looked down at her, felt another stir of compassion. She wasn't crying. He knew she wouldn't cry now. Not Erin McNeal the cop. But even that didn't diminish the vulnerability he saw. She was pale. Shaking. But she never let on that she was scared. Not for one second, and his respect for her—which was already sky-high—kicked up another notch.

  "You're doing fine, Erin."

  "Hey, it was just a little wreck. Of course I'm fine." She said the words with a little too much enthusiasm.

  Nick sighed, not bothering to point out the "little wreck," as she'd put it, could have cost her her life.

  "The doc isn't going to keep me here, is he, Nick?"

  "You got something against hospitals, McNeal?"

  "Only when I'm in them. Do you think you could take me home now?" she asked. "If I get poked one more time I'm afraid I'm going to have to draw my weapon and start shooting doctors."

  He forced a smile at her attempted humor, wondering if the repercussions of what had happened had penetrated the fog of shock and medication. "I'll take you home," he said. "We can talk there."

  * * *

  Even through the haze of medication, every muscle in Erin's body ached with a vengeance by the time they reached her apartment.

  Nick opened the door, then motioned toward the sofa. "Sit down," he said. "I'll get you a blanket, then I'm going to make some coffee."

  Without protest, she limped to the sofa and eased onto a cushion. Hugging a throw pillow to her chest, she pulled her legs under her, and tried not to think about how close she'd come to getting seriously hurt—or worse.

  The incident had done more than shake her physically. Her confidence had taken another direct hit. She didn't like feeling so … helpless. She certainly didn't like feeling threatened. The instant she'd seen that shotgun pointed in her direction, Erin had been bombarded with a hefty dose of both.

  The clatter of dishes in the kitchen drew her attention to Nick, and she sighed. As much as she didn't want to admit it, she was glad he was there. He represented solidity in a wild, unpredictable sea of too much emotion and not enough fact—elements Erin could do without in her present state.

  From her perch on the sofa, she watched him stride from the kitchen to her bedroom. Erin tried not to notice the controlled grace with which he moved, or the underlying restlessness that surrounded him like a dark aura. He seemed thoughtful tonight. Edgy. Unsettled. She wondered if any of those things had to do with the way he'd reacted at the accident scene. Nick wasn't the kind of man to let something like a car wreck shake him. She wanted to think he'd been shaken up because he'd been worried about her, but the more logical side of her knew that wasn't the case. He'd been thinking of Rita, she realized. Erin knew first-hand the face of grief, and saw clearly the mark it had left on this man's heart.

  He returned a moment later with the comforter from her bed and draped it over her. "Is your head clear enough for you to answer some questions?" he asked. "The coffee is going to be a few minutes."

  She nodded, knowing it was silly to think she could delay talking about what had happened. She was a cop. She was going to have to face the fact that someone had tried to kill her. Then she was going to have to do something about it.

  "I need to know everything." He dropped into the love seat across from her and looked at her expectantly. "Details. Descriptions. Possible motives."

  Erin told him about the black Lincoln, the passenger with the shotgun, and how her cruiser had been run off the road. Nick listened intently, making an occasional notation in his notepad, his dark eyes watchful and razor sharp.

  When she finished, he went to the kitchen for their coffee, then took his place across from her again. "That's not the kind of crime we normally see here in Logan Falls."

  "I know."

  "That's happened twice since you've been in town. First, the dark sedan tries to run you down at the school crossing, and now this. Both of them had Illinois plates. What do you make of it?"

  "I'm not sure," she said, bringing the cup to her lips and sipping. "Seems a little coincidental, doesn't it?"

  "Makes me wonder why someone is trying to kill you."

  The words jolted her, even though they'd been expected. "I was a police officer for nine years. I worked narcotics for a year. Maybe I ticked someone off. Maybe someone I put away got out of prison. I don't know."

  Nick didn't look happy about the scenario. Rising, he strode to the kitchen and snatched up the phone. She watched him as he called in a description of the vehicle and put out an all points bulletin with the highway patrol.

  Erin couldn't quite believe this man had so many facets. One moment he was hard and uncompromising, the next exquisitely gentle. The same man who chewed her out on a regular basis could also kiss her senseless, and take her self-control apart bit by bit with those long, magical fingers of his.

  He still wore his uniform, and she found her eyes drawn to the wide span of his shoulders, his muscular forearms, the way his torso tapered to narrow hips and runner's legs. The top button of his shirt was open, revealing a layer of fine, black hair. She wondered what it would be like to part that shirt and run her fingers along that pelt of hair to the hard muscles of his abdomen. She wondered if he would resist her. If he would pull her into his arms and kiss her until she was intoxicated with pleasure. She stared, fascinated, appalled that she was openly fantasizing about a man she could never have a relationship with.

  Hanging up the phone, he walked back to the living room and took the love seat across from her. "Is there anything you haven't told me?" he asked. "A convict recently released from prison? A personal vendetta? Anything like that?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "What about the shooting you were involved in six months ago?"

  She should have anticipated the question, but it jarred her with unexpected force. The warehouse. Danny. The mistake she would never live down. Oh, how she wanted to put all that behind her. "I've already considered the possibility of a connection," she said. "It doesn't pan out. What happened that night doesn't warrant any kind of … vendetta."

  "Most shootings don't make a lot of sense, when it comes right down to it." Leaning forward, Nick set his cup on the coffee table between them and hit her with a narrowed look. "I need to know exactly what happened that night, Erin."

  She gripped her mug and concentrated on the warmth radiating into her icy fingers. "Like I told you before, I botched a bust and got myself shot. Danny got hit. I hit one of the perps—"

  "Who?"

  "We never identified him. He was gone by the time backup arrived."

  "How do you know for sure you hit him?"

  "There was quite a bit of blood at the scene, but no suspect and no body."

  Interest flared in his expression. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I know what you're thinking, Nick, but none of what happened that night is relevant to what happened today. It happened months ago, in another city, and we have nothing that ties the two incidents to
gether."

  "No ties we can see. You know as well as I do that we can't rule out a connection." His jaw flexed. "Is there anything else you haven't told me?"

  Erin knew she'd made him angry for not being up front from the beginning, but she didn't like dredging up what had happened that night. She wanted to put it to rest, wanted to put it behind her so badly she could barely bring herself to think about it, let alone discuss it.

  "Tell me the whole story. Now. No holds barred."

  She flinched at the steel in his voice. "I've already told you what happened."

  "You left out a few crucial details, McNeal. Now spill the rest of it."

  "It's … complicated."

  "I've got all night."

  She'd thought she was prepared. But the swirl of shame in the pit of her stomach told her how much it was going to hurt to see the condemnation in Nick's eyes when she told him the truth. She didn't want to believe his opinion had become so important to her. But it had. And she knew then what the truth would cost her. His respect, she realized. The tentative friendship they'd formed. Whatever it was that had been burgeoning between them since the moment she'd walked in the door of the police department and he'd leveled her with those dark, dangerous eyes of his. Until now, she hadn't even realized how precious those things had become—and the realization thoroughly stunned her.

  "Danny and I got an anonymous tip that there was going to be a drug buy in a warehouse down on the South Side. A few pounds of black tar heroin. Some cash. It was routine stuff. We were both pretty sure of ourselves back then. Cocky. A little too fond of the rush." The laugh that squeezed from her throat held no humor. "We went in alone. No Drug Enforcement Agency. No backup. We wanted all the credit."

  The memory crystallized. The anticipation. The exhilaration. Then the crushing blow of disaster. "Danny went in first—two, maybe three minutes before me. I waited until the last minute, then radioed for backup. I went in through the rear. We should have waited. We should have…" Her words trailed off as the weight of their mistakes pressed down on her. "Things went awry from the start. By the time I got inside, two men already had Danny down on the floor. They were well dressed. Armed to the hilt. Calm." Her voice sounded strangely foreign in the dead silence of her apartment. "They were going to kill him," she said. "Execution style. A cop, for God's sake. Just like that."