Riley hesitated. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Are you free?”
Sunday brunch at the Roarke household had been a long standing tradition when Noah and his siblings were growing up. Trevor, who’d lived on the same block, had often spoken fondly of his memories of attending church with Noah’s family and joining them for a lavish meal afterward.
“Mama Roarke could throw down,” he’d laughed, playfully smacking his lips. “Ham, barbecue ribs, fried chicken, corn bread, collard greens, honey rolls—you name it, Mama Roarke made it. Why do you think I’ve stayed friends with Noah all these years?” he’d teased, light green eyes twinkling with mischief because he knew Noah, somewhere across the room, could hear him.
Although Trevor and Noah had both been raised by single parents, the similarities ended there. For while Pamela Roarke, widowed early in her marriage, had done everything in her power to provide for her three children and create a warm, loving environment, Trevor’s mother had been young and irresponsible, changing jobs as frequently as she changed boyfriends. Trevor had never known his real father, and not one of the men his mother brought home could ever be considered father figures. The Roarkes had adopted the lonely, neglected ten-year-old into their own family, and he’d never forgotten that. Noah had been the brother he never had, and Pamela Roarke his surrogate mother.
“Riley? Are you there?”
Riley blinked, snapping out of her reverie. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Roar—I mean, Hubbard.” She grinned sheepishly. “I’m going to have to get used to your new last name.”
Pamela chuckled softly. “That’s all right. I understand. Tell you what. Why don’t you just call me Mama Pam? You’ve always been like a daughter to me, anyway.”
Riley smiled, touched by the warm, heartfelt sentiment. “Thank you, Mama Pam. I really appreciate that.”
“So you’ll come to brunch tomorrow?”
“Yes, I’d like that very much.” She couldn’t very well refuse, could she?
“Wonderful. You and Noah can meet us at the house after church, or you’re more than welcome to join us for the eight-o’clock service, if you’re not already going to church with your grandmother.”
Riley heard nothing else after the mention of Noah. “Did you say Noah and I can meet you…?”
“Yes. I thought he could pick you up since he knows where the new house is.” Pamela paused for a moment. “Or I could give you directions, if you’d prefer to drive yourself.”
“That’d be better,” Riley said quickly, pulling out a notepad from the top nightstand drawer.
As she jotted down the directions, images of kissing Noah rewound in her mind, bringing heat to her face. She hurried off the phone with Pamela Hubbard, half-afraid the woman would somehow discern Riley’s lustful thoughts about her son.
That’s when it occurred to her what a quandary she faced. The less time she spent alone with Noah, the less likely she’d be to cross the line. On the other hand, in order to get what she needed from him, she had to spend time with him—and the more, the better.
She tapped the pen against her lips. Somehow she’d have to ignore the fact that she was wildly attracted to him, that he was without question one of the sexiest men she’d ever known. She’d have to get over that bone-melting sensation she experienced every time their fingers brushed or he looked at her a certain way. And God help her, she’d have to stop thinking about that scorching, forbidden kiss they’d shared.
There wasn’t going to be an encore performance. She wouldn’t allow it. What was the phrase she’d used on Noah? Impervious to temptation? That was it. No matter how attractive she found him, she would have to become impervious to temptation. She’d returned home for one purpose and one purpose only. Nothing and no one could interfere with that.
It had to be this way.
The alternative was too unsettling. For more reasons than one.
In San Antonio, whenever a police officer was killed in the line of duty or caused death or injury to someone else, an Officer Involved Shooting Team was assembled to investigate the incident. The team usually consisted of the Homicide Unit lieutenant, three sergeants, and at least six detectives.
On a Saturday afternoon when he should have been catching up on paperwork, mowing his lawn, or tending to any number of other tasks, Noah found himself seated in the living room of retired sergeant Jerry Burns, who’d served on the OIST that handled Trevor’s shooting.
Burns, a fifty-two-year-old man with thinning gray hair, pale blue eyes, and the telltale beginnings of a paunch, had been forced into early retirement after injuring his back on the job last year. But anyone who knew Jerry Burns knew he wasn’t enjoying the life of a retired cop. Instead of collecting disability checks, he’d much rather be supervising a team of overworked, underpaid homicide detectives, a responsibility he’d enjoyed for fifteen years with the SAPD. Although Noah had been assigned to a different detail within the Homicide Unit, he’d always had a tremendous amount of respect for Jerry Burns. Unlike the authoritarian sergeant Noah had once reported to, Burns gave his detectives room to breathe, providing a buffer against the captain and those above Burns in the chain of command. Time and again, he’d proven to be trustworthy and discreet. For that reason, Noah knew he’d never have to worry about Burns telling anyone about his inquiries into Trevor’s death.
When Noah called him that afternoon, Burns had been so eager for contact with someone from his former life that he’d agreed to Noah’s visit without asking too many questions.
Now, however, after they’d exhausted talk of the weather, the NBA playoffs, and updates on members of the Sunday Night Pool Sharks, Burns chuckled dryly. “Not that I’m complaining, Roarke, but I know you didn’t drive all the way out here to drink my good beer and shoot the breeze. What’s on your mind—or do I even need to ask?”
Noah managed a wry smile. “Guess it’s that obvious, huh?”
Burns nodded. “You’re here to ask more questions about the shooting,” he said resignedly.
Noah inclined his head. This has nothing to do with what happened yesterday, he told himself firmly. Just because you kissed Riley doesn’t mean you now share her belief that Trevor may have caused his own death.
Burns sighed. “I don’t know what else I can tell you, Roarke. Because you were Trevor’s best friend and former partner on the force, we gave you unrestricted access to all our files—the crime scene report, the autopsy results, the findings from the OIST investigation. You went through everything with a fine-tooth comb and interviewed everyone from witnesses at the scene to convicts Trevor had sent to jail within the past year. When it was all said and done, you learned nothing more than what you’d already been told. That Trevor was shot and killed by a robbery suspect fleeing arrest.”
“I know.” Noah pushed out a long, deep breath. “I just can’t help but wonder if we missed something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Noah said honestly.
In the aftermath of Trevor’s senseless death, Noah had investigated the shooting as thoroughly as the officers assigned to the case. It had never once occurred to him that Trevor may have been involved in something shady that got him killed. He’d had no reason to suspect such a thing—until Riley returned with her awful suspicions. Suddenly he’d found himself poring through the old case files again, dredging up painful memories he’d sooner forget.
Burns was watching him sympathetically. “You’d been off the force for over a year when Trevor was killed. I know you felt out of the loop, which was why I made every effort to keep you informed and involved in the investigation—without Chief Pittman’s knowledge, of course. You know he would’ve nailed our hides to the wall if he ever found out we’d given you unlimited access to our files, former cop or not.”
Noah nodded. “I know, and I appreciate what you did for me.”
“But you still have questions.” Burns paused. “Or does someone else?”
Noah tensed. “What do y
ou mean?”
Those pale blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully on his face. “I heard through the grapevine that Riley Kane is back in town.”
“She is. And before you ask, she didn’t put me up to this, Jerry. I’m here on my own.” Which was true. Riley didn’t know he’d decided to pay a visit to the retired sergeant. As far as Noah was concerned, she would never find out, because he didn’t expect to learn anything new that would substantiate her fears and suspicions.
“Well, what do you want to know, Roarke? If I remember correctly, you had the crime scene report memorized by the time we were finished with our investigation. At 9:35 a.m. on January 16, Trevor responded to a radio call about a robbery in progress at the E-Z Mart convenience store on the south side. When he entered the store, the suspect was wearing a stocking mask and wielding a .38. There were only three other occupants inside the building, including the cashier. When Trevor ordered the suspect to drop his weapon, the perp escaped through a rear exit leading into an alley. Trevor pursued him. Witnesses in the store reported hearing the exchange of gunfire for at least thirty seconds. By the time other responding officers arrived on the scene, Trevor was down, and the suspect had fled. Ballistics matched the slug found in Trevor’s body to the.38 belonging to Conrad Weiss.” Burns paused, his mouth thinned to a grim line. “Did I miss anything?”
Noah shook his head, frowning. “Something that’s always bothered me…Trevor never radioed for backup.”
“No, he didn’t.” Burns scowled. “His failure to follow protocol probably cost him his damn life. But you know as well as I do that Simmons was hot-headed that way. If there was a chance for him to play the hero, he jumped at it.”
It was true. For as long as Noah could remember, Trevor had always possessed a misguided belief in his own immortality. In school he’d picked fights with bullies and kids that were much bigger than he was, just for the hell of it. And no matter how many times he got the crap beat out of him, nothing had deterred him. Growing up, the majority of the fights Noah had gotten into came as a result of Trevor’s antics.
Yeah, he knew better than anyone what a hothead Trevor Simmons had been.
They couldn’t have known that it would someday cost him his life.
“In the days and weeks leading up to the shooting,” Noah asked, “did you notice any changes in Trevor’s behavior?”
“No.” Burns frowned. “We went over all this during the investigation, Roarke. Nothing’s changed, as far as I know. There’ve been no new developments that would warrant reopening a closed case. What happened to Trevor was an unfortunate tragedy. But we have no reason to believe there was anything more to it than an armed robber shooting an officer in the course of resisting arrest. My advice to you—and to Miss Kane—is to move on with your lives, and let Trevor rest in peace.”
Noah scrubbed a hand over his face and pushed out a deep breath. Burns was right, of course. He’d pretty much told Riley the same thing. It was time for them—for her—to move on with her life, as he’d already done. Hadn’t he?
He gave Burns a rueful smile. “I don’t suppose you could spare a little more of your time to walk me through all the files and reports again? They’re in a box in my truck outside.”
Burns stared at him for a prolonged moment, then huffed out a resigned sigh. “What the hell? My wife won’t be back from her sister’s until this evening anyway. But you owe me big time, Roarke. And if I ever need the services of a private investigator, I expect some sort of discount from you.”
Noah grinned, rising from the sofa. “Anything for you, sergeant.”
Hell, if Jerry Burns could help Noah put to rest any lingering questions about Trevor’s death, Noah would be indebted to him for life.
Chapter 9
“You must be Riley Kane.”
Riley smiled at the tall, handsome, gray-haired gentleman who greeted her at the front door of Pamela Hubbard’s home the following afternoon. “Yes, I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hubbard.”
Warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners in a welcoming smile. “The pleasure’s mine, young lady. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Good things, I hope?”
Lionel Hubbard laughed, a quiet, gravelly sound that rumbled up from his chest. “Of course, of course. Come on in. Everyone’s been waiting for you.”
Everyone? Riley thought nervously as she stepped into the cool interior of the large single-story house. She had only a glimpse of a spacious, elegantly furnished living room off to her left before the rapid approach of footsteps on ceramic tile drew her attention.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” Pamela Hubbard greeted her, beaming a smile of such genuine warmth that Riley wondered what she’d ever done to deserve this woman’s incredible generosity.
She smiled as Pamela wrapped her in a tight, fragrant embrace. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Pamela said, drawing away to grasp both of Riley’s hands. “Like I told you on the phone, I would have called you last week if I’d known you were back home. Don’t think I didn’t give those boys an earful the first chance I got.”
At sixty-two years old and standing at five-two, Pamela Hubbard was a petite woman with smooth, firm skin the color of mocha and gentle hazel eyes. Her silver hair was styled the same way Riley remembered, in short, sophisticated layers that accentuated her fine-boned features. She wore a pleated navy-blue skirt and cream silk blouse beneath a red apron with World’s Greatest, Bestest Grandma stenciled in white letters across the front.
“You’re looking very well,” Pamela said, holding Riley at arm’s length for a moment as she gave her a once-over. She nodded in approval at the pale yellow skirt and jacket Riley wore with a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals. “Just as pretty as a picture, isn’t she, Lion?”
Her husband smiled at Riley. “You betcha.”
“Did you go to church with your grandmother this morning?” Pamela inquired.
Riley nodded and smiled. “She wanted to show me off to all her friends.”
Pamela laughed. “Of course. She couldn’t stop bragging about you last night at the fund-raiser dance. She’s going to have everyone at the senior center trying to marry you off to their eligible grandsons. Oh, has she shown you the pictures yet? Florinda was the belle of the ball. She said you helped her pick out that beautiful gown she was wearing. I told her you have excellent taste.”
“Speaking of taste,” Lionel Hubbard interjected good-naturedly, rubbing his stomach, “when are we going to eat, woman? My mouth has been watering ever since you took that glazed ham out of the oven.”
“Oh, go on with you,” Pamela laughingly chided.
Riley couldn’t help but smile, seeing the tender look that passed between them.
“We can eat as soon as the rolls are ready,” Pamela said briskly. “I was waiting for Riley to arrive before I stuck ’em in the oven. Riley, won’t you be a dear and go fetch the others from outside? They need to get washed up before they step anywhere near my dinner table. Go right through those French doors to reach the backyard,” she instructed, pointing down a wide expanse of corridor that led to what appeared to be a family room.
Riley obeyed without question, though her palms had grown moist at the prospect of seeing Noah again. She wondered how he felt about his mother inviting her over for Sunday brunch. Would he resent her for showing up? Would he treat her like an intruder, an unwelcome guest at a sacred family gathering?
When he looked at her, would his gaze reflect the memory of their kiss?
As she stepped through the French doors onto the wide wooden deck, the first thing she noticed was an enormous yard framed by ancient cypress trees, manicured shrubs, and lush garden beds teeming with a colorful mélange of flowers that perfumed the air.
The sounds of male laughter, mingled with the slap of a basketball against pavement, reached her ears. Curious, she walked across the deck, sidestepping a set of wrought-iron patio furniture, and
peered around the side of the house into a small courtyard. There, engaged in a rough game of thirty-three, were Noah, Kenneth and a young caramel-skinned boy who could only be Kenneth Junior—or KJ, as his family called him. All three of them were shirtless under the hot summer sun, but there was only one bare chest that made Riley’s mouth run dry. Noah’s impossibly broad shoulders and wide chest planed with hard, sinewy muscle evoked images of a Greco-Roman bronze statue. A light sheen of sweat clung to his glorious brown skin and made Riley wonder what it would be like to touch him, to press her hand against the solid warmth of his bicep and feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.
Unable to look away, she watched as he lowered one shoulder, drove past Kenneth and slammed the basketball through the hoop. The metal rim vibrated with the force of the dunk, drawing loud, protesting groans from his brother and nephew. Noah grinned cockily, his teeth flashing strong and white in his handsome face as he reached out to ruffle KJ’s curly hair.
“Still think you and your old man can beat me?” he teased, his voice deeper and huskier from physical exertion. Knees weakening, Riley found herself leaning a little too heavily against the deck railing.
Noah glanced up then, meeting her eyes, and Riley’s breath caught sharply in her throat. How had she missed the power of those deep, mesmerizing eyes five years ago she wondered, not for the first time.
“Hey Riley!” a voice called out cheerfully.
Riley straightened from the railing and turned around to watch Janie emerge from a gazebo across the yard with a miniature version of herself in tow, both dressed in their Sunday best. Eight-year-old Lourdes Roarke’s dark, glossy hair was parted down the center and hung to her tiny waist.
Riley waved at the pair as they approached.
“When’d you get here?” Janie asked, leaning down to press a kiss to Riley’s cheek.
“A few minutes ago.” Riley smiled at the young, pretty girl standing beside her mother. “Hi, Lourdes. Do you remember me?”
A Guilty Affair Page 9
