“Just wondered how your day went,” Bruce had said, but she heard exhaustion and discouragement in his voice. “Are you still at the hospital? I might stop by.”
“No, I’ve gone home.” Before she knew it, she heard herself saying, “If you need to talk, you’d be welcome to come by.”
Now, butterflies fluttering in her stomach, she was waiting for her doorbell to ring. She hardly knew him. They hadn’t even dated! She never invited men she knew only casually into her home. This was her space, her sanctuary. She’d always believed she could tell as much about a person from seeing the inside of his home as she could if he stripped naked in front of her and babbled his deepest secrets. Every item she chose and how she displayed it, the colors she loved, her appreciation for clutter or simplicity, all spoke of how she saw herself, how she felt about herself. Letting him in the front door was like exposing herself.
The doorbell rang and she jerked. She was being absurd. He wouldn’t notice her décor; men didn’t. And anyway…she wasn’t ashamed of her home or anything it said about her. Having a guy over for a cup of coffee was hardly an act of intimacy.
She opened her door to find he looked as worn as he’d sounded. Alarm squeezed her at the sight of this man, who ordinarily exuded such confidence, wearing discouragement as if it were a cologne.
“What happened?” she asked before she could stop herself. “You didn’t find…?”
“Find…? No.” He grimaced. “Neither hide nor hair.”
She stood back. “Come in. Let me take your jacket.” As he shrugged out of it and handed it to her, she was jarred by the sight of his shoulder holster and weapon. The leather straps somehow made his broad shoulders appear even more imposing. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Her eyes narrowed. “Or have you eaten?”
“Surprisingly…yeah. I wanted to think. I stopped for a burger earlier.”
She shook her head in disapproval.
“Coffee would be good.”
Karin already had it brewing. She poured him a cup and freshened hers, added sugar and cream per their tastes and led the way back to the living room. Bruce sprawled at one end of her comfortable sofa, while Karin sat more sedately in a buttery-soft leather chair across from him.
“So what happened?” she asked.
“First, how’s Lenora?”
“Actually, the doctor was encouraged today. She’s getting restless. Jerking, some reflex responses to touch. She even had some facial twitches. I kept imagining she was about to open her mouth and say something.” Karin gave a small shudder.
Anna and Enrico. Are they safe? That was what she’d imagined Lenora would ask first. How Karin dreaded answering that question.
“We got momentarily excited today when a patrol unit spotted a car matching the description of Escobar’s. It had stolen plates.” He grimaced. “When we closed in, we discovered it belonged to a group of runaway teens. They weren’t real thrilled to see us.”
“Do you think he’s still around here?”
He frowned. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I’ve been in touch with the FBI in case Escobar has crossed state lines with the kids. Neither they nor any other jurisdiction has picked up even a whisper. Besides, I checked with the hospital this morning. They’ve had a number of calls about Lenora’s status. I’m wondering if he’s one of the people calling.”
Her eyes widened and her fingers tightened on her mug. “Do you mean…Is she in danger?”
“Probably not now, security is pretty tight in the ICU, but we’ll need to be cautious if—when—she walks out of there. He’s not going to like that.” Bruce shook his head, then rubbed his neck as if it ached. “Unless he has delusions that she’ll be sorry about what she did to him and is now longing for him. God knows.”
Karin studied the man slouched so low on her sofa it might take a forklift to shift him off it. The lines carving his face were surely deeper than they’d been yesterday. With the stubble on his jaw, his dark hair disheveled, the gun nestled where he could grab it between one heartbeat and the next, he should have appeared dangerous. Instead, she read despondency in his posture, would have sworn she saw something wounded in his eyes. Was it just the frustration? Did he hate being thwarted that much?
“Your partner,” she probed. “She’s okay? And her sister’s baby?”
“Huh?” He lifted his gaze from the mug to her. “Oh. Yeah. Kid’s got a set of lungs, according to Molly.”
Her mouth curved. “Babies come equipped that way, or so I’m told.”
“Yeah, and think how long it takes to potty train ’em. Puppy learns in a week or two.”
“And you don’t have to send it to college, either.”
At last he grinned, his body relaxing slightly.
“What I was trying to find out,” she said with some exasperation, “is why you look like your puppy just got run over.”
His grin, though genuine, had vanished as quickly as it appeared, gone in the blink of an eye. Now he tried to smile, but this effort was an abysmal failure. “That obvious, huh?”
“Mmm, hmm.”
“It’s this kid I’ve been spending time with. I signed up to be a Big Brother about a year ago—maybe a little longer now. I spend at least a few hours with Trevor pretty much every week.”
She nodded to encourage him to keep talking.
“Trevor is twelve now. He’s a great kid. Smart, funny. Life just keeps hitting on him.” Bruce’s voice was bleak. “He’s small for his age, for starters. He has his own personal bully at his bus stop. His dad beat the crap out of his mother, who finally kicked him out two years back. Trev hasn’t seen his dad since, although he calls sometimes. His mother tries, but she can barely hang on to a job for a couple of months at a time. I think she’s on crack now. She’s gone for a couple of days at a time pretty regularly, from what Trev says. But from the sound of it, she’s been hurting lately, maybe suffering withdrawal, and she disappeared five or six days ago. She’s never been gone that long before. He’s scared.”
“I should think!” she exclaimed.
“He called me. I called CPS. They sent a caseworker and took him off to a receiving home.” Now the agony was exposed, seeping. His expression suggested pure misery. “Trevor feels betrayed. Turns out he thought I’d take him home with me. And damn it, part of me wanted to. But with my hours, how can I? I might as well leave him completely on his own.”
On impulse, she set down her coffee and circled the coffee table to sit beside him, instead, reaching out to grip his hand. He grabbed and held on as if to a lifeline. His face looked even more ravaged close up. However matter-of-fact his description of Trevor’s situation and their relationship, he loved this boy, she thought.
“Do you still believe you did the right thing?” she asked. “Even after second-guessing yourself?”
“A couple hundred times?” His mouth twisted.
“Yeah. I think so. But when I called, I was picturing him getting sent to a foster home. You know, mom, dad, maybe another kid. Instead he’s being thrown into a dormitory-type situation with a bunch of bigger, tougher, meaner boys.”
“Can’t you find his mother?”
“So far, no cigar. She’s probably semicomatose in a crack house somewhere.” His shoulders moved in an unhappy shrug. “She may take weeks or months to surface if she’s too far gone, and when she does, it may be in the morgue. Crap!” he said explosively. “She’s all he has. And, damn it, she’s tried!”
“Crack is supposed to be one of the worst addictions.”
“Yeah, and I’m guessing she just lost her battle with it. But what’s going to happen to Trev now?” He didn’t expect a response, she could tell; he knew the answer. “I can’t see a happy ending.”
She bit her lip before saying tentatively, “Have you considered, if his mother can’t be found…?”
His blank stare told her he hadn’t.
“Taking him in? I mean, long term?” she suggested.
His grunt held incredulity. “Ar
e you kidding? After the way I grew up? I have no more idea how to be a parent than his father did. Probably less. Parenting 101 in my house—kid gives you lip you backhand him. He breaks curfew? You pull out the leather belt. I have no idea what the responsible alternatives are. No. It’s not happening.” Subject closed.
Karin wanted to argue. She had never seen him interact with a child, never mind a defiant preadolescent, but she had seen him talk to a roomful of wary, wounded women with respect, compassion and blunt honesty that had allowed them to lower their guard. She didn’t believe for a minute that Bruce Walker was a man who would ever backhand a child, much less become enraged enough to strike him with a leather belt.
Oh, God. Did he have scars?
That flash of speculation was enough to make her suddenly, exquisitely conscious of his body. Or perhaps of hers. No, the truth was, she’d been conscious of his from the moment she’d opened her door to him. She’d just…tamped down that awareness. She knew her cheeks were flushing, because heat seemed to rush through her veins. She was flushing all over.
Say something. Don’t let him notice.
“Have you ever been angry at him?” she asked, almost at random.
“Trevor?” His eyebrows rose. “Mildly irritated.”
“Then what makes you think…?”
“As parents, don’t we all revert to what we learned at home?”
“We may have that tendency, but we can overcome it. The people who do revert are the ones who aren’t self-aware. They just go with instinct. But lots of people who were abused as children turn into fine parents.”
There, she congratulated herself. She sounded like the levelheaded therapist she was.
Yes, but she was still holding hands with Bruce. He didn’t seem to want to let hers go, and she certainly hadn’t made any effort to tug her hand free. Should she? Probably, but…
She sucked in a breath. His thumb had begun to move, making idle circles. She gave a tiny shiver of reaction.
“Thanks,” he said huskily.
“For?” Her voice emerged barely above a whisper.
“Seeing hope.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her face. His eyes had darkened to near charcoal. “Listening to me.”
“It’s…the least I could do.”
“If you didn’t want me to kiss you, it might have been smart if you’d stayed over there.” Bruce jerked his head toward the chair.
She swallowed. “I think I must want you to kiss me.”
“Good.” The gravel in his voice was more pronounced. “Because I need you.”
He tugged, and she went unresisting, unable to tear her eyes from his face. From his mouth, hard and yet somehow unbearably sensual.
A kiss. Just a kiss, Karin thought in near panic as his arm closed around her.
But she knew a lie when she told herself one.
CHAPTER SIX
SHE TASTED BETTER than any woman he’d ever kissed. From the minute she’d moved to the couch and taken his hand in hers, he’d thought, I’ve got to kiss her. Soon. And then, Now.
The urgency was gut level, stunning him. One minute he was tugging her toward him, the next he was devouring her mouth. The pillow of her lips, the warm dark cavern of her mouth, the slippery, sensuous slide of her tongue on his, ripped away any brain power.
Bruce yanked her on top of him, one hand tangled in the hair on the back of her head, the other rhythmically squeezing her buttock. That quick, he was rock hard against her. He tore his mouth from hers long enough to graze his teeth down her throat and lick the hollow at the base, salty and silky, then groaned and recaptured her lips.
She squirmed, and for a split second pure panic rocked him. She was going to pull away. God. He didn’t know if he could bear to let her go.
But all she did was wriggle into a more comfortable position straddling him. The sensation of her thighs squeezing his hips was like a sonic boom, muffling the inner voice that counseled him to slow down. He couldn’t go slow.
Bruce wrenched her shirt up and fumbled for the catch of her bra, even as she ended the kiss long enough to yank her own shirt over her head. He had a glimpse of her face: lips swollen and damp, hair wild, cheek whisker-burned, eyes riveted to his. And then he lowered his gaze to her breasts, more than a handful, peaked with tight, pink nipples.
He gripped her hips and lifted her so that he could take each breast in turn into his mouth, licking, suckling, tugging. Her back arched and her breath whistled out.
Hunger so primitive it was wordless claimed him. All he knew was that he needed to penetrate her. He had to claim her.
He pushed them both sideways, so she sprawled beneath him the length of the sofa. He reared to his knees to pull her pants and panties down with no ceremony. Her legs were gorgeous, long, taut and already wrapping around him. Sleek white belly and—yes!—dark blond curls at the apex of her thighs.
She half sat, and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Drawing them down, she gasped, “Do you have a condom?”
He was so crazed he didn’t understand for a moment. When he did, he reached for his wallet in his back pocket. Did he have a condom? Yes. What would he have done if he hadn’t…?
Moving had reminded him that he still wore both a shirt and his shoulder holster. Damn, damn, damn. From long practice he unbuckled the holster and dropped it over the arm of the sofa, yanked the shirt off and lifted himself from her long enough to free himself from the slacks, too.
Condom. He put it on himself with hands that shook, then bent to suckle her breast again. Finally, he kissed her deep and long, even as he found her opening and rammed in with no more finesse than a teenager his first time.
She was slick and tight and he couldn’t go slow. He retreated and thrust again, and again, hard and fast. Her fingernails bit into his back and she nipped his neck sharply. Her hips bucked, and he fell with her from the sofa, crashing together onto their sides, never slowing. At one point she rose above him, before he flipped them again, banging against the coffee table, and climaxing as he pounded into her. She was spasming, too, and keening as he groaned.
As the wave washed out again, he collapsed. The little death. Yes, he simply could not move, could not form a conscious thought, could only feel satiated and boneless and deeply satisfied.
Awareness returned in micro increments. Pain on his upper arm. From where he hit the table. Or was it the floor? Rough-textured carpet beneath his knee, planted between her legs. His mouth sticking to her neck. Drool? That unwelcome realization produced a groan from the depths of his chest, and he rose onto his elbows.
“I’m flattening you.”
“Hmm?” She looked, if it was possible, more stunned than he felt. Maybe it wasn’t postcoital bliss; maybe she was suffering from oxygen deprivation. He was a big man.
No place to roll. The coffee table, entirely too solid, blocked them on one side, the sofa on the other. Mumbling, he lifted himself awkwardly from her, then held out a hand.
Karin stared at it, as if unable to decipher the gesture. Then she whispered, “Oh.” The next “Oh” emerged as a squeak, and she scrambled backward and to her feet. “Let me get…um…” She fled toward a short hall. A door closed behind her. Would she be coming back out?
Clothes. Bruce glanced around. In her absence, he got dressed, wincing every time he moved his right arm. Looked like a nice bruise was forming there.
As if a flashbulb were exploding in front of his eyes, he kept getting pictures. Ripping her clothes off like some kind of animal. Slamming into her. The crash to the floor. Squeezing her breasts. God. Had he left bruises on her?
What in the hell, he wondered, appalled, had happened to him? Should he leave before she reappeared? If she reappeared?
No. That would be unforgivable. Slam, bam, thank you, ma’am.
No.
With hands that felt clumsy, he picked up her clothing and carefully folded it, making a small pile on the coffee table. He slid the table back so it sat square to the sofa, restored to
their places the pillows that had gone flying, then went to get a sponge from the kitchen to mop up the coffee spilled on the table. He was carrying the two mugs back to the kitchen when Karin returned down the hall, wearing sweats. Her hair, he saw with a lightning-quick assessment, was pulled back repressively. Even painfully. She didn’t quite meet his eyes.
Without a word, he set the mugs in the sink and faced her. She hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms tightly crossed, her teeth on her lower lip.
After a minute, Bruce said, “I don’t know where that came from.”
She gave a peculiar laugh. “Me neither.”
“I can be gentle. Even patient.”
Voice as tightly strung as her body language, she said, “I didn’t seem to have any problem with your technique.”
At her words, he felt a jolt in his groin. No. She’d given as good as she got, and he hadn’t mistaken the seemingly endless way her body had spasmed around his.
So. They’d had raw, even brutal, sex, and now they were both embarrassed. He grunted. Embarrassed didn’t half cover it. He was shaken to know what he was capable of. What if she’d said stop! just before he’d penetrated her? Could he have stopped? He didn’t know, and hated the not knowing. What separated him, then, from the monsters who had raped those women he’d met at A Woman’s Hand?
“I hope, ah, that you don’t have any bruises.”
Alarm leaped into her eyes. “Especially visible ones.”
“Yeah, not so good in your line of work.” He braced his hands on either side of the countertop and couldn’t suppress a small wince.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“Banged my shoulder.”
Her teeth worried her lip again. “Oh.”
He cleared his throat. “It was…amazing.”
Color, already high in her cheeks, rose. “I’ve never done anything like that.”
The Man Behind the Cop Page 8
