by Lakes, Lynde
The salt air hummed with idling and revving motors and excited voices. No wonder no one had heard her call out when she went down.
But her shout, “Halt or I’ll shoot”, had been heard. Ku and Damon ran toward her looking panicked.
“Malia! My God!” Damon said.
She could imagine what she looked like, all bruised and bleeding. She longed to fall into his arms. Although slightly dazed and tasting coppery blood, she couldn’t show weakness in front of Ku, and, right now, she couldn’t deal with the feelings that made her suddenly so vulnerable. Damon reached for her hands.
She made a stop gesture and backed away. “Don’t get excited. I’m fine.”
Damon stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at her intently, his expression dark and stormy. In unison he and Ku asked, “What happened?”
“The bomber’s here,” she said, talking fast. “He got away but— Close off the wharf and surrounding areas. We can still get him!”
Ku quickly radioed the order to the other officers on site then circled around her, looking her over. “You need to go to ER,” he said. “You’ve got facial cuts, and there’s blood in your hair. I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Don’t you dare. I’m not leaving here until we get that guy. Now go, I need you on this.” Her head was swimming, but she’d never admit it.
“Stay with her,” Ku said, and took off running.
Trying to ignore Damon’s disapproving stare, she dialed the bomb commander. The perp had hidden under her car, and his egotistical profile ruled out a suicide bomber. But he could have another trigger device.
Damon stayed with her while she waited for the bomb squad. “Someone else can handle all this,” he said. “Dammit, you need to go to the ER now.”
“My injuries look worse than they are. And I can handle this. It’s my job.”
“Are all cops this stubborn, or is it just the woman officers who are afraid to show they’re human rather than Miss Super-Cop?”
Before Malia could answer, which was probably a good thing since she was going to tell Damon to go to hell, Ku returned. “Perp got away,” he told her. “Must’ve had a car parked nearby.”
Malia rubbed her throbbing head. The skin felt sticky. She lowered her hand and looked down at bloody fingers. The world spun, then cleared. Her eyes focused on Damon’s rigid carriage as he turned and walked away, shaking his head. She didn’t blame him for not understanding. Only another cop would understand her passion for the job.
Ku took her arm. “We should pack it in.”
It seemed even he thought she should pick up her cards and get out of the game. “We’re not giving up,” she said. “Widen the search.”
Ku swore under his breath, then flicked on his radio and passed on the order. Malia leaned against a meter-post. Her head was spinning again. She sat down on a concrete divider and took deep breaths. She’d be okay in a few seconds.
Damon had looked so worried – and that worried her. He was a hands-on kind of guy. What if he tried to catch the perp himself? It would be just like him.
Ku flicked off his radio and gave her a hard look. “We closed off a twelve-block area, but I think we’re chasing our okolé.”
“We not quitting.” This was the bastard who’d killed her best friend, killed two other classmates, and would have killed a boatload of innocent people if Damon hadn’t thrown the bomb overboard. “Find Damon. If I don’t get him out of here, he might do something crazy and get himself killed.”
Something unreadable flickered in Ku’s eyes. “Right. We don’t need a civilian playing Rambo.” Ku was gone only a few minutes. When he returned, he said, “I found him. The only technique I could get him to come back was to either arrest him, or make him believe I needed him to take you to ER.”
She glared at Ku. “I may have hit my head, but it didn’t make me stupid.”
Ku cursed in Hawaiian. “Shaw was right about you.”
“What did he say?”
The bomb squad, who been nearby on the cruise boat, arrived with flashing blue lights and pulled up about 200 feet from Reed’s car. “I’ll take care of this,” Ku said without answering her question.
She nodded. She tried to imagine what Damon had said about her. Since Ku had enjoyed it so much, it couldn’t be flattering.
Officer Davis approached, shaking his head. “That perp really pounded you, didn’t he? No wonder you want his ass.”
“That’s not why. He killed three women and tried to take out a boatload of people!”
Davis and everyone else knew it was personal, and that’s exactly why she couldn’t let this attack break her. “Any sight of him?”
“A newspaper vendor saw a guy run into an alley. The runner fit the perp’s description. We checked the alley, but he must’ve stashed a car at the other end because there was no sign of him. I think we’ve exhausted all possibilities. The guy’s gone.”
Disappointment and fatigue washed over Malia. “Good job,” she said, trying for an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “Pack it in. Tomorrow’s another day.”
After the bomb squad checked her car and found nothing, they loaded up their gear and left. She sighed in relief that the car was clear. Damn, she’d overreacted.
“I’ll drive your car home, “Ku said. “You’re a mess.”
She looked down at her torn, dirty, bloody clothes and saw her appearance through his eyes. Her skull throbbed like she’d fallen on it from a second-story building. But she could still do her job. Hadn’t she proved that when she kicked the hell out of the perp? She’d come so close to catching him. So damn close.
Damon pulled his truck up in the space next to hers and got out. The dim parking lot lights and shadows played across his tall, lean frame. A stirring made her heart pound faster.
“Ku told me you agreed to go to the ER.”
“No ER.” Dammit, she was still head of this team. Ku had no right to push her off on this civilian to get her out of the way.” Heat shot to her face, followed by a wave of dizziness, and then the world went black.
Chapter Fifteen
Before the medics loaded Malia into the ambulance, Ku secured her gun. Then both he and Damon followed the emergency vehicle to the hospital. About twenty minutes later, Damon learned from an ER nurse that Malia had regained consciousness, was alert, but was in a lot of pain. Due to her head injury, the ER doctor insisted upon a CT scan.
After what seemed like an eternity, the physician came out and told Ku and Damon that she didn’t have a concussion. “She says she’s okay,” he said tiredly, “and refuses to be admitted. I’ll release her if there’s someone who can monitor her through the night.”
“I can do that,” both men said in unison.
The doctor almost smiled. “Well, I’ll leave that decision up to her. Even heavily sedated she seems to have a mind of her own. She even insisted upon a DNA swab of her fingernails, just in case she had managed to scratch her attacker. According to her, he was clothed from head to foot. But she didn’t want to chance losing potential evidence.”
Damon and Ku shook their heads, both aware that even now her mind was on the case.
The doctor gave a small smile. “She’s quite an officer, isn’t she?” Without waiting for an answer, he told them she’d be ready to go in an hour.
Damon and Ku paced in opposite paths. The tension in the waiting room was thick enough to cut, and the pressure was building.
The nurse at the desk approached Ku. “You have a call,” she said.
Damon guessed that the detective had turned off his cell phone while in the hospital.
Ku returned frowning. “A civilian thinks he spotted our perp. Reed’ll have my head if I don’t check this out myself. Take care of things here, yah?”
“No problem,” Damon said. “When they release Malia, I’ll get her safely home and stay with her through the night.”
Ku expanded his linebacker chest and poked a finger into Damon’s breastbone. “Treat her like a sister,
got it?”
He brushed Ku’s hand away. “In her condition, what the hell would you think I’d do? Besides, the cop-lady doesn’t like me much more than you do.”
Ku stared at him as though he was considering debating that point then handed Damon a card. “Call if she needs me, yah? No hour is too late.”
Damon was both insulted and complimented. The big guy had left him in charge, which seemed to prove that he no longer considered him a suspect in his wife’s murder. But Ku had hesitated. Was that just a cop caring for one of his own, or was there a more personal interest? Damon shook his head. Why did he care? It was none of his business. The trouble was, he did care, and his concern was growing.
Closing his eyes, Damon pressed hard on both sides of the bridge of his nose, trying to suppress a nagging pain. He couldn’t forget the crimson rope-welt on Malia’s throat after the attack. What struck him most was how she continued with her job like a woman possessed. Even a male cop, if he’d been half-strangled and taken such a hard blow to the head, would have called it quits for the night. Why was Malia so driven? How could a woman look so strong and capable, yet touch his heart with her underlying vulnerability.
****
Damon pulled into Malia’s driveway and glanced at her. Although she didn’t have a concussion, her injuries were painful, and the doctor had given her a shot of something to ease the tremendous pain. He had also given Damon a prescription for Vicodin and told him to see that she took two tablets every six hours, starting when they got home. It looked to him that she was fuzzy-headed enough already.
While she fumbled with her seatbelt, he rushed around the truck, unbuckled the clasp for her, and then lifted her down. Her waist was curvy and firm in his hands, and she was unbelievably light.
“I could’ve gotten myself down,” she said, shaking herself free of him and stumbling a few steps.
She’d said almost the same thing when he’d lifted her in at the hospital. “Come on, Malia. Save your self-sufficient act for tomorrow. None of your peers are here to impress with your toughness.” He knew at once he shouldn’t have said that.
“What do you know?” She staggered several more times as she made her way up her walkway. He followed right behind, waiting for the inevitable. At the first porch step she swayed and fell back into arms.
He wanted to sweep her off her feet and carry her inside, but he didn’t know how he’d manage her and the lock. He tightened his hold around her waist and assisted her up the steps and to the front door. “Give me the keys.”
She fumbled through her purse, found a slew of keys on a chain, and then promptly dropped them. Trying to keep her upright, he bent and picked them up. In the process, he almost dumped the white bag the hospital had given them for her belongings. A lacey white bra tumbled into sight and dangled half out of the bag. Underneath that cop facade, she was just as feminine as he’d imagined.
He had to focus. He needed two hands to get the door unlocked. “Hang on to my neck and lock your hands. He drew her close to his chest and put her hands in place.
Her flimsy blouse was no barrier. She leaned into him, pressing her soft, braless breasts against his chest. “Don’t try to get fresh,” she said.
Was she kidding? He wanted to protect her from everything, including her own daring and his building passion. “First Ku, and now you,” Damon said, fighting the adrenaline rushing into his bloodstream. “Is sex all you cops think about?” Sweat broke out where Malia pressed against him. Somehow he managed to open the door. “Glad to see that you have good security locks.”
Inside, the lights were already on. Triggered by timers, he guessed. He inhaled the smell of new cherry wood and something else. Lilacs, maybe? The living-great room combo gave a spacious feeling that his own apartment lacked. The place was on one-level and had a feminine charm that surprised Damon. Malia was a tangle of contradictions. Tough yet soft, capable yet susceptible, secretive yet open, and other inconsistencies that were too arousing to dare think about for longer than a second.
“Re-lock everything, and flip the bar,” Malia said.
“Okay, General.” Bossy woman. But he was secretly relieved that she was paranoid about locking doors. A woman living alone could never be too careful. He studied her dazed eyes. “The doc wants you to go straight to bed.”
“In a minute.” Malia pulled away from him. Stumbling, she wove her way toward the kitchen. Looking boneless, she bent over an oblong double-sized cage. She swayed and grabbed onto the edges to keep from losing her balance. “Hi, Ivan, miss me?” she slurred.
Damon dropped the hospital bag onto the counter and grabbed Malia around the waist to keep her upright. Fighting how much he enjoyed touching her, he glanced inside the cage and blinked. “You have a rabbit?”
“He’s Siamese. Isn’t he beautiful?” she mumbled as though her tongue was swollen. She swayed again.
“Come on,” Damon said. “Let’s get you to bed before you fall flat on your face.”
She shook her head. “Can’t. Have to feed and water Ivan.”
Damon let out a gush of air. “I’ll do that. Where’s the food?”
Malia gestured in the general direction of a cabinet. He managed to get her to a chair; he considered using a hand towel to secure her there.
In the cabinet, he found a bag of papaya pellets and a container of hay grass. “Cut up an apple, too,” she said.
Damon saluted. “Right away, General. Anything else?”
She mumbled something he didn’t understand. Not wanting to pursue it, he opened the refrigerator and got out an apple. He found a cutting board and sliced the fruit into wafer-thin pieces. His mouth watered, and he popped a wedge into his mouth. The special treats on hand for Ivan and the tone in her voice when she greeted the pet told Damon the bunny was family.
After feeding and watering Ivan, Damon drew Malia to her feet. She crumpled against him. He swept her into his arms and carried her through the living room to a hallway. She was warm and womanly.
At the end of the passageway, Damon found the master bedroom and eased Malia’s limp body onto the bed. I am in Malia’s bedroom. Trying to ignore the testosterone surging through him, he shrugged the white bag from his shoulder and placed it on the floor. He glanced at the lacy bra hanging out, and then at Malia’s body, all stretched out, arms flung wide. She’ s bare under that blouse. Heat raced through Damon’s bloodstream. He took a deep breath to rein in his fantasies of them tangled in one another’s arms all hot and sweaty.
He turned the lamp to dim. She just lay there limp as a rag doll. Her once shiny boots were now scuffed and dirty; he unzipped and tugged them off. The socks came off easily, revealing delicate feet. He’d never paid much attention to feet before, but hers were slender and beautiful. He had an urge to kiss them. This was a first. Even her toenails were manicured with a clear polish.
With effort, he jerked his attention back to business. Her blouse was smeared with dirt and grease. Her slacks were equally dirty and torn at the knees. She would rest better in loose clothing. The ER nurse had cleaned up Malia, stitched the cut on the back of her head and her forehead, and treated the bad scrapes. So all he had to do was get her into something unsoiled.
He looked behind the master bath door, hoping to find a gown or robe. He found red oriental pajamas. How could he get her into those and not invade her privacy? He got a big towel; and lifting her blouse slightly, he spread the towel beneath it; thoroughly covering her breasts. I’ll bet she’s lovely under that towel. Sweating, and with a pounding heart, he slipped off her blouse and struggled to put the oriental PJ top on. She moaned and shifted slightly, making the task a grueling challenge. Once he got her arms in the sleeves and secured the red silk around her, he tackled the troublesome buttons. His usually steady hands trembled, making the job all the more difficult.
I should get a Boy Scout badge for this.
When he finally fastened the last button, he expelled a rush of air. He should quit now while he sti
ll had his sanity; but he’d never been one to do a halfway job. He squared his shoulders and drew the towel from under the PJ’s, then smoothed it over her flat stomach and gently curving hips. Medical people did this stuff all the time. Why was he making such a big deal out of it? For one thing, he wasn’t one of them. But he could do this. As he eased down her slacks, he got a glimpse of a lacy bikini and white skin. The throbbing in his lower extremities warned him to leave the panties alone. He yanked the PJ bottom up over them; then with pounding heart and sweating brow, he slouched into a chair at her bedside.
Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. Her long, dark lashes reminded him of two lacy fans. Her face, although scratched, cut and bruised, was lovely in slumber, like a battered angel. Unfortunately, unless he’d read the detective wrong, the attack tonight wouldn’t clip her wings.
Malia’s lips moved slightly. He’d never kissed anyone who was asleep. He clung to the arms of his chair. If he ever kissed her, he wanted her to be conscious.
Were it not for the injection of a pain killer the doctor had given to her, which left her pliable and pretty much out of it, she would never have let him help her into bed. The doctor said that, although there was no concussion from the head trauma, Malia could have trouble thinking clearly for a few days and recommended some time off. Damon doubted she’d go for that idea. Perhaps, if he could persuade her to take one of those pain pills first thing in the morning, she might be more agreeable. He shook his head. He didn’t believe that even as he thought it.
Although he knew she would never admit it, the attack had taken its toll. Coming home from the hospital, she had huddled next to him trembling. Damon couldn’t hold back a chuckle. Even then she’d issued orders like a general, telling him which lane to take, when to turn, and to slow up for a blind curve ahead.
He wondered if she gave orders like that in bed. Heat flashed to his jaw. He had no right to speculate about that. He was with her as a caregiver and protector only. Damon glanced around the bedroom, at the soft blues, six shades of it. The woman liked blue, his favorite color.
