by Pamela Clare
Gabe couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Who's with her? Is it Daniels?"
Barker stood, leaned forward, his face inches from Gabe's. "Daniels is a good cop, a good man, a family man. If you've got a problem--"
"Your good cop dragged an innocent woman by her hair and lied--"
"Shut the fuck up!" Webb's voice roared. "Both of you--shut up!"
Barker's face was red. "Get your boy under control, Webb. He's in my shop now, and I've had about enough of his attitude."
Then Barker stood, threw the door opened, and stomped out of the room.
Gabe would have gone after Kat, but Webb shut the door again, a look of unmistakable anger on his face. "What the hell is going on, Gabe?"
"What do you mean?"
"I see how it could happen. You rescue a pretty, young woman. She's grateful. You're horny. The next thing you know she's got your dick wrapped around her little finger, and you're dragged into her problems. Maybe she and her friends are behind this looting. Maybe they've been using their ceremonies as cover like Barker suggested."
Gabe bit back a stream of four-letter words. "Kat hasn't so much as laid a finger on my dick, and she's incapable of stealing."
"You're sure of that, are you?"
"Yes, I'm sure of it. She was totally broken up when she saw what was happening there."
"Maybe she's a good actress."
Then Gabe spoke the words he knew would end his career. "You want the truth? I'll give it you. She only went to the butte to look for looting because I told her about the potsherds. She wanted to know what was in the lines the cops had redacted, so I told her--off the record, of course."
Webb stared at him, his ruddy complexion slowly turning redder. "So she lied to us in order to cover for you."
"She wasn't lying. She was protecting her source." There was a difference--to a journalist anyway.
"Her source? I let you off last time. I sat there in my office and lied to Feinman to save your ass." Webb jabbed him in the chest. "But not this time. You're a damned good ranger, Rossiter. Hell, you're the best. But I won't put my job on the line to save yours, not when you refuse to follow the goddamned rules. You are terminated."
Webb ripped the badge from Gabe's coat and held out one hand.
Some part of him unable to believe this was really happening, Gabe fished the keys to his service truck out of his pocket, lifted the chain that held his key card from around his neck, removed the Glock, and dropped them into Webb's outstretched palm.
Then Webb opened the door and strode down the hallway, leaving Gabe alone.
KAT SAT IN the passenger seat of Marc's SUV, the lights of Boulder passing outside the window. Body armor that was much too big for her pressed into her thighs and bumped against her chin. Beside her, Marc argued on his cell phone with Julian, who was ahead of them driving her truck.
"What do you mean you don't know how to get to US-36 from Twenty-eighth Street? Twenty-eighth Street is US-36, dumbass. Yeah, I'm sure. Go straight."
Oddly reassured by their familiar bickering, Kat drew a deep breath and tried to release the tension that coiled inside her like a spring. For more than two hours, detectives had grilled her, their line of questioning leaving no doubt that they suspected she knew more about the looting than she was telling them. She'd expected compassion from them, given that someone had tried to shoot her. Instead, she'd been interrogated.
More than a little overwhelmed, she'd done her best to answer their questions. No, she'd had no idea there were artifacts at Mesa Butte. No, she'd never heard Grandpa Red Crow or anyone else in Denver's Native community talk about artifacts or looting at the butte. Yes, she knew Native people sometimes dug up artifacts and sold them on the black market, but that typically happened on the reservation where few had good jobs and many went to bed cold and hungry. No, she would never cover for looters, even if they were Indian, because stealing artifacts was wrong.
When they'd demanded to know why she'd wanted to check for looting, she hadn't been able to tell them the truth because that would have exposed Gabe. So she'd told them she'd seen the potsherds beside Grandpa Red Crow's body. Then they'd wanted to know why she hadn't mentioned the shards in her statement to police.
"I was very upset that night. I forgot about it."
"You forgot about it," the older of the two detectives had replied, his tone of voice implying that he didn't believe her.
She wasn't a very good liar.
Some part of her realized they were doing their job, but knowing that hadn't made their suspicion any easier to bear. She'd left the interrogation room feeling weary, shaken, violated--only to find Marc and Julian waiting for her in the lobby. The sight of them very nearly unleashed the tears she'd been holding back.
"How did you know I was here?" she'd asked them.
"You called Tom, remember?" Marc had explained, giving her a hug.
She hadn't remembered.
"You're in shock," Julian had suggested. As tall as Marc with dark hair he kept back in a ponytail, he had the kind of presence that intimidated even hardened criminals. "Flying bullets have a way of shaking people up. Let's get you home."
But she hadn't wanted to leave--not yet. She'd wanted to find Gabe, to thank him, to make sure he wasn't badly hurt, but the person at the front desk told her he thought Gabe had already gone. So Marc and Julian had sandwiched her between them and escorted her out to Marc's waiting vehicle, Julian helping her inside and shutting the door behind her before jogging over to her truck, her keys in his hand. They were taking her to Marc and Sophie's house, where they wanted her to stay till this was over.
Someone had tried to kill her today. Someone had tried to kill her and would probably have succeeded if not for Gabe. He'd recognized the sound of the rifle firing when she hadn't. He'd knocked her to the ground, covering her body with his to protect her. Then he'd scooped her into one arm and used his strength to drag both of them deep into the trench where the bullets couldn't harm them.
If she hadn't waited for him, if she she'd gone to Mesa Butte alone...
She shuddered, an image of herself lying dead in the darkness, her blood frozen in pools on the dirt, flashing through her mind. Gabe had saved her life. He'd been wounded trying to protect her, and she hadn't even had a chance to thank him.
"Turn around!" The words were out before she realized she'd spoken.
"Turn around? Did you forget something at the cop shop?"
"No, I... I want to see Gabe. I need to see Gabe." How could she explain this when she didn't entirely understand it herself? "I ... He was hurt, grazed by a bullet, and I want to see him. I want to stay with him tonight."
And if he didn't want her there?
Though she couldn't see Marc's face in the dark, she knew he was watching her. "I'm not so sure this is a good idea. Do you think he can handle keeping you safe?"
"He handled it this afternoon, didn't he?"
"I guess you have a point there. If you're sure this is what you want ..."
"I'm sure." She'd never been more certain of anything. "I need to know he's okay. I need to see for myself."
Marc reached out to the cell phone on his dash, punched a speed-dial number, then spoke into his Bluetooth headset. "Hey, Dorkangelo, change of plans. Take the next right."
CHAPTER 13
GABE SAT IN the dark on his couch still wearing his coat and boots, a tumbler of whisky in one hand, the bottle on the floor at his feet. Echoes drifted though his mind--rifle fire, the thud of bullets striking dirt, Kat's terrified screams. He raised the glass to his lips, took another sip, but it did nothing to drown out the noise in his head.
Hello, dispatch? There's shooting at Mesa Butte! There's shooting at--
Goddamn it! Tell dispatch I'm returning fire!
You've been shot!
Leave it! It's nothing--justagraze.
Something twisted in Gabe's chest at the image of Kat crawling to him, eyes wide with fear, dirt on her cheek and in her hair. S
he'd been so afraid, but she'd set aside her panic and risked her own safety--to help him. Most women probably would have let fear paralyze them. But Kat wasn't like most women.
At the time, Gabe had been too pissed off to be afraid. Not that he was used to getting shot at. He'd only faced live fire once in his career, only drawn his weapon against another human being a handful of times, only squeezed the trigger to put down sick or injured wildlife. Still, the moment he'd heard that first shot, his training had kicked in, and he hadn't hesitated. At least he could feel good about that.
Not that he'd earn a promotion or even a high-five for his actions. In a rather fucked-up twist of fate, one of his most valiant days on the job had turned out to be his last day on the job.
You're a damned good ranger, Rossiter. Hell, you're the best. But I won't put my job on the line to save yours, not when you refuse to follow the goddamned rules. You are terminated.
Gabe supposed he ought to feel angry or upset. He'd just lost the only real job he'd ever had, the only job he'd ever wanted. But strangely, he couldn't seem to give a damn. He'd done what he'd believed was right. He wasn't about to let Kat take suspicion onto herself in an effort to protect him. If this was the price he had to pay, then he was willing to accept that.
Way to stick to your convictions, Rossiter.
He raised his glass in a mock toast and took another sip, feeling whisky burn its way to his empty stomach, where it smoldered.
So, if he didn't regret what he'd done to get himself fired, then why, exactly, was he sitting in the dark drinking alone?
Maybe it was the fact that he was alone.
Webb's words ringing in his ears, he'd left the briefing room and gone in search of Kat, only to learn that she'd already left with Hunter and another cop. For some reason that had felt like more of a blow than getting shit-canned. As much as he'd been relieved to know Kat was with friends and safe, he'd wanted talk to her, had needed to hold her and reassure her and see for himself that she was okay.
Apparently, she'd just wanted to get home.
Had she thought about him at all?
He took another drink, some part of him aware that his night was turning into a pity party. Well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it? Not by a long shot.
This is getting to be a habit, buddy.
Yeah, he supposed it was.
He took a deep breath, looked at the drink in his hand, then stood, picked up the bottle and carried it and the whisky glass to his entertainment center. He set them down and walked away. Drinking wasn't going to solve anything, and the last thing he needed was another damned hangover.
He kicked off his boots, slipped off his parka--he'd have to patch it or pitch it--then walked into the bathroom and got undressed. He glanced in the mirror and saw an angry groove carved in the skin beneath his right clavicle, flecks of dried blood around it. It looked deeper than he had imagined it would. Though he hadn't felt the impact, he knew from the height and angle exactly when it had hit him.
Somewhere in the millisecond between when he'd shoved Kat to the ground and when he'd followed after her, that first shot had whizzed between them, catching Gabe as he'd gone down. The bullet hadn't so much struck him as he'd struck it. That fact, together with the height of the wound, told him that the round hadn't been meant for him. Some son of a bitch had sighted on Kat and pulled the trigger. If Gabe hadn't heard the rifle fire, the shot would have blown her head off.
When he thought about how close it had been...
Christ!
In a rush of delayed panic, Gabe's hands started to shake, his heart thudding hard in his chest, his stomach threatening to revolt. He closed his eyes, leaned against the sink, forced himself to take slow, steady breaths until the nausea subsided. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself staring at his own reflection.
You saved her life, man.
The thought struck him right between the eyes, seeped through him, leaving him with a bone-deep sense of... satisfaction. He was used to saving lives, but not like this. To know that Kat was alive tonight because of something he'd done...
Maybe you don't suck after all, Rossiter.
He turned the water in the shower and stepped under the warm spray, washing dirt, sweat, and blood from his skin, letting the water loosen his tense muscles. Then he got out, dried off, and dressed his wound, the sting of Betadine making him cuss a blue streak. He'd just covered it with a large bandage when his doorbell rang.
He skipped the underwear and slipped into a pair of jeans. Taking no chances, he picked up his HK .40-cal semiauto--he'd seen the last of the Glock, which belonged to Mountain Parks--and walked quietly to the door. He looked through the peephole--and felt his heart knock against his breastbone.
Kat.
She stood on his doorstep flanked by Hunter and someone else--a man in a black leather jacket whose face he couldn't see. He tucked the firearm into the waistband of his jeans, unlocked the door and opened it. And for a moment all he could do was stand there, staring into her eyes. She looked exhausted, overwhelmed, beautiful.
Had she been crying?
"Good to see you in one piece, rock jock. I see you took a hit."
Gabe tore his gaze from hers, gave Hunter a nod, rubbed his fingers over the bandage. "It's just a graze. Hey, Darcangelo, how's it going? You hang with this guy? That's ironic."
Julian Darcangelo, the best damn detective Gabe had ever met, shrugged, then reached out and shook Gabe's hand, a grin spreading over his face. "What can I say? Every super-hero needs a sidekick. Plus, it's a good way to keep an eye on him, keep him out of trouble."
Hunter glared at Darcangelo, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "fuck you." Then he frowned, pointing back and forth between the two of them. "So, you two know each other?"
"Of course we know each other. We met chasing your sorry ass through the snow. Rossiter here is pure hell on a pair of skis." Darcangelo shifted his gaze back to Gabe. "Is Kat going to be safe here with you tonight?"
Gabe met Kat's gaze again. "Yeah, she will. Do you boys want to come in?"
Hunter's gaze dropped to Kat, as if trying to gauge his response from her. "I think we'll head home and let you two get some rest." Then his gaze shifted to Gabe. He drew out a business card and held it out "Give me a call. Let us know what we can do."
"Will do." Gabe pocketed the card, watching as Kat thanked her friends and said her good-byes. Then he took her hand and drew her inside, the two men's voices drifting back as they headed down his front walk.
"You didn't tell me Kat's rock jock was Gabe Rossiter. He's not a rock jock, Hunter, he's a rock god."
"How the hell was I supposed to know you knew him?"
Gabe closed the door and locked out the night, while Kat hung her coat on the coat rack and slipped off her boots. They turned and faced one another, and for a moment neither of them moved or spoke, Gabe drinking in the sight of her, from the dirt smudge on her cheek to the shadows in her eyes. Then he did the only thing he could do. He drew her into his arms, and held her, just held her, his face pressed against her silky hair, the honey scent and soft feel of her a balm for all the rough edges inside him.
"I'm scared, Gabe." She pressed her cheek against his bare chest.
"I know." He held her tighter. "You're safe here."
"I had to see you. I had to know you were okay."
"I'm glad you came." He drew back, tucked a finger beneath her chin, tilted her face upward--and then he kissed her.
AT THE FIRST soft brush of Gabe's lips against hers, Kat felt tears prick her eyes, the heat and gentleness of his kiss cutting through her numbness, through her shock and fear, opening some vulnerable place inside her that needed him. And she did need him. She needed his touch, needed his strength, needed him to make the day's horror go away. She didn't want to think about the differences between them or the promises she'd once made herself or what tomorrow might bring.
She just wanted him.
She sto
od on her tiptoes, slid her fingers into his wet hair, and drew his head closer, parting her lips for him, meeting the thrust of his tongue with her own. He tasted faintly of whisky and smelled like pine-scented soap and shampoo. He groaned and kissed her harder, plundering her mouth, stealing the breath from her lungs and giving it back again. She heard herself whimper, felt her knees go weak. Then he broke the kiss, ducked down, and scooped her into his arms.
She gasped, wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him, her gaze colliding with his. "Wh-what... ?"
"I won't drop you." He nuzzled her temple, carrying her in long strides to the dark of his bedroom.
She'd never been carried like this before. It left her feeling intensely feminine, like something priceless and precious and worth protecting, some part of her delighting in his raw strength, his male power. And for a moment she forgot to feel nervous about where he was carrying her--and what might happen when they got there. She found herself kissing him, nipping his earlobe, trailing her fingers down his spine, his muscles tensing beneath her hands as he walked.
He laid her back on his sheets and stretched out beside her, his face inches from hers, his fingers slowly unbuttoning her blouse. "I want you, Kat. But I won't do anything you don't want me to do. Tell me to stop, and I will."
A bolt of heat shot through her, making her shiver. "Gabe, I..."
Whatever she'd meant to say vanished from her mind as he drew off her blouse, his lips brushing over hers, his knuckles sliding in slow circles over her bare belly. And then, abruptly, he withdrew from her, his weight shifting. She heard a soft click--and found herself looking up at him in the light of his bedside lamp, the yellow glow casting the ridges and valleys of his muscles into high relief.
His gaze met hers, his blue eyes dark. "I need to see you--all of you."
