McLain's Law

by Kylie Brant

  Michele frowned, disturbed by that image of the man in charge of running their city. “You must be grateful the Reverend Carlson is giving him a run for his money in the mayoral race, then. At least the people will be given a clear choice this time around.” At the look on his face, she demanded, “You are going to support Carlson, aren’t you, feeling the way you do about McIntire?”

  Connor, noticing that people were drifting to their seats at the tables, started to gently guide Michele to hers. “Nope,” he replied, artfully dodging other couples in pursuit of their chairs. He wasn’t a political creature, and party politics didn’t interest him. But Michele pursued it.

  “Why not?”

  He looked down at her. “Because I don’t trust God-squad types, either. Better the devil you know, sweetheart.” His cryptic remark silenced her, and she allowed him to seat her, troubled by his cynicism. She had always known that Connor possessed a wealth of knowledge outside her scope of experience, known that it had hardened him. She couldn’t imagine the frustration of going to work each day, doing your job to the best of your ability and being thwarted by your own superiors. She mulled that over as they waited for the crowd to be seated.

  Dinner passed pleasantly enough despite the fact that James, seated on her other side, seemed determined to monopolize, her attention. She tried to focus on Connor as much as she could, but she could tell that he was withdrawing from her. He became steadily more uncommunicative, and she despaired for the outcome of the evening. It wasn’t until the first course had been served that she was struck with an idea. As they both ate, she dropped her left hand below the table and moved it to the region of Connor’s rock-hard thigh.

  He reacted as if he’d been scalded, turning his head to look sharply at her, his eyes narrowing. But Michele just smiled sweetly and bent toward him, speaking banally of the meal.

  Connor was unable to take in her words, so aware was he of that small hand lying inches away from where heat was rapidly pooling. He stared hard at her before gradually relaxing. She had done everything she could this evening to show him her pleasure in his company. He might not understand it, but he was sure he liked it. Damn sure.

  The rest of the meal passed unremarkably, Michele once more feeling the tension ebb from Connor. He even managed to mask his boredom with the speeches, wearing a polite, blank mask while listening to speaker after speaker jovially invite the audience to be generous in their donations, in addition to the five hundred dollars a plate they had already paid for their dinner. His attention sharpened, however, when the guest speakers introduced were none other than Larry McIntire and his opponent.

  Connor inwardly groaned and settled back in his chair. It promised to be many more long minutes before they were released from their boredom, and he picked up Michele’s hand, absently playing with her fingers as his mind drifted away from the speeches. Being here tonight hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared, certainly not as awful as his memory of similar functions. He even enjoyed, primitively, the looks of admiration and envy Michele had elicited from men, knowing that she was his and reveling in her attempts to show him that she was glad to be with him.

  It seemed that he’d been wrong about her this morning, and maybe wrong about other things, as well. The cool mask that always infuriated him had been present more than once this evening, but not with him, never with him. It dawned on him suddenly that it was her way of withdrawing, a defense mechanism when she felt uncomfortable or threatened in some way. He understood because he tended to do the same thing himself.

  Connor’s attention wandered back to the stage, where Carlson was winding down his speech. “. . . the future of our society depends on the present we can provide, especially to the youngest members of our city.” He joined in the polite applause and restrained a groan as Larry McIntire rose. The mayor used the forum to make a thinly veiled campaign speech. “As my worthy opponent has noted, children are our future. This city has made children its main concern, as evidenced by our new parks, schools . . .” Connor drifted off again.

  After the speeches were over the band tuned up its instruments. Connor would have liked to ask Michele to take a walk for some badly needed air, but once again she was being monopolized by James. He heaved a sigh. The woman on the other side of him tried to engage him in conversation, but his replies were terse to the point of rudeness. There was only one woman he was interested in talking to, holding, leaving with. And that woman was sitting on the other side of him.

  He leaned over again, interrupting the conversation she was having with James. “Excuse me,” he said, getting up and pulling Michele’s chair out. “Shall we dance?” She smiled her acquiescence, and they left a fuming James glaring after them.

  Being in Connor’s arms felt like heaven, and Michele was content to float there indefinitely, held against his strong chest. The music surged around them, but the rest of the people faded away. It was as if she and Connor existed in their own charmed world, one where doubt and confusion had never existed.

  After dancing for a long while, Connor whispered huskily, “Ready to go home?”

  Home. Michele’s heart gave a little leap at the word. She wasn’t going to analyze his meaning; she was going to savor it instead. She smiled mistily up at him, her smile a sultry promise to match the desire she read easily in his eyes. “Yes.”

  Connor felt the passion that had existed between them all evening develop a sharper edge. He only hoped he could get her through the crowd and home before he embarrassed them both.

  With one arm around her waist, he guided her through the mob of people, impatient with each person who stopped them to talk or to thank Michele for her work on the project. He managed to rein in his impatience, barely, but his civility was wearing thin.

  It snapped when they were very close to the door and Michele was stopped yet again. He stood tensely behind her, wondering savagely how angry she would be if he just threw her over his shoulder and headed out the door with her. The fantasy definitely had some advantages, he decided, when a voice spoke behind him.

  “Rushing Michele away so early, Detective McLain?”

  Mentally cursing, Connor turned slowly and returned James’s look with a glacial stare. “We’re going to call it a night,” he replied steadily.

  “That’s a shame. Michele does so love these events. It’s unfortunate that you’ve allowed your own discomfort to interfere with her pleasure. I’d be glad to see her home myself, in order that she may stay and enjoy herself longer.”

  Connor mentally counted to ten before answering. Nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than to smash his fist in this man’s well-bred face. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll see to Michele’s enjoyment myself.” The sharp intake of breath at his side told him that she had heard the double entendre.

  “Connor, let’s go,” she hissed, dragging at his immovable arm. She might as well have tried to move a slab of granite. He didn’t budge.

  James dropped all pretense at civility. “I don’t know what hold you have over her, Detective, but in the long run you will mean nothing at all to her. You are of no real importance in her life.”

  Connor crossed his arms, returning the man’s gaze. “You sure of that, Doc?”

  “Both of you, stop now!” Michele demanded in a furious whisper, aware that their threesome was drawing curious stares. When neither of the men moved, only continued relentlessly staring at each other, she whirled around and walked quickly away. After fighting her way through the people, she finally made it to the women’s rest room.

  Muttering a curse, Connor turned on his heel and strode after her, his progress hampered by the crowd. He stood outside the door to the ladies’ room for several minutes, but Michele did not emerge. When several other women did, he earned himself some odd glances. A few of them looked at him as if he were some kind of pervert.

  Ah, the hell with it, he thought. She was mad already; he couldn’t make it much worse. With that thought he reached into his jac
ket’s inside pocket and withdrew his shield. With it in visible view he opened the door of the rest room and walked in.

  The women in the sitting room looked at him openmouthed, but he delayed their words. “Lieutenant McLain, ladies, Philadelphia P.D. Please clear this area. I repeat, please clear this area.”

  Michele couldn’t believe her eyes. Or his audacity. She groaned aloud. “Connor, how dare you?”

  One woman in a strapless dress sauntered by him and asked in a sultry voice, “May I be of any help, Lieutenant?”

  Connor grinned, actually grinned, damn him, and answered, “No, ma’am, the woman I have to detain is right there.”

  The lady in black glanced back at Michele and heaved a mighty sigh. “Too bad. Well, come on, ladies, you heard the man.”

  Michele felt slow heat travel up her breasts, her neck and then climb to her face as the women hurried by her, some of them throwing her skeptical looks. “I will kill you for this, Connor,” she promised through gritted teeth. “I will really, really, murder you this time.”

  Connor slipped his shield back into his pocket and leaned against the door to prevent anyone else from coming in. “Threatening a police officer is a criminal offense, Miss Easton,” he commented finally. “Don’t make me run you in.”

  “Don’t make me run you over,” she flung back, still busily plotting his demise. “And get away from that door. I’m leaving.”

  “With me.”

  “I’d rather walk on hot coals.” Her voice dripped ice.

  “Then I’m not moving,” he returned implacably.

  They glared at each other for long moments before a knock on the door jarred them both. “Connor,” she snarled in exasperation as the knock was repeated, a little more desperately this time. “This is not the place.”

  “I agree,” he said promptly. “Let’s go home.”

  Michele closed her eyes and prayed for strength, but it was hard to concentrate on divine intervention when the door sounded as if a battering ram was being used on the other side of it. “All right,” she gritted.

  She sailed by him, and Connor thought that if he hadn’t stepped aside she would have walked right through him. As they opened the door and hurried through, the very pregnant lady on the other side glared at Michele accusingly. When Connor moved into her view, her mouth dropped into a wide O, and she stared after them.

  As they retrieved their coats, Connor made the mistake of attempting to help Michele with hers. The look she shot him would have frozen flame. “If you so much as touch me,” she purred lethally, “I will shatter both your kneecaps.”

  As Connor followed her slowly out the door and waited for the car to be brought around, he wondered dismally how the hell he was going to get out of this one.

  Chapter 15

  An Arctic wind would have provided welcome warmth in the glacial silence that enveloped them throughout the ride home. Connor made no attempt to break it, aware that he had already pushed Michele further than was wise. He also didn’t trust himself not to make it worse. Actually, he felt he had exercised remarkable restraint earlier. He hadn’t annihilated James, which would have given him the greatest satisfaction. And he hadn’t made a scene.

  Well, he fidgeted uncomfortably, not much of one. He shot a surreptitious look at Michele’s frozen features. Prudently, he kept his silence, hoping she got over her pique quickly.

  When they entered his home, she dropped her purse, hung up her coat and, leaving him staring after her, strode past him to the door of the second bedroom and shut the door with a decided slam.

  Well, hell, Connor thought aggrievedly. If she wanted to pout, she could go right ahead. He knew for certain that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he headed to his bedroom, changed into shorts and tennis shoes, and stomped down the stairs to his gym. Two could play at this game.

  * * *

  Michele lay on her back on top of the bedspread, still in her finery, and contemplated the ceiling, wondering furiously when she had ever been this angry at another human being. He deserved to be boiled in oil, she thought waspishly. No. She wished she could hire a huge thug to beat him up. That would teach him a lesson.

  She rolled over and propped her chin on her hands. That idea lacked satisfaction, as well. She couldn’t stand to see Connor hurt, although the thought of thrashing him herself would go a long way toward alleviating some of the frustration he made her feel.

  She pounded the pillow impotently. He made her so mad! No other man, no other person, had ever had the power to make her react so quickly, so violently. Only Connor McLain could take her on an emotional roller coaster, from euphoric heights to the depths of fury. Her fist stilled. Taking her from cool, calm composure to instant heated passion.

  She groaned inaudibly. The very chemistry between them defined the emotional power he had over her. And although that thought was frightening, even more frightening was her doubt that the power was mutual. Though she had admitted to herself that she was in love with him, she had never uttered those words to him. She hadn’t dared to. Even as she derided herself for being an emotional coward, something inside her would not allow the words out. She couldn’t risk being more vulnerable than she already felt with him.

  She stared unseeingly at the carved headboard. Admitting her love for him would carry an additional risk, as well, she thought gloomily. Most likely it would send him backing away from her so fast that he would stop traffic. She knew how he felt about commitment. He’d certainly sent out enough warning signals.

  So what did his behavior today mean? He’d certainly seemed jealous of James. He wasn’t an obsessive man, he wasn’t mean-spirited, so surely that pointed toward him harboring something other than territorial feelings for her.

  She shook her head in mingled frustration and puzzlement. The man was more complex than a maze. And as much as she tried in the next few hours, she didn’t feel any closer than before to figuring him out.

  * * *

  A couple of hours of intense physical exercise hadn’t dimmed Connor’s frustration at all. If anything, they had heightened it. Afterward he’d been just as frustrated, but also exhausted and sweaty. Finally he’d called it quits and taken a quick shower. But even that had failed to calm him. He lay wide-eyed in bed for too long before muttering a curse and sitting up. Reaching for the tux pants he’d worn earlier, he pulled them on carelessly before padding barefoot to the living room.

  He crossed to his stereo and squatted down on his heels, flipping quickly through the selection of CDs on the shelf below. He selected one that suited his mood and put it in, turning on the power and lowering the volume simultaneously. He opened up the living-room drapes, allowing the light from the full moon to spill unencumbered into the small room. Pulling up a chair, he sank back into it as the low mournful wails of a saxophone came from the stereo. He listened to the music with one ear as he stared out into the night.

  He’d screwed up royally tonight. He was uncomfortable with the acknowledgment, and even more uncomfortable with the panic that welled up inside him at the thought. He’d never been this primordial with a woman before, willing to go to such lengths to protect her. Only Michele could rouse this kind of incomprehensible emotion in him

  Michele. He gazed unseeingly into the night as he grappled with her specter in his thoughts. He was completely unsure of himself with her, and that scared him to death. He had always been the cool one, the one who held on to his emotions with a tight rein and walked away easily when a relationship threatened to get sticky. Yet walking away from Michele was the one thing he didn’t want to contemplate, the one thing that terrified him. Even more terrifying was the possibility of her walking away from him. Something besides logic told him that if that happened, he wouldn’t be cool and emotionless.

  He shook his head wryly. It was all well and good for him to tell himself that he was going to keep his distance, not let her get to him. He’d been kidding himself all along, allowing himself to believe that he’d ever really ha
d any control over his reaction to her.

  The truth was, he admitted, his thoughts as morose as the shadows outside, he had never had any power at all over his behavior toward her. Michele Easton had hit him like a ton of bricks, and his every word, his every action, had been dictated by his reaction to her. It was time to cut the thoughts of emotional damage control. There was no such thing with her. She’d gotten to him the first time he’d laid eyes on her. He’d fallen faster, harder, than ever before in his life, and he had probably been the last one to realize it.

  That didn’t change anything, though, he thought gloomily. And the sooner he talked to Michele about this, the better off both of them would be. It was still the best thing for her to get as far away from him as soon as possible. The case was winding down; he could feel that with every instinct he had. It wouldn’t be long now before the danger to her was over and she was back in her own home, in her own life.

  Once things were back to normal she would be able to step back and look at things more clearly. And when she did, he was sure she would be appalled at how involved she had gotten with him. Connor would make damn sure he was long gone by the time she reached that conclusion.

  Deep in thought, he was startled by a sound behind him and rose instinctively, turning. Michele stood there observing him silently, wrapped in a starkly white terry bathrobe. At the sight of the object of his musings, he stared, suddenly tongue-tied.

  Michele spoke first. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Connor cleared his throat. “Me either.”

  She gestured toward the hallway with one hand. “I thought I would take a shower.”

  Though no answer was required, something forced Connor to speak. “Go right ahead.”

  Michele made no move, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight he made. The bright light of the moon silhouetted him against the window, gilding his bright hair while leaving much of his body draped in shadows. With one of night’s tricks of light and shadow, the moonlight reflected off his bright head, creating a surreal halo effect.