Night Fever

by Diana Palmer

  “Oh. It wasn’t connected to the door or the gas pedal?”

  He glowered at her. “You don’t know beans about C-4 plastic explosives and electronic timers, do you?”

  “Actually, I’ve never wanted to do anybody in, so I neglected to learn,” she replied.

  “Pert miss,” he murmured. His dark eyes fell suddenly to her mouth. He bent without thinking and kissed her, hard. His mouth left hers seconds later, long before she had time to savor the warmth of it, and he was back to normal. He put her away from him with firm, strong hands. “Go away. I’m up to my knees in investigators and federal agents.”

  “Federal agents!”

  “Terrorist acts,” he replied. “Organized crime. It’s federal in this instance. I’ll explain it to you one day.”

  “I’ll go. I hope I didn’t embarrass you,” she began, a little shy now that she’d recovered from her blatant fear.

  “Not at all. My secretary is used to hysterical blondes bursting in here to throw their bodies at me.” He chuckled, the first ripple of humor he’d felt since the grief and anguish of the morning. His eyes were still sad, even though he smiled down at her. “Softhearted little scrap. Go back to work, Miss Cullen. I’m not bombproof, but somebody up there likes me.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.” She moved away from him reluctantly, and paused in the doorway. “Good-bye.”

  “Thanks,” he added gruffly, and turned away. It had touched him all too much that she cared if he lived or died. It had been a damned long time since anyone had cared like that about him. In fact, no other woman ever had. It was a sobering thought.

  He was still brooding over it when Dan Berry came in and pointedly closed the door.

  “Wasn’t that the Cullen boy’s sister who just left?” he asked Kilpatrick. “Did she come to see if he scored?”

  He stood very still. “Explain that,” he asked curtly.

  “The Cullen boy’s a whiz with electronic stuff,” Berry said. “He won a science fair last year with a timed explosive. I guess the Harris boys helped him set it up. We’re sure they’re involved, but we can’t prove it.”

  Kilpatrick lit a cigar and leaned back against his desk, feeling depressed and frustrated. Was that why Becky had come running? Had Clay perhaps confided in her? Did she know something? It took some of the pleasure out of her headlong rush into his arms, and now he had to ask himself if she was involved.

  He looked up at Berry. “What have you found out?”

  “It was a primitive timer. Nothing professional, that’s a fact. If you’d had an out-of-town mechanic after you, you’d be dead. The whole thing was botched. It shouldn’t even have gone off.”

  He blew out a cloud of smoke, his dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his elegant length propped against the edge of the desk while he thought. “Work with the police and see if the detectives can trace any of the explosive materials. I want to keep an eye on the Cullen boy.”

  “A wiretap?”

  Kilpatrick swore. “We can’t ask for that. Dammit, we don’t have anything to go on except suspicions. Without some kind of evidence to back it up, we can’t get a wiretap, or surveillance, or anything else. Not on Cullen, not on the Harrises.”

  “Then, what do we do?”

  “Let the feds handle it,” Kilpatrick said reluctantly.

  “With their caseload? Sure. They’ve got all kinds of time to follow two amateur dope dealers around Atlanta.”

  Kilpatrick glared at him. “I’ll think of something.”

  Berry shrugged. “Too bad you don’t like the Cullen girl a little. She’d make a dandy source—especially if she liked you.” He glanced at the taller man knowingly. “Just a thought.”

  “Get to work,” Kilpatrick said curtly, and without looking at the other man. He’d been thinking the same thing himself about Becky, but it was underhanded and dishonest. He’d lived his life by a rigid code of honor. This went against it. Did the end justify the means? Did he have the right to pump Becky for information that might put her own brother in jail? He turned back toward his desk with an exclamation of pure disgust.

  Becky, blissfully ignorant of the conversation Kilpatrick was having with his investigator, went home that evening in a state of panic. She was worried now. If someone had tried to kill him once, wouldn’t they try again?

  Granddad and the boys noticed her somber withdrawal over supper.

  “What’s wrong?” Clay asked.

  “Somebody tried to blow up Mr. Kilpatrick this morning,” she said without thinking.

  Clay went a pasty white. He got up and made an excuse about having a stomach bug and left the table. Mack just sat there, all eyes.

  “I can understand that his enemies might want him out of the way,” Granddad said. “But that’s a pretty cowardly way to kill a man. And blowing up his pet—damned cowardly.”

  “Yes,” Becky said quietly. She glanced toward the living room, where Clay had gone. “Clay looks bad. Do you suppose he’s all right?” she asked slowly.

  “Sure he is,” Mack said quickly. “I’ll go check on him for you, okay?”

  “Mack, you didn’t eat your spinach…”

  “Later!” he called back.

  “Coward!” she called after him.

  Granddad exchanged a speaking glance with Becky. “I wish we could keep Clay away from the Harris boys,” he said miserably.

  “So do I, but how—tie him to the porch?” She put down her napkin and rested her face in her hands.

  “You aren’t going soft on Kilpatrick?” Granddad asked suddenly, his eyes sharp. “You sounded pretty upset about what happened to him.”

  She lifted her head. It was the last straw. “I have a perfect right to like anyone I please,” she said. “If I like Mr. Kilpatrick, that’s my business and nobody else’s.”

  Granddad cleared his throat and looked away. “How about passing me some more corn? It sure is good.”

  Becky began to feel guilty because of what she’d said. But it was getting too difficult to make all the sacrifices she did and have them just taken for granted. She was brewing inside like a fermenting vat of grapes. She felt reckless and wild, and for once, she didn’t really care if her attitude upset anybody.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Clay was still lying in bed the next morning when Becky stuck her head in the boys’ room to remind him to get up. Mack was already at the table, eating pancakes as fast as Becky could cook them, but Clay mumbled something about a stomachache and wouldn’t get up.

  “Do you need me to take you to the doctor?” she asked, frowning.

  “No. I’ll be fine. Granddad’s here,” he reminded her.

  She sighed. Fat lot of good that would do, when he could hardly get from bed to the living room by himself. But she didn’t argue. Clay had been quiet since she’d mentioned Kilpatrick’s close call. She didn’t understand why, unless it was because he’d wished something terrible on the D.A.

  “Well, take care of yourself,” she said firmly, and closed the door. She went back to the kitchen, wishing she knew more about teenagers.

  “You look nice,” Mack said unexpectedly.

  Her eyebrows rose. She was wearing an old red plaid skirt with a white blouse and black pullover sweater, and her long hair was pulled back in a neat bun. “Me?” she asked.

  He grinned. “You.”

  She bent and kissed his cheek. “You’ll be a lady-killer in four more years,” she assured him.

  “Monster killer,” he corrected. “I hate girls.”

  She pursed her lips. “I’ll remind you of that in four more years. There’s the bus,” she said, nodding out the window. “Get cracking.”

  “What about Clay?” He hesitated at the back door, his eyes worried. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s got a bellyache,” she said. “He’ll be fine.”

  Mack hesitated again, then shrugged and went out the door.

  Becky hadn’t thought a lot about it that morning, but it haunted her all day at
work.

  “Problems?” Maggie asked gently as they got things put away in time for lunch.

  “Always, these days, it seems,” Becky said with a sigh. “My brother’s home with an upset stomach. Seventeen, and already in trouble with the law. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. He’s so difficult!”

  “All boys are difficult, in various degrees,” the older woman assured her. “I raised two of my own, but they were Ivy League kids, I guess,” she added with a warm smile. “You know, chess club, band, drama club—that kind of kid. Thank God they never had wild streaks.”

  “Thank God is right. My brother Mack is like that. But Clay makes up for him, I’m sorry to say.”

  “It’s been quiet today,” Maggie noted. “Nice not to have bomb squads crawling all over the building.”

  Becky nodded, glancing at the brown bag she’d brought along. It contained a lemon pound cake she’d baked for Kilpatrick. She’d dithered all morning, wondering how she was going to get up enough nerve to give it to him. She thought he needed a little pampering after his upset yesterday, and losing his dog.

  “You’d better go ahead,” Maggie said absently. “It’s ten minutes to twelve, but I’m going a little later today so that I can meet one of my ex-husband’s sisters for lunch. Incredible how well I get along with his family after all this time.” She shook her head. “Pity I couldn’t get along with him.”

  “I’ll be back by one,” Becky promised, grateful for being allowed to leave early. Maybe she could give the cake to Kilpatrick’s secretary without saying who it came from.

  “Sure,” Maggie said. She noticed the brown bag, but she didn’t say a word. She just smiled as Becky left the office.

  Becky was sure she looked her absolute worst. She pushed two stray wisps of hair back into her bun, but it was trying to come down because her fingers had worried it so much this morning. Her skirt was askew and there was a run in one leg of her panty hose. She paused at Kilpatrick’s office door and almost turned around and ran. Then she realized that her appearance was going to be the least of his worries, so she opened the door and went in.

  His secretary looked up from her desk and smiled. “Hi. Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Becky said, taking the opportunity to avoid a confrontation. Her heart was beating in her ribs as it was, and her nerve was gone. She put the sack on the desk. “It’s some lemon pound cake,” she blurted out. “For him.”

  An investigator, a paralegal, and three assistant district attorneys were in the office, all male, but the secretary knew who Becky meant. “He’ll appreciate it,” she told the younger woman. “He’s partial to cake. It was nice of you.”

  “I was sorry about his dog,” Becky murmured. “I had a dog myself. The mailman ran over him last year. I’d better go.”

  “He’ll want to thank you…”

  “No need. No need at all,” Becky said, smiling as she backed toward the door. “Have a nice…oops!”

  Her back collided with a tall, strong body. Big, lean hands, very dark, caught her arms, and a deep voice chuckled behind her.

  “What have you done now?” he asked. “Robbed a bank? Held up a grocery store? Are you here to plea-bargain?”

  “Yes, sir.” His secretary grinned at him. “She brought you a bribe. Lemon pound cake.” She leaned forward. “It smells delicious. I’d settle out of court, if I were you.”

  “Good idea, Mrs. Delancy,” he replied. “I’m taking you into protective custody, Miss Cullen. We’ll discuss terms at the nearest café.”

  “But…” Becky began.

  It was no good protesting. He was already guiding her out the door. “I’ll be back in at one,” he told Mrs. Delancy.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kilpatrick was wearing a cream and tan sports coat with tan slacks, and he looked twice as tall as usual as he guided her to the elevator, his eternal smoking cigar in his hand. “Nice of you to bake me a cake. Is it a bribe, or do you just think I’m undernourished?” he asked with a faint smile as he hit the “down” button with a big fist.

  “I thought you might have a sweet tooth,” she replied. She was still tense, but being with him was like going on the wild rides at a carnival. She felt as if she glowed. She glanced up at him, her big hazel eyes radiant. “I guess you’re probably a better cook than I am.”

  “Because I live alone?” He shook his head. “I can’t boil water. I buy things at the deli and heat them up. Someday I’m going to have to break down and hire another housekeeper, before I poison myself.”

  She studied him covertly while they waited for the slow ascent of the elevator. He looked all right. Amazing that he could walk away from a car bombing and look so cool and collected. “Were you in the armed forces?” she asked absently.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Marine Corps,” he said. “Does it show?”

  She smiled. “You don’t get rattled very easily.”

  He stuck the cigar in his mouth and stared down at her. “Neither do you, as a rule. Living with two brothers, you’ve probably had advanced combat training.”

  “Living with my brothers feels like it,” she agreed. “Clay, especially.”

  He had to bite his tongue not to ask questions. He averted his eyes to the elevator as it arrived. He put Becky inside, making room for the two of them, because it was crowded with office workers heading to lunch.

  Becky was crushed backwards. She felt his lean arm snake around her with delicious subtlety, drawing her back so that she leaned against his hard, broad chest. She could feel him breathing against her, smell the cigar smoke and cologne that clung to him. Her knees went weak, so it was a good thing that the elevator went straight down without stopping. It was almost a relief to get off on the ground floor.

  “Does the café suit you today?” he asked. “We could drive across town.”

  “But, your car!” she said and stopped dead, her face paling as she realized how close a call he’d had.

  He paused and lifted an eyebrow, searching her wide eyes. “My car was a total loss, but the insurance payments were current, thank God. It will be replaced. I’m driving a city car right now. It’s not the flashy piece of metal my own was, but it’s comfortable and functional.”

  She lowered her eyes to his chest and swallowed. “I’m glad you smoke cigars, Rourke.”

  His lean hand smoothed down the worn sleeve of her white blouse. “So am I,” he said hesitantly. His fingers clenched suddenly, enclosing her arm in a warm, rough grasp. He towered over her, so close in the hallway leading to the café that she could feel the heat and power of his body all the way to her toes. “Say my name!” he said huskily.

  “Rourke.” It came out as a breathless whisper. She looked up, then, and the world narrowed to the darkness of his eyes in a face like honed steel. “Rourke.” She said it again, achingly.

  His gaze fell suddenly to her mouth and his jaw clenched. The hand on her arm bit into it until he turned suddenly and drew her along with him toward the line forming at the café door. “I can’t imagine how you’ve escaped being ravished on the lobby floor.”

  Her eyes widened. She wasn’t sure she’d heard him.

  He glanced down at her and laughed in spite of himself at the look on her face. “You don’t understand, do you?” he mused, lifting the cigar to his lips. “You have the sexiest damned eyes I’ve ever seen. Bedroom eyes. Long lashes with golden tips and a way of looking up at me that makes me want to…” He shook his head. “Never mind.” He looked over her head. “Looks like fish and liver and fried chicken,” he murmured to change the subject. His body was tautening in a way that made him uncomfortable.

  “I hate liver,” she murmured.

  “So do I.”

  She made a face as the cigar fired up curls of smoke.

  “Did you know that there’s a city ordinance against smoking down here?” she asked him.

  “Sure. I’m a lawyer,” he reminded her. “They teach us stuff like that at law school.”

 
“You’re not just a lawyer, you’re the county district attorney,” she replied.

  “I’m setting an example,” he explained. “If there are people who don’t know what smoking looks like, when they see me, they will.” He stuck the cigar between his teeth and grinned.

  She laughed and shook her head. “You’re just impossible!”

  But when they reached the inner doors of the cafeteria, he did put out the cigar. And despite her protests, he bought her lunch. She felt guilty, because she’d added a dessert and a salad that she wouldn’t have if she’d known.

  “Please, you shouldn’t have…” she protested as they sat down at a table for two near the window.

  “Shut up. Here, let me have your tray.” He took it with his and handed it to a passing waitress, flashing a smile at her. “Now eat,” he told Becky as he picked up his fork. “I don’t have time to argue with you.”

  “Actually, I hate arguing,” she murmured between bits of fish.

  He stopped in the middle of spearing a mouthful of salad. “You?”

  “I do enough of it at home,” she explained with a rueful smile.

  “There are legal ways to force your father to meet his responsibilities,” he said quietly.

  “Dad is the last complication I need right now,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You can’t imagine what it’s like, to have him turn up and demand to be helped out of some jam. I spent my whole life doing that up until two years ago. It’s been like another world since he went to Alabama. I just hope he stays there,” she said, and shivered. “I’ve got all I can handle.”

  “You shouldn’t have to handle it,” he said shortly. He put down his fork. “Look, there are social agencies…”

  She touched his lean hand where it lay on the table. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. “But my grandfather is too proud to accept any kind of help. My brothers would run away and live on the streets before they’d stay with anyone else. The farm is all we have, so I have to keep it going as best I can. I know you mean well, but there’s only one way to do things, and I’m already doing it.”