The sleeves of the shirt were too long and she fumbled, using one hand, to roll up one of the cuffs. “Mac, you should really sleep in your own bed. I’ll be fine on the couch.” She looked up at him, her eyes widening in surprise to find that he’d left the couch and now stood close, directly in front of her.
He took her hand and in a hoarse voice he didn’t recognize as his own, said, “Here, let me do that for you.” Placing her palm on his chest, he went to work folding the cuff back, his eyes never leaving hers. She moved her palm slightly, placing it directly over his heart. Could she feel it hammering beneath her palm? Desire coursed through his veins, all the blood pumping to one location where his arousal was becoming uncomfortably obvious.
She stepped a half step closer, tilting her head as if she was wondering what he was thinking. He stepped closer as well, closing the distance between them. And then there was no mistaking what she wanted. She seductively slid her palm up his chest, curved her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to her lips.
Experimentally, he skimmed her lips with his tongue. When they parted, he deepened the kiss, tasting her, drinking her in. She moaned. At the sound, any restraint he might have had snapped, and he backed her against the wall, pressing his body into hers. She buried her fingers in his hair, steering his head toward her exposed throat, a silent plea to be kissed on her neck. And he complied. Happily.
Reaching under her makeshift nightshirt, he cupped her bottom, feeling her silk panties and pulling her into his arousal. Her body was warm and pliant beneath his hands and she smelled so feminine—floral and intoxicating.
Everything he gave, she returned tenfold, eagerly clinging to him. Her need was palpable, a heady drug to his senses. It felt good. Too good. His mouth returned to hers, and he realized that one hit of her would never be enough. Her need would be his addiction and he’d be back for more.
There was just one problem. He wasn’t capable of giving her what she needed. What she deserved.
Mac stilled, his lips still pressed to hers for a moment. He closed his eyes and summoned all of his strength to let her go. Resting his forehead on hers, he let out a low curse.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her beautiful blue eyes searching his.
“Em, I can’t do this. I want to…God, I want you so bad, I can barely breathe. But I can’t do this to you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do what to me?”
He straightened, dropping his arms and backing away from her a step. He flinched when she hugged herself and pulled his shirt back down, covering herself from him.
“Em, you deserve to be with a guy who can give you everything. Marriage. Kids. The whole nine yards. And I just can’t. I can’t do long-term.”
She laughed. “Look, Mac, I’m not asking you to propose marriage. I think you’re overreacting here.”
“It’s not just that. You said yourself that you don’t date cops. And I guess I get why after you let Sean have it this morning.” He searched her face, looking for some sort of agreement or understanding. “You know as well as I do that this is a bad idea.”
“What if I was willing to risk it? What if I thought you were worth breaking my no-cop rule?”
“Em.” Her name came out as a sigh. Did she have any idea how difficult this was? The easy thing to do would be to take her into his bedroom and make her his in the most primal way known to man. But then what? He would hurt her in the end, and he refused to compound his sin by sleeping with her first—by tempting them both with something they could never have. He pressed forward, firing off his last argument. “I can’t be with you and be rational. I need to stay focused to keep you safe from Carl.”
“So, you’re saying that after this is over—”
“No. Em, I just can’t. I can’t do relationships.”
She pushed away from the wall she’d been leaning against and crossed her arms over her chest. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
He looked away from the disappointment in her eyes. “Does it make a difference?”
“Well, the former indicates you have some sort of personality flaw that makes you incapable of being in a relationship. The latter means you choose to be alone.”
He ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know…Maybe both.”
He might have expected tears. Or yelling. What he was not prepared for was her calm acceptance and how it unmanned him to know that he’d disappointed her.
“Mac, you are many, many things…” Her voice was soft, but strong and clear. “I just never expected that one of those things would be a coward.” And with that, she stalked back to his bedroom and slammed the door, effectively rescinding her offer to sleep on the couch.
* * *
Emily lay in the darkness of Mac’s bedroom, thinking she really should have slept on the couch. Being in his bedroom, wearing his shirt, lying in his sheets—it was all pure torture. She knew the sheets had been freshly laundered, but they smelled of him just the same. A clean crisp scent, that when she closed her eyes, brought his face immediately into her thoughts.
How foolish of her to have thought he might feel something more for her than one of his love-’em-and-leave-’em ladies.
Either Juan was wrong, and Mac could not be converted to a one-woman man. Or Juan was right, and she wasn’t the one woman for Mac. And that would mean all of these intense feelings she had for him—feelings that were urging her to face her worst fears—were one-sided.
She tossed restlessly on the bed, trying to find the magic position that would unlock insomnia’s hold and allow her to sleep. Her mind was just beginning the hazy descent into oblivion when her cell phone—still in the pocket of her blazer—began to ring.
The bright red digits of Mac’s alarm clock indicated it was well past one a.m. She sat up and pulled her phone out. Had something happened to Sean, Julie, or one of the kids?
The caller ID read, unknown.
She pressed the talk button and noticed Mac in the doorway, silently mouthing, “Everything okay?”
She shrugged and into the phone, said, “Hello?”
A low raspy voice answered. “Where have you been, Emily?”
Emily frantically motioned for Mac to come in. He sat on the bed next to her and she put the caller on speaker. “Who is this?”
“You know who this is, Emily. I thought we had an understanding. But then you went and did what you did.”
“Carl, this is bad. You need to turn yourself in before you get in any deeper.” She looked at Mac, and he nodded his approval, then made a spinning motion with his hand, indicating she should keep him talking.
“Don’t play games with me, bitch. Where are you right now?” The caller wasn’t using his natural voice and his deep, raspy whisper sent shivers of unease coiling through her spine.
“I’m at home. Where else would I be at this hour?”
He yelled into the phone, distorting his voice. “I said don’t play games with me, bitch! I know you’re not at home, you little whore. Where the fuck are you?”
“Carl—” The phone beeped off. He’d hung up.
Mac grabbed her cell, quickly pushing buttons to bring the caller ID back up. “Son of a bitch,” he said through gritted teeth.
“It was an unknown number.” Her voice trembled from the adrenaline surge.
“I know. I talked to Dorsey today and he thinks Carl is using an unregistered prepaid phone.”
“Can it be traced?”
“It’s not as easy to trace calls once they’ve passed through a cell tower. I doubt we’ll get far with that.”
“Then why did you motion for me to keep him talking?”
Mac’s thumb moved rapidly over her phone, dialing a number. “Because I was hoping he’d reveal something about his location. And he did.”
He didn’t have time to explain as someone had answered his call. “Yeah, this is Officer 758. Could you send units over to—” He covered the phone with his hand. “What’s your address?” Emily gave it to him
and he repeated it to the dispatcher on the other end. “I’m with Emily Simon—her office was broken into this morning—and just now, she received a threatening call from someone who I think was at her apartment.” There was a pause while the dispatcher spoke, then Mac said, “Yeah, he said, ‘I know you’re not at home’ which makes me think he was peeking in her windows or had checked the parking lot for her car or something. Either way, he was in the area.” Another pause. “Here, let me have you talk to her. She can give you a physical description.” He handed the phone to Emily. The dispatcher took the information and promised to send units to her apartment.
When she hung up, Mac already had his own cell phone out and was updating Detective Dorsey. He finished, punched the end button, and threw the phone down on the bed.
“Guess it’s a good thing you weren’t at your own apartment tonight, huh?”
“Well, Sean will be happy. There’s nothing he loves better than being able to say, ‘I told you so.’”
“Trust me, Sean will not be the least bit happy about this,” Mac said, his voice gruff.
She stared at her phone to avoid his intense scrutiny. “I can’t believe he was at my apartment.” Her throat tightened, making it difficult to speak. “He knows where I live,” she whispered.
Mac sat down on the bed next to her, attempting to put an arm around her, but she popped up from the bed and returned her phone to the pocket of her blazer, avoiding his comforting gesture.
She couldn’t let herself need him, not even for comfort. He’d made their future—or more accurately, their lack of a future—clear, and she didn’t want him to hold her now out of pity. Or some misplaced sense of duty.
His arm dropped to his side at her smooth rebuff—or what she hoped was smooth anyway. “But he doesn’t know where you are right now,” he said. “You’re safe tonight.”
Emily nodded and tried to erase the thought that was bound to keep her awake all night—But for how long?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bright sunshine streamed in through Mac’s bedroom window, and Emily squinted, pulling the blanket up over her face. She had dozed fitfully for the remainder of the night after Carl’s phone call, and now she felt hung-over—though she hadn’t had the pleasure of indulging first.
After giving herself a few moments to stretch under the warm cocoon of blankets, she flipped a corner back and peeked at the alarm clock. Seven fifteen. She’d better get up now if she intended to be at work by nine.
She replaced Mac’s dress shirt with her own clothes, crumpled from the day before. Using his bedroom mirror, she attempted to finger comb her hair into looking presentable enough to stop at Juan’s and pick up her bag.
She moved into the hallway and heard the shower running, bringing to mind a disturbing vision of Mac…in the shower…naked. Her face warmed and she placed her cold hands to her cheeks in an attempt to cool down.
Entering the living room, she noticed Mac’s blanket and pillow were neatly folded at one end of the couch. Exactly as they had been the night before. Had he slept at all?
In the kitchen, she opened various cabinets, looking for a glass. And perhaps curious to see how Mac had stocked the place. He had an impressive amount of dishes for a bachelor—all matching too—but his cookware was sparse. Finding the glasses, she took one down, almost dropping it at the sound of loud knocking.
Her heart thundered behind her ribs. If volume was any indication, whoever pounded on that door was mad as hell. Could Carl have found her here?
She checked that irrational thought. Probably just Juan, dropping off her bag. And Juan knocked so forcefully because…he feared she and Mac might be deaf?
“Open up! I know you’re in there!”
Instinctively she searched for a weapon. She grabbed the biggest knife she could find from a knife block on the kitchen counter and walked back toward the door, relieved to see that Mac had locked the chain and the deadbolt.
“Come on Bryan! I know you’re in there.” More banging on the door. “I saw your car outside.”
Emily hesitated. This person obviously knew Mac—whose given name she vaguely recalled was Bryan—and she would have answered the door, except the man on the other side sounded ticked. And something told her Mac would be too if she let this guy in.
“Jesus Christ, Bryan. I’m your father for God’s sake. Are you really going to make me stand out here? Now, answer the damn door.”
Emily chewed her lip. His father? She should probably open the door for Mac’s father. The pounding resumed, and she made a quick decision, unlocking the door and opening it slowly. “I’m sorry. He’s in the shower at the moment. Would you like to come in and sit down?”
The man on the other side of door stood a tad taller than Mac, but completely lacked Mac’s strong thickness. Bones protruded from his skin. Skin that had the red, splotchy, paper-thin look of someone who drank his three meals a day. She could even smell the alcohol on his breath and seeping out his pores.
He stepped inside, standing uncomfortably close. Only strongly ingrained manners kept her from plugging her nose against his offensive smell.
“Well, well, well. Looks like my boy’s got himself a hot little piece of ass.” He kicked the door closed behind him with his booted heel and looked pointedly at the butcher knife she still held in her white-knuckled grip. “Oh, now what’s this? That’s no way to greet your boyfriend’s daddy, is it?”
* * *
Grabbing a towel, Mac dried himself briskly. The shower had helped to revive him, but he didn’t expect its effects to last long. He hadn’t slept well last night—not that this was anything new—and he feared his mood and brain functioning were declining by the minute.
Pulling on his boxers and a t-shirt, he heard muffled voices coming from the living room. Assuming Juan had stopped by with Emily’s bag, he entered the hallway, prepared to work up a friendly greeting for his neighbor despite his sour mood.
He hesitated, confused, when he heard Emily say, “I think you should leave and come back when you’re sober.”
He rounded the corner to find Emily opening the door and using a butcher knife to direct his father out of the apartment.
His blood turned to ice, bringing a deadly calm to his voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Son—”
“Don’t call me son,” Mac ground out.
“Hey, I’m not here to start arguments with you, Bryan. I just stopped by to see if there was anything you could do about that little weapons charge against me.”
A cynical laugh escaped from Mac’s mouth. “Oh, I’ve been good. Thanks for asking, Dad.” He laced the paternal moniker with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “Yeah, these last twenty years have been great. I put myself through college, became a cop. I’m so glad that you came to reconnect with your estranged son.” He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to physically remove his father from his home. “Oh wait. That’s not why you’re here. You want a favor. From me.”
Emily shut the door, most likely hoping to avoid a scene in front of the neighbors, and then stood at Mac’s side. He knew, after last night, he had no right to her loyalty, but the small gesture of solidarity meant a lot to him.
“Listen, Bryan—”
“People who know me, call me Mac. But then, I suppose you don’t know me, do you?”
If his father felt any regret over his subpar parenting, he showed no evidence of it. Instead, his lips twisted in irritation. “Fine. Mac. The way I see it is, you kind of owe me, since it was your fault I got the weapons charge in the first place. I’m sure you—big, hot-shot cop that you are—could undo it.”
White-hot, blinding rage coursed through Mac’s system. That his father could be so obtuse, could somehow find a way to blame others for his stupid choices—it was beyond ridiculous. And more infuriating was the fact that he believed Mac owed him something. “It’s my fault? What? I made you purchase a gun illegally? I made you violate your parole? How, exactly, is this my fault?�
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As if reading his fury, Emily linked her arm through his—whether it was to restrain him from attacking his father or to offer comfort, Mac wasn’t sure. But he needed both.
“Whatever you think about me—I am your father. We’re family. Doesn’t that mean something? Shouldn’t you help your own blood?”
“You know what, Martin?” Mac used his father’s first name in the hopes it would annoy the old man. A small show of disrespect. “I am going to help you. I’m going to help you by doing exactly what you did for me when I was a kid.”
Martin’s brow creased, his confusion obvious. Mac almost laughed, watching his father try to think of how he’d helped his son and come up with nothing.
“What are you going to do?” Martin asked.
“Nothing. That’s what you’ve done for me my whole life. And now, it’s my gift to you.”
Mac saw his father’s expression transform, the rage making the craggy planes of his face granite hard. Twenty years ago, he would have bent his son to his will using his fists, but things were different now. Despite their height difference, Mac outweighed his father by a good forty pounds—all of it muscle. Martin would have to be stupid to come after him now.
He didn’t owe his father anything, least of all an explanation, but in the hopes of defusing Martin’s anger and expediting his exit, Mac said, “Look. Even if I wanted to help—which I don’t—my hands are tied. The District Attorney decides what you’re charged with, not me.”
It was over. There was nothing more to say, but Martin could never leave an argument without having the last word. “You think you’re something, don’t you? I suppose you think you’re better’n me ’cause you got a shiny piece of metal for your chest, but you’re just a scared little kid, hiding behind a badge and a gun.”
Talk to Me Page 15
