Undone by Moonlight

by Wendy Etherington

  She wouldn’t think about Devin’s meeting with Reid, the shaky state of the bond with her new lover or the possibility of anything going wrong with the investigation.

  When she walked inside and called Sharky’s name, she got no response. She guessed cats weren’t the overly communicative type. She found him sitting on the coffee table, his long, furry tail dangling over the side, his green eyes glaring in her direction.

  “I know, I know,” she said in apology. “I was out all night, but I thought you’d be more comfortable here than at Devin’s. I left you plenty of food.”

  Sharky’s tail twitched.

  “I know you like fresh tuna. I promise to go by the market before dinner.”

  Sharky’s ears twitched.

  Bribery wasn’t working. It was time for a distraction. Dumping her purse on the counter, she snagged his mouse toy. Approaching him, she dangled it just out of reach.

  His eyes gleamed.

  Aha.

  After a few minutes of keep-away and a few belly scratches, she and Sharky were back in sync. He napped on the arm of her chair while she worked on her laptop.

  Devin had the files, but she didn’t want them anyway. She wanted to concentrate on him, the cases he’d been involved in that had gotten press. The big ones.

  She called a friend at a local newspaper, another who was a nurse at the hospital, a contact in the deputy D.A.’s office. She made pages of notes, considered motives and tried to think logically, instead of emotionally. Considering the subject was Devin, the challenge was extensive.

  After several hours, she felt she was finally getting somewhere.

  She was convinced Jimmie’s partner was a woman who’d been using him to get to Devin. Someone she loved had been arrested by him.

  Wait. Not only arrested. Wronged.

  Hadn’t Calla and her friends gotten into their Robin Hood adventures for the same reason? Either they or somebody they cared about had been a victim of someone more powerful or clever.

  They hadn’t hesitated to do whatever they had to in order to right the wrong. This plan was more extreme, but it had eerily similar echoes.

  The steps had been considered in advance. All the consequences accounted for. The mastermind had gotten Jimmie to lure Devin into chasing him. She’d knocked out Devin, then beat up Jimmie. When Devin was arrested for Jimmie’s assault, she’d eliminated her co-conspirator.

  She imagined Jimmie had been definitely surprised by that part of the plan.

  Either by design or inexperience, she’d set up the confusing clues. Beating that pointed to a man, poisoning—that indicated a woman; prints on the pipe, the camera wiped clean.

  Jimmie was unstable, recently released from prison and lonely. He’d be easy prey for a woman set on vengeance.

  Those were the steps. Laid out as she saw them.

  Cold revenge. Calla had felt it from the beginning, and she was becoming convinced she was right to listen to those instincts.

  The police were taught to gather evidence, follow its path and not pre-judge. Maybe that was true, and maybe it wasn’t, but she wasn’t a cop. A lighted trail was flickering on in front of her, and she was walking that road until somebody could find a way to disprove her theory.

  All she knew for certain, though, was that this woman, whoever she might be, was very dangerous.

  * * *

  Can you come over? And bring Sharky.

  DEVIN HAD SENT THE message, and Calla had promised she’d come.

  Standing in his living room, which Shelby and Victoria had transformed with an intimate table for two, candlelight, a white tablecloth, china, crystal and silver, he slid his hands into his pockets. He didn’t know how to charm and impress a woman like Calla, much as he was trying.

  Not being indicted for assault could help, he supposed, but once the turmoil in his life subsided, would she hang around for him? He was work-obsessed, moody and uncommunicative.

  As she’d already pointed out, he couldn’t change his genes or the volatile way he was raised, but could he change a lifetime of resisting intimacy? Could he be who she wanted? Who she needed?

  She was both dangerous, and the greatest blessing he could fathom.

  For the first time in many years, he was scared. He’d never given his heart to anybody and had no idea how to go about it, or how to recover if everything went wrong.

  As jazz echoed through the apartment, he walked around the table, unnecessarily straightening a fork. A fancy salad, plus a chicken and pasta dish, which Shelby had made, sat on the counter, waiting to be served. A high-priced wine, which Victoria had brought, had been submerged into an ice bucket.

  So many candles flickered around the room, he was tempted to keep a fire extinguisher nearby, though

  Calla’s friends had assured him she’d appreciate the effort.

  He didn’t believe for a second their relationship was as simple as candlelight dancing across crystal, but he was buying the idea for the night. He was holding tight to Calla with both hands.

  Howard had been clear about the consequences he faced. Though his lawyer believed events wouldn’t progress that far, the hazard that he could go to jail hung there, like a bomb on the verge of exploding.

  When she rapped on his door, he jolted. Embarrassing, but at least unwitnessed.

  He opened the door, noticing she wore a dress similar to the red dress from Friday night. This one was sunshine-yellow. How appropriate.

  As she entered, she kissed him and handed over the cat, who butted Devin’s chin with his furry head. “Is everything okay?” she asked. “How’d the meeting with Reid go? I’ve got some ideas about the case you need to hear. What’s that glow?” Before he could answer, she’d charged down the hall. “If Howard has some alien experiment—”

  She ground to a halt, he assumed, because she’d seen the glow was candlelight. “Oh,” she breathed.

  He’d do anything—traffic duty, tactical maneuvers, even prison—just to hear that sound on a daily basis. He was falling so hard and fast, it was a wonder the

  g-forces didn’t snap him in half.

  “I guess they’re not charging you with murder.”

  The oddness of their conversation wasn’t lost on him. “Not yet.”

  “So we’re celebrating?”

  Still holding Sharky under one arm, Devin slid the other around Calla. “Definitely.”

  “This is beautiful.” She turned and laid her hands on his shoulders. “Thanks.”

  Devin absorbed her warmth. “I’ll feed the cat. You open the wine.”

  While Sharky devoured his tuna, they enjoyed their drinks and salads. “What happened today?” she asked.

  The last thing Devin wanted to talk about was his problem, but he knew he had to give Calla something. “Reid didn’t ask many questions. I don’t think his heart was in it.”

  Calla paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “He has a heart?”

  “Not sure. But he was distracted. Maybe some other cop’s in bigger trouble than me.” Frankly, he thought Reid was way too easy on him. Something was up, and he’d already tapped his inside contacts to find out what. “So Howard and I went to his office and talked about my old cases. He asked me to leave the files with him, which I did. Fresh eyes would be good.”

  “Shelby and Victoria want to help.”

  “And I appreciate that, but they have their own lives, and tonight we have ours.”

  “We had the weekend together.”

  He smiled. “Is it any wonder I want more?”

  “Me, too, but I did some research, and I have a theory I want to run by you.”

  He both hated and appreciated that she was so worried about him. “You can’t spend every second of your day focusing on me.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can, I guess, but I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to focus on you.”

  When she opened her mouth—to argue, no doubt—he pulled her clos
e and kissed her, which fell more in line with his plans for the night than hers. “Tomorrow,” he mumbled against her lips. “Big meeting, the whole gang. We’ll come up with a plan of attack.”

  Sighing with pleasure, she rubbed her cheek against his. “I need to tell the gang we’re not meeting tonight.”

  “Already done.”

  “I also need to tell you what I’ve come up with. It won’t take long, and then I promise to let this go until tomorrow.”

  He could deny her nothing. Leaning back in his chair, he toasted her with his wineglass. “Go ahead, Detective Hood.”

  Her lips formed in a happy smirk at the new title. “So, I definitely think a woman is involved, and here’s why...”

  She proceeded to outline her reasoning for revenge and the steps that had led to both Devin’s framing and Jimmie’s death. While part of him thought she was bending the facts to suit her theory, the conjecture made sense. For this woman, an unstable accomplice could blow the revenge scheme. “You should contact somebody in Homicide who can give you the autopsy results ASAP. What about the guy you worked with on the East River case last spring?”

  “Carl Anderson. Already done.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “I hung with him and his case awhile, and he’s a sharp guy. He’ll see the setup against me. Let’s eat.”

  She glanced down at her nearly empty salad plate. “We are.”

  He retrieved the insulated container of chicken and pasta, which he dished out to both of them. “I’d hate for Shelby’s creation to get cold.”

  She undoubtably knew he was subverting the tougher questions of homicidal women from his past, but she met his gaze and picked up her fork. “Me, either.”

  “What’s your father like?” he asked as they started on dinner.

  “Big, stern—except with me, of course—hard working, independent. Very much a Texan.”

  “Would he like me?”

  “As a cop and a guy, sure.” Calla twirled pasta around her fork. “As a male who’s touching me, no.”

  Devin knew he wasn’t worthy of her, but he was bothered to hear her say it so plainly. “Why not?”

  “Because he still wants me to be five and playing with dolls, not playing with men.”

  “Ah. What about your mom?”

  “She’d like you. You want to meet them?”

  No was his swift, instinctive response, though he had the sense not to voice it aloud. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  She paused with her hand around her wineglass. “Probably not. Let’s get the assault charges dismissed first.”

  “That’s a good idea. What does he think about you living in the city?”

  “He’s not crazy about it, but he knows this is where I’m happy.”

  “Think you’d ever go back home?”

  “No. New York is home now. Did you grow up here?”

  “Queens. I don’t want to go back there, either.”

  “You must have had some good times.”

  “School was okay.” Regular meals served anyway. “I liked playing sports.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Baseball and football. We probably couldn’t have done much against any teams from Texas, but we didn’t suck, either.”

  “Sports are a religion in Texas,” she agreed. “Football especially.” Leaning forward, she propped her chin on her fist. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a team sport. What position did you play?”

  “Fullback.”

  “Ah, the muscle. Now, that I can see.”

  “I had some issues with aggression. Football helped me channel my energy into something positive.”

  She sipped her wine. “Is that also why you became a cop?”

  “Plenty of people around me made the wrong choices. I didn’t want to end up like them. I turned eighteen and headed straight for the academy.”

  “That’s a long time to be a cop.”

  “My life.”

  “Which will continue.”

  Watching the candlelight flicker across her flawless skin, he decided his singular purpose in life was overrated. “I’ll get right on that.” He stood and held out his hand. “For now, I only want to dance with you.”

  When she moved into his arms, he closed his eyes and breathed in her warm, floral perfume. Her body brushed his as they swayed to the wail of a saxophone, and he relished the slow build of desire coursing through him.

  All day, subjected to questions about his judgement and integrity, he’d dreamed of her touch, her devotion and hunger for him. He’d fought side by side with the law for more than a decade, but nothing had earned him anything as amazing as her.

  He wished he could believe in the two of them together.

  But with his career and freedom in jeopardy, he had no right to dream beyond getting back what he’d had before—a badge, a gun and a distant longing for something wonderful that always seemed out of reach.

  For now, though, he and Calla were a team, and he’d learned the merits of a gang were wildly underrated by the department.

  He’d never had an intimate partner. Lovers, sure, but not a true partner. On the force, he’d worked with different guys, but Meyer had quickly discovered Devin liked solitude. Maybe he always would.

  “Where’d you go?” Calla asked softly in his ear.

  “Sorry.” He brushed his lips across her cheek. “You’re right. It’s hard to set aside my case.”

  She leaned back slightly, her eyes full of promise. “Let’s try—for a little while, anyway.”

  11

  CALLA WOKE TO BOTH purring and pounding in her ears.

  She tucked her head between Devin’s neck and shoulder. “Sharky’s hungry,” she mumbled.

  His arms slid around her while one hand moved down her bare thigh. “He can wait.”

  She pressed her lips to his throat. “And my head’s throbbing. I don’t remember drinking that much wine.”

  “We didn’t.” He rolled on top of her, his erection pressing against her hip. “I’m throbbing, too. Wanna help me out?”

  While her body involuntarily responded with Yes, yes, I do!, Calla flattened her palm against his chest. “Cheesy, Devin. Really. I hear pounding.”

  He cocked his head. “It’s the door. What time is it?”

  “No idea.” Her gaze was glued to him. Maybe she’d been too hasty. He was so sexy with his sleepy eyes and inky, mussed hair. She pulled him closer. “Whoever it is will come back.”

  He rolled off her, scooped a revolver off the bedside table and pulled on his jeans. “Stay here,” he ordered.

  “Guess I’ll feed the cat,” she muttered as Sharky butted his head against hers and amped up the purring another notch.

  She padded into the bathroom to brush her hair and teeth, then looked around for something to wear.

  Hearing two male voices at the end of the hall, she amended her wardrobe of Devin’s T-shirt, which only hung to midthigh and added a pair of sweatpants she found in his dresser. She might look sloppy, but she wasn’t wearing her dress from last night at seven-thirty in the morning.

  As she opened the bedroom door, she saw Lieutenant Reid walking into the living room. Not exactly the way she wanted to start her day.

  “I started coffee,” Devin said, moving toward her. “Take this,” he whispered in her ear, pressing something hard against her stomach.

  The gun.

  Good grief. She was going to need a nice, long spa weekend when this whole mess was over.

  She exchanged the cat for the weapon and tried not to think about the irony of the innocent and the deadly. After tucking the gun into the nightstand drawer and grabbing a T-shirt for Devin, she headed straight for the coffeemaker, where he was watching the final drips flow into the pot.

  She handed him the shirt. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “No idea. Reid looks like he got a lot less sleep than we did, though.”

  Together, they carried the cups into the
living room. As they settled on the sofa, Reid remained standing. The precise, well-groomed man who’d shown up at this same apartment only days before had bloodshot eyes, wore a stained and wrinkled tie and was pale enough to see through.

  He accepted his coffee and took a sip. “Thanks. It was a long night.”

  Calla decided if she was going to be accused of being Pollyanna, she might as well fulfill her role. “Are you here to tell us the case against Devin has been dismissed?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Reid reached into his briefcase and pulled out a file folder. “An informant saw the news report about Jimmie’s death and came to the station last night, claiming he saw Devin buying heroin on Saturday night.”

  Fury blazed through Calla. “What? He was with me the entire—”

  Reid held up his hand. “I know. After I challenged the informant with Devin’s alibi, he became flustered. He changed his story, claiming a woman gave him two thousand dollars in cash to go to the police with the bogus story.”

  “You believe him?” Devin asked.

  Reid nodded. “He still had a wad of hundreds in his pocket.”

  “What woman?” Calla asked.

  “A blonde, though the informant thinks she was wearing a wig. And before you jump all over me, Ms. Tucker, the rest of the description doesn’t match you. She’s attractive, but shorter and thinner. She doesn’t have your obvious femininity.”

  As Reid pushed the open file across the table, Calla wondered if obvious femininity was the lieutenant’s restrained way of telling her she had a nice rack.

  While Devin and Calla studied the sketches—one of a woman’s face partially obscured by sunglasses, the other full-bodied—Reid asked, “Do you recognize her? Could she have been the thief you chased, Detective? Maybe she lured you to the alley, and Jimmie knocked you out.”

  “It’s possible,” Devin said, glancing up at Reid. “We’ve actually been working with the theory that Jimmie posed as the thief and she hit me.”

  Calla glared at the lieutenant. “Devin mentioned the possibility of an accomplice from the beginning. If you’d listened to your fellow cop, instead of arresting him, you could’ve saved yourself a lot of time.”