Midnight Rain

by Dee Davis

  He took another step toward the desk, his mind’s eye picturing Miller sitting there, back turned, the chair slowly spinning around. Reality obediently complied with his imagination.

  “Son of a bitch.” John took an involuntary step backward, almost losing his balance. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Jason Pollock steepled his hands as the chair came to a stop, his gaze dispassionate. “Same thing as you.”

  John dropped down into the chair in front of the desk, trying to control his wildly careening heart. “You scared me half to death.”

  “Sorry.” It was hard to tell if he really meant it. Jason was a master at hiding his feelings. That’s what made him so valuable to the company. But it could also be unnerving at times.

  They sat in silence for a moment, each waiting for the other to blink. John forced himself to break the silence. “So did you find anything?”

  “That would explain Derek’s death?” Jason opened his hands as he shrugged. “No. I’ve been through his calendar and his personal files and didn’t find a thing.” He gestured toward the papers on the desk. “Danny said you don’t remember anything about bailing him out of jail.”

  “You guys are making it a practice to discuss my business now?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a secret, John. The police even know about it. I just wondered if you really don’t remember anything or if . . .” His words trailed off as his gaze met John’s.

  “Or if I’m using my head injury to cover something up? Come on, Jason, that’s a bit far-fetched.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just that you look so—normal.” Jason shrugged again, this time with obvious embarrassment.

  “This,” John slowly raised his right arm, lax fingers a testament to his words, “is not normal. And neither is having a hole in my brain.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to doubt you.”

  John relaxed, allowing his hand to drop back into his lap. “It’s totally understandable. I mean, look at the circumstances. I meet with Derek, bail him out of jail, and then conveniently waltz out of town just when Derek disappears. I can see how it looks.”

  Jason stood up and walked around to the front of the desk, leaning back against the edge. “Maybe it was a fluke. You were scheduled for your vacation long before Derek wound up in jail. And of all of us, you’re the only one who would have bailed him out. Derek had his good points, but face it, he was trouble from beginning to end. If it hadn’t been for you giving him second chances, he wouldn’t have been with Guardian as long as he was.”

  John frowned. “So if you’re not questioning me, then why are you here?”

  “I don’t know really. Morbid curiosity?” He stared down at his shoes, lips pursed as he thought about the question. “I guess the truth is, I wanted to protect Guardian. I mean, part of my job is to try and control spin. And this sort of thing can easily be blown out of proportion.”

  John nodded, waiting.

  “So I figured if there was something here, something that might explain what happened, then better we find it than the police.”

  “You’d suppress information?”

  Jason smiled. “Not suppress it, no. But I’d delay it if I thought it would help the company.” He pushed away from the desk. “Look, we’re talking about conjecture here. The fact is, I didn’t find anything. Which is just as well, because with you out of commission, we’ve got more than enough to deal with. Our business is built on clients trusting in our ability to keep their businesses safe. And most of that trust has been based on your competence.”

  John clenched his good fist, trying to keep his emotions under tight rein. “And you’re saying I’m not competent.”

  “I’m not saying that at all. I’m simply saying that the perception, would be understandable under the circumstances. And if we’re going to combat that perception, one of two things has to happen.”

  Their gazes met and held.

  “Either you have to prove to everyone that you’re back. One hundred percent.”

  “Or?” He felt the muscles in his jaw contract, knowing full well what Jason was going to say next.

  “You’re going to have to step down.”

  Katie jerked awake, sweat trickling between her breasts. She wasn’t certain what had awakened her. The nightmare, or something in the night. But either way, she wasn’t taking chances. She swung out of bed onto silent feet, automatically reaching for the bedside table and her gun.

  When her hand met nothing, she swore under her breath, reality crashing in. She wasn’t in her apartment, she was halfway across the country in a suspected killer’s guest bedroom. And that meant no gun.

  Damn it all to hell.

  She strained into the darkness, all five senses on alert. From somewhere beyond the door, she thought she heard breathing. Or maybe it was the hiss of the air conditioner. Hard to say. Moving cautiously, she edged toward the door, careful to keep her balance as she crouched to avoid being in someone’s direct line of sight.

  Another noise, this one low and unidentifiable, filtered through the open doorway, setting the hairs on the back of her neck on end. She sucked in a breath, and moved into the living room, balancing on the balls of her feet, ready for whatever she found.

  A slash of moonlight cut across the living room, highlighting the emptiness. If someone had been here, they’d obviously withdrawn. The apartment was silent now. The only sound the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.

  Katie drew in another breath, this one cleansing, and let her gaze sweep over the apartment. The word apartment was a bit of an understatement actually. It was larger than most people’s houses.

  Again with the enigma. On the surface, John Brighton seemed to be a man who liked living large. Armani suits, oversized apartments, and monochromatic furniture. A successful company and money to burn. And yet there was nothing personal about any of it. Nothing to identify the man.

  Not that she should be thinking of him in that light. She’d gone far enough with that already. She squared her shoulders and took another cautious step into the room. What she needed was to find something that cemented the facts. Something that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that John was exactly the man the FBI believed him to be.

  A man capable of murder and cover-up.

  She froze as another sound broke through the silence. Muffled and low. Pivoting slightly, she surveyed the room, her eyes lighting on a hallway off to her right. The sound had come from there. She reached down, fingers closing around a pewter candlestick. The sound came again, clearer now, and she released the candle-holder, her breath coming more easily as she recognized the sound.

  Someone was in pain.

  John.

  Her mind shifted from intruders instantly, instinct telling her to return to the safety of her room. But another part of her, the part she kept submerged, was calling for compassion. John needed help, and she could give it. It was as simple as that.

  Without stopping to examine her motives further, she made her way down the hallway, toward his room. Her training as a physical therapist might have been rushed, but it had been thorough. There had to be something she could do.

  Besides, she rationalized, people were less guarded in the night. Maybe if she was lucky she’d break through his barriers.

  A tiny voice in her brain continued to call for caution. The feeling of danger was back. Danger and inevitability. She shook her head, dispelling the notion. This was a case. Nothing more. All she had to do was keep things in perspective.

  Easy enough in the abstract, but as her past bore out, not so easily achieved in reality. She tended to lead with her heart—a definite occupational hazard. One that she was not going to allow to bring her down.

  Not this time.

  There was too much at stake. She’d learned the hard way that if she was going to excel in her career, she had to keep her eye on the ball. Nothing ahead and nothing behind. If anything, dancing with death had on
ly strengthened that resolve.

  And right now, what she needed to do was coax the truth from John Brighton, and to do that she needed to transform herself into whatever it was he needed. Katie the chameleon. Whatever anyone wanted to see, that’s what she gave them.

  And the fact that no one knew the real Katie didn’t matter at all. In truth, she’d lost sight of that particular reality herself. Or maybe it was just that she didn’t want to know. Facing demons required a courage she simply didn’t have.

  She sighed and started down the hallway, forcing herself into her role—locking Katie somewhere deep inside, ignoring the part of her that yearned for something more.

  His right side ached. Bone-deep throbbing that threatened to unman him. He wanted to scream, to throw something, but the irony was, he couldn’t use his damn hand to do it. He shifted in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position.

  He supposed in some awful, tortured way the pain was a good thing. It meant he was alive. That his nerves were working, his muscles responding. But it also hurt like hell, sometimes making his nights unbearable.

  The doctors said in time the pain would go away. Well, he was ready.

  Now.

  A shadow in the doorway shifted, his synapses firing a warning. Someone was there. Using his good hand, he pushed himself upward, looking around for something with which to defend himself. Ever since the shooting he’d been on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Perhaps the time had come.

  Adrenaline pumped though him, anger mixing with trepidation.

  The shadow shifted again. “Are you all right?”

  Her voice was better than a tonic, his body relaxing as it washed over him. His mind, however, was slower to recover. “I’m fine.” It was a lie. But then, he’d been lying a lot lately. And the thought only served to make him angrier. He valued honesty above all else. But his need to protect his dignity was stronger.

  She stepped into the room, her face still in shadow. “I heard you cry out.”

  He swallowed a sigh. The woman obviously wasn’t going to let it go. “Sometimes at night my leg aches.” God, he hated being incapacitated. What he wouldn’t give to be whole again. Mind and body.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  He thought for a moment she’d read his thoughts. Somehow it would have suited her. But when she moved to the side of the bed, he knew she meant the pain.

  “Got anything on under there?”

  It occurred to him to lie, to tell her he was stark naked. Just to see how she’d react. But his mouth was evidently having nothing to do with the idea. “Gym shorts.”

  She pulled back the sheet, the slight breeze from the ceiling fan sending cool air chasing across his skin. “Roll over onto your stomach.” Her voice was husky, the timbre rich like honey. Obediently he turned over, his neurons primed and ready, waiting for the touch of her hands.

  He closed his eyes, tensing with anticipation. It was almost as if the very air they breathed was charged and waiting. He heard her sigh, the release of breath warm against his back, and then her hands circled his calf, her fingers moving softly across his skin, as if she was learning the feel of him.

  “Just let yourself relax.”

  “It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

  “I know.” Her fingers tightened, rhythmically stroking, sure and strong, sensation washing through him, eroding his pain. “But you have to try. It’s the only way you’ll get through it.”

  “Day by day?”

  She leaned closer, the smell of her skin intoxicating. “Minute by minute, if necessary.” There was something in her voice. Resolution mixed with certainty. As if she was empathizing rather than just sympathizing. “It will get better, John. I promise.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re speaking from personal experience.” He waited, wondering if he’d been mistaken.

  Her hands stilled, and silence mingled with the darkness. It was only a second, but it felt like an eternity and he wished he’d never spoken.

  “I’ve just had a lot of patients in the same boat.” It was an attempt to end the conversation, but he wasn’t letting her off that easily.

  “There’s more to it.” He rolled over, his eyes seeking hers. “I hear it in your voice. Talk to me, Katie.”

  She sat on the side of the bed, fingers nervously laced together, moonlight playing in her hair. “My mother was sick when I was young. She had cancer.”

  The word hung between them, hideous in all that it represented, and his heart went out to her. “How old were you?”

  “A teenager.” She stared down at her hands. “I don’t talk about it much.”

  “I’m sorry. I . . . I didn’t mean to overstep the boundaries.” He reached over to cover her hand with his, wanting to turn the tables, to give her comfort.

  Her fingers fluttered under his. “You didn’t. Not really. I was the one who opened the door.” She hesitated for a moment, then continued. “There’s nothing much to tell really. She fought it as hard as she could, but in the end it won. It was particularly painful at the last, and I often spent the night with her, trying to ease the pain.”

  “Like this.” The intimacy was back. “In the dark.”

  “The dark is freeing. It allows the soul to wander. I think my mother liked that. To be free from it all. At least for a little while.” She looked so fragile, sitting there in the moonlight, his heart ached for her.

  “You helped her with that. The escaping, I mean.” He reached up to touch her cheek, surprised to find it wet with tears.

  “I hope so.” The words were soft, forlorn, and she turned her hand in his, their palms barely touching, her fingers caressing his skin.

  And for a moment, in the darkness, he felt a connection—something deep and tangible. Without thinking about consequences, he pulled her closer, her breath sweet against his face, the silky softness of her nightshirt grazing his chest.

  Time seemed to hang frozen. Even in the shadows he could see the curve of her throat, the thrust of her lower lip as her tongue darted out to moisten it.

  He reached up to push the hair from her face, reveling in the soft silky feel of it. Her breath caught, and just for a moment he thought he saw something flare in her eyes—a hint of passion building deep inside.

  “I can’t. . . .” She pulled away, stumbling as she rose to her feet. He tried to reach out, to come to her aid, but his body refused the call, his injured leg responding only after she’d righted herself, moving farther back into the shadows. “I’m sorry. . . .”

  The last was only a whisper and he knew without looking that she was gone, the spell broken, leaving him alone again with the shadows of the night.

  What in the world had she been thinking?

  Katie paced the confines of her room, trying to figure out exactly what had just happened. One minute she’d been in charge of the situation, and the next she was babbling on about her mother as if she shared that kind of thing with strangers every day.

  And then to make matters worse, she’d all but climbed into bed with the man.

  She’d obviously gone round the bend in the worst way. Which of course wasn’t true at all. And frankly, that’s what scared her. She’d wanted him. Wanted him with a hunger she hadn’t even realized she was capable of. Granted, she didn’t have a lot of experience. In her line of work, dating could be a little awkward.

  But she wasn’t a gangly teenager either. She’d had her share of physical encounters. Physical encounters. Now, there was a telling statement. She stopped pacing and sat on the bed. Maybe that was the problem. She’d never allowed herself to feel anything, knowing before it started that it would have to end.

  Relationships and undercover work were like oil and water. Which until a few minutes ago had never posed a problem. She stood up, anger flashing through her. There was no problem. Just a strange combination of pheromones and darkness. The man was the object of her investigation. Nothing more.

  Chemistry be damned.

  She sighed,
and walked over to the window. The glass was still warm to the touch, even though the sun had long gone to bed. Bed. With a flash of memory, all she could see was John stretched out on the sheets, his muscles tight and hard. His skin . . .

  She clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palm.

  What in the hell had prompted this adolescent display of hormones? That’s what it was, of course. Hormones. Her brothers would have a field day with this one. Katie Cavanaugh kisses the perp.

  But she hadn’t kissed him. That was the key. Despite her desire to do so, she’d walked away. That had to count for something. Didn’t it?

  She turned around to face the room, leaning back against the windowsill. What was it about John Brighton that was so damn compelling? She’d worked with other suspects. Some of them far more handsome. And some of them a damned sight more charismatic. But she’d never once thought of them as anything but an adversary.

  Undercover work required walking a fine line, but she’d never been tempted to cross it.

  Until now.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she fought against feelings of inadequacy. That’s what Priestly had done to her. Made her doubt herself. Maybe her attraction to John was some kind of delayed reaction to everything that had happened.

  Except that it made no sense at all.

  Priestly had been repulsive. A predator to the core. And John . . . John was gentle, and lost, and somehow, despite the circumstances, she had felt a connection to him. A kindred moment in the dark.

  How stupid was that?

  She crossed back to the bed, lying back against the pillows, the soft whooshing of the ceiling fan underscoring her tumultuous thoughts. There were people in the bureau who doubted her abilities. Who honestly believed she’d never be as good as she had been.

  This was her chance. Her shot at jumping back into the action. And she couldn’t afford to blow it. Not for loneliness, not for hormones, not even for honest-to-God attraction.