by Julie Miller
“Galvan doesn’t sleep.”
“Of course he does. He’s human like…” Well, not like anybody else. A.J. was speaking metaphorically, of course. Galvan would never give up his pursuit. Not until she was dead. Or he was.
Oh, God. Claire caught a breath that lodged painfully in her chest. Was that what this game of undercover hide-and-seek would eventually come down to? Some kind of standoff, shoot-out, last-man-standing tragedy? A confrontation where she or Galvan or both of them would be dead? Or A.J.? Other cops and innocent bystanders—like her students? Like Jordan Henley?
Her breath seeped out and tears stung her eyes. “I don’t want you to die for me. I don’t want anyone else to die.”
A.J. stood and picked up the gun and holster from the table. On bare feet he crossed to the squarish brown sofa. He lifted one end and turned it so that it sat perpendicular to the front door. “To serve and protect. It’s what I do. I’m not a punk anymore. I’m a cop.”
He sat at the far end of the sofa and swung his legs up so that he could lean back against the armrest and face the door. He set his Glock right beside him on the cushion.
Claire swiped away the tears that dotted her lashes and listened to what he was telling her. Really listened.
He had to do his job. He had to be responsible. He didn’t think he’d done very well at either task. He intended to rectify those mistakes and do what he considered to be the right thing.
Or die trying.
Peace. Strength. Honor.
Symbols of a man who was more than a badge and a gun. Symbols of character, commitment, belief.
“You’re more than a cop,” Claire stated quietly. “You’re more than some tool of justice or guardianship or death. You’re also a man. A brother. A son. A friend.” You’re someone I love. “You can’t beat yourself up because you slid into one role more than another tonight. Being a cop is your job. And I think you’re damn good at it. But it’s not who you are.”
“It’s who I have to be.”
She ignored the dismissive finality in his eyes. Claire Landers Winthrop had been dismissed one too many times in her life—and never by someone who needed her more.
“You’re not coming to bed?” Okay, so there was a little snap to her voice. They’d already discussed how to fit two people on the small double mattress, with one of them on top and one beneath the blanket so they couldn’t get into any kind of compromising position. But he preferred to be uncomfortable and alone.
“No.” He adjusted, fluffed and finally tossed the throw pillows off the sofa. “I’m fine to sack out here. I want to keep a close eye on you.”
The few feet that separated them across the room seemed farther away than the prospect of Dominic Galvan turning himself in to the police. A feeling—intuition, perhaps—swelled inside her, making her feel wise beyond her experience. A.J. didn’t want to be alone. He just thought he had to be.
Trusting that instinct, taking a chance, she climbed out of bed, untucked the yellow blanket and folded it up in her arms.
“What are you doing?” She sat down on the edge of the sofa, facing him. “Claire?”
She lay her head against his chest and stretched out beside him on the sofa, pulling the blanket up over them both. “Is this close enough?”
She held her breath, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath her ear, lying there as still as A.J. was beneath her. She rode the deep sigh that expanded his chest. But only when she felt his lips in her hair, and his arms around her, did she snuggle into his heat and close her eyes to sleep.
AMELIA WARD WAS a pretty thing, bustling around the 26th floor in a skirt that was a tad too short to be professional, but just right to remind him why he’d traded in Valerie Justice for a newer model.
She was well on her way to becoming a permanent fixture in the office, provided she passed the Deirdre Winthrop test and kept her hands off Deirdre’s husband. In public, at least. He didn’t think Deirdre cared too much what Cain did with his private life, so long as nothing embarrassed her, altered her position of power, interfered with her checkbook privileges or kept her children from inheriting the millions of dollars she thought they deserved.
If Amelia had any designs on the boss, thus far she had been discreet. It didn’t hurt that she had learned the Winthrop systems quickly and was damnably efficient. Especially during a crisis—like murder investigations and missing daughters and postponed board meetings.
The Chairman of the Board was finally back on track—at his urging, of course. He earned a lot of money coming up with good ideas and playing the game so that it appeared the company always came first—and that the family was the company.
Even this impromptu board meeting had been his suggestion. Business as usual. That was the ticket to assure investors and trading partners that all was well at Winthrop, Inc., despite the attempt on Claire’s life and her subsequent disappearance. Keep the company running as normally as possible. Beyond dispelling rumors and taking some of the public scrutiny off the missing heiress, he’d suggested that busy hands would help keep their minds from brooding on horrible thoughts about how Claire was doing and where she might be.
He settled on the black leather couch in the lobby beside Gina Gunn and pretended an interest in the colorful fish swimming in the aquarium. All of the board members and a couple of guests were on hand—pacing the lobby, reading the paper, prepping for the meeting. Peter Landers. Gabriel and Gina Gunn. Marcus Tucker. Rob Hastings. Amelia Ward.
Cain had called them together to discuss the Japanese offer—and Dwight Powers’s attempt to take the murder investigation in a new direction. The damn D.A. thought he was so smart, using the excuse of the board’s travels into Third World countries and suspect nations as a reason to subpoena medical records—including DNA samples. Something about verifying their passport identifications in the interest of Homeland Security. The corporation’s attorneys would have him laughed out of court by the time they finished their appeals.
Of course, it would go a long way to promote company and family morale if everyone voluntarily supplied a DNA sample to prove they had nothing to do with Valerie’s death—pardon, he meant alleged death, of course. By the time they found her body, any trail leading to him would have grown cold.
And how easy would it be to reach into his private petty expense fund and pay off some lab technician to point the DNA match another way? Maybe even toward Galvan. His obsession with Claire was getting tedious. Ramon Goya was waiting, with millions of dollars worth of “imports” for him to distribute. If he could get rid of Claire, he could get Galvan back on task.
“Are you sure?” Amelia’s animated response on the phone in her office caught his attention. It was a unique mixture of excitement and anxiety that attracted the other board members as well. “Un-huh.” He stood and watched her show a little more thigh as she bent over her desk to scribble something on her notepad. “Give me your address. If this pans out, the company will send you a check.”
“Amelia?” She was clearly agitated about something.
“Hold on a sec.” The secretary covered the receiver and turned to wave them over to her door. “This is someone who claims to know where Claire is. They must have seen the item on the news before it was pulled. Should I tell Mr. Winthrop? He’d want to know about his daughter, but if it’s a prank, he doesn’t need to be disturbed and upset anymore than he already is.
“What should I do?” She looked at each board member, gathered outside her doorway.
“I’ll take care of it.”
She handed him the phone.
A FAMILIAR FIGURE slid onto the stool at the end of the bar. “Does your mama know you’re workin’ in a place like this, Rodriguez? A strip joint?”
“Cole Taylor.” A.J. grinned and reached across the bar to shake hands and butt fists with his former partner and oldest friend. “Can’t you read? The sign out front says Exotic Dancers.”
“Oh, so it’s a classy place.” Cole combed his fi
ngers through his short dark hair and turned to watch the dancer onstage pop one of the balloons on her chest. “I’d better start absorbing the culture.”
A.J. laughed at the easy give-and-take they’d always shared. “Forget my mama. You turn that stool back around this way or I’m gonna call your wife.”
Cole put up one hand in surrender and then pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket. “Well, since she can kick my butt, on second thought I think I will just sit here and have a beer.”
A.J. picked up a glass and pulled a draft. “So how is Victoria?”
“My wife is healthy and happy, thank you very much, and so’s her husband.”
Right. Another friend on the force who’d learned how to be a cop and love a woman without shortchanging either role. A.J. just wasn’t seeing how he and Claire could make anything work once this mess was over. If they survived this mess. If he didn’t get her killed or his heart ripped up in the process.
A.J. tossed a coaster onto the counter and served Cole his beer. “This one’s on the house, amigo.”
Cole accepted the drink, but slid the fiver across the bar. “Thanks, amigo. But I really want to pay for this one.”
A.J. understood that tone. He knew the look in the eye. They’d both worked undercover for too many years for him not to recognize the signs that told him this surprise visit was actually a contact call—a way for a cop on the inside to communicate with the department without jeopardizing his cover.
Angling his back to the other patrons at the bar, A.J. picked up the bill and flipped it to read the phone number and note on the other side. Body Found.
A charge of adrenaline quickened A.J.’s heartbeat. “You kiddin’ me?”
Cole raised his glass in a toast as the music ended, and a smattering of applause and whistles marked the end of the performance. He fit in with this lowbrow crowd like a pro. But as he played the role of good ole boy, he talked all business. “Police dogs located Valerie Justice in one of the landfills south of town. You can call Holly Masterson at that number—she’s doing the autopsy this evening. Josh says she’s heading up the CSI team assigned to the case.”
“I know her.” A.J. stuffed the phone number into his pocket. He needed to talk to Holly to find out if there was any forensic evidence they could use against Galvan in order to take the heat off Claire as the key component of the D.A.’s case.
Another part of him just wanted to take a look at the body to see what Claire had seen. To help him understand what she’d gone through. He wanted everything to be exactly as she described so he could go back to her father and stepfamily and handsy, wannabe boyfriend and shove it down their throats that Claire didn’t make up stories. She had a good head on her shoulders and an even bigger heart inside her. And the next time any one of them ignored her or dismissed her, then he…hell.
He wouldn’t do a damn thing. She was getting pretty good at standing up for herself and being heard. She could take care of herself without his help.
“So which one is she?” Cole’s probing gaze pulled A.J. from his gloomy mood. “I want to meet the woman who finally put you off your game.”
“Who says I’m off my game?”
Cole didn’t believe the bravado act any more than he did. “This is me you’re talking to.” He wrapped his hands around his glass and leaned over the bar to whisper. “Between what Josh tells me, and what I’ve seen tonight, you’re distracted. The A.J. I know doesn’t get distracted.”
The A.J. Cole knew would never have endangered a witness’s life because he was too busy kissing her. He wouldn’t have let personal feelings get in the way of doing his job—he wouldn’t have acknowledged even having personal feelings.
“I’ll get the job done,” A.J. reassured him.
He’d been telling himself that very thing, over and over, ever since waking up this morning with Claire in his arms. With her snuggled up like a contented kitten on top of his chest, her legs tangled with his, he’d slept the most peaceful sleep he’d ever known. She’d smelled better than the millions of bucks she was worth. And when she’d stirred against him, her hip had nestled against his groin, her breasts had beaded through the thin cotton shirt she wore to brand his chest. Her hand had slid across his shoulder and curled around his neck as if she was dreaming and wanting the same thing his thoroughly awake, lust-starved body did.
“You’re doing it again,” Cole teased. Maybe it was a friendly warning.
A.J. needed to forget about peaceful nights and passionate mornings. With Claire, at any rate.
“I’ll get the job done.” He stated the vow more firmly, though he wasn’t sure he completely believed it, either.
A.J. spotted the thick, black glasses and ballerina’s posture heading toward the bar with an empty tray. “Here she comes. Hey, Kiki.”
“Kiki?” Cole asked.
A.J. winked. “She picked it out herself. Said she always wanted a cool nickname. It beats C.L.”
“What’s C.L.?”
C.L. Claire Landers Winthrop. A.J. frowned. Why hadn’t he considered the importance of a name before?
Claire set her tray at the waitress station and leaned against the brass railing. “I need a red beer and a draft.”
“Is Peter Landers a relative of yours?”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “That came out of left field.”
“Is he?”
“Uncle Peter’s my mother’s brother. He introduced her to Dad back when the business first started taking off. She loved to travel. So did he. I think if she had lived that Dad would never have settled down to an office job.”
“Does Peter do the traveling now?”
She shrugged. “A lot of it. But so do Gabe and Rob and Gina. Why?”
“I’m not sure. I never made the connection between his name and yours before.”
“Winthrop prides itself on being a family business.” She spouted what sounded like the company motto, then tilted her head toward Cole and shifted her eyes, covertly reminding him that they weren’t alone. “But I didn’t think we were supposed to talk about that stuff here.”
“He’s okay.” A.J. let his half-formed thought about her uncle’s name go until he could figure out whether it was a useful piece to the puzzle surrounding this investigation. He prepped the drinks while he made the introductions. “This is Cole Taylor. Josh’s big brother. A lifetime ago, when he first made detective, I used to be this guy’s partner. Cole, this is…Kiki.”
“I thought you looked familiar.” Claire accepted Cole’s handshake and smiled a friendly greeting. “You’re like a dark-haired version of your brother, Josh.”
“I’m the better-looking version of my brother.”
They both laughed. But Claire’s smile quickly flatlined, and she glanced back and forth from Cole to A.J. “Why are you here? Did something break on the case?”
A.J. considered the note in his pocket, but hesitated to share the information. Out here where they’d have an audience, anyway. Claire would either be elated by the news that there was finally some physical evidence to corroborate her story, or she’d be sickened by the gruesome details regarding the autopsy of a friend.
“A.J.?” She reached across the bar and touched his wrist. She shook her head, catching the slipup. “I mean Joe? What’s happening?”
A.J. closed his hand over hers and squeezed, silently asking her to be patient. “Deliver your drinks, then meet me in the back by the janitor’s closet.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then quickly fluffed it back into place, even though there was nothing to hide. “Okay, now I’m really worried.”
He patted her hand and let her go. “Deliver the drinks.”
With a hesitant nod, she picked up the tray and threaded her way through the patrons who were beginning to fill in the tables closer to the stage for the next performance. A.J. knew he didn’t have to wait until she was out of earshot to speak, but he waited until she was at her table and occupied with the customers befo
re coming around the bar to speak with Cole in hushed, urgent tones.
“You say Holly’s doing the autopsy right now?”
“She’s probably finished by now and typing up her notes.”
“You got any plans for the next hour or two?”
Cole grinned and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “I thought you might ask that. Go ask your questions and find your answers. I’ll stay with Miss Kiki.”
Besides Josh, Cole was probably the only person he’d entrust Claire’s safety to. “Don’t let her get hurt.”
“Go, already.”
“Remember everything I taught you.”
All pretense vanished from Cole’s expression. He’d always been able to read people. And right now, A.J. had the feeling his old friend was reading more than he was willing to admit himself. “She’s really gotten to you, hasn’t she?”
A.J. didn’t know how to answer that. He wasn’t sure he was ready to assess just what that answer might mean. He had to keep his focus on the here and now. On the case. On helping Claire survive.
The only answer he could give was to reach out and squeeze Cole’s shoulder. Then he gave him a swat on the arm as if he was sending his first-string player into the game. “Just don’t let her get hurt.”
A.J. found Claire pacing the back hallway. When he first saw her, she was walking away from him and he allowed himself a second to enjoy the view. She wore a pair of clingy tank tops over his jeans that were baggy and revealing on her. The clothes hugged her lean torso and emphasized the rounded swell of her hips and bottom.
As refined and ladylike as he knew she could be, this was the real Claire Winthrop as far as he was concerned. Proud of a hard night’s work. Sassy. Tough. Sexy and real. And as trusting and vulnerable as he was cynical and worldly-wise.
Cole had him pegged.
He was well and truly sunk with this woman.
“A.J.” She spun around and caught him staring. But she was worried enough about something that she charged right up to him, taking no notice of his pensive mood. “You’re not going off to do something crazy, are you? With all those guns? What did Cole say?”
