Police Business

by Julie Miller

  “No.” She was already around the counter and out the door to save his sorry hide. “Damn.”

  A.J. slipped the gun into his waistband and pulled his shirt over it as he limped out the after her. “Claire?”

  She stopped to speak to a man sitting and holding his head. She squeezed another man’s hand. Though she had sense enough to stay low to the ground, she called for her friend and worked her way across the battlefield—as if she was Clara Barton—staying too many damn steps ahead of him.

  The final whoop-whoop of a siren told him the first police cruiser had arrived. Two men in blue suits got out and started to organize, ask questions. As an officer on the scene, he should go over and make a report, but he had to catch up to Claire first.

  An ambulance arrived, then fire engines and another cruiser. The place was crawling with even more people than before. Facts said more cops on the scene would improve crowd control. His instincts told him the extra people just gave Galvan more places to hide.

  “Claire?” Screw the pain. He’d bleed right on through the makeshift bandage and double-time it to get to her.

  He spotted Debbie Dunning, over in the parking lot, kneeling beside an injured man. Claire had spotted her, too. A.J. turned to cut her off and get her safely back inside, or maybe in the back of one of the cruisers.

  Light shirt, dark cap. Son of a bitch.

  “Claire!”

  Damn it, she couldn’t hear him.

  Black hair, black eyes.

  Dominic Galvan stepped out from the shadows and fell into step behind her, his quicker pace closing the gap between them. No! A.J. ran. His leg screamed in protest and buckled, but he shoved himself back to his feet as soon as he hit the pavement.

  “It’s Galvan! Claire!”

  He pulled out his gun and took aim.

  The next few seconds unfolded like a nightmare playing in slow motion to draw out its torturous images.

  Claire finally turned.

  She saw him. Saw the gun.

  Saw Galvan.

  Her footsteps stuttered. She gasped. Retreated.

  Galvan pulled a knife from the folds of his shirt and kept coming. Damn Renaissance Man. Trained to kill any way he wanted.

  “Police, Galvan! Drop it!”

  Never breaking his stride, the hit man turned his head toward A.J., giving him a look into the cold, conscienceless black eyes Claire had described so perfectly.

  He wanted A.J. to see him. Wanted him to see Claire’s terror. Wanted them both to know he would win.

  “Gun!” The two blue suits pulled their weapons and shouted at A.J. “Drop it!”

  “I’m KCPD,” he responded, knowing they wouldn’t let him reach into his pocket to draw out his badge until he set down his weapon. And that wasn’t gonna happen.

  Claire stumbled toward him. “That’s Galvan! That’s him!” A.J. had a clear shot. “Galvan!”

  Debbie Dunning stood up beside her patient to see what all the commotion was about. She stood up right in the line of fire.

  “Madre Dios.” A.J. cocked his elbow and pointed the gun away from the innocent bystander.

  The blue suits were on him by then, taking the Beretta, kicking his legs apart, ordering him to the ground.

  “Get your hands off him!” Claire shouted. She snatched at the arm of one of the officers, who shook her loose and warned her aside.

  “No, sweetheart, don’t fight them.”

  But she hadn’t seen his words. “He’s on your side! Detective A. J. Rodriguez, KCPD.” She pointed to the parking lot. “That’s the man you need to arrest.”

  But he was gone.

  By the time the uniformed officers had checked A.J.’s badge, returned his gun and apologized for drawing on a ranking officer, Dominic Galvan was long gone.

  He’d slipped, like a wraith, back into the night.

  DESPITE THE CANE he carried, Claire propped herself beneath A.J.’s left arm to support him as he walked, long after the ER doctor who stitched up his leg had declared him officially sound and ready to return to light duty after a good night’s rest.

  She braced her hands at his waist and back and took a bit of his weight—not because he still needed her assistance to get down the hallway from the elevator to his apartment, but because she desperately needed to hold on to something solid and reliable or she’d go raving mad.

  Fear, exhaustion, frustration, guilt—they taunted her from every corner of her mind. Like those unseen terrors that haunted her in the night, images from the past week tried to creep in and push her over the edge.

  But A.J. was her lifeline to the light and sanity of the real world, and she was hanging on for all she was worth.

  And since he’d had his arm around her shoulders or her hand in his almost every moment since they’d left the Riverfront Gentleman’s Club, it seemed as if he needed something to hang on to, as well.

  Dozens of cops, uniformed and detective alike—plus a couple of FBI agents and one assistant district attorney, from the sound of things—had shown up after a single call A.J. made from the hospital to his partner, Josh Taylor.

  “I need help, amigo.”

  He couldn’t bring down Galvan, unmask an accomplice, protect Claire—and fill out all the paperwork, he’d tried to joke—by himself anymore.

  Claire nearly cried when she saw how many of A.J.’s friends and fellow cops had turned out to set up a watch around both the city block and apartment building so he could have time to rest and recuperate. Others had gone to the office to process reports, others to the Riverfront Gentleman’s Club to take witness statements. Seemed they knew the same secret she’d discovered. That the quiet man on the force, the chameleon of KCPD, the veteran detective who’d trained some of the best in the business—was much more than a good cop.

  He was a good man. A.J. unlocked the door and showed her inside. He bolted the door behind them and took her hand to lead her into the living room. She’d hardly noticed the place when she’d been here before. But the sun was dawning in a clear sky for the first time in a week, and its rays filtered in through the window to warm the pale turquoises and rich dark earth tones that defined the comfortable Mediterranean decor.

  “This is nice.”

  “I can’t take credit. My sisters did the decorating. Said I needed more than plain white walls and a cot to make this livable.”

  “They have good taste.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to take you home?” he asked.

  “I’m sure.” One, there was the little matter of not knowing whom she could trust at her father’s house and who wanted her dead. And two, she worried that once she left A.J., he’d find some noble reason not to invite her back.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving. But I think I’m too tired to eat.”

  “How about a drink?”

  “I could use some water.”

  “Coming up.” She watched him stow his unused cane in the corner beside a silk plant and walk into the kitchen. His limp was barely noticeable now, though the green hospital pants they’d given him to replace the jeans they’d cut off were a definite reminder that he’d been hurt.

  Trying to defend her.

  Claire squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them just as quickly, hoping the mental pictures would go away. A.J. running to save her. Putting himself between her and a bomb. Standing at the ready to kill the man who terrorized her, giving up his chance in order to protect the innocent bystanders around him.

  Innocent bystanders she’d endangered because Galvan didn’t seem to care how many people he hurt or killed in his quest to have a perfect hit record. Imagine finding that listing in the Guinness Book. Claire laughed, but her teeth were clenched and it hurt her throat.

  “Here you go.” A.J. handed her a bottle of water and pointed to the overstuffed sofa and chairs. “Make yourself comfortable. I figure I’ve got about twenty-four hours worth of favors called in for us to get some uninterrupted time to relax.”

  She�
�d bet it was more like twenty-four years, but didn’t have the energy to argue the point with him. She perched on the edge of the brown-and-cream brocaded couch and opened her water. “Your friends seem to really like and respect you.”

  “Yeah, go figure.” A.J. sank into the chair across from her and propped his leg up on the ottoman before opening the orange juice he’d brought out for himself.

  She took three sips of water in the weary silence that followed. Two nights ago she’d had to fight through his good intentions and misconceptions to earn the privilege of sleeping in A.J.’s arms. Last night there’d been no sleeping. Just destruction and pain. This morning didn’t seem to be dawning with anything resembling hope.

  “They seem nice.” She tried one more time to make conversation.

  “Yeah.”

  At least he hadn’t turned his back on her. But the silence in her ears left her with little to respond to besides her guilty memories and the fears that made her weary. She screwed the cap back onto her water and noticed the dried blood caught beneath her nails and cuticles.

  A.J.’s blood.

  He’d needed nine stitches because of her. One taxi driver had lost his life. Because of her.

  She flicked her thumbnail beneath another nail and tried to pry the flakes of blood from beneath it. Nineteen people injured in the blast, six of them critically enough to be admitted to the hospital.

  Picturing Galvan’s cold black eyes, taunting her, telling her he could get to her whenever he wanted, made Claire’s breath catch in her sore lungs. The knife he’d flashed hadn’t been a threat, so much as a promise. He could hurt her in any number of ways. A gun, a bomb, a knife…

  Claire rubbed at her cuticles now. The blood wouldn’t go away. Killing her was a game to Galvan—maybe the ultimate challenge with A.J. thrown into the mix. He could—and intended to—make her suffer.

  He was succeeding.

  Claire shot to her feet, startling A.J. enough that he swung his injured leg to the floor. “Could I use your shower again?”

  “Sure.”

  “I feel dirty and grimy.”

  He stood and took the water from her tense grip. “You remember where everything is?”

  She nodded, though she hadn’t really seen his words. “I’m exhausted, but I can’t relax.”

  “You don’t have to explain. Go on.” He nudged her elbow and turned her toward the hallway and the bathroom around the corner.

  A.J. handed her a towel and washcloth and closed the door behind her, leaving Claire alone in the middle of the tan-tiled bathroom. With rote, robotic movements, she dropped her towel onto the back of the toilet and reached into the shower stall to turn on the water to let it heat up. She wanted to fill the room with heat and steam and let the water cleanse every pore on her body.

  She toed off her shoes and kicked them beneath the sink. Untied the leather thong that held up A.J.’s jeans and let them slide off her hips to the floor. Stepping out of them, she stretched her arms over her head to pull off her shirt.

  Debbie had loaned her the two tank tops. This one was smudged with dirt and sweat, and the other had been so caked with blood—A.J.’s blood—that the ER attendant had thrown it into the trash.

  “I’ll buy you some new clothes, Deb,” she promised her absent friend. She reached behind her back to unhook the red lace bra. “I’ll replace your costume. No, I’ll pay for your classes so you don’t have to go back to that place.”

  But she’d forgotten the bra didn’t have a hook. So she slipped the straps off her arms and twisted to pull it off over her head.

  Maybe she should pay to fix up the club. She could dip into her trust fund and buy some new lights for their parking lot. Offer to buy a new cab for the city. Pay some sort of restitution to all the people who’d been hurt because she’d had the dumb luck to finally choose a night to stand up to her father, and had stumbled upon a murder instead.

  People were putting their lives on the line for her. Getting hurt. Dying. And it was all her fault. All her…

  The bra’s elastic caught in her hair and plucked at the knot on the back of her scalp. Tears pricked her eyes at the sharp jolt of pain.

  And then they kept falling. And falling.

  Claire hugged her arms across her breasts and stood in the steam and cried.

  There must have been a knock, maybe a soft word that she never heard. It was the whisper of cool air across her heated skin that told her the door had opened.

  A.J. had stripped off his T-shirt. His guns and holster had been put away. He stood there in nothing but the hospital pants that reminded her of everything she hated about all this. His chest was smooth, his breathing steady, but his beautiful mouth was lined with worry.

  She’d put that there, too, no doubt.

  “I thought I was doing the right thing.” Her breath stuttered through her chest and her chin trembled with embarrassing vulnerability when she tried to apologize. “I didn’t want you to get hurt. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Why are so many people getting…?”

  But his arms were around her now. Her cheek was nestled against the beat of his heart. His hands held her gently, securely, and she wept.

  Maybe he spoke to her, she didn’t know. But she was too emotionally spent to protest when he shucked off his pants and briefs, opened the shower door and led her inside.

  The spray of the water was a shock against her bare back. Claire whimpered and nuzzled her face into his chest. Moving with her, he eased her back under the water, drawing slow circles across her back and massaging his fingers at her nape as the hot water sluiced over the top of her head and cascaded over her shoulders and breasts and in between them.

  More minutes passed, and the warmth of the water began to seep inside her, warming her blood and bringing her back to life again. She finally released the grip of her arms and slid her hands slowly around A.J.’s water-slicked flanks and back. She latched her fingers behind him, pressing her tender breasts against the unyielding hardness of him. She closed her eyes and kissed a curve of muscle, savoring the perfection of the contact between them.

  Claire held on when his hands left her. She opened her mouth to protest, but her throat was still raw with the tears she’d shed. Then he palmed her hip and guided her forward a step as he retreated. The angle of the water changed, hitting her square in the back. When strong, gentle fingers tunneled into her hair and began a slow, easy massage across her scalp, she understood.

  The manly scent of something spicy and clean teased her nose and made her want to smile. No girly shampoo for this guy. Bubbles tickled along her neck and ran down her spine. He was gentle around the bump on her head, but more firm at her temples, easing the tension of a crying headache.

  When he was done, he slipped his finger beneath her chin and tilted her face to his so she could read his intent. Claire simply nodded. With her fingers still anchored at his waist, she trusted him enough to lean back against him and let her head fall back under the water to rinse her hair.

  Her arched back exposed her breasts to the steamy spray of water—and to the hungry intent of his golden gaze. His pupils dilated at the proud display and her breasts tingled and tightened beneath the caress of the water and the fire in his eyes.

  She caught her breath with a mixture of fascination and hope as he dipped his head and kissed the swell of one breast. His lips were tender, firm—warmer than the water that fell around them. His overnight beard stubble was a tickly rasp that danced across her skin and made her shiver. A.J. softened the overload of friction with a flick of his tongue.

  The tips of her breasts knotted and thrust, demanding more than her inexperience knew how to ask for. At the unspoken invitation, he closed his mouth over one distended tip and swirled his tongue around it. Claire clutched her fingers into his back and gasped at the sheer, raw pleasure that coursed through her body and rushed to the point of contact. He treated the other breast to the same seductive torment, tutoring her body in the thrilling responses t
o this man’s touch.

  His hands followed the path of the water down her back and cupped her bottom. He squeezed and lifted and dragged her hips into his, revealing the thrilling response of his own body.

  Claire moaned in her throat at the intimate contact. He lifted his head to kiss that spot. She opened her mouth to catch her breath, and A.J. covered her lips with his own.

  Blossoming, unfolding beneath the driving force of his mouth, Claire moved her hands to frame his face. With her unskilled touch, she slicked her palms across his jaw, pressed her thumbs at the corners of his lips. She angled his mouth one way, then another, finding each way she loved to be kissed, learning that every way offered something wonderful.

  His tongue slipped inside and danced with hers. Finding the matching rhythm, Claire swept her hands around his neck and into his hair, lifting herself into his kiss. Warmed by water on one side, by man on the other—and by an awakened passion that set everything on fire in between—Claire felt the fatigue of the past few hours wash away. The guilt, the fear, the frustrated rage that had overwhelmed her receded at the roving exploration of A.J.’s hands, the consuming heat of his kisses, the friction of his body moving against hers.

  A hungry, desperate instinct thrummed through her veins at a feverish pitch, knowing what she wanted even before her mind could acknowledge it. This was about cleansing, strengthening, renewing. But she didn’t know how to ask. She didn’t know how to give voice to what her body and soul were yearning for.

  When A.J’s hands left her, she thought it was too late, that she’d missed her chance, misread his intent. Her heart pounded in her chest and she cried out in protest.

  But then she felt the rough stroke and the washcloth against her back. He was bathing her, completing what she hadn’t even been able to start. Her heart squeezed tight, then swelled in her chest at the strength of his will and body. He had always taken care of her, always protected her—in ways she’d never even known a woman could need. His consideration made her want to cry all over again. His example made her want to do the same for him. If she could. If she knew how.

  A.J. kissed her lips and stepped away. She braced her hands on his shoulders as he knelt before her to brush the soapy cloth across her stomach. He slid the red panties she still wore off her hips and down her legs. He’d kiss a spot, then wipe it clean. The water rinsed away the soap, but her skin still tingled with each press of his lips. He kissed her hip, her thigh, and nuzzled close to the heart of her, draining her of sensation except for the pressure pooling at that potent spot. Just when she thought her knees might give way, he turned her around and scrubbed her backside.