by Cecy Robson
He reaches for my hands, holding them within his. “Was that the only reason?”
I don’t know if it’s the kindness I sense in Declan’s voice or the gentle way in which he holds me, or if maybe the memories I’ve suppressed for so long have found their way to the surface simply through his presence. Whatever the reason, my eyes sting in a way I wish they wouldn’t. “When something brushes too close to my hearing aids, it creates a back noise, like a squeal. It’s uncomfortable.”
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
Wow. No one’s ever asked me that. “It can. If it’s loud enough.” I try to relax my stance and pretend that what I say no longer affects me, even though that lump building in my throat reminds me that it does. “Girls couldn’t whisper their secrets because I’d react in a way that made them uncomfortable, even though I was the only one who’d hear the squeaks and squeals.” I swallow hard. “There were these boys who found out. When they’d pass me in the hall, they’d tug on my hair or flick my ear just to watch me jump.”
The strong angles along his face tighten, reflecting his anger. I try to steady my emotions. I don’t want him upset over things no one can change, and I don’t want him to pity me. I also need him to understand that despite the traces of pain that linger, I’m all right.
“It was hard,” I confess. “I pushed through and survived. But because I know what it’s like to grow up and live with special needs, and because I’ve seen how cruel people can be, I don’t want my babies to struggle.” I smile, for me, and for him. “That doesn’t mean that I’d love my child any less if he or she had issues. I’m only saying I wouldn’t wish that kind of heartbreak on anyone.”
“Neither would I,” he says. “But like you said, everything you went through, good and bad, helped you become who you are.” The steel hard look mixed with ardor he pegs me with knocks me on my ass. “And I think you’re fucking amazing.”
“Ah.”
Be it my face, or my oh-so brilliant response causes a very slow and absurdly sexy grin to ease across Declan’s face.
I’m in trouble. Serious trouble. And I must say, trouble has never looked so hot.
Declan’s phone rings. He barely blinks, keeping his eyes on me as he hits the speaker icon. “O’Brien,” he answers.
His secretary’s voice echoes through the speaker. “Declan, Detective Melo and your witnesses are ready for you.”
“Send them in please, Ellie.” He stands when the phone clicks, his playful expression daring me to follow. “You and me, have to do something about this.”
I turn around as he shrugs into his jacket, my eyes scanning the pile of cases littering his desk. “Do something about what?” I ask, stacking the files as if I have no interest in straddling him.
His hand presses against the small of my back, stilling me in place. “You know what I mean,” he whispers.
I start to deny it because I think I should when Detectives Melo and Hernandez bust in with Rosana in hysterics. “What happened?” Declan snaps
I hurry to Rosana. She falls into my arms as I gather her close. “My mother wants me to drop the charges,” she stammers between huge gulps of air.
Detective Melo shuts the door, appearing seconds from losing what remains of his cool. I lead Rosana to the leather couch against the wall, trying to put some space between her and her mother. She sobs against my shoulder as I ease her down. She’s devastated and feels betrayed. How can she not? Her own mother is siding with the man who robbed her of her innocence.
I want to shake Vilma, scream at her for failing to protect her child. But when the first of her tears stream down her face, I’m reminded that she’s as broken as her daughter and likely a victim herself.
Declan turns his full attention on Vilma. “Why are you protecting the man who hurt your daughter?”
His question is blunt and his tone stern. He’s not yelling, but his frustration and anger spread along the air like a mounting storm.
Valencia Hernandez sits beside Vilma, waiting for her to speak. “You need to answer my question,” Declan tells her.
Vilma lowers her chin. She knows Declan won’t stop pushing her until she answers. Valencia interprets as she speaks. “His family is from the same country I am. They’re calling Rosana a liar. They say this is an injustice and if Iker isn’t released they’re going to kill my family.”
Jesus.
Every emotion I feel plays along Declan’s features, but the most dominant is fury. He looks at Detective Melo. “Do you still have old army buddies living in Honduras?”
Detective Melo smiles. “As a matter of fact I do.” He looks to Vilma as Valencia continues to interpret. “They’re missionaries now, but not exactly the kind who do God’s work. I’m sure they won’t mind finding Iker’s family and politely requesting they stop threatening yours.”
Vilma shuts her mouth, but she doesn’t seem any happier. She’s ready to run away screaming from this whole mess.
Declan won’t let her.
“Here’s the deal,” he says. “I don’t bend to anyone. That’s not my job. My job is to put criminals behind bars and that’s what I intend to do. You’re not supporting your daughter. I don’t like it. But legally, there’s nothing I can do to make you.” He leans forward. “Just so you know, she has my full support, and that of my office. I swear to you, I won’t stop until Iker gets exactly what he deserves for hurting Rosana.”
There are moments so profound and silent you can hear a pin drop. This is one of those.
No one moves. It’s not just what Declan says, it’s the force behind his words.
Rosana stops crying, lifting her head from my shoulder. She’s not relieved or unafraid, far from it. She simply knows Declan believes in her.
For now, it’s all she needs.
Vilma doesn’t say anything, nor does anyone else when they pile out minutes later.
Except for me. I have plenty to say. “Have dinner with me.”
Declan leans back in his chair, analyzing me closely. “You want to have dinner with me?” he asks, as if he can’t believe I’m finally caving.
This time, I’m the one flashing a sexy smile. “Yes.”
CHAPTER 11
Declan
Here’s the thing. I don’t date. Ever. I don’t need to. I don’t have to. I’m not trying to find “the one.” I attend events with women, occasionally do dinner, or skip the formalities and head straight to bed.
It’s Saturday night and I have a date with Mel at her place, where she’s cooking me dinner. I’m not sure how it happened, even though I’ve wanted it, and instigated it, too.
Dinner at some woman’s place. How did this happen, again? Oh, that’s right, the hot girl I’ve been fantasizing about finally agreed to give me the chance I thought I never wanted.
I think the last woman who cooked me dinner was my mother, two years ago when she was visiting from Florida. I’m not too stupid to know that I should bring something. But I’m not exactly sure what that something should be.
Wine would be the simplest solution. But it almost seems too easy, and not good enough for our first out of the office encounter.
Wait? Out of the office encounter? God damn it. I’m not even sure what the hell I mean.
All I know is the sexual tension between me and Mel has been off the charts. We’ve grown close in recent weeks. I respect her as a woman, a professional, and as a friend. A professional friendly woman who I want to fuck.
But you just don’t fuck a woman like Mel. Just like you don’t show up to dinner with just wine.
I’m good at getting women into bed, or making them think they’re luring me there. But anything deeper than that is something I’ve never bothered with. Never had to before. With Mel . . . I’m in a whole different playing field.
I need a woman’s perspective. So I make the mistake of calling my sister Erin, better known as “Wren” or God’s cure for silence as our mother calls her.
“Hey, what’s up, Declan? Rea
dy for the F-150 your ass needs to be driving.”
“No, Wren,” I say. “Wait, what the hell? You don’t even sell cars anymore―”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not watching out for you. And honest to shit, you’ve got to stop driving those metro-sexual pieces of crap. I can get you a deal on a sweet ride that will have women tossing their panties against your windshield every time you drive down South Street.”
“I don’t need a new car,” I insist. Compared to the rest of my family, I’m the most serious. I’ve had to be to get where I am. But I’ll admit this whole thing with Mel makes me even more serious because I don’t want to screw it up.
“Look, I have something to tell you,” I say, speaking slowly so she knows I’m not messing around. The problem is I’m more serious than she’s used to and takes it the wrong way.
“Holy shit,” she says, her voice cracking. “Ma’s dead, isn’t she?”
“What? No, listen.”
Of course, she doesn’t. “Finnie!” she yells to our brother. “Ma’s dead!”
“What?” Finnie shouts somewhere in the background.
“Declan says Ma’s dead!”
“Christ, Wren. Ma’s not dead. That’s not why I’m calling!”
“Ma’s not dead?” she squeaks. “You sure? Is she sick?”
“No!” I snap. “I just talked to her the other night when she came in from Bingo.”
“Then why would you make me think something’s wrong? Jesus Christ, you sounded like hell,” she fires back. There’s some shuffling. “It’s okay, Finnie, calm down. Ma’s not dead.”
“Then why he’d make you think she was?” Finn asks, sounding confused.
“God only knows, you know how he gets,” she tells him.
“You’re an asshole, Declan,” Finn shouts.
I am. An asshole for calling this nuthouse.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Look Wren, I need some advice.”
She pauses. “About cars?”
“No.”
“Trucks?”
“No,” I say.
“How to dress like you actually have balls?” she offers.
“Just because I won’t wear that damn biker jacket you bought me for Christmas doesn’t mean I don’t dress like I have balls.”
If he wasn’t covered with ink, or didn’t drive a truck or muscle car, my sister didn’t consider any guy a real man. Thank God, she upped her standards when she found Evan.
“I paid good money for that jacket,” she says, getting defensive.
“Lord help me,” I mumble.
“So what’s up?”
I take breath. “If you were single, what would you want a guy to bring if you invited him to your place for dinner?”
“Take out,” she says, munching on what sounds like potato chips. “You know I don’t cook.”
“You’ve been on your own for like ten years and are fucking engaged, and you still don’t know how to cook?”
“Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have to learn how to cook. But I have to say, Finnie’s gotten pretty good at it. The other night he had us over for Shepard’s Pie. I’ll be honest, despite the crust being harder than a drill sergeant’s nutsack, it was pretty good.”
I hang up and call Tess.
“Can I tell you something?” I ask when she answers.
“Sure,” Tess says sounding cautious.
“Mel invited me over her place for dinner. I want to bring something other than wine. I think roses will be too much and dessert will make me look like a pussy.” If Tess wasn’t officially family, and if I wasn’t so irritated after dealing with Wren, I wouldn’t be so blunt.
I wait. When she doesn’t say anything, I ask, “So what do you think?”
“You’re going to Melissa’s for dinner?” she repeats like she can hardly believe it.
“Yeah, I―”
“I told you!” Curran barks on the other end of the line. There’s some shuffling before he starts talking into the mic. “Did you fuck her already?”
“Curran!” Tess yells back at him.
“I’m serious,” Curran says, ignoring the way Tess calls him a Neanderthal. “Cause me and a few badges in your office have a pool going―off the record of course―about whether you and Melissa are banging.”
“You and my investigators have a bet about me and Melissa?”
“It’s a cop thing,” Curran says, ignoring how pissed I am. “Anyway, if you’ve already fucked her, I’ve already lost. But if you can hang in there a little longer―just till Thanksgiving―”
I hang up and head to the store to buy wine.
I hop up the steps of the converted row home where Mel lives. It’s nice, one apartment on each floor in one of the trendier neighborhoods in town. There’s a restaurant on the corner, and a few more about two blocks down. This is the perfect place to be young and single in Philly, but I get the feeling Mel’s not taking advantage of everything this area has to offer.
“Hi,” she says smiling when she answers the door.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my eyes from bulging when I see what she’s wearing.
It’s cool for late August. I wore dark jeans and a T-shirt to appear more casual, along with the damn leather jacket Wren gave me for Christmas. Mel, she’s in tiny denim shorts, a tight black T-shirt that gathers around her full breasts, and an open plaid shirt. Her hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head with just a few strands dangling to frame her face.
She doesn’t look pretty or even cute.
She looks beautiful.
“This is what I wear when I cook,” she says, laughing and attempting to fucking apologize for how she’s dressed. “Between the heat from the stove and oven, and how insulated the units are, it gets really hot in my kitchen.”
Oh, baby, I bet it does.
She reaches for my bottle of wine and the lame-assed apple pie I bought at the bakery. “Come on in,” she says, padding down the hall on her bare feet. “Just lock the door behind you.”
Her ass shakes as she hurries back into the kitchen. God Almighty, how in the hell am I not going to have sex with this woman? I flip the lock. I want her, there’s no doubt. But the whole drive here I’ve entertained everything that can go wrong if I spend the night.
She isn’t just my boss’s daughter, she’s my sick boss’s daughter. She’s vulnerable, and easily hurt with everything going on with her dad, exactly like Tess said.
I step into the small foyer, my eyes still very much on her ass as I shrug out of my jacket. Christ, could I be more of a prick. “Where can I put this?” I ask.
She glances over her shoulder, smiling in a way that lights up her entire face has me tripping over my own damn feet. “Closet. To your right,” she says.
I open the door to hang my jacket. About three pairs of very worn running shoes line the bottom. “You run?” I ask, shutting the door.
She crinkles her nose. “Three to five miles about every other day, and I hate every second of it.”
“Then why do it?” I ask, crossing into the large open living.
“Because I love to eat,” she admits, laughing as she stirs something in a pot. “It’s the only way I can still eat what I want and not need a fire crew to haul me out.”
I chuckle because she’s just that cute, and sexy, and fuck me, I’m in trouble. I force my attention away from how she’s bouncing along in the kitchen and scan her trendy apartment, knowing I need a moment to calm.
A gray sectional accented with navy, chocolate, and green floral throw pillows angles in front of a large flat screen, and a dark brown geometric bookshelf lines the entire right wall.
It’s the bookcase that gives me pause. I grin as I catch sight of what I’m looking for. “Would you like the wine now or with dinner?” she calls out.
I make my way to the bookcase, reaching for the first of―I shit you not―at least thirty smutty paperbacks. “Whatever you want,” I say, turning to the kitchen.
&n
bsp; She removes the pie from the bakery box, placing it on the granite counter. “This smells incredible―”
The pie tin smacks against the counter when she sees where I am and what I’m holding. Even from where I stand, I can hear her jaw pop open. “Don’t mind me,” I tell her. “I’m just browsing through all these books you plan to donate to charity.”
She hurries over, stopping abruptly, only to walk the remainder of the way very slowly, her cheeks flaming red.
“Hmm, My Scoundrel, My Lovestorm,” I say, pretending to scrutinize the cover closely. “Isn’t this about global warming and the negative impact on the Scottish Highlands?” I don’t let her respond, replacing that book with another. “Or am I confusing it with Sunshine and Silk Fingers?”
“I know this looks bad,” she begins when I crack up.
“Your vast collection, or the fact that you’ve probably read them at least a dozen times?”
She covers her mouth, giggling before dropping her hand away. “We all have our guilty pleasures.”
“And share of dirty literature?” I swap out the book for another. “Hey. Wasn’t this the same lady who was ‘deflowered’ by that cowboy?” I hold the book out of her reach when she tries to snatch it from my hand. “How the hell did she end up in Tudor England?”
I catch her in my arms when she lunges, linking my arm around her waist.
We’re both laughing, but as our stares lock, our smiles slowly vanish.
I’ve pictured her sweet body pressed against mine more times than I can count. And here I am with her firm breasts within my reach. But my gaze remains on her, searching her eyes for all her secrets and her mouth for the whispers that tell me she want me.
My body temperature rises, filling me with a need I’ve never had use for. This isn’t lust. Lust is too damn easy. This is different. Who am I kidding? Everything I feel for Melissa is different, including the way I want to kiss her . . . and do a hell of a lot more.
My fingers skim down her waist to grip her hip, my muscles aching with how bad I want to keep going and strip her out of these clothes.
Shit. If this ends badly, I’ll just be another asshole who came into her life and mistreated her.
