"Don't," she said quietly.
"You didn't seem to mind last night."
She shot him a glare and moved farther away. "Last night we were on the job. Putting on a show. Today we're in a room full of other cops. Completely different message, Donovan."
He'd just wanted to touch her. He hadn't thought about where they were. He sighed. "Sorry. Still thinking about last night."
She stumbled, but kept walking and didn't look at him. "Start thinking with your big head, Brendan. We're in a hospital waiting room. Cujo's on the other side of the door."
That's why he was thinking about sex with Cilla. The whole 'prove you're alive thing'. "Yeah. Got it. I'm an idiot."
She stopped and turned to him. "Don't say that, Brendan. You and your brother just did a huge thing for me." She nodded at the other cops. "You stood for me when no one else would. They're all still watching, but they're not so hostile about it. You and Connor defused that. So thank you."
He shrugged one shoulder. "You're my partner. Okay? Let's go talk to Harrison."
When they reached the tall blond cop, Brendan squeezed his shoulder. "How're you doing, buddy?"
"How do you think I'm doing?" He scrubbed his hands over his face. "Cujo just took off running. I tried to stop him, but he saw the guy we were after and shook me off. It would've taken him three seconds to fasten his vest, but the dumb-ass didn't do it. That's why he took the round to his chest." Harrison turned and kicked a row of chairs, sending them crashing over backward. "Damn cowboy. I'm gonna kick his ass the minute he gets out of here."
He nodded at Cilla. "Marini. Good of you to show up."
Brendan moved closer to Cilla. "Your buddy Ward didn't think so."
Harrison shook his head, his eyes red. "Ward's a hothead. Doesn't think before he acts. Just like Jack." He glanced from Brendan to Cilla. "But if you're standing for Marini, she's okay. You Donovans are solid."
Cilla took a half-step closer to Harrison. "What do you need, Greg? Food? Coffee?"
Harrison ran his hand over his unshaven face. "Coffee would be great. Had some from the machine over there." He jerked his head to a bank of vending machines against one wall. "Hard to believe, but it was worse than the station's."
"I'll get you a cup," Cilla said. Brendan started to follow her, but she shook her head. "Stay with him," she said softly.
Cilla disappeared down a hall, and Brendan steered Harrison to a pair of empty chairs. Both men sat heavily. Neither of them spoke. They stared at the door to the ER.
Brendan closed his eyes. Cujo hadn't taken the time to fasten his vest. Now he was behind those doors, fighting for his life.
That could have been me.
How many times had he done something stupid? Reckless? Too jumped up on the rush to think first?
Too many to count.
The highlight reel of his stop of Cilla on the Dan Ryan a few weeks ago unspooled in his head. He hadn't waited for a license check. Hadn't called for backup. She'd called him a stupid cop, and she'd been right.
He'd been lucky he'd stopped another cop instead of a banger in a stolen car. One day, though, his luck would run out.
Just like Cujo's had today.
Brendan shoved the thought away. "He's a fighter," he said.
"Hard to fight a piece of lead in your chest."
Brendan nudged Harrison's shoulder with his. "You know the docs here are the best in the city."
Harrison bowed his head, let his hands hang beneath his knees. "I should have stopped him," he said, so quietly that Brendan could barely hear him. "I should have made him fasten the damn vest before he took off."
"Not your fault," Brendan said automatically. But he knew Harrison didn't buy it. Most cops felt responsible when their partner got shot. The ones that didn't? No one wanted to partner with those guys.
"I know how he is. I shouldn't have let him run off without his vest secured."
"What are you, his mother?" Brendan rested his elbows on his knees. "Even she wouldn't have been able to stop him. And you know it, Harrison. He was Mad Dog coming out of the academy, and he morphed into Cujo for a reason."
Brendan knew no one would be able to stop him if the juice was buzzing and he was in pursuit. He slumped in the chair, resting his head against the wall. What if he'd been the one shot? Would he want his partner to carry that guilt for the rest of her life?
He swallowed hard. Of course not. He wouldn't put that burden on anyone's shoulders.
Especially not Cilla's.
The doors to the ER opened and a doctor stepped out. "Family of Jack Murphy?"
Every cop in the room surged toward her, including Brendan and Harrison. The doctor, a short, slender woman with hair escaping from a bun on the top of her head, said, "He's been moved to surgery. The waiting area is on the second floor. Follow the orange signs."
"How's he doing?" someone asked.
"It's touch and go," she said after a moment. "But he's young and strong. That's in his favor." She looked around at the crowd. "He's already received four units of blood, and he'll need more during surgery. If anyone wants to donate, you can check with the receptionist in the surgical waiting area."
Harrison stood up. "Thanks, Donovan," he said, then headed for the orange sign on the far side of the waiting room. In a couple of minutes, the waiting room had emptied except for a mother holding a fretful child and an old man wearing worn and patched clothes, dozing against the wall.
And his brother Connor.
"Where did Marini go?" he asked.
"Getting coffee for Harrison."
His brother nodded. "I'll wait and take it up to him. You probably need to get ready for your job tonight."
Brendan glanced at his watch. Almost four in the afternoon. "Yeah. We do."
He wanted to stand vigil for Cujo. But he and Cilla had a job to do. "Thanks, Con. If we go upstairs, I won't want to leave."
"I'll let you know as soon as we hear anything," Connor promised.
"I know you will." He hesitated. "Do Quinn and Mia know?"'
"Yeah. They're both at a scene in Uptown. I'm keeping them posted."
It was hard to walk away. Especially when he knew it could have been him in that operating room. His brothers and sister and mother, waiting in the sterile room on the second floor that was supposed to look cheerful but instead was smothered in grief and fear and pain.
In his mind, he saw himself on the operating table, blood pouring out of his chest. Spattering the nurses and doctors, running in rivulets off the table. Saw his mother and Mia and Helen, sobbing in the waiting room. His brothers punching stuff.
He cursed his imagination as it churned out picture after picture. Each one more gruesome, more morbid than the last.
He needed to save it for the work at his apartment, the diversion he'd been playing with for a very long time.
What would it take before he got serious about it?
Chapter 8
As Cilla walked down the long corridor toward the emergency room, the scent of coffee clashed with the acrid tang of disinfectant. Her stomach rolled.
At least the coffee warmed her cold hands. She'd been cold since Brendan got the call about Cujo. Shaking with it as she drove down Lake Shore Drive toward the hospital.
Frozen by the time she'd stepped into the ER.
She'd known what would be waiting for her. A furious crowd of cops, all looking for a fight.
The glares. The scowls. The deliberately turned backs. None of it was a surprise.
Waiting in the hospital after a fellow cop was shot was emotional. Terrifying. An ugly, wrenching mixture of fear and anger. Would the wounded man or woman survive? Would they catch the shooter?
Would one of the cops in that waiting room be the next one wheeled into a hospital?
She'd steeled herself to stare them all down. So she wasn't shocked when Ryan Ward got in her face. She'd faced him without flinching.
The only surprise was that it hadn't been worse.
She credited the Donovans for that. Brendan and his brother had stepped in. Defended her. Brendan had called out Ward and the cops who stood with him.
Why the hell had he done that?
He'd shouldered her burden without blinking. Simply stepped up and stood with her. Because they were partners.
It couldn't possibly be that simple.
Brendan had acted as though it was.
With the Donovan brothers flanking her, warmth had unfurled inside her. The layers of ice in her chest had begun to thaw, cracking and grinding together as they shrank. She'd wanted to grab Brendan's hand and hang on.
She'd shoved her hands into her pockets instead.
Brendan's brother, too, had acted as if it was no big deal. Connor, who had never even met her. But he was familiar, because he looked so much like Brendan. Same blue, blue eyes. Same dark, slightly wavy hair. Same lean, rangy build.
Connor was more settled than Brendan, though. As if he didn't have as much to prove.
She'd bet he was less reckless than Brendan, as well.
She swallowed the hard lump in her throat as she remembered Brendan stopping her on the Dan Ryan a few weeks earlier. He'd been as reckless as Cujo apparently had been. He hadn't waited for information about her car. Had he even been wearing his vest?
Her stomach clenched. She couldn't remember. But what if it hadn't been her in the Mustang? What if it had been some jumpy, coked-up kid who'd just jacked her car?
She shuddered. He was an adrenaline junkie. How in the hell could she find him so attractive? So tempting?
Her steps had slowed as she reached the emergency room. Before she turned the corner, she took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the coffee.
Stepped into the room, expecting to find fifteen or twenty pairs of eyes focused on her.
Instead, the cops had all disappeared, except Brendan and his brother. Both stood up when they saw her.
"Cujo's in surgery," Brendan said. "Everyone's in the surgical waiting room."
"You going up there, too?" she asked. A small, cowardly part of her hoped the answer was no.
"We can't. We have to get to the pub in a few hours. And we need some time to decompress." Brendan shrugged. "Sorry."
"I'll take the coffee up to Harrison," Connor said. "I'm sticking around for a while."
She hated to hand him the paper cup of coffee. Her hands still needed the warmth. But she extended her arm and let him take it.
"Thanks, Marini," Connor said. He narrowed his eyes at Brendan. "Remember what I said about dinner."
"What?" Brendan frowned, as if trying to remember. "You hungry? Want me to bring you a beef with peppers from Al's?"
"Funny." Connor raised one eyebrow. "Get your head out of your ass, Bren."
Connor turned to Cilla. "Take it easy, Marini. See you soon. I hope." He shot a look at Brendan, then turned and headed for the elevator.
"What was that all about?" she asked Brendan.
He hunched his shoulders. "Just my brother looking for payback."
"For what?"
He looked around the room, as if looking for an escape, then sighed as he ushered her toward the door. "My family has dinner together once a month. On a Sunday. Con wants me to bring you to the next one." He spoke too fast, as if in a hurry to get it out and then brush it away.
She frowned at him, slowing as she walked. "Why would he want you to do that?"
The tops of his ears reddened and he didn't look at her. "All three of my brothers brought their girlfriends to dinner after they started dating. I, ah, gave them all a lot of grief."
"You hassled three women you'd never met?" She stared at him, wondering if she'd have to revise her recently upgraded opinion of him.
"Not the women," he muttered. "The women are great. My brothers."
Her shoulders relaxed. "Isn't that what guys do?" she asked. "My brother and his friends rag on each other constantly."
"Exactly." He pushed open the door and held it for her. They walked out into a gray sky and a cool wind off the lake. "My brothers are a bunch of nancies. Can't take a joke."
This ridiculous conversation was actually making her smile – something she would have sworn she wouldn't be doing even ten minutes earlier. "Don't they do the same thing to you when you bring a woman to dinner?"
"I've never brought anyone." He glanced at her, then away quickly. "I don't do serious. I don't take women home for Sunday dinner. It's not the way I swing."
That confirmed what Cilla had heard. "Guess you're gonna have to take your lumps like a man, Donovan. Get it over with and move on. I'm game if you are."
His ears flamed again. "They'll make assumptions. My mother and sister will grill you. You don't want to go there," he told her.
"Hey, I took crap from Ward. I think I can handle your mother and sister."
He was finally starting to look like the old Brendan again. Confident. In control. A little cocky. "You have no idea what they're like. They're the best interrogators in the family. You'll be spilling your secrets in about five minutes."
"Assuming I have secrets to spill."
He slanted her a glance as she handed the valet her ticket. "Everyone has secrets."
Before she could respond, the valet pulled her car to the curb. As she walked over to claim her key, Brendan stepped in front of her to press some bills into the kid's hand. "Want me to drive?" he asked, dangling the key from his index finger.
She snatched it away from him. "My car. I drive."
Cilla steered the car toward Michigan Avenue, turned right and maneuvered onto Lake Shore Drive. Now that they were out of the hospital, she wondered how Cujo was doing. Wished she could be in the surgical waiting room, lending support like the other cops.
Good thing she had to work tonight. Sticking around would have been uncomfortable and awkward for everyone.
As if Brendan was thinking the same thing, he asked, "It's Ward, right? Why you do undercover work? Hostage negotiations? Because you can do those jobs alone? Don't have to work with other cops?"
Brendan put two and two together pretty quickly. She shrugged one shoulder. "Since I arrested Ward? Yeah. That's why I take undercover jobs whenever my captain offers them.
"But I like hostage negotiations. Me against the bad guy, one on one. Outwitting him. Getting the hostage free with no casualties. I like using my psychology degree."
"You're using it pretty damn well at the pub. You're psyching out every single guy in the place."
She glanced over at him as she changed lanes. "There's no psychology needed in that situation," she said with a little grin. "Flash some skin and men get stupid."
"Not every guy needs the show." He glanced at her, his eyes dancing. "I was falling at your feet even before you showed up wearing...those clothes."
Warmth slid through her at his words, thawing some of the chill remaining from the hospital. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She felt his gaze and risked a glance at him. Big mistake. His eyes had darkened. Desire burned in his gaze, igniting an answering need in her.
Behind her, a horn blared and she jerked her gaze back to the road. Swallowed once. Told herself to hold it together. Especially in front of Brendan, a guy who was a player. And a cop, too. All her relationship no-no's in one package.
She glanced over at him. A damn attractive package. But still.
Not happening.
Five tense, silent minutes later, she pulled to the curb in front of his building. Shifting into park, she half-turned to face him, trying to dispel some of the desire that thrummed in the enclosed space.
"So." Her voice was low. Sultry. She cleared her throat. "You think Romano will be back tonight?"
Brendan stared at her for a long moment. Letting her see that he hadn't forgotten what they were talking about, in spite of her efforts to change the subject. Finally he said, "We'll see. Hope we can shake something loose, or we've got nothing to do for the next four days."
Shrugging she
said, "We'll figure something out."
Brendan stilled beside her. Tension hung in the air. He leaned closer. "What did you have in mind, Cilla?"
She swallowed, unable to look away. "Uh, lots of stuff we need to do," she said, stumbling over the words. "All kinds of background work. Check out Romano. Tiffany."
His eyes had darkened to tiny rims of blue around black pupils. "Sure. We could. In our spare time."
Her heart stumbled, then burst into a gallop. Stole her breath. "Spare time? That's our job," she managed to say.
"Our job is finding out who's selling those drugs. Pretending to be a couple, so we can try to buy some of that shit." He leaned closer. "I think we need to practice."
Her mind flashed to the scene beside her car the night before. The desperate want that had flared between them. The way he'd slid his thigh between her legs.
The way she'd pressed closer to him.
"I think we've got that part down cold."
He edged closer. His breath tickled her neck as he nuzzled the skin beneath her ear. "See, that's why we have to practice." His voice was a low rumble that ignited her nerves. "I wasn't cold at all. I was burning up." He drew her lobe into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it. Her heart slammed against her chest. "I want to make you burn, too."
She would have laughed if she could have found her breath. Instead, she sucked in a stuttering gulp of air. "Don't think we need to practice that, either, Donovan," she gasped.
"Yeah?" His voice was a low thrum of pleasure. "That so?"
Instead of sliding her mouth over his, as she ached to do, she murmured, "That's so."
His hand roamed over her back, dipped down to her hip, lingered for a long moment, then moved again. Cupped her nape. Drifted down the bumps of her spine. His fingers burned through the fabric of her shirt. They made her want to rip the shirt off. Feel his hands against her bare skin.
He dipped one finger beneath the waistband of her jeans.
She held her breath as the sensitive skin of her lower back quivered. As heat expanded inside her. She needed to move away from him. She was playing with fire. But she was too turned on to care.
Cover Me Page 7
