Cover Me (The Donovan Family Book 5)

by Margaret Watson

  Now he had her trapped against the dumpster, and her moves didn't matter. Neither did her knowledge or her smarts. Smith used his size to control her, and she couldn't dislodge him.

  She was helpless, and the realization brought a punch of panicked fear. She couldn't get out of this by herself. Unless Smith was stupid, she was in deep, deep trouble.

  He wasn't stupid. I love it when they run. He'd done this before.

  Keeping the knife at her throat, he fumbled with her blouse. Finally, apparently frustrated with the tiny buttons, he yanked it, and the fabric gave way with a dull ripping sound. He tore it off her body, leaving her in the lacy black bra she'd worn for Brendan. The shirt she'd imagined Brendan removing was puddled on the dirty ground.

  Smith's hand, holding the knife at her throat, was rock steady. He'd have to take it away at some point, so she'd wait to make her move.

  Until then, she'd stay perfectly still. Planning her moves. Figuring out the best way to take him down. Always aware of that blade, digging into her neck.

  She took shallow breaths to avoid making the knife dig any deeper. She was prepared for this fight. She knew what to do. But fear spread through her, making her hesitate. A knife at her throat was a checkmate to all her self-defense training.

  Smith fumbled with the button of her jeans.

  Oh, God. She was in trouble.

  This is what happened to other women. Women who weren't prepared like she was. Women who didn't know how to fight like she did.

  But she'd stumbled, and Smith had taken advantage of it. Put his knife to her throat and taken all her power. Made her vulnerable. Helpless.

  Now she was just another woman who couldn't outmuscle a man. Another woman who was going to be brutalized. Degraded. Raped.

  A woman who'd had all her power taken away by a man stronger than her.

  Smith took his knife away from her throat for a brief second to unbutton her jeans. She stomped on his instep as hard as she could, but as he jerked backward, he brought the knife to her throat again. Pressed hard against her skin, and blood spilled down her chest.

  God. Where was Brendan? Had Olivia gotten through to him? Had he heard his phone ringing?

  Smith was yanking her jeans down her legs when Cilla heard the sound of a safety being released. "Drop the knife, Smith."

  Brendan. She closed her eyes in a silent prayer of thanks.

  Smith didn't move. "You gonna fire that gun at me?" The sneer in his voice said he didn't think so.

  "Oh, yeah." Out of the corner of her eye, Cilla saw the gun get closer to Smith's head. "I would love to splatter your brains over that dumpster."

  None of them moved. Cilla couldn't see Brendan. Smith smirked at her, as if Brendan's gun was a toy that couldn't hurt him.

  She couldn't move her head. Couldn't take a chance. The knife blade was still firm against her skin.

  In the distance, a siren wailed. Getting closer. Smith yanked harder at her jeans. "You want to watch, pretty boy?" he said.

  "The only thing I'm watching is you going down," Brendan said. She heard the rage in his voice. "The cops will be here any moment."

  The pressure of the knife on her throat lessened. Smith turned, as if watching for the squad car. As soon as she couldn't feel the knife, Cilla jerked her knee into Smith's groin.

  He turned at the last moment, the knife flashing in the light as he stumbled sideways. His head hit the dumpster with a hollow thud. He slid to the ground, conscious but dazed.

  Brendan slid around Cilla and stepped on Smith's hand until he released the knife. Then he kicked it away. It skittered beneath the dumpster with a metallic clang.

  "Cilla. You got..."

  "No." She interrupted Brendan. He was asking for cuffs, and she didn't want him to expose their status as cops. "Use your belt. We need to get him secured." No. Don't say that. It's not what a civilian would say.

  "Right." As he spoke, Brendan yanked his belt out of the loops of his dress pants. It cracked in the air with the force of his tug as he used his foot to shove Smith onto his belly. Brendan wrapped the belt around Smith's wrists, then yanked until it was as tight as he could make it.

  "Sure it's tight enough?" Smith's mocking voice made Cilla clench her teeth, but she yanked on her jeans, pulling them up as Brendan handled Smith. The now-tied-up man tried to stand, but Brendan put his foot on the guy's back and held it there.

  "I left it loose," Brendan growled. "You move again, I'll show you how much tighter it can be."

  Holding the end of his belt, Brendan reached for Cilla and pulled her into his arms. "My God, Cill." He eased away from her and scanned her body. His eyes darkened as he studied her side. He let her go and ripped off his green polo shirt and dropped it over her head, leaving him in his white tee shirt. It glowed in the darkness of the parking lot.

  "You're bleeding." His voice was flat. Cold. "Your side. Your neck. Where else did he hurt you?"

  "I'm okay," she said, reaching out from beneath the shirt to grip his hand. She needed him close. Needed to hold onto him. Finally, she forced herself to let him go and struggled to get her arms into the sleeves of his shirt. As she pulled her hair from the collar, warm liquid trickled down her neck.

  "I'm okay, Brendan," she repeated. She was. But she needed to wrap herself around him and cling. Hold him tight.

  She told herself she was a police officer. She needed to act like it.

  But she couldn't make herself step away from Brendan. She needed to touch him. To know he was close. Leaning into him, she said, "He ripped my shirt. Cut me a little. I can't even feel it. That's all he did." She smoothed her hand down Brendan's chest. Felt his rock-hard muscles beneath her hand.

  She glanced at Smith, who was struggling to stand up. She needed to switch into cop mode and out of needy girlfriend mode. But she couldn't quite do it.

  Smith lay in the garbage on the ground, his hands behind his back. She was safe.

  Cilla began to shake. In spite of the polo shirt, warm from Brendan's body, she was ice cold.

  She wound her arm around Brendan's waist and burrowed closer. His muscles were solid against her side. His skin was warm through his shirt. His scent helped to block out the stench coming from the dumpster.

  Brendan's arm circled her shoulders and he pulled her close. Cilla flinched when he pressed against the bruise Smith had made.

  Brendan untangled himself from her and pushed up the sleeve of the polo shirt. Stared at the bruise for a long moment, then kissed it and smoothed the sleeve back into place.

  "We'll make sure he doesn't get bail," he said quietly as he pulled her close again. Caressed her arm. "He'll spend a lot of years in prison. He won't be able to hurt anyone else."

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "And if we're very lucky, he'll irritate his cell-mates wherever he goes." Brendan kicked the sole of Smith's shoe. "You're not going to have any fun in prison, dirtbag."

  "You think I'm going to jail? Not happening. I know people." Smith sneered up at them, pushing against the dumpster to get to his feet. Brendan put his foot on Smith's back and forced him to the asphalt.

  "That right?" Brendan tightened his grip on her and stared down at Smith. "I know people, too. I'll have them talk to your people. They'll make sure you get the accommodations you deserve at Cook County Jail."

  The sirens were closer. Smith realized it, too, because his sneer vanished. For a moment, a panicked expression flickered across his face. He shoved away from the dumpster, dislodged Brendan's foot and rose to a crouch.

  Brendan yanked at the belt around his wrists. Smith screamed in pain and stumbled to his knees. Brendan pushed him face down again. "Please try that again," Brendan said, his voice colder than Cilla had ever heard. "I'm begging you."

  Smith stayed quiet on the ground. Didn't move. Brendan rolled his shoulders as a squad car crunched on the gravel.

  Cilla stepped away from Brendan to summon the officers. As soon as she separated from him, she missed his warmth
. His support. She took a step toward the squad car, but stumbled on the rough stones of the parking lot.

  "C'mere." Brendan wrapped his arm around her waist. "Give yourself a minute."

  The beam of a flashlight bounced in front of them, and a few moments later a police officer came into view. She shined the light on Cilla and Brendan both, then studied the man on the ground.

  She turned the light off, and Cilla could see her more clearly. It was Officer Sobieski from the night of the overdose. "I recognize you two," the officer said. "The 911 call was unclear. Want to tell me what's going on?"

  Chapter 19

  Brendan tightened his arm around Cilla, trying to control the rage boiling through him. "This guy tried to rape my girlfriend."

  He hadn't intended to say 'girlfriend'. The word just fell off his tongue, as if it were true. Which was good, he told himself. That's who they were here at the Pipe and Shamrock. It was smart to stay in their persona.

  Cilla had noticed. She'd stilled against him. Tensed. Then relaxed, as if she'd remembered they were acting, as well.

  He curled his fingers around her waist. They pressed into her skin, sliding beneath the fabric of his polo shirt. He glanced at her pale face, and hatred for Smith spilled over him like a scalding splash of acid. "He came after her with a knife." He pointed to the remnants of Cilla's silky shirt on the ground. "Tore off her shirt."

  Sobieski shoved the notebook into her pocket. "Are you hurt?" she asked Cilla

  "I think my neck is bleeding." She reached for the wound, and Brendan took her hand to stop her from touching it. "He had his knife pressed against it."

  "Has a cut on her side, too," Brendan said, clenching his teeth to keep from launching himself at Smith.

  "May I see?" Sobieski asked.

  "Yeah."

  Sobieski positioned herself between Cilla and Smith, blocking Smith's view, then gently drew the bottom of the polo shirt up. Studied it for a moment. "It'll probably need stitches," she said.

  She let Cilla's shirt fall, and took the radio from her vest to call for an ambulance. "Are you able to talk now?"

  Brendan watched Cilla gather herself, amazed at her toughness. "Yeah. He cut my side. Not my tongue."

  Sobieski hid a tiny smile, and Brendan pulled Cilla closer. He needed her weight against him. Needed to feel her breath fanning over his neck.

  Beneath the flashing lights of the squad car in the parking lot, gapers were gathering. People were coming out of the pub to see what was going on. His hand tightened on Cilla. They needed to be out of sight.

  "Cilla needs to sit down," he told Sobieski. He tugged her closer, so they were plastered together from shoulder to thigh, and realized it was the truth. Shivers wracked her body every few seconds. If she hadn't been leaning so heavily against him, she'd have trouble keeping her feet beneath her.

  He wanted to beat Smith senseless. Pound him into the ground. Grind him into the asphalt for reducing his strong, confident Cilla to this trembling woman.

  He wanted to crush Smith like the cockroach he was.

  He wrapped one arm around her carefully, avoiding the bloom of blood on her shirt where Smith had cut her. He pressed his face into her hair, inhaling her scent. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around him.

  "Can you put that asshole," he nodded at Smith, "in the squad car? Maybe we can sit in my car and talk."

  Cilla opened her mouth, and he knew exactly what she was going to say. That she was fine standing up. She could give the officer her statement out here in the parking lot.

  He tightened his hand around her waist until she glanced up at him with a puzzled frown. He shook his head, a movement barely more than a tic, and stared at her until she nodded. Thank God his partner was quick.

  Sobieski watched him and Cilla for a long moment, then walked over to Smith. He was lying quietly on the ground. Brendan's jaw worked as he watched. Asshat was pretending to be hurt.

  He took a step closer to Smith. "Not so brave when you're outnumbered, are you, Smith?"

  Sobieski shot him a warning look, then put a hand beneath Smith's arm and hoisted him to his feet. Smith's carefully coifed hair was mussed, and a flattened piece of hamburger bun smeared with ketchup stuck to the side of his head. A dark, oily stain covered the front of his light blue shirt. Fierce satisfaction sliced through Brendan. Cilla had done that. She'd won.

  Smith glanced from Brendan to Cilla to Sobieski. Then back to Cilla. His eyes were dark. Glittering with hatred. Anger. But he didn't say a word. He kept his gaze steady on Cilla.

  Footsteps crunched on the gravel, and another cop appeared. Sobieski's partner was tall and broad, with close-cropped blond hair. He looked like a football player and had a confident demeanor. Brendan allowed himself to relax a little. With four cops surrounding him, Smith wasn't going anywhere.

  "What have we got, Katya?" her partner asked.

  She frowned at him for a long moment. Wondering where he'd been? "Rape attempt." She stepped in front of Cilla, blocking Smith's view of her. "Assault and battery. Knife wounds on her neck and her side."

  "Huh." The man, Officer Johnstone according to his name tag, exchanged a long look with Sobieski. Then Johnstone pulled a pair of blue latex gloves from his belt. "Let me pat this guy down, then we'll get him in cuffs."

  He fished out another, smaller knife in Smith's pocket and dropped it into an evidence bag he dug out from his belt. Smith didn't even glance at it.

  Cilla cleared her throat. "The knife he used on me is beneath the dumpster."

  "Yeah?" Johnstone turned to her. "How did it get there?"

  "I kicked it out of his hand," Brendan said. "After Cilla tried to knee him in the balls."

  "That so?" Johnstone's eyes sharpened as he glanced at Cilla. "The guy had a knife to your throat and was trying to rape you and you were able to knee him?"

  Brendan felt her tense. Whatever she wanted to say, he'd follow her lead. He didn't want to jeopardize their operation, but he'd do it in a minute to protect Cilla.

  "He was distracted when he heard the siren." She tightened her hold on Brendan. "Supposed to hit him where it hurts, right?"

  "Yeah." Johnstone studied her for a moment, then unlooped Brendan's belt from Smith's wrist and dropped it on the ground. In one smooth motion, Johnstone snapped cuffs out of his belt and slapped them around Smith's wrist.

  Cilla straightened beside him without moving away. "The other knife was a switchblade."

  Sobieski dropped to the ground and turned on her flashlight. Then she reached behind her for the blue gloves sticking out of her belt, pulled them on and slid part-way beneath the dumpster.

  When she emerged moments later, she held the switchblade in her gloved hand. "You got another bag?" she asked her partner.

  "I'll get another one." He hurried toward his car.

  "Grab a bunch of them," Sobieski called after her partner. Then she turned to Smith. "This yours?"

  Smith shifted his gaze from Cilla to Sobieski for a moment. Didn't answer. Then fixed his stare on Cilla again.

  Brendan watched Smith's gaze lock onto Cilla, anger simmering in his eyes. The asshole better not get bail. Because this wasn't over. If Smith was free on bond, he'd come after Cilla.

  Johnstone trotted back, clear plastic evidence bags clutched in his hand. He opened one and Sobieski dropped in the switchblade. Then she reached into Smith's pocket and pulled out his wallet. Flipped it open and trained her flashlight on his driver's license. "Mike Welles. That you?"

  Nothing.

  Brendan glanced over her shoulder, memorized the bastard's address. Just in case.

  Sobieski dropped the wallet into another bag, then nodded at her partner. He took Smith – Welles – by the upper arm and led him to the squad car. As he was walking away, Sobieski picked up Brendan's belt and slid that into another evidence bag.

  The whine of an ambulance siren got closer, and moments later it pulled into the parking lot, parting the watching crowd. Two EMT's jumped
out. The one carrying a large bag called, "Where's the victim?"

  "Right here," Brendan said.

  Cilla moved stiffly, as if all her muscles ached. But she slid away from him, as if trying to prove she could stand on her own.

  God! He glanced at the squad car, where Smith was a silhouette in the rear seat. He wanted his hands around that bastard's neck. Wanted to squeeze slowly, until he saw panic in the asshole's eyes. The same fear Brendan had seen in Cilla's eyes.

  If he thought he could get away with it, he would pick her up and carry her to the bus. Instead, knowing she needed to reclaim some of her power, he took her hand and walked slowly toward the ambulance.

  Brendan glanced at the crowd around the squad car. The flashing blue and red lights swept over the faces, illuminating them with a pulsating glow, but he didn't see either Romano or the two men he'd spotted in the pub. He helped Cilla into the back of the bus, then crowded in behind her. When the EMT guided her down onto the gurney, he nudged her until she swiveled, keeping her back to the open door.

  She'd read his signals perfectly. Thank God.

  As the EMT cleaned the small wound on her neck, covered it with antibiotic ointment and bandaged it, Sobieski stepped into the back of the bus. "Okay if I talk to her?" she asked the EMT.

  "As long as the victim doesn't mind. This other cut could take some time. Might need stitches."

  "I'm not a victim," Cilla said in a low voice. "My name is Cilla."

  Brendan took her hand. Leaned closer. "Damn straight. You're the strongest woman I know."

  Sobieski watched them for a moment, then pulled out a notebook and a pen. "Can you give me a statement? Or would you rather wait until Dumb Ass here is finished?" She jerked her head toward the paramedic.

  The paramedic flushed. "Sorry," he muttered.

  Cilla didn't glance at him. To Sobieski, she said, "Yeah. I'm good."

  Sobieski nodded, then nudged the EMT. "Give her a bottle of water. She's probably thirsty."

  Cilla murmured her thanks when the EMT handed her a bottle, uncapped it and took a long drink. Then she fumbled for Brendan's hand. He curled his fingers around hers, grateful she'd reached for him. That he could comfort her.