by Rita Herron
Parker shrugged. “Either that or someone paid him to kill Bruno.”
Frank studied him silently, his gray brows bunching together. “Any idea who would hire him?”
“I’ve spoken with Bruno’s partner, David Roundtree. He thinks that Bruno found a lead involving his parents’ murder case.”
Frank wiped at a drop of sweat trickling down the side of his neck. “What kind of lead?”
Grace’s heart raced. Had Bruno actually discovered the identity of her parents’ killer?
PARKER WAS WALKING a fine line. Accusing, even insulting, Frank Johnson, a noted retired cop who had been well thought of in Savannah, was a dicey move. Frank had the power to turn the brass against Parker.
And accusing Frank of impropriety, of even suggesting he might have been involved in Grace’s parents’ murder, meant hurting Grace.
But he had never backed down from an investigation, no matter how sticky. And he couldn’t now. He wanted the truth, and Grace deserved answers.
If it took pissing off Frank to solve the mystery, he would do it.
“Parker, what did Bruno find out?” Grace asked.
Eagerness laced her voice, and he prayed he didn’t destroy her faith in him. “Bruno suspected that your parents were killed because your father discovered an officer on the force was on the take.”
Grace gasped, but Parker studied Frank’s stoic expression. His eyes didn’t reflect an ounce of surprise or anger.
“Of course the police looked at that possibility years ago,” Frank said in a level voice. “But Internal Affairs conducted a thorough investigation and discovered no improper conduct.”
“That doesn’t mean that it didn’t exist,” Parker said. “You and I both know the drill. Cops cover for their own.”
“Not against a rat,” Frank said. “Back then, our guys had morals, not like you youngsters today.”
Parker chuckled. “We’re all cut from the same cloth. I’d be interested in seeing the reports from IA.”
Frank shrugged. “Suit yourself. But it’s a waste of time. I could vouch for every guy who worked in that unit.”
Parker narrowed his eyes. “And I suppose they’d do the same for you?”
Anger flared in the older man’s eyes. “Just what are you implying, Kilpatrick?”
“You were the closest person to your partner. Yet you seemed to have no idea who might have killed the couple.”
“I gave the officers in charge the names of every perp Jim had arrested.”
“And you worked the case?”
Frank stood, his jowls puffing out with indignation. “Of course I did. Jim was not only my partner, but my best friend. I wanted to find his killer more than anyone else.”
“Yet you could have also covered up evidence if you’d wanted.” Parker lowered his voice to a lethal tone. “And I heard that you have a handicapped daughter. Your medical bills must be sky-high.”
Frank balled his hand into a fist and lunged at Parker. “How dare you accuse me of impropriety!”
“Frank, please don’t.” Grace grabbed his arm before he could punch Parker.
Frank’s breath wheezed out as he struggled for control. “Yes, I have a handicapped daughter whose health is failing,” Frank snapped. “I love her dearly, and I worked two jobs to support her. But the Gardeners were—are—family to me. I practically helped raise Bruno and Grace myself after their parents died.”
Maybe he did think of them as family. Or maybe he’d helped raise them because he was responsible for their parents’ death?
GRACE STUDIED Parker, her emotions pingponging back and forth between anger and disbelief. Frank had left in a whir of fury.
Surely, Parker didn’t really think that Frank, the man who’d been best friends with her father, the man she’d become to think of as family—the only family she had left—was capable of having her parents’ killed in cold blood. Or that Frank might have had Bruno murdered.
No…she couldn’t believe Frank was capable of hurting either her or her brother.
Not the man who’d ridden her piggyback across the beach when the sand had burned her feet from the afternoon heat. Not the man who’d taken pictures at her high school graduation and cheered for Bruno at his baseball games.
Not the man she’d grown to love and depend on for moral support over the years.
Needing time to settle her nerves, she walked outside onto the back patio, lifting her hair off of her neck to feel the breeze drifting from the ocean beyond the scattered trees. The sun faded into the distant horizon, streaking the sky with orange and red lines. The path through the sea oats would guide her down to the beach for a walk, and she ached to follow it, to jog along the shoreline, to release the tension tightening every cell in her body.
“Grace?”
She stiffened, Parker’s accusations toward Frank echoing in her head.
“Are you all right?”
She forced a nod, although she didn’t quite know how to answer that question. She’d lost so much to violence—her family, her brother, her innocence. And now the violence had directly touched her, threatened to destroy any future she might have.
He slid his hands over her arms and stroked her bare skin. “I’m sorry if I upset you by questioning Frank.”
Feeling claustrophobic, panicked and torn between screaming at Parker that he’d been wrong about Frank, or throwing herself into his arms, she stepped off the patio onto the path leading to the beach.
“Grace—”
“I need some air.”
“I’m going with you.”
She froze, then turned to face him. “I need to be alone.”
“Sorry, Grace.” His gaze met hers. “That’s not going to happen. Not until I catch whoever tried to kill you.”
The conviction in his tone warned her not to bother arguing. So she relented and gestured for him to come with her. The night sounds of the seagulls and the water lapping against the shore calmed her as they walked along the edge of the water. Breathing in the salt air and feeling the gentle whisper of the wind against her arms and legs soothed her nerves, obliterating memories of the crash.
“I see why you like it here,” Parker said. “It’s peaceful, quiet.”
“When I was a kid, we’d chase the waves,” Grace said, smiling as sand squished into her sandals and tickled her feet. “Once Bruno and I sculpted a sand shark that was so big the local reporters photographed it. Frank helped us build it,” she finished, her voice breaking.
“I had to question him,” Parker said matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry it upset you, but I had to ask.”
“I can’t believe that he’d ever hurt me or Bruno.” She hugged her arms around herself as she faced him.
His dark gaze skated over her, his eyes intense and probing, then he tucked a strand of her windswept hair behind her ear. “You trust him,” Parker said simply.
She nodded, her pulse racing at his touch. “He’s been there for me for years.”
“Then I hope he is innocent,” Parker said quietly. “But if he’s not, Grace, I’ll find that out.”
She swallowed back an argument, knowing that he was just doing his job. He’d vowed to help her find the truth, and Parker was the type of man to keep his word.
Unable to help herself, the memory of that kiss in the car returned to taunt her. He had been hot and seductive, and she hadn’t wanted him to stop.
His eyes heated now as if he were remembering the moment, as well.
The air suddenly vibrated with sexual tension, also bringing her his scent, a musky smell that made her stomach clench with desire. Raw masculinity emanated from him as he stepped closer to her, lifted a thumb and traced it along her cheek. The moon slowly emerged in the sky and painted his strong jaw in a soft glow, but the look in his eyes seemed wolfish and primal.
She took a step toward him, so close now that her breasts brushed his chest, so close that she felt the quiver of his body and his hard sex press into her thigh. He gro
aned, then dragged her into his arms.
She fell into him and fused her mouth with his.
PARKER MELDED his mouth with Grace’s, need driving him to pull her closer and slide his hand down her back to cup her waist. His sex hardened, aching for her touch, as she leaned into him, and he deepened the kiss, flicking his tongue along her lips and teeth, then dipping between her parted lips. She tasted like the most delicate wine, rich with flavor, exotic and so damn sweet that he craved more.
Forgetting reason and that he was supposed to be doing a job, he stroked her back, moving against her so he fit himself between her thighs. Her feminine fragrance intoxicated him, fueling his hunger. He dragged his mouth from hers, then lowered his head and dropped kisses along her jaw, then her neck, sucking gently on her skin. She moaned and threaded her fingers in his hair, her breath escaping in soft pants.
The ocean roaring behind them mimicked his heartbeat as he traced fingers over her breast, cupping her in his hand. Emboldened by her soft moan, he flicked her nipple with his thumb. She whimpered his name, and he reached beneath her tank top, slid her bra aside and stroked her nipple to a hard peak.
He wanted her clothes off. Wanted to feel every inch of her bare skin against his. Wanted to make love to her until she cried out in pleasure and forgot the pain of her past.
But a twig snapped somewhere in the distance and rational thought threatened to intercede. He started to pull away, but she clutched his shoulders and held him to her, offering him a tantalizing treat by flicking her tongue along his neck and ear.
“Grace…”
She dug her nails into his back. “Shh, don’t stop.”
Her encouraging words tore a hole in his resistance and he swept his mouth down to her breast, flicked his tongue over the turgid peak, then drew it into his mouth and sucked the tip.
Hunger surged through him, raw and primal. He had to have her now.
He gripped the lower edge of her tank to lift it over her neck, but suddenly a popping noise echoed in the wind.
A second later he realized the sound was gunfire, then a bullet zoomed past his head and landed in the sand at his feet.
Chapter Fourteen
“What’s happening?” Grace shouted.
“Someone’s shooting at us!” He pulled her into the crook of his arm, then grabbed her hand, and they ran back up the path toward the cottage. Another gunshot hit the sand below his feet and Grace screamed, stumbling.
He caught her, half dragging her up the hill and trying to shield her with his body at the same time he searched for the shooter.
Another bullet hit the tree next to his head and he pushed Grace behind it, then pivoted toward the direction of the gunshots. Narrowing his eyes, he quickly skimmed the beach, the dock to the right, deciding the shooter might be hiding behind the post of the wooden bridge leading from the neighboring house to the beach.
He spotted movement, pulled out his gun and took aim, but then the image disappeared.
“Run to the house,” he ordered Grace. “I’m going after this guy.”
Grace clutched his arm in a death grip. “No, Parker, you might get hurt.”
Parker cupped her face between his hands. “Don’t worry about me, Grace, I’ll be fine. Now go.”
“Parker—”
“Run,” Parker ordered. “Lock the door and don’t let anyone in until I get there.”
Worry flickered in her eyes, but she nodded then turned and hurried toward the cottage. He slipped into the palm trees bordering Grace’s property, weaving in a zigzag pattern in case the shooter was watching him, inching his way toward the neighboring yard. Grace’s house sat at the end of the street in a cove, the other neighbor’s house a quarter of a mile away.
The wooden bungalow looked deserted and weathered, as if it had seen too many storms and barely survived, the yard was unkempt, and there were no cars in sight. He hunkered down, maneuvering through the sea oats, padding softly so as not to alert the shooter of his approach. Thankfully, the wind drowned out the sound of the shells crunching beneath his feet. His leg throbbed but he ignored the pain and made his way down to the dock, creeping between the vegetation.
But when he reached the dock, the shooter was gone.
Panic squeezed the air from his lungs. What if he’d followed Grace up to the house and had her now?
GRACE RACED back up the path, her heart pounding with fear. What if the shooter killed Parker?
She didn’t want him to die.
She wanted another kiss, to have him hold her all night and make her forget that someone was trying to end her life.
Her lungs begged for air as she reached the patio, but a sound jarred her and she spun around to check the side of the house. A soda can rolled across the clamshelled drive, clattering noisily as it slammed into the brick edging of the flower garden.
Had the wind tossed it on the ground or had someone bumped it when they’d run by? And where had it come from? It wasn’t the type of soda she drank.
Fear knotted her insides. She didn’t know whether to go inside the house or to hide outside. Maybe she should go to the car. But there she’d be a sitting duck.
Parker’s orders echoed in her head—go inside and lock the door.
Surely the shooter couldn’t have beaten her up to the house. Not from the neighboring yard.
Trembling with each labored breath she took, she glanced around for something to use for protection, saw a small stick by the edge of the patio, snatched it and wielded it like a weapon. Easing open the door, she paused to listen for an intruder, poised to run to the car or woods should she hear a sound.
But her house sounded eerily silent, and a chill crept up her spine as if a ghost had just passed by. The whistle of the ocean breeze shattered the silence as she tiptoed inside. Senses honed, she locked the door, then quickly scanned the living room/kitchen combination. Empty.
Gripping the stick tightly in her hand, she inched toward the bedroom, well aware of every squeak and groan the wood floors made beneath her sandals. She flipped on the light switch by the door, throwing light into the room.
No one was inside. Thank God.
Suddenly a loud pounding caused her breath to catch. She froze, swallowing hard as she reached for the phone. Holding it in one hand to call 9-1-1 and the stick in the other, she slowly crept back to the den. The pounding shook the sliding-glass doors.
“Grace! Grace, it’s Parker. Let me in.”
Relief surged through her and she dashed toward the sliding glass doors, then threw the lock. Parker vaulted inside and dragged her into his arms.
PARKER’S BREATH whooshed out in relief. “Are you all right, Grace?”
She nodded against his chest. “I was so scared he’d shot you.”
He inhaled her fragrance and stroked her back, hating that she was trembling. “I’m fine. You didn’t see him near the house?”
“No. Did you get a look at him?”
“No, he was gone by the time I reached the dock.” He wanted to keep holding her, but his cop instincts kicked in, along with self-recriminations. For God’s sake, he’d been practically undressing her on the beach.
And the shooter had been watching.
Damn it. He should have been doing his job. Instead he’d lost his objectivity, let down his guard and nearly gotten Grace killed.
He couldn’t live with her death on his conscience.
Slowly he extracted himself from her. “I’m going to call my partner. I want the beach searched for those bullets. They might lead us to the shooter.”
Grace nodded and wrapped her arms around her waist as Parker punched in Walsh’s number and explained about the attack.
“I’ll get some guys out there ASAP,” Bradford said. “By the way, Bruno’s body is being exhumed in the morning. It’ll be interesting to see what we find.”
Parker glanced at Grace, knowing that exhumation must be difficult on her.
“I also heard from the hospital,” Bradford said. �
�They’ve traced the problematic tissue to a tissue bank called L-Tech. I’m going to question that body-moving service. The ME looked at the photos of those victims you red-flagged and they did have tissue removed. Apparently his assistant handled those cases and either didn’t catch it or let it slide. We’re going to talk to him, too.”
“Call me. I’d like to be there when you interrogate them.”
Silence stretched over the line. “Look, man, the Captain’s barely approved you playing bodyguard, but you have to take it easy. Don’t you have your hands full guarding Grace?”
His hands were full with her, had been all over her when they’d been shot at. A mistake he couldn’t repeat.
Still, as he watched her in the kitchen preparing dinner, emotions crowded his chest. The scene was so domestic it made him yearn for it to be real. He’d never seen his own mother bake cookies or a homemade meal. In fact, she’d run out and left him and his dad when he was a toddler, so he couldn’t remember her at all.
Memories of wanting, needing someone to comfort him, to love him after his injuries, raced back.
A futile thought. He didn’t know how to be in a relationship. Once his mother had skipped, his father had been angry all the time. Had turned out to be as mean as a snake, using his fists instead of words to talk. Feeding himself on a liquid diet of booze every night. Parker had learned to stay out of the way, seen but not heard.
Until he’d hit his teenage years. Then he’d rebelled and become as mean as his old man. But he’d looked into the mirror one day and seen his father’s reflection, and known he was becoming just as big a bastard.
He’d had to change. Putting away the very kind of man his father was had become his life.
Now he was nothing without his job. And Grace was the job.
Getting personally involved with her meant a distraction. Putting her life in jeopardy.
Something he couldn’t do.
“Any word on that local gang Crossbones?” he said, changing the subject.
“Not yet.”
“How about the waitress who was murdered?”
“Nothing concrete. Raul Cortez caught the case. He’s interviewing family members and her friends now. Uniforms have canvassed the area surrounding the café where she works and the area where her body was discovered. Now, I’ll get those guys out there to search for the bullets.”
