by Maggie Price
“Having only one kid around probably makes the typical Santini Christmas Day seem calm compared to a McCall one,” Grace observed.
Growing up, Christmas had been like any other day spent with his mother—filled with the scent of stale cigarettes, the sickly sweet odor of yesterday’s bottle and, always, always, the prospect of a beating.
Mark looked away, his gaze tracking the shadowy outline of the couples sharing the dance floor. Just thinking about the woman with the hard, callused hands and vicious addiction to alcohol dragged him back over the jagged distance to the past. No matter how he’d transformed himself, how successful he was in his field, it took only the mention of the cruel and hostile world he’d escaped from to jerk him back into that small, frightened boy who cowered in various hiding places, praying the monster wouldn’t find him.
He was no longer a little boy hiding from monsters. He hunted them now, one by one. Locked them in a cage. Still, never talking about his own monster was on his shortlist of unbreakable rules. He saw no reason to tempt reopening the fleshed-over scars. No reason to have to deal with emotions that took too much from him when he already felt so hollow on the inside.
Grace’s fingertips grazed his jaw, pulling his gaze back to her. “Christmas?” she prodded.
He studied her in an almost amused annoyance. Her tenaciousness was classic Grace. “Darling, is this an interrogation?”
“Think of it as quid pro quo. You asked me about the typical McCall Christmas. I told you. I’m just asking you the same question.”
“So you are.” Without thinking, he skimmed his knuckles down her cheek. “Your family is special, Grace. Priceless. I don’t—have never—had that. For me, Christmas is just another day. I’m usually at a crime scene. Or trying to wrap up one case to get to another one.”
She kept her gaze locked with his. “Okay, so what about the holidays when you don’t have to work?”
There had always been limits to what he could and would give her. The biggest was his past. “I work every holiday. Can we just leave it at that?”
“Of course.”
Despite the dim light, he saw the shadow pass over her eyes. He was holding her, yet he sensed her distancing herself a million miles from him.
Regret swelled in his chest. “Grace—”
Just then the music ended. Another couple bumped into them, then apologized.
“No problem,” Grace assured them, then shifted smoothly out of his arms. “It’s late, Mark.” The scenario they were enacting had her mouth curving, a wife smiling up at her husband. Still, he saw the cool, focused look in her eyes when she stepped away, as though backing off from the edge of a cliff. “It’s been a long day. Why don’t we go upstairs?”
“All right.”
As she turned and started moving away, Mark felt something twist in his gut. For the first time in his life, he realized how utterly alone he was.
Chapter 9
After briefly chatting on the phone with her brother, Grace slept—deeply for two hours, then fitfully as the dream closed around her: The night was clear and frigid; she walked out of the restaurant where she and Ryan had met for dinner and found her husband lying beside his patrol car. The bullet wound so close to his badge—his heart—pumped blood across the front of his uniform shirt.
“No!”
Frantic, she dropped to her knees, pressing her palms against his chest while a river of crimson oozed between her fingers. No matter how much pressure she applied, how fervently she prayed, she couldn’t stop the flow. Couldn’t slow the speed of the warm gush over her hands. Couldn’t help her husband when he gasped her name, then took his last agonizing breath.
She woke with a start, fighting for air while nausea ground in her stomach. She pitched upright in the ocean-size bed at the same time consciousness slammed the door shut on the nightmare. There was a band around her chest; air heaved in and out of her lungs in hot, ragged gasps. Cold sweat plastered her T-shirt to her skin.
The blinds over the balcony door were levered partially open, allowing the glare of neon lights to leach in. Her gaze darted across the large bureau that loomed against the wall opposite the bed, then over the tapestry-covered sofa and chairs that faced the marble fireplace. The nausea began to fade when she saw she wasn’t back in that frigid, harshly lit parking lot, fighting futilely to keep her husband alive. She was in a ritzy Las Vegas hotel suite. On assignment. Working undercover.
“God.” She scrubbed her hands over her face, then plowed her fingers through her sweat-damp hair.
Why now? she asked, bringing her knees up close to her chest. Ryan had been dead for three years; it had been over a year since she’d last had the nightmare. Why all of a sudden had her subconscious zapped her back to the night that called up memories too terrible for words?
She had met Ryan on his dinner break because she’d been too excited to wait until he got home to tell him about the baby. That she was pregnant. Even now, after so long, she could still feel the press of his palm against her cheek. See his dazed wonder at the prospect of being a father. At that instant she had known their impending parenthood would finally close the emotional distance her past with Mark Santini had put between herself and her husband.
Moments later Ryan was dead.
She would forever question how that night would have ended if she hadn’t taken a side trip to the restroom. If she had walked outside to the parking lot at the same time as Ryan. If there’d been two cops instead of one who’d surprised the gun-wielding auto burglar flying high on meth.
Maybe then, Ryan would be alive. Maybe her system wouldn’t have been so weakened weeks later when she caught the virulent case of flu and wound up in a hospital. Maybe then she wouldn’t have lost the baby.
Grace closed her eyes. Though the passage of years had transformed the fierce pain of grief into a dull ache, there were still times the void in her life reached out and tore at her.
Like now.
And that was the cause of the nightmare, she reasoned. Her baby. She’d lost the child she’d wanted so desperately. The child she’d hoped would help restore the sense of closeness she and Ryan had once shared. Now she was working an assignment centered on babies. Innocents kidnapped from their murdered mothers. Lost, perhaps forever.
Where were those infants that DeeDee Wyman and Andrea Grayson had given birth to? Grace asked herself for the hundredth time. Would she and Mark find the babies? Or were they gone for eternity, like her own child?
Knowing she wouldn’t find those answers tonight, Grace shoved back the comforter, then freed herself of the tangled sheet. She stood shakily, felt her legs wobble. When she was sure they would support her, she headed into the bathroom.
There she stared at her reflection in the mirror that spanned the rose-colored counter. Her face was pale as ice, her dark hair a disheveled mess, her eyes still clouded with memory. Shivering, she peeled off her clammy T-shirt and boxers, then shrugged into one of the hotel’s thick terry robes.
She splashed water on her face, filled a glass and took a long, slow drink. Although the water eased her dry throat, it did nothing to steady her. Not when she could still picture Ryan so clearly, lying beneath her blood-soaked hands, the life gone from his eyes….
She shoved back the image into the dark recesses of her brain. Doing so, however, didn’t rid her of the ice that seemed to course through her veins. She knew if she was ever going to get warm again, it would be with the help of something that came out of a bottle, not a tap. She took a moment to curse the fact that every drop of alcohol in the suite was in the minibar, a few feet from the couch where Mark slept. Knowing that, however, wasn’t enough to dissuade her. Not when she felt so cold on the inside.
She pulled in a deep breath, then another. So, okay, she thought, squaring her shoulders. It apparently was a night for dealing with unsettling pieces of her past. And part of that past was the FBI agent asleep in the next room.
Her plan to quietly pad in undetected
and pour a drink fell apart when she stepped into the living room. Mark was on the long sofa where she expected him to be, but he wasn’t asleep. Far from it. He was working, studying the contents of a file folder that lay open on the expansive coffee table. Several lamps glowed, spreading a pool of warm, buttery light around him.
He’d stripped down to gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. His dark hair was slightly rumpled, his face somber. She watched his eyes scan the page and saw his expression harden.
Despite the hurt she’d felt earlier over his refusal to talk to her about his personal life, she felt an unexpected jolt when she realized she was glad he was still awake. Glad he was there for her to talk to while she waited for her balance to return.
As if sensing her presence, Mark glanced up. Surprise flickered across his face, then his eyes narrowed. “Grace, is something wrong?”
“No.” Remembering how wild her hair had looked in the mirror, she dragged her hands through it, wishing she’d taken the time to use her brush. “I didn’t think you’d still be awake, is all.”
“I can say the same about you.”
“I was thinking about our case. The missing babies.” She tucked her restless hands into the robe’s deep pockets, then pulled them out. “I decided a drink might help me sleep.”
His dark gaze focused on her with laser sharpness. “A drink probably wouldn’t hurt,” he said after a moment. Rising, he strode toward the bar. “I was planning to make myself some tea. How about I do the honors?”
“Only if you pour me something stronger than tea.”
“Coming right up.”
She glanced toward the alcove where the desk inlaid with intricate marquetry and matching console sat. “Have any faxes come in yet on Davenport’s attorney cohort?”
“Not yet.” Mark pulled a teabag out of a box. “I got a call on my cell a while ago from the agent who’s doing the background investigation on Stuart Harmon. So far, Harmon looks to be Mr. Sterling Citizen. The agent has to wait until morning when the courthouse opens to find out how many adoptions Harmon has filed.”
Not bothering to ask Mark if he wanted company, she crossed the wide sweep of carpet and settled on one end of the couch. Right now, she simply couldn’t face going back to the bedroom. Couldn’t shut herself in the dark while thoughts of all she’d lost still skimmed the surface of her consciousness.
“Is brandy okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“So, what is it?” he asked.
“What’s what?” She glanced across her shoulder toward the bar just as he began punching buttons on the microwave. Seeing him in the black T-shirt that didn’t do a thing to hide the muscular contours of his chest and arms reminded her how deceiving the impeccably tailored suits he wore were. Though he didn’t look soft in them, he looked elegant. There was nothing elegant about all those sculpted muscles.
“What’s keeping you awake?” He retrieved a crystal snifter and brandy bottle from one of the glass shelves behind the marble counter.
“Hard to say. I talked to Bran earlier,” she said, railroading the conversation onto another track. “He said to tell you hello.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Having a good time arresting bad guys. He hasn’t seen or talked to Tory, so his personal life doesn’t seem to be going as well. Since brother dear chooses to keep things to himself, that’s just a theory on my part.”
“It’s probably on target.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We law enforcement types are known to be proficient at theorizing.”
“Good point.” Grace flicked a look toward the hallway that led to the bedroom. Cops were also known for their bravery, but right now the last place she wanted to be was back in the big bed, risking a replay of the nightmare.
She shifted her gaze to the coffee table. A file folder with a red Confidential stamped diagonally across its front lay beside the report Mark had been studying. On one corner of the table sat the brown, nondescript mailing box that had been delivered to the suite while they’d been downstairs in the lounge with Iris Davenport.
“You mentioned earlier that the files you received tonight are on a case out of Buffalo, New York,” she said.
“Right.” The microwave dinged softly. Seconds later Mark rounded the bar, carrying the snifter and a mug with a teabag string fluttering in its wake.
“Is Buffalo a case you’ve been working or a new one?”
“It’s ongoing.” He handed her the brandy before settling onto the couch.
“Thanks.” Now that he was only a few feet away, she noted the perpetual shadows of weariness under his eyes seemed to have deepened. “How many cases are you juggling right now?” Grace took her first sip of brandy. It slid down her throat like liquid silk and instantly began untying the knots in her belly.
“In addition to the one we’re working?” he asked.
“In addition.”
“Last time I counted, twenty-five.” He swept a hand toward the files on the table. “I picked this one up in October when I was in Buffalo, speaking at a law enforcement seminar. A Buffalo PD homicide detective showed up when I got back to my hotel. He had two cases where the only similarity seemed to be that both victims were young girls. In his lieutenant’s opinion, they had murders committed by different suspects. But the detective’s instincts were telling him one guy did both. He asked me to consult on the cases. The detective called me last week when another girl about the same age as the first two was reported missing. They found her body yesterday. The Buffalo cop wants my opinion on whether the same guy murdered victim number three.”
“So, what’s the verdict? Do you think they have just one killer?”
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure of it.”
She rolled her shoulders to help ease the tightness that had settled there. “Can you tell me the specifics of each case?”
“Why would you want me to?” Mark asked while dunking the teabag in his mug. “They don’t exactly make for light conversation.”
“Are you forgetting I’m a cop, Santini? One who worked a stint in homicide. Cops talk over their cases with each other.” She cupped the snifter in her palm, swirling the liquid while reminding herself that the man sitting a few feet away wasn’t just any guy with a badge. He was Mr. Close-mouthed Cop.
He gave her a pointed look. “I’m fully aware of your qualifications, Sergeant McCall.” Easing back into the cushions, he sipped his tea. “Is our case the reason you can’t sleep? Or did something come up while you were talking to Bran? I know you’re worried about him.”
She met Mark’s gaze over the rim of his mug. He was watching her closely. Too closely. So close, she felt like a bug under a microscope.
The man wouldn’t tell her about his past, she thought with a spurt of irritation. Why the hell did he think the reason she couldn’t sleep was any of his business?
“Do me a favor, Mark, and stop trying to analyze me like I’m some do-wrong in one of your supersecret cases.” She swirled the snifter, took another drink. She could feel the brandy’s heat seep through her system, melting her muscles to putty consistency. “I suspect you have sleepless nights once in a while, even if you won’t admit it,” she added.
He raised a dark brow. “Why wouldn’t I admit it?”
“Because, Special Agent Santini, you are a Fed. Acknowledging an occasional bout of sleeplessness might put you on the same level as a run-of-the-mill cop like me. Might even make you seem human.”
His mouth twitched. “I’d forgotten about that nasty streak of yours, McCall. And it has apparently slipped your mind that you have this opportunity to lob insults at me because I requested your assistance on the Grayson case. I did that because you’re such a good run-of-the-mill cop.”
“But not good enough to hear about your Buffalo case.” She angled her chin. “You know, Santini, cops talk over cases with each other not just so they can hear their own voices. Bringing in someone with a pair of fresh
eyes can help spot angles no one else has clicked on to. Bring up a point that might lead to something. Maybe even help figure out who done it.”
“I do talk over my cases. With other agents in the CACU.”
“Well, ace, none of your pals are here right now.”
Shifting, Grace curled her legs under her and settled more snugly into the couch’s pillowed corner. Thanks to the brandy, her nerves had steadied. “Look, we can’t do anything more on our case until we have the background information on Harmon. I can’t sleep. You’re working on another case that needs to be solved before there’s a victim number four. Why don’t you just talk it over with me as you go?”
“Fess up, McCall,” Mark said, gazing at her with cool-eyed suspicion. “You’re using me as a momentary diversion, right? You couldn’t sleep, so you decided the next best thing would be to come in here and harass me.”
She aimed an index finger at him. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not perceptive.”
He gave a short laugh that took her by surprise when it curled around her heart. Before, when they’d been together, he had laughed easily and often. It had always been that way with them, so relaxed, so comfortable in the company of each other. How many Sundays had they spent huddled together on her couch? Reading the newspaper, listening to soft music, watching TV. Making love. Content just to be together.
And after he’d moved to Virginia, she had missed those Sundays desperately.
“McCall, has anyone ever mentioned you can be a pain in the butt?”
“You have, Santini,” she said, her throat tightening around the words as she dealt with years-old memories that made her ache. “A couple of times.”
“Yeah.” The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened when he grinned. “The reasons why I called you that are all coming back now.”
When her nerves scrambled, Grace tightened her fingers on the glass. She knew full well the heat in her veins had notched up to blast-furnace hot due to the man, not the brandy. She eased out a breath, forcing herself to relax, to push back passion. Her reaction simply proved the age-old theory that knowing something’s not good for you doesn’t stop you from wanting it.
