by Jenna Ryan
Devon hit Play. “Because she’s my sister.”
“Hannah isn’t being threatened, Devon.”
She sighed but didn’t turn. Not with him standing so close and her feelings in such an uncharacteristic turmoil. “I’m the structured one, Riker, the perfectionist who sees more imperfections in other people than she really wants to. I don’t love the world the way Hannah does. I like it. I hope for things and people, but I don’t make excuses for their flaws.”
She forced herself to face him then, but she did so carefully, curling her fingers around the marble table behind her. “Hannah’s a very sweet person. I’d hate to see her become jaded.”
“That’s up to her, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Haven’t you ever loved someone, seen qualities in them that you would hate to see destroyed? You came from a family of twelve, Riker. You must have felt protective about one of your brothers or sisters.”
“Adopted brothers and sisters.”
“Is there a difference?”
He shrugged. “No, but we weren’t talking about me. I’ve done my homework, too, Devon. I know Hannah had a nervous breakdown.”
Damn him, she thought, but couldn’t quite decide for what. She expelled a resigned breath. “I wasn’t crazy about Tony myself, but Hannah was very upset when he died.”
“Which is why you moved to Philadelphia.”
“Yes.”
“And why... Ahh...” Comprehension dawned. She saw the subtle shift of his facial muscles. “You feel guilty. That’s it, isn’t it?”
She frowned, “About Tony’s death?”
“Maybe that, too. You said you didn’t like him.”
Her temper flared. “I said I didn’t care for him, not that I wished him—what do you mean, ‘that, too?”’ She forgot to be insulted and straightened to face him at dangerously close range.
He widened his eyes. “The attacks, Devon.”
She stared back, trying to assimilate his meaning while at the same time battling an urge to pull his mouth onto hers. “I think you’ve lost it, Riker,” she said finally. “I’m threatened, and that gives me a guilt complex?”
“You moved here for Hannah’s sake, right?”
“So?”
“So, now someone’s trying to kill you. Whether consciously or not, Hannah probably feels responsible for that. You don’t want her to feel responsible, because it’s your job to protect her. Therefore, you downplay the attacks, keep them a secret if you can.” To Devon’s disconcertion, he took her face between his hands. “It’s a nice gesture,” he said, holding firm when she would have jerked free. “It is nice,” he repeated, “but you’re selling Hannah short. She loves you. She can deal with this. She wants to deal with it. People choose what they become, Devon.” An odd look passed over his face, but he shed it to continue. “We’re influenced by others but ultimately we create ourselves.”
“Hannah didn’t create a nervous breakdown.”
“No, she recovered from it. With your help, undoubtedly, but also with her own strength.”
Why did she think he knew what he was talking about?
Consternation fogged Devon’s mind. He was too close, jumbling her thoughts. Was she wrong to shield Hannah where the attacks were concerned? Unfair to shield her? God help her, unkind?
She shook her head to clear the muddle. What she saw when her gaze fastened on Riker’s was a man who looked as torn apart as she felt. And every bit as stubborn.
“How do you know so much about Hannah and me?” she asked ignoring the breathless hitch in her voice. “Whatever else, you certainly seem to understand a thing or two about guilt.”
“We learn through experience,” he murmured. “I knew two women once.” His knuckles grazed Devon’s cheekbones. She stopped breathing completely for a moment. “One was younger than me, the other decades older. The older one liked to control people, needed to, I think. The younger one didn’t have enough other influences to understand that there were alternatives. She let herself be controlled. Baron Munchausen had nothing on the pair of them.”
“They liked to tell stories?”
His smile held more harshness than humor. “They preferred to lie. The tendency led to other unpleasant things.”
What was he saying? “I’m not a liar, Riker.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, but the shadows playing across his narrow features gave nothing away. “I never said you were.”
“I hate liars.” She bit the side of her lip. “But I love Hannah.” She wasn’t sure yet how she felt about Riker, about where attraction and trust might ultimately meet. Or collide head-on. “I’ll think about what you said. I don’t want to lie to myself about my motives.”
It could have been pain that rippled through his eyes. Or maybe it was some subtle change in the colorful fairy lights.
His fingers shifted, sliding through the layers of silky hair, while his dark gaze made him a prisoner to hers. Devon didn’t bother to conceal her unsteady breathing, or her erratic heartbeat. She might not understand this man. That didn’t mean she couldn’t want him.
One touch, one exploratory kiss for the benefit of her curiosity, and in all likelihood, she’d be satisfied. Their relationship could resume its professional course. Assuming it had been professional in the first place.
Questions buzzed like agitated bees in the back of her mind, about the women Riker had mentioned, about the upheaval she could sense in him but not begin to comprehend, about a man who sent her gifts prophesying her death, about guilt and control, attraction and trust, about doubt and fear and feelings much finer than that.
She gave in to the finer feelings, stepping deliberately closer, her eyes unwavering on his. Her heart thudded in her chest.
“Devon...”
Say no, his instincts warned even as he spoke her name. Back away. Don’t let this happen.
But another set of instincts took over as the scent of her skin and hair washed over him. Lavender mingled with lemons and spice. His loins tightened painfully; his lashes lowered against the fiery rush of blood that coursed through him.
“Oh, to hell with it,” he muttered when he couldn’t force himself to move.
He touched her cheek, her chin, her lips with his thumb, then slowly lowered his head and used his mouth.
Devon’s tiny moan excited him, spurred him on. His tongue circled her lips, then dipped boldly inside to explore. She tasted of wild Irish nights, moonlit and cool, with a fire burning hot and fast in the center. The heat drew him forward, spun him into the heart of the flames, deeper than he’d intended, or had ever expected to go in his lifetime.
Her hands followed the line of his waistband to the base of his spine. Shivers racked her as her fingers feathered upward to his shoulders. She made another sound in her throat, a small sound like a sigh of pleasure.
Heat pooled in the lower portion of his body. Jacob’s mind shrouded itself in a haze of desire. But the guilt lingered. He felt it gnawing at his wants and needs, prodding him like a sore tooth.
Though not immediately aware of what caused him to ease his mouth free, he resented the tendril of conscience which must have been at the root of it. He also knew better than to repeat the kiss.
Touching the back of his wrist to his hungry mouth, he took a step away from her both physically and mentally. He doubted he could have done much more than that at this point. Every part of him longed to crush her against him, to feel her silky limbs tangled with his.
Devon made no attempt to disguise her uneven breathing. Her green eyes were large, dark and confused when she stared at him.
“It didn’t go away,” she said. Her confusion seemed to mount as she glanced briefly sideways. “I thought it would, but it didn’t.”
Jacob had no idea what she meant, decided he’d be better off not knowing. Closing his own eyes, he ordered his thoughts to settle. Sex was the last reason he’d come to Devon under false pretences. He had a purpose—to catch and expose the person
responsible for the Christmas Murders. To keep Devon from becoming the next victim.
Classic holiday music poured through the stereo speakers and Jacob’s overheated system. When he opened his eyes, Devon was studying his face, no doubt searching for a reaction. Curiosity, wariness, wonder—all those emotions were visible. But he saw no hint of accusation, no regret or disappointment, no sign of the mistrust he knew lurked deep in her mind.
She fingered her still-damp lower lip. “You didn’t want that to happen did you?”
Wrong, he thought, a ghost of a smile playing on his mouth. “What I want isn’t always what’s best, Devon. I enjoy kissing you. That doesn’t make it a smart thing to do.”
Clinically put, and he kicked himself for it. But he’d underestimated her reaction. Apparently, the kiss hadn’t affected her the same way as it had him, and even knocking the remnants of his ego aside, he had trouble buying that one.
Grinning, she released a philosophical breath. “You certainly know how to put a woman in her place, Riker. But,” her eyes sparkled, “I think you enjoyed that more than you’re letting on. I may not know you, but I know a knee-jerk response when I hear one.”
The remark was largely bravado. She knew knee-jerk responses; he recognized pride. He admired it. He admired her.
He did not, however, admire himself at this moment. Self-deprecation would eat him alive at this rate. Blanking his features, he left her to stand in front of the window.
A wonderland of snow and lights and stars reflected in the frosted panes of glass. “I can’t let this happen again, Devon,” he said, credibly calm. “And you can’t want it to.” He faced her, steely-eyed. Lucky that the room remained in shadow around them. “I’m not what you think.”
She folded her arms. “You’re a man, I assume?”
“Men make mistakes.”
“So do women. What are we really talking about, Riker?”
Because he couldn’t answer that with anything approaching the truth, he opted for the low blow of a scare tactic—careful to keep his gaze off her softly tempting mouth as he advanced on her. “We’re talking murder here, Devon. Strangulation to be precise. We’re talking madness, cleverly hidden beneath a mask of civility. We’re talking anyone around you, known or unknown. We could be talking dentist,” his gaze flicked to the kitchen, “P.R. man, letter carrier or delivery boy.”
She swallowed and he felt just low enough to stop. His breath ruffled the silky hair that swung alongside her cheek.
Her lower lip trembled only slightly when she spoke. “Could we also be talking cop, Riker?”
A slap would have hurt less. “Anyone, Devon,” he repeated evenly.
“Including Rudy?”
Using a single knuckle, Jacob brushed her cheekbone. Peaches and cream, he thought with a pang. “Including Rudy.” His hand dropped. His eyes didn’t. “And me.”
TWO O’CLOCK Monday morning. One hour until he had to leave.
Newspaper clippings rustled as he sifted through them again, and then again. Why wouldn’t she die? Why was there no mention of his gift or of him in the newspapers?
Because the police didn’t believe, he answered his own question. He propped his chin in his hands and tried to absorb the absurdity of this charade, the uncanny twist of fate. And he’d thought Casey Coombes was a godsend.
Skittish inside, he stood to pace, turned up the radio, sorted his well-read files, tucked the clippings back in their locked box and stared at the snow-crusted darkness beyond his window. Forty-five minutes to go.
Must stay on top of the details, he reminded himself. No one knew better than he did how badly the smallest oversight could trip a person up.
Had he tripped up? He paused and thought. Possibly. He got the numbers wrong sometimes. His blood chilled. Would anyone notice if he had?
No, surely not. Too many lies simmered and stewed in this blackened pot of his. Too many fears. Take Devon’s Detective Riker, for example. So many truths for one man to conceal, while at the same time he sought to expose a killer.
He steepled his index fingers, tapped them nervously together. Must consider the setup to come. His eyes gleamed in anticipation. His fingers wiggled. First things first, however.
Thirty-five minutes to rendezvous.
Stupid junkie rat. Had his habit eroded all of his good sense?
A headache brewed behind his eyes, snaked downward into his neck. Devon couldn’t be got at this night, so other things must be accomplished instead. Squash a rat and envision the fall of Detective Joel Riker.
Thirty minutes.
With rock-steady hands, he uncorked a bottle of California chardonnay and poured himself half a glass. He raised it for inspection. Good bouquet. Excellent color. The perfect indulgence.
Swirling it slowly, he settled in his favorite chair, her chair before...
The satisfied line of his lips deteriorated into a grimace of pain. He jumped up, spilling the wine. He wouldn’t think of her as she’d been, an angel appearing at dawn. She was Devon now, afternoon talk-show host. Think only of that. And of dead rats. And exposure.
Steadying himself, he regarded the box of news clippings. He saluted it with the dregs in his glass. “To an end,” he whispered in his normal voice. “From one pretender to another.”
Chapter Eight
“Fantastic again, Dev. The audience loved your idea.” Jimmy burst into the broadcast booth, his youthful face flushed with excitement. “One woman called the segment, ‘the spirit of Christmas revived.’ Another man’s taping the series to play for his kids when they come home from college for the holidays.”
Devon stood, stretching the cramped muscles in her lower back. “You couldn’t have said a nicer thing to me, Jimmy.” She mustered her first relaxed smile of the day. “I love Dr. Forester, but he’s impossible to keep on topic.”
Teddi stuck out her tongue as she wandered in, faxes in hand. “Dr. Forester is a topic, Devon. He filled your listeners in on all sorts of interesting tidbits about Christmas past. What you neatly kept him from delving into, but I got an earful of as he was toddling out, is that he thinks the whole Nativity thing was orchestrated by aliens. You know, that freaky, the-star-was-really-a-spaceship theory.”
Jimmy blinked. “He thinks God’s an...? Oh, man, he must be whacked out on something.”
Teddi patted his arm. “You’re a good Catholic boy, Jimmy. I’m a good Baptist girl. Dr. Forester might look like Albert Einstein, but we both know he’s a nut. What’s on tap for tomorrow, Devon?”
“St. Nick to Santa Claus. The mutation.” Pushing up the sleeves of her oversized fuchsia sweater, Devon inspected the control panel. “Phil Collins, Hootie and Alanis, then into commercial. You’ve got about ten minutes, Teddi.”
The smaller woman sent her an impish smile. “Can I use it to seduce your cop friend?”
Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Devon react, though her stomach did a quick backflip. “Riker’s here?”
“He arrived right after your show started. Devon?” Jimmy blocked her path when she would have slipped out the door. “I, um, did some more checking on him. I thought you’d want me to be thorough,” he added when her brows rose.
“I asked you to check out his status at the department, not pry into his personal life.”
Jimmy lowered his eyes. “I didn’t pry, exactly. It’s just that I can see he likes you. You have a right to learn all you can about him.”
Devon understood now why she’d always maintained her distance from computers. “Thanks for the thought, Jimmy,” she said firmly, “but I’m not interested in meeting the skeletons in Riker’s closet.”
“No skeletons, really. Well...except that his mother was an addict.”
She managed not to sigh. “My Uncle Samuel drank himself into an early grave. Families have histories, Jimmy. Leave Riker’s alone, okay?”
“She could have been addicted when he was born.”
“Jimmy!”
Hanging his head, he ru
bbed the side of his nose. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I know.” Devon gave an affectionate tug on his shirt sleeve. “I appreciate it. I’m just not interested in dirt. If I were, I’d have gone into tabloid journalism.”
“She died, alone and using, when he was thirteen.”
Rolling her eyes, Devon gave Teddi a quick thumbs up and removed herself from the booth.
“Warren!”
Alma’s bull-horn shout funneled into Devon’s right ear. “Sorry, my dear.” The older woman gave her arm an apologetic pat. “I seem to have lost my brother. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
Devon ignored the ringing sensation. “Not since this morning.”
“What about you, detective?”
Devon swung her head and spotted Riker walking toward them. He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket and a vexed look on his handsome face.
“What about me?” he echoed, clearly distracted.
“I was asking about my—” Alma puffed her cheeks. “Never mind.”
Riker’s eyes narrowed on Devon. “Can you leave? Can she leave?” he repeated without pause to Alma.
“I suppose so.” Bewildered, Alma regarded Devon. “Is there a problem?”
Devon glanced at Riker. “Is there?”
His mouth moved into a succinct smile. His eyes did not. “Nothing earth-shattering. A call from a sick friend.” Taking her by the arm, he steered her in the direction of her office.
Devon’s brow knitted. “Do I have a sick friend?”
“Say a friend of a friend, then. A woman just finished identifying her boyfriend’s body. A pair of longshoremen fished him out of the Delaware early this morning. We know him, Devon. It’s Brando.”
THE LAST THING Jacob expected was for Brando’s friend Tanya to stagger out of her run-down apartment, tumble into Devon’s arms and start weeping.
“He didn’t fall in,” she sobbed, wadding the handerchief Jacob gave her. “I don’t care how wired he was. He always knew what was what.”
Jacob crouched while Tanya cried on Devon’s shoulder. “Maybe he got into some bad stuff.”
