Hot Pursuit

by Suzanne Brockmann

  But she just looked at him, and he knew she would never say that in front of Mick Callahan.

  She also knew that it wasn’t a fear of being unmanned, or a need to accept some kind of double-dare that was making Sam follow Jules. He was going in because, as awful as it was going to be, another pair of eyes might see something differently.

  And because a case like this wasn’t over until it was over.

  Because they still had Frank Bonavita in custody, where he was going to endure some serious detox, saying things like They said they saw me kill Maria. …

  “They” had written him a letter that he’d hidden in his room with his stash of meth. A stash that had, he claimed, just appeared in his bathroom, as if magical meth-making elves had left it there for him.

  A team of FBI agents was already on their way out to Long Island to find out if the letter and stash were just another part of Frank’s paranoid delusions.

  As Sam stepped through the basement door, he paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light and …

  Holy fuck.

  The smell was awful, the sight even worse.

  He made himself look, made himself join Jules, who was standing in the middle of the room.

  “Our guy,” Jules said quietly, “is definitely a showman.” He raised his voice. “I want an autopsy on both bodies, and I want it now. Carol!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought I saw you lurking there,” Jules said. “There’s going to be interest from the media, and I don’t want to be the one that gets questions shouted at him. I don’t even want them to know I’m here.”

  “I’ll handle it, sir.”

  “The statement we’re releasing is that two homeless people froze to death,” Jules ordered. “I don’t want any details leaking out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sam followed them both back out into the metal-grayness of the waning afternoon light, where Alyssa was waiting for him.

  Mick, thank God, was gone. But not far.

  “He’s upstairs,” Alyssa told him, told Jules, too. “I told him we still wanted to talk to him, because as far as I’m concerned? Winston didn’t kill Maggie. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s victim number two.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  As Lopez left, locking the door behind him, Danny poured Jenn a glass of cranberry juice and she took it, meeting his eyes only briefly.

  She was embarrassed.

  Not because she’d foolishly opened the door without checking to see who was on the other side, but because she’d told Frank that she loved Dan.

  At the time, he’d been intent on making sure Frank didn’t kill anyone, and he’d let it roll, completely, off his back and out of his focus.

  But now he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and it was making him sweat. It was crazy, but even the idea of talking to her about the way he’d blacked out again was less anxiety-inducing.

  Lopez had given him an out before he’d left them alone here in Jenn’s apartment. He’d offered to stay so that Dan could go back to the hotel and take some downtime.

  Danny had considered it—just picking up and running away. But he wanted Jenn again, desperately. God, he wanted to lose himself in sex that was so good, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had any that was better. And he wanted her badly enough that it trumped the most awkward of conversations. It even trumped the fact that he knew—he knew—that if she truly was falling in love with him, the dead last thing he should do was make love to her again, and risk cementing her feelings.

  It would be selfish and cruel to do that.

  Not that. This.

  Because he was doing it.

  Except maybe she didn’t really love him.

  Maybe she loved him as a friend. Maybe …

  Jenn being Jenn, despite her embarrassment, she led the elephant in the corner into the center of the room, and started the awkward discussion.

  “It’s worse than getting called pookie, isn’t it?” she said, adjusting her bathrobe more securely around her and pushing her glasses farther up her nose. She’d been shaking so hard after Frank was taken into custody, that her cop friend, Mick, had suggested she take a hot shower, try to use it both to warm up and to wash away what had been a frightening incident. “The we-both-know-it’s-short-term girlfriend dropping the L-bomb on Day Two. It’s not only terrifying, it’s absurd. It’s clearly a very strong signal as to my emotional instability.”

  As usual, she’d made him laugh.

  “Or maybe it’s more of an emotional immaturity,” she continued. “Either way, alarm bells are ringing. I can tell, just from looking at you, that you’ve pushed your own internal panic button. But you’re too gallant to run away.”

  “There’re all kinds of love,” he said.

  “There are,” she agreed.

  “I also think,” Dan told her as he sat down on the other end of the couch, trying to keep his distance, “that it can be easy to mistake certain … biological reactions for strong emotions. You were in serious danger, and I came to your rescue. And your body released all kinds of hormones and endorphins and God knows what-all into your system, giving you a physical reaction that feels a lot like, you know …”

  She didn’t look convinced, so he kept going.

  “I know,” he continued, “because I feel it, too. It’s more than just a woodie, although that’s a pretty standard accessory for me, to any life and death confrontation. And again, it’s biological. And I feel this shit racing through my bloodstream, the adrenaline and whatever and I look at you, and start getting these messages, like an intercom clicking on at the stem of my brain, saying, Mine. I’m possessive to start with. I know that about myself. Add some extra testosterone, and look out. I would’ve killed him, you know. If he’d as much as turned toward you, I would have dropped him, right there.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Jenn said.

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

  “So you think,” she said, “that while I was in that moment, my body was releasing hormones and adrenaline—”

  “I don’t just think it, I know it,” Dan told her. “Your hands are still shaking. That’s as classic a symptom of adrenaline overload as my, you know … packing wood.”

  She smiled at that.

  “You also didn’t have a lot of time to tell Frank exactly what you were feeling. Hey, don’t shoot Dan, because I like him and we’ve been having a really good time together and if you killed him I’d be extremely upset, particularly since I’m feeling overwhelmed with appreciation at the way he came to my rescue … Instead, you … said what you said. You went concise and used language you knew Frank would understand.”

  “Ah,” she said. “I like that one, too. You’re incredibly talented when it comes to rationalizing.”

  “The key,” Dan told her, “is to understand what’s going on, and not misinterpret the little voice that says Mine, and rush off to Vegas to get married. Because the hormone levels and adrenaline eventually go back to normal, and then you’re, like, waking up next to some numbnut, thinking, What the hell have I done?”

  “The numbnut being you,” Jenn pointed out, “since I’m completely nutless.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. She was clearly speaking symbolically, as in she had no balls, i.e., courage to challenge his theories, or to disagree.

  “You think I’m wrong?” he finally said.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just seems so … cold. You probably don’t believe in love at first sight, either. Unless there’s a scientific explanation for that…”

  “I don’t believe in it,” he admitted. “I believe in attraction at first sight. I also believe in … immediate connection at first conversation. I believe that there’s no such thing as an easy relationship and that every time you put two people together, there’s going to be sacrifice and compromise. That nobody gets exactly what they want, but if you learn to adapt and be flexible, you’ll win more oft
en than you lose. Because your definition of winning will be broad and include more options.”

  “Then why can’t it be a win for you, when I say … what I said.” She laughed and sat forward. “God, it’s not like it’s an evil spell that’ll destroy the world if it’s uttered aloud. Why isn’t it a win when I say that I love you?”

  Her leaning toward him like that made one side of her robe fall open a bit, giving him a clear shot of the soft curve of one of her breasts.

  She didn’t have particularly large breasts. They certainly weren’t as large as they should have been to make her shaped like an hourglass in proportion to her generous hips. No, she was a pear, smaller on top than on bottom, but big breasts weren’t everything, and he sure as hell didn’t want her to change anything about her legs and thighs—she had gorgeous thighs, strong yet soft and so smooth when she wrapped them around him. …

  He’d yet to get her completely naked, but give him time and he would, because he wanted her riding him, her eyes closed as she moaned her pleasure, her breasts slick with sweat as she strained to take him deep, deeper. …

  Mine.

  She was sitting there, watching him with those big eyes, waiting for him to tell her that he didn’t want to hurt her. That he wasn’t sure if he could make himself walk away from her—which he knew he had to do if she really was falling for him.

  Why the hell was she falling for him? For him … ?

  Dan found himself kissing her. He had no idea if she’d leaned even nearer to him, or if he’d been the one to reach for her and pull her close. But Jesus, he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, her arms around him, her fingers in his hair.

  She moved even closer, straddling him, reaching between them to unfasten his pants, to find him, as always, ready to go.

  She laughed a little. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

  She’d let her robe fall open, and there it was, one perfect, dark pink nipple that he licked into his mouth. Her hands tightened around him as she gasped, “Condom …”

  He bumped into her hand as he reached for one—she’d learned where he kept them. But as intriguing as the thought of her putting it on him was … He didn’t think he could wait that long. Except …

  “Jenn, I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “And unless that was magic cranberry juice …”

  She laughed. “I’m fine,” she insisted, shrugging out of her robe, letting it fall on the floor, leaving her naked.

  And Christ, he couldn’t say no to that, for so many reasons—the foremost being that she’d take it as a rejection, and he was not going to do that to her. And yes, like the woman had said, he was a master at rationalizing. He could give himself a list of fifty reasons, but the real one was right here, in his hands, now covered and ready for her to climb upon, which she did as she breathed his name, “Oh, Dan …”

  And it was all right there, in every touch, every kiss, every moan as she moved, so exquisitely slowly at first, then faster, as she lit him on fire.

  His fear when Izzy had called, when he’d run back here and realized she was no longer in her apartment, when he’d waited nearly goddamn out of his mind for the elevator so he could ride up to a higher floor and cut them off before they reached the roof, when he’d realized Frank, who was holding a weapon, was high. …

  His anger at Frank—that he would put Jenn at risk like that.

  His relief when he saw her—that she was all right, that Frank hadn’t hurt her.

  His joy that she could make him laugh, even then and there in the stairwell, regardless of all his anger and fear.

  His confidence that he would, without question, keep her safe.

  He wanted to keep her safe.

  Her bare skin was so smooth beneath his fingers. Her body was so soft as she cried out his name again, this time as she came.

  Head thrown back, body arched, breasts thrust forward, nipples taut, thighs tight around him as she pushed him even deeper inside of her… Jesus, she was beyond gorgeous, and he ran his hands up her body from her thighs to her breasts, filling the palms of his hands as she just kept coming and coming around him.

  And he came, too, in an intense rush of pleasure that made his blood sing and his ears roar. And despite the additional noise from his pounding heart and his ragged breathing, he heard it, as clear as a crystal bell. His adrenaline and hormones and endorphins all coming together to chime in …

  Mine.

  • • •

  “Are we sure,” Alyssa said, “that Danny Gillman’s got it together enough to provide sufficient protection for Jennilyn?”

  She and Sam, and Jules and Robin, were sitting in the living room of the hotel suite. Or rather she, Sam, and Jules were sitting.

  Robin was lying on the floor. Ashton, who was now happily at his mother’s breast, had totally kicked his ass today. The tyke hadn’t yet mastered crawling, but he had his own form of propulsion—scooting across the floor on his butt, using his strong little legs to push himself along. In a matter of seconds—the briefest of head turns—the little boy was gone and into God knows what.

  Robin had had to monitor him constantly. Gone were the days of putting him in his rocking seat or his swing as Robin quietly sat nearby, reading a good book.

  But the real killer was the continuous requests—that upraised precious face and two tiny, reaching hands—for assistance in walking. All Ash wanted to do, for hours on end, was walk around holding onto Robin’s hands. Which had actually been fun, the first four thousand times.

  Come on, Ash, let’s sit for a while and read a book. Ning-a-nang!

  Hey, Ash, let’s play with these nifty blocks. I’ll set ’em up and you can knock ’em down. It’ll be fun. Ning-a-nang!

  Ooh, Ashie, I bet you want Uncle Robin to put you in this ugly-ass rented high chair so you can eat some yummy Cheerios.

  Ning-a-ning-a-freaking-nang.

  “We could put a guard over there, if you want,” Sam said, answering Alyssa’s question about Gillman, who’d apparently gotten something hot and heavy going with Maria’s assistant.

  Robin had overheard Maria talking to Izzy about it today. She was secretly thrilled that Jenn would do something so impetuous. It was, allegedly, completely out of character.

  Maria, who like Robin was one of those glass-half-full people, was convinced that Jenn had met her soul mate and would be married within the year. Izzy’d argued with her about that for a bit, but he’d finally given up. He was not, he’d agreed, the best person in the world to judge whether or not Dan Gillman would make a good soul mate for anyone.

  “But Jenn’s place is ridiculously small,” Sam added now. “I say let Danny stay with her. For tonight, anyway. As for tomorrow … I think we should consider bringing in more members of the team. How’s Lindsey feeling? Have you heard from her?”

  “She’s not out of bed yet,” Alyssa told him. “Maybe Deck and Nash are back from Indonesia.”

  Robin lifted his head. “Wait a minute. I thought this was over. That the bad guy is Maria’s brother. The way she was talking about him …”

  Maria had been convinced that her brother had killed Maggie Thorndyke. That plus the fact that they’d moved her back into her own apartment so she could sleep in her own bed tonight had made Robin assume …

  Jules spoke up. “It seems unlikely that Frank Bonavita had the ability to do everything that our killer did. Grab Maggie, take her somewhere private to kill her and do his … handiwork on her—”

  Robin sat up. “But I thought that you found where he took her. To that basement where the homeless man was living. Did I miss something?”

  “Sweetie, whoever killed her,” Jules told him, “he didn’t do it there. There would have been way more blood. Plus she had marks on her wrists and ankles that indicate she’d been bound, prior to her death. But there were no ropes and nothing to tie her to in that basement. The full autopsy report’s not in yet, but the entire forensics team agrees. Maggie’s body was moved there aft
er she was dead. And whoever put her there knew that Winston—the homeless guy—lived there. Our killer set it up to look like Winston slit his own wrists, but I’m betting we find a major amount of a narcotic in his system.”

  “Okay, I can see how the theory’s implausible,” Robin said. “Frank killed Maggie—somewhere presumably not in the center of Times Square, then put her heart in his sister’s office, sent a postcard, made a phone call, and framed Winston—all while under the influence of a radically mind-altering drug.”

  “Forget about the implausibility. It doesn’t even begin to explain how or why Winston had Alyssa’s picture back in September,” Sam chimed in. “That’s what I still want to find out.”

  The former SEAL usually sat sprawled in his seat, long legs stretched out, his posture and body language enormously masculine and relaxed. But tonight he was sitting up straight, his movements limited and extremely careful. No doubt about it, the man was in some serious pain.

  “Do you need some ice?” Robin asked him silently, so Alyssa didn’t start in again on Sam taking a shower and getting his butt into bed. Although, truth be told, if Jules had ordered Robin into bed that way, he’d have gone willingly. Of course, they didn’t have a baby to feed. “Should I get you some?”

  Sam shook his head, just the tiniest little bit. “Won’t help,” he silently said.

  And, of course, Robin didn’t have a broken rib, which could make going to bed a lot less fun.

  “Whoever killed Maggie and Winston knew that we were looking at Winston as a suspect.” Alyssa’s voice rang with certainty.

  “I agree,” Jules said.

  “And you’re certain that couldn’t have been Frank?” Robin asked. “Hey, here’s a thought. Do you know for a fact that he’s using—that he’s not just a really good actor, pretending to be on meth?”

  That question got everyone looking at each other, so he asked, “Is he in detox or in jail? Because if he’s in detox, they’ll have done complete blood work. But if it’s jail … Not so much.”

  “I think they were taking him to a psychiatric hospital,” Jules said, reaching for his phone.