No way was she joining their ranks.
She'd come back to the island with Simon tonight because he wasn't safe alone. But her focus had to be on this case. Her self-respect depended on it.
And so could his life.
"I want you to leave with Julie tomorrow," Simon told Dylan quietly.
His brother looked up from his cheesecake, his handsome face flushed. Wounded. "Sure. Whatever. I figured this family togetherness thing couldn't last."
The sneer was expected. The hurt was not.
"I've enjoyed having you here," Simon said, surprised to realize it was at least partly true.
Dylan tossed down his napkin. "Which explains why you can't wait to get rid of us. Or is it just that we're cramping your style with lovely Laura? Sorry," he mumbled in response to Simon's look. "You don't need a reason to kick us out."
But he did, Simon discovered.
"The accident this afternoon…" He hesitated. "I think it's better for Julie, safer for Julie, if she goes back to school tomorrow. And I think it's better for you to stay at the condo for a while."
"Well, hell." Dylan stared at him, his golden movie star face slack. "You talk to Jules about this?"
Simon returned the look coolly. "No." He didn't want his sister to worry.
"Does this have anything to do with the break-in to your lab a week or so ago?"
Simon didn't answer.
Dylan swore again. "Who would want to go after you?"
Simon moved his knife a fraction of an inch to one side. "You might as well ask who benefits from my death."
"I do." Dylan drew a shuddering breath. "Julie and I do. My God, Simon—"
"I don't think Julie cut the fuel line on the boat last night," Simon interrupted him.
"Hell, no." Dylan looked directly at Simon, his eyes dark in his white face. "Do you think I did?"
There it was. The million-dollar question, Simon thought, his head and his heart both pounding. Could he trust Dylan? Could he trust his own judgment? Did he believe his own brother could hate him enough, or at least be indifferent enough, to want him dead?
"No," Simon said.
"Well, that's something." Dylan pushed his dessert away. "I wouldn't anyway, you know. Even if we weren't…" He stumbled, as obviously uncomfortable expressing emotion as Simon.
"Brothers," Simon supplied.
Dylan grinned. "Right. Even if we weren't brothers, it would be stupid. Like killing the goose that laid the golden eggs."
"Cultured gemstones," Simon said.
"Yeah. Now, if I was part of some big ruby cartel, it might make more sense."
"Why?"
"Well, an influx of low-cost, high quality stones on the market is definitely going to drive prices and profits down, at least in the short term. I'd take you out before you took my business away."
"Thanks," Simon said dryly. "That's very reassuring."
"Forewarned is forearmed. Anyway, you've got Laura around now to protect you."
"That is not why I want Laura around," Simon said, an edge to his voice.
Dylan raised both hands. "Hey, kidding. I know that. It's obvious from the way you look at the girl that you're crazy about her."
Was it? Simon brooded.
Then why hadn't she noticed?
Laura knew the exact instant Simon stepped out on the balcony. Her pulse quickened. Without turning her head, she said, "You were talking to your brother a long time."
The door scraped closed behind him.
"We had things to discuss," Simon said.
He leaned his elbows on the rail beside her, staring out at the darkening lake. His hard arm barely brushed hers. His scent—expensive soap, clean cotton, warm, relaxed male—drifted to her, seeping into her senses and soul. She could have stood like this with him forever, breathing him in, inhaling peace.
Think about the case, she ordered herself. Concentrate on your job. Or he might end up dead. There was a mistake she wouldn't recover from.
"I followed up on Dylan's alibi for last Wednesday night," she said abruptly. "It checks out."
Simon didn't move, but his very stillness told her he was suddenly a lot less relaxed. "You investigated my brother?"
"Yeah. Him and Quinn. Because of the passcard thing." She shrugged. "Of course, that was before E.C.I.P. sent us the computer log. But I thought it might be useful to know if he was lying about his whereabouts or activities that night."
"Is that what you and Denko were talking about this afternoon?"
"No, I talked to him about the cut in your fuel line."
"And?"
She chose her words with care. "And he agreed it looks suspicious."
"What else?"
Her throat was tight. "Nothing important."
"What else, Laura?"
Oh, God. She was vulnerable enough already. No way was she spilling her fears about the chief's shouted subtext, the restrained disapproval behind his clipped words, the I'm-disappointed-in-you-Baker look in his eyes.
But Simon was waiting for a response. Pressing her with his silence like an experienced interrogator.
She dug for another truth to give him, equally hurtful but less revealing. "Denko's concerned I can't be objective here."
"Because of your relationship with me," Simon said.
What relationship? Laura wanted to ask. They didn't have a relationship. They had a fake involvement to protect him until he got his full memory back, and they had sex.
Unless, please, God, he wanted more.
But he hadn't said anything about wanting more.
And she couldn't ask. Because if she did, and he didn't, it would make things unbearably awkward between them. He might even ask her, gently and politely, to go.
And then who would protect him?
"Actually, it's because of my father," Laura said.
Simon straightened from the rail. "What about him?"
"Well, he's dead," Laura said. "He can't be a threat to you. So if I can prove you're still in danger, that would obviously help clear his name."
"Of course I'm still in danger. Somebody cut the damn hose."
"The chief's investigating that."
Simon raised his eyebrows. "And what am I supposed to do while he investigates? Stand out on Michigan Avenue
and hope somebody takes a shot at me?"
The blood drained out of her head. She saw again his naked back bent over the hatch and the smoke billowing around him and felt dizzy.
"No," Laura said fiercely. "Denko made it very clear you're not to put yourself at risk."
"Until I know who's behind this, I don't know what's risky or not," Simon pointed out.
Neither did she.
Her failure so far to make progress on the case shook her confidence and stiffened her resolve. She was desperately afraid of letting Simon down, of disappointing him. If she couldn't do her job, what good was she?
But later that night when Simon came to her room, she did not turn him away. She opened her door and locked it behind him. Opened her robe and let it fall to the floor. Here, now, she could be what he needed. She could be who he wanted. She could show him, with urgent hands and eager lips, all the things she could not say, and he would not judge or reject her.
She pulled him with her onto the slippery cover of the wide guest bed, touching, squeezing, holding. Yet the more she tried to give him, the more he lavished on her in return. He threaded his fingers through her hair and cradled her head in his hands. He drank from her, sipping from her mouth and throat, savoring the crease of her elbow, the curve of her thigh. She shifted under him, restless as the wind that slipped through her window and stirred the tall curtains. He glided over her, sure and warm as the yellow lamplight beside their bed. He teased her and she trembled. Stroked her and she sighed. Moved on her and in her and she moaned.
"Shh," he whispered against her lips, his voice shaken with laughter and something else. "Shh."
"I want…" She tried again. "I should…"
He linked their hands, palm to palm, fingers intertwined. Her breathing hitched. He trembled. She was wet, replenished, overflowing. She gave him everything she had, took everything he offered. And when the flood of sensation became too much, when feeling rose in her like a tide and swamped her heart, she held on to him for dear life and went down with him into the dark.
Simon woke reaching for Laura. She was gone.
He felt a surge of disappointment that had nothing to do with his rock hard state of readiness. Last night he'd made love to her as if he could push himself inside her often enough, embed himself within her deeply enough, imprint himself on her hard enough, to get under her skin. To make them one flesh.
Simon rolled to his side, smelling her on the sheets and the pillow, and heard the shower running. It took a minute, well, several seconds, for his brain to process the sound. Laura hadn't left. She was in the bathroom.
He could join her. Of course, first he'd have to go to his room for more condoms. Even though it was early—really early, the sky was still gray—he didn't relish the idea of running into his bright-eyed little sister as he tiptoed down the hall. But he thought about it. He fantasized about coming up behind Laura in the tiled stall, water pounding, steam rising, her body slick with soap and desire.
The water shut off. Okay. He could work with that, too. He pictured her coming out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. No, it was his fantasy, skip the towel. She'd come out of the bathroom naked, her eyes softly glowing, and she'd reach for him and say…
"I don't know what time I'll be back. E.C.I.P. is sending someone over this afternoon so Quinn can go grocery shopping."
Simon opened his eyes. Laura was there. Standing by the bed, her smooth, tight body buttoned away in her uniform, her silky long hair twisted into a neat French braid.
He sat up against the crumpled pillows, pulling the sheet to cover his very obvious erection, feeling stupid, naked and at a disadvantage. "Where are you going?"
Her gaze stayed firmly on his face. Either she had excellent self-control or she didn't much care how she affected him. "It's Monday. I'm going to work."
He was dumbfounded. She didn't need a day taking care of traffic snarls, drunken fishermen and testy tourists. She needed to be taken care of herself. "Don't you get time off? Compassionate leave or something?"
"I'll request time off for the funeral, certainly," she said tightly. "But my shift ends at two o'clock. Plenty of time to make arrangements then."
He felt her slipping away where he couldn't reach her, couldn't help her, couldn't make her laugh or see her smile. "I'm not talking about funeral arrangements. I'm talking about giving yourself some personal time. Time to grieve. Don't you want to be with your brother today?"
She nodded. "I'm seeing him this afternoon."
She wasn't saying anything wrong. She wasn't doing anything wrong. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he needed her to snap or cry or get sarcastic so he felt like he was dealing with Laura the warm, real, vulnerable human being instead of the Stepford Cop Girlfriend.
Patience and application, he reminded himself. Intimacy was a new experiment. Obviously there were some bugs to work out.
"Give me a minute and I'll go with you," he said.
"You should stay here. It's safer."
"Safer than the police station?" he asked dryly.
A flush dusted her cheekbones. "I won't be at the station all morning."
No, of course not. She had work. So did he.
"Afterward, then," he suggested. "We can get something to eat." He'd learned he could usually get around her with food.
But she shook her head. "I won't have time for that." He heard, I don't have time for you. The refrain of his childhood.
But he wasn't a child anymore. And whether she knew it or not, whether she liked it or not, Laura needed him. Her father was dead. She was at odds with her boss. She had issues with her brother. He was it. Which suited him fine.
"All right," he said evenly. "We won't do lunch. I'll pick you up and take you to your brother's."
"You can't."
The hell he couldn't. He refused to let her shut him out. Close them down. "It'll be fine. I'll be fine. I can take care of myself."
"You don't get it," she snapped. "I can't afford another mistake."
Despite his awareness that this was the wrong time to push her, he was stung. "I wouldn't call our being together a mistake," he said carefully.
Come on, he thought. Give me something to work with here. Something to trust in. He felt like he was ten years old and waiting with the other boys at the start of summer vacation for his father to come, even though he knew damn well the only thing he'd see from home was a plane ticket to camp.
"Not a mistake," Laura amended. "A distraction."
He wasn't sure that was any better. But… "Maybe you need a distraction right now," he said.
"No, I don't. I have to set priorities. I don't need anything that's going to put you in danger or jeopardize my career."
I don't need you.
She didn't actually say the words. She didn't have to. It didn't take a genius to figure out that all she wanted from him right now was a graceful exit.
So he gave her one.
"Fine," Simon said. He didn't need her, either. "Don't let me stop you."
Her clear brown eyes clouded. "Will you be okay on your own?"
He was always on his own. Which was pathetic if he thought about it, but not nearly as pathetic as if he came right out and said it.
"Quinn's here," he said coolly. "And the guard's coming, right? Go do what you have to do."
Laura's lips parted. For a second Simon let himself hope she was going to do something. Say something. Throw the dog a bone.
She took a deep breath and nodded and walked out of the room.
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
Two o'clock. End of shift. Laura waited until the briefing room emptied to catch Denko in his office. She needed to prove to him and to herself that she was capable of putting personal feelings aside to get the job done.
She squared her shoulders. She was glad to be back in uniform, back in the station, on solid footing again. At least here she knew the rules. She didn't know the rules with Simon. Or even her own role. She was supposed to be taking care of him, wasn't she? Surely he would admit that saving his life was more important than salving his feelings? Which was why this morning it had been so important, so very important, so absolutely critical, that she leave his bed, turn down his lunch invitation and refuse his offer to come with her to visit her brother this afternoon.
So why didn't she feel better about it?
Denko's door was open. He looked up the instant before she knocked. "Laura. How are you doing?"
"Fine, Chief." Any other answer was unacceptable. Unthinkable. "Got a minute?"
"Actually, I wanted to talk to you before you went home. Close the door. Sit down."
She perched on the edge of her seat. "The autopsy was today."
"That's why I wanted to speak with you."
Oh, God. Her lungs crowded her throat. She swallowed. "Is… Has a formal identification of the body been made?"
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"Is it…"
"Your father." He nodded, his eyes compassionate. "Can I get you something? A glass of water?"
All she wanted was Simon, his arms around her, his calm, cool voice. "No, sir. I'm fine. Did the M.E. establish cause of death?"
"Drowning," Denko answered briefly.
Images of her father's mangled corpse flashed on her brain. She had to ask. She had to know, not only for her own sake, but for Simon's. "Just drowning?"
"The victim—your father was alive when he entered the water." Denko paused, as if debating with himself how much to tell her. "Certain wounds were undoubtedly inflicted postmortem. However, there's also evidence to suggest that he
sustained head trauma consistent with either a fall or a blow."
Laura squeezed her eyes shut. But that only made it easier to view the grisly mental slide show, to imagine her father sliding unconscious into the dark water.
A fall or a blow?
She opened her eyes. "So which was it?"
Another hesitation. "The M.E. can't say. Dan believes your father slipped and fell."
"And what do you think?"
"I think you need to trust your colleagues and turn your efforts to taking care of yourself and your family."
"My mother's dead," Laura blurted.
"But you have a brother," Denko said. "Older or younger?"
"Younger. Paul. I'm seeing him this afternoon."
Denko nodded. "Have you discussed with him where you'd like the body released?"
She wanted Simon and his PDA.
"Not yet," she said. "Can I get back to you on that?"
"Of course. There may be some personal effects you'll want, as well."
Laura shuddered. "I don't think so."
"His wedding ring, perhaps," Denko suggested gently. "A pocketknife. Keys."
Keys.
Laura straightened. "Was the master passcard recovered with his body?"
Denko's jaw tightened. "There was a card."
Laura's last hope—that somebody had stolen Pete Swirsky's passcard to gain admittance to the lab that night—died.
But she persisted. "Are you sure it's his card?"
"Other than that it has his name on it and was found with his body?" Denko asked dryly.
"It could be a duplicate," she suggested.
Denko's gaze sharpened. "Do you have any reason to believe that?"
Laura flushed. Reason? No. She was being completely unreasonable. But something deeper than reason drove her. Desperation. Instinct. Her gut.
"Doesn't each passcard have a traceable code? I just thought if you tested it…"
"I'll pass your suggestion on to Detective Palmer," Denko said.
Shut up, Baker. Quit while you're ahead. While you still have a job.
But the longer the investigation dragged, the longer Simon was in danger.
STOLEN MEMORY Page 17
