by Marie Force
Nick’s eyes met hers, and Sam faltered. She could see and smell his fear. Blood ran down the side of his face, forcing him to blink to keep it out of his eye. “Darius,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Please. Let him go.”
“Faith told you not to butt into my life.” He drove the gun harder into Nick’s head, drawing a moan from Nick that tore at Sam. “You should’ve listened to her.”
“Don’t hurt him,” Sam said. “I’m the one you want. Let him go, and take me.”
Nick let out a low growl and fought against Darius’s hold.
It all happened so fast. One minute Sam was pleading with Darius. In the next instant, the gun fired and Nick went down. She ran for him, screaming his name, but something held her back, keeping her from him. Sam struggled against the arms that held her tight.
“Babe, wake up. You’re dreaming.” His lips moved on her face as sobs shook her body.
The sheer, overwhelming relief at realizing it had been a terrible dream left her weak and clinging to him.
“Shhh,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
She breathed in his scent, letting the beat of his heart calm and comfort her.
“Want to talk about it?”
Shaking her head, she drew in another deep breath as the implications spiraled through her mind. In all the months since the crack house shooting, the dream had never changed. Until now. What did it mean?
During the course of her career, she’d been threatened plenty of times. Never once had a threat caused her to back down from an investigation. But she’d never had quite so much to lose. What if someone seriously threatened Nick’s life? What would she do?
Nick combed his fingers through her hair.
She nuzzled his chest and kissed his throat. The images from the dream kept running through her mind, making her shudder.
As he tightened his arms around her, Sam realized there was absolutely nothing she wouldn’t do to ensure his safety—including back off an investigation if it came to that.
“Just a dream, babe,” he said, massaging her shoulders.
“Yeah.” Except, she thought, it wasn’t just a dream. It was her greatest nightmare.
“Will you be able to go back to sleep?”
She nodded, telling him what he needed to hear so he would get some sleep. His insomnia had been bad lately as the campaign and wedding compounded his stress.
“Sure you don’t want to tell me about it?”
“Same old dream. You know the one.”
“Hasn’t happened in a while. What brought that on?”
“We were talking about the Johnson case today. Probably stirred it up.”
“I’m sorry you have to carry that horrible memory with you.”
Sam shrugged. “Goes with the territory.” Anxious to change the subject, she tilted her head back and kissed him. “Sorry I woke you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Nick… Will you take a pill? Please? You can’t go another night without sleep.”
“I’m okay.”
She ran her hand from her chest to his belly. “I need you very well rested for this weekend.”
Laughing softly, he stopped her hand before it could go any lower. “And I need you well rested.” He linked their fingers and brought their joined hands to his chest.
“I will if you will.”
He rolled to his side and drew her in closer to him. “You got it.”
Sam took a deep breath and closed her eyes tight against the image of Gardner holding that gun to Nick’s head. A tremble rippled through her body. She blinked back tears, knowing if she broke down he’d never get the sleep he so desperately needed.
“I hate how you suffer over that job.”
“I’m all right, Nick. Really. I want you to sleep.”
“And I love how you care more about me than you do about yourself.”
Sam gripped his hand. “Always will.” Lying there in the dark, Sam vowed to nail Darius Gardner to the wall. She would get him before he could harm anyone else. And once she had him, she’d make sure he never saw the light of day again.
Chapter 6
Sam didn’t go back to sleep. She waited until she was sure she wouldn’t wake Nick before she eased herself out of his embrace and got up. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was just after three. Great, she thought. Just what I need this week—a sleepless night. She went across the hall to her closet and found a pair of sweats and pulled them on along with warm socks.
In the far back corner of the closet, she took the top off a shoebox and withdrew one of the six cans of diet cola she’d stashed there for emergencies. A sleepless night the week of her wedding certainly counted as a caffeine emergency.
She went downstairs, got a glass of ice and took Gardner’s file into the study to fire up Nick’s computer. While she waited for it to boot up, she took pleasure in rearranging the perfectly placed items on his desk. It made her smile to imagine him finding her calling card the next time he sat there.
Sam reached for a framed photo she hadn’t seen there before—the picture of them that had run with their interview in the Washington Star. When had he gotten that? Nick sat behind her, with his arms around her. Sam traced a finger over the photo, wishing for one for her own desk. She’d have to ask Nick how he’d come to have it.
She cracked open the diet cola and poured it over the ice, practically drooling in anticipation. Since Dr. Harry identified it as the cause of her crippling stomach pain, she hadn’t had so much as a sip of soda. One can wouldn’t hurt anything, she decided as she took the first sip. The carbonation zipped through her system, giving her a much-needed boost.
“Ah, hello, old friend,” she said, taking a second drink. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”
Resisting the urge to guzzle, she put the glass aside and reached for the file folder. Inside she found the photos that haunted Faith. “Sadistic son of a bitch,” Sam muttered as she sifted through them. The woman Gardner attacked hadn’t been more than a teenager at the time. Her bruised and battered face told the story of a vicious assault.
She withdrew the victim’s statement and tried to read it, blinking when the words jumbled into an unreadable mess. “Goddamn it,” she muttered, frustrated by the dyslexia that plagued her at times of stress or exhaustion. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, calming breath and tried again. No good.
Then she remembered Nick had showed her how the computer could read for her. She scanned the document and sat back to listen to the techno-sounding narration.
Sam forced herself to focus on the report given by Gardner’s traumatized victim and was chilled by the monotone recitation of what had been an emotionally devastating event. Once again her thoughts drifted to her detective and friend, Jeannie McBride, who’d recently survived an equally horrific attack.
As an officer charged with keeping people safe in the District of Columbia, Sam was infuriated on behalf of Gardner’s victim and Jeannie. At least they’d gotten the bastard who attacked Jeannie.
Remembering the elbow that had connected with her abdomen during his arrest had Sam resting a hand on her belly. Because of him, she’d lost the baby she and Nick had wanted so badly. She’d never forgive that son of a bitch for what he’d taken from them—and from Jeannie and his other victims. But he was locked up where he belonged, and after hearing the report from Gardner’s victim, she was determined to lock him up too.
Nick’s hands landed on her shoulders, startling her. “What’re you doing up?” he asked. “And why must you mess with my desk every time?”
“So you’ll know I was here.” Smiling, she looked up at him, noting the fatigue that clung to him during particularly intense bouts of insomnia.
“As if I could ever forget you’re here.” He scowled when he saw the glass on the desk. “I thought you gave that up.”
“Just one. I needed a boost. What’re you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep without you.”
&nbs
p; “I’m sorry.” Sam gathered up the papers on the desk. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.” The pile slipped from her fingers and scattered on the floor.
Nick bent to retrieve the photos, wincing at the images of Gardner’s victim. “What happened to her?”
“Beaten and raped.”
“Is she related to a new case of yours?”
Sam shook her head. “Possible new lead in my dad’s case. But it’ll keep until tomorrow. You need sleep.”
“And you don’t?”
“It wasn’t happening, so I figured I’d get some work done.”
He pulled up the other chair and dropped into it. Sam let her eyes take a lazy journey over broad shoulders, well-defined pectorals and washboard abs. He had just the right amount of dark chest hair trailing into the sweatpants he’d put on.
He waved a hand to get her attention. “Hello?”
Sam realized she was staring at him. “Sorry, just enjoying the view.”
Grinning, he said, “You can enjoy it all you want next week.”
“Can’t wait. That’s the part I’m most looking forward to.”
“Me, too.” Gesturing to the pictures, he raised an eyebrow.
Sam filled him in on what Gonzo and Freddie had uncovered about the former tenants at the house where Clarence Reece murdered his family.
“How does she fit in?” Nick asked, gesturing to the photo of the battered woman.
“Gardner was accused of raping her in the house shortly before my father was shot.”
“So he’s locked up?”
“I wish. The case got tossed.”
“How come?”
“Procedural stuff. Anyway, it’s probably another dead end on my dad’s shooting.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Samantha. Spill it.”
Unnerved by the way he read her so easily, she studied his handsome face for a long moment. “You can’t tell anyone. Ever.”
“Understood.”
“Faith Miller could lose her job.”
“The AUSA?”
Sam nodded. “Gardner threatened her. One of his minions told her he’d chop up her baby niece and return her to her parents in pieces.”
Nick blanched. “And she believed him?”
“She had a face-to-face with him the next day in court. The way he looked at her, she had no doubt he’d do it.”
Nick picked up a picture of the victim and studied it intently. “Now you’ve made her yours, and you’re going after him.”
“I can’t let him get away with that! He threatened a federal prosecutor.”
“Who chose to back off. That was her call.”
“So I should sit back and allow a violent criminal to walk the streets? Maybe if Faith hadn’t backed down, my dad never would’ve been shot.”
“You have no way to know that.”
“I can find out.”
He put down the photo, leaned his arms on his knees and looked at her. “I want you to do something for me.”
She’d never seen that particular expression on his face before and was taken aback by it. “What?”
“Let this one go. It’s not your fight.”
“How can you say that? He might’ve shot my father!”
Pointing to the woman in the photo, he said, “Her fight is not yours. Not this week. Not this week.”
“Because of the wedding.”
He took her hands and linked their fingers. “We’re so close to having it all, Samantha. I’ve never wanted anything more than to have you as my wife. Please don’t take this on. Not this week.”
“You’re not being fair. This is my job.”
“This time it’s personal, and you know it.”
“Because of Jeannie.”
“That and your dad and a lot of other things.”
“You can’t make a habit of this.”
“I won’t.”
While the cop in her wanted to rant and rage, the fiancée understood him well enough to know he wouldn’t make a habit of it. “All right.”
“All right what?”
“All right, I won’t go after Gardner for the rape. Not this week.”
“Thank you.”
“Now can we go to bed?”
He stood, helped her up and drew her in tight against him. “So close, Samantha.”
Resting her head against his chest, she closed her eyes. The image of Gardner pressing the gun to Nick’s head made her shudder. She would get him. Maybe not the way she’d planned to. But she would get him.
Sam was strapping on her shoulder harness and turning up her nose at the oatmeal Nick had made for breakfast when her phone rang. She took the call from her stepmother. “Hey, Celia, what’s up?”
“Are you coming by on your way out this morning?”
“I was planning to. Why?”
“I don’t want to worry you, but your dad has seemed a little… off this week.”
Sam was immediately on alert. “How so?”
“Quiet and kind of morose. I can’t seem to cajole him out of it. He was just to the doctor yesterday, so I know it’s nothing physical.”
Celia sounded dejected, which wasn’t at all like her.
“I was hoping you might talk to him,” Celia added.
“I’ll be right over.”
“Thanks, Sam. I know you’re so busy this week—”
“I’m never too busy for him. Or you.”
“That’s sweet of you, honey. I’ll see you soon.”
“What’s up?” Nick asked after she ended the call.
“Not sure. Celia says my dad is in a funk.”
“When you think about it, it’s amazing he’s not in a funk more often.”
“True.” Sam downed the last half of a glass of orange juice, wishing it was a diet cola. “I’m going to head over there and see what’s up.”
“Want me to go with you?”
She bent to kiss him. “No need, but thanks for offering.”
Nick raised a hand to her face and kissed her more intently. “Four more days.”
She leaned her forehead against his. “Mmm. Five more days until beach and sun.”
“Can’t wait. Let me know what’s up with your dad.”
“I will.”
“Be careful out there today, Samantha.”
“Always am.”
Sam walked to her father’s house with a growing sense of dread. Since he was shot more than two years ago, Skip had done such an amazing job of staying upbeat and positive despite having every reason to not be either. His attitude had gone a long way toward helping those who loved him to accept his new reality.
She had feared the day might come when he just couldn’t stay positive anymore. And like Nick had said it was amazing it hadn’t happened sooner. “Not this week, Skippy,” she whispered as she took the ramp to her father’s front door. “Please not this week.”
Inside, she found Celia waiting for her in the living room and gave her stepmother a quick hug.
“Look,” Celia whispered, gesturing to the kitchen where Skip sat in his chair with the Washington Post loaded into his reading device—just like every other morning. However, rather than peruse the paper the way he normally did, Skip stared out the window. “He’s been like that for a couple of days now. No interest in anything.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Thanks, Sam. If anyone can snap him out of it, you can.”
Sam swallowed hard. No pressure or anything. “I’ll do my best.” She patted Celia’s arm and went to the kitchen.
“Hey, Skippy.” She dropped a kiss on his freshly shaven cheek. “How goes it?”
“Oh, hey. Where’d you come from?”
“Three doors down the street.”
That earned her a weak smile. “How are things at wedding central?”
“Not too bad.” Sam helped herself to a bottle of water from the fridge and cracked it op
en. “Shelby is doing a good job of keeping the madness far, far away from us.”
“Earning her keep anyway.”
Sam sat at the table. “For what Nick is paying her, it’s the least she can do.” She studied him for a moment and noticed he looked tired and wan. A stab of fear caught her off guard. While she’d always known it would’ve been so much better for him in many ways if the bullet had killed him, she was eternally grateful that it hadn’t. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“Anything new or exciting?”
He glanced at her, suspicious. “What’s with the small talk?”
She shrugged. “Just checking on my dear old dad. Any objection to that?”
“If you’ve got something on your mind, Sam, spill it.”
“Gonzo and Cruz tracked down the guy who owns Reece’s place. We’re following some leads. Might be something. Might not.” In two years of hunting her father’s shooter, Sam had learned to not get her hopes up—or his.
“You’ll keep me posted.”
“Absolutely.” She found it odd that he didn’t want the details on the leads. “Something bothering you, Skippy?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You seem a little, I don’t know… off… maybe.”
He looked away from her. “I’m fine. You’ve got plenty to think about this week without fretting about me.”
Sam reached out to squeeze his right hand, the one spot that retained sensation. “I always fret about you, and you know that. Tell me what’s on your mind—and don’t say it’s nothing. You can pull that shit with everyone else, but not with me.”
He grunted out a laugh. “The chip off my old block.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about you this week.”
Not at all sure she was prepared for the direction this conversation was taking, Sam continued to hold his hand. “What about me?”
“I don’t know if I say it enough or if I’ve ever said it, but you know I’m so proud of you, don’t you?”
