by Maggie Price
From the rigid set of her shoulders, Michael knew she was as tense as steel.
He expelled a slow breath and took a minute to examine his surroundings. From outside, the house had seemed deceptively small. Now, he stood on polished wood surrounded by soaring paneled walls. A thick-legged table holding a carved rock on a brass stand with a light in its base stood against one wall. Before him was a carpeted staircase, to its left a dark hallway that led toward the back of the house. The only lights on were those in the entryway and the room into which A.J. had disappeared.
Michael headed that way, the heels of his shoes sounding hollow echoes across the wood floor.
The study smelled of aging leather, with a hint of lemon polish mixed in. A.J. stood in the center of the room beside several chest-high stacks of liquor boxes. One was open; a pile of books, a worn baseball mitt and a set of weights lay on the rug beside a pair of strappy black high heels.
“You started without me,” he said levelly.
She met his gaze. “You going to write me up for not waiting?”
Jaw set, Michael stopped inches from her. He found himself thinking how much he disliked the wariness that darkened her eyes whenever he came near. “Mind if I take off my jacket?”
“I mind that you’re here,” she said, then shifted her gaze in the direction of a pair of French doors that led to a dimly lit terrace. Her face was set, tension radiated out of her like a physical force. Clearly, she had no intention of covering the fact that she didn’t want him there, didn’t appreciate his intrusion into a painful examination of her brother’s belongings. The irony was that if the situation were reversed, Michael knew he’d be just as determined on behalf of one of his siblings.
“I understand,” he said in a quiet voice.
She looked back at him. “You aren’t going to find the identity of Ken’s killer in these boxes.”
“You may be right.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I went by the hospital earlier to see my aunt. She’s putting up a brave front, but she doesn’t fool me. She feels crummy and it scares me to think what might happen.” A.J.’s voice reverberated with emotion as she stared into the open box. “She asked me if we’d found Ken’s killer. Every day, she asks.”
The misery in her eyes put a rock in Michael’s chest that had no business being there. He had to remain objective, keep his distance. Doing that was getting harder by the minute.
“I’m sorry about your aunt,” he said. “A.J., if you don’t feel up to going through Ken’s things, you could go into another room and relax. Have a cup of coffee. I’ll do it on my own. I’ll let you know if I find anything. I give you my word.”
She curled her bottom lip between her teeth and stared at the boxes as if considering his suggestion. “No,” she said finally. “I have to be here. I need to be here.” Beneath the black silk of her dress her shoulders straightened. “But the coffee sounds good. Want some?”
“Sure.”
“It’s instant.”
His mouth kicked up on one side. “You stole my recipe.”
Giving him a faint smile, she stepped around him and disappeared out the arched doorway.
Exhaling slowly, Michael pulled off his jacket, his gaze moving around the room. His mind registered the massive desk piled high. with papers, the wall-to-wall shelves crammed with leather books and various Egyptian artifacts. An alabaster pyramid jutted from the mantel over the fireplace. Beside the pyramid sat a regal-looking cat carved from ivory, its oval eyes lined in black kohl.
It was the photograph in a silver frame angled in the bookcase beside the terrace doors that snagged his gaze and held it.
He tossed his jacket onto the arm of a leather wing chair and walked across the room. Inside the silver frame, A.J. stood in the stern of a sailboat, returning the smile of a tall, blond-haired man who had a possessive arm wrapped around her waist. Clad in shorts and T-shirt, her skin was tanned to the color of honey, her sunlit face a study in happiness.
What would it be like, Michael wondered, to have A.J. Duncan smile at him that way? To look up at him without strain in her face? To stand at his side with no wariness behind her eyes?
“I forgot to ask how you take your coffee.”
He turned. The subject of his wonderings stood before him, a steaming mug in each hand, her dark, upswept hair shining like polished ebony beneath the room’s lights. He had the sudden image of that dark hair loosened, spread out beneath him across a soft white pillow.
“Black.” He forced the word around the knot in his throat and accepted the mug she offered. “Who’s into Egypt?”
“Aunt Emily.” A.J. blew across her mug, then sipped. “She teaches anthropology at the University of Oklahoma. If she hadn’t gotten sick, she and ten students would be leaving for Cairo the day after Christmas.”
Michael nodded. And because he couldn’t stand not knowing, he inclined his head toward the bookcase at his side. “I was wondering who the man in the picture is.”
Her eyes shifted, then returned to his face. “My fiancé.”
In what Michael realized was an unconscious move, her hand slid to her right thigh, her long, slender fingers conducting a slow massage.
“He died in an accident,” she added softly.
Michael’s breath became shallow. A.J. had suffered the loss of the man she loved and a brother she clearly adored. As she stood before him, looking as though she might break if he touched her, Michael felt the need to protect. To shield her from further hurt.
Yet, that was exactly what his search through Ken’s belongings might do. Hurt her further.
Michael watched her turn and walk to the box she’d opened before he arrived and realized his objectivity was in trouble. Big trouble.
With a hand that wasn’t quite steady, she lifted one flap on the box. “Let’s get this over with.”
Two hours later, disorganized piles of receipts, junk mail and well-worn paperbacks littered the study’s floor.
They’d found nothing meaningful. Nothing on a drug dealer named Snowman. Nothing to motivate Ken to leave Michael a cryptic phone message about having unnamed evidence. Nothing that condemned—or cleared—the dead cop.
With a frustrated breath, Michael lifted Ken’s answering machine from the bottom of the box he’d angled onto the couch. He sat the machine on the only clear spot available—a space on the coffee table beside a stack of bank statements that documented Ken Duncan’s decided lack of fiscal responsibility.
Rubbing the tight muscles in his neck, Michael glanced across the couch to where A.J. sat. Her eyes were closed, her head leaned back against the leather upholstery. Her right hand moved against her thigh, her fingers kneading softly as if to quell a deep-seated ache. Michael was keenly aware the strain in her face had deepened with each box they’d searched.
“A.J., are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“I want to check for messages on Ken’s machine. I’ll get out of your hair after that.”
She opened her eyes and stared bleakly across the top of the now-empty box. Her lips were pale; her skin seemed almost luminous against the soft fabric of her black dress.
“We found nothing. Nothing.” Emotion broke through her voice as she pushed off the couch and stared down at him. “You should be out looking for the burglars who killed Ken. Greg supplied a composite of the one he caught a glimpse of. Your detectives should plaster the streets with it. Instead, you’re more interested in finding out what brand of boxer shorts my brother wore.”
Michael remained silent as temper whipped color into her face, hardened her eyes.
“A word of advice, Lieutenant. Take off your Internal Affairs hat and start acting like a homicide cop. That is what you are, after all.”
“You’re right,” Michael agreed in an even voice. “I’m a homicide cop and I’m doing my job. I’m investigating the line-of-duty death of a cop. A cop who had a black cloud over his head. I
need to find the source of that cloud and just how far it stretches. To do that, I need to find out everything there is to know about your brother.”
A tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away with an angry dash of her hand. “You saw his bank statements. Ken didn’t care about money. He didn’t care about things.”
“So it seems. But things—and people—aren’t always as they seem.”
“Ken was,” A.J. shot back. “He was forever giving his last dollar to someone down on his luck.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and walked across the room to the wall of bookshelves. As she moved, Michael saw the slight limp in her walk.
She lifted a wooden frame that held a picture of a young Ken getting a hug from a tall, dark-haired woman holding a plaster-of-paris mold of a child’s handprint. “Our parents died in a plane crash when I was a baby. Ken was only five years older than me, but in a lot of ways he was the father I never had.”
She turned to face him, but Michael could tell she wasn’t seeing him. She was remembering. “He’d beat up any kid who gave me a bad time. The night I had my first date, Ken insisted on meeting the guy. He shook the guy’s hand and told him there’d be hell to pay if he got out of line with me. Ken scared him so bad I never saw him after that night.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Ken was always there for me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He was good. No matter what he said, he would never have...”
Michael rose slowly off the couch, watching the realization of what she’d said dawn in her eyes. “What did he say, A.J.?”
Her mouth thinned and she replaced the frame on the bookshelf. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, hell,” Michael ground out as he advanced on her. “You just admitted it. You have information related to an investigation, and you’re concealing it. Not smart, lady.”
“I don’t...” She dragged the heel of her palm across her forehead as her tear-filled eyes took in the pitiful remnants of her brother’s life. “God, why? Why Ken?”
Michael’s throat tightened. It was as if he saw the pain surge through her and clench at her heart.
She blinked, spilling more tears down her cheeks. A strangled sound welled up in her throat as she whirled away and limped toward the door.
Logic told him she needed time alone, to let her go, but instinct sent him after her. His hand wrapped around her wrist before she reached the entry hall. Tightening his grip, he forced her around to face him.
“A.J., listen to me—”
“I don’t want to do this,” she said through her teeth.
“Do what?”
“cry.”
“Ken was your brother, for God’s sake. You have a right to grieve.”
“Not in front of you.” She stared up at Michael, her bloodless lips quivering. “Not you.” Tears streaked down her face, her whole body shook. “Not you!”
“Sweet Jesus,” Michael breathed as he pulled her to him, his arms circling her slight form. He held her while she wept as though she’d lost everything that mattered, and he wasn’t sure she hadn’t come close to just that.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice a whisper against her hair.
She smelled like roses warmed beneath the sun. As Michael drew in her scent, he acknowledged how incredibly good she felt in his arms. How right. His mind rushed forward, imagining how she’d feel beneath him, her naked belly and breasts sealed against his flesh. He tightened his jaw and ruthlessly pushed away the thought. He couldn’t get involved, dammit. Couldn’t let himself care.
So he held her. Just held her. And with monumental effort he concentrated his thoughts on Ken Duncan’s scattered possessions, not on the woman in his arms.
Gradually, her crying lessened. She drew in shuddering breaths while the heat of her tears burned through his starched shirt. Leaning back, she looked up at him, her dark eyes rimmed with wet, spiked lashes. “I don’t cry... I...” Her unsteady fingers trembled on his forearms. “Seeing Ken’s things. The finality of it all hit me. I just...”
“You’ve just kept all that grief bottled up.” His brows knitted as he thumbed a tear off her cheek. “That’s not good. If my mother were here, she’d tell you tears are the medicine the soul needs to heal.”
A.J. nodded numbly and gave him a fragile smile. “Then I should be well on the way to recovery.”
Even as he told himself he had no right to want her, no right to her, Michael lowered his head and pressed his lips to the soft tendrils of dark hair that shadowed her temple. Her skin was a soft haven of warmth against his lips as they moved in a slow, irresistible journey to her cheek, then her mouth.
Beneath his hands, her spine tightened for a split second, then she softened against him like wax beneath a candle’s flame. He teased her lips open with his tongue and tasted the need on her shuddering breath. A soft, yielding sound rose in her throat as her mouth accepted his.
She tasted faintly of rich coffee, tears and heaven.
His hand slid lazily up her back to the nape of her neck, then forward to the hollow of her throat. He felt the quick, faint tremor of her pulse. A primitive, masculine satisfaction swept through him as his lips took hers in a dreamy kind of possession. He wasn’t the first man to kiss her tonight, but by God he wanted his to be the kiss she remembered.
Yet he didn’t push, didn’t pressure. He tasted. Savored.
Her hands rose, and he half expected her to push him away. Instead, her palms settled featherlike against his chest.
Need whipped through him quietly, painfully.
His hand rose, his fingers plunged upward through her thick hair; the silver clip loosened, then clattered against the wood floor. Long, dark curls tumbled across the delicate slope of her shoulders.
Her hair felt like silk. Dark, airy silk that a man could drown in. He wove his fingers through that silk and deepened his kiss. He had never felt such raw need, need so powerful it overrode his better judgment, his self-control.
At first he thought he imagined her spine tensing against his palm, the hard press of her hand against his chest.
“We can’t.” She pulled from his touch and stood before him, her hair tousled, her face flushed. “I...can’t handle this,” she said, her voice a raw rasp around shallow, ragged breaths.
“A.J.—”
“That shouldn’t have happened. It was a mistake.”
“No,” he countered. “I meant to kiss you.”
His hands were far from steady, so he raked his fingers through his hair and took a step back. A thin line existed between maintaining objectivity and losing it, and he’d just screwed up big time. Even as the knowledge settled into his brain, he knew he wanted more. Knew he’d never be satisfied without finishing what he’d started.
But not now, he acknowledged with churning regret. She was shouldering a heavy burden over Ken’s death and the unsettling question of his guilt. On top of that, she had her aunt’s illness to contend with. A.J.’s defenses were down; she was vulnerable. And gorgeous. And so damn desirable, Michael thought as she stood before him, looking disheveled and wide-eyed.
“But you’re right about one thing,” he added. “It shouldn’t have happened. Not now, anyway.”
The flush in her cheeks deepened. “I want...” Her voice quavered and trailed off.
As she turned and half limped to the terrace doors, Michael felt the patterns of his world moving, altering, realigning themselves. And for the first time since his marriage fell apart, he found he wanted more than just his job to immerse himself in. He wanted A.J. Wanted her naked beneath him, her flesh hot, her eyes wild with the same gut-twisting desire that had him entertaining thoughts of dragging her back into his arms and sating the ache in his loins.
Instead, he clenched his jaw and said in a quiet voice, “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to leave me alone.”
Michael dragged air into his tight lungs. While he waited for his pulse to steady, he studied her profile as she stared out the door
into the frozen darkness. Her face was all shadowed hollows and smooth planes.
“You and Ken, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t do that.” The damnable cold, hard remoteness now in her voice stirred his frustration. “And it’s time you leveled with me.”
“I have,” she said dully as she stared out into darkness. “I don’t know how that printout got from my desk to Ken’s locker. I have no idea why someone deposited ten thousand dollars in his checking account or who that someone was. All I know is that my brother didn’t do either of those things. He wouldn’t do those things.”
“You don’t know that. Dammit, A.J., you’re operating on fantasy, when what you need is fact. And the fact is, your brother may have stolen information from your unit, sold it and left you to answer for his actions.”
She whirled to face him, fire leaping in her dark eyes. “The fact is Ken’s dead. You should be looking for his killer, not rummaging through his things like a scavenger.”
“Maybe the way to find out who killed him,” Michael said through his teeth as he walked toward her, “is to investigate him.”
A.J. blinked. “A burglar killed Ken. He and Greg surprised two burglars. Ken died in a botched burglary—”
“That sure as hell is how things look.”
She took a step toward him. “Are you saying that’s not what happened?”
“No. I’m saying the more time that passes since Ken’s death, the more things don’t add up.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What things?”
“Supposedly, the burglary wasn’t a pro job. Supposedly, a pair of street thieves got caught in the act, panicked and left one cop injured and another dead. The day after Ken died, the media plastered the city with the composite Greg Lawson came up with of the suspect who assaulted him. The Crime Stoppers program posted a sizeable reward for information on the crime. So far there’s not a whisper on the street about who these guys are. No talk at all. I may be new to Homicide, but I rode patrol long enough to know things don’t add up. Anytime you’ve got a reward involved, every two-bit junkie comes out of the woodwork to squeal and collect the cash.”
