by Audra North
Nina sighed and looked around the street. It was already dark outside, but considering it was nearly seven o’clock, she wasn’t surprised. The city had changed a bit in the past ten years, and the upscale restaurant-bar the news crew used to frequent after hours had closed. In high school, she’d hung around the place, eavesdropping on their conversations and dogging some of the journalists’ heels, trying to learn as much as she could.
But now she had another goal: she needed a drink.
She could either walk three blocks over to Trenton’s, another polished-wood-and-leather-seats, overpriced place catering to the white-collar clientele of this city, or she could head one block downtown to the Clipper.
The Clipper was a dive. But she didn’t care. She’d once lived for six weeks in rural Russia with nothing more than a single change of clothes and a pocket translator. She was usually up for anything, and her easy acceptance of challenges was often what got people to like her, to open up…and to get her a story.
Besides, she needed a drink, stat. The Clipper was closer, so the Clipper won.
She turned and headed down Whitehall Avenue, hugging herself as a gust of wind flew down the street, there and gone in an instant but leaving a distinct chill behind. She took a breath, inhaling deeply. Being stuck in this town might not be her favorite thing, but years spent in foreign lands and almost inhumane climates had taught her to appreciate the familiar comforts of home, including these biting winds during the strange transition between autumn and winter.
Her long legs ate up the pavement, and before she knew it, she was standing in front of the weathered wooden door of the Clipper. She’d been in here only once before, seven years ago, but she didn’t even hesitate before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Today, she’d been rear-ended by a hot cop—and not in a good way—had had to deal with the barrage of well-meaning colleagues who’d stopped by her desk to express their pity for her over your difficult situation, as they’d called it, and then she’d been assigned the least respectable story possible.
A drink was mandatory.
Before she had moved back here, she had been someone in the world of investigative reporting. She’d literally run for her life in Iraq one night and not only survived, but had managed to get an article in the New Yorker too. But despite her credentials, Jerry the editorial director had given the drug ring story to Rob, the slightly more senior, but significantly more pompous staff reporter who already had good relationships with the force here and would likely know all the players—as Jerry had put it.
Immediately afterward, he’d handed Nina a fashion assignment.
Fucking. Fashion.
Nina liked looking nice as much as the next woman, and she certainly appreciated a well-made garment that would last through multiple hand-washings and wouldn’t tear if she needed to unexpectedly scale the wall around a makeshift prison or crawl into the cave home of a refugee from genocide. But asking her to report on how bright colors had replaced neutrals in wardrobe staples was like asking her to drive nails through her skull.
She’d followed Jerry back to his office after the meeting, swearing to fight to the death to get a better story. She’d never question him in front of the other journalists and undermine his authority, but she had plenty to say in private. Jerry and she went way back, since the days when she would hang around the journalists when she was a teenager. When she’d come back home—for God knew how long—he’d been the most logical person to approach about a job, and she was grateful he’d given her the position.
But she wasn’t that grateful.
“Are you seriously making me write something on yellow being the new black?” she’d demanded the minute he’d closed the door to his office.
But he hadn’t risen to meet her anger. Just sighed and gestured for her to sit. “My sources tell me it’s a huge deal in the fashion world right now.”
She hadn’t been able to hold back a disbelieving laugh. “Your sources? Who are your sources for this big ‘Fashion Exposé’?” She threw up some air quotes around those words. “Some big mob kingpin been slipping you tips on Gucci?”
“Look, Nina, you’re a good writer—”
“No, Jerry, Nora Roberts is a good writer. I’m a damned stellar journalist. There’s a difference.”
He’d given her an exasperated look. “Fine, Nina, you want the truth? Rob might not give the drug ring story the kind of coverage you’re used to, but even though this is a big deal in Greenbriar, it won’t make more than a handful of headlines anywhere outside of the state. I’ve read your work and I know you’re a ‘damned stellar journalist’. And it’s part of the problem, quite frankly. You’re used to having your byline in much bigger media outlets. Rob has been here a long time and the junior reporters respect him. I know you’re only here because of your dad. If I give you the big stories, what happens in another month or two when you leave? I can’t afford to piss off Rob just to soothe your ego. You’re temporary. Don’t insult me by thinking I haven’t realized that.”
He hadn’t pulled any punches, calling her temporary. It didn’t help she’d been thinking the same thing ever since she’d gotten the phone call for her to come back here.
She pushed the exchange from her thoughts. Ruminating on it might make her change her mind about what she was doing and bail out on the next flight to Somalia. And then she would hate herself forever.
She didn’t even pause as she cut through the one-room bar, not caring about the several pairs of eyes tracking her as she walked past. Yeah, I’m attractive, I get it. It would be ridiculous for her to pretend otherwise. But it didn’t mean she felt like getting hit on, and if anyone tried…
Shit. She really needed a drink.
She made a beeline for the bar and grabbed the only empty stool, plopping down unceremoniously next to a small cluster of guys who were all built like rugby players, each with a glass of beer in hand and laughing raucously. They hadn’t noticed her, so involved in what sounded like good-natured ribbing of someone standing in the middle of their little circle.
The bartender approached, the middle-aged man looking at her curiously. “Can I help you, miss?”
She laughed. “God, I hope so. I’d like a Jack and Coke, please.”
The bartender nodded, flashed her another odd look and turned away to fix her drink. She rested her elbows on the counter and bent her neck forward, trying to stretch out the tight kinks that had worked their way into her muscles during the day.
For some reason, she thought of the sexy policeman from this morning—Ben Crewes—and wished he were there so he could rub her neck and make the tension go away. And she would kiss him in thanks, and touch him too, and—
A male voice broke into her thoughts. “Holy shit. Nina?”
She knew that voice. It conjured up images of deep brown eyes and broad shoulders and the sense of being at ease. And it made her think of sex.
She took a deep breath and turned to find herself face to face with Ben Crewes.
What the hell?
One minute, Ben was trading good-natured insults with Brewer and Donahue, and the next, he’d frozen in place, his beer glass halfway to his mouth. He could’ve sworn he’d heard the voice—the mystery woman from the hospital—order a Jack and Coke.
Twice in one day? What were the odds?
“You okay?” Brewer nudged him.
“Huh?” He looked up at his friend and fellow SWAT officer. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Kind of zoned out there for a sec.”
Brewer nodded and took a sip of beer. “It’s cool.”
But a movement past Brewer’s elbow caught Ben’s eye, and he shifted his focus to the woman sitting beyond their group.
No. Fucking. Way.
He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over Brewer, trying to push past him.
“Holy shit,” he practically shouted, s
urprise rendering him tactless, apparently. “Nina?”
The woman at the bar turned sharply, her eyes meeting his.
“Ben?”
Even in the low light, he could see a faint blush stealing up her neck.
“I mean, Officer Crewes,” she amended.
Ben felt the breath whoosh out of him. He’d never been into playing policeman in the bedroom, but something about the way she’d said it made him want to take her home, handcuff her to the bed and hear her say it over and over as she climaxed around his cock.
Whoa.
The guys behind him chuckled. Brewer spoke over his shoulder. “You going to introduce us to your friend, Crewes?”
Flirt with her and I’ll shoot you.
But he didn’t say it. Instead, he settled for something approaching courtesy.
“Uh, yeah. These are some of the other guys on the team. Brewer, Donahue and over there is Davis.”
Each man raised his glass in turn and she gave each of them her killer smile. Ben watched the subtle signs of their interest as they went around—Brewer straightening his posture, knowing it would make his huge pecs stand out even more, Donahue putting on his lazy grin that seemed to make women faint into his arms, and Davis…well, Davis gave her a slightly less fierce scowl than usual.
Davis wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man.
“Nice to meet all of you. What kind of team are you on?”
A soft chorus of chuckles answered her.
“SWAT,” Ben said, but like this morning, Nina’s face changed at his words. The forced smile returned.
He felt an answering frown on his face, but he continued with the introductions. “Guys, this is Nina Lang. She’s a, um…”
Shit, he should have left it at her name. He didn’t know anything about her that didn’t sound ridiculous. She and I met on the freeway? She drives a Range Rover? I want to handcuff her to a bed and fuck her senseless?
But she saved him, pushing her forced smile even wider. “I’m a journalist at Excelsior.”
Fuck.
The woman of his dreams was a journalist? But he couldn’t stand the media!
Hold up. The woman of your dreams? At least this one had a corporeal form.
Unlike the woman who was just a voice.
Was that why he was so attracted to Nina? She did sound so much like the voice he remembered. But, hell, she was a reporter. One of them. The buzzing distractions that made his life a nightmare in tense situations.
Before he could say anything else, though, Davis sat up and looked straight at Nina. Without scowling.
He was so shocked at seeing Davis look anything except angry, it took him a minute to process what the usually surly guy was asking.
“Lang, as in General Lang, the Army MP who recently retired around here?”
At the question, Nina’s smile grew tighter, almost brittle. Her hand groped over on the bar until it closed around the highball glass the bartender had set there. She brought it to her mouth and took a deep swallow, set it back down and nodded.
Wow.
“Yeah, he’s the one.” She was practically gritting her teeth now as she spoke, but Davis didn’t seem to notice. Ben tried to catch his eye, to warn him off, but Davis was staring at her intently, as though scanning her features for a resemblance to this General Lang. He was so intense, in fact, that Ben couldn’t help but think in the next second Davis might pull out a photo of the general he was talking about and hold it up to Nina’s face.
But finally Davis merely raised an eyebrow. “That guy is a hell of a police officer. And a military legend. You related to him?”
Coming from an officer like Davis, that was pretty much a declaration of love…for the general, anyway. And if he was going all chick-flick over this person, General Lang must really be something big. In a trained-in-deadly-combat, highly regimented kind of way.
Davis was like that.
But Ben wanted to laugh. It was clear Nina disliked even the idea of the police. No way was she related to an apparent paragon of both the police force and the army.
So it was no small shock when she nodded tightly and said, “Yeah. He’s my dad.”
Chapter Four
Thank God Ben had told his friends to fuck off—in a joking way, of course—as soon as she’d admitted to her relationship to her dad.
Because Nina was about to snap.
If this is what being back home was going to be like from now on, having to hear all kinds of great things about him from people and not being able to tell them the truth about it, then conscience be damned. She’d be outta here so fast her tires would burn up the pavement.
Ben’s SWAT friends proceeded to ignore them and went back to joking around as Ben slid onto the stool next to her.
Please don’t ask about my dad, she silently begged, trying not to gulp down her drink.
She should have known Ben would be SWAT. The first guy in years she’d been ragingly attracted to was, of course, in a profession that would regularly expose him to high-stakes danger.
Just like her dad, and look at him now. Look what he’d done to himself because he hadn’t been able to stay away from danger.
That was exactly why she had to stay away from Ben.
He was dangerous.
She shouldn’t get involved with him.
Of course, he hadn’t asked her to. But she could feel the pull, the attraction between them, and she didn’t doubt he felt it too. So for now, she wasn’t going to outright ignore him, but after this drink, she was going to get up and walk away and never see him again.
What a shame.
Few men of her acquaintance were this genuinely sexy. And she knew a lot of men. Compared to his freshly shaven, buttoned-up look of this morning, this version of Ben was much more disheveled. His sleeves were rolled back, he was sporting a distinct shadow along his jawline, and the way he was leaning against the bar made her think of stepping between his legs and allowing him to support her as she kissed him.
She was going to inhale this cocktail. Better than fantasizing about a guy who was the non-military version of her dad. The man who’d left her and her mother biting their nails in fear for his life for nearly two decades while he was stationed all over the world, was not someone she looked up to.
Some military families traveled with the spouse or parent, but not the Langs. Especially once he became an officer, her dad could have gotten housing for them near to wherever he was stationed, but he’d refused to do so, and the distance made their constant worrying over him even more stressful.
Ironically, it was because he’d wanted the American Dream for his little girl that he’d insisted Nina and her mom stay behind in Greenbriar while he hoisted the flag and kept order on the other side of the world. When he came home on leave, once or twice a year, he never failed to tell her how important it was to cherish the white picket fence she’d scratched her initials on, the friends she’d had since grade school and all the other things this kind of permanence provided.
But it was all tainted. He’d stay for a couple of weeks, until Nina would finally relax, being able to see him and hug him every day, and then he was off again to put himself in danger and send his wife and daughter into an emotional tailspin.
She’d never said anything to him about it, though. Neither had Mama. Once, when Nina was seven and had complained she was having nightmares about her dad dying, Mama had told her, “It’s because you love him so much. But never say anything about it to him. He already feels guilty for not being with us. It would only make things worse.”
Nina had been about to go to college when Mama died—ten years ago—and the time and distance between her and her dad caused them to drift apart, speaking only occasionally on the phone. He sent her money, but she’d refused to use it. Instead, she’d socked it away in investment accounts and forced it
out of her mind. She’d worked her own way through college to supplement the scholarship she’d gotten, and Jerry had helped her get some contacts in New York right after graduation. From there, she’d earned her stripes as doggedly as Dad had earned his. They might have been different badges of honor, but at least she stood on equal enough footing now. She could tell him how afraid she had been as a little girl, yell at him for making her love him so much and then abandoning her to go risk his life so far away.
Except, even though she was all grown up and finally had her chance, none of those words would even register with him.
Most days she was lucky if her dad even knew her name, and yet he was the reason she’d come back to Greenbriar.
After all these years, she’d gotten the permanence she had craved from him as a girl. But it had come with a price.
“So. You’re a journalist. That’s…uh…really interesting.” Ben’s voice pulled her out of her reverie.
She looked at him askance. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t actually think it’s great?”
That earned her a grin. A real one, not forced.
“Reporters often get in the way of operations. When things are high pressure and tense, they usually only add to the stress, not make it better.”
She rolled her eyes. “That means you haven’t worked with very good reporters.”
He barked out a laugh at her response, and even though she knew it sounded cocky, it was true. She never took a risk with anyone else’s life, and she never put more people in danger just to get a story.
Her own life? Her own self in danger? Sure, plenty of times.
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“Maybe you don’t like letting others see you sweat.”
But he didn’t laugh, and she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she’d hit too close to the mark. Reporters were part and parcel of high-profile crimes. If Ben was SWAT and he’d been on the front lines in the past, chances are he’d been under the watchful eye of a journalist or two.
She wanted to ask him about it. What kind of work he did, exactly. What his specialty was…
