by Joan Kilby
She dragged her gaze away from his body and trained them on his face. Sucking in a deep breath, she fought to control her response. He wasn’t a man to her any more than she was a woman to him.
That was her story and she was sticking to it.
Paula stepped in front of the hole in the wall and waved her arms. “Yo, Riley.”
He let the sledgehammer fall and lifted his goggles. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Later. I’m busy.” He replaced his goggles and raised the sledgehammer, ready to strike again.
Before he could swing the hammer, Paula reached through the broken wall and grabbed the front of his shirt. “We talk now.”
Pushing back his safety glasses he stuck his face close to hers. His nostrils flared. His eyes sparked. Something flashed between them that had nothing to do with his panic attack or the fact that they were partners. It was the chemical reaction that had been on a slow burn, waiting to combust since they’d first shaken hands in John’s office two weeks ago.
Hell. The last thing she needed was this kind of complication.
Riley lowered the sledgehammer.
Paula loosened her fingers, releasing his shirt.
He backed away from the wall. She took a moment to regain her breath and slow her heart rate. When she walked into the kitchen Riley was pulling a beer from the fridge in the middle of the room.
He held one out to her. She shook her head. Flipping off the cap he pulled over a kitchen chair and offered it to her. Again she shook her head, too wound up to sit.
He perched his denim butt on a sawhorse. “I apologize for my behavior at the school today. It won’t happen again.”
“Really?” She paced the dusty linoleum floor, hands on hips. “Can you be sure of that?”
Riley examined the top of his beer bottle.
“Listen, Henning.” She jabbed a finger at him. “I’ve been in uniform for seven freaking years. I was once a detective, a damn good one. I’m going to be a detective again once the departmental budget promises are kept—if all goes well here in Summerside. I don’t need anyone wrecking my chances.”
Riley took a swig of beer and backhanded his mouth. “What does that have to do with me?”
“You’ve been cracking onto me about my personal life while acting as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Today at the school you lost it. If you’ve got a mental health issue I need to know.”
“I doubt my missing a bike safety talk is going to wreck your application.”
“Okay, forget about my plans. Let’s talk about your ability to do your job, to provide me with backup. I need to know what’s wrong with you.”
His face was stony blank. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’ve got your back, don’t worry.”
“If you won’t talk about it I’ll have no choice but to go to John.” Paula let her words sink in. “Is that what you want? Oh, yeah, and thanks for outing me the other day, by the way. I really appreciated that.”
“I did it for your own good.” Riley dragged both hands down his face then looked at her with bleary eyes. “Okay. We’ll talk. I have no ongoing mental health issues. Lately I haven’t been sleeping well. I have nightmares. I get headaches. Today was the first time I’ve had a panic attack or whatever that was.”
“What’s the cause?”
“I don’t know.” Riley glanced away.
“Could it have something to do with Afghanistan?”
Silence.
“I knew it,” she said, flatly. Wonderful. She was saddled with a partner who had serious issues. Not only that, he was deluded about them. And in typical male fashion, he shut down in response to her show of concern. “What happened over there? What was the big bad that’s got you freaking out a year later?”
Riley shrugged helplessly. “That’s just it. I don’t know. Before I was discharged I was injured in an explosion. That’s all I can remember.”
“You never asked your colleagues or your superior officer for details?”
“I wanted to get the hell out of there. What’s the point of dwelling on it? Shit happens all the time—suicide bombers, improvised explosive devices, unexploded ordinance that blows up in your face—”
“But not to find out what happened? That’s not a normal reaction.”
“What makes you the arbiter of normal?” he demanded angrily. He got to his feet, kicking aside shards of plaster and offcuts, to pace away. Then he turned to her, his eyes desperate, his voice pleading. “Don’t go to John. I can’t go back to cracking heads outside a nightclub at 3:00 a.m.”
“Don’t you get it? I’m trying to help you. And yeah, I’ll admit it, I’m also worried about myself. I can’t do my job effectively if I have to watch you and make sure you don’t go over the edge.” She paused, then drove her point home. “Make sure you don’t draw your gun on a bunch of kids.”
He winced.
“You’re in trouble, mister. Headaches, nightmares, panic attacks—classic PTSD. Did the army give you any counseling?”
“I didn’t tell you my symptoms so you could psychoanalyze me,” he growled. “Now that you know, we can forget it.”
“No, we’re not going to forget it. PTSD can be treated. Promise me you’ll talk to John yourself. Get some therapy.”
Riley took a swig of beer. “I’ll think about it.”
That was it? That was the best she would get from him? A wave of anger and frustration swept through her. Here she was, stuck in this pissant little town where no major crime happened and when it did, they passed the case to Frankston. Not to mention she had a partner with big problems who wouldn’t admit to them or do anything to fix himself. Her promotion to detective looked further out of reach than ever.
As she stared at the wreck Riley had become, she realized it wasn’t the title and the stripes on her epaulet she wanted. It was the redemption for her sins, validation that she was indeed worthy of wearing the badge. It was about her life-long commitment to avenging her father’s death.
And what about Riley? He was a good man—strong, compassionate, intelligent. A man with a commitment to duty, who acted with honor and integrity. He wasn’t taking care of himself. And he wasn’t letting anyone in, least of all her.
She stomped through the house and out to her car, furious and upset and confused. One thing she knew, whether Riley liked it or not, she had his back.
CHAPTER SIX
PAULA KNEELED ON the floor and peered beneath her bed, looking for her other sandal. Why had she let Sally talk her into going to an engagement barbecue for a couple she didn’t even know?
The doorbell rang.
She got to her feet to hurry down the hall. Probably Jamie had left behind one of his favorite toys and begged her mother to come back for it. That kid couldn’t spend a night away from home without fifty Matchbox cars and half a dozen dinosaurs.
Paula spoke as she swung open the front door. “What did you forget?”
Nick Moresco stood on her doorstep.
She went very still. His olive skin was paler and his toned frame thinner than she remembered. But his gray suit fit him perfectly—as a custom-made suit should. His dark hair had turned silver at the temples, not surprising since he must be fifty years old by now.
She started to shut the door.
Nick gripped the edge and pushed back, easily creating an opening wide enough to step inside. “To answer your question, cara, I have forgotten nothing.”
Paula stepped backward, her mind whirling. Her gun was in her bedroom, her phone in her purse on the kitchen counter. “Go away. Now.”
Nick closed the door. “Not until I see my son.”
“Who?” She forced her voice to stay steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
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“Don’t play games.” He produced a grainy black-and-white photograph of her and Jamie at the zoo. Jamie looked about three years old. “Don’t pretend he’s not mine. He’s got the Moresco eyes and jaw. Not to mention my coloring.”
Paula felt bile rise in her throat. For three years Nick had been looking at that photo and plotting…revenge? Abduction?
He strode into the living room, his gaze sweeping over the red L-shaped couch, glass coffee table and gas fireplace. Jamie’s brontosaurus lay on its side on the hearth. Nick picked it up and stroked the plastic tail. “Where is he?”
“Staying overnight at a friend’s house.” Paula had had a lot of practice lying to Nick and the words came smoothly. “And no, I’m not going to tell you where.”
“You won’t mind if I look around.” Without waiting for an answer he walked to the hall, heading toward the bedrooms.
Paula followed him, pressing her clammy palms to her dress. He strolled into her room and glanced around, his gaze lingering on a lacy bra lying on her bed. Her stomach dipped sickeningly. How could she ever have found him attractive? Yet she had.
Over her twelve months of undercover work she’d been drawn in by his charisma. She’d become part of his world. She’d ignored the gun he carried in a shoulder holster. And the long thin knife in a special holder inside those fine Italian leather boots.
“My shoulder bothered me a lot in prison,” he said, smiling. “I could do with one of your massages.”
He was playing her. He had to be angry that she’d sold him out. Nick Moresco didn’t forget. And he never, ever forgave.
She could try to throw him out. But if he refused to go she would be left looking weak. She could send Riley a text message. But what if he was having one of his episodes? Not good. Plus she didn’t want him to see her with Nick who might give away that their relationship had been intimate. No, she would handle this on her own. Knowing Nick and how volatile he could be, she would have to find herself a position of strength then get him off guard.
“I was on my way out when you arrived.” Casually she glanced at her watch. “People are expecting me. They’ll wonder if I’m late.”
He walked to her bedroom door but instantly dashed any hope that he planned to simply leave. “Jamie’s room?”
“Across the hall.” She waited until he’d left then crossed to her bedside table, her heart racing. The time was now.
A moment later, she stood in Jamie’s doorway watching Nick pick up a soccer trophy. She raised a straight strong arm and leveled her Smith and Wesson, aiming at Nick’s head. “Put. That. Down.”
His eyebrows rose in an expression of mild surprise. “Such melodrama. Is it so strange that a man would like to know his son?”
Her finger stroked the trigger, itching to pull. “Leave my house before I do something you’ll regret.”
He set the trophy on top of the dresser. “You won’t shoot me, Paula. I’m the father of your son. How would you explain that to Jamie?”
Her hand wavered. Was a criminal father who loved him better than an absent father he pined for? She was still the center of her son’s life but she had to face facts—she wasn’t enough for him anymore. But Nick, a convicted drug dealer? No, surely no.
“If I shot you, Jamie wouldn’t have to know who you are. You’d just be an intruder I shot in self-defense, a criminal who attacked me out of revenge.”
“My family wouldn’t let that pass, you know that. My mother knows about Jamie. The whole family does. If anything happened to me at your hand, they would raise a stink. You and me—it would all come out.”
She knew it was true. And hated that he was using Jamie as leverage over her.
She set her jaw, making her molars grind together, and readjusted her aim, firming her grip on the revolver. “I’d live with it,” she growled.
She hoped like hell he wouldn’t call her bluff. Hoped she looked tougher than she felt right now.
Nick raised his hands as if in surrender. “Paula, I swear on my father’s grave, I mean my son no harm. He is family. Family is everything. I have no other children.”
“That you know of,” she said flatly, not lowering the gun.
Nick lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “All the more reason to meet Jamie.” He glanced around the room. “I don’t see the car I left for him. Did he like it?”
“I got rid of it.” Her arms were getting tired but she wasn’t about to let Nick out of her sights.
“I mean him no harm,” he repeated. “I only want to get to know him. I will go through Child Services if necessary. Social workers are all about father’s rights these days.”
“You’re a convicted drug dealer. You would never get access to a child.”
“I want to meet him. Just once.” A note of pleading crept into Nick’s voice. “Would that be so terrible?”
Ah, he’d shown a sign of weakness. Her resolve firmed. Now she had leverage. “Not going to happen.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve reformed, found God. In prison I was a model of good behavior.”
“I’ll fight you in court.”
“A court order won’t keep me away from my boy.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.” Nick chuckled softly. “In spite of how you betrayed me, I don’t mean you any harm, either, cara mia. You are the mother of my son.”
Paula held her gun steady, refusing to let his soft low voice sway her. “If you truly care about Jamie, think about his welfare. Think what it would do to him to have a convict for a father.”
“I’ve paid my dues. Now I’m a businessman. I still own the restaurant in Carlton. I intend to continue running it.”
“What do you know about a recent influx of crystal meth in Summerside?”
“Nothing.” His baffled shrug would have been convincing had Paula not known what an accomplished liar he was.
“What’s your association with Timothy Andrews?”
“Never heard of him. I tell you, I’m not in the business of drug manufacture anymore.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what you like. But don’t deny me my son. Don’t deny your son his father.” Nick strolled around the room, looking at the posters on the walls, the red plastic box full of toys, the comforter printed with racing cars. Turning to Paula he tilted his head, his gaze wistful. “Does he ask about me? What do you tell him about his father?”
Trust Nick to zero in on his opponent’s weakness. She needed to stay strong, not let him see he could get to her. “I told him you were a bad man and he couldn’t have anything to do with you.”
“Paula.” Nick shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
He skimmed the back of his knuckles down her cheek. A shiver rippled over her belly. She didn’t know if her reaction was desire or fear or a combination of both. She told herself his touch was a threat.
But it felt like a caress.
She forced herself to stay ramrod-straight, not wanting him to misinterpret her body language. “I’m leaving for my date. I’ll see you out.”
“A date?” he said skeptically. “For seven years there’s been no man in your life. Now suddenly you’re seeing someone? Who?”
How did he know all these things about her?
“I’m going out with another cop. My partner,” she blurted before she could think.
Immediately she knew it was a mistake. She didn’t even know if Riley would be at the barbecue tonight. If Nick had her followed, he would know she wasn’t with anyone.
“We haven’t gone public yet,” she added. “Not a good idea when we work together.”
“You’ve been at your new job only a few weeks,” Nick mused. “That’s fast work.”
“As you say, it’s been a lon
g time for me. But when you meet the right man, you know.” Referring to Riley as Mr. Right, it was hard not to let out a bitter laugh. She wanted a man with fewer problems than she had, not more.
From her purse in the kitchen came the muffled ringing of her cell phone. “That’s probably him now.”
“Go on, answer it.”
“First I want you out of my son’s room.” She stood back and made Nick precede her down the hall. He’d said he wouldn’t harm the mother of his son but just in case, she was keeping her eyes on him. She reached into her purse and flipped open her phone. “Hey, Riley, I’m on my way.”
“Paula?” her mother said. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine. Half way out the door.”
“Jamie won’t eat his dinner. Did you promise him McDonalds tonight?”
“I can’t wait to see you, too.”
“What’s going on? Should I call emergency services?”
“No. Everything’s under control.” Paula clicked the phone off. She flicked the gun at Nick, gesturing in the direction of the door. “Get out.”
Nick complied. But before he closed the door behind him, he added, “I’ll be back.”
Paula kept her gun raised, trained at where his head would be for another ten long seconds. Slowly she lowered her aching arms. “Over my dead body.”
* * *
RILEY CRUISED SLOWLY past the school on his way to Lexie’s house and stopped out front, letting the car idle. With the school windows dark and the playground empty, the building posed no psychological threat. He felt a little tense but that was undoubtedly from recalling his humiliating breakdown.
Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. He’d been trained to be in control. Not knowing what he was doing or being able to stop the craziness and the panic was scary.
Maybe Paula was right and he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. He’d gone onto the internet and researched PTSD. Symptoms could come on months, years, even decades after the original trauma. It might not even be the explosion that caused his problem. He’d spent five years in and out of Afghanistan. The trauma could have happened earlier—seeing a buddy killed by Taliban snipers, a local family wiped out by a misdirected drone hit, witnessing a Coalition tank blow up after hitting a land mine.
