Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  “That’s a low bar. There are days you could stick a spoon upright in the station sludge.” She picked up the tote bag that held her notes for today’s program. “I’m all set.”

  He followed her outside, waited while she locked the door, and stayed close as they walked to his car. For security purposes—or were there other, more personal motives?

  Perhaps both, if she’d been reading his signals correctly.

  Once she was buckled into the passenger seat, he circled around the hood to the driver’s side.

  She waited to speak until he started the engine. “I want to thank you for sending the patrol officers around yesterday. They did several circuits of the house over the course of the day and evening.”

  “I know. I checked.” He slid his mug into the cup holder, flipped on his headlights, and pulled away from the curb. “I was going to call you last night with an update on the case, but it was too late by the time I had a free minute.”

  “Did you end up talking to Steve?”

  “Yes—after he got home from work.”

  “Does he have alibis?”

  “It appears so.”

  The note of caution in his inflection put her on alert. “But you’re not buying them.”

  “Let’s say I’m not convinced they’re legit, given his background.”

  She listened in growing horror as he filled her in on the man’s history—and when he got to the part about the protection orders, her lungs locked. “Poor Meg. She’ll be devastated if she finds out.”

  “She’ll find out.” There was a hardness in his voice she hadn’t heard before. “I’m planning to hang around the station during your program and talk to her as soon as she arrives.”

  “You’re going to tell her about Steve’s past?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if she’s the straight shooter you think she is, she’ll want to know she’s been duped. And she’ll also want to protect a friend—you—and see justice done.”

  “But she’s his wife.”

  “I know—and she doesn’t have to tell me a thing. After our visit last night, he may have told her not to. But even if she won’t help our case, she deserves to know the character of the man she married. Don’t you agree?”

  Eve stared through the front windshield into the darkness, gripping her mug.

  Did she?

  Sharing information that would hurt someone and change their world forever . . . that would destroy their dreams . . . seemed harsh.

  Yet did masking the truth do anyone any favors?

  She could feel Brent scrutinizing her as she tried to organize her thoughts. “In theory, I do. I’m just concerned about what this will do to Meg. She pinned all her hopes on Steve, built her future around this marriage, and if it goes away . . . she could fold.” Eve exhaled. “I realize that may seem melodramatic, but being disillusioned about someone you love . . . maybe losing them . . . could shatter some people.”

  “I know.”

  At the subtle anguish in his quiet response, she squinted at him. The car was too dark to distinguish his features, and his face was in profile, but his rigid posture spoke volumes.

  He was speaking from personal experience. Thinking about Karen, no doubt.

  Dare she ask a few questions?

  She stroked a thumb over the smooth aluminum of the insulated mug, the cool exterior masking the heat within, as she mulled over that option.

  It was possible he’d feel safe revealing a few tidbits under the cover of darkness, where she wouldn’t be able to read his eyes or discern his expressions. Yet much as she wanted to know why Brent had written off romance, she ought to let him choose the timing for that explanation.

  Why not respond with a comment that allowed him to decide whether he wanted to share details or move on to another topic?

  “I expect you deal with difficult situations on a regular basis.”

  “Yeah, I do. Disillusioning Meg will be one of them. I’ve seen someone shatter when a romance goes south, and it’s not pretty.”

  O-kay.

  That sounded like an opening to her.

  Eve readjusted her seat belt and angled toward him. “Are you talking about Karen?”

  He groped for his mug. Took a sip. “Yes.”

  “Whatever happened must have been traumatic.” A simple yes would suffice if he didn’t want to expound on the subject—but why would he bring it up unless he’d decided to tell her the story?

  “It was—for both of us.” He signaled for another turn.

  He didn’t pick up the account as he accelerated, and she risked another question that wasn’t too probing. “When did this happen?”

  “We broke up three years ago.”

  She waited—but he offered nothing more.

  Hmm.

  Brent could be one of those guys who had to be taken by the hand and led through emotion-centered discussions that pushed them beyond their comfort level.

  Fine. She was up to the challenge.

  “I take it the relationship was serious?”

  “Yes—but also a bit of a whirlwind.” He executed another turn. “We met at a Christmas party a mutual friend was hosting, and by Valentine’s Day she was beginning to drop hints about a proposal.”

  “Wow. That is fast.” And from what she’d observed, not this man’s style.

  “Too fast. I knew that in my head, but falling for someone can short-circuit your common sense. I did convince her we should give it another month or two before we took such an important step, and she agreed. In my mind, I was thinking of an Easter proposal. But we didn’t make it that far.”

  Given the previous hints he’d dropped, it hadn’t been a simple breakup—if such a thing existed. Whatever had gone wrong in that relationship, the man beside her must be carrying around a boatload of guilt if he’d written off romance forever.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “The truth? No. It’s hard to revisit a bad scene. The only person who knows the whole story is Adam, and we don’t talk much about it anymore.”

  Her spirits plummeted. If Brent had shared the painful episode with no one but his best friend from childhood, there wasn’t much chance—

  “But I’d like to tell it to you too—so you’ll understand why I’ve shied away from romance.” Waves of tension rolled off him as he felt around for the cup holder and fitted his mug into it.

  “I’d like to hear it.” And hopefully find a way to convince him there was room in his life for love.

  Despite the shadows in the car, she could see his throat work as he swallowed. “I’ll try to spare you as many of the gory details as possible—but three weeks before Easter, while I was on a routine traffic stop, I was critically injured by a drunk driver who slammed into me.”

  Eve gasped. Critically injured meant he could have died.

  The mere thought of that sent a chill through her.

  Yet it was obvious the vibrant man beside her had made a remarkable recovery.

  She touched his arm, the gesture involuntary. As if her subconscious required physical confirmation he’d survived. “What sort of injuries did you have?”

  “Broken leg, shattered pelvis, fractured wrist, ruptured spleen, and head injuries. I was in a coma for six days.”

  Her stomach bottomed out. That was far worse than she’d expected.

  “But you recovered and went on with your life.” That was the most important fact.

  “Yes—after months of rehab. For weeks, the doctors weren’t sure I’d ever walk normally again.”

  “Oh, Brent. I can’t begin to imagine trying to cope with all that.”

  “Neither could Karen.”

  They passed under a streetlight as his comment hung in the air between them, and Eve studied the flat, rigid line of his mouth, the deep grooves denting his forehead.

  “Did she . . . walk out on you?” What else could his comment mean?

  The car passed bac
k into darkness, leaving his features in shadows. “No.”

  Not what she’d expected.

  “So what happened?” If he’d told her this much, that direct question shouldn’t scare him away.

  “When I came out of my coma, she was a basket case.” A slight quiver disrupted his previous steady, flat delivery. “Adam told me she’d spent every minute she wasn’t at work by my side, and it showed. She was pale and stressed and had already lost several pounds.”

  “In other words, she loved you deeply and was devoted to you.” Eve frowned, trying to grasp the problem. “Was that bad?”

  “No—but her stress never went away, despite my faster-than-expected recovery.”

  She was still missing the issue. “Explain that.”

  He let out a slow breath and hung a right onto the entry ramp for I-64 east, toward downtown. “She had concerns about a host of potential complications. Whether I would ever walk without assistance again. How we’d manage if I couldn’t. Would medical expenses overwhelm us? Would it be fair to bring children into a marriage with a disabled parent? Most of all she worried about how she’d live with the uncertainties of my job. Of not knowing every day when I left for work if I’d come home that night.”

  All of those worries were legit. Anyone would have similar questions and qualms in that situation.

  What wasn’t he telling her?

  “Those concerns seem valid to me.” She worked hard to keep her tone conversational rather than critical.

  “They were—but her anxiety was excessive. She ended up resorting to pills to help her get through the day. This was a woman who had a responsible job, juggled multiple balls without missing a beat, and always had her act together.”

  “Resorted to pills as in . . . addiction?”

  “Yeah.”

  Okay. That could freak a guy out.

  But there was more. He hadn’t yet told her the key problem.

  “I can see where that would be disconcerting for you. Did she get any professional assistance—counseling—to help her cope?”

  “No. She told me it wasn’t necessary. In the end, as I continued to improve, she did calm down a bit and eased back on the pills as much as she could. But she also gave me an ultimatum.”

  This was the missing piece—and Eve could guess how it had played out. Brent wasn’t the type of guy to succumb to threats or demands.

  “What was it?”

  “She wanted me to get out of law enforcement. Find a less dangerous job where my skills would be useful. She suggested I join the security department of a large company, or work for a home protection firm.”

  Eve wrinkled her nose—likely the same reaction Brent had had. Passive jobs like that wouldn’t suit the man sitting in the car beside her. Nor would they be the best use of his years of street experience.

  But it wasn’t hard to understand why a woman who’d watched the man she loved almost die would deliver such an ultimatum.

  He looked over at her. “You’re thinking I should have caved.”

  “I don’t know if caved is the right term. Maybe there was a way to compromise.”

  “Maybe there was—but at the time, I couldn’t come up with one.” He flexed his fingers on the wheel, as if he was trying to restore circulation.

  “Did you consider quitting County?”

  “No.” His answer held a hint of sadness—and disgust. “I’m ashamed to say our relationship wasn’t important enough to me to make that kind of sacrifice. But it should have been. Karen had worried herself sick about me. Literally. And I’d been planning to propose. Yet I wasn’t willing to give up my job to keep her.”

  “How did she handle that?”

  “Not well. She said I was cold. Unfeeling. That from the beginning, I’d shut her out, kept a piece of myself locked away from her. That I didn’t know how to recognize love—or return it. That my heart had atrophied. That she felt sorry for any woman in the future who fell for me. Then she walked out.”

  Eve cringed.

  What a terrible situation.

  A woman who’d fallen apart at the end of a romance, and a man who’d emerged with serious scars—and less confidence than ever in his ability to form attachments.

  It was a lose-lose situation.

  But Karen’s biting indictment of Brent wasn’t entirely deserved. He may have been deprived of emotional sustenance as a child—and he might have had trouble opening his heart to his almost-fiancée—but from what she’d seen in their brief relationship, he wasn’t cold or unfeeling. Nor had his heart atrophied. He was more than capable of recognizing and expressing love.

  The challenge was how to convince him of that.

  She touched his arm, and a muscle contracted beneath her fingers. “Did you ever consider there may have been another explanation for what went wrong? That your feelings for Karen may not have been as deep as you thought they were?”

  He kept his focus on the road. “Yes. But that felt more like an excuse for my shortcomings than a rational justification for my choice.” A beat passed. “Or it did—until I met you.”

  The air whooshed out of her lungs. His meaning seemed clear—but what if she was jumping to conclusions?

  “Um . . .” She fiddled with the edge of her seat belt, straining to read his expression in the dim light. “I’m not certain I—”

  “I meant exactly what you thought I meant.” He shot her a quick glance. “I believed what I felt for Karen was love—but in hindsight, I realize it was more superficial than that. It was hormones rather than heartstrings. She was a fine person—but she wasn’t the one for me. No woman is.”

  She blinked.

  What?

  Hadn’t he just said—more or less—that his feelings for her went a lot deeper than the feelings he’d had for Karen?

  “Wait . . . back up. Did I miss something?”

  “No.” He sighed. “You interpreted my first comment correctly. My feelings for you, even at this early stage, are deeper than they were for Karen. But that doesn’t mean I’m husband material. A woman deserves a man who’s comfortable expressing feelings. I was only able to handle this discussion today because I could hide in the dark while we talked. That’s the reality.”

  So her theory had been correct. He viewed the dim car as a safe place for sharing touchy-feely information.

  “But we did talk, no matter the environment. That’s what counts. And while you may be uncomfortable with emotional discussions, the evidence suggests you have feelings—and a warm, caring heart.”

  “It’s a moot point anyway.”

  Another curveball.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My emotional aptitude isn’t the only issue. After I saw what my injury did to someone strong and capable like Karen, I realized it wouldn’t be fair to subject another woman to that kind of pressure. If Karen could fold, anyone could—and I couldn’t live with myself if I had to watch someone I care about go through that again.”

  “Does that mean you’ve shut the door to romance?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s . . . that’s crazy!” The words popped out before she could stop them, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. This wasn’t her radio program, where she spouted off uncensored opinions on topics of the day. This was an interpersonal relationship with a man who required kid-glove handling on topics of the heart.

  “Sorry.” She touched his arm again. “I didn’t mean to come off so . . .”

  “Honest?” A touch of humor lurked in his voice. “Your candor is one of the qualities I lo . . . like about you. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d think you and Adam had talked.”

  Thank goodness he hadn’t taken offense at her less-than-tactful pronouncement.

  “He agrees with me?”

  “Yes. And he tends to be far more direct than you were about his opinions. During our last discussion on the subject, he told me I was nuts.”

  Kudos to his buddy. Sometimes friends—or sisters—could rush in
where angels feared to tread.

  “Why don’t you listen to him? He’s your best friend.”

  “I take everything he says in the romance department with a grain of salt. Since he met Rebecca—and married her six months ago—he views the world through rose-colored glasses and sees happy endings around every corner.”

  “Not a bad attitude.”

  “But not realistic. You and I both know from our professions that’s not how the world is.”

  “The parts we control can be, if we work at it.” They were approaching the exit for the radio station—and their situation was still in limbo.

  They needed a resolution before they parted.

  “What time does Meg get to work?” He flipped on his blinker.

  “Her official workday begins at eight, but I think she often arrives by seven-thirty.”

  “That will give me a chance to get a bagel at the coffee shop on the corner and deal with email.”

  He appeared ready to move on to a new subject—but she wasn’t.

  “Brent.” She waited until he looked at her. “I understand your concerns. But I don’t agree with your self-assessment. As for subjecting someone to the stresses your job entails—I could take the same position, given all that’s been happening in my life these past two weeks.”

  “Your situation is temporary.” He swung onto the exit ramp that was empty in this prelude to rush hour.

  “Given the strong emotions I sometimes stir up in my audience, it could happen again. If I followed your philosophy, I should write off romance too.”

  He guided the car down the deserted streets, toward the parking garage at the station. “That’s different. You don’t carry a gun and deal with the dregs of society every day.”

  “Not carrying a gun makes me more vulnerable—as Cate has reminded me ad nauseam. So I guess it wouldn’t be fair for me to put a guy through that kind of stress either.”

  Brent pulled into the well-lit parking garage, giving her a clearer view of his face.

  His brow was furrowed.

  She locked her lips, letting him digest her comments.

  Only after he swung into a vacant space and killed the engine did he give her his full attention, his demeanor somber.

  “I get what you’re trying to do, Eve—and I appreciate it. What you say is logical, and if I hadn’t had such a bad experience with Karen, I might agree that my position is extreme. I might even buy your argument that with the right woman, I could dredge up the emotions I buried years ago and take a chance on love. But those are two big strikes to overcome.”