Don't Look Back

by Christie Craig

  She heard a meow and saw the shower curtain shift, but he didn’t come out. Moving in slowly, she peered behind the curtain.

  Crouched and wide-eyed, he backed up. “It’s okay. I know you were scared.” She lowered her voice. “And that big guy scared you. Actually, he kind of scares me, too.” Though not completely in a bad way. She held her hand out. “Come here, baby. I’m sorry.”

  The feline slowly eased forward and let her brush her hand over his head. “That’s good.” She gave him a few more seconds of TLC and then she moved the cat and the litter box, along with his food and water, to the bedroom. Before heading back to Connor, she grabbed a clean washcloth, dampened it, and found some alcohol.

  “Please tell me it’s your cat,” Connor said.

  “It is.” She turned the overhead light on and dropped down on the sofa beside him. Her leg brushed up against his and she shifted over. An odd thought hit. She’d never had someone sit here with her before. “Pull your T-shirt off.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” he offered.

  “You didn’t have to find my cat. But I’m grateful you did.”

  Nodding, he popped the last bite of pizza between his lips, sat up, and lifted his shirt off. Brie’s mouth went dry when she saw all the warm, bare skin. How long had it been since she’d been this close to an almost-naked man?

  If her body’s reaction was any indication, it’d been too long. She did the math in her head and realized it had been well over a year. She and the last guy had dated for about two months when it had just fizzled out. Not that there had been that much fizz to start.

  She’d been lonely and let it happen. Then hadn’t known how to end it.

  Connor’s spicy scent filled her senses again. And a sweet buzz—with tons of fizz—thickened her breathing and her blood.

  Determined to ignore the craving, she leaned in. His chest had four scratches. The one on the left side was the deepest. She touched the damp cloth to the bloody scratch. “He’s not a bad cat.”

  He chuckled. “No, he’s a real sweetheart.”

  She looked up into his smiling eyes and offered him one in return. Their gazes held. “When I got him, the shelter told me they thought he’d been abused.”

  She continued dabbing his scratch with the damp cloth. “It took him a month before he learned to trust me. Now, he sleeps beside me at night.” She shifted to the scratch near Connor’s navel, the back of her fingers accidentally brushing across his tight abs.

  He drew in a quick slow breath. “He’s a lucky cat…to have found you.” His words came out low.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a Good Samaritan all the way around.”

  “Because I got a rescue cat?”

  “And you volunteer at the homeless shelter.”

  She moved to the scratch over his ribs. “Right.”

  “How did you get Betty antibiotics?”

  She looked up. “There’s a free clinic a lot of the women who work at the Black Diamond use. I gave a ride to another waitress who needed stitches after she got hit by her boyfriend. While there, they asked me what I needed, and because I know they seldom do any tests, I described Betty’s symptoms. They gave me a prescription.”

  “See? A Good Samaritan.”

  “You make that sound like a bad thing.” She leaned across him to clean the scratch on his neck. His breath caused a soft tickle on her cheek.

  When she cut her eyes to him, he stared at her mouth. Without wanting to, her gaze shifted to his lips.

  She pulled back. “Show me your arm.” He lifted it up and she ran the cloth over the red line. “Is that all of them?”

  “Yeah.”

  She reached over and grabbed the alcohol and poured some on the cloth. The smell reached her nose. “It’s probably going to sting.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  She dabbed the worst of the scratches first. He sucked in air.

  Recalling Eliot pouring alcohol on her scraped knees, she leaned down and blew softly on the wound.

  “Brie, I think…”

  She saw the muscles in his abs clench, and only then did she realize how close her head was to the growing bulge in his pants.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She shot up. His green eyes appeared brighter and she knew her face did as well. “I didn’t mean…I’m exhausted, I wasn’t…” Her embarrassment quickly turned to humor.

  She covered her mouth to hold the chuckle in, but failed. “Sorry.” Another laugh spilled out.

  Suddenly, she wasn’t the only one laughing. When they finally stopped, their gazes locked. Humor and then heat danced in his green eyes. He smiled and it reached deep inside her and touched something. She missed this. Being close to someone. Feeling drawn to someone. Laughing with someone.

  Not being alone on a sofa.

  She handed him the washcloth. “Maybe you should do it.”

  Disappointment filled his expression. “Yeah.” He swiped his scratches then snatched his shirt off the coffee table and slipped it on.

  Her mind said he was about to leave. He’d stand up. Pick up his gun. Walk out the door. He’d take that fizzy feeling and be gone. That’s what needed to happen.

  But she’d be alone again on a piece of furniture meant for two.

  “You want something to drink?” Oh, crap. She shot up from the couch, questioning her sanity.

  He glanced at her. Confused. And damn if he wasn’t the only one. She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to go. She wanted…?

  “Something to drink would be nice.” He leaned back against the cushions. The white T-shirt clung to his chest and drew her attention to his flat stomach.

  She went to the kitchen and stuck her head in the fridge. Her face felt hot with the cool air blowing on her.

  Why hadn’t she let him leave? It was late. He looked exhausted. She was exhausted. This was dangerous. What was she doing?

  Until this second, she hadn’t realized how empty her life had been. Oh, she’d filled her days working on her sister’s case, volunteering a few hours at the shelter. Most of her nights were spent at the Black Diamond. But sometimes being around people didn’t make you less lonely.

  She stared at the almost empty fridge. “I have one beer we could share,” she called out. And that’s all they’d share. A little company to chase off the loneliness.

  “Okay.”

  Grabbing the beer and twisting the top, she downed a sip then returned to the living room.

  He looked up at her. She looked down at him.

  She held out the beer, cold against her palm. He took it. When their hands touched, a spark of something sweet traveled up her arm then slow-walked through the rest of her body. Pressing the bottle to his lips, his eyes stayed locked on hers as he drank. Then he reached into the pizza box and grabbed another slice.

  “Sit down and eat,” he said.

  She lowered herself onto the sofa, leaving a good foot between them. Grabbing her already sampled pizza, she held it to her mouth. “How did you find out the guy broke in?”

  “Your neighbor saw him. Are you sure this is connected to Dunn?”

  “Positive. I told you I recognized him.”

  He held up his hand. “Just checking. Tomorrow, I’ll find Dunn, even if I have to chase him to hell and back. I’ll tell him about the high-end car theft ring in Houston. But…after seeing this perp getting into your…panty drawer, I think that guy might be after more than revenge about the Mustang. We need to do something about him.”

  “No. If he comes back, I’ll deal with him. Speaking of which, you didn’t have to send Officer Johnston. I’m capable—”

  “I know you’re capable. But it’s called being careful. It’s backup.”

  “I’m betting if I were a guy, you wouldn’t feel the need—”

  “I’d still have sent backup.” He licked a dab of sauce off his lips.

  “How mad was Officer Johnston when you told him you were letting me go?”

&nbs
p; “Pissed, but when we explained about your sister, he got it.”

  Connor took another sip of the beer and his gaze shifted around. “I was looking at your bookshelf. You have several books in Spanish.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can read Spanish?”

  “Yeah. Eliot thought I should learn the language in every place we lived.”

  “How many languages do you speak?”

  “Four besides English. Spanish, Mandarin Chinese, Urdu, and Russian.”

  His eyes rounded. “You’re like a genius.”

  “No. Eliot’s just a good teacher.”

  He continued to stare. “Is your mom still alive?”

  “Yeah. She lives in California.”

  “You close?”

  His question didn’t completely dart into the no-trespassing zone, so she answered. “We talk every few months. Birthdays and such. I saw her last year at Christmas.”

  “You’re closer to Eliot?” He handed her the beer and picked up another slice of pizza.

  She sipped from the bottle. “He raised me.”

  “And your mom didn’t?”

  She nipped at her lip. “Her writing career took off. Her first book hit the New York Times. She was consumed by it. Eliot just stepped in.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It wasn’t a big deal.” It wasn’t like she abandoned me like my father did. “She had a demanding career. It would’ve been the same if she’d been a doctor. After her first book sold, the publisher wanted the next one right away. Strike while the iron’s hot.”

  Her words came out nonchalant, emotionless. While she didn’t really blame her mom, she knew their distant relationship was a by-product of her career. Brie had always known her place in her mom’s life. And it wasn’t first.

  “What does she write?” he asked.

  “Fantasy novels under a pen name, J. C. Marks.”

  His eyes widened. “That’s your mom? I’ve read a few. You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  The astonishment in his eyes vanished. “Sorry.” The word came out somehow heavier, as if he sensed everything she wasn’t saying.

  “It’s not a big deal.” She stared at the pizza and all of a sudden this, whatever “this” was, felt twice as dangerous as before. This wasn’t just about a guy on the sofa, this was getting to know that guy. But she didn’t want to stop. “Are your parents still alive?”

  “No. Well…my dad left when I was eleven.” He stared at the pizza he held. “So I don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”

  He didn’t say, and I don’t care to know, but she heard it in his tone, saw it in his eyes. Or maybe it was her experience of being abandoned by her own father that had her understanding exactly how he felt.

  He continued, “Mom passed away six years ago. Suddenly. A brain aneurysm. While at church, I might add. She was only fifty-four.”

  “Sorry. Were you close?”

  “Mostly. I saw her twice a week. Mowed her lawn, changed lightbulbs, took out the garbage for her. She was a good mom. A good person.”

  “But?” She was certain she heard a but.

  He looked like he was about to deny it, then instead said, “You can’t compete with God.”

  “Huh?”

  “When my dad left, she found religion. The harder she pushed me to follow that path, the harder I pushed back. Her big dream was for me to become a preacher, marry a God-fearing woman, and give her enough grandkids to fill a whole church pew.”

  “She had to be proud of you being a cop.”

  He glanced away. “Not as proud as she’d’ve been if I’d made a living standing at the pulpit.” He turned the bottle in his hands, and his expression said he questioned if he should have kept his mouth shut. She understood that, too. The past could be emotionally cumbersome.

  “So you never married?” The question slipped out before she considered the wisdom of asking. Not because she didn’t want to know—she longed to unfold the layers of Connor Pierce, discover not only who he was, but why—yet her own marital past was off-limits. Who wanted anyone to know that you’d been completely scammed by someone you loved? That everything she believed about her ex had been a lie. Not that she hadn’t made him regret those lies. He and his father got thirty years for it.

  “Yeah. I married,” he said. “It didn’t work out.” He held up the beer. “You?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Really? You were married?” Surprise sounded in his voice. “I just assumed…”

  What had he assumed? Part of her wanted to know—a part didn’t. Needing a conversation U-turn, she said, “You never told me how things went with Agent Calvin.”

  He studied her, as if he’d seen her no trespassing sign. “As good as could be expected. He doesn’t think there’s a mole.”

  “And I disagree.” She glanced away. “What do you and your partners think?” When he didn’t answer right away, she went on the defensive. “Then why was Carlos shot?”

  “I didn’t say we didn’t believe it. It’s our job to look at all the angles.” He seemed to contemplate his next words. “I’ll admit Agent Miles protested a bit too much about us looking into his records. And I didn’t like how Agent Calvin spoke with you. He seemed almost personally threatened by your accusation.”

  Brie shook her head. “I don’t really think it’s Agent Calvin. He’s just dedicated to his career and the agency.”

  “Maybe he was being blackmailed,” Connor tossed out.

  “I don’t think he felt threatened, he was angry. He doesn’t like that this makes his office look bad. Has he agreed to work with you guys?”

  “He and his men are planning to go over your sister’s missing person file. We’re supposed to meet daily and compare notes. But we’re keeping you and what you’re doing out of the conversation.” Connor leaned back. “He also brought up your murdered informant from the Sala case. He thinks that you were too close to it. Lost your objectivity. And that’s the real reason you took your leave. Not because of your sister.”

  “Well, he’s wrong.” She set the crust of her pizza back in the box. “Was I upset about Pablo? Yes. I still am. When he came to me with the gunrunning case, I should’ve sent someone else in. I knew this was over his skill level. His death is partly on me. And I resented it when Agent Calvin insisted we drop the case, so I secretly kept working it. When he found out, he was pissed.”

  She leaned back. “But I’m not the one who accused one of our own—Carlos is.”

  Connor hesitated to answer. “True. But I know guilt can do a real number on you. Sometimes you want to fix the unfixable. You look for answers where there aren’t any.”

  His words seemed to come from personal experience. What answers was Connor Pierce looking for? “Maybe, but it’s not clouding my judgment. My sister is dead. Pablo is dead. Rosaria Altura may be dead. I know I can’t fix that. But I can get them justice. I—”

  “Rosaria?”

  “Pablo’s girlfriend. She’d been living with him when Pablo was murdered. She disappeared.”

  “Did you look for her?”

  “Of course, but nothing turned up. She was from Mexico. Everyone thought she must have gone back home.” She leaned back. “And what about the other missing women who worked at the Black Diamond? What if they’re in some foreign country chained to a bed like my sister was? What if Armand’s here to get more women?”

  “Juan’s looking into the names you gave him,” he said. “If that’s what Armand is doing, we’ll get him.”

  They sat there in silence. Looking at each other. Suddenly, it didn’t feel awkward. She didn’t feel judged. He got it. Like in his office today, she sensed he was on her side. That felt good.

  “Do you really remember your sister from when you were younger?”

  She nodded. “Our grandmother told us we were second cousins. We bonded. We pretended we were sisters, not knowing we actually were.”

  “So your grandmothe
r approved of what your dad was doing?”

  Brie shrugged. “I don’t know. I never saw my grandmother again. Mom was furious with her. I’m told she died shortly after that.”

  “And you never saw your sister again either?”

  “No.”

  “She never tried to get in touch with you?”

  “Only that one time. A few months ago.”

  “You weren’t curious?”

  Brie’s chest tightened. “Not enough to contact her.” Brie wasn’t sure why she was telling him this, except…it felt right. “She got my father. In my mind, it wasn’t my mom he left. It was me. He had chosen Alma over me. I resented her as much as my mom resented her mother.”

  “Did he stay married to Alma’s mother?”

  “For nine years.”

  “You never saw him in all that time?”

  “No. When I was ten, my stepdad adopted me. Eliot had my father sign papers to relinquish parental rights. When I got older, I asked Eliot if my dad had resisted at all.”

  “And?”

  She shook her head. “He hadn’t.”

  “Your dad is a real piece of shit.” He exhaled. “How involved was he in Alma’s life?”

  “Don’t know. But he said he’d tried to call her for her birthday and when he didn’t hear back after a week, he reported her missing.”

  “How long from the time you knew she was missing until you heard about her body?”

  “About a month. I didn’t even look that hard. I mean, I made a report and got a copy of the file, but I told myself she was probably using drugs again.”

  “And now you blame yourself for it, just like you do with the informant.”

  “Grief and guilt can fit into the same pocket.”

  “Yeah.” He said it with such certainty that she knew he wasn’t talking just about her. Then she remembered him telling her that his partner had been killed. She leaned back on the sofa. And instead of thinking about her own pain she wondered about his.

  A thought hit. They weren’t sharing just a beer and a sofa, but a part of themselves. He reached for the beer, studied her and took a sip, then offered the beer back.

  “No. Finish it.” She waited a few seconds. “What happened to your partner? The one you said you lost.”