She sipped, watching him over the rim. Clay stepped forward and took the glass from her. Some of the vodka spilled when she tried to grab it, but he easily held on to the glass and dumped the rest of the vodka down the drain.
“You’re pissing me off,” she said.
“I’m doing you a favor.”
Hogan left the kitchen and strode to the living room. Clay tossed the bottle in the trash, then followed. He found her standing in the middle of the room with her back to him, her arms wrapped around her midsection. Though he couldn’t see her face from where he stood, he’d never seen anyone look so damn alone.
“They tortured him,” she choked out after a moment. “I can’t get my head around that. It’s too terrible to think about.”
It was hard to see this degree of hurt and not reach out. He wanted to go to her. But Clay felt as if he were walking a minefield. Tread carefully, or risk the situation blowing up in his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but the words sounded incredibly inept.
“I can’t imagine the world without Rosetti.”
“You’re going to be all right.”
She turned to him then, gave him that thousand-yard stare, as if she wasn’t really looking at him. But he knew she was. “I can’t cry.”
“People grieve in different ways.” It was then that Clay realized he was out of his league here. He didn’t know how to deal with this complicated, hurting woman. He didn’t know what to say or how to feel. “Were you and Rosetti . . .” Because he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, because he didn’t know if he should, he let the words trail.
She surprised him by laughing. “God, no. But we were friends. Even his wife liked me.”
“That’s something.”
“He taught me everything I know about being a cop.” As if realizing how that sounded in light of her recent history, she touched her temple with her fingertips. “The good stuff, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant.”
“He was there the day I . . . went off on that suspect.”
Because Clay didn’t know how to respond to that, he remained silent.
“He supported me when most of the other guys treated me like a leper.”
“Cops can be a political bunch.”
“He was an ass, but I loved him.”
Stumped again, he said nothing, kept his distance. But he saw the crack in the dam. He knew that when it broke, the rush of emotion would be volatile. That if he wasn’t careful, he was going to get caught up in it.
“I miss him.”
“You’re going to be okay, Hogan. You’ll get through this.”
She looked at him. For the first time, emotion swam in her eyes. “Don’t you dare be nice to me. Goddamn it, I didn’t ask you to come here.”
Clay didn’t realize he was going to move until he took that first, dangerous step toward her. She raised her hands as if to stop him, but he didn’t stop.
He reached her in three resolute strides. Her eyes went wide. For the first time, tears glistened. But they didn’t fall.
He set his hands on her shoulders. Clay wanted to believe it was comfort he offered. But he was too aware of how small and fragile her shoulders felt beneath his hands. How her entire body trembled with pent-up emotion.
He didn’t know exactly when he’d begun seeing her as a woman and not a cop. But damn it, she smelled like a woman. Some shampoo-and-fruit smell so exotic and sweet his mouth watered. He looked into her eyes, and the floor seemed to shift beneath his feet. She had the longest lashes of anyone he’d ever met. A perfect mouth the color of a coral reef on a sunny day . . .
It had been a long time since he’d been this close to a woman. He’d forgotten just how powerful the draw could be. But Clay felt the magnetic pull of sexual attraction. His fingers itched to slide through all that hair. He wanted to set his palm beneath her chin and bring her lips to his. He wanted to kiss away her pain. Make her stop looking at him as if the entire world had just crashed down on her shoulders.
But while his body wanted what would in the long run cost him the most, his intellect reminded him that she was a subordinate. That she was hurting and intoxicated. Acting on any of the impulses running through his mind was a sure ticket to disaster.
It was a line he would not cross.
The first tear fell with the weight of a thousand gallons. She tried to turn away from him, but Clay held her, and wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb.
“Go on,” he whispered. “Let it out.”
She tried to cover her face with her hands. He wasn’t sure why, but he grasped her wrists, kept her from doing it. Maybe because she was still trying to hold all of this inside, and he knew at some point she was going to have to let go. Better for him to be here when she did. At least that way, she’d have a shoulder to cry on.
The dam broke. Lowering her head, she began to sob. Quiet sobs that were powerful enough to wrack her entire body. Clay did the only thing he could and put his arms around her shaking shoulders. It did something to him to see such a strong woman break. And it was that much more profound after seeing her play it tough for so long.
“I told you not to be nice to me,” she sobbed. “This is what you get.”
“Remind me to yell at you later.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. That’s why I’m here.”
He was standing too close. Clay could feel the press of her breasts against his chest. He was keenly aware of her hair against his face. Her head dropping to rest on his shoulder. The faint odor of vodka on her breath. A sweeter, more feminine scent filled his nostrils. A vague need he didn’t want to feel stormed his blood and ran hot through his veins.
She raised her face to his, and her mouth brushed softly against his lips. Clay felt the contact as if it were an electrical shock. He told himself she hadn’t meant to kiss him. But a warning blared in his head. A warning that told him to pull back and regroup and maybe think this through before one of them did something they would be sorry for later.
But it was already too late . . .
Putting her arms around his neck, she kissed him full on the mouth. Clay knew this was the moment when he should do the right thing and stop her. But the gentle press of her lips taunted him with a slow spiral of pleasure that wound through every nerve in his body. The intensity of that pleasure rendered him incapable of pushing her away or turning his head.
Instead, his body heated. All the blood seemed to leave his head. It rushed south so fast that for a moment he was dizzy. He crushed his mouth to hers. She tasted of woman and vodka and tears. A volatile combination he was a fool for not acknowledging.
She shifted against him, and his erection strained uncomfortably against the fly of his slacks. Need like he hadn’t known for a very long time pummeled him like fists, beating down the last of his good judgment. When she opened to him, he went in deep, using his tongue to savor the warm sweetness of her mouth.
He jolted when she reached for him, gripped him through his uniform trousers. Groaning, he pushed her against the wall. Catching her straying hands, he laced her fingers with his and eased them above her head. All the while his mouth fused with hers, the contact drugging him like some illicit narcotic he could never get enough of. Moaning with need, he ground against her, and she gave, as pliant and soft as her woman’s body.
Then his hands were on her breasts, small and liquid within the thin confines of her T-shirt. He could feel the pebbled nipples beneath his palms. Her breath quickened against his face, the heat of it coming from her nose in short gasps. She arched against him and his control snapped.
Clay devoured her mouth. He devoured her body with his hands. Her breasts. The curve of her hip. The juncture between her thighs. Her flesh seemed superheated when he slipped his hands beneath her T-shirt. A shiver wracked her when he brushed his fingertips across her nipples.
The next thing he knew her hands were on his belt. Anticipation jumped inside him. He acknowledged the lust inside him, and the purest form of male need. Her fingers trembled as she worked the buckle. He wanted her. Wanted her more than he wanted to draw his next breath.
But Clay wasn’t some randy teenager. He was a man with a man’s responsibilities and a man’s sense of right and wrong. Thankfully, that sense kicked in just in time to avoid disaster. Gently, he grasped her hands and eased her to arm’s length.
“Marty.” Her name came out as little more than a puff of air between breaths. “We can’t do this.”
“I think we’re doing a pretty good job.”
If the circumstances hadn’t been so damn serious, Clay might have smiled. But he didn’t. There was nothing even remotely funny about anything that had happened in the past five minutes. She was his subordinate. A cop who’d just lost her partner. A woman who was vulnerable and hurting. Not to mention intoxicated. Her dignity was at stake. His reputation was on the line. There was honor and self-respect at stake on both sides.
Grimacing, he tilted his head and made eye contact with her. “I’m going to put you to bed.”
“Alone?”
He nearly groaned. “Yeah.”
“I want to go to Chicago.”
“Tomorrow.” Taking her arm, he guided her down the narrow hall. He passed a bathroom tiled in pink. The first bedroom was furnished with only a desk and chair. At the end of the hall he found the second bedroom, with the bed, and turned on the light. A twin-size bed with an antique-looking iron headboard dominated the room. He caught a glimpse of a butt-ugly laminate dresser and mismatched night table, a lamp someone had probably found at a garage sale twenty years ago.
He led her to the bed and pulled the covers aside. “In you go.”
She crawled onto the bed without argument and slid beneath the blankets. Closing her eyes, she laid her head against the pillow. “Rosetti always was a pain in the ass,” she whispered.
For a moment, Clay couldn’t look away. Gone was the tough-talking big city cop from Chicago. In her place was a vulnerable woman who felt deeply and had one of the prettiest faces he’d ever laid eyes on. For a split second, he wondered what it would be like to climb into bed with her and take what he wanted . . .
“You need anything before I go?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Clay figured that was just as well. He might just give it to her. He’d handled this all wrong. Hopefully, by morning she wouldn’t remember too much of what had happened.
Turning, he started toward the door. The sound of his name stopped him and he looked at her over his shoulder.
“That was a really great kiss,” she said.
Clay turned off the light and walked out.
SEVEN
Marty woke with a head-banger of a headache and a
vague and troubling memory of doing something she shouldn’t have. It wasn’t the first time she’d started her day that way in the past six months. Every time she swore it would be the last. She’d broken the promise more times than she could count.
Sunshine streamed through the window, and she rolled over to shield her eyes. A knot in her chest reminded her of the grief she had felt the day before, and she thought of Rosetti. She remembered what had happened to him, and the pain blossomed, an awful flower blooming inside her. Loss combined with a terrible sense of finality, reminding her he was gone and she would never have the chance to speak to him again.
The alarm clock on the night table told her it was just after 10 A.M. A groan escaped her as she rolled out of bed. Holding her head between her hands, she padded down the hall, trying to remember how she’d gotten to bed.
She was midway through the living room when giant chunks of memory from the night before came at her. The power of those memories stopped her cold. Clay Settlemeyer standing in her kitchen, looking at her as if she’d done something terrible. Clay pouring the last of her vodka down the sink. She’d been drinking and angry and hurting so badly she could barely stand it. Full self-destruct mode in all its shining glory.
Another flash of memory assailed her. Clay’s hands on her body. His mouth fused to hers in a kiss so hot Marty could still feel the heat. The faint scent of his aftershave. Gentle hands on her breasts, touching between her thighs . . .
“Oh my God.” Marty made it to the kitchen and leaned against the counter. Of all the things she could have done, making a pass at her boss had to be the worst. How could she be so stupid and self-destructive? How was she going to face him?
“Hogan, you are pathetic.”
She glanced out the window at the windblown landscape beyond and wondered how she was going to get through this without Rosetti to help her keep things in perspective. If she knew him, he’d be laughing his ass off about now. Marty Hogan, the queen of bad behavior.
She lowered her face into her hands and rubbed at the ache behind her eyes. For a crazy moment, she thought about throwing all of her meager belongings into her Mustang and driving away. Driving until she found a place where nobody knew her face. A place where she could start fresh. But Marty knew the pain would follow her wherever she went. She was going to have to ride this one out and make it work.
Clay sat behind his desk and tried not to think about
what had happened between him and Marty the night before. But like a headache, thoughts of her crept repeatedly into his brain and refused to leave. The softness of her lips. The vulnerability in her eyes. The pain etched into her every feature. The warm lushness of a body he’d had no right to touch.
After leaving her place the night before, he’d done something he hadn’t done since the last woman who’d pried her way into his life and messed things up; he’d gone to the bar and gotten drunk. He’d known he would pay for it this morning—and by God he was—but he’d been so keyed up when he’d left Hogan’s, it was either drink or end up back at her place.
He’d done the smart thing and gotten drunk.
Clay had always prided himself on having a level head. On being responsible and cautious and using the good judgment God gave him. A single dad, he didn’t have a choice. Last night he’d blown that image of himself to hell and back.
The scene that played out between him and Hogan had not only been impulsive and reckless, it had been downright dangerous—a career wrecker—and morally wrong. She was his
subordinate
. A young cop who’d just lost her partner and best friend. She’d been drinking and vulnerable. Alone in a new town, she’d needed a friend.
None of those things had made any difference when she’d kissed him. No siree. The instant her mouth touched his, he’d forgotten all about taking the high road and went after her like some sex-deprived teenager.
“You’re as hungover as a rug on a clothesline.”
Clay nearly sloshed coffee out of his mug at the sound of Jo Nell’s voice. He looked up to find her standing in the doorway to his office, staring at him the way a crazy aunt might look at her favorite nephew who happened to be just as crazy.
“I’m not hungover,” he growled.
“And I haven’t been smoking.”
He sniffed, smelled cigarette smoke. “I guess that makes us even.”
Crossing to his desk, she shoved a glass of ice water at him with one hand and offered three suspicious-looking pills in the other. “This’ll help.”
“Are those legal?” he asked, wondering briefly if he really wanted to know.
“Don’t worry, Chief. They’re all over-the-counter. My special recipe for hangovers.”
Without further ado, he scooped up the pills and downed them with the water. “Thanks.”
“So what’s got you tied into little knots this morning?”
“Who says I’ve got anything in a knot?”
“I ain’t seen you look this miserable since your wife flew the coop.”
Clay figured he had enough female problems at the moment without borrowing more from his ex-wife. “Don’t you have work to do?”
The bell on the front door jingled, telling them someone had entered the reception area. All Clay could think was that he’d been saved by the bell. He didn’t have the patience for Jo Nell’s antics this morning.
“Holler if you need anything.” She started toward the front.
“No more smoking,” he called out behind her.
Footsteps sounded as someone started down the hall toward them. Clay couldn’t see who it was from where he sat, but Jo Nell stopped and turned, her eyes widening slightly. “Good morning,” she said with a little too much enthusiasm.
He heard a mumbled reply. Clay barely had time to brace before Marty stepped into the doorway of his office. She stared at him as if she’d just stepped in front of a firing squad to wait for the killing shot.
Jo Nell looked at him then back to Marty, one brow raised speculatively. “You’re a little early, ain’t you?”
Marty didn’t take her eyes off him. “I need to speak to the chief.”
Removing a pill bottle from her shirt pocket, Jo Nell tapped out three and handed them to Marty. “You look like you could use this, too,” she said.
Marty held out her hand and muttered a thank-you.
“Must be something going round.” Jo Nell shook her head.
“Close the door behind you,” Clay snapped.
But she was smiling when the door clicked shut.
Clay hadn’t been expecting Marty to show up early. He hadn’t quite formulated what he was going to say to her yet. An apology, at least. Something that would excuse his behavior and allow them to work together without the discomfort of having shared inappropriate intimacies. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what that might be.
“How you feeling?” he asked.
“Better.”
Automatic reply, he thought. A lie. He could tell by the way her eyes darted quickly to the right before meeting his again that she wasn’t okay. But he let it go.
“Have a seat.”
She took the chair opposite his desk. She looked at the Santa Fe-inspired oil reproduction on his wall and fidgeted like a kid who’d been sent to the principal’s office.
Clay waited.
“I’m sorry about what happened last night,” she blurted. “I was . . . out of line. It was inappropriate and—”
“Hogan.”
“. . . unprofessional. I was upset because of . . . Rosetti. I wasn’t thinking straight. But I can assure you nothing like this will ever happen—”
“Hogan.”
She quieted and blinked at him.
It would have been easy at that point to lay the blame on her. He was the superior, after all. She had, in fact, made the first move. But while Clay might be a lot of things, he was not a liar. He would never let someone take the blame for something he’d played a role in.
Taking a moment to get his thoughts in order, he rose and walked to the coffee station, where he poured coffee into a cup for her and refilled his own. He handed the cup to Marty, then sat behind his desk. “Don’t apologize,” he said.
“I just thought—”
“You’d just found out your former partner was killed,” he cut in. “You were . . .”
“Smashed,” she finished.
Clay scrubbed a hand over his jaw, realizing he’d missed a good bit of stubble this morning. “Half the cops I know would have reacted the same way you did.”
Her gaze skittered away, but she forced it back to his. “The drinking part, maybe.”
Clay felt himself flush, but he didn’t break eye contact. This was where he was supposed to tell her it hadn’t been all her doing; he’d played a role in those few minutes of insanity, too. After all, it had been his hands roaming her body. “Look, I’m not excusing what happened,” he said. “I didn’t exactly handle the situation the way I should have.”
“I don’t blame you if you need to take some kind of disciplinary measure.”
“If I put something in your file, I’ll have to put something in mine, too. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”
“Oh.” Her brows drew together.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
She looked down into her coffee cup, then back at him. “So what are we going to do about it?”
“Not a damn thing.”
She looked at the oil painting again, as if she wished she could escape into it. “Pretend it never happened.”
“I’m sorry I handled things so badly. I think we can both agree nothing like that will happen again.”
“Absolutely.”
The silence grew awkward, and he asked the question he’d been dreading. “Any news from Chicago?”
A shadow passed over her eyes, but she focused on answering, on the facts. “Nothing new.”
“I would imagine you won’t get much until the ME’s preliminary report comes out.”
“Probably.”
Another awkward silence descended. “I’m actually glad you came in early.”
“Now, there’s a surprise.”
“I’ve been getting some feedback on your Rufus work.”
“I’m feeling better already.”
“Good feedback,” he clarified. “Especially getting the word out to kids with the Run Away, Shout It Out, and Tell a Grown-up Program.”
“Look, Chief, no offense intended, but before you tell me what a good job I’ve been doing, I should tell you being Rufus the crime dog is not my greatest aspiration as a cop.”
“Actually, I was going to tell you I’m going to put you on the patrol roster.”
“Does that mean I’m out of the Rufus doghouse?”
Clay couldn’t help it. He smiled, unduly relieved that through all of this she was able to muster some semblance of humor. “The assignment wasn’t meant as punishment. I wanted to give you a chance to get your feet under you, get your focus.”
“Keep me away from the rest of your guys,” she put in.
“That, too.” Because she was charming him, he looked down at the roster and schedule in front of him. “Part-time, at first. You’ll still have a few Rufus stints.”
“Of course.”
“Same shift. I’ve assigned you a patrol car. I’ll let you know about the upcoming Rufus appearances.”
As if realizing that was her cue to leave, she rose. “Is that it?”
Clay rose, too. “Keep me posted on any news out of Chicago.”
“Will do.”
She hesitated for an instant longer, then turned and walked from his office. Clay sank into his chair, wiped the sweat from his palms and hoped he could keep himself from screwing up again.
They had followed her to the ends of the earth. Or so it
seemed. For the last hundred miles Radimir had seen nothing but an arid and scarred landscape that spread out before him like an oil painting created in an era of violence. Dotted with scrub, rock and the occasional bovine, the land was as desolate and hostile as an ancient war zone.
His head still ached from the sunset. Despite his hundred-dollar shades, the sun had drilled into his eyes for the last two hundred miles with the blinding light of an atomic bomb.
Next to him, Katja stretched like a cat and glanced out the window. “Looks like Mars.”
“Might as well be.”
“You are sure she’s here?”
“I am sure.” He glanced over at his sister. “What is the address?”
She reached into the console and unfolded the single sheet of paper. “Thirteen Brushy Creek Drive.”
“Do you have the map?”
Turning on the dome light, she squinted at the sheet of paper. “It’s off of Cactus Street on the west end of town, past the traffic light. Over the railroad tracks on the right.”
They passed beneath a blinking yellow light. “There are tracks ahead.”
Katja turned off the dome light and pointed as the rental car bumped over the tracks. “There’s Brushy Creek.”
He made a right, taking in as much of his surroundings as he could in the darkness. “Dismal fucking place.”
“There’s the house.”
Radimir slowed the car, assessing the house as they idled by. “Bitch lives in a rat hole.”
“No car in the driveway.”
“Maybe she’s working.”
“Might be a good time to go into the house.”
He cast her a sidelong look, wondering—not for the first time—about her sanity. “We don’t know where she is or what she’s doing. She could be back at any time.”
She gave him a sly smile, but her eyes flashed with cruelty.
“Ootebya nyet yayeesav.”
“I have balls,” he snapped. “And I have a brain to go with them, which is more than I can say for you.”
Katja threw her head back and laughed. “So you say.”
Angry, Radimir hit the gas and sped past the darkened house. He’d carefully analyzed every detail of this operation; there was no way in hell he was going to let his crazy sister screw things up. She might be creative in the ways of death, but that wasn’t to say her passion would not be her downfall. “This isn’t the time for foolishness.”