Cops and ... Lovers?

by Linda Castillo

  The driver spun, glaring at her with rodent-like eyes. He snarled a profanity, making no move to relinquish his gun.

  "Drop it!" she shouted. "Now!"

  He shot a look at his partner and muttered something, but Erin couldn't hear him over the thunder of blood in her ears.

  "I didn't do nothin'," he spat.

  "Drop the gun!"

  He tossed the weapon on the gravel. "You're makin' a mistake."

  "Get your hands where I can see them," she snapped.

  Lips peeled back in a snarl, he raised his hands.

  "Get on the ground! Facedown! Now!"

  Muttering an oath, the man got down on his knees, then eased himself facedown on the gravel. Erin edged closer and kicked his gun away.

  She turned to the second man. "You, too. On the ground."

  He sneered at her. "What you gonna do if I decide I'd rather take my chances with you, lady cop?"

  "Make you regret it," she said.

  Never taking his eyes from her, he lowered himself to the ground and lay flat.

  Relief vibrated through her. Lowering her weapon, she stepped back. Where in the world was Nick? The sheriff’s deputies? Where was Hector? Without backup, there wasn't much she could do to subdue these men if one of them decided to test her. Cursing under her breath, she glanced over her shoulder toward the building where the Suburban was parked.

  An instant later a hard body slammed into her with the force of a Mack truck. Erin's breath left her lungs in a rush. Dread and surprise punched her with sickening force when she realized her mistake. Oh, God, the second man. He'd moved so quickly she hadn't even heard him get up.

  The impact of his body sent her reeling. Her legs tangled with his and she sprawled on her back, her head cracking against the ground, hard enough to make her see stars. A dozen scenarios raced through her mind, the worst being that he would get control of her weapon. She couldn't let that happen. If Nick showed up now… No, she couldn't bear the thought of another cop getting hurt because of her.

  Feeling his weight come down on top of her, Erin lashed out with her boots. She smelled sweat. Bad breath. Her right heel connected with his shin. He cursed and grabbed for her gun. She gripped her pistol tightly, tried to wedge it between them, but he was stronger, and no matter how much training she'd had she couldn't keep him from overpowering her. Refusing to acquiesce, she wrenched free and rolled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other man scramble to his feet. Her attacker made it to his knees, but Erin was quicker. She dropped into a shooter's stance. "Halt! Police officer! I'll shoot!"

  Both men froze. The second man raised his hands. "I'm cool."

  The driver glared at Erin. She was shaken, but by the looks of him, so was he. For several seconds they just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

  "Get on the ground!" Nick's deadly calm voice snapped through the air like a gunshot.

  Relief poured through Erin with such force that for a moment she didn't trust her legs. Blinking the sweat from her eyes, she looked over her shoulder and saw Nick standing less than ten feet away, his weapon leveled on the man who'd attacked her. Hector Price and two deputies from the sheriff's department flanked him.

  "We'll take it from here, McNeal," Nick growled.

  Trembling violently with the aftereffects of high adrenaline, Erin turned away and holstered her revolver. She heard the sound of handcuffs clicking into place. In the distance, someone recited the Miranda rights. Nausea roiled in her gut. Well, that hadn't ever happened before. Afraid she was going to be sick, she started for Nick's truck. It was silly, but she didn't want him to see her like this. Not when she was raw and shaking and still scared half out of her wits.

  "McNeal."

  Her nerves jumped at the anger in his voice. What in the world did he have to be mad about? She'd just bagged two armed suspects for him, and probably saved his neck to boot.

  "In a minute, Chief." She'd intended for her voice to come out stronger, but it shook like plucked guitar wire.

  "Now, McNeal."

  Sighing, she stopped but didn't turn around. Just a few more seconds and she'd be steadier. She drew a deep breath, willing her hands to stop shaking. Behind her, she heard Nick approach. Her nerves wound tighter. Lord, why couldn't he give her a moment to pull herself together?

  Slowly, she turned, realizing how it must feel to face a firing squad. "I can see from the look on your face you're not going to thank me," she said.

  His eyes raked her like sharp instruments as he drew nearer. "Are you hurt?"

  "I'm fine."

  He stopped less than a foot away—so close she could feel the heat of his anger mingling with the heady aroma of male sweat and aftershave. By the looks of him, she was in for a major butt-chewing.

  "Good," he snapped. "Because you've got two minutes to explain to me what the hell you were trying to pull."

  * * *

  Nick wasn't sure if he wanted to throttle her on the spot or embrace her for bringing down two suspects twice her size single-handedly—even if she had done it by the skin of her teeth. He wasn't sure of a whole hell of a lot at the moment because his own adrenaline had yet to ebb. The only thing he knew for certain was that she looked shaken and vulnerable and tough all at once, and he wasn't sure which facet ticked him off the most. To top things off she looked way too good in that blue uniform with her flushed cheeks and red-brown hair tumbling over her shoulders like strands of tangled silk.

  "I told you to stay in the truck, not to take down two armed suspects like some kind of female Rambo," he said.

  "I wasn't going to let two thugs get away in the name of decorum. I'm sorry if that ticks you off, Chief, but I don't operate that way."

  "You're a probationary officer, McNeal. You haven't even filled out your forms and already you're jumping on suspects."

  "I backed you up."

  "You disobeyed a direct order."

  "I used my best judgment," she retorted. "Where in the hell were you?"

  "The guy in the rear kept me a little too busy to baby-sit you."

  Anger flared in her eyes. "I'm a trained police officer."

  "You're a loose cannon."

  Her wince was almost imperceptible, but Nick saw it and knew he'd hit a nerve. His temper wouldn't let him back off. "I won't have you taking risks and endangering yourself and everyone else because you have something to prove."

  "Maybe you'd rather Steph lost her other parent in there!"

  The words struck him dead center. Nick felt himself recoil. Emotionally. Physically. He tried to squelch the reaction. He didn't want her to know she'd struck a geyser of guilt than ran a mile deep in his heart. He didn't want her to know he felt the depth of that guilt every time he looked at his daughter and saw that wheelchair.

  "Don't push me, McNeal," he warned. "You'll lose."

  She blinked, as if her own words had shocked her. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for—"

  "Frank warned me about that killer instinct of yours."

  "I didn't mean—"

  "Sure you did. Don't lessen the impact by trying to take it back now. Go for the jugular. That's your style, isn't it?"

  "You don't have a clue what my style is."

  He tried to curb the anger building in his chest, but it had already gotten away from him. He knew he was overreacting, but this woman had a way of pushing all the wrong buttons. "You like stepping a little too close to the edge, don't you, McNeal?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You got a death wish or something?" he asked.

  "That's a ridiculous question."

  "Maybe you're trying to make up for something you did or didn't do in that warehouse six months ago."

  Her entire body jolted. "Go to hell."

  Before he realized he was going to touch her, Nick took her arm and guided her to the truck, away from the curious eyes of his deputies and the crowd that had gathered in front of the bar. "You weren't straight with me."
<
br />   "I never lied to you."

  "Don't spew semantics at me. Your head being screwed up over that shooting was bad enough. But your little penchant for taking risks is a disaster waiting to happen."

  "You're overreacting—"

  "I always overreact when someone lies to me. It ticks me off!"

  "I reacted like a cop, Nick. I did what I thought was right."

  "Did you even bother to think that we didn't have backup? That you didn't have cuffs? That the suspect could have had another weapon in his freaking sock? That a civilian could have been shot in that scuffle?"

  "Of course I did! I considered all those things."

  Nick stopped when they reached the truck. "When I tell you to do something, you'd better do it. And I mean down to the letter. You got that?"

  "I disarmed two dangerous suspects. I backed you up."

  "You walked into a dangerous situation half-cocked. If we're going to work together, I've got to be able to trust you, McNeal. As it is now, I don't. I sure as hell don't trust your judgment."

  "My judgment bagged two suspects—"

  "You're not ready to return to the field!" Nick's hands shook with rage. He was unreasonably angry. He saw it clearly, but couldn't stop. He didn't want to analyze the reaction she'd unleashed inside him. He didn't want to name its source. But it hit close to home, and he felt it like a bad piece of meat stuck in his gullet, rotting him from the inside out.

  He stared at her, the only sounds coming from their labored breathing and the traffic on Commerce Street

  . The realization of what she was struck him like a blow. Erin was a risk taker. An adrenaline junkie. After the way she'd put herself on the line just now, he wouldn't be far off the mark if he called her reckless. Nick couldn't deal with recklessness. Not after Rita. Not after the havoc her death had wreaked on his life and the life of his little girl.

  Releasing Erin abruptly, he stepped back, stunned by the depth of his rage. "I want a full report on my desk, then I want you to clean out your locker."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You're a smart woman. You figure it out."

  Incredulity filled her gaze. "You can't fire me."

  "I just did."

  She stared at him, her breasts rising and falling beneath her uniform as she sucked in oxygen.

  "If you want to get yourself killed, do it on someone else's time, because I won't have any part in it. I don't care whose niece you are." Without giving her time to respond, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

  * * *

  Erin was still shaking when she opened the door to her apartment and let herself in. She told herself she wasn't upset. That Nick's harsh words hadn't shaken her. That she didn't need this job. She sure didn't need Nick Ryan.

  She couldn't believe he'd fired her!

  He'd overreacted, she assured herself. He couldn't handle the reality of a woman in a dangerous job. Just like Assistant District Attorney Warren Prentice all those years ago—a man Erin had given her heart to, only to have him hand it back to her in shreds because he couldn't accept her being a cop. The parallel left a rank taste in her mouth.

  Nick had no right to come down on her so hard just because she'd taken a calculated risk. But deep down inside Erin wondered if there was a kernel of truth behind his accusations. If the underlying guilt she'd been fighting for months had compelled her to act recklessly.

  I won't have you taking risks and endangering yourself and everyone else because you have something to prove.

  His words rang uncomfortably in her ears as she stepped into the foyer and shut the door behind her. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the jamb and told herself he was wrong. She didn't have anything to prove. She didn't have anything to feel guilty about. Damn Nick Ryan and his Freudian cop psychology, anyway.

  Shoving away from the door, she walked into the living room, trying not to notice the empty moving boxes, or the aches that had crept into her bones since her scuffle with the suspect an hour ago. He hadn't looked that big, but he'd hit her solidly. Not hard enough to cause serious injury, but hard enough to hurt, and she was feeling every single bruise.

  Packing could wait, she decided. A handful of aspirin and a hot bath couldn't. If she didn't soak now, by morning she'd be too stiff to move. And she definitely needed to be able to move, since she'd be lugging boxes to her car and driving back to Chicago.

  Gingerly, she unbuckled her holster and dropped it on the coffee table, then toed off her boots. Lowering herself onto the sofa, she eased off her uniform shirt and checked the scrape that ran from her elbow to the top of her shoulder. The abrasion was shallow, but deep enough to ooze blood and burn like the dickens.

  "Just what you need, McNeal," she muttered. "Another scar." Ignoring the pain, she unclasped her bra and slipped it off, draping it over the arm of the sofa. She should have let Nick take the hit. Maybe he would appreciate her a little more if he knew that tussle had cost her a couple of layers of skin.

  Pulling off her belt, she rose and headed toward the bathroom. She turned on the tap, tossed an herbal cube under the spout and stepped out of her uniform trousers. The aroma of lavender filled the air. She breathed in deeply and felt herself begin to relax. Adjusting the water temperature, she stepped into the tub and sank down to her chin. The abrasions protested, the cut on her knee came to life, but her muscles purred. Sighing, she closed her eyes. After surviving the proverbial day from hell, she knew it didn't get any better than this.

  She'd just begun to drift when the doorbell blasted. Erin opened her eyes and blew out a sigh. Who would be at her door when she didn't know a soul in the entire town aside from Nick and Hector?

  The doorbell rang again.

  "Just a minute!" Climbing out of the tub, she toweled off quickly, shrugged into her robe and padded barefoot to the front door. She looked through the peephole and felt her heart nose-dive into her stomach. Nick stood on the other side, still in uniform, looking as grim as when she'd left him.

  An odd sense of uncertainty jolted her. Turning away, she pressed her hand to her stomach to keep it from jumping. She glanced down at her robe. It was modest enough, but not something she wanted to be seen in by her boss—well, ex-boss in this case—especially since he'd probably stopped by to give her an exit interview she wouldn't soon forget.

  "McNeal, I know you're in there," he said through the door. "We need to talk."

  Determined to get through this with as much dignity as possible, she put her hand on the knob. She didn't give a hoot if the almighty Nick Ryan saw her in her robe. If he had a problem with that, to hell with him.

  She took two deep breaths and yanked open the door.

  * * *

  Erin McNeal wrapped in a terry cloth robe and smelling like freshly cut flowers was the last thing Nick expected. He stood frozen, shocked speechless by her transformation from cop to woman. All the while his brain floundered to form a coherent thought that didn't have to do with soft skin or curves he knew better than to notice. He may as well have been splitting atoms for all the success he had.

  She'd pinned her hair on top of her head, and dark, wet wisps clung to the creamy flesh of her neck. His eyes wanted to roam lower, but he quickly stopped the urge. He preferred not to know this woman had the kind of cleavage that could drive a man slowly insane. He held her gaze, vaguely aware of the color rising in her cheeks, feeling that same heat bum the back of his neck. He refused to think about what the sight of all those curves was doing to the rest of his body.

  "I didn't mean to get you out of the tub," he said.

  Her throat quivered when she swallowed. "I thought about not answering the door, but figured we ought to get this over with."

  "If this is a bad time, I can come back."

  She cocked her head. "If the robe bothers you, Chief, I can throw on my jeans. I think the outcome of this meeting will be the same either way."

  Nick didn't want to think about her in jeans. Not when she was standing before him
with water glistening on her flesh and his body humming with interest. After three years, why did it have to be this woman to remind him that he was still a man, with a man's needs?

  "I'll make this short, then," he said.

  "I'd appreciate that. Do you want to come in?"

  "I'd rather not."

  "Look, if you came here to finish firing me, the least you can do is come in."

  "I didn't come here to fire you."

  She narrowed her eyes. "I thought you were under the impression that I was a loose cannon and a threat to the inhabitants of Logan Falls and mankind in general."

  Nick couldn't help smiling. He dropped his gaze, only to find himself staring at her toes. Unfortunately, they were every bit as sexy as the rest of her.

  He raised his eyes to hers. "You weren't the only one who overreacted today."

  "Is that your idea of an apology?"

  "Save it, McNeal. I may have overreacted, but you were out of line. I won't tolerate it." Hearing movement behind him, Nick turned to see Mrs. Newman, the town gossip, pause outside the adjacent apartment with a bag of groceries in her arms. She gazed at him for a moment, then peered into Erin's apartment with unconcealed curiosity. Terrific, he thought, this ought to get the tongues wagging.

  Erin noticed and moved aside. "Do you want to come in?"

  "I can't stay." He stepped into her apartment, realizing belatedly it would have been smarter for him to have handled the situation over the phone.

  Turning away, Erin walked into the living room. Nick followed, struggling not to feel awkward—failing miserably—and trying in vain not to notice the curve of her backside beneath that robe.

  The apartment was small, with high windows and gauzy curtains that ushered in ribbons of yellow sunlight. The furniture was outdated, but functional. Nothing frilly for Erin McNeal. No photographs or mementos. It didn't surprise him she wasn't neat. She'd barely unpacked, and already there was a hint of feminine clutter. A towel tossed haphazardly over a box. Her boots lay next to the sofa, where she'd kicked them off. He spotted her holster on the coffee table. Then his gaze stopped on the scrap of lace draped over the sofa arm. Her bra, Nick realized. The same one he'd noticed through her blouse the first time he'd seen her. No, he thought, coming here hadn't been a good idea at all.