“Anything, just go.”
The moment he was out the door, she slammed and bolted it, then leaned back against the door and psychically kept track of Ethan’s movements. She heard a car start. Went to the windows just as he pulled away from the curb.
If she didn’t see him drive away, she would believe he was still out there. The feeling that she was being watched made her start.
But no, Ethan’s car was gone. He was gone. Of course, that meant no one was watching her.
Maybe she was overreacting. Just a little. But the last thing she needed was someone trailing her every move. The last thing she needed hanging around was a bodyguard.
The last person she needed in her life was Detective Ethan Grainger.
Chapter Eleven
Nuala stretched out on the bed, Ethan following. He flattened both hands on the pillow on either side of her head. Her breath shortened as he narrowed the distance between them, his lips brushing hers before trailing down her neck. He flicked his tongue over a nipple that hardened on contact. Threading shaky fingers through his hair, she urged him closer so that he took her into his mouth. The wet warmth covering her nipple made her melt. Sensation flooded her from breast to thighs, leaving her needing more. As he suckled her, he let his hand drift along her flesh—neck to the breast he was teasing with his mouth to the roundness that was Maeve, lingering there as if trying to connect with the baby, at last finding the sweet spot between her thighs. Hips tilting upward, she opened for him. He slid two fingers through the thick wetness gathering there and began an irresistible rhythm she couldn’t resist.
Her movements became quicker and deeper. She was so ripe and ready for this, she cried out as she climbed… seeking more… needing him inside her…
And then she woke up.
“Damn you, Ethan Grainger!” she cried, sitting straight up in bed.
Blinking and taking a fast look around to be certain she’d been dreaming again, she realized she was, indeed, alone. His suggesting he should spend the night had messed with her mind.
Groaning, she collapsed back against her pillows and stared at the clock on the dresser. Eleven after six. She’d been in bed since midnight, but she’d tossed and turned, her night invaded by one Detective Ethan Grainger. Over and over. He seemed to have some kind of power over her, making her want to do intimate things with him.
But he wasn’t Shade.
This was wrong!
Ethan had caught her at a weak moment the night before. She’d been unlike herself. That had been happening a lot during the last few weeks of her pregnancy. How had her life spun out of control?
That had to stop.
She really needed to get Ethan out of her life.
Still, considering she hadn’t been able to track down Nik herself or get him to respond to her calls or texts, pushing Ethan out of her life right now would be a mistake. Finding people was his job. He’d said he’d do whatever was necessary to find Nik. They would get the truth from her brother about this danger he feared. More importantly, Ethan had promised she wouldn’t lose another person she cared about.
But could she really trust Ethan to keep something terrible from happening to Nik? He’d claimed to love Shade like a brother, but he hadn’t been able to stop his partner’s murder… and Ethan didn’t even like Nik.
*
Ethan woke the next morning as erect as he’d been when Nuala had been in his arms. He thought of her now. The kiss… his hand exploring her through her clothes… in search of her heat…
He began to ache for her. Groaning, he knew he was never going to get rid of this hard-on without doing something about it.
He slid his hand along the turgid flesh between his thighs as he thought of old friends-with-benefits… and then women after whom he’d lusted… and finally thought of a hot new actress who’d appeared nude in a cable show.
The result was utter frustration.
He wanted the one woman who should be out of his reach. Well, she was out of his reach at the moment. And thinking of her wasn’t the same as being with her in reality, and he couldn’t help his traitorous mind as fantasy filled it.
Nuala was under him, his hands flattened on her pillow, his mouth tasting hers again before moving to one of those full, ripe breasts. He suckled her as he stroked his hand down over her full body and reached for her sex. She was wet for him, and he slid two fingers through her cream so that she pulsed and cried out and lifted her hips in a flurry of movement that took him to a place of no return…
His eyes shot open the moment he came.
Relieved, not wanting to think about what he’d just done, he hit the shower, keeping the water cold enough to ban all lascivious thoughts from his mind.
He had to keep on the case and force Nuala out of his thoughts until later. Her fault he was a little sleep deprived.
After dressing, he grabbed a cup of coffee, texted Isabeau to meet him at the city council where the aldermen were meeting. Then he headed for downtown Chicago and when he suddenly started thinking of Nuala, forced himself to forget to think about his new partner instead. How was he going to keep her busy without her finding out about the Kindred?
By the time he parked his car and made it to the entrance, Isabeau was waiting for him. They spoke with several aldermen who knew Booker well. Unfortunately, they got nothing helpful out of the interviews beyond the dead alderman being in a volatile mood the past couple of weeks, of his having arguments with other colleagues. Isabeau left on her Harley, he in his car. On the way back to the office, he called Skye who agreed to meet with him and Nuala that evening and said she would make sure Luc was present, as well.
Late that afternoon, the task force gathered for an update. The FBI was in on the investigation, but still no leads after forty-eight hours.
The commander had the floor, saying, “The DNA should be resolved in the next day or two. In the meantime, don’t let up. We want to get Booker’s killer off the street as soon as we can.”
Normally, it would take weeks to get DNA results, but a dead alderman had priority.
Just then, Ethan’s cell phone buzzed against his hip. Pulling it from his pocket, he saw a text from Diablo. “Got something. Call me.”
Which he did the moment the meeting ended and everyone dispersed to work on the case from various angles, and he was on the way to his desk.
Diablo’s “Que pasa” came just as Ethan threw himself into his chair.
“What do you have for me?” Ethan asked.
“Tyrone Moody.”
“The leader of the Insane Brotherhood?”
“Word is he met a few times with Alderman Booker last week.”
Isabeau joined him as he asked, “What about?”
“That you’re gonna have to ask Moody.” He gave Ethan an address in the Garfield Park neighborhood.
Disappointed that Diablo hadn’t gotten more specifics, Ethan said, “Will do.”
“So I get my reward. How much?”
“Depends on the kind of information Moody gives me.”
Diablo muttered something under his breath that probably was obscene, and then said, “Yeah, right.” He clicked off.
“Moody?” Isabeau asked.
“Gang leader. Insane Brotherhood.”
“You know where to find him?”
He nodded. “Thanks to Diablo. My snitch,” he clarified.
“And we’re going to go into gang territory to question this Moody?”
If she hadn’t come in on the conversation, Ethan might have gone without her. But going alone without someone to have his back wouldn’t be the smartest thing he’d ever done.
“That’s the plan.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
As they crossed the bullpen, Isabeau asked, “Did you have an accident?”
“Accident?”
“Your jaw.” She was grinning at him. “Looks like you smacked it into something. Like a fist.”
Rather than give he
r the satisfaction of an answer—no way was he going to admit the bruise was courtesy of a woman half his size—he sped up and got out of dodge in record time.
Chapter Twelve
Twenty minutes later, they were out of the gentrified city and in deep gang territory rife with abandoned buildings and empty lots. Ethan slowed as they approached his destination, a century-old greystone that needed repairs from the boarded-up windows to the downspout that pulled away from the wall. A couple of young black men hung out on a stoop, their heads covered by black nylon do-rags. Skimpy black T-shirts showed off tattoos, black outlines of crosses and other symbols that had been done by amateurs.
“Insane Brotherhood?” Isabeau asked as he parked.
She really had to ask? “If not, they’re pretending to be.”
As they left the vehicle, all eyes turned to them.
The gangbanger standing in front of the stairs glared at Ethan, his gaze resting on the slight bulge of his weapon beneath his jacket. “You got business here?”
Ethan didn’t blink. “We’re here to see Tyrone Moody.” He flashed his identification and star. “Not here to arrest him. Just to talk.”
“What you got to talk about?”
“Alderman DeAndre Booker.”
The man cursed and turned his gaze on one of the other men. “Snake, go ask Tyrone if he wanna talk to a dick about the dead alderman.” Then he turned to Isabeau, his gaze moving smoothly down her body and up again to her face. “You his?”
“Partner,” she added, flashing her own star.
He grinned at her. “Now if you want to pat me down, sweet cheeks, I could go with that.”
Isabeau’s features hardened as did her stance. Ethan did a double take at the instant change in her as she said, “If I did, I can guarantee you wouldn’t like it.”
The gangbanger laughed. “Oh, baby, you don’t have the first idea of what I like.”
Isabeau muttered, “Let’s keep it that way.”
The messenger returned. “Tyrone wants to know what the po-po’s doin’ about finding Booker’s murderer.” He waved toward the door. “First floor, dining room.”
Ethan let Isabeau lead the way, just in case anyone got ideas about her. The boarded windows sent a deepening gloom across the entry and living room. He kept his gaze moving to spot potential trouble as they entered what should be the dining room. No dining set, just a couple of mismatched chairs and small tables. Tyrone Moody sat in a high-backed leather armchair against a windowless wall. Dressed like his men, he held an aura of power the others couldn’t touch. Professionally executed tattoo “sleeves” extended to his chest and neck.
Ethan stopped a few feet from the gang leader. “I’m Detective Ethan Grainger and this is my partner, Detective Isabeau DeClercq.”
Moody sized them up in an uncomfortable silence. Then he said, “Scum flatfoots been messin’ with my boys. What’re you doin’ to nail Booker’s killer?”
“Funny thing about that,” Ethan said. “We have a team investigating every angle, interviewing anyone who might have information. I was hoping you might be that man.”
A single bulb hung from the ceiling. Moody leaned in toward the light, exposing the tattooed tears covering his face that indicated both his kills and the people he had lost. “You think I know who killed DeAndre?”
Hm. So they had been on a first name basis. “One of your gang do-rags was found near the body.”
“None of my boys did that work.”
Isabeau moved past him, inspecting what looked like an etching of a voodoo ceremony taped to the wall, reminding Ethan of Diablo’s comment about the gang activity. Candles, a skull and a mortar and pestle sat on a nearby table.
“How can you be certain your boys are innocent?” Isabeau asked.
Moody studied her for a moment, then said, “DeAndre was a brother. He went in a different direction than most of us, was trying to offer choices. Trainin’ and summer jobs for kids still in school.”
“And you were okay with that?” she asked.
“We do what we have to do because we never got options. Too many of our kids are dyin’ on the streets. He was gonna make sure that changed. Now?” He shook his head in disgust.
Ethan gave Isabeau the look saying she should leave the interrogation to him.
She gave him a searing expression in return. As if I couldn’t handle myself!
For a moment, he thought she’d said that out loud. Telling himself to stop imagining things, he turned back to Moody, who was lighting a joint. The asshole really had balls doing that in front of two cops. Ethan could make a deal of it, but if he did, Moody wouldn’t give him a thing they could use. They needed information more than they needed unnecessary paperwork. He gave Isabeau a quick look to make sure she was on the same page. Her head nod said she was.
So, back to Moody. “It sounds like you knew DeAndre well.”
“For a lotta years. He was decent for an outsider. Treated everyone with respect.”
Which led Ethan to his point. “Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
“Enemies…” Moody sucked on his joint and let the smoke curl out of his mouth. “Alderman Peterson was givin’ him shit over his plans to put the young brothers and sisters to work. Sayin’ it was gonna cost his rich taxpayers too much money to implement.”
Isabeau jumped back in. “You think Peterson was trying to stop Booker?”
“Peterson’s been usin’ the gangs forever for his own purpose.”
Ethan’s own opinion from what he knew of the man. “How exactly?”
“By puttin’ the Brotherhood and the Lords at war.”
Whoa! That goes right with what Ethan told me about him using the gangs during his class election…
If he hadn’t been exchanging looks with Isabeau, Ethan would have sworn she’d said that out loud, as well.
Nearly choking on his own words, he asked Moody, “Can you give me anything more specific?”
“Yeah. Don’t give whoever killed Booker a pass.” For emphasis, he smashed the joint out on the arm of his chair.
“I’m not planning on it.” Realizing they were done for the moment, Ethan flipped a card from his shirt pocket and held it out to Moody. “In case you think of anything else you want to tell me.”
Ethan stood holding out the card for what seemed forever, until, wearing a noncommittal expression, the gang leader took it from him, saying, “You can let yourselves out.”
Nodding, Ethan started for the door with Isabeau quickly catching up to him. They left the building together.
The gangbangers let them pass, though a fairly young one said, “You get the bastard who snuffed DeAndre. You don’t got the nerve to do ’im, give us his name and he’ll just disappear.”
Wondering how many kills this kid had already racked up, Ethan waited to hear Isabeau’s thoughts on the matter as they headed for the car, but apparently she was keeping whatever she was thinking to herself. Not that he had a clue as to how he’d heard her thoughts in the first place.
Or maybe his imagination was working overtime.
Was that why he thought Peterson might actually have killed Booker?
Once they were on the drive back to the office, Isabeau pulled out her cell phone. While checking for messages, she asked, “What do you make of Moody’s comments about Peterson?”
“Didn’t surprise me.” He didn’t like Peterson, never had.
“Not even the part about his putting the Brotherhood and Lords at war? What could he have done to make that happen?”
“I’m not sure. Not sure why Peterson would want Booker dead, either. One of the city council members I spoke to this morning said Booker hadn’t been himself in a couple of weeks.” Ethan brought the car to a stop at a red light. “He even saw Booker arguing with Peterson. Who knows what about.”
“Maybe those increased taxes on Peterson’s constituents Moody mentioned.”
“Sorry, I don’t buy that as a motive for murder.”
“What?” He gave her a quick glance and noted her shocked expression.
“The city council already elected a new vice mayor. You’re not going to believe this–”
His gut clutched. “Not Alec Peterson.”
“Yes, Peterson. It’s all starting to make sense.”
“Right,” Ethan said. His pulse picked up and he got the quick high he always did when a case took a turn for the better. He hit the accelerator and tooled around a couple of slow-moving cars. “Peterson just entered our radar as an interested party in Booker’s murder.”
“Are you going to share that with the task force?”
“Accuse an alderman of murder?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not unless I think I can make it stick.”
He’d made that mistake before in trying to reopen the investigation to Mike’s case. No way would he make that mistake again.
Chapter Thirteen
Nuala was furious with herself all day. What had she been thinking returning Ethan’s kiss, then dreaming about him? That was the problem—she hadn’t been thinking at all. She’d been experiencing some kind of physical or psychological trauma, feeling as if she couldn’t do without Ethan kissing her, touching her, making love to her. Either her pregnancy hormones had gotten the best of her, or the soul she was using had. She’d never found that possibility troubling before. But what other explanation for her madness was there?
Shade was the man she loved. She should be dreaming about Shade!
Determined to put Ethan out of mind, she decided to spend the afternoon shopping for baby things. She donned a comfortable loose shift in a jungle print and headed out for My Beautiful Baby, where she let the saleswoman guide her into gathering up some of the basics she would need beyond the few outfits she’d collected over the past weeks.
On the way to the register, she spotted a beautiful white dress embellished with yellow ribbons and tiny flowers. She removed it from the rack, turned it this way and that, then set it flat on a nearby table so she could check the size. Too big. But when she spread the skirts and imagined Maeve wearing it in a few months, she had to have it. Even as she reached for the hanger once more, another hand shot there before hers and swooped it up. The other woman barely looked at it before tossing it into her cart.
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