Can't Help Loving You

by Nika Rhone

  The shattered femur had been patched back together with enough titanium rods and screws to make him light up the courthouse metal detector like a Christmas tree every time he went through. It wasn’t pretty, but it was solid. It was the damage to the muscles, tendons, and nerves that left Rafe with a much more uncertain future. If they didn’t heal right, it would be worse than being left with a permanent impairment. It would be the end of his career.

  Not going to happen.

  He didn’t care how many specialists he had to see, or how hard he had to work. Rafe wasn’t giving up until he was back on the job doing what he loved. Protecting the city and the people in it. Making a difference.

  The sound of a key at the front door snapped Rafe’s attention from his inner cheerleading with a jolt. His hand twitched for the gun that was locked away in the safe bolted under his bed. Not that he needed it. He could tell from the exaggerated attempts to enter quietly that the intruder was more than a little inebriated. Since most burglars didn’t burgle drunk, that left one other person it could be.

  “Cris.”

  His eyes already adjusted to the lack of light, it was easy for Rafe to see the way his brother froze at the unexpected voice. Coming into the dark apartment from the lighted hallway, Cris’s night vision would have been compromised, which meant he probably hadn’t seen Rafe sitting there. Or expected him to be awake at such a ridiculous hour.

  Wanting to keep that advantage, Rafe didn’t bother to turn on a light. “I thought you went to a study group meeting.” One he’d assumed Cris had returned from hours ago.

  “Hey, Rafe!” His brother’s voice held the too-bright tone of a drunk who knew he was caught but still hoped to jolly his way out of trouble. “What’re ya doin’ up so late? It’s…” Cris brought his watch up to his face despite the darkness, then dropped his arm as though it were too heavy to hold up. “It’s late.”

  “Yeah, it is. Where were you?”

  “I, uh…I had study group.”

  “After that.”

  “After?” Cris managed a credible amount of confusion.

  “Yeah, after.”

  “Oh, well, uh, a few of us, uh, went out for a beer. You know, to, uh, blow off a little steam.”

  “Sounds like it was more than a little.”

  Cris spat out a curse, his drunken bonhomie turning to hostility in less than a heartbeat. “What the hell’s wrong with having a little fun sometimes?”

  “There’s a little fun, and there’s a little too much fun.” Not that he expected his brother to appreciate the difference right now. He’d dealt with enough drunks over the past few years to know they all believed they were in perfect control.

  He’d scraped enough parts of them off the pavement to prove they weren’t.

  “A little too much for who?” Cris sneered. “Just because you’ve turned into a fucking old man doesn’t mean I can’t go out and have a good time with my friends on the one Saturday night I don’t have to be at the restaurant.”

  Old man? Christ, he only had five years on his brother. Was it just the booze talking, or did Cris really see him that way?

  “I didn’t say not to have a good time. All I’m saying is to dial it back a little.”

  “You’re not mi padre, bro, so get the hell off my back about what I do or don’t do.”

  That stung. Rafe didn’t think of himself as trying to be their father. He was just hardwired to try and protect everyone around him. Even if they were currently being a drunken dickhead.

  “Fair enough. You’re a big boy. You should be able to make your own decisions.” No matter how wrong or stupid they might be.

  “Damn right,” came the cocky reply.

  But Rafe wasn’t done quite yet. “Just tell me one thing. You didn’t drive home like this, did you?” Because if he had, Rafe was going to have to go light a candle that his idiot brother had gotten home in one piece.

  And then chew him a new asshole in the morning.

  “No.” The single word managed to sound both guilty and sullen. “Paula drove me home.”

  Thank God for small miracles.

  Rafe sighed. “Go to bed, Cris.”

  “S’what I was trying to do when you stopped me,” Cris muttered as he staggered into motion.

  Listening to his brother bump along the wall all the way to his bedroom, Rafe shook his head and prayed the wild streak Cris had shown ever since he got out from under their mother’s watchful eye would blow over soon. He was acting more like he was eighteen than twenty-three, but so far his schooling hadn’t been affected. Neither had his work at the family restaurant, Bayamo. Until either of those things happened, Rafe didn’t have a real reason to tank his brother’s fun.

  Except for the hangover the size of a bus Cris would to wake up with later. Suitable penance for being stupid, all things considered. But that didn’t stop Rafe from grabbing a bottle of water and a couple of aspirin to bring to his brother, who had only managed to get one leg of his skinny jeans off before falling face-first onto the bed. He’d stacked his arms under his head like he planned to sleep there.

  “Serve you right if I took a picture of you like this and sent it to mami.” Rafe helped his brother strip down to his shorts. He bit back a laugh at the horrified look of panic Cris gave him as he crawled under the covers. “Here.” Rafe handed him the water and aspirin. “Drink the whole thing before you pass out. Trust me, you’ll feel better when you wake up if you do.”

  “Gracias, hermano.”

  Rafe waved away the slurred thanks and turned to leave.

  “You don’t always have to take care of everybody’s problems, you know,” Cris said. “You’re not responsible for the world.”

  Maybe not the whole world. Rafe pulled the door shut behind him. But he was responsible for his little slice of it, and for keeping everyone there safe and well. Even when they needed to be protected from themselves.

  Chapter Three

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Lillian dragged her robe on over the skimpy shorts and tank top pajamas and stumbled to answer the demanding knock that threatened to take down her door. “Hold your freaking horses.” She was halfway there when the very impatient person started a long, slow knock she recognized all too well. “Oh, damn.” Much as she’d rather not face him, she didn’t have a choice.

  After shutting off the alarm system, she turned the deadbolt with an irritated snap. Muttering one more curse under her breath, she yanked the door open to glare at the man in the intimidating black police uniform standing on the other side. “What?”

  “That’s how you answer the door when you don’t know who’s on the other side?”

  “No, that’s how I open it when I know my very annoying little brother is on the other side.” Reluctantly, she opened the door wider to let him in. Tempting as it was to close it in his face instead, he’d just stand out there pounding until she opened it again.

  “How could you know it was me? You didn’t even check through the peephole.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “Because I had my finger over it.” Peter walked past her and stopped, crossing his arms as he stared down at her wearing his best cop-face. “And stop calling me your little brother. You were born a whole ten minutes before me.”

  “Which still makes me your big sister.” She smirked as she closed the door, knowing how much it bothered her twin to have been born second, thereby cementing him forever in the role of baby of the family. If he was going to show up at her door at this ungodly hour unannounced, he deserved some grief in return.

  “Big sister?” Peter scoffed. “Older, maybe, but big? Not hardly.”

  Used to the digs about her small stature in comparison to her brother’s six-foot-plus muscular build, Lillian didn’t bite. Instead, she pushed past him and headed toward the kitchen, leaving him to follow or not. “If you’re staying, I need coffee.”

  To her disappointment, he followed. “Good idea.” Then, “Why are you still in y
our pajamas?”

  “Because I just woke up. Thanks for that, by the way.” Real sleep had eluded her for the longest time, but she’d managed to doze off sometime after two a.m. She could make do with five hours, but one more would have been nice. Especially considering the day she knew she was going to have. Peter was just the beginning of the nightmare that was to come.

  “It’s after seven.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have to be at work till eleven-thirty.”

  Popping a pod into the coffeemaker, Lillian stared at it as though she could make it brew faster by sheer willpower. The fact Peter was here bright and early in full official regalia meant Milo hadn’t wasted any time filing the police report Doyle insisted on the night before. Deep down, she’d almost sort of thought that when she woke up this morning, it would all have been a bad dream, or a mistake, or something. Peter’s presence crushed that weak hope like a bug.

  Almost before the machine was done dripping, Lillian grabbed the fire engine red ceramic mug and inhaled the intoxicating hazelnut aroma before she took a long, satisfying sip. Nirvana. “So, I assume you’re here for a reason and not just to mooch my coffee?”

  Pete settled onto one of the stools along the dark granite island as she dropped a new pod into the machine. “You know why I’m here.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I know why you’re here. Doyle told me he ordered Milo to file a report first thing this morning.”

  “Ah, that’s how you guessed it was me at the door.”

  “No. It was that stupid knock thing you do.” She imitated it on the counter. “Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”

  Peter grinned.

  “Of course, you do,” Lillian muttered, pulling down another oversized mug from the glass-fronted cabinet. “Why else would you do it?” They might both be twenty-four, but she swore she was the only one who acted their age sometimes. “Plus, there was the fact you didn’t need to be buzzed into the building, or up the elevator, so it had to be either one of my neighbors or someone who has a guest pass.”

  Her building didn’t have a doorman, but it was chock-full of other fancy security features that made it almost as secure as if it did. Not to mention the extra add-ons to her apartment her father had insisted on. Balk as she had when Hans, the head of her father’s security team, had installed them, she actually did sleep a little better knowing they were there. Just in case.

  Not that she’d ever admit it.

  “Do me a favor.” Pete accepted the bright green mug with an almost audible groan. “Don’t assume next time. Use the peep hole first, before you turn off the alarm or unlock the door.”

  “Fine, yeah, sure.” She hated using the peephole because that meant she had to drag the little stepstool she kept in the entryway over so she could stand on it to look out. It made her feel like she was six. Hans had tried putting in a door with a lower peephole to accommodate her height, or lack thereof, but all she’d been able to see was her visitors’ chests.

  Not helpful.

  Lillian watched with exasperated amusement as her brother casually looked around the kitchen as he sipped his coffee. “If you’re looking for donuts, I don’t have any.”

  “Blatant stereotyping, sis. Donuts aren’t the only thing cops eat.” He gave another look around. “Coffee cake or sticky buns would be just as good.”

  “Well, sorry, I’m all out of sweets.” She avoided looking at him as she said it. It was a big, fat lie, and her brother had always been a walking lie-detector when it came to her, even before he joined the police department.

  “Lil…”

  “Okay, fine.” With great reluctance, she retrieved the leftover chocolate cake from the fridge. “Didn’t you have breakfast this morning?”

  “Yeah, but that was hours ago.” His eyes lit up when he saw the cake, then yelped when she slapped his hand as he reached for it. “Hey!”

  “Pretend you have manners and wait a second, okay?” She retrieved a plate and fork, pulled a knife from the wooden block on the counter, and sliced off a hunk. Thea had generously parted with her favorite dessert because in her mind, there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be made better by chocolate. Most of the time, Lillian agreed. After last night’s revelations, however, she didn’t think there was enough chocolate in the state to make the disaster her life had suddenly become feel any better.

  But what the hell, she could try.

  Grabbing another plate and fork, she cut herself a much smaller slice and sat next to her brother at the kitchen island, where they both worshiped at the altar of gooey chocolaty goodness. As with many twins, they shared a lot of the same likes and habits. An abiding love of sweets was one of them.

  A desire to forge their own path, different from the one their older brothers had taken by joining the family investment firm, was another. Which was why Pete, of all people, should understand what she was doing. Why she was working so hard to keep it a secret until she was ready to let everyone know. But every time she wanted to tell him, the words seemed to stick in her throat. Once she said them out loud, it would be real. And then she’d be morally obligated to follow through or look like a failure. Again.

  That was her biggest problem. Had been her entire life. She always had big dreams, big plans, but her follow-through often left a lot to be desired. Which was why her father had bowed to her desire to attend art school, but also pushed her to get her business degree, as something to fall back on. “Just in case.”

  Code for “when you flake out again.”

  Maybe it was time to try putting herself out there. If she told Peter, no, if she showed Peter her studio, the recent canvas she’d spent so many hours slaving over, the others that were stacked against the walls drying… Maybe she needed to be held to account in order to stop chickening out.

  Granted, Peter wouldn’t know a Picasso from a Pollock, but he also wouldn’t tell her that her work sucked, either. For a brother who loved to tease, he was surprisingly supportive of her efforts. He’d even retrieved several of her early works from the garbage bin and hung them in his apartment, much to her embarrassed pleasure.

  Okay. She put her fork down, squared her shoulders, and swiveled her stool to face him. This was it. She was going to—

  “So, about your tires…” Peter scraped the last of the cake from the plate and licked the tines of the fork clean.

  —chicken out and wait for a better time. Again.

  God, she was such a coward.

  A flaky, no follow-through coward.

  “Have you had any problems with anyone at the gallery lately?” Peter pulled out his notepad. Just like that, he wasn’t her brother any more, he was a cop. “Any disgruntled customers? Have you fired or disciplined any employees?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Although she wouldn’t mind giving Bernice a little talk about the importance of not pissing off one boss to suck up to another. “But there is someone you might want to look into.” She told him all about what had happened the previous day with Roman. He didn’t write down much, but he looked thoughtful by the time she was done.

  “And this guy, Roman, he’s trying for the same manager’s position that you want, right?”

  “Yes.” She was hoping she wouldn’t need it, but it was her one safety net in case her other plans crashed and burned. Without it, her father would swoop in over her still smoking remains and drag her off to nine-to-five land.

  “And he’s been at the gallery, what?” He referred to his notes. “About four months now?”

  “Something like that. Felix hired him right after Donny left.” Which had been devastating for her. Donny had been the one to champion her to Felix, to take a chance on the “poor little rich girl” who wanted to hold down an actual job. He’d seen her passion for the art, and he’d taken it upon himself to become her mentor and, eventually, her friend. His sudden decision to move back to New York had been a bitter loss on both a professional and personal level.

  “The damage to your car started
when?”

  “About two months ago.”

  Peter’s lips hardened as he jotted something down. “Has this Roman guy done anything besides snoop through your desk to make you think he could be responsible for what happened to your car? Any arguments or flashes of temper? Anything that might have made you feel threatened?”

  Roman, threatening? Lillian almost laughed. He so wasn’t the type. Tall, lanky, with manicured hands and more product in his hair than her and Bernice combined, he was the least physically threatening man Lillian knew. He was also annoying, arrogant, nosy, secretive, and if her suspicions about Bernice were correct, manipulative as hell. But try as she might, she couldn’t picture him skulking around the parking lot in broad daylight with a knife to go all stabby on her tires.

  “No, nothing.” Which was too bad. Roman as the bad guy in all of this would have made her life way easier. “He’s a jerk, but he’s a harmless jerk.”

  “Don’t discount him just because he doesn’t seem the type. Not everyone shows their true colors to the world. Not until it’s too late.”

  The reminder sent a shiver of unease through Lillian’s body, making her clutch the mug tighter with both hands. Thea had once been the target of a stalker who’d turned out to be the one person no one had suspected because he’d been so…average. So not the type. He’d hidden in their midst for months, with no one, not even the always suspicious Doyle, any the wiser.

  Sobered by the memory of how easily they’d all been fooled, Lillian nodded her agreement, but it wasn’t enough for her brother. “I mean it, Lil. I want you to be extra careful whenever you’re anywhere near this guy. Don’t be alone with him, don’t get in a car with him, don’t—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Lillian broke in with an exasperated glare. “We do work together, remember, so I can’t avoid him altogether. We see each other coming and going, but it’s rare when our schedules overlap. Only when there’s a showing, or if there’s a shipment in or out that Felix isn’t available to handle.” Which was almost never. Felix was the ultimate control freak when it came to his gallery.