Joe was a fucking gift that kept on giving, testing her strength, forcing her to dig deep to survive blow after blow of bad news. Without the list, the case would never end. There’d be dirty cops in the precinct, always afraid of being found out, so just as dangerous to her family as before. They knew the MacLains would never stop until they were found, so every dirty cop had skin in the game to destroy her family.
This visit was a wasted effort, or more likely, she’d made the situation worse by agreeing to come. Joe wanted her to believe Lucas was dirty. She wasn’t sure how that benefited him, but she knew it was him trying to get in her head. Joe had killed Alice. He’d tricked Harper into betraying her brother. How did he not know he was already there?
Shouts from down the hall, deafening, threatening. An alarm went off. Instinct had her grabbing the door, moments from the automatic lockdown protocol required when an incident occurred in a precinct house. She had a choice: hide in safety and be at the mercy of someone unlocking the door, or leave the room, potentially stumbling into the fray. With the monitor off, it could be hours before the commotion died and someone remembered she was here, but…she heard police officers shouting, shoes slapping against tile as they ran to the scene. Sounds of a fight. Harper poked her head out, afraid of what she’d see.
Joe was on the bottom of three men, two cops and a man wearing orange prison garb. The cops were struggling to pull the man off Joe. Harper saw a bloody hand rise from the tangle of limbs, holding something metallic. Her brain registered knife as blood spattered the wall.
She screamed, not thinking, running to Joe. Not this Joe. Not the Joe that betrayed her and her family. Not the Joe that killed Alice. She ran to the Joe that loved her, Dane, and Elizabeth, passing the guards who restrained the chained and kicking prisoner, dragging him off. She fell to her knees at Joe’s side. Flat on his back, gasping, he lay clutching his belly, bleeding out. She didn’t know how to help him.
Lucas was shouting orders, calling for a medic. Terrified, Harper pressed on the wound, hoping to stanch the arterial spray, but even her whole weight wasn’t enough; blood was everywhere. Wide-eyed, Joe stared at the ceiling, hyperventilating. The overhead fluorescents highlighted his pallor while blood pooled around her hands, draining to the floor and soaking her clothes. Joe’s panicked gaze connected with hers. His mouth moved, soundlessly, beckoning her to hear his words. Harper leaned until her ear touched his lips and her hair draped down, separating them from the shouting crowd.
“The locket…”
Harper reared back, shocked, convinced she’d heard him wrong. The locket? Shaking, gasping past sobs as she desperately put pressure on his wound, Harper watched as the life drained from Joe’s eyes until what had been Joe was no longer there.
“Sullivan, get Harper out of here!” Dane, her brother, came out of nowhere. Huge, his dark hair framing sharp features contorted with fury, he pulled Harper off Joe, handing her to Lucas. Even in this state, his touch was careful. Lucas dragged her away, supporting her weight as the medics muscled past to tend to Joe.
Then Harper watched, clutching Lucas, unable to turn away as her big, heroic brother, the man she’d always admired, always counted on, became frantic, demanding this man who betrayed him on every level not die. He shouted the demand, grabbing Joe’s bloody prison garb, shaking him, as Harper sobbed, as Lucas held her tighter and tighter. Dane’s muscles strained as he performed chest compressions, attempting to will life back into Joe’s body. The medics worked around him, but Harper could see they’d lost hope. It was too late, the wound mortal, but they packed it anyway while Dane’s blue eyes mirrored his disbelief, anger, and now finally his grief.
After minutes of him trying to revive a dead man, one of the medics, an older man, touched Dane’s arm and shook his head. Her brother’s anguish revealed itself in a rictus of silent pain. He stopped the compressions, remained kneeling, his bloody hands held in supplication. He knew.
Her brother lifted his gaze and met Harper’s. Their mutual horror reflecting back at each other. Joe was dead.
Harper collapsed against Lucas, burying her face against his chest. And in his arms, she gathered the strength to vow, she’d find the people on Joe’s list and bring them to justice. For Dane, Alice, for Marnie and Elizabeth, and yeah, for Joe. The Joe they’d loved. Because Harper would not tolerate her family being hurt one more time. Not. One. More. Time.
Lucas gave her a gentle shake, demanding her attention. “What did he say? Folsom. He said something to you just now, Harper.”
“Say?” She shook her head, her gaze trailing back to her brother. She attempted to pull out of Lucas’s grip. “Let me go. Dane needs me.” Her voice sounded muffled, and she was almost positive she’d stopped breathing. Sucking in a breath, she held it. Joe was dead.
And with him died her secret.
Harper released her breath with a full-body shudder. She felt grief, pain, and a shameful sense of relief. Dane wouldn’t have to find out what she’d done, and Harper wouldn’t have to suffer the judgment of those who would see her less a victim and more a fool. And all it took was Joe dying. She couldn’t stop shaking. Self-disgust mingled with despair, because now all she wanted to do was confess to Dane, to shed her sins and have him take care of her like he always did. “Dane—” Harper couldn’t bear to see him so upset.
Lucas would not be ignored. “Answer me, Harper.”
Dane waved them away, his head bowed, his dark hair shrouding the starkness of his expression. “Get her out of here.” Then her brother propped his back against the wall and rested his forearms on his knees, blood dripping from his fingertips. She recognized that look. She’d seen it the day Dane discovered Alice’s body hanging from the rafters in an old, abandoned warehouse. Murdered by Joe. She hadn’t thought life could become worse. Now she knew better.
Chapter Three
Lucas couldn’t hustle her out of the precinct fast enough. Part dragging, almost carrying her through the halls, he maneuvered her down the elevator and past security, all the while afraid some unhinged assailant might jump out and hurt her. Lucas struggled to push aside his own memories of friends lost to the tug of a trigger and concentrate on Harper’s trauma. Her needs. The past was set, but Harper…he’d save. She was shaking and nonresponsive by the time he sat her in the passenger seat of the Chevy. Bloody hands held stiff, her purse hanging from her elbow, she was in some sort of hellish stasis.
“Harper?” He settled behind the wheel and quickly got them moving, and merged into traffic. “You okay?” Torn, knowing his place was questioning witnesses back at the precinct, Lucas nonetheless knew Harper had to be his top priority. His fears had come to fruition with Joe’s execution—and there was no doubt that was exactly what had happened. The rumor was spread and a hit was ordered by someone in danger of being outed by the list—a dirty cop, or maybe someone up the line of command. He had to assume Harper was a target now.
Lucas had recognized the perp who’d killed Joe, a lifer with nothing to lose. In the prison system, there was no such thing as coincidence. This lifer had been positioned to be on hand, and armed when Joe was being transported from the interrogation room back to solitary. That took clout. Lucas needed the security feed that would follow the lifer’s movements through the precinct, but feared Dane wasn’t in the frame of mind to pull it. The precinct’s tendency for evidence to “disappear” meant the feeds might be a lost cause already. He pressed the Bluetooth on his dashboard, speed dialed, and received Dane’s voicemail. He left a message, hoping for the best. He didn’t trust anyone else there.
“Harper, you’re scaring me. Snap out of it.” Maybe he should take her to the hospital. Lucas felt on shaky ground, unfamiliar with taking care of someone. He’d never been in this position before. His mother died when he was young, and his father died when he was fourteen. Living with his grandparents had been more like living with roommates, and then they’d passed when he was eighteen. He’d been alone since, independent. Girlf
riends came and went, and then with Harper, she’d always been the one taking care of people. Now, he wished he’d paid more attention. He didn’t know what to do for her.
“Excuse me?” Harper sounded confused, and irritated.
Irritated, he understood. “Do we need to go to the hospital?”
“I’m not the one that got stabbed, Lucas.”
“You’re acting…like that.” He used his hand to indicate her situation; bloody clothes, her shock, and everything. It made him suddenly aware that, after holding her so close, his clothes weren’t much cleaner and his shock was only now setting in. Her flash of anger put him in a muddle, making him revert to what he knew. Detective work. “What did he say to you? When you leaned over him, he said something. What was it?” Lucas struggled to read her expression while not running them off the road. “Dammit, Harper, tell me.”
She shook her head, her mouth open, as if she wanted to answer but couldn’t. Then she stared at the blood on her hands and froze again, as if she’d already forgotten his question.
He drove her home as fast as he could, but second-guessed himself when he arrived. Maybe the hospital was the better choice. Maybe she was in shock.
He could take her there, station a few trusted associates outside her door, drive back to the precinct. Hesitating, thinking her brother was the person to make these decisions, he touched the dashboard, planning to call him again. Dane would want an update on his sister, and Lucas could remind him again about the security feeds, but his gut told him to focus on Harper’s safety. Best to blend into the background until he could figure out where things stood, and what Folsom’s death meant for Harper. Lucas disconnected the phone line. He wasn’t calling anyone. Not yet.
When Lucas pulled up to the curb and parked in front of Harper’s house, he was about to caution they were only there to pick up a few necessities, and then they’d bail, but Harper didn’t wait for Lucas. She was out of the car, hurrying to the house, leaving bloody smears on the passenger side seat, the car door, the white picket fence and gate.
The blood. He’d kept his shit together until now, but the damn blood… Breathe, Sullivan, breathe. He hurried after her, scanning the street for threats, seeing none, but not confident they were in the clear. He caught up with her at the door, finding Harper unable to manage the keys without dropping them.
He took the keys and opened the door for her, and then hustled her inside, locking it behind them. Peering out the foyer window, he scanned the street to see if there was any suspicious activity now that they were inside. He heard her stumble on the first stair, saw her catch herself and then hurry up the rest.
Harper’s house was disorienting, especially after what they’d just come from. It was like leaving hell and entering the set of Father Knows Best, but instead of black and white, it was in color. He knew she’d inherited the house, so he wasn’t surprised to see the antique side tables or the large antique piano by the front window. But other than a few rag rugs and the lace curtains, that was it for the trimmings. No clutter, a huge leather couch and chair next to a wood fireplace. All that was missing was a box set TV. Hers was widescreen, and he could see himself watching the game here, drinking a beer, reading a book. It smelled like vanilla and wood polish. Felt like home.
But they’d just come from hell. It was out there, and wasn’t waiting. It was coming for them.
He pulled his gun and held it at the ready, checking all the windows on the first floor, making sure they were locked. Then he hurried upstairs, his steps muffled by the carpet held in place with aged brass stair rods.
“Harper?” He looked left and right, his heart racing. They had to go.
Lucas heard the shower and moved toward it, poking his head in every room along the way. When he’d assured himself the second floor was secure, he stood before the bathroom door, not knowing how to help her. He holstered his gun.
“Harper?” Pressing his forehead to the door, he admonished himself to suck it the fuck up. Folsom’s murder was triggering him, and memories that wouldn’t die punished Lucas even as he brutally pushed them down, desperate to deny them a hold on his emotions. Fists shaking, he closed his eyes, and focused on what to do with Harper. Witnessing a murder, especially one as brutal as Folsom’s, marked a person. It took time to process, and time was something neither had.
Squaring his shoulders, he knocked. No answer. He turned the knob, thankful to find it wasn’t locked, and then peeked his head inside, prepared to close it quickly, in case he’d misread the moment.
She stood in the claw-foot tub, behind a clear curtain, fully clothed and in a bad way. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, sobbing, shaking as she stood under the shower, Harper was bowed under the weight of her emotions.
“Harper.” He stepped inside, locked the door behind him just in case, and then walked closer. Bloody water swirled at her feet. “Fuck.” She didn’t seem to notice he was in the room. It galvanized him, prompting him to strip naked, step into the tub, and wrap his arms around her. He hadn’t been sure what her reaction would be…him naked and all. So he prepared for the worst, expecting her to fight him, but not holding her was not an option. Instead of fighting, Harper sank against him, wrapping her arms around his waist, sobbing against his chest.
“Lucas, they killed him. I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re going to move on,” he said. “Put this behind you.” It was the only thing that worked. The first time was the worst, because you didn’t know if you could move past it. It never got easy, but the first time was definitely the worst.
Without another word, he squeezed peach shampoo on her head and lathered it up. Before long, Harper was helping him, scrubbing with a frenzy, and then she couldn’t take her clothes off quickly enough. The sopping jeans were the hardest, and then she was ripping at her bloodstained bra and panties, scrubbing Joe’s blood off her skin. He helped her clean up, keeping his touch impersonal, and by the time he was done, he was shaken by the effort to control his reaction.
Then she was holding him, eyes closed, rubbing her wet body against his, her lips open on his chest, her tongue tasting the water on his skin. He told himself she was confused, traumatized. She needed care, not passion. So Lucas struggled past the jolts of his thwarted desire and forced himself to breathe. If he delayed stilling her hands as they caressed his body, he told himself he didn’t want to upset her. If he kept his arms around her, pressing her against him with more force than necessity, he told himself the tub was slippery. When her caresses and kisses brought him to the point of forgetting the danger they were in, he stilled her hands with a gasp. She didn’t know what she was doing, and he did. He stepped back, trying to do the right thing, but unable to stop himself from drinking in the sight of her; her delicate instep, long legs, slender hips, and the heaviness of her breasts. He wanted to look at her all day and through the night, but instead he turned off the water. It was hard to ignore his arousal, her questioning gaze, but he did. Then he grabbed a large, fluffy towel, and wrapped her in it before stepping out of the tub.
“Everything will be okay.” Lifting her out, he cradled her in his arms.
Harper buried her face in his neck, and the sensation gave him tingles, to the point where he had to take a moment to let them run their course. It had always been that way with them. One touch, and he lost his mind.
It took a few moments to find her bedroom again. It was cheerful, simple, filled with earth-toned green walls and cream trim, antique cherry furniture polished to a sheen. The queen-size four-poster bed was something out of a magazine, hitting Lucas with a wave of envy. Growing up with his single dad, they’d always lived with mattresses on the floor, boxes in the halls, surrounded by taupe walls in rental apartments. It was a price his father paid to put the job first, and it was never so obvious as now, in contrast to what could have been. His grandparents’ place had been little better; a hastily rented apartment sparsely furnished for a grandson they hadn’t expected to house.
&n
bsp; Lucas laid her on the bed. Without missing a beat, Harper pulled the patchwork quilt around her and curled into a ball. “Go away, Lucas.”
He couldn’t. Not now. So he retraced his steps, put his briefs on, retrieved his gun, but couldn’t make himself put his bloody clothes back on, so he went back into the bedroom hoping Dane left some clothes here. They had to leave. As he was about to ask, he saw Harper hadn’t moved. She just lay there, curled in a ball, and he didn’t have it in him to force the issue, so he lay next to her, worried, facing the bedroom door, one hand keeping her close and the other aiming his Glock at some anticipated intruder.
She’d scared him today, and he was confused. His job required one thing from him, and Harper required something entirely different. The whole reason he avoided serious relationships was because cops lived lives of danger, and sometimes, experienced lots of sadness. He’d made an exception with Harper. Hadn’t been able to stop himself. But the irony was, the MacLains were the poster family for why relationships didn’t mix with police work. It was a dangerous and deadly profession. Add kids to the mix, and it was unconscionable.
Harper had been right a year ago. It was best that they separated before things became too…who was he kidding? Shit.
Disgruntled, Lucas lay next to her until the sun faded in the sky and she slept. When he couldn’t ignore his cell phone vibrating anymore, or the million messages accruing, he sat, saw the text from Dane. The security feeds were corrupted. Lucas’s heart sank.
He felt Harper’s hand on his. “Thank you,” she whispered, head still averted.
The moment felt familiar, like the last time he’d made love to her. She’d been pensive, as she was now, but he’d blamed it on a bad day, or something…he didn’t know, and truthfully, he hadn’t been all that concerned. All was right with his world. And Harper had never been one to complain about his world…his job. She’d been perfect for him. With hindsight, it didn’t take a genius to diagnose him a fool, because the next day she’d left him.
Tempted by a Touch (Unlikely Hero) Page 5