What was he doing? He should be making some calls, following up on Thompson, checking the security feed. But fear of what happened in the bank had him in its grip, and he couldn’t focus. She’d been attacked one room over and he’d not even known.
Lucas squeezed the book, venting a tiny fraction of his frustration on its leather exterior. His self-confidence was shot.
Not wanting to disturb her by sitting on the bed again, but unwilling to leave her side, Lucas sank to the floor, leaning against the wall as what-ifs ran on a loop in his brain. Seeking a distraction, he opened the book. A journal. The handwriting was familiar, but not Harper’s. Curiosity had him flipping through the pages, seeking context to pin down its owner.
He read a passage. Whitman keeps pressing for more information on Dane’s investigation on the Washington suicide. I keep trying to put him off, but I know it’s only a matter of time before he calls in his cleaners. The guy is crazy and not a fan of loose ends, or someone nosing around the Washington case. Dane could bring the whole house of cards down, and Whitman knows it. And even I can’t allow that to happen.
Shock stopped him from reading. Then reading was all he was capable of. He flipped to the next page. Alice is pressing me to run away with her. He flipped twenty pages ahead. Things have gotten out of control. I don’t know if I can keep Whitman from killing Dane. Twenty more pages. Dane has stopped confiding in me altogether. He’s trying to protect me, but that makes it impossible to protect him. Lucas flipped through it some more, looking for a list of bad cops. He found it on the last page—and saw his name penciled in at the bottom.
“Bingo.” There were a few surprises, but not many, and now he had the evidence they needed to clean house. Standing, he reached for his phone to call the lieutenant—whose name was not on the list—but paused before hitting send. Harper had the book. There would be no getting around revealing that when Lucas handed the journal in. “Harper MacLain,” he said to her sleeping form, “what the hell are you doing with Joseph Folsom’s journal?”
And how long had she been holding out on them: Dane, the DA, him, Internal Affairs, the lieutenant, and countless others who’d devoted untold man-hours trying to root out the bad players in the MPD? It also begged the question, what other secrets did she hold?
As much as it killed him to do it, Lucas returned the journal and put the pocketbook back where he’d found it, around Harper’s arm. He needed to see her next move. Once he knew that, he could assess her intentions and know how best to proceed…to protect her.
Patience was harder to come by the longer he watched her sleep. Every time he tried to make an excuse, or imagine a situation that caused her to keep this secret, it always came back to it didn’t matter. He loved her. He’d protect her at all cost no matter her reasoning.
When had he crossed that line, where no matter what she did, no matter who he discovered she was, he loved her and wanted her anyway? Any way he could get her. Lucas liked to think he was a sensible man—hell, he was a man of the law.
This was so not cool.
When he couldn’t wait a moment longer for her to wake, he banged around in the kitchen, hoping to rouse her as he prepared sandwiches and chips, setting the meal on the dining room table. When that didn’t gain a response, he walked through the dining room into the living room, put a hand on the banister and called upstairs, waiting for her to appear. She stepped into sight, groggy and sexy, her red curls riotous about her face and shoulders. He noted she’d left her pocketbook behind, and it was a painful reminder she still hadn’t told him about the journal.
“Time to eat.” He waved her down the stairs.
She didn’t move. “I was sleeping.” When he simply waved her down the stairs again, she shook her head and seemed to contemplate returning to her room.
“Come downstairs, Harper. Eat something. It will help flush the drug from your system.” And it was time to make her spill her guts. Then he’d call the lieutenant and arrest those on the list.
Harper weighed her choice to return to the bedroom or go down the stairs. With an air of fragility, she nodded. “I am hungry.”
“How’s your head?”
“Better.” She touched where it had bled, stepping down the stairs. “Still sore.” Walking past him, deeper into the living room, she avoided his gaze.
He’d sensed something was off, assumed it was worry. Now he knew her secret and sympathized, because he’d been carrying his own—his undercover work at the precinct. Whatever Harper’s reasons for holding out on him, in her mind, they were valid. She’d never withhold it otherwise…but she’d chosen poorly. He’d caught her, and now they needed to make things right.
“We need to talk.” That got her attention. She frowned, fidgeting with the Band Aid on her palm. It reminded him of how she’d been cut on the broken glass of the picture he had no right to have. He indicated the couch.
“If this is about us, Lucas, now isn’t—” She seemed a raw nerve, so vulnerable.
“Harper, please, don’t be upset.” He couldn’t help himself. He drew her into his embrace and held her, struggling to find the words to reassure her. He even came close to telling her he knew about the journal, but stopped himself, fearing he’d freak her out, and prompt a lie.
She didn’t resist, but rather collapsed against him, pressing her hands to his chest, resting her forehead there. Her tears dampened his shirt, and then she sobbed quietly. Lucas didn’t know what to do…so he kissed her. She kissed him back, as if desperate for the contact.
She loosened his T-shirt from his waistband, unbuckled his belt, all without breaking their kiss. They discarded one item of clothing after the next, until they were completely naked, pressing against each other. Her hot, soft skin against his hardness. It drove him wild.
Trembling, throwing her head back, eyes closed, she sighed as Lucas cupped her breast, and moaned as he wrapped his tongue around its tip. Impatient, incapable of waiting, he lay her on the couch, willing to take the part of her she offered, even if it wasn’t all he needed.
“You make me crazy.” Harper moved so he could lay beside her. “One touch and I do exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t.”
He settled beside her, dropping kisses on her lips, her eyelids, her cheeks. “Some promises aren’t meant to be kept.”
He wanted to demand honesty in words and emotions, because he wanted to confess his secrets, declare his love, the grief he’d suffered when she’d left him, but he knew that kind of honesty had a cost he wasn’t yet brave enough to pay. “Kiss me. I need…I need you to kiss me,” he said.
As if slowly waking from a languorous slumber, Harper gave him the sexiest grin and urged him onto his back. “I want to kiss you.” She threw her leg over his hips, straddling him, leaning so her breasts brushed against his chest. It was exciting and put him in such a state, he struggled not to bury himself now, deep inside her softness.
Their tongues met in a fiery kiss, and it once again reminded him of what he’d lost. Then she moved south, kissing his neck, his chest, drawing her glorious mane of red curls over his hypersensitized skin…and he couldn’t think, only feel.
His need for her shook him, made him desperate, because he knew he was losing her again and didn’t know how he’d cope. He didn’t have the buffer of ignorance to help him weather what he knew was coming. He loved her. He loved her. He hated that it didn’t matter.
Lucas flipped her under him, settled between her thighs, and just as he positioned himself, she touched his cheek, struggling against a frown. “Why does it have to be you?”
He entered her with one sure thrust, drawing a gasp from them both. “Because you love me, too.” He had to be right. Anything less made no sense. Anything less would destroy him. Harper held him close as he withdrew and again sheathed himself. “You loved me once,” he said.
“Yes.” She drew her hands down his back, lingering at the curve above his ass. “I remember.” He dipped his head, brushing his lips against he
rs. “The problem is I remember it all.”
It felt too good to stop, too good to slow down. Over and over, forcing her to hold his gaze, to remember the good times, the passion, the kindness, he searched for the answers he sought, discarding the answers he could not accept. “You love me, Harper.” He pulled out a bit, paused, and waited until she struggled beneath him, impatient for him to continue, then he surged forward again. “You love me.”
She met him stroke after stroke, silent, not accepting his words but welcoming his body until she gave a tiny gasp as climax overtook her, crippling his resolve to hold off. He succumbed to his passion, cresting, owning it, claiming Harper in the only way she’d allow.
It was devastating. He buried his face in the curve of her sweet-smelling neck, and when their heartbeats were in sync, and their breathing slowed, he felt her palm rest over his heart. If she loved him as he loved her, she was keeping it to herself. Demanding more would do nothing but lose him what pride he had left. She was playing by the rules he’d created—he couldn’t cry foul now and keep credibility.
Lucas held her until the air-conditioned breeze from the vents made her shiver. It was time to let the moment go and see what the next one held. No more games. Though it might be painful, awkward, scary even, they needed to talk about the journal. It was a murderer’s, and she had some explaining to do.
Harper pressed her lips to his chest and then rubbed her cheek there. “When is Dane coming back?” she said.
“Marnie said they had stuff to do, so I don’t know. Soon, maybe.” He rolled off the couch and gathered up their clothes. Stepping into his briefs and jeans, he watched as she slipped on her bra and panties, wondering if this would be the last time he saw her naked. “You could call him, tell him to come now if you need to speak with him.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to her, wondering what she’d do. Harper reached for it but stopped herself at the last moment, hesitating.
The perimeter alarms went off. Harper startled, her fear hiding all other thoughts. Lucas tossed her the phone, grabbed his shirt and shrugged it on. “Call your brother. It might be a malfunction, but better safe than sorry.”
Harper dialed and put it on speaker, quickly donning her jeans and T-shirt. It rang and rang.
Lucas ran toward the kitchen, buttoning his shirt. Throwing the pantry door open, he saw Dane’s security equipment was live and delivering bad news. The driveway monitor showed activity; an unfamiliar van driving fast. He hadn’t had time to finish studying the bank’s security feed, but his gut told him it was too much of a coincidence that it was a van. He and Harper had maybe a minute before it arrived at the front porch. Lucas looked up, grabbed the shotgun hanging over the lintel, checked it for shells, and felt relief to find it fully loaded.
Back in the living room, he found Harper on her knees next to a side table. “Go upstairs,” Lucas said. Dane’s line went to voicemail, explaining they needed to leave a message. The sound of tape ripping preceded Harper holding a gun, previously affixed beneath the table.
“Two is better than one.” She aimed her gun at the front door. “What are we looking at?”
“This isn’t the same as a shooting range, Harper.” Her hands were shaking. He wanted her nowhere near what was about to go down. “Go upstairs.”
“Tell me!”
“Van. They should be at the porch soon.” He aimed the shotgun at the front door. “At least hide behind the couch.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her take cover, still aiming at the front door. The phone intoned a long beep, indicating the message had been taken and the line disconnected.
“I hate to say I told you so.” Her voice trembled.
“What are you talking about?”
“The MacLains are poison, Lucas. You should have stayed in Boston.”
The front door burst open, its casement splintered. Lucas aimed, held his fire, finger on the trigger. No one came through. Then he saw a hand lob a canister into the living room. Lucas registered what it was the moment he dived toward Harper, but it was too late. The concussion grenade caught him midair, and he was out cold before he hit the floor.
He woke tied to a chair in the living room with a raging headache and a ringing in his ears. His wrists were tied behind him, and his ankles and waist tied to the chair. Harper sat on the couch off to his left, her hands over her mouth, her legs drawn up, staring at him over her knees. There were three masked gunmen, two carrying assault rifles, one carrying the biggest Smith & Wesson revolver he’d ever seen. While Lucas’s weapons had shrunk to a small knife he kept hidden in a sleeve on the inside of his belt at his back. Out-manned. Out-gunned. Trussed up and they had Harper.
“Fuck.” He turned to Harper. “Don’t say anything.” It was hard to hear himself over the ringing in his ears. “Don’t do anything. Let me handle this.” His hopes for a negotiation dropped significantly when the biggest of the gunmen laughed. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Both questions were premised on the assumption there were negotiations to be made. The big guy’s laugh made Lucas think maybe that wasn’t the case. The medium-size guy was still big, six feet easy, and helping the big guy trash the place. The other one, the one with the revolver, was short, slight, and looked as if a forceful wind would knock him down. He held back, keeping the revolver aimed at Lucas while the other two flipped tables, pulled drawers, tore cushions. He had to assume they didn’t know the list was gone, stolen. Because there was no way they could know about the journal.
Yet they knew about the farmhouse. That reeked of an inside job. But who?
The large gunman stopped searching. “This is such a waste of time.” He stepped in front of Harper, his assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “Where is it?”
She pressed her back against the couch’s cushions, trying to move as far away from the man as possible. “Someone stole the list at the bank. We don’t have it! Leave! Go! We won’t tell anyone you were here.”
The masked man cocked his head to the side. “Give us the journal.”
Lucas’s heart sank as his fears were confirmed. Shit. They knew about the journal. “What journal?” His question turned the big guy’s attention back to him.
“Do we look like we’re playing games?”
Hunched, his fists cocked, the bruiser seemed waiting for an excuse to give Lucas a beat down. Then the small guy stepped up and aimed his revolver at Lucas’s belly, pulling the hammer back. With this caliber gun, if he fired, the round would pierce Lucas and the wall behind him. The negotiations had begun. The journal for his life—and, conversely, once they gave up the journal, there would be nothing to leverage for their lives. They needed to stall, hope Dane and Marnie had been tipped off by Harper’s attempt to leave a message, and maybe show up in time to run interference.
“We can’t give you something we don’t have,” Lucas said. “I’m a cop. Think twice about your next move. B and E is one thing. Kidnapping, unlawful detention, assault of a police officer—that’s another. Leave, now.”
The big guy stared, whatever emotion he was feeling hid by the mask. “Or not,” he said.
The sneer in his tone was unmistakable, and telling. They knew he was a cop, and it didn’t factor into this interrogation. Lucas feared that meant they had friends in high places, officials who needed the list destroyed…the list that outed many of them.
“Let Harper go,” he said, “and then I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Lucas!” Harper shook her head. He saw her fear, her outrage at his suggestion. Most of all, he saw her shock, and it surprised him in turn. How could Harper not know he’d do anything to keep her safe?
The small gunman lifted his gun’s muzzle and pressed the cold metal to Lucas’s chest.
“Stop!” Harper held out her hands, as if she could stop the gunman by force of will.
The small gunman’s eyes…slits of silver, flat, uncaring, behind the anonymity of the black mask…they unnerved Lucas. Their lack of em
otion told him he was facing a stone-cold killer.
“Shoot him,” the big guy said. “We have the girl. We can make her talk.”
Harper screamed and jumped from the couch, lunging for Lucas.
“Stop, Harper! Get back!” Lucas struggled against his bonds, watching as the medium-size guy caught her around the waist, pulling her hair toward the ground to control her. Her struggles faded when she couldn’t move.
“Please! Leave him alone!” she said.
“We don’t have any journal! We can’t give you what we don’t have!” Lucas shouted.
The biggest gunman unsheathed a large knife and took Harper from the medium-size guy. Holding her by the back of her neck, he walked her to Lucas’s side, forcing her head toward him. Lucas could feel her breath on his cheek, see her terror up close. Then, with the flat of his blade, the masked man rubbed the knife over the delicate skin of Harper’s cheek, inches from Lucas’s eyes. She whimpered, her chest rising and falling, her eyes tightly closed, as that knife moved to her throat.
“Would you rather we tie her to the chair?” the gunman said.
“Take your hands off her!” Lucas fought his bonds, rocking the chair, struggling to reach his belt and his secret weapon therein.
“Lucas,” she said.
His name on her lips stopped his struggles. Hopeless, he held her gaze, unable to save her but determined to be with her through the worst of this hell. It was all he could do…then the truth hit him.
Knife at her throat, gun to his belly, Harper knew where the journal was and still wasn’t giving it up. What the fuck?
Chapter Fourteen
The man was pulling her hair, forcing her head back, and the blade was cold against her throat. It was hard to think, and she was afraid to swallow lest the blade cut into her skin. And she kept trembling. Couldn’t stop herself.
Don’t say anything, Lucas had said. He was the cop. Yeah, she’d lost the list. Yeah, she couldn’t lose the journal, too. Did this mean Lucas had a plan? Because not saying anything seemed a really bad idea, especially since Lucas didn’t know she had the journal. And the knife…it was hard to think with the knife there. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t even take a deep breath.
Tempted by a Touch (Unlikely Hero) Page 17