“Oh, I’m just awesome,” she said and began to make sounds that sounded alarmingly like a woman crying.
Dean sat up, placing his feet on the floor. He’d never seen her cry. Not once in all their contact. Not even when talking about her parents’ death. Or Sandy’s. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Has something happened?”
He listened to a few garbled words and could tell she was trying to regain control of her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said between sobs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re crying,” he said. God, that sounded like an accusation.
“I never cry,” she said and began to weep again.
“I’m on my way.”
When June opened the door to her apartment, the penthouse was totally dark behind her. But light from the foyer showed Dean the moisture on puffy cheeks and swollen eyes. She still wore the black dress from the funeral.
“Come here,” he said, pulling her into a tight hug. He should have stayed with her tonight. He never should have left her alone. Damn, she’d been sitting all alone in the dark weeping.
He locked the door and set the alarm, then led her to the sofa and gently pulled her down with him, placing her head on his shoulder. “I’m right here,” he said. “Let it all out.”
Shoulders shaking, she wrapped her arms around his neck and crawled into his lap. He held her, murmuring soothingly, telling her it was okay over and over. She needed this, had probably needed a good cry for ten years. Haunted by her parents’ betrayal, she’d been holding in all her emotion, afraid to live her life.
She finally stopped trembling and sucked in a deep breath.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said, her words muffled into his shirt. “Once I started, I couldn’t stop.”
“You’d been saving up those tears for a long time,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve never seen you cry, June. Not once. Considering what’s going on, I expected a few tears.”
“You’re right,” she said after a sigh. “I think I even prided myself on never breaking down.”
“You needed to cry. Everyone does. It’s a normal release and helps process grief.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. Her hair was a tangled mess, dangling into her face. He smiled and smoothed a lock behind her ear.
“Do you ever cry?” she asked.
“Sure. Sometimes.”
She laid her cheek against his shoulder again. “I can’t imagine you giving in to tears.”
“Yeah, I’m a real badass,” he murmured. More like a wuss. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t see June alone until after he’d closed this case, but here he was, less than twenty-four hours later, holding her, wondering if it would help her or hurt her if he started peeling off her clothing. He ran a hand down her arm, wanting to get her out of this depressing black dress. He’d bet that alone would improve her mood.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
“You didn’t go to Taylor’s because of the protection, right? You were afraid the police presence would spoil the mood of the gathering?”
June nodded. “And I felt like I didn’t have a right to go. No one else knows that Sandy died instead of me.”
“June...”
“How can I look Paul in the eye when I should be dead, not his wife?”
Dean stroked her arm again. “Honey, your friend’s murder isn’t your fault. You know that.”
“Maybe.” She remained silent for a moment, then whispered, “But it is my fault that I didn’t believe in my parents.”
Dean closed his eyes. Damn. And that shitload of guilt was on him. He never should have told her until he’d confirmed that theory. “Ten years ago nobody believed in your parents,” he said. “The evidence was stacked against them, and the fire ended the investigation.”
“But I’m their daughter. What kind of daughter believes the talking heads on TV over her mom and dad? I should have trusted them, defended them to the rest of the world. I should have worked to clear their name.”
Dean hugged her close, thinking her life had all but stopped with that damn arson. He needed to close this case, learn the truth with absolute certainty and put her mind at ease. Then she could move on. He hoped to move on with her, but right now he needed something to say, some useless cliché, anything to make her feel better. Unfortunately comforting weeping women had never been one of his strengths. When the waterworks started, he was usually out the door.
“Make love to me, Dean.”
His thoughts stilled with her soft words. “Are you sure?” Would that be another misstep?
She pulled away from him and came to her feet. Dry-eyed, she extended an arm toward him. “Are you going to make me beg?”
Rising swiftly, Dean stepped behind her and lowered the zipper of the ugly black sack that hid her gorgeous body. He slid the fabric off her arms and down her hips. She leaned against his chest, now wearing a black slip and lacy black bra that made him hard.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I think I’m going to burn that dress.”
“Please allow me to strike the match.”
Praying this wasn’t a fatal error, Dean raised June in his arms and carried her into the bedroom.
* * *
KNOWING NOTHING WAS settled between them, June rested her cheek on Dean’s naked chest and allowed herself to enjoy the sweet intimacy that came after sex with Dean. Maybe they had a lot to hash out, but this was enough for right now. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, making her feel wanted. She needed to feel wanted.
No, she’d needed Dean tonight, and he’d been there for her. There for her in a whole lot of delicious ways. No matter what happened between them from now on, she’d always be grateful for the past hour.
She released a sigh. Oh, just great. How pitiful was she to be grateful to a man for making love to her.
“What’s wrong?” Dean murmured, lightly stroking her arm.
“Nothing to do with you,” she said.
He sucked in a breath, making his chest expand beneath her cheek. “That’s a stretch, considering what just happened between us.”
“My every thought doesn’t revolve around you.” Which was a bit of a lie.
“Thanks for setting me straight,” he said in a flat tone she couldn’t decipher. Could she have hurt his feelings?
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“So, what are you thinking?”
“That I’m totally screwed up.”
His chest rumbled, and she raised her head to look at Dean’s face. “Are you laughing at me?”
He placed her head back against him. “Hell, everyone is screwed up.”
“Not like me.”
“Honey, you’ve been through enough in the last couple of weeks to be treated by the good shrinks at Sunrise.” After a moment he said, “I shouldn’t have told you I questioned the case against your parents. Not until I knew for sure what their involvement was. I hate what that’s done to you.”
“I asked you to be honest with me,” she said. “It’s my own fault.”
“You need to stop thinking everything is your fault.”
“I don’t think everything—”
“Yeah, you know, June, you really do. Think about it.”
She pushed herself up and sat cross-legged to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
He reached for her hand. “Why is it you always want to talk about serious shit after we’ve just enjoyed fabulous sex?”
She jerked away, not certain why she was suddenly so angry. “You brought it up.”
He regarded her steadily. “I knew this was a mistake.”
<
br /> “Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I’m not—”
“And it sure seemed like you enjoyed this. You didn’t want to make love?”
“You know I did.”
“And I want to know what you meant by that comment. You think I’ve got some sort of guilt complex?” Even as she said the words, June realized with a jolt that it might be true.
“Okay. If you want to do this, let’s do it.” Dean pushed himself up in the bed and leaned against the headboard. “I’m not sure I’d call it a complex exactly, but I think you’re on a mission to save every bird you can because of the ones that died in your parents’ warehouse fire.”
“You know about the bird shipment?”
“Of course. And yeah, you feel guilty about those dead birds. You’ve been feeling so responsible for your parents’ crimes, maybe even their deaths, you’re afraid to truly enjoy life.”
“That’s crazy,” she said.
“Is it? Tonight I found you sitting alone in the dark punishing yourself because some murdering psychopath shot your friend. You’re furious with yourself for not believing in your parents, and now you even want to help investigate to prove them innocent. Misplaced guilt is eating you alive and putting your life in danger.”
“I just want to know the truth.”
“The truth is none of this is your fault, June.”
She stared at him. “I know that. Of course I know that.”
“Do you really?” he asked.
God, he sees right through me. Feeling naked and exposed, to Dean, to the world, she came to her feet and reached for her robe. Tying the belt around her waist, she said, “You interviewed some shrink and now you think you can psychoanalyze me.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean said. “That’s it exactly.”
“So you see me as some pathetic creature who takes on all the weight of the world?”
“You’re not pathetic. But look how angry you are. I’ve hit too close to the truth, and it’s making you uncomfortable.”
“Gee, thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Hammer,” she muttered. “You can try to sidetrack me all you want, but I still want to see all the records about my parents’ case.”
“You’re back to that?”
She raised her chin. “Yes.”
“I’m still not going to show them to you.”
“Damn you.”
After a long moment, he said, “Do you want me to leave?”
She didn’t want him to go. She looked away, actually nauseated. Why did she need to see exactly what the evidence had been against her parents? What did it matter? Was he right? Did everyone see her as a guilt-ridden recluse?
God, she needed to figure out this unholy mess that was her life. “Maybe you should.”
Sick at heart and weary through to her bones, June watched him jerk on his slacks and grab his shirt. She longed to go to him, to stop him from leaving, but didn’t. Couldn’t.
Dean didn’t speak again, although she could see the thoughts churning in his head. He had a lot more to say to her but was resisting the urge. She was grateful for that. She was beyond confused and had no more defenses to mount. No more arguments to make.
Head down, she followed him to the front door. With his shirt still unbuttoned, he paused, gave her a hard look and ground out, “Set the alarm.”
Those three sharp words pierced her as cleanly as a knife. Of course his parting comment had to be one last order, one last attempt to control her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
JUNE BROODED FOR twenty miserable minutes after Dean left before deciding what to do. She reached her uncle in Manhattan around midnight. Yeah, it was late, but she knew his habits. He’d be awake.
In all the years since Mike had been her guardian, she hadn’t asked much of him. She hadn’t needed to. Mike had been extraordinarily generous, providing most anything the daughter of his beloved brother could possibly want.
Would he grant this request, one he’d no doubt think strange?
“What’s up, Junie?” he asked. “Has your boyfriend arrested the sniper yet?”
“No, and he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Oh? Did you guys have a fight?”
“Never mind,” June said, not wanting to discuss Dean. She needed to avoid thinking about him, occupy her mind with something else. “Don’t you have some superprivate security team that you use?”
“I do,” Mike said. “When I need that sort of service.”
“Can you get me a bodyguard for a day?”
Mike was quiet for a long moment. “What’s going on?”
“It’s not what you think. I’m not in any new danger, but I want to go to Key Largo and check out the marina where Al Kublin used to live, and I want to have some protection just in case I’m followed.”
“What does Detective Hammer say about that plan?”
“Detective Hammer insists I stay locked up in this penthouse, but I’m going crazy.”
“What will you do if you find Kublin?”
“Tell the police where he is.”
“You won’t approach him?”
She didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. Probably,” she admitted. “I’d like to talk to him.”
“About what?”
“Mom and Dad.”
“Oh, Junie. I don’t know about this.”
Should she tell her uncle about the latest theory? Yes. He deserved to know. Especially since he’d never believed his brother was a criminal.
“The police now believe Mom and Dad were framed.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dean is working off that theory, but he can’t locate Kublin to learn what he knows.”
“Finally,” Mike muttered. “Finally. I’d given up hope.”
“The police don’t have the manpower to check out all of Kublin’s old hangouts, so I want to go to Key Largo myself. I want to help clear Mom and Dad.”
“Just how do you plan to find this guy?”
“I have a photo left at Sandy’s funeral by the police. I’ll show it around the marina, maybe a few bars.”
June sucked in a breath when her uncle didn’t respond.
“Look, Uncle Mike, I’m aware I’m not likely to learn anything, but I need to do something, and this is the only thing I can think of. Truth is, I need to get out of town even if it’s just for a few hours. I’m hoping the change of scenery will clear my head. I’m going nuts.”
“I don’t know, June. This plan sounds a bit risky. Maybe you should let the police handle—”
“I’m going, Uncle Mike. I would be safer with a bodyguard.”
“I see.”
“Will you help me?”
“When do you want to leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange and call you back.”
* * *
DEAN DROVE BACK to the precinct after the ugly scene with June, which he’d handled all wrong. He’d wanted to comfort her and ended up making her feel worse by forcing her to look at her behavior. She’d rejected everything he’d said.
No way would he be able to sleep, and he still needed to complete the reports. Might as well use the time being productive rather than obsessing about how stubborn the woman could be. Did she really not see how guilt weighed her down—like a dead bird hung around her neck?
The office was quiet when he arrived, but at this hour officers were in the field. With the shift change in thirty minutes, the place would start hopping.
He was ten minutes into the work when his desk phone rang. Thinking it was late, but hoping June had seen the light, Dean reached for the receiver. “Hammer.”
“Detective Hammer?” said a tentat
ive male voice.
“You got him.”
Whoever was on the other end released a long, very audible breath but didn’t speak. Dean frowned. What the hell? Was this a perv calling to get his jollies off?
“Who is this?” Dean demanded.
“My name is Al Kublin. I really need to speak to you.”
Dean sat up. “I’d like to speak to you, too, Mr. Kublin. Where can we meet?”
“Not a good idea.”
“Why not?” Dean grabbed his notebook and a pen to write every word Kublin uttered.
“I think you know I’m a hunted man. I need to keep a low profile.”
Dean glanced at the timer on his phone. He needed to keep Kublin on the line for five minutes so the department techs could get a trace. Unless the guy was on a cell. Maybe less then.
“Who is hunting you?” Dean asked.
“Whoever set the fire at Latham Import.”
Dean nodded. This jibed with what the shrink had said. “And who set that fire?”
“I swear it wasn’t me,” Kublin said. “I think it was a rogue cop.”
Dean’s gut squeezed. Holy shit. A crooked cop? “Why do you say that?”
“I’ve thought about it for ten years, and it’s the only answer, the only way this deal went down. Everyone thinks I’m nuts, that I see conspiracy everywhere, but my mind is totally clear on this. Carl and Eileen Latham would never smuggle anything, certainly not cocaine. Junie needs to know that.”
Kublin took a deep breath, as if that long speech had worn him out. Dean heard muffled coughing. Jeez, the guy sounded bad.
“Sorry,” Kublin murmured so softly Dean could barely hear him.
“You tried to contact June Latham at the North Beach Pet Shop, right?”
“Right. But that awful man hurt her. I did what I could and left.”
“Tell me what happened at the Sea Wave Hotel on North Beach.”
Kublin remained silent for a few heartbeats.
“Mr. Kublin?” Dean prompted. “Are you there?”
“How did you figure out that was me?”
“You were on surveillance video. I recognized you from the pet shop.”
“Things sure have changed since I went away,” Kublin said in a wondering tone. “Technology everywhere.”
Her Cop Protector Page 24