by Naima Simone
Even as her fingers fell to her side and she walked away from him, he knew he would savor the fingerprint of her caress, feel it as he slept, as he dreamed.
…
According to the apostle Paul, love is patient.
Kind.
Doesn’t envy, and isn’t proud.
Obviously the apostle never suffered a case of unrequited love, or he would have added “hurts like a son of a bitch” to that list. Leah squeezed her eyes closed. But an instant later, she locked in on the solitary figure striding down the shadowed street. She was unable not to look after him.
Sighing, she jabbed the key in her truck’s ignition. The engine roared to life and, after glances in her side and rearview mirrors, she pulled out into the street. By the time she passed the corner, she couldn’t help sneaking another glimpse in her mirror, but Gabriel had disappeared. Already, she hungered for another glimpse of his tall, lean frame, broad shoulders, and slim hips.
Though he’d never been a big man, prior to the accident he’d carried about twenty more pounds on his build. But grief had accomplished what people paid Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers big bucks to do. Deeper hollows under his cheekbones made his eyes brighter, his lips fuller. The spare, sinewy tone of his shoulders and arms reminded her of a feral wolf—desperate, but strong, snarling, and powerful. Two years later, he still hadn’t regained all the weight he’d dropped, yet he was even more beautiful today than before the tragedy. Because he was here. He wasn’t in a casket under a mound of earth. He was alive.
She shifted on the seat. Shifted again. Even with the upholstery pressing into her back and thighs, she could still feel the hard wall of his chest imprinted on her shoulders and spine. Still sense the brand of the concave bowl of his hips and thick length of his erection wedged against her bottom. The evidence of his arousal had drop-kicked the air from her lungs. Her heart had stutter-stepped, then raced with the speed of a freight train. Desire had clenched her stomach, streamed through her veins like the most potent, addictive narcotic.
Then he’d touched her, splayed his long fingers across her abdomen, and gently kissed her hair. The muscles in her stomach clenched, then fluttered as if his hand still touched her, his lips continued to brush a caress over her head.
She rolled to a stop at an intersection. As a nonstop line of cars whizzed by, Boston traffic in full swing with commuters heading home at the end of another work day, she risked closing her eyes, reliving the moment when she’d been granted a preview of what making love to him would be like. Sensual, hungry, tender…
Slam!
The impact shook her truck. She was jolted forward but the seat belt across her chest and hip snapped tight, slapping her back against the seat. She clapped her teeth shut around a pained gasp. For a long moment, silence rang in her ears. Hissing, she uncurled her fingers from around the steering wheel, stretching them.
“Damn,” she muttered. Are you serious? A car accident? She fumbled for the safety latch at her hip. From the force of that blow, her bumper had to look like a horseshoe…
Slam!
Jesus Christ. The truck skidded forward several inches with a squeal. On reflex, she crashed her foot to the brake pedal. Her hands jerked back to the wheel, gripped it until the ridges bit into her skin. Oh, God. What…?
Tires shrieked. The acrid odor of burning rubber stung her nose even through the raised window. Her heart pummeled her ribcage; terror choked her. She glanced in the rearview mirror, but all she could see was the glare of headlights. And she felt like the proverbial deer trapped in their beams.
Just ahead, the intersection loomed closer. Cars zoomed past the nose of her truck, their horns honking indignant blasts and warnings. She had to hold out a few seconds more. Only a few more. Until the light changed. Oh, God. She cried out, and a dull ache resonated in her leg as she fought not to ease the weight on the pedal.
Another slam sent her torso jerking forward, and she screamed from the force of it. The truck shuddered. Skidded. Moved.
The whir of passing vehicles filtered through her windshield like a ghost’s eerie howl, luring her closer and closer to death…
Green.
She lifted her foot, and time sped from zero to sixty. She spurred the truck forward like a stone propelled from a slingshot. Another scream climbed up her throat as a car sped through the red light and clipped the front end of her truck before zooming on through the intersection. Her truck pitched left. She wasn’t going to make it across the street. Christ! She yanked the steering wheel, hurtling past an oncoming vehicle close enough to detect the enraged driver’s bellow. The truck swung to the side as she slammed her foot on the brake. The high-pitched whine of rubber against road was abruptly cut off by a corner streetlamp.
A sharp crack like a gunshot exploded then the air bag deployed in a cloud of acrid, white powder. Air whooshed from her lungs seconds before the seat belt snatched her back. The din of screams, horns, and hissing radiator water battered against the car’s windows, demanding entrance into the vehicle. She coughed. Shuddered. Whimpered.
Frantic, she twisted around, the flash of pain in her neck, shoulders, and back secondary to the possibility of being plowed further into the lamppost by the lunatic who’d attacked her. But horrified pedestrians, blinking hazard lights, and haphazardly parked cars filled her vision, not a rampaging vehicle.
Thank God.
She wilted against the deflating air bag and steering wheel.
“Hey! Are you okay?”
She whipped her head toward the sharp rap on the driver’s window, an animal cry escaping her lips. A pale face stared at her, a palm plastered on the glass.
Am I okay? That requires an answer, doesn’t it?
“Yes,” she croaked.
For someone who had just been the victim of attempted murder, she was A-okay.
Chapter Eleven
Leah pressed the brake pedal, and the small, cheap rental squeaked to a stop.
“Damn,” she muttered, rocking forward. With another curse, she slid the gearshift into park. After driving a truck for years, navigating the sporty compact was like piloting a clown car. She grimaced, disgusted. The vehicle dinged her pride. But on such short notice, the rental company had provided her with the first available car. An early morning appointment for another client had shaved her options down to who opens at nine. Hence the Homey-the-Clown vehicle.
Grateful, she reminded herself, switching off the ignition. I should be grateful I’m unharmed after a hit-and-run and not complaining about what car I’m driving.
Well, mostly unharmed. She bit back a groan as she opened the driver’s door, gingerly eased from the seat, and stood. Last night her body had been mostly numb, but this morning her aches had made themselves known. Loudly.
All of it—the “accident,” the crash—would seem like a scene out of a grainy smash-n-grab crime video if not for the dull throb of pain in her arms, back, and legs. Fear and the sudden pull of the seat belt on impact caused residual soreness in her chest.
Accident. Yeah, sure. When the police arrived and examined the scene while she’d given her statement, their anger had been palpable. From the witness statements and the damage to the rear of the car, it was obvious someone had deliberately rammed into her. The cops’ outrage and concern on her behalf—a former sister-in-blue—had gone a long way toward assuaging the terror of the night.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, she deliberately shoved thoughts of the night before from her mind and focused on the tan and brown two-story home belonging to Brian Connor. If she dwelled on the terrifying events, she might drive home, huddle on her couch, and jump at every shadow. By no means did she scare that easily. She popped a peppermint into her mouth and stuffed the wrapper in the front pocket of her jeans. While on the force, she’d faced down some drug-addled bruisers and assholes that could give the Hulk lessons in rage and brutality. But last night had been personal; someone had deliberately tried to hurt, if not kill, her. And she had no idea
who or why. Had it been some kind of gang initiation? Bored kids with more time on their hands than brains? Or what if the intent been something more sinister? Would she need to constantly glance over her shoulder for another attack?
But damn, how did she protect herself against a phantom assailant?
“What the hell happened to your truck?”
A muffled cry escaped before she could corral it. Shit. She fisted her fingers instead of splaying them over her pounding heart, and willed her stomach from her throat.
Gabriel. It’s just Gabriel.
She forced her muscles to relax as she met his dark frown.
“Hey,” she said, but the casual greeting sounded strained even to her ears. “I didn’t see you come up.”
The frown deepened. “You told me to meet you here at four o’clock,” he reminded her. “What happened to your truck? Why are you driving that Matchbox toy?”
She grunted, silently agreeing with his assessment of the rental vehicle. “Had some car trouble last night.”
Standing outside the home of the detective who had originally investigated Richard’s disappearance was not the right setting to drop the bomb about a hit-and-run that had culminated with her hood wrapped around a streetlight. Especially when the possible outcome would have eerily echoed Maura’s and Ian’s deaths. Their car had been T-boned by an oncoming vehicle in a busy intersection. Gabriel would immediately associate his family’s accident with Leah’s incident, and she refused to be the cause of pain clouding his eyes.
“What kind of car trouble?” he asked, shifting closer into her space. Concern roughened his voice, and he cupped her chin, tipping her face up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, fine.” She twisted, freeing herself from his touch and avoiding his intense scrutiny. “Just a few aches. Nothing major.”
“Aches?” His brows slammed down and an ominous growl rumbled out of him. “What the hell hap—”
“Can I help you two?”
She wheeled around to face the house and the man who stood on the porch peering down at her and Gabriel. Stocky, ruddy-cheeked, with a shock of white hair, Detective Brian Connor was as Irish as his name. Correction, she amended, eyes narrowed on the man. Detective Brian Connor, Retired.
Tracking down the detective who had investigated Richard’s case had been a little trickier than she’d anticipated. When she’d called the police department, she’d been informed he’d retired a year earlier. Unearthing Brian Connor’s unlisted phone number and home address had required several hours of work and a few lies, but she’d finally obtained them.
Now if he’d just agree to speak with her, all her scheming would have been worth it.
He waited for their response with seeming patience, but she noted the stillness of his body as if ready to move at a moment’s notice. The retired detective may have traded his suit and tie for a plaid shirt and khakis, but that didn’t prevent him from still thinking like a cop.
“Yes,” Leah called out and retraced her steps up the sidewalk. She paused at the bottom step, Gabriel directly behind her. “Good afternoon, Detective Connor. My name is Leah Bannon. I was hoping I could talk with you regarding an old missing-person case you worked about twenty years ago. Richard Pierce.”
Recognition flared in his eyes before he squinted down at her. “Who did you say you were?”
“Leah Bannon,” she repeated, and climbing a couple of the porch steps, extended her hand to the man. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the disappearance of Richard Pierce.” She withdrew a black wallet containing her PI license from her jacket pocket. Flipping it open, she passed it to the detective. He studied the slip of paper, then handed it back to her.
“A little late, aren’t you?” he asked, resuming their conversation.
She shrugged. “Murder doesn’t have a statute of limitations.”
After a long, silent moment, his attention switched from Leah to over shoulder. “And,” she said, half turning to wave a hand toward Gabriel, “This is—”
“Gabriel Devlin,” the detective interrupted. “I’m a fan.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Detective,” Gabriel’s low rumble vibrated against her back. She suppressed her body’s shiver of awareness.
“Don’t you mean ‘to see you again,’ son?” Brian asked. “It’s been at least twenty years, but we’ve met before.”
A pause. “Yes.”
You can’t kick him, she reminded herself in irritation. At least not now.
The detective gave a rusty chuckle, then turned and pulled open the storm door. “Come on in.”
Relief sucker punched her in the chest. She nodded, then glanced over her shoulder. Gabriel met her gaze blandly. “Try not to take over the interview with your chattiness,” she ordered under her breath. Gabriel rolled his eyes and followed her up the steps into the home.
“May I ask how you came by my address?” Brian inquired as he led them down a short entry hall and into a large, airy living room with huge windows and built-in bookshelves. Glancing down, Leah wondered if the refinished floors had been a retirement project.
“Since I want to start off our meeting on a good note by not lying to you, I would say, no, don’t ask,” she answered easily.
Again, the detective loosed a laugh that resembled a creaky garage door. He waved them toward the couch and sat in the leather recliner next to it.
“Can’t argue with that kind of honesty,” he said. Settling his large frame in the chair, he pinned her with a piercing gaze that she imagined didn’t miss much. “So what can I do for you?”
She fished in her bag and withdrew her pen and notebook.
“I wanted to find out if you remembered the case and perhaps get your take on it.”
“Of course I remember. I was in the Missing Persons Unit then. But this particular case stuck with me because of the victim. A well-to-do Weston businessman. They usually don’t pull vanishing acts.” His fingers drummed on the worn leather of the chair’s arm. “There was almost no evidence. None of his clothes or personal items were missing. His suitcases remained in his closet, his bank accounts hadn’t been touched. Only he and his car were gone.”
Leah frowned. “I hadn’t realized his car vanished, too.”
“Yes.” Brian nodded. “It’s why we considered the possibility of him taking off.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “But his mother disabused us of that notion real quick when we broached the subject. A real mother bear, that one.”
“She was very protective of Richard,” Leah agreed.
The detective’s gaze sharpened. “You knew her?”
“I have more than a professional connection to this case, Detective,” she admitted. “Richard Pierce was like an uncle to me. He was my father’s best friend.”
The detective emitted a soft, noncommittal noise. “Anyway,” he continued, “we interviewed nearly everyone he’d been in contact with—his family, business partner, employees, his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s son,” he paused and flicked a look at Gabriel, “her son’s friends. No one had a clue what could have happened to him, or if anyone held a grudge strong enough to incite foul play.”
Leah digested his abbreviated rundown of the case’s facts. He hadn’t revealed anything more than she’d come up with in her search. Beside her, Gabriel was sprawled on the couch, but the casual slouch didn’t fool her. Tension had invaded his tall frame at the detective’s mention of Chay, Malachim, and Raphael. His foot kept up a light, steady tap, his leg bouncing beside hers.
What was he thinking?
“What was your impression about the case, Detective?” Gabriel asked. He settled an arm along the back of the couch, and his calloused fingers slid to the nape of her neck and kneaded. She smothered a groan as he unerringly massaged muscles sore from the car playing tag with her bumper. A sidelong glance revealed his attention focused on the detective, yet his touch conveyed his concern for her. A flutter took up residence somewhere between her chest and stomach.
“That’s what I determined as well,” Leah murmured.
“Even his ex-wife had nothing negative to say about him.” He shook his head. “That’s not natural. Ask my ex about me, and she’ll have you believing I gave Jack the Ripper a run for his money.”
Gabriel snickered, and Leah smiled.
“Renee Pierce,” she said, jotting the name down and circling it. Catherine had mentioned Richard’s ex-wife as well. It would probably be a long shot, but right now she couldn’t afford to let anything slip through the cracks.
“Right,” he added. “She lived in the Back Bay area at the time. I kept all my notes. If you’ll hold on”—with a grunt, he levered himself up from the recliner—“I can get them for you.”
Hope leaped in her chest. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much I’d appreciate it.”
The detective nodded then walked toward the back of the house, leaving Leah and Gabriel alone. He didn’t let up in his massage, and this time she let loose the small moan of pleasure she’d contained when Brian was in the room.
“Must’ve been one hell of a car accident,” Gabriel murmured.
“Mmm.” The sound was as much an avoidance as a testimony to his talented fingers. “What do you think are the odds of us discovering something in Detective Connor’s notes?”
“Slim to none,” he said flatly. “He investigated the case initially and has had twenty years with all the facts to come up with a theory regarding Richard’s disappearance.” Gabriel paused, his touch stilled. “Leah, what happens if your searching leads to a dead end? Can you accept the possibility you may not find the answers you’re seeking?”