by Naima Simone
Maybe it smacked of conceit, nostalgia, or desperation, but she hadn’t considered failure—or rather, had decided not to dwell on failure. It wasn’t an option. Too much rode on this investigation: closure for Catherine, justice for a good man.
And her own questions needed answers.
“No.” she shook her head. “I refuse to accept that outcome. Richard deserves to rest in peace, and Catherine should be able to finally have the truth about her son’s death. More important, a murderer has gotten away with his crime for twenty years. He stole a son, friend, and lover. He took an uncle from me. We’ve lived all this time with questions and uncertainty. Richard’s killer owes us.”
“So this is about revenge?”
“No!” she said, and the vehement objection reverberated in her mind. Hadn’t she stated the same to Catherine? To ensure the other woman understood the investigation was not a vendetta or vigilante hunt? A sliver of hurt wormed beneath her chest and into her heart. How could he believe her capable of such pettiness? “I’d think you, more than anyone else, would understand.”
He stiffened. “Why do you say that?”
“A theme in all your books is the search for the truth and the idea of atonement. The victims are eventually given voice through the capture and punishment of their violators. Are you telling me those ideals are just fiction?”
Gabriel cupped her nape, his palm and fingertips pressing into either side of her neck. Unruly sable curls framed his strong-boned Celtic face.
“In books I can afford to be black and white—it’s what people expect. But the world is colored in shades of gray. Sometimes life isn’t as simple as right or wrong, good or evil,” he said, voice impossibly gentle. “What if you find the one who killed Richard, and this person has lived his life sacrificing, atoning for his or her sin? What if that person is married, has children, a family? Can you take him or her from them without a qualm or a twinge of remorse?”
No, she hadn’t weighed how the truth would affect those outside of her immediate circle of family and friends. Hadn’t considered the ramifications the revelation might demand. But ultimately it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.
“When they decided to take Richard’s life, they chose the consequences for themselves and their families. I didn’t. Murder is black-and-white. It’s final. And justice should be, too.”
“Tell that to the abused wife who defended herself against the bastard who beat her,” he murmured and dropped his arm. “It all depends on your definition of justice.” Bereft of his touch, she fought a shiver as cold seeped in. Yet even as she craved the return of his hand’s warm, solid pressure, another new thought crept in, depositing an insidious germ in her mind.
“Gabe?”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t like Richard, did you?”
He regarded her, his ice-blue eyes unblinking. He didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to; she saw the answer in his cold stare. It reflected no warmth, no concern for Richard at all. Which begged the question: Why was Gabriel so intent on assisting her with discovering who killed her uncle?
Brian Connor strode back into the room, and she yanked her attention to the detective and the white shoe box he carried. But she couldn’t uproot the idea from her head. Or quiet the niggle of unease refusing to be shushed.
“Here we go.” The detective planted the box on the table in front of them and lowered onto the recliner, perching on the edge of the seat. “It’s not much, but then again, we didn’t have much,” he apologized while removing the lid.
“I’m thankful for anything you can pass on to me.” She leaned forward but glanced up at Brian. “May I?”
When Brian gestured toward the box, granting her the go-ahead, she didn’t hesitate to dig in. A sheaf of copy paper, yellowed around the edges, lay on top. She picked it up and scanned the first couple of pages. Her head jerked up, and she grinned at the detective. “You copied the interview transcripts?” she asked, incredulous.
The man flashed a wicked grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’ll be our secret.” He winked at her and laughed. “You’ll find the transcripts, my personal notes, a copy of Richard Pierce’s datebook.” A frown creased his forehead. “His datebook,” he muttered, and the vee of his brows deepened. “There’s another thing that always nagged at me.” His expression cleared, but the puzzlement remained in his gaze. “Both Richard’s mother and his girlfriend claimed he had a business dinner planned for Friday night. But nothing was entered for October twenty-third, and it seemed as if Richard Pierce recorded every move he made in his datebook. In addition, his secretary—another scary woman, I might add—didn’t recall a dinner, business or otherwise. And I swear, this woman probably potty-trained her kids at gunpoint. She would have remembered.”
Beside her, Gabriel’s hoarse cough sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“Feel free to take it with you,” Brian offered, slapping his palms down on his knees. “All I ask is if you do find out something, let me know. Like I said, this one has stayed with me.”
“Absolutely,” Leah assured him, replacing the box top. “And either way, I’ll return this to you.” She lifted the shoe box and rose to her feet. Gabriel stood with her, his hand falling to her hip. “Again, Detective Connor, thank you. We’ll speak soon.”
“Looking forward to it.” They shook hands, but after he loosed her hand, he peered at her, his cop gaze steady, direct. “I recognized your name. I was at the District D station the night the ‘officer down’ call came in.” He lifted his arm and cupped her shoulder with his large, blunt-fingered hand. “Even though you’re no longer on the force, I’m glad to see you’re still using what you learned to serve and protect.”
She gazed at him, stunned. Aside from her father, Gabe, and the other three Musketeers, no one—not her old sergeant, partner, or the cops she’d patrolled with—had known what to say. They’d patted her on the back and offered an uncomfortable but sincere “tough break,” but their lives, their careers had gone on…without her. She’d no longer had a place among them, and after the first few awkward phone conversations, she’d stopping calling.
Yet a detective she’d met twenty minutes ago had managed to offer the condolences and praise they couldn’t. Gratitude and sorrow choked her, blocked her air and words. She tried to speak but in the end, she nodded her thanks to Brian and glanced away.
The retired officer turned toward Gabriel and extended his palm. Gabriel accepted it, giving it a firm shake. “Nice seeing you again, son.”
“Same here, Detective.” Gabriel dipped his chin in the direction of his bookshelf. “I’ll make sure to mail a copy of my newest release to you.”
Brian’s expression brightened, and his delighted grin erased ten years from his weathered face. “Autographed?”
Gabriel smiled, releasing his hand. “Definitely.”
Brian walked them out of the living room and to the front door. They exited his home and trotted down the porch steps. The shoe box tucked securely under her arm, Leah turned to wave one last time before the detective closed the door.
Then she and Gabriel strode down the walkway in silence.
“Where are you headed now?” he asked, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. She wanted those hands on her again. Wanted his long artist’s fingers to stroke her body. Wanted his hard, calloused palms to pull her against him, skin to skin.
Might as well wish for the glass slipper and pumpkin-turned-carriage.
“Home.” She tapped the key fob, and the car emitted a cute beep matching its cute, tiny stature. God, she wanted her truck. “I had a couple of appointments today before this one, and now I just want to go home, have a glass of wine, cook a meal with tons of calories, and watch mind-numbing reality TV.”
“Sounds, uh”—a corner of his mouth quirked—“fun.”
“Smirking is so not an attractive look.” He snickered, and she laughed. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”
The answering silence deafened her. Shit. Her stomach plummeted. Gabriel hadn’t been to her home, her sanctuary, since the accident. Not that she hadn’t asked him, but the answer was always no. Yet, glimpsing the humor in his eyes, the invitation had slipped out. And now it swung between them, back and forth like a pendulum. The humor leeched from Gabriel’s expression, leaving behind the familiar closed mask.
Heart meet fucking sleeve.
“Leah,” he said. “I can’t.”
She shrugged, and she tried to smile—God, did she try—but the gesture exceeded her nonchalance limit.
“Just thought I’d offer,” she said, forcing her feet into motion toward the car and escape.
“Leah.”
“I planned on swinging by Chay’s house tomorrow to speak with him and Evelyn. I’ll call and let you know the time.”
She didn’t wait for his response. Couldn’t. One more of those soft, pitying “Leahs,” or another kind rebuff, and she would crack right down the middle.
She couldn’t do it…at least not in front of him.
After opening the car door, she slid behind the wheel, placing the shoe box on the passenger seat. She didn’t spare a glance in the rearview mirror, not trusting herself. Even though humiliation flared in her breast like a bonfire, love beat under it like a molten heartbeat. If she looked at him, she had as much chance of jerking the car to a stop and running into his arms for comfort as she did driving away from him.
So she raced off as if the hounds of hell nipped at her tires.
Chapter Twelve
“Damn,” Gabriel muttered, thrusting his fingers through his hair, dragging the heavy strands away from his face as he stared after Leah’s disappearing taillights in the deepening dusk. His fist tightened at the back of his head and the slight sting to his scalp helped clear the dark storm of emotion wailing in his head like a screaming gale.
Pain had darkened her eyes seconds before they shuttered. But the brief glimpse was a new kind of torture. He’d inflicted the hurt, and the knowledge scraped his chest raw.
He hadn’t thought. He pivoted on his heel and stalked to his SUV. He’d acted on pure, primal instinct. Self-preservation demanded he not be alone with Leah.
He yanked the door open and lowered himself in the driver’s seat.
He’d slipped the night before—outside the cop bar, he’d slipped. He’d allowed her too close. He’d inhaled her scent, touched her. As a result, the tight plane of her abdomen was branded into his palm. The curve of her lovely back was imprinted on his cock. The whisper of her sigh was etched in his memory.
And he’d carried her into his dreams. In the darkest hours of night his conscience had released its tenacious grip on his mind and on a sea of white silk, he’d tangled his limbs around hers—arched over her, writhed against her, filled her.
He clenched his teeth and an ache bloomed and radiated along his jaw. Even now, he could feel the slick glide of skin over skin. A fist-sized knot tightened his gut as image after erotic image bombarded him.
He’d never been in the habit of lying to himself. And with residual heat simmering in his blood and his cock pounding behind his zipper, he couldn’t now. Even when he longed to.
He wanted Leah Bannon. Desperately.
Disgust and desire twirled in him like a demented ballerina on uppers. Part of him—the logical part—insisted he go home, put on a pot of coffee, write, and avoid sleep as if it had a Surgeon General warning label slapped on it. Yet another part—a darker, hungrier part—longed to go after her, press her to the nearest flat surface, push deep inside her, and lose himself in her wet, welcoming heat.
He curled his fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. It mortified him—this craving capable of reducing him to no better than an animal. This was the same woman who’d selflessly offered him comfort after Maura’s and Ian’s deaths. He’d again cried his sorrow out in her arms two nights earlier. And Maura…dear God, Maura.
It wasn’t so much taking Leah that would number the act among the biggest mistakes he would ever have committed—it was knowing he would love it, crave it. And if he willingly cracked himself open to that kind of pain again, then the crazy squad would have to come fit him for an extra-long-sleeved white jacket and soft-soled shoes.
He started the car and jerked the gear shift into drive. Having Leah would only lead to eventually losing her. If he surrendered to this impossible desire, he would hate himself. Ultimately—because he’d be unable to give Leah more than a quick fuck—she would hate him, too. Still, if she persisted in this search for truth, her enmity was a foregone conclusion. Once she discovered the uncle she adored and the friends she loved, had deceived her, she would detest them all.
He didn’t know which he feared more—that her heart would be broken or that she would loathe him.
The peal of his cell phone yanked him free of his morose musings. The only reason the damn thing was in his jacket pocket instead of the bathroom drawer was Leah. If she tried to contact him, he wanted to be available. He pulled the phone free of his coat and a glance revealed Malachim’s name and number.
“Yeah?” he answered, easing his foot off the brake. He steered away from the curb and hit the accelerator. “What’s up?”
“Why didn’t you tell me Leah was involved in a hit-and-run last night?” Malachim demanded without preamble.
“What?” Gabriel barked. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Leah was attacked last night,” Mal said grimly. “I have a friend on the police force who knows I’m close with her. He told me her truck was hit last night.”
“She said she had car trouble,” Gabriel murmured, fear invading him like a stealthy intruder intent on mayhem and destruction.
“Car trouble, my ass,” Mal growled. “She was intentionally rammed from behind by an unknown assailant who tried to shove her into a busy intersection. She slammed into a damn light pole.”
“You’re shittin’ me.” Ice slithered into his veins. “No one got the license plate of the other car?”
Mal’s angry sigh echoed in Gabriel’s ear. “No. Apparently the one person who saw the tag said it was covered in dirt and mud.” A beat of silence. “Gabe, what are the odds this isn’t somehow related to Richard Pierce? What I don’t understand is, if the sender of the letter she got is the same person who killed Darion, why go after Leah? It defeats the purpose of her investigating Richard’s murder.”
“Hell, I don’t know, Mal. That’s asking us to rationalize the thinking of an irrational—oh, shit.” Dread congealed in his stomach as a vision of Leah and him outside the pub flashed in front of his eyes. The attack must have occurred right after she’d left the bar with him. What if the hit-and-run had been a…a warning? Punishment for consorting with the enemy? Oh, God. He’d placed Leah directly in the sights of a killer.
“Oh shit, what?” Malachim snapped.
“She’s not safe.” Jesus. Gabriel couldn’t confess his desire for Leah to Malachim. The same desire that had painted a big, fat, bull’s-eye on her back.
“Well, hell, no, she’s not safe,” Malachim muttered. He sighed, and Gabriel could picture his friend rubbing a palm back and forth over his short, white-blond hair. “Where is she now?”
“On her way home. We just left the home of the detective who investigated Richard’s disappearance.”
She’d lied to him. Why had she lied?
Malachim paused, and Gabriel could almost feel the other man’s war between asking how the interview had gone and Leah’s welfare. “All right, I’m going to call her, make sure she’s okay. We’ll need to take turns watching her.”
An intersection. The truck had been pushed toward a busy intersection.
Maura’s broken body sprawled alongside Ian’s. A small, bloodied palm inches away from the gaily wrapped Christmas presents. An ever-widening puddle of gasoline soaking the bottom of the bright red paper…
“I’m headed to dinner with a client, but I’ll cal
l Rafe and have him take the first watch tonight.” Malachim paused. “Gabe?”
“Yeah, Mal,” Gabriel murmured through numb lips. “I hear you. I’ll call you back.”
He hung up before Malachim could respond, and dropped the phone on the passenger seat.
Son of a bitch. It seemed like he wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
…
Leah pulled up in front of the pretty Victorian she’d bought as a foreclosure property and moved into three years earlier. She’d grown up in the affluence of Beacon Hill, her family home just minutes away from Nathan’s agency. She held a special affection for the area’s old-fashioned gas lamps, black-shuttered brownstones with their wrought iron gates, tidy squares, and narrow streets. As a girl she used to imagine she’d leaped back in time to the days of horse-drawn carriages, open-air markets, and revolution. She loved her childhood home.
Yet when the realtor had first driven to the quiet, nearby Somerville neighborhood and shown her the big Victorian, a sense of peace had fallen within her. Two stories, yellow and white, wide front porch, and spacious rear deck with plenty of front and backyard—she’d fallen in love at first sight. Though the three bedrooms and two baths would have been more suited to a family, she’d still purchased it.
A morose sigh escaped her as she pulled into the driveway. During the ride home, humiliation had scooted over for a deep sadness. This home was meant for love and laughter. Instead there was silence every evening she returned home, a silence that couldn’t be dispelled by the television and radio.
She gathered her bag and the shoe box from the passenger’s seat and climbed out of her car. The rev of a powerful engine snagged her notice. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the noise so discordant with the usually quiet street. She whirled as a pair of bright headlights caught her in its glare. Frozen, she gaped as a dark vehicle screeched to a halt with a squeal of tires, the tail end sticking out from the curb at a haphazard angle.