"The cavalry arrives," he muttered, and stepped out to flag the unit down.
* * *
Laurey leaned against the hood of the police car, grateful for the warmth rising from the engine. Not because it was particularly cold—what would have been an Indian summer back in Seattle was just normal fall weather here in California, sunny and bright—but because it helped her stop shivering.
Despite his own seemingly unshakable cool Gage had told her she had every right to be rattled. And she was. But not so rattled that she hadn't noticed that Gage was handling her with care, being solicitous and understanding, and so gentle it nearly brought tears to her eyes. If this was his standard demeanor as a cop, it was no wonder everybody thought he walked on water.
And if it wasn't…
She didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to think that there might be anything personal in his tender care. Because not only was she aware of how he was treating her, but she had realized with a little shock that she liked it.
The remnants of that long-ago crush, she told herself, that was all. Besides, it was unlikely that he meant anything by it. One apology from her was hardly going to turn things around that much.
Another little shock jolted her. What was she thinking? That she wanted things to turn around?
No, she insisted silently, of course she didn't. She was just … rattled. That, plus those old, never-quite-forgotten feelings, had combined to leave her in this state of confusion. That was all it was.
As if to prove it to herself, to prove she could do it and feel nothing of the little thrill that had always gone through her back then, she lifted her head to look at him.
He was talking to the officers in uniform, explaining what had happened. One of them left and began walking up and down the block, studying the ground, although she had no idea what he was looking for. The other was listening to Gage intently, only once glancing up at the shattered store window. Gage had told her that he would have to write a report and she would need to give a statement, but that they would go back to Trinity West for that.
Now, standing there beside the man in uniform, he looked tall, strong and remarkably unscathed in snug jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt under the brown leather jacket. No less beautiful than he had been when he had fueled her adolescent fantasies and been the focus of all her youthful heart's dreams.
Really, she thought, he had changed very little in the past eight years. He had the same leanly muscled body, the same smile, the same thick, golden hair that still fell thickly over his forehead, the same vivid green eyes.
The same eyes.
They were the same. She'd thought when she'd first seen him today that they were shadowed, haunted somehow, she had even thought of Cruz's little girl's surprisingly astute assessment, but only now did she realize that they had been that way even eight years ago. Why hadn't she seen it then? It seemed so obvious now, that darkness, that sadness, how had she not noticed those old, old eyes in the young face? Had she truly been so unobservant, so callow? Or had she just been young, too wrapped up in her own dreams to truly notice such things … even in the object of those dreams?
He glanced over at her then, as if in continued concern for her. She gave him the best smile she could manage, and he smiled back. And even though it was clearly genuine, that smile didn't quite take all the darkness away.
She wondered what it was. They had obviously been with him for a long time, those shadows. What was it that he carried within him? What made him look like this? What had made his eyes, in the baby face that had enabled him to masquerade as a boy, look like that even at twenty-one? Was it the same thing that made him nearly obsessed with his work?
She didn't know. And she wasn't at all sure she wanted to.
She saw the officer who had been walking along the street bend to look at something, then shift his gaze to something else a foot or so away, and then something else. She saw the glint of metal on the asphalt in the instant he raised his head.
"Got them," he called out. "Looks like nine millimeters."
"Great," she heard Gage say. "That narrows it down to half the weapons on the street."
She realized then what the man had found. Shell casings, she thought they were called, whatever was left after guns like that were fired. She shivered again as she thought of Gage placing himself between her and the deadly barrage. Yet he'd done it automatically, instinctively, as if no other thought had crossed his mind. She wondered yet again what drove him.
And then he was coming toward her, and with an effort she reined in her thoughts, telling herself she had no interest in Gage Butler's past, in what made him spend his weekends working, or in what made his eyes look haunted.
Yet, as they began to walk—back toward Trinity West, both of them having agreed they'd pretty much lost their appetites—the first words out of her mouth made a liar out of her.
"Why were you working on Saturday, anyway?"
He looked startled by her choice of subject, perhaps having expected some further comment on his decision that they should walk back, since he guessed she wouldn't have much fondness for riding in a police car. It took him a moment to answer.
"I had to call some … people, and their phone numbers were in my desk."
She wondered what the hesitation had meant. "People? You mean like … what do you call them? Snitches?"
His gaze narrowed, and she supposed he was wondering whether there had been some particular significance to her question, given her feelings about the past. She truly hadn't meant it that way, but before she could say so, he was answering.
"Actually, no. Bail bondsmen."
Puzzled, she asked, "Don't … people who are arrested call them to get out?"
"Yes. That's why I called them."
"Oh," she said, although it made no sense to her.
"I just wanted some warning if a guy we arrested gets one of them to post his bail."
"They'll … tell you that?"
"Some of them. They like to stay on our good side. And it's not like we stop them from doing it, it's just that in some cases we want to know if somebody's about to get out. If nothing else, so we can … notify the victim."
"Oh." That did make sense to her, and she wondered what this particular person had done that made such notification necessary. And what it was like to deal with such people on a daily basis.
This time she was treated, although she hardly thought it was the right word for it, to a visit to the inner reaches of Trinity West. The long hallways were mostly empty, minus, Gage told her, the brass, detectives and support personnel who normally worked only on weekdays.
Gage got her a cup of coffee and, with a warning about the vending machines, offered her a snack, which she refused. He took her into what he called the report writing room, furnished with several long tables, each with a phone, and a wall full of shelves that held phone books and what appeared to be dozens of different forms. Waiting there was an officer who didn't look much older than the cadet she'd seen at the front desk—did this mean she was getting old at almost twenty-seven?—who said he would take her statement. Gage promised her a meal soon and retreated to his cubicle to begin his own report.
The young officer was businesslike but polite, and it was relatively painless, especially since she didn't have much to say. No, she hadn't seen the car at all, nor had she seen who or how many were in it. Yes, she'd heard shots; no, she didn't know how many; yes, probably more than three but less than ten. Yes, they'd been quick, but she knew nothing about such things, so she had no clue if they had come from an automatic weapon of some kind.
"No problem," the young officer said agreeably as he stood up. "I'm sure Gage will know. He never misses a thing."
The admiration in his voice was unmistakable. Everyone, it seemed, was a dues-paying member of the Gage Butler fan club.
"You're welcome to sit here, if you like, or there's a coffee room at the end of the hall," he said as he gathered up his things. "Or
, if you want to see Gage, Detectives is down the hall that way."
She nodded as he pointed, and he thanked her nicely for helping, then left. A very polite young man. And eager. And obviously thrilled to be doing what he was doing. What was it about this job? Laurey wondered.
She finished as much as she could of the rather overwhelming coffee, then got up and tossed the cup into a wastebasket near the door. More of that brew was out of the question, she thought, or she would be up all night
Mildly curious—and not feeling any of the distaste now that she was in a totally unfamiliar part of Trinity West—she wandered down the hall in the direction the young officer had indicated. The door labeled Detective Division was propped open. She hesitated, but the other officer had seemed almost to expect she would go looking for Gage, so she didn't see the harm and stepped inside. She could hear the murmur of voices and headed toward them. As she got closer, she recognized Gage's voice, but the other, and even deeper, one was unknown to her.
She was so intent on deciding that she didn't know the second voice that it took a moment for the words themselves to register. When they did, she stopped, wondering if she should retreat and leave them alone.
"—feeling all right?"
Gage, Laurey thought with certainty.
"She says she's fine, but…"
"You can't help remembering last time she was pregnant." There was a pause. Pregnant? She knew it wasn't Quisto's voice, so, perhaps … Ryan? Lacey's husband? It had to be.
Then the other voice came again, low now, harsh and strained. And his words confirmed her guess. "I almost lost her. I couldn't … take that again. She's my life, Gage."
"I know," Gage answered softly.
Perhaps because she couldn't see him, Laurey was even more aware of his voice, of the timbre of it, the tone … and the undertone. Not envy, not jealousy, but a sort of … wistfulness. As if he didn't quite believe in the kind of love the other man was speaking of, yet couldn't deny it, either, not when it stood right there in front of him. And it was the sound of his voice that kept her rooted in place, despite the qualm of guilt she felt at eavesdropping.
"There are times," Gage said, that wistful tone replaced now by a strangely flat note, "when I'm glad…"
His voice trailed off. Laurey wondered what he was glad about, because his voice certainly didn't sound glad. A moment later, Ryan's low, gentle rumble came with the answer.
"Glad there's no one who owns your heart?"
She heard a low sound that could have been a word or just a grunt.
"Always invulnerable, aren't you, Gage?" Ryan asked. "Don't ever give the world a lever to use against you."
"At least then the world can't take them away from you."
"So you think it's better never to have anyone?"
"Isn't it?" Where Ryan had sounded merely curious, Gage's voice was oddly fierce. "You nearly lost Lacey. You did lose your son. Can you really say it wouldn't be better?"
Laurey's breath caught in her throat. This was more than just a rather dark, philosophical discussion in response to Ryan's worries about his pregnant wife. If Gage's words hadn't told her that, his tone of voice would have. No, this discussion was grimly founded in reality. For both of them. Did Gage really believe it? Did he really think it was better not to have a family than to have one and lose it? She found the thought both poignant and intriguing.
"I'm sorry," Gage said suddenly, and Laurey wondered what Ryan's face must have looked like. "I didn't mean to bring back … painful memories."
"I haven't got the corner on those, it seems," Ryan said, gentle commiseration clear in his voice.
Gage didn't speak, and after a brief moment, Ryan went on. "I've been there, buddy. I grew up without having a human being in the world who gave a damn about me. And I'll tell you, it's a damn cold way to live."
She had to leave. This was too much, too private, and she had no right to listen to these old friends speak of such personal things. Moving with exquisite care, she edged away, knowing she would surely die of embarrassment if she was caught eavesdropping.
When she thought it was safe enough, she turned to hurry back out into the hallway. And ran hard into something soft and squashy feeling. She stifled a yelp and jumped back. The backs of her knees came up against a chair, and she sat down abruptly, thinking it was better than falling while trying to stay upright. She stared for a moment at the rotund belly beneath a shirt whose buttons were straining at her eye level.
"Well, well, well," she heard from above her, the words accompanied by an odd sort of chewing sound. "What have we here? Hello there, little lady."
Little lady?
Laurey nearly laughed. She hadn't been called little in a very long time, and never "lady" in such a blatantly patronizing tone. She looked up.
The first thing she saw was the reason for the chewing sound, a rather disgustingly wet cigar stub was clenched between the teeth of the man who had spoken. Teeth that were yellowed evidence of a lifelong acquaintance with such cigars.
She'd never seen anyone quite like him. He looked to be in his mid to late fifties, but in other ways seemed caught in a time warp, as if he'd never quite made it out of a previous era. With buzz cut blond hair and heavy jowls, a polyester suit and a tie that wore the remnants of his last meal, he looked like a caricature to her, something out of some screenwriter's nightmare vision of an old-boy cop.
"If I'd known the other witness was such a good-looking broad, I'd have been here a lot sooner," the man said around the cigar.
Laurey stared at him. He looked back expectantly. It took her a moment to realize that he thought that had been a compliment. He was mired in another era in more ways than one, it seemed.
"Laurey?"
Gage stepped around the corner of the cubicle, his gaze flicking swiftly from her to the older man. She thought she saw irritation, then wariness, flash across his face in short order.
"Hello, Lieutenant," he said.
"Butler," the man said, sparing Gage the briefest of glances before he looked back at Laurey, who still sat in the chair, staring upward in amazement at this walking visit to the past. "Glad to see you didn't get hurt, missy. I'd hate to see that pretty face damaged."
She supposed she should be outraged, but she found herself stifling a laugh instead. It was all she could do not to turn to Gage and ask incredulously, "Is he for real?"
And then she saw someone move, stepping past Gage. The man came to a halt, crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the older man. Laurey gaped, stunned. She'd been told about Ryan Buckhart by just about every female connected to the department who had been at the shower, but hearing about him was obviously, as Caitlin had warned her, quite different than seeing him.
Ryan Buckhart was everything Caitlin had promised. And more. A couple of inches taller than Gage, he was tall enough to make even her feel small. And broad-shouldered, solidly strong, with long dark hair, bronze skin and high cheekbones. He was exotically striking, and powerfully, uncompromisingly male. Even more than Quisto, he was a dark foil to Gage's golden looks, and the two of them together created a dramatic contrast she knew she wouldn't soon forget.
She remembered what Ryan had said, in that low, strained voice, that his beloved Lacey was his life. What must it be like, to have a man like this so madly in love with you? A man who could literally stop traffic: female because of his looks, male because of his aura of sheer power? In that instant she didn't envy Lacey Buckhart one bit.
Ryan fixed the man Gage had called lieutenant with a steady glare.
"And of course you're delighted to see your detective in one piece, aren't you, Robards?"
Laurey was a little surprised; weren't cops supposed to be like the military, respect for rank and all that? But there was no respect at all in Ryan Buckhart's hard-eyed gaze.
She was even more surprised by the older man's reaction.
"Er, of course," he sputtered. He backed up a step, eyeing Ryan warily.
Deciding on a whim to add what she could to his discomfiture, Laurey stood up. Slowly. And as she'd known she would, she stood a good two inches over the cigar-chomping other man, something she doubted he'd noticed in the instant she'd collided with him. She made sure she stood tall and close as she smiled down at him.
"Thank you so much for your unnecessary concern," Laurey said sweetly. "I accept it in the exact spirit in which it was rendered."
He gaped up at her in turn, muttered something about Gage getting his report finished and turned in immediately so he himself could go home, then spun on his heel and retreated. The instant after she heard a door close, she heard choking laughter from behind her. She spun around to see Gage nearly doubled over and the imposing, intimidating Ryan nearly howling with glee.
It took both men a moment to recover. When Gage straightened up, he gave her a grin that warmed her in a way she'd never known before.
"That," he said, "was worth a hundred apologies." Her cheeks flushed, but this time in a pleasant way. "You haven't met Ryan yet, have you?" Gage added when the big man finally wiped his streaming eyes and seemed to be under control again. "Laurey Templeton. Ryan Buckhart."
Laurey gave him a tentative smile, unsure how she should greet this living prototype. But he took any unease away when he took her hands in his and said with utter sincerity, "Ms. Templeton, it is truly a pleasure to meet you."
"I … Laurey, please."
"Laurey," he agreed with a smile that made him even more recklessly handsome. "I've rarely seen anyone size up our illustrious division lieutenant so quickly and accurately."
Laurey wrinkled her nose. "He's really your … boss?"
"To our dismay," Gage said. "He's a dinosaur who does his best to make life miserable for everyone."
"But not you, my friend." Ryan's voice was clearly teasing. "You're his fair-haired boy. Literally."
Gage grimaced, as if he didn't care for the joke. Or didn't think it was a joke.
"Literally?" Laurey asked, her gaze flicking to Gage's nearly platinum locks. "I assume that means something besides the obvious?"
"It means," Ryan said, his earlier laughter completely gone now, "that neither I nor Cruz Gregerson, nor Quisto Romero … nor the chief, for that matter, have the right skin coloration to be on Robards' good side."
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