"But you don't think so?"
"He … was pretty strung out when he left. And he wouldn't be the first cop to eat a bullet."
She gasped. "You think he … killed himself?" she asked, looking at him with troubled eyes full of a compassion that made him think yet again just how far she had come in such a short time. Hard to believe this was the woman who had been furious at the mere sight of him.
"I hope not," he said fervently.
She reached out and put a hand on his arm comfortingly. And it hit him that it was even harder to believe that the same woman who had been so furious had this afternoon taught him a world of things he'd never known before. The hot, sweet memories flooded him, and his body responded with a speed that took his breath away. He saw Laurey's eyes widen, as if she'd somehow known where his mind had gone.
"Thanks for coming in, Ms. Templeton." Chief de los Reyes's voice was the cooling off he needed, and he pulled himself together as the man ushered Laurey into his office and left Gage to follow on his own.
"You're both all right?" he asked, as if he'd noticed their mutual discomfiture.
They both nodded, but Gage noticed Laurey could no more meet the chief's perceptive gaze than he could.
"Good." He gestured them into the two chairs before his desk, but rather than go to his own chair, he leaned on the edge of the desk on their side. "I need to talk to both of you about our next steps. Gage, because we need to decide how we're going to protect you should Martin ignore … his attorney's advice. And you, Ms. Templeton, because you've unfortunately landed in the middle of all this."
"Laurey, please," she said, and de los Reyes smiled and nodded. She smiled back, and Gage was suddenly reminded of what a good-looking man the chief was—tall, lean, with those regal features and that touch of silver at his temples. Why it had hit him now, he didn't want to think.
"I don't think he'll try again," Gage said, rather hastily.
"But are you willing to bet your life you're right?" de los Reyes asked. Before Gage could answer, the chief shook his head. "I'm not. I don't have enough people like you that I can afford to lose one."
Gage opened his mouth, then shut it again; there was nothing he could say to that without sounding either foolish or arrogant—or both.
"I'm thinking we should go public."
"No," Gage said, instantly.
"It may be the only way. I went along with keeping it quiet at first, but now…"
"No," Gage repeated.
De los Reyes looked at him consideringly. "It makes sense, Gage. He won't be as likely to go after you if he knows we—"
"No," he said a third time. The chief's expression made him realize he had interrupted his most superior officer. Fortunately de los Reyes wasn't the kind of man to take offense at such things. "Look," Gage said, resisting the urge to glance at Laurey, who was watching with interest but obvious puzzlement, "if it was just me, then … maybe. But it isn't."
"That's why, Ms. … rather, Laurey is here."
She spoke up then. "Excuse me, but I don't quite understand. What did you mean, go public?"
"With our suspicions that Mitchell Martin is behind the attempts on Gage's life. In the hopes that his knowing we suspect him, and that it's public knowledge, will prevent him from trying again. And it may shift the winds of public opinion, make people think of Martin as a suspect instead of a wrongly accused victim."
"Oh." She glanced at Gage. "That makes sense."
"Granted," Gage admitted. "But my answer is still no."
"Why?" she asked, her tone one of obvious puzzlement.
"I believe," de los Reyes said quietly, when Gage didn't answer, "he is trying to protect you."
"Me?" She had turned to the chief when he'd spoken, but now she looked back at Gage. "Protect me? From what?"
"Right now, nobody knows you're even involved. But when the chief said 'go public,' he meant to the press. Do you have any idea what it's like when they get hold of something?"
"I've watched the news," she said dryly.
"Then you know they'll probe and pry until they find out everything. They'll be asking why we suspect him, even though it seems obvious to us. One of the first things they'll want to know is if there are any witnesses. And I don't want Martin finding out about you."
"Which is, I'm told," de los Reyes put in mildly, "why you didn't want us to charge your shooter with anything other than the drug charges."
"You didn't?" Laurey asked, clearly even more confused now.
"If we charged him with the shooting," Gage said, meeting Laurey's gaze at last, "we'd have to use you as a witness. Which means Martin would find out you saw everything. And all for nothing, if we can't connect the two of them. I didn't see any point in dragging you into it until and unless we can prove the shooter was working for Martin."
"But … he still tried to kill you. And you were a witness to that."
"That … doesn't matter," he said, knowing it sounded absurd.
"It doesn't matter that he tried to kill you?" Laurey exclaimed.
"I think what Gage is trying to say, in this rather … obscure way," the chief said, "is that he doesn't think it's worth the price to hang an attempted murder rap on our guest."
"The price?"
"Of you being irrevocably placed in Mitchell Martin's line of fire, so to speak," de los Reyes said. He looked at Laurey in a considering way that made Gage more than a little nervous. "And that is a … departure from the norm I find very interesting."
"Can we just get on with this?" Gage said abruptly, not liking at all the turn this was taking. "Martin's a loose cannon. He may stop, or he may go crazier than ever. You can't be sure."
"All right," the chief said calmly. "You've made your position quite clear, so, Laurey, it would seem it's up to you."
"Like hell," Gage said, jerking upright to sit on the edge of his chair before remembering where he was and who he'd just sworn at. "Sir," he added rather lamely.
The chief glanced at him but didn't speak before looking back at Laurey. "I won't deny there is a slight danger in this course. We have every reason to believe that Martin does not know about you or your involvement. And although we will, of course, try to keep you out of it, Gage is right that the media may somehow ferret your involvement out and use it. Your identity and part in this could become widely known. The press are annoyingly, and sometimes dangerously, conscienceless about that kind of thing."
"And if they do?"
"Then if he is, indeed, unbalanced enough to continue down this path, there is a slight chance he may decide to go after you, as well."
"But you think if you go public," Laurey said, "then he's less likely to go after Gage again?"
"That's my assessment, yes."
"Then do it."
"Laurey, no," Gage protested.
"It's my decision, Gage."
"But you don't understand—"
"I understand enough." She looked at the chief. "Sir?"
"You're certain?"
"I am."
De los Reyes smiled. "Thank you."
Gage muttered something under his breath. Laurey frowned at him. "You're the one who says he practically walks on water. Trust him, will you?"
Gage's head came up sharply. Disconcerted, he flicked a glance at the chief, who looked startled, but rather pleased. A bit embarrassed, Gage got to his feet. "If that's all? Sir?"
"I think so," de los Reyes said. "Except for one thing. Happy birthday, Butler."
Thoroughly embarrassed now—he made a point of never letting his birthday be widely known, just to avoid most cops' penchant to use any excuse for a party—Gage mumbled a thank-you and turned toward the door, thinking he'd never been more glad to get out of this office, even on the two occasions when Chief Lipton had had him in here to chew him out.
"Oh, and Laurey?"
She'd been right behind him on the way to the door, but at the chief's words she turned back. He gestured her back toward the desk. Gage waited just outside the door
; he wondered what de los Reyes wanted to tell her, but figured he'd come close enough to trouble with the man without pushing his luck by barging back in when de los Reyes clearly wanted to talk only to Laurey.
She was smiling when she came back, an odd little smile that made him uneasy. But he waited until they were outside and at the car before he asked her, "What was that about?"
"Just something he thought I should know."
"About what?"
"You."
Uh-oh. "Something … like what?"
"That's between the chief and me."
"Laurey…"
She ignored him and got into the car. Not having a choice, he pulled open the driver's door and got in himself.
Before he even had his seat belt fastened she spoke, clearly changing the subject.
"Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?"
Diverted, he shrugged. "I … it's not something I generally announce."
"Even to the woman you're in bed with?"
Although he rarely did, he'd come close to blushing when she'd told him he was a special kind of man. Closer when she had called him beautiful. But this time she had really done it; he felt his cheeks heat, and it wasn't just from the memories of that afternoon, although just thinking of how it had felt when he'd slid into her welcoming body was enough to overheat the entire car.
"I … haven't been in bed with a woman for several birthdays. Besides, I sort of … forgot."
"You forgot it was your birthday?"
"I was thinking of … other, much more interesting things," he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing her color in turn.
She lowered her eyes, lacing her fingers together and staring at her hands as if they belonged to a stranger. "Gage, I…"
"Regrets?" he asked, managing to keep his voice quiet, although his hands were clenching around the steering wheel, as he waited with some dread to hear her say it had been a mistake.
"No," she said. "It's just … I've never done anything like … that, and I don't know how to act now."
"Don't act at all," he said, his voice harsh. "Just feel how you feel."
"But I'm not sure how I feel."
"Then that's how you feel."
She looked at him then, her expression rueful. "That almost made sense. And that worries me."
He smiled, or tried to; he was fairly sure it was more than a little crooked. "Laurey, I know we still need to … talk. We should have this afternoon, but Kit showed up, and maybe we should have at the beach, but you were so—"
He stopped when she lifted a hand. "No. I needed … to not talk, or think."
"Sometimes you need time to just … be aware of being alive," he said.
He saw the gleam of understanding and connection in her eyes. "Yes. Exactly. Thank you."
He wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, but he would take it. Gladly.
"So … do you want to talk now?"
"Honest?"
"Preferably."
"No," she said fervently. "I want food. I'm starved."
He blinked, startled. Then he grinned. "Now that you mention it, so am I." He hadn't realized it; he was used to ignoring some of the less urgent signals his body sent him, such as hunger or sleepiness. But neither of them had eaten since that morning. "Okay, food first."
"Thank you."
"Okay if we stop by my place? I'd like to take a shower and change. You can, too, if you like, since you have your things with you."
"I'd like that," she said. "I still feel a bit windblown from the beach."
"You look … wonderful."
He meant it, but just saying the words, and noticing how strange it felt, reminded him again of just how long it had been since he'd paid a woman a simple compliment outside of work. Or had been in a position to.
"Thank you," she said, a shy note in her voice that tugged at something deep inside him; she sounded as if she wasn't used to such compliments. And he wondered if she'd ever really gotten over seeing herself as the tall, gawky girl she'd once been.
She should be used to compliments, he thought. And he just might have to make darn sure she got used to them. A lot of them. He'd—
The sound of a siren stopped his thoughts. It was a short, quick burst of sound, not the response to an emergency but most likely a wake-up call for some inattentive driver, but it woke him up, as well.
He turned his attention to starting the car. He wouldn't be doing anything, he told himself. This was his life, this place, this job, and there wasn't room for anything else. Especially not the kind of relationship Laurey would expect. And deserve. It was only the fact that he'd been forcibly removed from that job for a couple of days that had made him even begin to think it might be possible. That had made him concentrate on her, instead of his work. That had been the reason he'd even had time for such foolish ideas. That had been the reason he'd done something he'd never, ever done before; crossed a line that shouldn't be crossed.
Ironic, he supposed, as he pulled out onto Trinity Street West
and headed home, that the job had put him in that position, had put him in that safe house, locked up with the only woman to tempt him in a very long time. The very thing that made it impossible had also made him want what he couldn't have.
The fact that he had taken it anyway—never mind that Laurey had been a willing participant—was something that he doubted he would ever be able to reconcile in his mind.
I've never done anything like that.
She didn't have to tell him, he knew. He'd always known. Laurey Templeton wasn't the kind of woman to have sex lightly. In fact, he thought, frowning, she wasn't the type to just have sex at all. She would never go to bed with a man just for the sake of physical release. To some extent, her heart would have to be involved.
He nearly groaned aloud. He had never meant to hurt her, but now it seemed inevitable, because there were just too many strikes against them. His dedication to his work, her feelings about that kind of dedication. The fact that he couldn't change the way he worked; he had to give it everything. Even the knowledge that it had cost him his marriage hadn't enabled him to back off. They said he was driven, and maybe they were right. But he didn't know any other way to do the job. Any other way to keep the nightmares at bay.
His mind skittering away from that subject, he thought of the other big strike: the fact that she had her own life, her own career, and it was twelve hundred miles away.
God, he didn't want this, couldn't afford this.
But he did want it. He wanted her.
He glanced over at her. She sat quietly in the passenger seat, looking out the window, but he could see, even from here, even in the darkness, that she wasn't focused on anything outside. And he wondered if she was wrestling with thoughts like his, or simply wishing they had never complicated things by discovering that they set off some serious fireworks together.
Whichever it was, she said nothing at all, even when he pulled into his driveway. The small house was nicely lit by the streetlight, and looked quiet and peaceful, even welcoming. He got out and walked around to open her door for her, she gave him a look that made him wonder if she was going to protest the small courtesy. But she didn't, merely followed him around to the back of the car. He opened the trunk, getting out both the small duffel he'd packed to go into hiding and the larger suitcase Laurey had brought for her entire trip.
"Guess I'll have to get my hotel room back," she said.
Gage nearly bit his tongue stopping himself from saying she could stay here. They had too much to work out before he could make such an offer, and he had the numbing feeling in the pit of his stomach that, after they did, it would be a moot point.
"Or maybe," she said wearily, "I should just go home."
The stark words clawed at a place in him he'd never known was there, some vulnerable place he'd always managed to keep hidden until now. He wanted to shout "No!" but how could he? What was he going to do, ask her to stay? Stay and … what?
"
Don't—" He stopped, afraid the next word was going to be "go." He swallowed and tried again. "Don't think about it now. You're tired and hungry. You can decide what you're going to do later."
He grabbed both bags before she could say any more and headed toward the front door. He heard her behind him and wished that things were different, normal, that they could be a normal couple coming home, that their entire relationship hadn't been haunted by the kind of adrenaline producing situations that threw your perceptions out of kilter, that—
Stop it, he ordered himself.
He set the bags down on the porch. He dug into his pocket for his house keys while Laurey, still looking a bit grim, paused to look at the hedgelike bush, festooned with orange and yellow flowers, that grew beside the steps. Lantana, he thought Tim, his gardener, had called it.
He unlocked the front door and gave it a shove. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laurey move. He turned to look as she bent to pick up a broken stem, the colors of the flowers muted in the glow of the streetlight. Then she started up the steps toward him.
Three things hit him with the rapid-fire swiftness of machine-gunfire. And just about as hard.
A large footprint, nearly hidden under the bush, in the soft dirt where she had found the broken stem.
The door, instead of swinging open easily as usual, moving slowly.
The sound of something dragging across wood.
"Get down!"
He yelled it as he flung himself off the porch at Laurey. He hit her hard, and she cried out.
And then the world exploded around them.
* * *
Chapter 17
« ^ »
She was putting up a good front, but Gage sensed that underneath the brisk efficiency, Laurey was still shaken. And why shouldn't she be? Three times in as many days, she'd nearly been killed. All because she was with him.
She sat on the edge of the bed in the one room she'd quietly told the desk was all they would need, wrapped in a hotel robe, a hotel towel wrapped around her freshly washed hair. She had little other than the guest package the hotel had provided and some items Kit had picked up for her at a drugstore. Her bag had been blown to pieces, along with his, and all she had of her own was what had been in her purse. He had less; he'd showered and sent his own jeans to the hotel laundry, and put on a pair Cruz had lent him, leaving the shirt off out of deference to the gouge some flying piece of shrapnel had left over his collarbone. He was hurting in more places than he could count; the aches from the crash had just begun to ease up, and now he had a whole new set. He tried to ignore them, but he knew he was moving a bit stiffly.
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