by Jordan Dane
This close to the dock, Raven got the distinct impression he was fishing. She wasn't about to take the bait so easily.
"Those old files are archived, Christian. But I'm getting them delivered this afternoon, as soon as they've been located." She eyed him surreptitiously, observing every nuance of the man. He was even more difficult to read under dark glasses. "Not sure I've decided to share them yet. I haven't seen much in the way of good faith from you."
She let the implication hang in the air. An ordinary person would have filled the void in conversation, unable to leave silence be. Christian was anything but ordinary. He reversed her ploy, being content with utter stillness. A chess match with the man would be quite the challenge.
Fighting a smile, she found a quiet spot with a wooden bench and a beautiful view of the waterfront. He joined her, without a word. After tossing his half-eaten meal in a nearby trash receptacle, he sipped at his water and waited. The standoff might've been comical, except Christian was so preoccupied.
"Something's wrong. What is it?" she asked, setting aside her lunch.
He deliberated a moment, then pulled off his sunglasses, tucking them into a jacket pocket. Without the buffer, his eyes commanded her attention, softening his doleful expression.
"I can't help worrying about you. Whoever killed Mickey has no regard for the authority of the police. And gunning your partner down in front of his whole neighborhood just emphasizes that point." Turning, he fixed his eyes on her and brushed back a strand of hair that had blown across her cheek. "The Dunhill Estate is a fortress. I want you to stay with me."
Those eyes had the power to make her say yes to just about anything, but so much more was at stake than her personal feelings.
"I've got a job to do. You know that."
"Nothing's worth your life, Raven." Staring out across the water, he shared his tainted view of her career choice. "What you do. It's all about dealing with destruction and loss."
"No, Christian, you don't understand. For me, this job is about putting things right. It's about justice." She leaned toward him, touching a finger to his jawline. Eventually, she drew him back.
Yet by the look in his eyes, he still searched for an understanding. "After all the savagery that you see day after day, doesn't it chip away from who you are? The effects must be permanent. How do you deal with that?"
She felt certain his thoughts no longer reflected his view of her job. The emotion in his words ran much deeper, centered on his own grief. She could identify with his sentiments. The death of her father had robbed her of the innocence of her teenage years. In many respects, they had so much in common. Her connection to him was undeniable.
"But the effects don't have to be terminal. At some point, you gotta let go. Move on. The loss of my father pales in comparison to your tragedy, but I do understand some of what you've gone through."
"Then understand this." He reached for her hand, enfolding it in his. "You putting your life on the line, it's painful for me to watch. Please. I'm asking you to reconsider."
She ached hearing his heartfelt plea. With anyone else, she might've dismissed the concern. But gazing into Christian's eyes, it was nearly impossible. Nearly.
"You and I both have to remain strong. Don't you want to know who's doing this?" She squeezed his hand. Focusing on the facts of the case, maybe she could distract him from his apprehension for her personal safety. "Somehow this is all connected to your past. We just gotta find the key, that's all."
She caught a flicker in his eye. Something she said must have hit the mark.
"You wanted a sign of good faith?" With a pained expression, he jutted his chin down the pier, back toward the clubhouse. "That key you found in Mick's office. It probably belongs to a locker in there. Ask the old man at the marina office."
His words left her stunned. Then he stood, leaving her with her mouth open and squinting toward his silhouette, shielding her eyes with a hand.
"Wait. Where are you going?"
He didn't answer. But his next comment shook her.
"Just let me know what ballistics has to say."
As Christian turned his back, her mind grappled with her heart. The cop in her wondered how he knew what would be in the locker, suspecting he'd tampered with evidence. But the woman in her wanted to blindly trust him. He must have sensed her inner turmoil. He stopped, and with barely a glance over his shoulder, he spoke in a hushed tone.
"The old man was with me. He can tell you that I did nothing more than look in the bag."
For once, she was thankful not to be under the scrutiny of his eyes. It gave her the courage to ask the question she'd had on her mind.
"She's gone, isn't she?" Standing, her arms clutched across her chest, Raven held firm to her link with him. "I've tried her cell number countless times. Fiona's left you to deal with this, hasn't she?"
No words were necessary. The betrayal in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Lowering his head, he put on his dark glasses and walked away. She found herself hoping he'd stop and turn around.
But that never happened.
Christian had given her more than just a sign of good faith. He'd made himself vulnerable to her investigation.
"Well, I'll be damned," she whispered.
By the time Raven got home, it was after dark. She flipped the light switch and elbowed her way through the kitchen door, carrying a large cardboard box. With a toe, she kicked the door closed behind her, then traipsed into the living room. After setting her burden on a coffee table, she shrugged out of her holster, placing her Glock beside the box. The weight of it lingered on her shoulder. Dim light from her kitchen bled into the small living room as she collapsed onto her sofa, feeling her exhaustion.
A long night lay ahead. She planned to keep working, focusing on the archived box about the Dunhill assassination and a selection of her father's old case files. With so much at stake, her curiosity far outweighed fatigue. The shadows and the comfort of the sofa enticed her to close her eyes, taking a short mental holiday. It had been quite a day.
Just as she nodded off, in that space between reality and dreams, a soft knock at her kitchen door woke her. Sluggishly, she rose off the couch and went to the door, taking a peek through the small window. With a grin, she tugged on the doorknob and gazed upon her partner for a day, still sporting his signature grin.
"Hey, Sam. Come on in." Stepping aside, she let her family friend through the door. "On duty again? You gotta be one tired hombre."
"No, baby girl, not tonight. This old man is wrung out. Just came by to make sure you're settled in for the night." He stood near her kitchen table. His body language told her he wasn't going to stay long. By his changed expression, he was all business. "Any word on that rifle you found?"
"I don't expect to hear anything from ballistics until tomorrow. With any luck, the striations from that H & K will match the bullet retrieved from the body of Charles Dunhill."
"What? You don't have enough to do, you gotta reopen the old Dunhill case? That was a very splashy headliner some twenty-plus years ago," he teased. "If you can pin this on Blair as the shooter, then you got a fresh lead. You might be able to trace who gave the order on the hit."
Normally, the cop in her would have been thrilled by the discovery. Solving such a high-profile case wouldn't hurt her career, but she knew the implications. As with any murder, the investigation would start with the person having the most to gain from his death. That person was obvious. Fiona Dunhill had gained a great deal. Even if she had nothing to do with her husband's killing, the woman's public reputation would be sullied by the new inquiry, dredging up the ugly innuendos. A nightmare revisited.
On the other hand, if she were guilty . . . The thought wrenched Raven's heart. Her duty would obligate her to build a case and arrest the woman. The courts would do the rest. If she and Christian had any hopes of a relationship, surely they'd be dashed now. How would they weather such a devastating storm—no matter what the outcome?
She felt certain that Christian had been protecting Fiona, making his show of good faith in turning over the contents of the locker all the more astonishing. Why the sudden change of heart? So many questions bubbled to the surface.
"What's the matter, honey? I thought you'd be more excited."
"Oh, nothing, Sam. Guess I'm just tired, that's all." She rubbed her forehead, feeling a stress headache coming on.
"Well, that's my cue to leave. You got a big day tomorrow. Get some rest, honey girl." He yanked the door open, standing near the threshold. "The troops are positioned outside, like last night. As soon as I get some rest, I'll be back at it tomorrow. Maybe we can finish our talk about your daddy's old case files."
"Yeah, sounds good, LT." Standing on her toes, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. His face reddened to the color of his hair. "Thanks."
"Good night, darlin'. Don't spend the whole night readin'. Getting your rest is important, too." He gently tapped a knuckle to her chin, then walked toward the street. From the shadows, she heard him say, "I'll tell your watchdogs that you'll be up late."
Locking the door behind him, she leaned against it, folding her arms across her chest. Her eyes found the cardboard boxes in her living room. Feelings of exhilaration and dread skirmished in her brain. No matter what she discovered, the foundation of Christian's life would be undermined. In that moment, she understood the courage it took for him to open his past to her. But the responsibility weighed heavy.
"I just hope you're not gonna hate me when this is all over," she prayed, her voice a whisper.
The beam of the flashlight strafed his position. He held his breath, willing himself not to react. At one point, the cop stared right at him. With nerves of steel, he remained calm, confident he wouldn't get caught. He melded into the shadows like a ghost. In such a quiet, unsuspecting neighborhood, the dark side of his nature took control, a predator among sheep.
The cop finished his patrol, securing the perimeter of the small bungalow. He understood their routine, counted on it. They had no idea what to expect. He'd parked several blocks away and stuck to the shadows that deepened after two in the morning. He had a clear plan in his head with only one objective—to find Raven Mackenzie.
Taking a risk, he left the cover of an evergreen shrub and prowled around the corner of the house, brazenly following the cop on patrol at a safe distance. Carefully tracking the beam of light, he waited until the uniform swept the far corner, then counted to five. Patience would be key. Now crouching by a brick wall at the back of the house, he held his breath. His eyes peered through the gloom. He forced his body to remain still, fused to the darkness. The wind bounced sounds through the night, playing tricks on his ears.
But adrenaline galvanized him, tensing his body. He listened for any sound out of the ordinary, relying on his training. Even dressed in black, he knew part of him would be exposed to a stippling of pale light from a streetlamp filtered through tree limbs. He had to make it quick. He lowered his body to the ground, flat on his belly, crawling toward the narrow basement window. Along the frame, no wiring connected to an alarm. One less thing to contend with. Propped on a shoulder, he clutched the handle of the suction clamp he'd brought with him. A gloved hand secured it to the glass.
A faint hiss. Now the glass cutter scratched along the smooth surface, a high-pitched, grating sound.
Seconds. He had only seconds to make the cut and slip inside if he wanted to remain undetected. Getting this close to the house spurred him on. The police protection had been no match for his skill.
With a tug, the glass broke free, still connected to the metal clamp. He tossed the tools behind a bush. Sliding his hand inside, he released the window latch. In one fluid motion, he rolled through the opening and lowered his boots quietly to the floor. The basement smelled musty and dank, the chill of the night leaching through the cinder-block walls.
His eyes adjusted to the dark, then located the stairs.
He was close now. Soon, he would have her in his sights. The thought churned his blood, fueling his excitement. With each step deliberate, he moved through the clutter of boxes and unused furniture, the obstacles only dimly lit from the narrow windows at his back. Arms outstretched, he felt his way up the wooden staircase, careful not to give his position away.
If he was discovered now, he might lose his life to a bullet. But failure was not an option.
At the top step, he turned the doorknob, then gingerly pushed it open. Slipping through the door, he placed his back to the wall, reconnoitering and assessing his plan. Down the hallway, a lamp burned. He listened intently, then crept forward. Using a mirror on the wall across from him, he peered into the small living room, careful to keep his face in the shadows. In the reflection, he found her.
Raven Mackenzie lay on the sofa, a file folder spread across her chest. A Glock lay in its holster on a nearby table. Her head was turned away from him. Strands of hair had fallen away, exposing the pale skin of her neck. He waited to make sure she was sleeping. With mesmerizing steadiness, her breasts heaved, gently moving the papers in the manila folder. The intimacy of the act electrified him.
Even though the front drapes were drawn, he didn't want to take the risk of moving in clear view with the lights on. From the front of the house, his large silhouette backlit by a living room lamp would be like sending up a flare. Before he went any further, he slid his gloved hand along the wall and doused the lights. From the street, it would look as if she'd gone to bed. The cops outside would have no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary.
The room plunged into darkness. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. Her silhouette was tinged in a faint glow from the window. Measured breaths told him she still slept. One careless mistake now would draw the posse in blue. But an even greater concern was the gun on the living room table. She could shoot him without a court in the world condemning her for the action. Careful not to wake her, he crept closer.
All of his effort would come down to the next few seconds. And he wasn't about to back down now. Not in his nature.
Slowly, his hand reached for the gun, but his instincts stopped him. His eyes darted through the room, unsure what had triggered his reaction. Then he realized—her breathing had changed.
Too late. He'd lost his edge. A shrill alarm jarred his brain.
Grab the gun!
CHAPTER 12
Her eyes opened. At least, she thought they were. Darkness deceived her, toyed with her perception. Black-and-white images of Charles Dunhill, with part of his skull missing, reminded her she had fallen asleep reading the old case file—a hazard of the trade. Now, her warm breath touched her cheeks, deflecting off the back of the sofa. Her face burrowed against a pillow.
Exhausted as she was, she couldn't force her body to move. Her limbs felt like lead. She lay there in the dark, content to waver in and out of sleep. But something jolted her out of a stupor. The room was dark. Who had turned out the lights?
Shutting down her body's natural recoil, she listened intently, hoping she'd only overreacted.
A faint sound ... A presence weighed heavy in the room, just behind her—
Tensing her jaw, she resisted the urge to turn around. She assessed the situation, relying on her memory for the layout of the room. The chances of getting to her gun in time weren't good. One chance! She'd have one chance to get this right. And only one option remained. Without hesitation, she made her move.
Raven was determined to kick some ass.
Lunging off the sofa, she used its leverage to shove her body into the shadow of a man. Her shoulder lowered like a linebacker's. She hit her target with all her strength. The intruder let out a painful groan and fell back against the wall, hitting hard. A gasp of air resounded as he sank to the floor. She'd knocked the wind from his lungs. But she prepared to do some real damage. Set on knocking him into next week, she escalated her assault.
Propped against the wall, the man lay panting, trying to recover. With her legs straddlin
g his, she pummeled his face with her fists—first the right, then the left. She'd have only a short time to get her licks in before he'd launch his counterattack. Every strike felt like hitting a brick wall. Her knuckles were raw and ached with pain, compounded by a burning tingle in her shoulder. Adrenaline kept her arms pumping, inflicting as much damage as she could. Her face burned in outrage.
Taking a moment to glance over her shoulder, she glimpsed the dark shape of her holster. The butt of her weapon was near the edge of the table. With no time to waste, she crawled toward it, slowed by the damage to her shoulder and hands.
But she'd made a fatal miscalculation.
The man had shaken off her beating and lunged, rolling her to one side, away from the gun. With all his weight, he pinned her to the floor, bracing his hands to her wrists. The lower half of his body fortified his dominance over her. Darkness closed in. She bucked and rocked to free herself. Bright flashes streaked across her eyes with the exertion. Think, she had to think. His face was too far away for a head butt. Her only recourse now was to scream.
"Arrggghh." A guttural sound escaped from deep inside her lungs, fueling her rage.
"Hey, don't! Stop it," he pleaded. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
Had she heard right? As soon as she stopped thrashing, the man eased his grip of her hands. The darkness obscured his face. But the voice was—
"Damn, you pack a punch. I think you busted my lip." His voice. "Are you okay?"
A part of her had been relieved, but an even larger part was mad as hell.
"Get off me, damn it! What the hell were you thinking?"
Christian didn't budge, his full weight upon her.
"I didn't want to read about you in the paper, knowing I could've done something. I had to make my point. And showing you was the only way to do that. You're not safe here."
Those eyes. Even in the dark, they found hers. And the deep baritone of his voice and the feel of his body, rock-hard against her, sent chills along her flesh. His chest heaved with every breath, his skin radiating heat to match her own. The blood rushed to her cheeks, then pulsated to other parts of her. The sensation was intoxicating.