by Kylie Brant
He felt at home as soon as he pushed open the door and inhaled the secondhand smoke that all the ordinances in the world couldn’t successfully ban. Returning the greetings of some of the regulars, he found a seat at the bar and signaled the bartender to bring him his usual.
When the bottle of beer was set before him, he took a comfortable swallow, before a man slipped onto the stool beside him. Casting a sideways look, he groaned aloud. “I’m here to relax, McKay. I don’t want any hassle.”
The blond man beside him raised his brows. “Hassle? Me? I was just hoping for some friendly conversation with one of CPD’s finest.”
Gabe took a long pull from his beer. “I heard a joke the other day that made me think of you. You know what you call ten thousand reporters at the bottom of the ocean? A good start.” He chuckled at the other man’s expression. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“Of course.” Dare McKay raised a finger, and the bartender slid an iced mug of beer toward him. “Besides, that joke is probably referring to the paparazzi, not to eminent investigative journalists such as myself. And speaking of investigating…I hear you caught the D’Brusco case.”
Gabe shoved down his annoyance. The man’s sources were uncannily accurate. “I’m not giving out information, so don’t bother pumping me.”
“Could be that I might be in a position to throw some information your direction as the case progresses.”
Tipping the bottle to his lips, Gabe drank. “Don’t do me any favors.”
“Well, since you asked so nice…I’ll be talking to you, Connally. Right now there’s a blonde who craves my attention.”
He slid off the stool and sauntered in the direction of a woman sitting at a table nearby, who looked distinctly happier to see him than Gabe had been.
Ordering another beer, Gabe listened with only half an ear to the guy on the other side of him bemoan the Bulls’ chances of rebuilding another championship team. With one elbow resting on the bar, he let his attention drift as he studied the rest of the customers in the establishment.
Mostly regulars, he observed, people he knew by sight, if not by name. There were a few neighborhood faces, a few like McKay, who frequented the place trying to pick up information, but most of the customers were cops who enjoyed relaxing after the job with their buddies. He took another long swallow of beer, then froze in the act of returning the bottle to the bar. His gaze ricocheted to a table toward the back of the place, and he stared incredulously.
What the hell was Meghan Patterson doing in Brewsters?
What she was doing, he quickly concluded, was a damn fine job of distracting just about every man in the bar. His weren’t the only pair of eyes trained in her direction. With that mass of golden curls spilling down her back, and her curves shown to advantage in the black sweater and skirt she was wearing, she looked as out of place in the slightly shabby tavern as a debutante at a cock fight.
His attention shifted to her companion and his brows drew together. Wattrel…Wadrell, that was it. His frown turned to a scowl. Fresh out of the academy, they’d been rookies in the same division years ago. The man hadn’t made many friends then with his methods for cutting corners and currying favor with the brass. Based on what Gabe had learned recently, Wadrell hadn’t changed much. Only the stakes had grown higher.
He brought the bottle to his lips and sipped, watching the couple unabashedly. Meghan’s back was to Gabe; he’d recognized her only when she’d turned in profile for a moment. She slipped from her chair and headed in the direction of the rest rooms. He shot a glance to Wadrell. The detective watched her go, then reached for his drink with a self-satisfied smile.
Without further thought, Gabe grabbed his bottle of beer and slipped off his bar stool to wind his way to the back of the place. The rest rooms were located beside two pool tables, and from the looks of things the pool players’ concentration had just been shot to hell by Meghan’s appearance.
Loitering in the vicinity really wasn’t difficult. The rear area was packed with players and spectators. A few made token attempts to hide their cigarettes, as if the smoke hovering below the hanging lights had appeared from nowhere. Gabe filled his lungs in vicarious appreciation.
When the rest room door opened, he shifted position so that Meghan could move only a few feet before finding her way blocked by him.
“Miss Patterson.” Stunned recognition was in his voice.
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
She wasn’t a good enough actress to hide her dismay at his appearance. Like this afternoon, she retreated a bit. Her response drew a different response from him this time, though. Earlier he’d been pleased that the distance had allowed him entrance to her apartment. Now he was fighting a compulsion to slide his fingers beneath her hair, around her nape, and haul her back to him, even closer this time. He clutched his bottle tighter in one hand and jammed the other in his pants pocket.
“Detective Connally.” She’d recovered quickly, but was still visibly eager to get away from him. Remaining planted solidly in front of her, he brought the bottle to his lips, took a drink.
“Given the high esteem you have for the CPD, this is a funny place for you and your date to show up. Of course—” a corner of his mouth curled “—guess it’s also kind of funny that you’d be seeing a cop.”
“I’m not ‘seeing’ him. At least, not in the way you mean. Could I get by, please?”
He obliged by moving a few inches. There was enough space for her to pass, if she didn’t mind pressing against him, curves to angles, heat to heat. Her gaze measured the space and she remained still. Apparently she minded.
Her eyes closed for a moment in a gesture of pure frustration. “Look, I have business with him, okay? Business I’d like to finish so I can go home to my nephew.”
“Your nephew lives with you?” The interest in his voice was genuine.
“I’ve been named his guardian.” A less observant man might have missed the flicker in her eyes as she delivered the words. A less observant man also might not have focused on the way her blond waves framed her face or the interesting rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Her blue eyes narrowed at him then, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. It was considered poor form for a trained observer to be caught staring.
“Yeah, I read about what happened to your sister. Sorry for your loss.”
It was as though his words had pierced her with ice. Voice frigid, she replied, “Yes, everyone’s sorry, Detective. But that doesn’t make Sandra any less dead, does it?” She used her elbow to wedge her way past him and walked away, anger steeling her spine. Gabe watched her go, draining his beer musingly. His hope of gaining her cooperation in his current investigation seemed to be fading by the moment.
A few games of pool later, Gabe’s mood was no better, and his pockets were considerably lighter. He handed his cue to a nearby man and shrugged into his coat, amidst some goodnatured jeering.
“Hey, Connally, you’re a little off your game tonight. Must be worn-out from that second job you’ve taken on.” Fiskes grinned at him from across the table.
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t believe the benefits.”
The other man laughed. The jeers were actually preferable to the truth, Gabe thought, as he wended his way to the front of the bar—that his concentration had been shredded time and again while he’d tried to keep an eye on Wadrell’s table. He’d missed a crucial shot when he’d seen the man move his chair closer to Meghan’s, put an arm around her shoulders. And it hadn’t improved his game any to wonder whether she’d shifted away from the man purposefully, or if she’d really been reaching for her drink. At any rate his concentration hadn’t improved in the twenty minutes since she’d left the bar, alone. Not while Wadrell was still sitting at the table, looking so damned pleased with himself.
Instead of passing the seat Meghan had vacated, Gabe pulled out the chair and sat down. “Wadrell, how’s it going?”
“Connally.” The
other man’s voice held an edge of wariness. “Oh…you know. Still chasing bad guys.”
“Yeah, I heard about your big case.” Gabe looked around, signaled the waitress to their table and ordered a couple of beers. “Got a lot of press on that one, didn’t you?”
The man shrugged. “You know how the media is. Warring gangs are good for headlines, especially when drug dealing is thrown into the mix.”
“Not to mention the sensationalism of using a psychic to help round up the leaders.” The waitress delivered the beers, and Gabe nudged one of them toward the other man, then handed the woman some bills.
Wadrell eyed him for a moment, then lifted the bottle to his lips. “That didn’t hurt any, of course.”
“Yeah, that was a different angle.” Gabe scratched his jaw. “Can’t say I’ve ever worked with one. Was she really any help?”
There was still a note of caution in the other man’s voice. “Yeah, Barton gave us some good leads. She called in and said she’d run into two of our guys in a dive they frequent. She was referred to me and came up with a couple leads about their activities that checked out. We started using her.” He shook his head and reached for a cigarette. “I don’t care if you believe in that kind of thing or not, the broad knew things, okay? We’d run a suspect in, place Barton behind the one-way glass. She’d observe for a while, give us some tips, and then we’d interrogate them. We put away most of the members of the gang that way. Slick operation. With her help we nailed them in the questioning. They never knew what hit them.”
Gabe tried not to covet the cigarette the other man was smoking. He failed miserably. “You’re telling me she read their minds or something?” He didn’t bother to keep the disbelief out of his voice. He’d never put much stock in that kind of hocus-pocus. He still wasn’t convinced that Wadrell believed in it, either; he was just as likely to have grabbed the opportunity to make headlines. “How do you suppose the press caught wind that you were using a psychic? And her identity?”
Setting the bottle down in front of him, Wadrell said, “You know how the media is. Can’t even call them leaks when the department itself is like a sieve.”
“Yeah, I know how it is. Just plain bad luck that the lady up and died before you made cases on all the guys involved.”
“Who, Barton?” Wadrell leaned back in his chair, visibly more relaxed now. “Yeah, too bad she bought it, but she really wasn’t much help there at the end, anyway. The last few things she gave us didn’t pan out. We’ll round up the others. It’s just a matter of time.”
“That was her sister in here earlier, wasn’t it? Meghan Patterson.”
Wadrell’s hand froze in the act of reaching for his bottle. “Yeah, so?”
Gabe lifted a shoulder. “Recognized her. She claim to be psychic, too?”
With a leer, the man said, “If she is, I hope she didn’t read my mind tonight. You know what I mean?”
“Way I hear it, this Patterson’s got a major beef with the department.”
Wadrell nodded. “She’s got some crazy notion her sister’s car accident was no accident at all—that the gang we were busting set it up to get her out of the way. Nothing to that, of course, but she won’t let it go.”
Comprehension dawned, and with it, a shimmer of anger. “Oh, so that’s the angle.” At the man’s silence, Gabe lowered his voice conspiratorially, buddy to buddy. “C’mon, Wadrell, you gonna pretend you’re cherry on this? You’re stringing the sister along like you might be able to get more information on the accident for her, all the while hoping she’ll throw a little action your way.”
The smirk that settled on the man’s lips was an open invitation to a clenched fist. “Well if there’s any action to be thrown, I’m gonna be the one to catch it. That is one fine piece of woman.”
Gabe leaned back in disgust. “Yeah, and why wouldn’t she be interested in a prince like you? Did you have something going with this Barton, too?”
The other man drained his beer, and set the bottle back on the table. “Naw. Not that she wasn’t a looker. But there was a hard edge to that one, you know? Compared to her, this Patterson is a babe in the woods. The sister was downright spooky.” Catching the scowl the bartender was aiming at him, he ground his cigarette out in the ashtray.
A few more minutes convinced Gabe that Wadrell had no more information that was of interest, which was good, because his tolerance level had lowered alarmingly. Gabe threw a couple bucks on the table and rose. Self-serving jerks like Wadrell gave him the heaves. There was no doubt in his mind that the other detective had been the one to alert the media, anonymously, of course, that a psychic was helping with his case. Wadrell would hand over his grandmother to get some exposure. It had been unprofessional and, once the media had dug up Barton’s identity, downright dangerous for the woman. With guys like Wadrell in the department, it was no wonder Meghan was down on the CPD.
He pushed open the door, the cold slap of wind in his face a wicked contrast to the heat in the bar. Given the circumstances, he could understand why Meghan was convinced Wadrell’s suspects had arranged to get rid of her sister. It could have happened just that way. But according to the detective, it hadn’t.
There was a movement to his left, alerting him to the figure huddled against the building. He took his time reaching into his pocket and unwrapped a piece of gum.
“Buses stopped running a couple hours ago.”
Meghan pulled the collar of her coat up closer around her throat and refused to look his way. “I’ve got a cab coming.”
“It must be taking its sweet time. How long have you been waiting?” He figured it had been at least a half hour since she’d left the bar.
Determinedly she kept her gaze fixed on the street. “I’ve called twice. It won’t be much longer.”
Resting his shoulders against the brick building, he studied her. “Be a lot warmer to wait inside.”
Finally she turned to him. Even the darkness couldn’t prevent him from noting that her gaze wasn’t friendly. “I’m fine out here. I don’t need company. You’re free to be on your way.”
Those words were delivered with just the right amount of haughtiness—duchess to serf. He supposed with her background she’d grown up giving orders. Too bad he’d never learned to take them.
“I’ve got my car. I could give you a lift home if you want.”
She’d returned to face the street. “That won’t be necessary.”
He nodded. “Your choice. Hope for your sake that cab arrives soon, though. Some men might be forgiven for thinking that your hanging around out here means you’ve changed your mind about ending the date so soon.” He heard a slight sound in the darkness that he fancied was her teeth clenching together.
“It was not a—”
“Date. Right. You said that.” Giving a shrug, he pushed away from the wall. “Well, if the cab doesn’t show, I’m sure Wadrell would enjoy escorting you home.”
He started in the direction of the parking lot. He’d gotten only a dozen steps when he heard her voice again.
“Wait. Maybe…maybe you’re right.”
He looked over his shoulder. The frigid breeze was combing reckless fingers through her hair, and she pushed it back over her shoulder with an impatient hand. “Those are words every man likes to hear, ma’am. Exactly what was I right about?”
Her chin lifted to an imperious angle, and it took little imagination to guess the effort it took to keep her tone civil. “I guess I will take that ride, after all. That is, if you’re sure it won’t take you out of your way.”
He masked his surprise at her sudden change of heart and dug in his pocket for his keys. Risk management, he figured, silently leading her to his car. She’d considered her options and decided that at the moment he presented less of a threat than Wadrell. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or offended. But he’d seize the opportunity to spend some time with her. He didn’t mind driving a few extra miles, especially if it got him closer to gaining her tr
ust.
He was truthful enough to admit, at least privately, to a fascination for the woman; an interest in more than her cooperation. But that was as far as it would be allowed to go. Work came first with him, it always would. And if the unlikely day ever came that he actually got serious about a female, it wouldn’t be one with shadows in her eyes and secrets on her lips.
He didn’t have to be psychic to realize that a woman like Meghan spelled the kind of trouble he’d spent a lifetime avoiding.
Chapter 3
It was a mistake. Nerves scrambled in Meghan’s stomach. In her eagerness to avoid Wadrell, with his increasingly slick lines and smooth advances, she’d considered Connally the lesser of two evils. Too late she’d remembered all the reasons she would be wise to shun his presence, as well. In the shadowy interior of his car, on the near-silent ride to her apartment, he exuded a danger all his own.
His voice rumbled out in the darkness, startling her. “Who’s taking care of your nephew tonight?”
With effort she kept the anxiety from her words. “My neighbor, Callie.”
“The woman who came to the door this afternoon?” He glanced her way, caught her nod. “Is she your baby-sitter?”
“Her son, Alex, and Danny are friends. We trade off duties. That way each of us can get away when we need to.”
“Sounds handy.”
That deep bass of his sounded even more gravelly in the shadowy interior of the car. His natural timbre was low, always sounding as though he’d just awakened. That thought elicited an accompanying mental image of him just rousing from sleep, his hard jaws shadowed and those whiskey-colored eyes still drowsy. She could feel her cheeks warm at the intimate thought of him, and turned her face to the window, glad that the darkness would hide her reaction.