“That’s not a bad idea, Grace,” Paul Anthony said. “We don’t have the manpower to keep an eye on you right now, but Cord can. He’s got the time.”
“But—”
“No buts. I think you should let him stay. At least until we find this guy.”
Grace closed her eyes and sighed. She couldn’t get out of this; they’d given her no choice. Cord would be living under her roof until they caught this Peeping Tom. She might as well get used to the idea.
“Okay, but I want to go on record as being against this unnecessary gesture.”
Paul rubbed her shoulder. “I hear you, Grace. Thanks for cooperating. Vince would be rolling over in his grave if he thought we weren’t protecting you.”
“Chicago PD isn’t really doing that, though, is it, Paul?” Cord interjected, crossing his arms over his chest.
“True, but you are, and that’s good enough for me.”
Grace heard the sarcastic undertones in both men’s remarks. She wished she could feel comfortable about having Cord around, but she didn’t. His presence would, at the very least, make her life difficult.
From the doorway, Sergeant Flannery cleared his throat. “We’re done out back, Detective Anthony.”
“Okay, then. Looks like we’re done here, Grace. I’ll let you know if we find a match on any prints. Try and get some sleep.” Paul rose and headed for the door. “Cord.”
Once they’d gone, Grace reluctantly glanced at Cord. He studied his hands, then shifted his stance. He was nervous about the arrangement, too. But why? He’d been the one to suggest it.
“I’ll show you to the guestroom.” Grace rose from the table, anxious to get to the privacy of her own bedroom, away from his commanding presence. He made her jittery. Distance was needed. Since Striker’s, her overwhelming reaction to him pissed her off. Not once while her husband was alive had she felt an attraction to Cord. He’d barely garnered a second look.
Or had he? She wasn’t sure. But now that Vince was dead, it was like she was seeing him differently, and what she saw appealed to her on a sexual level.
Tonight, he wore a light blue shirt that brought out the incredible sapphire hue in his eyes—eyes as sad as any she’d ever seen—secrets hidden in their depths.
Without provocation, her gaze inadvertently flew to his zipper, where his maleness strained against a pair of faded blue jeans.
What the heck was wrong with her? She was losing her mind.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Heat washed over her face.
Grace prayed he hadn’t seen her ogling his crotch. That would be mortifying. All she needed was Cord knowing she felt an attraction to him. He might think badly of her. After all, he’d been her husband’s best friend. She’d probably be the last woman he’d entertain sexual thoughts about.
Grace led him down the hall to the guest bedroom and opened the door, flipping on the light. “It’s been awhile since we’ve...I mean, I’ve had any company. I hope it’s okay.”
“It’ll be fine. Thanks, Grace. I’ll leave my door open, in case you need anything. I’m going to check the windows and doors, make sure they’re all locked. Good night.”
“Night.”
Grace turned and escaped to her room. What had he meant by if she needed anything? Like what? His strong arms to comfort her? His lips moving over hers, taking her breath?
She rolled her eyes, then stared intently at the lock on the door. Should she secure it?
Yeah, right. Who was she kidding? Like Cord would ever slip into her room—into her bed. He undoubtedly liked big-breasted women with brains the size of peas. The thought had her glancing down at her thirty-four-A’s.
She sighed. That would definitely exclude her.
Grace shook her head and went to her bathroom. The curtains covering the window had been pulled open, no doubt by one of the officers after they’d arrived on the scene and asked to see the bathroom.
Would she ever feel the same coming into this room again? Ever feel safe from prying eyes?
Grace stared out the window. What if he came back?
Heck, he could be standing outside right now, watching her. That terrified her, had her heart pumping hard again.
Quickly moving to the window, Grace flipped the locks and dropped the shades, then left the bathroom.
Between thoughts of the Peeping Tom coming back and Cord sleeping in the next room, she doubted she’d get any sleep. But somehow, she had to try.
Grace Under Fire
Chapter Four
Cord lay in bed, wondering if Grace was asleep. He’d tried counting rounds, hoping he’d drift off, but had no success. All he could think about was the look of horror on Grace’s face when she’d realized he’d be staying.
She was scared of him. The last thing he’d ever do was hurt Grace. She meant so much to him, and he certainly didn’t want her afraid to have him around.
He should have stayed out of her life, but her beautiful, misty eyes captivated him, yearned for his protection. Besides, Vincent would have wanted him to see to Grace’s safety.
Yeah, right. If Vincent had known Cord had feelings for his wife, he would have punched the ever-living shit out of him.
For two and a half years, he and Vincent had been partners, and not once had Cord said or done anything to hint at his infatuation for Grace. No one knew about it, and Cord would never have acted on his feelings. She was his best friend’s wife, and that was enough to squelch any thought of her as Cord’s. Even now, guilt consumed him because of his attraction to her. As far as he was concerned, Grace was officially off-limits. She was too good for him, anyway. She was pure and loving. He wasn’t. He was so far from pure and loving it was laughable. Cord had seen it all before he was an adult. Grace would be disgusted by some of the things he’d done in the thirty-two years he’d been alive.
Vincent probably would have as well, if Cord had shared his past with him. But he hadn’t. No one knew the real Cord Rawlings—the man whose own mother had hated even the sight of him.
Of course, she wasn’t one to talk. His mother had been a whore, a woman who drank herself into an early grave. God, how he’d hated her. He never had found out who his father was, but it had to have been someone his mother despised, considering the way she treated Cord.
You’re a bastard echoed over and over in Cord’s head like a broken record.
But Grace was different—special. She came from a good family. She married a saint. He could never compete with that, never measure up to the Diaglo standards. Ever. He knew that. But he could redeem himself to Grace by finding Vince’s murderer.
He owed his best friend that, too. Deep down, he felt responsible for Vince’s death. If he’d been the one in the car that night, Grace wouldn’t be in pain right now. She’d be happily married with a future.
If she were still awake, she’d probably be thinking about Vince, wishing he were there to protect her from some stranger who liked to watch her get naked.
A faint noise carried from somewhere in the house.
Cord bolted up in bed. He listened intently, not sure what he’d heard. It came again, this time a little louder.
It sounded like sobbing.
Grace. Was she crying?
His stomach clenched. He was the cause of her pain. How could he face her knowing that?
He rose, slipped into his jeans, and padded down the hallway. At her bedroom door, he stood, ready to knock, then hesitated, wondering if he should.
Her agonizing sobs tore at his heart.
With a helplessness he’d never experienced before, he threaded his fingers through his hair. Should he go in and comfort her? Would she welcome his consolation? Somehow he doubted she would. She’d probably be embarrassed.
Cord turned and headed to the guestroom. He’d probably be the last person on earth she’d want to soothe her. He’d just go back to bed and try to ignore the gut-wrenching sobs tearing a hole through his heart.
****
Grace awoke to the
sound of birds singing outside her bedroom window. Did they ever have a bad day, feel too depressed to drag their little wings out of their nests?
She glanced at the alarm. Seven o’clock. She’d gotten exactly three hours of sleep, and her mouth felt as dry as if she’d swallowed a bale of cotton. Crying wasn’t good for a person, though she was getting really good at it.
Last night, she’d fallen asleep only to be caught up in a nightmare—one she’d never forget. Vincent’s accusing eyes pierced her soul. How could you betray me? he’d asked, holding out his palm, his wedding ring cushioned in the middle. Want this? Then he’d thrown it at her. The ping of the ring bouncing off the wall had awoken her. The dream had seemed so vivid, so real, that she’d started to cry uncontrollably and couldn’t stop until she’d fallen back to sleep hours later.
Could Vincent have really come to her in a dream, angry with her for her immoral thoughts about Cord? Had it been him, or her conscience trying to tell her something? Either way, she planned to keep her distance from Cord.
Vincent had loved her, and he deserved better. Besides, it had only been six months since his death. Thinking about other men was out of the question, but it was time to go through Vince’s things—they were doing no good hanging in the closet.
A delicious aroma filtered into her troubled thoughts, making her mouth water. Was that bacon she smelled? And coffee? She hadn’t thought much about food the last few months, but whatever Cord was cooking made her stomach growl.
She threw on a pair of jeans and one of Vincent’s old Chicago Bears t-shirts and headed down the hall. The closer she got to the kitchen, the louder her stomach rumbled.
She entered the sun-filled room, cheery with its pastel yellow walls and contrasting chintz curtains and tablecloth. The kitchen was her favorite room in the house, one she’d fallen in love with the moment she saw it.
Cord stood at the stove, a dishtowel tucked into the waistband of his jeans, emphasizing his narrow hips.
He turned, a strip of bacon dangling from a tine of the fork he held in his hand. “Morning.” He smiled. “I hope you don’t mind my cooking breakfast. I found some bacon in the freezer and defrosted it.”
“No, not at all. It smells great.”
He pointed to the coffeemaker. “Coffee’s ready.” He took a sip of his, then placed it back on the counter. “How do you like your eggs?”
“Over-medium.”
She reached for a mug in the cabinet, poured a cup of coffee, and took a sip, savoring its robust flavor. She didn’t know how he managed to do it, but his coffee actually tasted much better than her own.
“It’s good.” She raised her cup.
“It’s the salt. It takes away the bitterness.”
She grinned. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Cord brought two plates to the table and placed them across from each other. “You want toast?” He went back to the stove to get his cup.
Grace nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll make it. You’ve done enough. Sit down and get started.”
She placed bread in the toaster, then went to the refrigerator to get the margarine and strawberry preserves.
“So, do you have to work today?”
Grace turned, watching him take a seat at the table. “Not this morning. Emily has an OB appointment. We’re not going to open Lightly Seasoned until this afternoon.”
“Hey, tell her congratulations on the baby. How’s the shop doing, anyway? I remember you and Emily had just started it when...I mean, before I left town.”
Grace knew Cord was reluctant to bring Vincent’s death up, and it touched her. “It’s doing fairly well. I’ve actually decided it is time to go through Vincent’s things this morning to see what I could take to the store. Is there anything you’d like to have of his?”
She saw emotion cloud his eyes. “No. Thanks, though.”
He stuck the last of his bacon in his mouth, a dab of grease glistening on his lip. Grace was drawn to the spot. His bottom lip was full for a man’s, the upper well-shaped. His chin fascinated her, its deep cleft covered in rough, morning stubble. Cord was a rugged looking man—so different from her husband.
Vincent had been dark haired, olive skinned, with smiling amber eyes. Always groomed to perfection. He and Cord were as different as night and day.
Vincent had been popular at the Ninth, had more friends than Grace could keep straight. Cord, on the other hand, seemed to be a loner, never going to any off-duty events. Even with their differences, though, he and Vincent had become best friends.
She knew her husband had thought the world of Cord, had said so on numerous occasions.
“Do you want me to help you with Vince’s stuff?” He took the slice of toast she offered him.
“No. I think this is something I should do alone.”
He nodded. Grace reached for the preserves at the same time as Cord and their fingers brushed. As if burned, immediately she drew her hand back.
Silence filled the room. The only sound, the ticking of the sunflower clock on the wall.
Cord cleared his throat. “I noticed that you have some bushes on the walkway that need trimming and the grass needs cut. If you have a pair of clippers and a mower, I could do that for you. While you’re going through Vince’s stuff.”
“You really don’t have to do that, Cord. Charlie usually cuts the grass. But with Emily so close to her due date, he hates to leave her.”
“I understand that. Let me do it, then.”
“All right, if you’re sure you want to. Both the clippers and the lawnmower are in the garage.”
“Great. I’ll get on that, right after I do the dishes.”
Grace was taken aback. A man who actually volunteered to do something domestic. Had she heard him correctly? Vincent had never once offered to do dishes, or help with them, for that matter. It was something she’d just assumed was part of her husband’s upbringing. “Don’t worry about it, Cord. I’ll just throw them in the dishwasher.”
“You sure? I can do them.”
“I’m sure. Oh, if you need gas for the mower, there’s a can in the right-hand corner of the garage.”
“Okay. I’ll go get started on that right now.”
He got up, took his plate to the sink, rinsed it, and left the kitchen.
Cord was definitely handy around the house; Vince’s lack thereof was the only vice she could think of.
Sighing, Grace went to work on her breakfast, ravenous for the first time in six months.
****
Cord killed the lawnmower’s engine and glanced around the yard, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He was happy with the job. Now the grass was cut; next he had to trim the shrubs.
He pushed the mower into the garage and walked over to the workbench to get the clippers. As he reached for the tool, his eyes fell on a slip of yellow paper with the name Neil Automotive at the top.
What the hell?
He grabbed the sheet, finding it was a receipt for repairs on a 2000 Lexus.
That’s weird . Neither Vincent nor Grace owned a Lexus, but it showed that Vince had paid for the repairs. His signature was at the bottom. Paid for in cash.
That in itself was strange, but what was even odder was that Neil Automotive had done the repairs.
Vincent knew Chicago Vice had been watching the place—knew Neil chopped cars at night. So why would Vince take a car there, unless he’d been working undercover without Cord’s knowledge?
Maybe the department had needed someone to get inside, and Vincent had volunteered. Maybe that was how he’d gotten himself killed. Which would mean Cord couldn’t have done anything to save him—not when he hadn’t even known what was going on.
A scenario took shape in Cord’s mind. Jack Neil must have found out that Vince was trying to get the goods on him and killed him before he could expose his criminal activities. Sounded feasible, but how could he find out for sure if Vince had been working undercover?
Captain
Harris? He was the only one Cord could possibly convince to talk. Most of the other Vice cops wouldn’t discuss the weather, let alone something that covert, with him.
He took the clippers from their designated hook and headed outside.
Later, when Grace and Emily were safely at the store, he’d go talk to Bill Harris. He could only hope he’d tell him the truth—a truth that could exonerate Cord from being a catalyst in Vince’s death.
Grace Under Fire
Chapter Five
Grace took a deep breath and opened Vince’s closet, amazed his scent still lingered inside. The fresh citrus smell she’d always attributed to him was everywhere.
The day she’d met him, he had worn it, and she’d fallen for the tangy scent right away. Falling for him had taken a little more time.
Intense longing tightened her throat as she ran her hands over his suit jackets, most in gray and blue hues. Some winter fabrics, some summer. He had a few neutral colors, but most were dark because he thought he looked best in them. She could picture him slipping into one as he got ready for work.
Sighing, she pulled three of the suits out and placed them on the bed. One by one, she went through the pockets. After finding nothing, she unfolded a cardboard box and placed them inside. She stuffed the next few in with the others, and then two more, until only one remained. Vincent’s favorite, the one she’d given him the Christmas before last. She took it off the hanger and brought it to her nose, inhaling him.
“Should I part with you, or keep you for those lonely nights?” She shook her head. “No! They all have to go.”
After her momentary weakness, she jammed her hand into one of the pockets and touched something cold, something metal. She grasped the object and pulled it out.
A key.
Rolling it over, she found the number two-thirty-five stamped on it. What was it to? It couldn’t be to anything at the house; she knew every lock to the place. This key was large and square, one she was sure fit no locks on the property. The key looked like one to an old motel or apartment.
When did he wear the jacket last? A few days before he was killed.
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