No Hero

by Mallory Kane

  She wiped her face and looked around. Walking to the middle of the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. What she saw stunned her. Her skirt and jacket were ruined, obscenely streaked with dirt and blood. Her face was painted with grime, her hair wildly tangled. The stark whiteness of the bandages on her neck and hand were shocking.

  She shrugged out of her jacket and stuffed it in the plastic bag Dev had given her, along with the one shoe she still had on. She started to unbutton her blouse, but the metal splint was in the way. She couldn’t even touch her fingers to her thumb around it. She tried leveraging the button off the splint’s metal edge, but it was no use. Nor could she manage undoing the buttons one-handed. They were too small and tight. She growled in frustration.

  She thought longingly of the claw-foot bathtub.

  But how on earth would she get her darn blouse off?

  …

  Dev propped a shoulder against the closed bedroom door, trying not to picture Connor undressing. He knew the first thing she’d want was a bath, and he was waiting to show her where the towels and shampoo were kept. He tilted his head at a soft sound coming from inside the room. Was that crying? Nah. Connor wasn’t a crier. The sound morphed into a low growl. What the—

  “Connor?” He knocked on the door. “You okay in there?”

  She didn’t answer. He gripped the knob and turned it. There were no locks on any of the doors at the center. “Hey, everything all right?”

  A strangled moan answered him. He pushed the door open and peered around it. Connor’s head was down and she was rubbing at the metal brace on her palm. Both hands were unsteady.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She looked up. Her face was streaked with dried blood. Her hair was tangled, her eyes were a little red and puffy. His heart wrenched and he almost went to her.

  But her chin was high and her gaze was stony. He knew that look. She wouldn’t welcome sympathy and comfort. He found it staggering to watch how hard she worked to maintain her tough exterior. He wondered if she knew that she wasn’t fooling anybody—certainly not him.

  Her chest rose and fell as she took a couple of deep breaths, obviously trying to calm down. Beneath her blouse, he could just make out the lacy bra that cupped her perfect breasts. He hadn’t forgotten how firmly they’d pressed against him when he’d kissed her that first time. From there it was a short trip to the memory of the shape of her body. He knew how narrow her waist was because he’d wrapped his hands around it. He knew how her slender body felt molded against his. Damn it. He’d let his thoughts go on a second too long. He was becoming aroused just from looking at her, just from thinking about her.

  Desperately, he drew on the detachment that made him a good detective.

  “What’s going on, Connor?” he asked firmly. “Are you hurting? Are you sick?”

  Oh, God. Her eyes were shiny with tears. A pulse beat rapidly in her throat. He could tell she was holding hysteria at bay with nothing but a slender thread of will.

  “I’m fine,” she said flatly, obviously striving for the cool control she usually displayed. “I’m just having a little trouble un—unbuttoning my—” She cleared her throat, holding up her bandaged hand, and pressed her trembling lips together in a stubborn moue of frustration.

  He stared at her for a second, at a loss for what she wanted him to do.

  She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “Go,” she said, her voice quivering and thick with held-back tears. “I’m fine. I can do it.”

  He eyed her blouse. Those buttons were really tiny, and there were a lot of them. Why anyone in their right mind would wear something as impractical as a blouse with a dozen buttons on it—and then make it practically see-through. Clearly, a device intended to torture men. He gestured toward the door. “Why don’t I—call Penn?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Please. Don’t bother her. She told me she has a big test tomorrow. I can do it. Really.” She tried again, but the metal splint and her trembling fingers were useless on the little buttons.

  Clenching his jaw, Dev stepped closer and brushed her fingers aside. “Someday you’re going to have to admit you can’t do everything, Connor.” He fumbled a bit, but he eventually got all twelve buttons undone, managing to graze her breast only once in the process. But that one time, her nipple immediately sprang to attention and scraped erotically against his hand. His body reacted to the sight and the sensation. And just that quickly, his determination lay in jagged shards on the floor. Now his hands were shaking with the effort to resist dragging her to him and kissing her.

  For starters.

  Thank goodness she stood there tall and rigid as a fence post until he’d finished with the last button. Because manipulating those buttons required that he stand way too close to her. And if she moved, even a little bit, she’d know, down to the inch, exactly how tall and rigid he was.

  Chapter Nine

  Dev backed away from Connor and her unbuttoned shirt. He needed to get out of there before he lost his grip on his badly flagging willpower.

  Before he’d made it two steps toward the door, a muffled sob escaped her compressed lips. This woman who claimed that she never cried and had exhibited more determination and more effort at control than anyone he’d ever known, she seemed to shrink right in front of him.

  Damn.

  He held out a hand and she glided right into his arms, as though she belonged there. Her shoulders trembled, and her tears wet the fabric of his shirt. He held her while she cried, one hand rubbing her back and the other cradling her head.

  With her in his arms, it was too easy to call up the feeling of her soft, sensual mouth under his. Too easy to let her sexy vulnerability and her determined courage get to him. Easy, but not inevitable. He was not going to give in to his lust for her. She was trouble, and he had plenty of that already. Nobody could push past his reserve if he didn’t want them to, and he damn sure didn’t want Connor to get anywhere close to the soft, vulnerable place inside his heart that he guarded so carefully.

  She was a threat to everything he held dear. Their physical attraction to each other was a big distraction, yes. But it was the emotional component that he had to quell. These feelings of protectiveness could leave him vulnerable, and that could not happen. His strength was his focus. He’d taken the terror and loneliness that had dogged him during his childhood and used it to develop the skills that made him a good—hell, an excellent—detective. He’d learned how to stay strong and focused on his goals. And right now his goal was to keep the people he cared for safe. He had to think of Reghan Connor as one of those people. For her safety and the safety of everyone who depended on him, he couldn’t let her become anything more.

  Even as those thoughts went through his head, his arms tightened, pulling her a little closer. He clenched his jaw, determined to do nothing more than hold her until she calmed down. He owed her that much. She’d been injured because he’d left her to run off like an idiot to Angola in a futile attempt to interview Fontenot.

  He held onto her, enduring, waiting for her to corral her emotions. But then she laid her cheek against his chest and her hair tickled his nose. To his chagrin, he heard his barely audible gasp. He hoped to hell she hadn’t.

  She lifted her head. Her dew-bright eyes, damp cheeks, and trembling lips filled his vision. Trouble. It ought to be her damn middle name. He wrapped his hands around her upper arms, but rather than setting her away from him, which was what he’d intended to do, he pulled her closer, until her mouth was millimeters away from his. Her lips parted, so close to his he could feel the air stirred by their movement. Last chance, Gautier, he warned himself, his stomach sinking.

  Ah, hell.

  Then he kissed her.

  She exhaled softly. That little rush of air across his skin sent blood surging, rushing to his groin. He grew immediately hard, so hard he ached. He slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her deeply, fully, sliding his hands around her back and wrapping her
in his embrace.

  Her lips parted farther and she gave him back his passionate kiss, her tongue teasing his. For a long, hazily erotic time, they explored each other’s mouths, both of them panting. When he finally lifted his head, she gazed at him through eyes half-lidded with desire. Her lips were wet and plump from his kisses.

  She wanted him. Fear, shocking as ice water, sluiced over him. What the hell was he doing? He knew better than to get involved with a victim—especially with this victim. He needed to stop this. The only thing he wanted to give her—all he dared give to her—was his protection.

  He set her away from him and dragged in a ragged breath, feeling like a horny teenager. He ducked his head as he tried to regain his detached composure. When he stole a glance at her, he saw in her expression that she was having the same struggle.

  Stop understanding her, he admonished himself.

  She swallowed, drawing his attention to that small flutter in her throat. Then she raised her gaze to his. “Thank you,” she said, far more steadily than he felt. She grasped the two sides of her blouse and pulled them tight together, folding her arms over them for good measure.

  “For what?” he asked.

  “For—for unbuttoning my blouse.”

  He almost choked. “Sure.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” she continued, blushing.

  “No. It wasn’t you. You’re just having a delayed reaction,” he muttered. “I was out of line.” Idiot. He’d done exactly what he’d just vowed he wouldn’t do. Watching her closely, he saw the fragile tension he’d seen in too many terrified victims, too many heartbroken families, not to know the signs. He guessed she was about two seconds away from breaking down. He’d likely made things worse rather than better for her.

  He knew he’d made things worse for himself.

  She took a deep breath, the movement pulling the edges of her blouse a fraction apart again. “A delayed reaction. Yes. That must be it.”

  “I’ll wait right outside the door until you—” he said, keeping his gaze determinedly above her neck. He gestured vaguely. “—finish.” She suddenly looked so miserable that, without thinking, he touched her chin, barely a brush of skin against skin. “Call me if you need me to do anything else for you,” he said.

  She blushed, the hint of a smile on her face. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Her smile faded as her gaze sharpened. “Dev? You did go to Angola, didn’t you?”

  He made a show of glancing at his watch. “I’ll need those clothes. I’ve got to get them to the crime lab.”

  “Come on, Dev. I’ve got enough sense to know that getting my clothes to the crime lab at one-thirty in the morning versus eight o’clock in the morning is not going to mean catching or losing my attacker.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her that certain chemicals or fingerprints or fibers degraded rapidly, but while that was true, he doubted any of those elements applied in this case. “Maybe not,” he said. “But if either one of us is going to get any sleep tonight, we need to get it taken care of.”

  “Fontenot wouldn’t see you, would he?”

  “That’s right, he wouldn’t,” he said almost defiantly. He bit his tongue before “So what?” managed to escape.

  “He’ll see me.” She gave him a smile that held a hint of flirtation. “If you’re nice, I’ll let you go with me.”

  He pushed his fingers through his hair. Damn it, she was right. She’d been right from the start. The only way he’d get Fontenot to talk to him was if she was with him.

  “Why do you want to see him so badly?” she continued. “Why were you so adamant about doing it alone?”

  Dev wiped a hand across his face, then slid it around to rub the back of his neck. “I want to look in the bastard’s eye and ask him if he’s killing my kids.”

  She lifted her good hand to touch the bandage at her neck. “I want to ask him that, too,” she said. “If whoever did this to me was the same person who killed the three boys, it doesn’t make sense. I need to ask him what’s going on. Fontenot wouldn’t hurt me.”

  He gaped. “How can you say that? Look at your hand, your neck.”

  “That’s precisely why. If Fontenot’s behind the murders, he instructed the killer not to hurt me.” She looked down at her hand. “This couldn’t have been the same person. Or—” She looked up. “Or if it was, then they defied Fontenot’s orders.”

  Dev gave his head a shake. He didn’t know if he was just too tired to think straight or what, but Connor’s reasoning was making a lot of sense. Maybe Fontenot hadn’t meant for her to be injured. Maybe he just wanted to scare her. Or maybe—

  “I’ll consider it,” he said, hoping to assuage her. “Right now though, I need those clothes.”

  He slipped through the door, closing it behind him. Her question about Fontenot had tamed his libido some, but he was once again having trouble wiping the image from his brain of her undressing. He could picture her dropping that skirt, reaching behind her to unhook her bra and pushing her breasts out in the process, hooking her fingers in the soft, silky material of her underpants and sliding them down her legs.

  He gritted his teeth. He was in big trouble. What was he going to do with her—about her? For more reasons than the obvious, which again strained painfully against the rough material of his jeans, he was not getting personally involved with Reghan Connor. She was a victim, as well as an investigative reporter he didn’t believe he could trust. Hell, he knew he couldn’t trust her.

  From the back of his mind came a snicker. Too late to worry about all that.

  The solid door between them was a big help in forcing his brain back into a detached, professional mode. Thank God. That ability was the one thing that made him able to deal with the violence and tragedy he saw every day. He consciously relaxed his shoulders, arched his neck, and reminded himself that his job was to serve and protect, especially where Connor was concerned.

  The door opened and one bare, delicately muscled arm held out the bag of clothes. “Thanks,” he said, deliberately looking away from her firm, tanned skin. “Okay, great. I’ll get these to the lab right away. Penn’s across the hall, if you need anything while I’m gone.”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  From the tone of her voice, it sounded as though she’d done a lot better job than he had of regaining her composure.

  “As soon as I wash up and get in bed, I’ll be better.”

  “Sleep tight,” he said as she closed the door.

  He drove to the police station to deliver the clothes to the Crime Scene Unit, going over in his mind what he knew about the case. Three homeless kids, connected by the Thibaud Johnson Center, killed within ten days, all three offed in the same way with the same weapon. But now the killer had changed part of his MO. He’d still used the scalpel, had still gone for the carotid artery, but he’d moved from homeless kids to Reghan Connor.

  Dev had to figure out why. And if Connor’s theory was correct, there was only one person, other than the killer, who could supply the answer.

  Gerard Fontenot.

  …

  By the time Dev got back from the crime lab, it was nearly 2:30 a.m. To say that the past two days had been a nightmare was a gross understatement. He’d been to five crime scenes and had had no more than a catnap for forty-eight hours. The six hours plus that he’d spent on the road to and from Angola had been the icing on the cake.

  Tiredly, he trudged into the kitchen to get a glass of cold water. To his surprise, Nicky Renato, his fourth—and only living—candidate for the Safefutures Scholarships, was sitting at the scarred wooden table, his head down and lolling dejectedly on his shoulders.

  “Nick, glad to see you. I guess you got my message. Have you talked to Penn?” Nicky, like most of the kids, knew about Brian’s death, but had he heard about Darnell and Jimmy?

  Nicky looked up and Dev saw the telltale puffy redness around his eyes and the vacant stare. “Nicky, what the hell? Are you high?”


  “Not really,” Nicky said. When Nicky dug a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Dev spotted the strip bandages on his right forefinger and thumb. He thought about what Liz had said about the killer cutting himself. Could Nicky have killed the boys? Dev couldn’t even imagine it. Sure, the kid fit Connor’s general description, although Dev couldn’t see her describing Nicky’s scrawny frame as small but strong. Still, as Dev had said to Connor, he never made assumptions. He went over and snatched the cigarettes away. When he did, he got a whiff of bourbon. Maybe Nicky wasn’t high so much as drunk.

  “Hey,” Nicky said dully.

  “No smoking,” he said and tossed them into the trash. “What happened to your fingers?”

  “Cu—cutting H,” Nicky said miserably, without looking up.

  Dev grimaced as a small sigh of relief loosened the tightness in his chest. Cutting heroin with a razor blade. How sad was it that Nicky dealing and using a deadly addictive drug was suddenly the lesser of two possible evils? “Why, Nicky? You’ve done so well. Why blow your chances for the scholarship now? Is it because of Brian and Darnell and Jimmy?”

  “They’re all dead,” Nicky said, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “I can’t do this anymore. Can’t sleep, can’t hardly think. I didn’t mean to—” he looked at his trembling hands, then lifted his bleary gaze. “I did a bad thing,” he mumbled.

  Dread settled heavily on Dev’s chest. “What bad thing?”

  “I can’t—” Nicky stammered. “You’d ne-never understand.”

  “Tell me. Does it have something to do with Jimmy’s death?” From the day they’d met at the center, Jimmy and Nicky had been best friends.

  “Jimmy?” Nicky said on a short laugh. “No. Nothing to do with Jimmy.”

  “Then what? What’s got you so upset?”

  The boy rubbed a hand down his face. “Gonna die,” he mumbled.

  Dev winced. So that’s what was wrong. Three scholarship recipients from the center were dead. Nicky was the only one left. “Listen to me. You are not going to die.” He squeezed the boy’s narrow shoulder. “Not while I’m around. I promise you, I’ll keep you safe.”