"Caitlin," he whispered.
The moment the name escaped him, he started to run. He didn't trust Ryan. There was more to the man than he let anyone see, and Quisto was very much afraid that what appeared on the surface to be rational logic might just be a mask for the kind of amoral analysis that made for the worst kind of criminal.
His car left rubber skid marks on the streets, and he blasted through a couple of lights that were a little too close to red, but he couldn't slow down. At one corner, he wavered for an instant, wondering if Ryan would have taken her to the Neutral Zone, or home. Assuming, of course, that he hadn't taken her someplace isolated and lonely to carry out some secret command from Alarico to kill her.
His instincts told him it wasn't true, that Alarico had seen the wisdom in Ryan's words. He'd always trusted his instincts before, and rarely had he been wrong. But for the first time in his career—indeed the first time in his life—his instincts weren't enough. Not when Caitlin's life was hanging on them.
He yanked the wheel around and headed for the Neutral Zone. He paused at the end of the block, staring, trying to see whether there was a light on. The sun was hitting the windows, and he couldn't really tell. He opened the special compartment in the driver's door panel, behind the stereo speaker, and pulled out the small 9 mm automatic he kept there. He made a point of not carrying when he was with the Pack; he didn't want them to have any excuse to turn on him. The automatic's deadly weight was comforting when he thought of Caitlin in danger, and he decided then and there that whenever he was in the Neutral Zone, he would go armed.
He sped up and around the corner, pulling into the alley. Her car was there, but he knew that didn't mean anything. He parked a few buildings away, shut the Beemer off and got out, leaving the door unlatched to avoid the noise of it shutting. He made his way quietly to the back door of the Zone, wondering if he'd even be able to hear a thing over the hammering of his own heart. If Ryan had hurt her, he swore, he'd kill him. If he'd even scared her…
The back door was open.
He swore silently. It wasn't propped open for air, as she usually left it, it was open barely a crack. He crept up to it, his back pressed to the wall, the automatic aimed at the sky. He listened intently. At first he heard nothing but the ringing of his own pulse in his ears, driven by a heart that was racing far beyond normal; after all, this was a routine exercise for any street cop, a building with a possible suspect inside. He even had the advantage over most street cops; at least he knew the inside layout. He shouldn't be reacting like this. Hyper, yes, and thrumming with adrenaline, but not like this. On the takedown in Marina del Mar, he'd faced a trio from the Pack armed with MAC-10s and not felt like this. His heart was pounding harder than he could ever remember. And he knew that the difference was Caitlin.
He heard something then, and sucked in a breath and held it as he leaned toward the open door. Footsteps. Light, smooth, controlled. Light enough that he normally would have assumed they were Caitlin's. But Ryan moved like a panther, with a silence that belied his size and his muscled weight.
Another sound came, and he moved even closer to the door, tilting his head, straining to hear.
Humming. Caitlin was humming. Something bright, bouncy and familiar, though he couldn't put a name to it.
He let out the breath he'd taken what seemed like eons ago. But he kept his weapon at the ready as he nudged the door open with his toe. It obligingly swung back just far enough for him to slip inside. He stopped the moment he was in, listening again. The cheerful humming continued, and he had a sudden vision of her in a room filled with the morning sun, her hair tousled as it caught the light and sent it flying in red-gold sparks, her mouth curved in a soft smile, her lips warm … and looking thoroughly kissed.
It was a vision a man could wake up to every day of his life and never get bored, he thought.
And the thought froze him where he stood. What was he doing? Where were these crazy ideas coming from? He didn't think like this, ever. The idea of a life spent with one woman was … not his style. Cops left too many widows.
He shook his head sharply; this kind of preoccupation was what got you killed. He still didn't know what was happening inside, only that Caitlin sounded unharmed and unafraid. He edged a little farther inside, around the stub wall that blocked his view of the main room.
She was sitting at the bar, obviously as calm and unhurt as her humming had indicated. An odd smile played over her lips, as if she'd encountered something unexpected but not displeasing. Bemused, he thought. That was how she looked.
She was looking at the yellow wall, but he wasn't sure she was really focused on it. Unlike the last time he'd seen it, now there were photos on the wall. He couldn't make out what they were from here, but he knew instinctively that they weren't the same kind of picture that grimly decorated the opposite wall, that dark, sobering collection of death and young lives cut short. He knew because he knew Caitlin; she had painted that wall a cheery yellow for a reason. And it wasn't to spread the record of violence even farther.
He wasn't wearing a holster, so he slipped the pistol into his waistband at the small of his back, under the black duster. Then he stepped forward, into the room.
"Caitlin?" he said softly, in order not to startle her.
She spun around on the bar stool, quickly, but not in fright, and he got the feeling she'd been expecting him. Her words confirmed his guess.
"I've been wondering if you'd show up." She looked him up and down. "Nice outfit. The undercover uniform of the day?"
Her tone was too bright, and he approached her slowly, a little warily. "Are you all right?"
She held her arms out and looked down at herself. "Do I look all right?"
She looked exquisite, even in jeans, he thought, but he didn't say it; from the glint in her eyes, he didn't think it would go over very well. He sat down on the empty stool beside her.
"He didn't hurt you?"
"Ryan? No. In fact, he was the perfect gentleman."
What the hell did that mean? "Oh?"
She nodded. "I've had dates who were less polite. And less civilized. Despite his rather … intimidating appearance."
Dates. That feeling began to bubble inside him again at the thought of her out with anyone, let alone someone who was less than polite. Damn, he was losing it. Fast.
"Civilized?" he said, fighting for calm. "Interesting choice of words to describe the Pack's right-hand man."
"Is he? I didn't realize. Perhaps I should have. He is a bit … on the edge, isn't he?"
"More than anyone knows, I think."
"An intriguing man," she said.
"Right," Quisto muttered, not liking the look in her eyes. He supposed that, from a female point of view, Ryan could be classified as intriguing. He was certainly exotic enough. And some women liked that dangerous edge; he knew that from personal experience. He just hadn't thought Caitlin was one of them. "Did you invite him back?"
The surly question was out before he could stop it.
Caitlin's brows rose. "As a matter of fact, he asked if he could come back. Very politely."
Damn. His jaw clenched, and his words came out from behind gritted teeth. "And you said?"
"I told him what I tell everyone. Anybody is welcome here, as long as they stick to the rules."
He stared at her. "You told Ryan he had to obey your rules?"
"Yes, I did. You have a problem with that?"
"Didn't he?"
"No. I told you, he was very civilized about it."
"Damn it, Caitlin, he's the second-in-command of the Pack!"
"I told you, I didn't know that."
"You knew he was part of the Pack when you threw out the welcome mat for him!"
"I doubt he'll take me up on it."
Quisto had his own opinion about that; he remembered too clearly the way Ryan had looked at her. "And if he does?"
"I'll deal with it then."
"Well, that'll be a great example for y
our kids. Have him come in and do a career day, why don't you?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He's dangerous, Caitlin. Don't get tangled up with him."
He knew the words were a mistake the moment he said them. So was his tone; it had come out as an order, and he already knew how she reacted to those. She visibly bristled, and he braced himself.
"Do you really think I'm that stupid? Oh, wait, of course you do."
"I never said—"
"You didn't have to say a word." She gave him a long, steady look, and the angry glint he'd seen in her eyes when he first walked in intensified. "You made your opinion quite clear by not saying a thing. About anything."
He'd known this was coming. And he also knew it was too late to try to save it now; she had to know. "I couldn't tell you what I was doing."
"Couldn't? Or wouldn't? Were you afraid I'd blab it around that there was a Marina del Mar cop investigating Eddie's death?"
"No. Never that."
"Then why? Why did you let me go for weeks, thinking nobody gave a damn but me?"
"You could have been in danger. They knew you'd already been asking questions—"
"And all you had to do to stop me was tell me you were going in."
Quisto sighed; this was what he had no real answer for. "I'd hoped you would stop because I asked you to."
"When I thought Eddie's murder was being swept under the rug? Did you really think I could do that?"
"I hoped. After that warning on your doorstep—"
"It's a power thing for you cops, isn't it? You like giving orders, knowing people have to do what you say, and that the average person will do it without question."
"That has nothing to do with this."
"Then why? Why didn't you at least tell me you were working on it? Even that night when you came here … it was them you fought with, wasn't it?"
"Yes." He stopped himself from reflexively touching the spot on his head that was still a little tender, even now. "Caitlin, I couldn't tell you."
"Why? I could have accepted that you couldn't tell me any more, but just to know the police hadn't given up—"
"The number one rule of undercover work is that the fewer people who know what you're doing, the less chance there is for leaks."
"You mean the fewer people you trust."
"In a way, yes."
"Especially when they're not cops."
"It's our job to protect civilians, not involve them."
"And treat them like children? Is that part of the job, too?"
"Sometimes," Quisto said grimly. "When they act that way."
"'They.'" She repeated his word back at him. "It really is that way for you, isn't it? Us and them."
"Sometimes," he repeated grimly. "There are things it's impossible for other people to understand. Until you've had to pull decapitated bodies out of cars, until you've had to see kids twitching on the floor, their brains fried from drugs, until you've had to try and talk to a woman so terrified after a rape that she can't even bear to be in the same room with a man, until you've seen dozens of people so lost they see suicide as their only hope of escape, until you deal with all that day after day, time after time, you can't have a clue what it's like."
Caitlin was staring at him, her eyes wide, the anger in them gone, as if wiped away by the intensity of the words he'd never meant to let out. "Then … why do you do it?"
Why indeed? He'd always thought he knew. But now, looking into Caitlin Murphy's wide, blue eyes, he wasn't certain about much of anything any longer.
"I… It was all I ever wanted to do."
"Why?"
He shrugged, embarrassed. He didn't go in much for analyzing his motives. She waited silently, watching him, until he felt compelled to say something. Anything.
"Maybe it's like you said," he said flippantly. "A power thing."
"I didn't really mean that," she said. "I try never to generalize, but I did it then. I'm sorry."
She wasn't going to let him lighten this up, he thought sourly. "No problem."
"Yes, it is. I hate it when I do that. Because I hate it when it's done to me. So why was being a cop all you ever wanted to do?"
He lowered his gaze to the polished wood of the bar. "I … I'm not sure. My mother, maybe. She taught all of us kids that the police in this country were to be respected, because they truly were here to protect and serve."
"Respect," Caitlin said quietly. "That's something my kids would understand. It's what they want most, I think. Just some simple respect. Respect enough not to be treated like they're already lost causes, not to be written off before they even have a chance to try."
"Everyone should have that."
"Yes. They should. But so many don't. You were lucky, Quisto. Maybe, if your mother hadn't been so strong, if your family wasn't so strong…"
His head came up. "I would have ended up like your kids? Not only not a cop, but … lost, in the endless violence of the streets?"
"Or worse."
"Do you think I don't know that?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
He grimaced. "All too well. I learned a long time ago about the limitations this world wanted to put on me because I wasn't one of the fair-haired boys. In all senses of the phrase."
"You mean because you're Cuban?"
"I didn't even get that distinction. People only cared that I was Hispanic. We were all alike—Cuban, Mexican, South American, it made no difference. It simply meant that other people looked past us instead of at us. It meant we were expected to act a certain way, eat certain foods, work at certain jobs, simply because of our heritage."
Caitlin nodded. "My family came here when No Irish Need Apply was the most common sign in any business window. I've heard stories…" She paused, then shook her head. "But that's different from living it. I've never really had to deal with such things personally."
"You learn. One day I took a long, hard look at my life. And I made myself see what I had, not what I didn't have. My family, a job, that respect we talked about … more than many people I knew had. I have everything I need. You're right. I was lucky. I still am. I tell myself that every day."
"Why?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Why do you tell yourself every day? Do you need convincing?"
He stared at her, brows furrowed. "I … don't know."
"You said you have everything you need."
"I do."
"But not everything you want?"
He drew back a little. "Who does?"
"A rare few, I suppose," she said, smiling. "So what's missing from the life of Quisto Romero?"
He hated this. He'd always avoided this kind of conversation. Especially with women, who seemed prone to this sort of digging into the psyche.
"Well," Caitlin drawled, "I'd say that hit a nerve."
"I just don't like analyzing everything, all right?"
"Afraid of what you might find?"
He let out a long-held breath. "Maybe."
She looked startled. He was a little startled himself; he'd never really let himself think about that occasional nagging feeling he got that something was missing in his life. He'd gone as far as to acknowledge it, but he'd quickly chalked it up to the job, to the all-consuming world of law enforcement that had both widened and narrowed his world.
"No cop is ever completely satisfied," he said.
"Is that what it is?" she asked. "The job?"
He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "You see too much of what's wrong with the world, and far too little of what's good. And every day you have to face the fact that there's so little you can do to change the former into the latter."
Caitlin gave him a thoughtful look. "I suppose you spend most of your time seeing people at their worst, don't you?"
His mouth quirked. "Most people don't call the police just to say things are going great."
"It must make you wonder, sometimes, if … people are worth helping."
"So
metimes. But every once in a while, something happens that makes you realize it's all worth it. That child you get to return to its mother, the bad guy you stop before he hurts somebody, the person you meet who really appreciates what you're doing…"
He reached out and put his hand atop hers, not really realizing he was doing it until it was done. She met his gaze, and something in the way she looked at him made his throat a little tight, his voice a little thick when he went on.
"And sometimes you meet somebody who's fighting the same battle, just in a different way. You might not agree with that way, might not even think it works, but it feels darn good to know you're not alone."
She blinked, rapidly, and lowered her eyes. "Thank you," she said, her voice husky.
Something glistened on her cheek, and he looked closer. A tear. Tracing its way down that lovely curve from cheek to chin. He lifted one hand and gently brushed it away with the back of one finger. Her head came up, and he saw the sheen of more tears, yet unshed, in her eyes. Even as he looked down at her, another tear trickled after the first.
"Ah, Caitlin…" he said.
And before he could stop to think about it, he had pulled her into his arms. He lowered his head, driven by some protective, cherishing instinct he hadn't known he had, to kiss away that tiny droplet. It was salty and hot, yet it soothed his lips like the coolest of balms. And the cheek beneath it was satin-smooth and warm and alive, and the feel of her skin beneath his lips sent a wave of heat through him.
He wanted more. He wanted to know every inch of that silken skin, intimately. He wanted to know her, more intimately than he'd ever wanted to know any woman. He wanted to know what thoughts went on behind those lovely eyes, what emotions arose from that tender heart, what her dreams were and whether there was any place for him in them.
In some part of his mind not totally engrossed in the feel of her in his arms and the fact that she hadn't pulled away from him, he was scared. He'd never felt this way, never harbored such solemn thoughts while holding a beautiful woman.
But he'd never held a woman like Caitlin.
And then she tilted her head back, looked at him with those luminous, tear-sheened eyes, and fear was the last thing in his mind. There was no room for it, not when she was so close, not when her lips had parted as if she were feeling the same shortage of air he seemed to feel every time he was close to her.
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