"Yes, I have," Alarico said at last, and the sense of suspicion vanished.
Maybe, Quisto thought as he half listened, he was just paranoid, because he didn't want to be here at all, because for the first time in his career as a cop, something had become more important to him than the job. A stubborn, contrary, headstrong woman who drove him crazy. In more ways than one.
* * *
It was late, well after midnight, when Quisto had reason to remember that thought. Because Caitlin was driving him crazy once again, on the sofa bed in her office. He'd wanted to take her somewhere else, someplace nicer, although his place was out of reach for the moment; if he didn't go home, he could honestly claim he hadn't heard the string of messages he was sure were on his machine, ordering him to call Lieutenant Morgan. He would, soon, now that he had his answers, but not yet. And he would tell Caitlin that he'd learned who had killed Eddie. But not yet.
She'd suggested her place, but despite his curiosity to see where she lived, the moment she looked at him as he walked in the back door of the Neutral Zone shortly after she closed up, the moment he saw the way her eyes lit up when she saw him, he'd known there wasn't a chance he'd last long enough to go anywhere.
As it was, he'd barely made it to the office before he was clawing at her clothes. And the only thing that kept him from feeling like a completely out-of-control animal was the feel of her eager hands dragging his own shirt over his head, then fumbling with his zipper in a way that made him want both to help her with it and make it more difficult, just so that she'd keep touching him.
He hadn't needed to worry about that, he discovered quickly. She had shyly admitted she'd been thinking about this all day, and blushed when she told him how much she liked touching him. He'd responded with a grand gesture of mock submission, lying back to allow her to have her way with his naked body. But he realized now that there was something to this submission business, and the mockery vanished as she proceeded to show him exactly what the appeal was in letting someone do as she wished to you.
No, not just someone. Caitlin. Never before her had he ever thought to find pleasure in this kind of meek surrender, but she was driving him wild. Every tentative touch and caress, every stroke of her hands over his body, soon followed by a searing trail of kisses that followed the same path, tightened him another notch, until he thought he would fly apart if she touched him one more time.
He was shaking, he could feel it, but he couldn't find it in him to be embarrassed, not when she was doing as he'd fantasized, and that mass of soft, curling red-gold hair was brushing over him as she ministered to him in a way he'd never dreamed of.
He was groaning her name like a litany, again and again, as his body both arched toward her touch and retreated when he could bear no more. She kept on, teaching him more than any woman ever had about just how much he could take. And she did it with a kind of shy wonder that seemed to tighten his heart as much as the rest of his body.
He stood it as long as he could, and longer than he ever would have thought. But at last, when he came within a split second of embarrassing himself by losing control when she'd merely been planting a fiery little kiss just above his hipbone, he had to move. In a swift, urgent movement, he rolled her beneath him.
"No one," he said, his voice a raspy sound, "has ever made me feel like this in my life."
Caitlin looked up at him, a little wide-eyed. "No one?"
"No one," he repeated firmly.
The shy pleasure he saw in her expression made him want to return the favor tenfold. And so he began, tracing every line, every curve, of her slender body, finding a spot behind her knee that made her giggle, and a spot low on her belly that made her suck in her breath. He plucked her nipples to exquisite hardness with his fingers, then caught the tight crests with his lips to flick them with his tongue, loving the way she cried out and arched her back for more. Then he suckled her deeply, first one breast, then the other, savoring the way she moaned his name as he'd savored nothing before in his life.
He went back to that spot on her belly and pressed his mouth to it, while his fingers went back to her nipples, rubbing them gently, then harder, until she was twisting beneath the onslaught. In the moment when he heard her moan his name again, he shifted to part the soft red curls between her thighs with his tongue. She cried out as he found and stroked that little knot of nerves. Her hands went to the sides of his head, her fingers threading through his hair as he teased that spot again and again, until she was begging him both to stop and go on.
He kept on until he sensed she was on the edge and he himself could no longer ignore the hot, slick readiness of her flesh, could no longer deny its eagerness for his. When he moved up her body, her arms came around him, as if urging him to hurry. He slid into her so easily it seemed impossible that she was so tight around him; yet another of the paradoxes that was Caitlin Murphy.
He'd barely begun to move when he knew he was about to blow his much-vaunted reputation to bits; if he lasted another thirty seconds, he'd be amazed. And then she made it a moot point; at the depth of his thrust, when it was taking everything he had to hold back, she cried out his name and her body clenched around him with an exquisite pressure that was the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt.
He held on, wanting to luxuriate in the incredible experience of feeling her pleasure so clearly, but that sweet, rhythmic squeezing was too much, and with a throaty growl of her name, he let himself go. It was explosive, a burst of swirling heat and sensation that made his vision fade and his ears ring, and made it seem that any part of him that wasn't touching her had gone numb.
He collapsed atop her, gasping, unable to move. He vaguely felt her arms tighten around him, and tried to return the embrace, but he couldn't seem to move. His head was nestled in the curve of her shoulder, and he couldn't, didn't want to, lift it. He felt as if he'd poured himself into her, body and soul. And she was holding him, so safe and sound, he felt sheltered in a way that he couldn't remember ever experiencing. In a way, he realized somewhat dazedly, that he never would have allowed himself to feel before.
"Caitlin," he said. Or tried to; he wasn't sure it came out right.
He tried to move again, managed this time to tense a couple of muscles, then gave up again. He felt her hand slide down his back. Her palm flattened against the small of his back, pressing him harder against her, into the cradle of her hips. At the movement, a little tremor, an echo of the explosion that had been so shattering, rippled through him. It took what little strength he'd regained.
"Sorry," he murmured. "Can't … move."
"Shh…" she said soothingly, stroking a hand over his hair. "Rest, Rafael."
Rafael. She'd called him Rafael. He hated that name. So why did it sound so good when she said it? He was still wondering why as he drifted into sleep.
He didn't know how long it had been when something brought him groggily awake. He felt a soft, warm weight pressed against him. It felt very, very right, and he wanted nothing more than to cuddle it close and go back to sleep. The warm shape against him shifted, murmuring.
Caitlin.
The realization that he hadn't dreamed last night brought him fully awake in time for the second ring of the phone that had awakened him in the first place. He sat up sharply, wondering who would be calling the Neutral Zone at this hour.
Caitlin sat up in turn, pushing her hair back. She flipped on the small lamp beside the sofa bed, then moved as if to go for the phone. Quisto held her back as the third ring came and the answering machine came on, playing her breezy greeting.
"Let the machine get it. Nobody needs to know you're here."
"But it's the middle of the night. Nobody calls unless it's an emergency—"
"If it is, then you can pick it up."
She started to continue her protest, but stopped when the beep came from the machine. A low, gruff, unrecognizable male voice spoke, clearly audible, though it was barely above a whisper.
"Romero. I know yo
u're there."
There was an instant's pause as Quisto considered picking it up. Then the voice said two more words. Short. Deadly.
"Crawford remembered."
The click as the connection was broken echoed in the silence.
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
"Just do as I ask, Caitlin, please."
"Who's Crawford?"
It was the second time she'd asked, and for a second time he put her off. "It doesn't matter. Just hurry. I want you out of here. And you can't go home, either. They may know where you live. Go to your parents' house."
When she backed away from him a step and planted her hands on her hips, Quisto sighed. He should have known she'd react like this. She'd gotten up and dressed willingly enough, but then she'd turned to him expectantly, obviously waiting for an explanation that he didn't want to give her.
"I'm not going to my parents' house."
"Caitlin—"
"I'm not going anywhere without knowing why."
"Oh yes, you—" he began, but he stopped when he saw her chin come up. He should have learned by now that she didn't respond well to unexplained orders. "Honey, please," he said, not even caring about the pleading note that had crept into his voice.
Color stained her cheeks at the endearment. She eyed him for a moment, looking thoughtful now, rather than angry.
"That was a warning, wasn't it? Something about the Pack?"
"I don't have time to explain it now—"
"And you wouldn't even if you did have time, would you? No, you just want me out of the way, so you can do some stupid macho thing like face this alone, right?"
He was teetering on the edge of simply grabbing her, throwing her over his shoulder and marching out, like some primitive cave dweller. He was feeling a bit that way. She made him feel that way. And only the knowledge that she'd fight him every step of the way stopped him from doing it.
"You have some funny ideas about women, Rafael Romero," she said, glaring at him. "You think we need protecting from everything. Well, I, for one, don't need or want to be lied to, simply because your misguided machismo, or whatever it is, tells you I can't handle the bad along with the good."
The only thing he could do for a moment was to wonder, inanely, when he'd become Rafael. And then he remembered the moments last night when she'd convulsed around him, when her body had claimed his so completely. The name that burst from her lips had been Rafael. And he had loved the sound of it. As he'd loved it when she whispered it to him as he drifted off to sleep.
"Who's Crawford?" she asked a third time.
He looked at her for a long, silent moment. The idea of her getting in the middle of this went against every belief he'd ever held, as a man and as a cop. But this wasn't just any woman, this was Caitlin. Caitlin, who had left a plush, cushy life behind to do what she thought was most important, who had opened this unlikely place and kept it going in the face of incredible odds, who faced down the ugliness every single day and refused to let it win.
This was Caitlin, who had turned his world upside down and made him feel as if he were the one being sheltered in the night.
"Crawford's a guy Chance and I arrested, four years ago."
Caitlin, as usual, was quick to realize what it meant. "And he just now remembered who you are?"
"Apparently."
She glanced at the phone. "But who was that?"
"I don't know. And we don't have time to figure it out. Come on. It won't take them long to learn I'm here—"
"How?"
"Honey, they've been watching this place all the time." This time, when he took her elbow, she let him move her along, through the office door. "And they could be here any second. Come on!"
"I'm not leaving. Not until you at least call for help. You're a cop, for God's sake! Why won't you call the police?"
"Damn it, this is no time to go all stubborn on me. You could get caught in the cross fire!"
"And you already are! I'm not walking out and letting you do some grand solo act."
"And exactly what good do you think it's going to do if I have to worry about you, along with the rest of this falling apart?"
"Don't worry about me. Just call the cavalry."
"And write off my job," he said grimly.
"What do you mean?"
"We don't have time for this."
He tried to urge her toward the back door, hoping the Beemer was still there; every time he parked it in this neighborhood, he wondered how much of it, if anything, would still be there when he went back. Right now, he'd settle for the weapon he'd foolishly left behind in his haste to get to Caitlin.
She began to move this time, but not nearly as quickly as he wanted.
"What did you mean, write off your job? Why would calling for help do that?"
He let out an exasperated breath. "Because I'm not supposed to be doing this at all."
She blinked. "What?"
"I'm on my own, Caitlin. I told you, I was ordered off."
"But … I thought you just said that because you were going under cover…"
He shook his head, still trying to get her to hurry. "No. My brass, and the brass at Trinity West, both ordered me to back off. I don't know why. As far as they're concerned, I'm a loose cannon. Now, can we please get out of here before the Pack sends a hunting party out?"
"You can't do this alone! Surely Chance will help you."
"Yes, he will. He's never let me down yet. And I'll call him. But not until you're safely out of here."
She stopped in her tracks. They stood face-to-face, her stubborn determination not to abandon him showing clearly in her face, making him even more desperate to get her out of here before the Pack came after him. And he knew they would; being taken for a fool would goad Alarico far beyond any caution about killing a cop. And he'd already gotten away with killing a police chief; a mere detective wouldn't cause him much worry.
"Call now."
She wouldn't back down. In her own quiet, consistent way, she was as strong as he was, perhaps stronger. And probably braver, he thought wryly. She had the kind of strength that let her be gentle and giving, and yet never compromise her beliefs. Like his mother, she had an integrity that went to the core, unshakable and never wavering.
"Call now, and I'll run out of here if you want."
He shook his head in wonder. She was the most incredible woman he'd ever met. And damned if he wasn't going to do what she said.
He walked back to the office and picked up the phone. Chance answered on the second ring, sounding awake and alert, if a little breathless and not particularly happy. Quisto had a good idea of what he'd interrupted, but he couldn't help it.
"They burned me."
"Where are you?"
"The Neutral Zone. I'm going to try and get Caitlin out of here, but they may already be on the way."
"So am I."
Chance hung up even before Quisto did. That was it. No questions, no hesitation. The man was one in a million, Quisto thought, as he turned and strode back into the main room.
"He's coming. Now will you go peacefully?"
"I—"
A noise behind him told him they'd delayed too long. He whirled, pushing Caitlin behind him. Being Caitlin, she refused to stay, and stepped to one side as Alarico strolled in through that damned open back door. He carried an automatic pistol with a menacingly large magazine protruding from it in his right hand, and his face was an ominous mask of barely suppressed rage and evil anticipation. Ryan was close behind him, his expression, as it almost always was, unreadable. His knife was at his belt, as usual, but apart from that, he appeared unarmed.
Not, Quisto thought, that the man wasn't weapon enough himself.
Alarico gestured with his pistol, and Ryan moved toward them. Quisto tensed, but stayed still when Alarico shifted his aim, pointing the deadly weapon at Caitlin.
"Don't talk," Quisto whispered to her harshly, praying that for once she'd listen and
not draw any attention to herself.
Then Ryan was there, seeming even bigger than usual. He quickly searched Quisto, who was cursing himself silently, thinking of his own small weapon, still in the compartment behind the speaker in the Beemer. His haste could get them both killed. Ryan's searching fingers paused for a split second over the small knife hidden by his belt buckle. Quisto held his breath, waiting. Not that the little weapon would do him any good, even if he could get it out, but it was all he had.
But then Ryan moved back.
"Clean," he said, with his usual succinctness.
"Really?" Alarico lifted a brow. "A cop with no gun?"
Ryan didn't move away, but stayed close behind Quisto, as if to guard against any foolish moves. It wasn't necessary, Quisto thought; he wasn't about to try anything on Ryan. Especially with Caitlin in the middle of things.
"Or," Alarico said, with a leer that made Quisto's skin crawl, "perhaps a cop with other things on his mind?"
Quisto didn't answer, didn't respond to the words or the lurid expression. His mind was racing, turning over possible ways out of this. It didn't take long; there weren't many options. He kept quiet, kept his expression even and unworried, even let the tiniest of amused smiles curve his lips. If he could convince Alarico he wasn't worried, the man might begin to wonder why. And he just might get nervous enough to make a mistake.
Which didn't, he thought sourly, do a damn thing to get Ryan off his back. He had the distinct feeling that that man didn't make mistakes. Ever.
"I suspected you all along, you know."
Quisto shrugged; the negligent gesture seemed to infuriate the man, to prod him into giving free rein to his triumphant gloating.
"I knew you would show up. Sooner or later. My plan worked perfectly. I knew killing that little pachuco would smoke you out."
"What?" Caitlin's voice echoed with shock.
Alarico laughed, a chortling, jovial sound that gave the lie to his look of evil glee. "Such an innocent still," he said. "Do you think I cared about that ridiculous child?" He shifted his gaze to Quisto. "It was you I wanted. The cop who interfered with my plans for Marina del Mar."
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