Badge of Honor

by Justine Davis

  "Don't underestimate the respect you've got at Trinity West," he said. "But you should probably have some time as a lieutenant and captain first."

  She laughed. "A long time," she drawled, clearly thinking he'd been joking all along.

  But he hadn't been, not really. He could easily see her sitting in this chair in a few years. She had the smarts, the guts, the tenacity and enough of each to overcome the unfortunate fact that in this world, being female put you a length behind before the gate even opened. He wasn't sure he'd wish it on her, though.

  "Have you had dinner?" he asked. Only after the words were out did he wonder what had possessed him to say them.

  She looked startled, as if she was still a little off balance from his teasing. "I … no. I was going to grab something on the way home."

  "Me, too. Shall we do it together?"

  Now that didn't come out very well, he thought. He was out of practice—long out of practice—in asking anybody out. Not that that's what this was, of course, but still, he could have done better than that clumsy, faintly suggestive effort.

  And she was looking at him as if she was trying to decide just what he'd meant, if that stupid phrase was some kind of double entendre. Disbelief tinged her expression, and he wondered if it was over him saying it at all, or saying it to her. Was it so astonishing to her that he'd want to have dinner with her?

  Or, he thought with a sudden qualm, was she thinking she didn't dare say no because of who he was? Had he inadvertently crossed over into the sexual harassment ring?

  "We can talk about the Rivas case," he said quickly, "and where we go from here." That's it, make it safe, make it business, he told himself. "I can postpone what I came in here for."

  And when, after he'd made it safe, she agreed, he told himself there was no way that could be a hint of disappointment he was seeing in her eyes.

  * * *

  "How's the arm?"

  Kit smiled across the table they'd just been seated at. "It's fine. Really. I barely feel it."

  "Roxy's good."

  "Yes, she is," Kit agreed. He said nothing more, but she imagined they were both remembering that bloody night two years ago when Roxy's quick actions and determination had saved his life. He'd been essentially dead when they wheeled him into her ER, but Roxy never gave up without a fight.

  "So, anything new?" he asked after the business of ordering meals had been taken care of. "I've been tied up all day and barely had a chance to check for messages."

  "Not really," Kit said. "But I did notice the other case, the original of the Rivas file, hasn't been replaced yet."

  "Maybe it's misfiled by a year," he said dryly.

  She laughed and took a sip of water. She'd been surprised he'd selected this place' even wondered if he'd done it because she'd mentioned the time she'd come here with Cruz, what seemed like ages ago. If this was a real date, she might wonder if he was testing for some kind of reaction, to see if she'd really meant what she'd said about having no regrets.

  But it wasn't a real date, and she didn't think Miguel de los Reyes was the kind of man who would do that, anyway. He'd no doubt picked the Sunset Grill in Marina del Mar because it had recently been brought to mind. And because it still had the reputation Kelsey Gregerson had built on intriguing variety, excellent food and atmosphere. It was now one of the in places in the wealthy resort town with a menu that was never the same twice. It had an airy, open feel with skylights to let in the sun and a unique design that made every table seem secluded and private.

  And that thought made her remind herself he had not chosen the place because it also had the reputation of being a great romantic location that took advantage of spectacular sunsets over the Pacific.

  She felt silly even having to assure herself of that. She wouldn't have thought it had it been anyone else asking her to discuss business over dinner. It was her own fault she was thinking it now. This man was too big a threat to her peace of mind.

  "I was here once before it was the Sunset Grill," he said when their food had come, breaking the long silence.

  "When it was just that little hole in the wall? I remember. Bobby and I used to come here then."

  He looked at her for a long, silent moment, until she wondered if she'd made a mistake in mentioning it. Then he spoke quietly.

  "You were so strong when he was killed. You just kept going, you never let it cripple you."

  She nearly laughed but held it back because she knew it would come out as a bitter little sound, and she didn't want it to. She really wasn't bitter anymore. She'd gotten over that years ago. She and Bobby had both known there was always a chance one of them might not come home some night. But when it came to the crunch, that knowledge hadn't helped very much. At the time, she had felt worse than crippled. She had felt broken beyond repair.

  "You didn't see me when I holed up in my apartment on my days off, crying around the clock," she said.

  "You never let it affect your work," he said. "We all knew you were hurting, we could see it, but we didn't know how to help."

  "You did. Everybody did, but you and Anna helped the most by just being there. All those times she called late at night to check on me, all those shifts when you'd show up in the field even though you were a lieutenant and didn't have to be out there, claiming you needed company and a cup of coffee … that kept me going."

  He lowered his gaze to his plate. A man walked by, a woman who appeared to be his wife trailing behind. He paused, and for a moment Kit thought he was looking at them, but as soon as the woman caught up he strode off again, and she realized he must have been waiting for her, although he was soon several steps ahead of her again. One of those impatient types, Kit thought. Or one who wanted to be sure the woman stayed in her place ten steps behind, she amended wryly.

  They ate in silence for a while before he spoke as if the conversation was merely continuing.

  "Do you still … think about him?"

  There was something in his tone and the way he didn't look at her that told her he was after something more than a simple answer. But she didn't know what he wanted to hear. She toyed with her steamed broccoli for a moment before she answered.

  "Yes, but it's not a constant thing. Not even frequent, anymore," she said carefully. "I don't think I'll ever forget Bobby completely. I loved him very much. But it's been eleven years." A sudden reason for the intensity of his question hit her. She looked at him as she added softly, "It does get easier. Eventually."

  He didn't speak, looked as though he couldn't. But he reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. His warmth, an almost incredible heat, gave her the strangest feeling, and before she realized what she was doing, she had turned her hand beneath his palm and curled her fingers around his.

  As if reflexively, his fingers returned the squeeze. If she hadn't been looking right at him, she might have missed the faint flare of his nostrils. There was no other sign that her action had moved him. Except that he lowered his gaze, this man who never, ever took the easy way. And after a moment he released her hand.

  Several silent minutes passed, both of them picking at half-eaten meals, before he put down his fork and looked at her. "I used to think about how you were, after Bobby was killed. After Anna died, when I used to wonder how I was going to survive, I thought about how brave you'd been and told myself I couldn't do any less."

  "Brave?" She stared at him. "I was anything but. I was a basket case. Just not in public, if I could help it."

  He lifted a dark brow at her. "And you think that's not bravery?"

  She shook her head. "Bravery is coming back, after what happened to you, after the shooting, knowing it could happen again."

  "That kind of pain, pure physical pain, is easy," he said. He didn't go on, but she knew what he meant—that any kind of physical pain was easier to bear than the emotional agony of loss. And she couldn't argue with that, not when she knew it as well as he did. The night Bobby had been killed was etched in her mi
nd so deeply it would never fade. She'd known, the minute she'd opened her door to find Miguel and Anna standing there, Miguel still in uniform, Anna looking at her with such gentle sorrow in her eyes. She'd known instantly the worst had happened, hadn't even asked if Bobby was dead or simply badly hurt because she already knew. There had been nothing of hope in their faces.

  And she didn't ever, ever want to go through that again.

  She felt herself freezing up and knew that her conversation had turned cool, impersonal. Although the food was delicious, her fish grilled perfectly, she couldn't finish it. And she noticed he seemed to have lost his appetite, as well.

  He didn't ask her what was wrong. He was too perceptive not to notice the change, so she had to assume he didn't want to know or perhaps was grateful that they had retreated from dangerous ground.

  She lectured herself in a way she hadn't had to in a long time, because no man had ever come close to making her even think about changing her life. She dated occasionally, but never seriously. She had her work, she had her friends, and they provided the kids if she was feeling motherly, and they welcomed her offers to baby-sit. Sam's zoo let her expend her fondness for animals, although it wasn't quite as easy now that they were living at Kelsey's inn. But it was all she needed.

  And if she wanted more now and then, well, she got over it. Funny how never before had the desire for more coincided with meeting a man she could think about seeing seriously. That it did now was a measure of how confused she was, she supposed. Because amid the confusion there was only one thing she was positive of.

  It didn't matter that there was no formal rule at Trinity West about such things. A relationship with Miguel de los Reyes was impossible. A relationship between the Marina Heights chief of police and one of his line officers was beyond impossible.

  Not only was there all the personal baggage, there was the rest. She knew it was hard enough for any cop to have a normal, stable relationship. For a female cop it was more complicated. The only people who truly understood the crazy schedules and the nature of the work were other cops. And even if she hadn't sworn that off, just the idea of the complications of a personal relationship of any depth between a sergeant and her chief gave her chills. The potential for disaster on both sides was tremendous. Her being accused of sleeping her way up the ranks and him of favoritism or sexual harassment were probably just the tip of the iceberg.

  With a minimum of discussion they agreed they were finished with dinner. And with no discussion at all they walked to the parking lot. They had both driven, to avoid having to go back for one car. They stopped between the low, red, racy coupe that was her one extravagance and Miguel's plain, gray city car, the car that traditionally would have been traded in for a new one last year, but that he'd kept so the money could go toward a new patrol unit instead.

  For a moment they stood, close yet apart. And Kit felt the craziest wish that he would reach for her, that he would end this evening as if it had been the social, personal occasion he'd denied it would be. But they'd very nearly turned it into that, she thought, with all that talk about things so long buried, things so deeply personal. And she wondered what would happen if they ever went over the edge of this precipice they seemed to be skating along.

  Then he moved, his hand coming up slowly. She went very still, waiting, wondering what he was going to do. His fingers curved, and he brushed the backs of them over her cheek with a feather-light touch that nevertheless sent her into a crazy upheaval, shivering as if at the touch of ice yet feeling weak in the knees at a sudden burst of heat.

  She saw him tense, and for an instant his hand hovered near her face, as if he wanted to repeat the motion. She wished he would. She'd never quite felt anything like that before. But he pulled his hand from her in a jerky little motion that was unlike his usual grace. Then, as if he was resisting some kind of magnetic pull, he slowly lowered his hand to her shoulder. He clasped her, his fingers tightening as if what he really wanted to do was hug her.

  She told herself it was wishful thinking. She told herself it meant nothing. She told herself he was an old, dear friend and this was an expression of friendship, as he'd give to anyone. She told herself she was a fool to read anything into the fact that he had brushed her cheek. That the brief, exquisite touch had felt like that of a lover, not a friend, was her fault, the result of too many lonely nights, too long spent thinking of this man in ways she had no right to be thinking.

  He drew back suddenly, releasing her. For a long moment he stood staring at her. She saw the turmoil of emotion in his eyes, those light gray eyes that had always made her feel it was pointless to try to hide anything from this man, because those eyes could see clear through her, all the way to her soul.

  She supposed he was regretting what he'd done and probably worried that she would misinterpret it. And if she judged by her unruly body's response to that slightest of touches, he was right to be worried. She barely managed not to grimace visibly. She hid the reaction by digging out her keys.

  "I was thinking about … that car. The one that was supposedly stolen and used in the drive-by," he said suddenly.

  The abrupt statement proved to Kit that her thoughts had been accurate. This rapid change of subject seemed to indicate he was as off-balance as she.

  "Me, too," she said, accepting the safe topic appreciatively. "I still want to talk to Lorenzo, aka Choker. They didn't take him very seriously at the time, but…"

  "If it really was stolen, he might know something that didn't make the report."

  She nodded. "And I suppose even gangsters get their cars stolen now and then. Besides, there might be something that didn't mean anything then that might now. I'll see what I can find out about it tomorrow."

  He nodded. "Let me know."

  She nodded again and felt silly at how awkward things had suddenly become. All he had done was touch her cheek. And he had quickly altered his approach and grasped her shoulder, making it clear it was merely camaraderie he felt.

  It didn't mean anything, it didn't mean anything…

  The words marched through her mind as if on a continuous loop recording, a background mantra she knew she didn't dare ignore.

  Uncertain what to do, she mumbled a rather inane comment about it being late. He nodded yet again, as if he was having as much trouble as she was finding coherent words to put together. At last she said good-night and got into her car.

  As she reached the driveway, she took a last glance in her rearview mirror.

  Miguel de los Reyes stood next to his car. Alone. As always. The confused emotions she'd felt were nothing compared to the tangle she found herself in now, her heart nearly breaking as she looked at that solitary figure.

  * * *

  Miguel watched her drive away until the little red car was out of sight. Then, with a sigh, he leaned against the fender of his car.

  This was insane.

  He'd meant this to be just what he'd said, a quiet, safe discussion about the Rivas case. Instead, he'd lost control and touched her in the way he'd been aching to for far too long. True, he'd managed to hold it to the merest brush of his fingers against her cheek, but only by sheer force of will, and it had taken every bit of discipline he had to convert the touch to a safe, affable grasp of her shoulder. As if she was nothing more than a friend. As if she was one of the guys. As if he wasn't hurting to touch her in much more intimate ways.

  Even the dinner had gotten out of control. They had spent little time talking about the case and far too much time in the kind of talk that stirred up deeply hidden emotions, that brought to the surface memories and longings and wonderings that could be hazardous to them both.

  The things they'd talked about reminded him of how much he'd always liked Kit, and only near the end had he realized that the fact they'd talked so easily about things so painful to both of them was a dangerous sign.

  And even that brief, sweet contact of their hands had been too much, too dangerous. Had set him to thinking of things t
hat could never be, things he hadn't wanted for so long he'd thought he'd forgotten how to want them. He wondered again why he'd done it—touched her—when he knew what it would do to him. He wondered if he'd developed some kind of penchant for self-torture or if he'd had to see if another simple touch would have the same devastating effect.

  But it wasn't simply the touching. Kit read him so easily, always seemed to know exactly what to say. Just as she had in those dark days after Anna's death. She'd been there, with the right word at the right moment, to keep him from going over the precipice into the abyss.

  But he couldn't deny she stirred other feelings in him, as well, feelings he'd wondered if he would ever have again, a longing for someone to be there, to not be so very alone, to have somebody to give a damn about him, somebody who understood the difficulties of the job he was trying to do, somebody who could distract him from it, make him think about something else, someone else, somebody who could make him feel alive again somewhere outside his office.

  That Kit met all those qualifications and added a few unique ones of her own didn't escape him. And then there was the rather startling fact that he felt a distinct, more than casual sexual interest. It had been so long he almost hadn't recognized it when he'd found himself studying the soft fullness of her mouth or the delicate nape of her neck beneath the short cap of blond hair, or remembering those legs that just went on and on.

  He moved suddenly, opening the door to his car. His mind moved even more quickly, backing off the dangerous thoughts. He hadn't forgotten the hellish price he'd once paid for loving a woman. He never would. And he'd meant what he said—the ordeal of Anna's long death had been more painful to him than any physical pain, even the agony he'd gone through when those two bullets had ripped into his body.

  And then a memory of two people who had been hurt as badly as he had been by Anna's death came to him. Her parents, their eyes still shadowed by sorrow, photographs of Anna and of Anna and Miguel still adorning their walls. Those two people who were as close to family as he had left telling him with sad certainty that they loved him for himself, as well as for his love for their daughter, and it was that that made them say he had been alone too long, that it was time for him to move on. Anna's mother saying there must be someone in his life, someone he could care for, who would care for him.