“Well?” she said. “Why don’t you tell us your story?”
“My story?” He tried to concentrate on her words rather than on the shape of her beautiful mouth. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Monaghan,” Carmel said roughly. “What happened out there tonight?”
Patrick looked at Carmel and frowned. “Damned if I know. I’m in the car with Marty, and the next thing I know I wake up in the emergency room at Evergreen General and some doctor is stitching up my head. Where’s Marty, anyway? What’s this all about?”
Helen jotted a note but said nothing. Carmel stepped forward and yanked out the chair next to Helen’s. Its metal legs screeched across the rough linoleum of the floor.
Carmel sat down. “You telling us you don’t know where Marty is?”
“Of course I don’t know where he is. If I did, I’d be pounding some answers out of him right now.”
Helen stiffened and looked up from her notepad. Her blue eyes were hard, raking over him as though he was a stranger. As though they had never kissed, never touched, never shared a night of hot, sweet passion.
“‘Pounding some answers out of him?”’ she asked.
Patrick’s jaw clenched at the cool disdain in her tone. “It’s no secret I can’t stand him. And he owes me some answers. The doctor told me a bullet had grazed my shoulder. Apparently, I’ve been shot.”
“You have,” Cannel said. “Marty shot you.”
Patrick shoved back his chair. “What? I know Marty doesn’t like me much, but—”
Helen smiled grimly. “It appears he shot you in self-defense. After you shot him. Twice.”
Her words exploded in Patrick’s mind, and he leaped to his feet. “You’re out of your minds. I never shot Marty. Where the hell is he, anyway? I’ll kill him for telling lies like that.”
“You’re too late for that, Monaghan,” Carmel snapped. “Marty’s already dead.”
Patrick froze. “Dead?”
“Sit down, Detective Monaghan,” Helen said.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on!”
She returned his stare coolly. “You’re a suspect in the murder of Martin Fletcher.”
“You think I killed Marty?” Patrick demanded incredulously. He planted his hands on the table and leaned forward to look into her eyes. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”
Her gaze slid away from him. A tiny flush of color appeared high on her cheekbones.
“You’re the only suspect,” Carmel said harshly.
Patrick took a deep breath and counted to ten. “You’re making a big mistake here, Carmel.” He fought to keep the anger, the outrage, out of his voice. Losing his temper now wouldn’t do him any good. “I didn’t kill Marty.”
Carmel’s lip curled. “Yeah? Why don’t you tell us what did happen, then?”
Patrick ran his hand over his eyes. Darkness pressing in. Rain hissing against the tires. Marty driving the car down that country road. Wondering where the hell they were going.
Piercing lights. The raw smell of antiseptic. Pain in his skull. A green robe, the firm hand of a uniformed officer on his arm, a deep voice asking him to come to the station.
“Patr-Detective Monaghan? Are you all right?”
He opened his eyes and saw Helen leaning forward. Her left hand made a little movement on the tabletop, as though she was going to reach for him, but then she snatched it back.
The corner of his mouth tipped up in a smile. So she wasn’t quite as indifferent to him as she pretended.
He pulled back his chair and sat. “I’m all right. But I don’t remember what happened. I already told you. I was in the car with Marty. We were going to interview some informant of his. Next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. When the doctor finished stitching up my head, a uniform asked me to come down to the station. So here I am.”
“You don’t remember,” Carmel said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “How convenient”
Patrick fought the urge to punch the man in the mouth. “No. I don’t remember.”
Carmel rose halfway to his feet, his hands clenched into fists. “Wonder if a few hours alone with me would bring back your memory?”
Helen shot Carmel a look and gave a tiny shake of her head. He glared at her but sat back in his chair.
She looked at Patrick, her blue eyes direct. “If you don’t remember what happened, how do you know you didn’t shoot Detective Fletcher?”
“I just know.”
She glanced down at her notes. “Do you remember what time you were supposed to meet the informant?”
“Before I answer your question, why don’t you answer a few of mine?”
“We’re not obligated to answer any of your questions.”
“And I’m not obligated to answer any of yours.” He looked straight into her eyes. “I want to cooperate, but you’re making it very difficult.”
Something flickered in her eyes. A hint of—what? Memory? Guilt for the way she’d treated him? He couldn’t tell.
“All right,” she said finally. “I won’t guarantee you any answers, but what do you want to know?”
“Why are you treating me as a suspect?”
“Because you’re guilty as sin!” Carmel snarled.
Helen sprang to her feet. “Lieutenant, can I speak with you for a moment?” She stalked over to the door and wrenched it open. After a moment’s hesitation Carmel followed her, and they went into the other room, shutting the door behind them.
Patrick stared at the glass. They were back there, talking about him. How many times had he sat behind that mirror, watching a suspect sweat? Hundreds? Thousands?
Now he was on the other side of the glass. Twelve years of working his ass off to keep law and order in Evergreen, and this was where he ended up. Sitting in this ugly little room while Carmel accused him of murder. Carmel...and Helen Stewart.
Patrick closed his eyes and dragged both his hands through his hair. Helen. He’d told himself a year ago to forget her—convinced himself he had forgotten her—but now that he’d seen her, he knew it was a lie.
He couldn’t forget her. No more than he could forget that night.
He heard the click of the door handle, and he opened his eyes. Helen came back into the room, alone. She sat across the table from him, looking all too cool and calm and remote.
Patrick gave her a mocking grin. “What? You left the human pit bull outside?”
“Insulting your senior officer might not be the wisest course under the circumstances. Particularly as he’s in charge of the case.”
He laughed. “When have I ever done the wise thing? And I remember at least one occasion when you did something...less than wise.” His gaze passed over her, drinking in her strong features, the length of her throat, the swell of her breasts under her tailored wool jacket. When he looked back up to meet her eyes, he saw that her face was rigid with anger.
“You’re digging yourself in deeper all the time,” she said tightly.
His grin faded. “Digging myself into what? Dammit, Helen, tell me what’s going on.”
She glared at him. “That’s Ms. Stewart.”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “All right. Ms. Stewart. Look, if you explain, I’ll be more than happy to cooperate.”
“You’re not exactly known for cooperation.” She flipped open another folder. “You’ve been reprimanded for insubordination more times than I can count For disobeying orders. And you told Lieutenant Carmel a week ago that if you had to keep working with Marty, you’d probably end up killing him.”
Patrick shrugged. “A figure of speech.”
“Quite a coincidence that Marty turns up dead in your company.”
“Look, I’ll be straight with you. I didn’t like Marty. He was a lush, and he was sloppy about his work. I’d only been working with him for three weeks, and he was already driving me crazy.”
Helen nodded and made another note. “But?”
“He was still
a cop. And we look after our own. I want to see whoever killed him caught as badly as you do.” He gave her his most charming smile. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
She pulled a sheet of paper from her briefcase. “A patrol car responded to a 9-1-1 call saying shots had been fired out on the old highway. When the car got there, the men found you and Marty. Marty was dead. You were unconscious and bleeding, but holding a gun. They took you to the hospital and filed a report”
“That’s it? This is why I’m a suspect?”
“A witness saw two men, and only two, just before the shots were fired. And it looks like the bullets were fired from your gun.”
“They weren’t. They couldn’t have been.” Patrick shot a look at the glass. “You’re wasting your time with me. Carmel should be out there searching for the real killer.”
“I’m sure Lieutenant Carmel will follow up all potential leads. What did you say Marty’s informant’s name was?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where does he live? Why were you meeting him?”
Patrick gritted his teeth. “I don’t know. Marty never said anything about him—only that we were going to see him.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about what happened tonight?”
“No.”
Helen handed him her card. “If you remember anything else, call me.” She snapped her case shut and stood. “I’ll be talking to you again once we get the lab results on the bullets.”
“You’ll be offering me an apology.”
“Will I?”
Patrick grabbed her hand. Her fingers were slender but strong, her skin warm and smooth, just as he remembered. He stroked his thumb across her palm, over her wrist. Her pulse fluttered beneath the pad of his thumb, and he knew her heart was racing. Just like his.
A smile of masculine satisfaction curved his lips. “You know me, darlin’. Do you really think I’m capable of murder?”
She wrenched her hand out of his grasp. “You’re wrong. I don’t know you. I spent a few hours in your company many months ago, and it’s something I don’t care to remember. I don’t know what you’re capable of—and I don’t particularly care.”
It was her lips that gave her away. They trembled just a little as she spoke, giving a hint—just a hint—of the vulnerability Patrick knew was just beneath her tough shell.
“You don’t care?” he asked softly.
Helen looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t care.”
She was lying. She had to be. But before he could say any more. she whirled around and yanked open the door. He heard her heels clicking against the floor, heard her husky laugh in response to some comment Carmel made, and then she was gone.
Helen’s briefcase was so heavy it felt as though it was filled with rocks. The lieutenant had kept on handing her more files. “Here’s Monaghan’s service files. And the case files he’s been working on. And Marty’s notes.”
She’d made copies of them all and stuffed them into her briefcase, but she was too tired to look at them right away. All she wanted was to go home and catch a few hours’ sleep before she went for her morning run and headed in to the office.
The desk sergeant waved good-night as she crossed the lobby. Rain slashed against the glass doors in waves; it was still pouring outside.
Helen pushed open the door and stepped into the night without bothering to open her umbrella. The rain felt cool and fresh against her face. The station had been too warm, filled with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and coffee that had been left too long on the burner.
She was halfway down the stairs before she noticed Patrick leaning against the telephone pole on the far side of her car. He was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket, the collar turned up against the rain. His black hair was soaked, plastered against his skull—he must have been waiting awhile.
For an instant she considered going back inside and calling a cab to meet her out back, but then she squared her shoulders and marched toward her car.
“Helen—wait!”
She heard Patrick’s rapid footsteps as he jogged around to her side of the car. He stopped just behind her, close enough that she could smell the warm spicy scent of his aftershave.
Close enough to touch.
She shoved away that thought. “If you need to talk to me, call my office in the morning.” She fumbled with her key ring, trying to find her car key, trying to get it into the lock. Her hands trembled and she swore under her breath.
It was the cold making her hands shake like this. And the rain. It didn’t have anything to do with Patrick. Not at all.
“I don’t want to talk about business.” His voice was gentle, caressing.
“There’s nothing else for us to talk about.”
“There isn’t? I need to know, darlin’. Why didn’t you ever return my calls?”
Helen managed to insert the key into the lock and pop it open. She put her hand on the door handle, steadying herself against the cold, rain-slick metal. “Because I didn’t want to see you again.”
“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
She whirled to face him. “Why? You think you’re so irresistible? Forget it, Monaghan. You’re not my type.”
“No?” He grinned, his silver eyes crinkling. “I seem to remember something different.”
“It was a mistake.”
He took a step closer to her. “Is that what you’d call it?”
Against her will, she felt herself responding to the heat in his eyes, the low, seductive rasp of his voice. Warmth curled through her stomach, a warmth she hadn’t felt since that night a year before, since—
She froze.
There was no way she’d let this happen. Not now. Not ever.
Abruptly she turned away from him and wrenched open her car door. “It was a mistake,” she said, her voice icy. “If you have any new information about Marty’s murder, call me. Otherwise, just stay away from me.” She slid inside.
“But—”
She slammed the car door and locked it. Patrick stood outside her window for a moment, and then he shrugged and walked off.
Helen sat in the car and watched him go. She kept her hands on the steering wheel, but she felt them shaking. Dragging in a breach, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
She couldn’t let Patrick get to her like this. Couldn’t let him get under her skin, make her lose control...again.
There was far too much at stake. Not just her reputation, but her whole career. Franklin had made it clear that this case was vitally important. If she lost control now, if she blew the case....
Fear shuddered through her, but she clamped down on it ruthlessly. She would not give in to her emotions. She would not.
Helen opened her eyes and started the engine. A movement off to her right caught her gaze, and she turned to see what it was.
The door to the police station opened. A woman in a skintight purple dress stumbled through it, clinging to the arm of a tattooed man. She teetered down the stairs on her high heels, and paused on the sidewalk to pull the man’s head down to hers for a long, lascivious kiss.
Helen swallowed convulsively and averted her eyes. She put the car in gear and pulled out onto the street, heading for home.
“Control,” she said out loud. “I have to keep control.”
Chapter 2
Pattick’s head pounded as he was abruptly jerked awake. Thump. Thump. Thump. He grimaced and flung his arm over his eyes, trying to block out the light. Damn, he wished he hadn’t woken up. He’d been dreaming about Helen. In the dream she’d been smiling at him and explaining that she’d really meant to call him all along. Now, if he could just go back to sleep....
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The pounding wasn’t just in his head. There was somebody banging on the door of his apartment
“Go away.” he growled, pulling his pillow over his head.
The pounding continued, and his brother’s voice filtered
through the heavy oak door. “Dammit, Patrick, I know you’re in there. Open the door already!”
It was Adam. And knowing Adam, he would stay out there pounding all day. Patrick let out a groan of frustration. It looked like he wasn’t going to get back to that dream after all.
“Patrick?”
“Coming!” he shouted.
He pushed himself upright in bed and looked down at himself in distaste. His T-shirt was still stuck to his shoulder with blood, and his mouth felt as if it were full of sawdust. By the time he’d driven home last night, he’d been so beat he’d just swallowed a handful of aspirin, yanked off his jeans, and fallen into bed.
He grabbed a pair of gray police department sweatpants off the back of a chair and pulled them on before he went to the door, undid the bolts, and opened it wide to admit his visitor.
Adam strode into the room. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and a white shirt. His subdued tie bore the unmistakable sheen of silk. His black hair was short, like Patrick’s, but it was brushed back neatly, instead of sticking out in all directions. Patrick gave a wry smile. As children, they’d often been mistaken for twins, but sure as hell nobody would make that mistake now. Adam looked like a lawyer, and Patrick—well, he looked like what he was, too.
Adam stopped in front of the window and swung around. “You look like hell, little brother.”
Patrick closed the door and leaned back against it, folding his arms over his chest. “You come all the way over here to insult my looks?” he asked lazily.
A muscle twitched in Adam’s cheek. “I heard a rumor you’d been arrested.”
“I haven’t. But I’m sure Carmel is working on it overtime. He wants to get me so bad he’s almost frothing at the mouth.”
“I should’ve known you’d be joking about it. But from what I heard, you’re under suspicion of murder. If that’s true, it’s no laughing matter.”
Patrick shrugged, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “If you want to lecture me, feel free, but could you wait until I’ve had a shower and a cup of coffee, at least?”
Motive, Means... And Marriage? Page 2