Her gaze was searching. “And you love being a cop.”
He shrugged, deflecting her gaze. “That’s right.” Seizing the opportunity, he turned the conversation away from himself. “So the sooner the real killer is caught, the sooner I get back my badge and my gun, the better.”
“Better for me, too. Franklin is anxious to get this case wrapped up as soon as possible because of the election.”
“How did you explain postponing the arrest?”
“I haven’t yet. I’ve got a meeting with him this afternoon.” She bit her lip, that full lower lip that made him want to kiss her. “He’s going to want somebody arrested. Soon.”
He dragged his gaze away from her mouth. “We’d better get started with the investigation, then.”
She raised a cool, blond eyebrow. ‘“We?”’
“We.”
The sea crashed, water racing up the sand. Patrick caught Helen’s hand and pulled her away from the surging water. Electricity surged through him as their palms met. Her skin was cool and damp, but the feeling that coiled through him was anything but cool.
No, it was definitely hot Verging on explosive.
He tightened his fingers on hers and tugged her a little closer. He heard the sharp intake of her breath, and she moistened her lips.
He almost groaned out loud.
And then she pulled away from him. Not hard and fast, as she had before, but slow and almost reluctant. He would have reached for her again, but she began to speak, her voice husky and a little breathless.
“I’m the prosecutor assigned to this case. It’s my job to make sure all the evidence is in place. But you can’t be involved in that.”
“It’s my job, too, Helen. I’m a cop. Carmel took away my badge and my gun, but that doesn’t make a difference to what I am in here.” He tapped his chest. “Besides, it’s my life you’re talking about.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Is it? Admit it, you need my help. You can’t get the police involved in the investigation if you’re hiding the truth from Franklin. And you can’t do it alone. You need me.”
She stiffened. “I don’t need anything from you!”
“No? What about information? You said you’d lost the files on the Turner murder. I’m the only person who can tell you about that investigation.”
She lifted her chin. “Okay. I need information. But that’s all.”
“No. You need a partner to help with the investigation.”
“If anyone saw me with you—”
“They won’t.” He took a step closer. “We’ll be careful.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “No, Patrick.”
“It makes sense.” He ran his finger down her cheek. “We want the same thing.”
She batted his hand away. “This is business. It’s not personal.”
His lips curled in a smile. “I never said it was personal.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No. I said we wanted the same thing. You want to advance your career by catching Marty’s killer and prosecuting him. I want to clear my name and be reinstated on the force—by catching Marty’s killer. You see? We do want the same thing after all.”
Helen stared at him for a long moment, and then her thick golden lashes swept down, hiding her eyes. The wind gusted again, swirling around them, blowing her hair across her face.
“All I want from you is information,” she said, her voice low. She checked her watch. “I have to get back to the office for my meeting with Franklin. But I want to meet with you later.”
“I’d be happy to meet you. For dinner.”
She shook her head. “I told you, I don’t want us to be seen together in public.”
“I wasn’t asking you to have dinner with me in public.”
Her head snapped up, her eyes hard. “If you think I’m going to your apartment, you’re wrong.”
Patrick grinned. “You think I’ll try to seduce you?” She glared at him, and he laughed. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t asking you to my place. I thought you could come to my parents’ house.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“My father was a cop for forty years. He’s retired, but he’s still the best cop I know. He might have some ideas.”
“But—”
He made an exasperated sound. “Trust me, Helen. No one from your office will see us in my parents’ neighborhood. They live on South Commercial.” It was where he’d grown up, in the south end of town. A tough, tight-knit neighborhood that was definitely on the wrong side of the tracks. There were no lawyers there, that was for sure. No doctors or bankers, either.
Helen hesitated, and Patrick’s jaw hardened. So she didn’t want to come to his parents’. He should have guessed. After all, how many times had he been through this with Jessica?
The old anger twisted deep within him, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “What, isn’t the South End good enough for you, darlin‘? I bet your family lives in some nice fake Georgian out by a country club, don’t they? Your father’s probably...let me guess. A stockbroker. And your mother’s a Realtor.”
She recoiled as if she’d been struck. “You couldn’t be farther from the truth, Monaghan,” she said, her voice bitter.
“No? What is the truth, then?”
She didn’t answer his question. A drop of rain plopped down, striking Patrick in the forehead.
Helen glanced up at the sky. “It’s starting to rain again. And I’ve got to get back to the office.”
“What about—”
Helen shot him a level look. “Give me the address. I’ll be there at six.”
“Helen! What’s going on with the Monaghan case? The press have been hounding me, and I need to give them a statement.”
Helen closed the door behind her and crossed the Aubusson carnet that graced the floor of Franklin’s huge corner office. She sat in a leather chair and glanced at Franklin across the glossy expanse of his cherrywood desk.
His forehead was creased—a sure sign that he was more than usually worried. He almost never let himself frown. Helen suspected he didn’t want to speed the aging process. After all, frowns might lead to wrinkles. And wrinkles didn’t look good on television.
She managed to smile at her boss. “I wanted to meet with you earlier, but you were out.”
“I had a meeting with Judge Gove. He mentioned you’d called him to postpone the arrest...again. Why?”
She looked at him coolly. “If we move too quickly, we might be gambling with our chances of a conviction.”
“I see.” He clasped his hands and steepled his fingers. “How long do you think you’ll need? I have to tell the press something. All they know is that a cop killer is on the loose. The public needs reassurance. I want them to know they’re safe.”
And that he was the one who made them safe, she thought wryly. Politics again. But as much as she disliked it, she knew she had to play the game.
She folded her hands over her knees. “The public also needs to know that when the killer is arrested, he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars. I can make that happen. But I need a few more days.”
She knew she’d hit the right note, because Franklin flashed her his famous magnetic smile. “All right. As I’ve said before, I have every faith in you.” He leaned forward confidentially. “You know Alex will be leaving us shortly to go into private practice. When he goes, I’ll need a new executive deputy prosecutor. I’ve got my eye on you, Helen. You win this case, and I’ll know I was right in my assessment of your abilities.”
Helen’s eyes widened. Executive deputy prosecutor? It was the best job in the office. And to get such a job before her thirtieth birthday would be a coup indeed.
But Franklin’s offer was clear. She had to win the case—and fast—to get the job.
She could do it. She had to. Not just for herself, or for her career, but for justice—to keep an innocent man out of jail.
And for Patrick.
&nbs
p; She’d glimpsed something in him today that she hadn’t suspected. Beneath the charming rogue was another man altogether. A man who took the idea of justice seriously, a man who wanted to set the world right.
She’d taken a closer look at his personnel file when she’d gotten back to the office. There were the reprimands for insubordination. Disobeying orders. Memos from superior officers complaining about his blazing temper, his recklessness.
And six citations for outstanding bravery, hundreds of perfect arrests. Several letters from crime victims who’d written to the department to praise his handling of their cases.
Yes, there was more to Patrick than met the eye. Much more.
“Helen? What do you think about my offer?”
Helen dragged her thoughts away from Patrick and saw that Franklin was watching her carefully. She lifted her chin. “I’m going to win this case.”
Approval flared in Franklin’s eyes. “I know you will. You’re a very talented lawyer. And after the excellent job you did on the Irving case, I knew you’d be perfect for this one.”
Helen frowned slightly. The Irving case? Billy Irving was a handsome salesman she’d prosecuted for larceny after he’d embezzled almost a million dollars from his firm. He’d tried to hide the money by depositing it in the names of his girlfriends—all three of them—but one of them had found out about the others and turned him in. Helen was proud of the conviction, of course, but it was as different from a murder case as night to day.
“Thank you, Franklin,” she said, “but I’m not sure I see the connection between the Irving case and this one.”
“Don’t you remember what you said to me after Irving’s sentencing? When everyone was saying that Judge Zedillo had gone too far? You told me that a man like Irving who was so free and easy about sex deserved whatever he got.” He chuckled. “And you certainly went after him with everything you had. I know you’ll do the same with that womanizer Monaghan.”
Monaghan. Helen’s smile froze on her face. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Franklin that she wasn’t going after Patrick—womanizer or not—but she forced the words back. She couldn’t risk being thrown off the case. Not now.
Besides, Franklin wouldn’t care who they arrested. As long as they arrested somebody, and he could go on the news and tell the people of Evergreen County about it.
Politics. It was all politics to him.
Hiding her distaste, Helen stood. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re ready for the arrest.”
With a brilliant smile, Franklin walked around his desk to shake her hand. “Thank you. And keep me posted on any new developments. We have to keep the public happy.”
“And safe,” she said.
His thousand-watt smile flashed even brighter. “Of course.”
Chapter 5
Helen stood in front of her closet, staring at her clothing. On the right, a row of suits—navy, gray, black—marched in a solid line. On the left hung several plain silk blouses and the sober dresses she wore to work functions.
“I can’t wear work clothes to a family dinner at the Monaghans’s,” Helen muttered. Pushing the suits aside, she reached into the back of her closet for the few items that qualified as informal. A colorful broomstick skirt she’d bought on impulse two years ago and never worn. Two pairs of ancient corduroy pants and a faded print blouse. A tunic made of rose-colored raw silk.
“Okay, the cords.” She grabbed the brown pair off the hanger, grimacing as she saw a paint stain splashed across one thigh.
No. They were beyond casual. Definitely sloppy.
She put her hands on her hips and sighed, rolling back her head to get the kinks out of her neck. “Come on, Stewart. You’re going to be late if you stand here much longer.”
Reaching into the closet, she grabbed the broomstick skirt and rose tunic. She pulled the tunic over her head, the raw silk sliding seductively over her skin. The skirt whispered against her ankles as she turned to look at herself in the mirror.
She swallowed rapidly at the sight of her reflection. The long, floaty skirt was colorful and romantic, and the rose of the top brought out the natural pink in her cheeks. With her blond hair a little tousled, she looked young. Almost pretty.
Helen stared at the mirror. What would Patrick think? Not that she really cared, of course.
“Right, Stewart,” she said under her breath. “That’s why you just stared into your closet for twenty minutes.”
The telephone rang. Still eyeing herself in the mirror, she picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, baby,” a familiar voice rasped. “It’s me.”
Helen’s neck muscles tightened. “Hi, Mom.” She’d made her weekly call to Lana just a few days ago, so it was unlikely her mother was calling just to chat. Not that she ever did. “What’s up?”
“You gotta len’ me some money.” Lana was slurring her words, but not too badly considering it was after five. “It’s a ’mergency.”
Helen sighed. They must have had this conversation a thousand times. “What kind of emergency?”
“It’s my...uh, my lan‘lord. He says he’s gonna throw me out if he doesn’ get some money. Tonight.”
“Well, you just tell him to call me. You know I pay him your rent every month, so he has no reason to throw you out.” Helen glanced at the clock. “Look, I’m in a hurry. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
“Too busy to talk to your ma?” Lana’s voice rose. “Think you’re too good for me, doncha?”
“No, I—”
“Well, I got things to do, too. Fact, I’m gettin’ dolled up for a date right now. Guess he won’t mind spendin’ a little money on me, either.”
“Mom—”
It was too late. Her mother had already hung up.
Slowly, Helen put down the phone. She felt sick, sick and defeated and about a hundred years old. Raising her head, she looked at herself in the mirror. Was it only a minute ago she’d thought she looked young? Pretty?
Her mouth twisted bitterly. Pretty? She didn’t want to look pretty. To doll herself up. Not for Patrick. Not for anyone.
Helen jerked the tunic over her head and pulled off the skirt. She stuffed them both into the bottom of her laundry basket and reached into her closet.
It would just have to be a suit after all.
Twenty minutes later Helen walked up the path that led to the Monaghans’s bungalow. A neatly clipped hedge surrounded the tiny front yard, and flower beds lined the path. An earthy scent of grass and rain hovered in the air, and a warm light shone from the three glass panels in the front door. The door itself had been painted red, an incongruous touch that somehow made the small house seem even more welcoming.
Helen’s throat tightened. As a child, this was the kind of house she’d dreamed of living in. The kind of home she’d longed for. And instead, she’d had one-room apartments. Roach-infested hotel rooms. Lana hadn’t cared, as long as she had the two things that were most important to her. Booze. And men.
Angrily, Helen pushed the memories away. There was no point in thinking about the past. She’d escaped all that, left it behind her. Maybe her mother would never change, but she had proved she was nothing like Lana.
Nothing.
Straightening her spine, she mounted the steps. She shook her umbrella closed, juggled the sheaf of irises into her other arm, and knocked on the door.
Almost immediately the door swung open. Music and laughter spilled into the night. A small boy grinned up at her from the doorway, revealing a large gap where his front teeth should have been.
“Hi!” he chirped. “Are you here to see my grandma?”
Helen’s heart seized. She knew Patrick had been married before, but she hadn’t known he had a child. The little boy was the image of Patrick. His tousled black hair mimicked Patrick’s perfectly, and his eyes were the same silver-gray. Even his stance, legs spread, fists shoved deep in his pockets, was achingly familiar.
“You must be Helen.” A woman with black hair
liberally streaked with gray appeared behind the boy. She put her hand on his shoulder as she offered Helen a vibrant, welcoming smile. “I’m Bridget Monaghan.”
Helen felt an answering smile being pulled from somewhere deep inside her. Patrick’s mother was a small woman, but she positively exuded energy—almost as much as the little boy who bounced from foot to foot.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Monaghan.”
“Oh, please, call me Bridget. Nobody’s called me Mrs. anything since I retired from teaching last year.”
“And I’m Tommy!” The little boy gave Helen another huge smile.
Bridget ruffled the boy’s hair. “Tommy is Patrick’s nephew.”
“Nephew?” Helen let out her breath. “He looks so much like Patrick, I thought....”
A brief flash of emotion—something almost like pain—appeared in Bridget’s eyes. “No,” she said quietly. “Patrick has no children of his own. Just nieces and nephews.”
“Like me!” Tommy piped up.
Helen smiled and squatted so they were at eye level. “Hi, Tommy.”
“What’s your name?”
“Helen. Helen Stewart. I’m a friend of your uncle Patrick’s.”
He nodded seriously. “So you’re that lady. My mom said maybe you’re gonna marry him.”
Helen’s cheeks flamed. Bridget stifled a laugh and said, “Tommy, it’s not polite to—”
Another door swung open at the end of the hall. The smell of fresh bread seeped into the hallway along with a burst of laughter, and Patrick appeared, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He looked at her, crouched on the floor by his nephew, and his face split into a smile. “Helen.”
She got to her feet, swallowing hard. Patrick was wearing black jeans that hugged his lean hips, and a hunter green T-shirt that left his muscular arms bare. Too bare. She could see the bulge of his biceps and the dusting of black hair on his skin, and her stomach flopped over. She remembered running her hands up his arms, remembered the contours of muscle and the soft rasp of hair, and—
Motive, Means... And Marriage? Page 7