Motive, Means... And Marriage?

by Hilary Byrnes

  She jerked her gaze back up to his face, and he gave her a welcoming grin. She felt the impact of his smile in every pore, making her heart beat too fast, her breath come too quickly.

  “Hi, Patrick.” Her voice was husky and breathless, and she cringed at the sound.

  “What are you doing out there on the porch?” His eyes crinkled. “Come in, come in.”

  She walked into the warmth of the hall, and Patrick pushed the door shut. He took her coat, his strong hands brushing against her shoulders. Streamers of heat coursed through her body, heat that had nothing to do with being inside and everything to do with Patrick’s touch.

  Helen’s heart thudded against her ribs. What was happening to her? If she wasn’t careful—

  Control.

  She grasped for it, turning from Patrick to his mother. She handed Bridget the flowers in their bright cellophane wrapper. “I didn’t know what to bring for dinner, so I brought you these.”

  Bridget took them with a delighted smile. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.” She turned to the little boy. “Tommy, will you come and help me put these in some water?”

  “Sure, Grandma.” He grabbed her hand and towed her off down the hallway, leaving Patrick and Helen alone.

  Patrick turned back from the coat closet, his gaze sweeping over her. His eyes darkened to the color of smoke, and his mouth curled upward in a smile. She saw the muscles of his shoulder flex and shift as he reached up to plant his hand against the wall. He leaned close, and she caught his scent. He smelled of aftershave—spicy and warm—and of something else, something masculine and elusive and all too appealing.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said, his warm breath brushing her cheek.

  “I—” She struggled to keep her voice steady. “I said I would.”

  “And you always keep your promises?”

  She gulped. “Yes. I do.”

  Sudden heat flared in his eyes, and he dipped his head toward hers. He was so close she could see the faint shadow of a beard along his jaw, the flutter of a muscle in his cheek, every contour of his sculpted mouth.

  Helen’s mouth went dry, and she moistened her lips. She felt his breath stir her hair, and then the barest brush of his mouth across her cheek....

  “Patrick?” a male voice bawled from the back of the house.

  The moment was shattered. Patrick jerked upright, his eyes dark, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Helen fought for air.

  “Patrick, you’d better get back in here if you want to get that salad done.”

  “Coming, Dad!” Patrick called.

  He reached out and ran his thumb over her cheek and across the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, Helen.” His voice lowered to a smoky texture that was a little rough around the edges. “Maybe we can finish this...conversation later.”

  His thumb slid across her lower lip, and she felt the breath being pulled from her lungs. She knew she should pull away, duck under his arm and flee for the kitchen, but somehow she could only stand there staring at the hard line of his lips, lips she knew could be soft, so soft—

  “Patrick!” The shout sounded again.

  He caught her hand. “Come on. Time to meet my family.”

  The kitchen was a big warm room at the back of the house. The walls and cupboards were painted bright yellow, and crayon drawings were taped to the refrigerator. A rocking chair in one corner had a knitting bag tossed on its seat, and an upside-down paperback graced the windowsill between two lush, green plants.

  The big pine table held eleven people, adults and children. To Helen, it seemed like all the Monaghans were laughing and talking at once as they devoured steaks and home-baked rolls, a huge salad and corn on the cob.

  “Do you all get together like this very often?” Helen whispered as she passed Patrick the salad for the third time.

  He grinned. “This isn’t all of us. Moira lives in Seattle, and Rand, his wife Zoe, and their kids live in California.”

  Sean, Patrick’s father, winked at Helen from the foot of the table. He was a tall man with faded red hair and a kind, weatherworn face. “You think it’s noisy now, but you should hear it at Christmas.”

  “You all get together at Christmas?” Helen asked curiously.

  “Every year,” Deirdre, Patrick’s oldest sister, chimed in. “We rotate whose house we go to. We all take a turn—at least, all of us who are married.” She shot Patrick a meaningful look.

  Helen swallowed and slid a sideways glance at Patrick. Deirdre was Tommy’s mother. Was there more than a hint in her words?

  “Hoping to marry me off so you can get out of your turn, DeeDee?” Patrick drawled.

  She bristled. “Of course not! You know I love having Christmas at our house. But I just think—”

  “You think you have a duty to get your brothers married,” Adam said from the other side of the table. He turned to Helen. “DeeDee’s a teacher, and she’s tried to fix Patrick or me up with every unmarried teacher in her school.”

  “That’s not true,” Deirdre said indignantly.

  “Right,” Patrick said. “You haven’t tried to fix us up with any of the men.”

  “I just want you to be happy!” she protested. Then she relented, a giggle escaping her lips. “Okay, okay, I’m a terrible meddler. I admit it. So sue me.”

  Patrick waved his fork at Helen. “Do you have to put up with this from your brothers and sisters?”

  She stiffened. The last thing she wanted to talk about was her own family. “I’m an only child.”

  Deirdre regarded her with sympathy. “That must have been lonely. There’s six of us. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to grow up without brothers and sisters.”

  Helen looked down at her plate. “It was...all right.”

  “Where do your parents live now?” Deirdre asked. “You’re not from Evergreen, are you?”

  “No. I’m, um, from Seattle.” She felt a dull flush begin to spread across her cheeks, and she prayed it would go away before it made Deirdre even more curious.

  Deirdre looked at her speculatively. “And do—”

  “Give it a rest, Deirdre.” Patrick put his hand on the back of Helen’s chair. “She came for dinner, not the third degree.”

  Helen gave him a grateful look. She didn’t want to talk about her family. Not here. Not in front of these happy, loving people. Right now, she wanted to forget about her mother. To pretend, just for a few minutes, that she had a real family. A family like this one.

  Bridget broke the awkward silence by standing. “Well, if everyone’s done, I think I’ll start cleaning up.”

  Helen pushed back her chair and began gathering plates.

  Bridget smiled and took the plates out of her hands. “I know you and Patrick have business to discuss. Go on.”

  “But—”

  “The men cooked. Deirdre and I’ll clean up with the children.” Bridget bustled off to the sink. “I’ve got plenty of help, dear.”

  Patrick came up behind Helen and took her hand. She pulled away hastily, but he leaned close, and she saw the laughter in his eyes. “So are you still in one piece?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He tipped his head toward the other end of the kitchen. “That mob can be a lot to deal with all at once. Not to mention my sister and her insatiable curiosity. And you’re not used to big families, are you?”

  “No.” She looked away. “I’m not.”

  “Well, you’re great with the kids. A natural.” Patrick paused. “Do you want to have your own someday?”

  Helen sucked in her breath. Suddenly the air seemed to be filled with a shimmering tension and heat. Against her will, she felt her gaze being pulled back to Patrick. This time she saw hunger in his silver eyes, hunger and desire, and her mind spun from children to the way they were created, to the memory of making love with him that night....

  A slow liquid heat slid through her belly, and she dragged her gaze away from his dangerous eyes. “No,” she said tigh
tly. “I don’t want kids. All my energy goes into my career. I don’t have any left over for anything else.”

  “Oh.” There was a moment of silence, and then Patrick shrugged. “Come on, darlin’. Dad’s waiting in the living room.”

  Fighting to regain her composure, Helen followed him into the other room. Sean was sitting in a worn leather chair by the window, and Patrick sat on the plaid couch. Helen glanced around, but there was nowhere else to sit. Biting her lip, she sat beside Patrick.

  Sean cleared his throat. “I guess we might as well cut to the chase. Helen, Patrick tells me you don’t believe he killed Marty Fletcher.”

  “No, I don’t.” She forced her mind onto the case, trying not to think about how close she was sitting to Patrick. “But I need more information before I can convince my boss to forget about arresting your son.”

  Sean nodded slowly. “I see.”

  “Dad agrees with you, by the way,” Patrick said. “He thinks the stolen files must have something to do with why Marty was killed.”

  “It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise,” Sean said. “Don’t you think, Helen?”

  “Probably. But I’d like to know more about the Turner case before I jump to any conclusions. Patrick, will you tell us about it?”

  Beside her, Patrick stretched out his long legs. From her peripheral vision, Helen could see the way his jeans stretched over his muscular thighs, see the way the denim cupped his—

  She jerked her gaze away and tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

  “There’s not really that much to tell,” he said. “Turner was twenty-five, and she’d been a prostitute since she was a teenager. A chambermaid found her early Sunday morning in a room at the Lucky Seven Motel. The autopsy confirmed she’d been strangled, but we guessed that just by looking at her.”

  “Any witnesses?” Her voice sounded a little strange, but nobody else seemed to notice.

  “Nope. Turner rented the room on a monthly basis, so she didn’t have to check in with the night clerk. And the people on either side of her didn’t hear anything.”

  “Are you sure she was killed there?” Sean asked.

  “Yeah. Probably by a john. So Marty and I split forces. I interviewed her pimp and her friends, and Marty went down to the strip to find anyone who’d seen her that night.”

  Helen looked at Patrick. “Did you get anywhere?”

  “We only had the case for a day and a half before Marty was shot. I was slogging through interviews, but Marty hit pay dirt. He had an informant who saw Jamie Lee with some guy in a car, heading toward the Lucky Seven. We were on our way to see the informant when Marty was shot.”

  “The two cases have to be connected.” Sean’s face was reflective. “And the break-in at Helen’s office confirms it.”

  “But what’s the connection?” Patrick shoved his hand through his black hair. “I think we should—”

  Warning bells went off in Helen’s mind. “We?” she interrupted. “Patrick, I already told you. You aren’t going to be involved in my investigation. I came to you for information and nothing else.”

  “Nothing else?” A smile played around the corners of his mouth, and his silver eyes caught hers and held. Electricity crackled in the air, hot and compelling and dangerous.

  She forced herself to look away from him. “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” Sean asked quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Patrick told me that you don’t trust the police, that you plan to investigate on your own.” He paused. “It could be dangerous.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Helen lifted her chin. “I’m a prosecutor. I’m used to dealing with criminals. Informants.”

  Patrick made a frustrated sound. “Dad and I both know that, Helen. But what if you run into trouble? Whoever we’re looking for has already killed twice.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  He cut her off. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of this.” He paused, and his voice deepened to a low rasp. “Because of me.”

  Helen’s heartbeat skidded out of control. What was that emotion she heard in his voice? She had the dangerous urge to turn to him, to look into his pewter eyes and....

  Oh, God, she was a fool.

  She kept her neck rigid, her gaze fixed straight ahead. “I’m not going to get hurt.”

  Sean nodded slowly. “You’re young. You think you’re invincible. I used to think so, too.” He pointed to his leg. “How do you think this happened?”

  “I...I don’t know.” She’d noticed his limp earlier but hadn’t thought anything of it. Sean had to be well over sixty. People that age often had arthritis.

  Sean looked her straight in the eye. “I was shot in the knee during a drug raid. My partner—his name was Ted Wright, and we’d known each other since we were boys—was killed.”

  The sound of plates clattering and cheerful laughter drifted out from the kitchen. But the living room was silent, the air thrumming with grief.

  Helen spoke gently. “I’m very sorry.”

  Sean’s face was drawn. “So am I. But we were both young and reckless. We went in separately, instead of together. We figured we could cover more ground that way, but instead...”

  Helen bit her lip. “What are you saying?”

  “You’re a very brave young woman. But you’re not invincible. None of us is. To think so isn’t courage, it’s foolishness.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I admit there’s danger. But I don’t see how working with Patrick will make things any safer.”

  “I’m a police officer,” Patrick said. “I have experience dealing with dangerous situations, with violence.”

  “Are you saying I need protection?”

  “Yes,” Sean said bluntly. “Someone you can trust absolutely. Someone you can rely on. More than a bodyguard. A partner.”

  Helen’s gaze went involuntarily to Patrick. For once he wasn’t smiling. His gray eyes were serious, his jaw hard. “You don’t have to like me. But you can trust me. I promise I’ll protect you.” His voice turned slightly ironic. “Whatever you may think of me as a person, I’m a damn good cop.”

  “I know,” she said. “But—”

  “I know the case. I know the players. You need me, Helen.” His eyes never left her face. “If you really want to win this case, you need me.”

  Helen looked down at her clenched hands. The case. She had to remember that the important thing was the case. This case could make her career. She couldn’t let her emotions—her fear of losing control, of giving in to the feelings that swept through her each time they touched—make her lose sight of her goal.

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. We’ll work together on this.” Patrick’s face split into a grin, and she gave him a hard stare. “But I have to be in charge.”

  He saluted her with two fingers. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m serious. You mess things up, and I could get tossed off this case. Or even out of the prosecutor’s office. And you could end up in jail.”

  “I know. Don’t worry, we’ll work together.”

  Together. The word was seductive. Dangerous. A shiver of anticipation raced down her spine.

  Patrick’s mouth curved in a smile as tempting as sin. “Together,” he repeated softly.

  Her mouth went dry. Memories flooded through her. Memories of Patrick whispering against her throat, his breath, his lips, setting her skin alight. Memories of collapsing onto his bed—together —legs tangled, skin fused. Wanting. Needing. Taking.

  Helen squeezed her eyes shut. She flattened her palms against the rough wool of the couch, fighting for control. What was she doing? How could she let Patrick make her remember, make her feel those same things again?

  He’d exploded through her life like a blazing meteor once, but she wouldn’t let it happen again. This time, they would work together. That was all.

  This time, she’d keep contr
ol.

  Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes open.

  Patrick was watching her with a hint of something like amusement lurking around his lips. “So what’s our first move, Cap’n?”

  She cleared her throat, trying to sound competent. Businesslike. “I’m going to reinterview the eyewitness tonight.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You can’t. She’s identified you as a murderer—she’d hardly welcome you into her home.”

  “So I’ll just come along for the ride and wait outside.”

  She wanted desperately to refuse, but she’d already agreed to work with him. She knew she’d better start getting used to having him around. And it was only a car ride, after all. Surely she could handle that.

  Grudgingly she nodded.

  “What next?” Sean asked.

  “I want to head down to the strip,” Patrick said. “Marty’s informant is out there somewhere.”

  Helen drummed her fingers against the couch. “Patrick, I’ve been thinking about the informant. I know Marty didn’t tell you who it was. But you didn’t get along, did you?”

  “That’s the understatement of the century.”

  “Could he have told someone else? Maybe his wife?”

  Patrick rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I guess it’s possible. Let’s go talk to her tomorrow.”

  “I’ll go,” she said. “You’d better not come.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She stared at him. “She probably thinks you murdered her husband!”

  “Angel?” Patrick threw back his head and laughed, long and deep. “No way.”

  Helen’s eyes narrowed. “Angel?”

  “That’s her name. At least, that’s what her friends call her.”

  “You know her...well?”

  “Well enough. I know she doesn’t think I killed Marty. In fact, she called me the day after the murder and invited me over.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she demanded.

  “I didn’t think it was important. She wasn’t asking me over to talk about the case.”

  “No?” An unexpected spurt of anger squeezed in her chest. “Then why was she inviting you over? For comfort?”