Motive, Means... And Marriage?

by Hilary Byrnes

  She leaned against him just a little as they walked back to her car. He opened the passenger door and gently eased her inside. “Give me the keys.”

  “I can drive.”

  “No way.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet.

  Patrick caught her arm and steadied her. “Don’t be so stubborn. You were just about run over—that’s enough to give anyone a shock. Now give me the keys.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t order me around.”

  “Order you around?” He raked his hand through his hair. “I’m only trying to protect you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Protect me from what?”

  The tangled mass of emotions that had boiled inside him since he’d seen the car racing toward her suddenly spilled over into anger. He grabbed her by the shoulders and glared down into her face. “Someone tried to kill you not five minutes ago. What the hell do you think I want to protect you from?”

  “You think—” She moistened her lips. “You don’t think it was an accident?”

  “If that was an accident, I’m Ronald Reagan. That car was headed straight at you. If you hadn’t dived out of the way, you’d be dead.”

  Her face went white, and she swayed dangerously. Patrick threw his arms around her, feeling the quivers of tension and fear that ran through her slender body. She put her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder.

  They stood that way for a long time. Gradually, Patrick’s anger and fear edged away, melting into something else. Something else altogether. He became all too aware of Helen’s slender body, her hips cradled against his, her breasts pressed against his chest. Her warm breath whispered against his neck. She shifted slightly, and his body stirred to life.

  Patrick clenched his teeth, trying to suppress his reaction. This was definitely not the time or the place—but his body didn’t care. He tried changing the angle of his hips, but Helen moved with him. His groin tightened even more, and he swore silently. Dammit, what was wrong with him?

  Putting his hands on her shoulders, he eased himself away from her. “Okay, now?”

  She gave him a faint smile. “I’m okay. But I think maybe you’d better drive after all.”

  “Good.”

  She lowered herself into the passenger seat and handed him the keys. He took them and curled his fingers around the back of her neck in a brief caress. Closing her door, he walked around to the driver’s side.

  The engine fired up with a smooth purr that was completely unlike the rattle and roar of his own car. Putting it in gear, he pulled out onto the road. Through narrowed eyes, he scanned the streets for any sign of a brown sedan.

  Nothing.

  After a few minutes Helen spoke. “Tammy—the witness—has been paid off.”

  Patrick frowned. In his concern for Helen, he’d forgotten all about the witness. “She has?”

  “I’m pretty sure. There was someone else out there on Monday night with you and Marty. She let that much slip. Whoever it was must have paid her to lie.”

  He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “So there was somebody else there.” Somebody who’d probably just tried to kill Helen. His stomach twisted with something unpleasantly like guilt. If he could remember who it was—if he’d tried harder, done something different—would this even have happened?

  If he’d tried harder, would it have happened before?

  He clamped down on that thought. He wouldn‘t—couldn’t—think about that. Not now.

  He forced his mind away from his past and back to the night Marty was killed. There was nothing there, nothing but a dark empty space, and he gritted his teeth in frustration. “Dammit, why can’t I remember?”

  “It’s not your fault,” Helen said quietly.

  “Yeah. Right.”

  She slid him a sideways glance, but said nothing.

  He took a deep breath. “Did Tammy give any hint of who it was?”

  “No. But I think....” Her voice lowered. “You were probably right last night. Whoever it was probably meant to kill you, too.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because even though she’s obviously been paid to lie, Tammy didn’t want to talk to me. And yesterday she didn’t want to identify anyone. She said she didn’t think she’d have to. Why?”

  He bit back a curse. “If Marty and I were both dead, she wouldn’t have had to ID anyone. She would’ve told her story to the cops, and that’s it.”

  “Exactly.” Helen paused. “Patrick? You’ll be...careful?”

  The concern in her voice sent strange tingles dancing through his body, and he brushed his fingers across her cheek. “You’re the one who has to be careful. You almost got run over tonight. Not me.”

  “Did you get a look at the car? See who was driving?”

  “Not really. It was a brown sedan, a late-seventies model. An American make. But I didn’t see the driver.” All he’d seen was Helen, caught in the headlights like a startled deer, with the car hurtling toward her. He hadn’t seen the driver. He hadn’t even looked at the tags.

  Hell. Some cop he was.

  Her brow wrinkled. “A brown sedan? Why does that seem familiar?”

  “Do you know anyone who drives one?”

  “No, not a seventies model. Franklin has a brown Mercedes, but it’s pretty new.” She bit her lip. “But I think I’ve seen an older brown car lately. I just can’t think where.”

  “Try to think. Did you see it by your house? Or by your work? Maybe following you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. I think—I think there was an old brown car outside my apartment last night while you were there. I saw it when I went into the kitchen.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure. Do you think someone’s following you?” Her face paled. “Or do you think they’re following me?”

  “I don’t know.” He tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “I wish I did.”

  Helen sighed. “It’s hard to believe someone would want to kill me.”

  A fresh blade of guilt stabbed through him, mingling with remembered anger and pain. “The only reason someone would want to kill you is because of me.”

  “Because of the case, you mean.”,

  Patrick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he turned onto Ocean Drive. “Maybe you’d better drop the case.”

  She jerked around and stared at him. In the faint glow of the streetlights, he saw the dark scrape across her cheek. The knife of guilt twisted a little deeper.

  “Drop the case?” she demanded. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Then you’re going to drop it, too?”

  “No.”

  She scowled. “So it’s too dangerous for me, but not for you? Why, Monaghan? Because I’m a woman?”

  “No. Because it’s not your problem.”

  “Not my problem? I’m the prosecutor, dammit.” Her hands curled into fists. “I have to win this case.”

  He didn’t miss the urgency in her voice. “Why is this case so important?”

  “It could make my career. If I win, Franklin’s offered to make me the executive deputy prosecutor. It’s the best job in the office.”

  “And if you lose?”

  “You said it last night.” Her expression was tight, but he sensed the fear beneath it. “He’ll throw me to the dogs without a thought.”

  Helen’s building appeared on his right, and Patrick turned into her driveway. He pressed the door opener clipped to her visor, and the garage door rumbled upward.

  He swept into the garage, parked in the space she pointed out, and came around to open her door. As he helped her to her feet, he chose his words carefully. “Is your career worth risking your life for? You almost died back there. And whoever did this will probably try again.”

  Her eyes were bleak, bleak and empty. “You don’t understand. My career is my life. If I throw i
t away, what have I got left?”

  “Everything you already have. Intelligence. Courage.” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. “Beauty.”

  She snorted. “Beauty. Right.” She pulled away from him and started walking toward the elevator, her gait unsteady. “Give me a break, Monaghan. Your charm is getting pretty tired.”

  “Charm?” He caught up with her and slid his arm around her waist. “That wasn’t charm. That was the simple truth.”

  She tossed him a skeptical look. “And how many women have you said that to in the past year?”

  He didn’t take his eyes from hers. “Not one, Helen. Not a single one.”

  Helen sucked in her breath. A bell dinged and the elevator doors slid open, but she didn’t move. “I’m not giving up this case. And nothing you say will change that. Nothing.”

  Patrick stared at her. Her eyes were determined—as determined as those of any cop—and her jaw was set. Her slender hands were squeezed into fists, and he could tell by the set of her lips that she meant every word she said.

  He nodded slowly, acknowledging defeat.

  When they got to Helen’s door, Patrick unlocked it quietly. “Stay here,” he whispered.

  “Why?” she rasped.

  He tossed her an exasperated look. “Do you even have to ask? What if someone’s waiting inside?”

  “I’m coming in with you.”

  “No, you‘re—”

  She pushed past him, marched into the hallway, and flipped on the lights. “See? There’s nobody here.” Before he could stop her, she stalked down the hall, turning on every light. Swearing under his breath, he followed her.

  Kitchen. Living room. Bathroom. All clear.

  While she inspected the hall closet, he opened the last door. It was her bedroom. The cathedral ceiling was paneled in cedar, and her window was open, letting in the scent of the rain and the sea. Patrick scanned the room and checked the closet There was nothing inside but rows of suits and blouses.

  Turning from the closet, he looked around curiously. The room was every bit as classy as the rest of her apartment. A wroughtiron antique bedstead was covered with a fluffy midnight-blue duvet. On the oak bedside table stood a brass clock and a heavy leather-bound book. Patrick glanced at the title, and his mouth twisted. Current Developments in Legal Philosophy. Fascinating.

  He walked over to the dresser. A heavy silver frame stood in one corner, holding a formal graduation photo of Helen looking serious and beautiful. A crystal dish held a few pairs of simple gold earrings. There was nothing else.

  He frowned, glancing around the room again. There were no pictures. No letters. No cards. Nothing to indicate that she had friends and family back in Seattle—or here in Evergreen, for that matter.

  My career is my life, she’d said downstairs. And earlier she’d told him she didn’t have enough energy left over for anything else. His frown deepened. Did that include even friends and family?

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  Patrick spun around. Helen stood in the doorway, her fists jammed onto her hips. A tiny splinter of anger stabbed at his heart. Tightening his jaw, he tried to ignore it. What did he care if Helen was glaring at him as though he were an intruder?

  Okay, so he wanted her. Wanted her badly. And she wanted him, too—he was sure of it. But that was just sex.

  It shouldn’t come as a big surprise that she didn’t welcome his presence here amid her antiques and her crystal and her designer suits.

  He didn’t belong here, in her world. He never had. And he never would.

  Not that he even wanted to. He’d tried that life with Jessica—tried and failed. And he’d ended up with nothing, nothing but shattered dreams and an emptiness deep inside where he’d once had love and hope.

  He wasn’t crazy enough to want to try it all over again. Not with Helen. Not with anyone.

  Dragging in a breath, he looked up.

  Helen was still glaring at him. “Well?” she demanded. “What are you doing?”

  He gave a casual shrug. “Calm down, darlin’. I was just checking to make sure there was nobody in here.”

  “You thought someone might be hiding under the bed?”

  “Anything’s possible. You probably would have laughed earlier if I’d said someone might try to run you over.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But we’ve checked the whole apartment, and it’s secure.” Helen picked up the phone beside the bed. “I’ll call you a cab.”

  “A cab? What for?”

  “Seeing as you don’t want me to drive, you’ll have to take a cab home. Unless you want to walk.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

  She gasped. “You arrogant son of a—”

  He grinned. “Is that an invitation?”

  “What?”

  “Well, I was thinking I’d sleep on your couch. You seem to be under the impression I’d be in your bed. Of course, if you’d prefer it that way....” He waggled his eyebrows.

  She threw up her hands. “You are the most impossible man. What am I going to do with you?”

  “I could make a few suggestions,” he drawled.

  “I just bet you could.” She folded her arms across her breasts. “But you can forget it. You’re not staying here tonight.”

  “It’s up to you. But I don’t know how old Gary across the hall will like having me outside your door in a sleeping bag.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  He gave her a charming smile. “I would.”

  “Why, dammit?”

  His smile faded. “Because you’re in danger, Helen. Even if you don’t want to admit it. And if you won’t drop the case, you’re stuck with me.” He paused, and his voice roughened. “I’m going to protect you—whether you like it or not.”

  “I don’t need your protection,” she said, but the words were soft.

  “Yeah, you do. Somebody’s already tried to kill you once. You don’t know if and when he’ll try again.”

  “And you think you can stop him?”

  He clenched his fists. “He’ll have to kill me to get to you.”

  Her blue eyes widened and a faint pink tinged her cheeks. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

  She looked into his eyes. The color on her cheeks deepened, and her chest rose and fell a little faster. Patrick’s heart began to thump—a slow, steady rhythm that he could feel throughout his body....

  And then she turned away.

  “Sheets and blankets are in the linen closet.” She picked up a pillow from the bed and tossed it to him. “Good night, Patrick.”

  He hesitated for only a moment before he turned and walked out of her room. He closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall, his heart still thumping.

  “Sweet dreams, Helen,” he said softly.

  Chapter 7

  Helen sat in the front seat of the car, her heart thumping with excitement. She could hardly believe she was here--here, in Joe Wallace’s jacked-up Duster, with Joe’s arm draped around her shoulders.

  She’d idolized him for months, but she’d never thought he’d actually ask her out. After all, he was the captain of the basketball team, one of the most popular guys in their high school, and she was just a lowly sophomore—and one with a notorious mother, to boot.

  But here she was, in the brand-new turquoise miniskirt she’d bought with her own meager savings. Dangling earrings brushed at her neck, and she’d carefully applied a layer of Plum Passion lipstick to her mouth.

  Joe parked the car in the alley behind a rickety house. The thump of a bass boomed through the night, punctuated by loud laughter. It sounded like the party was well under way.

  Helen reached for the door, but Joe caught her hand. He grinned at her with the crooked smile that always made her stomach feel as if it was doing cartwheels.

  “Let’s not go in yet, babe. ” He reached under the seat and pulled out a
thermos. “Come on, have a drink first.”

  He uncapped the thermos and handed it to her. It smelled sweet, like cola, but underneath the sugar she could smell the sharp tang of alcohol. She hesitated, but she didn’t want Joe to think she was a baby. Drawing a breath, she lifted the thermos to her lips and drank.

  After that, the whole night was a blur. Only pieces remained: Joe kissing her, handing her the thermos for another drink. Swallowing more of the alcohol that burned through her. Giggling wildly, kissing him back....

  She woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and little memory of what had happened. She got up and stumbled into the bathroom to look in the mirror. When she saw her bloodshot eyes and stained, crumpled miniskirt, felt the hickey on her neck and the soreness between her legs, she knew.

  The catcalls and whistles that followed her at school confirmed her suspicion. As did the sneers and whispers of the other girls.

  “Tramp. Whore. Drunk. She’s just like her mother.”

  Just like her mother....

  Helen jerked awake, bathed in sweat, the sheets twisted damply around her body. Oh, God, she’d had the dream. Again.

  It had been thirteen long years since that terrible night. And twelve years since Joe Wallace had been killed, driving drunk in his precious Duster. But she kept reliving the nightmare, over and over again. Kept hearing the voices, as clear as if it had all happened yesterday.

  Just like her mother, just like her mother....

  Violently, Helen threw back the covers. Climbing out of bed, she paced over to the window. She pulled up the wooden blinds and gazed sightlessly out at the ocean. She heard the faint, steady roar of the water as it foamed over the rocks below, but for once, it didn’t soothe her.

  “I’m not like her,” she whispered fiercely. She leaned her forehead against the chilly windowpane, her eyes blurred with tears. She squeezed them back. “I’m not.”

  Even as she spoke the words, she knew they were a lie. She knew it. She’d always known it. Everybody had.

  Like mother, like daughter. All her life, she’d heard the taunt. All her life.

  She’d been sixteen when that terrible night with Joe had shown her it was true. Deep down, she really was like her mother. But she’d fought it. Fought her nature. Struggled to keep perfect control. And she’d been winning.