“I never broke it! Not once!”
Helen tossed her head, her wet hair slapping against her neck. “You expect me to believe that? Knowing your reputation?”
“I don’t give a damn what you believe.”
“Then why did you get divorced? Tell me!”
He turned away, his arms folded across his chest, a muscle working in his jaw.
“I thought so,” she said contemptuously.
He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes dark and dangerously turbulent. “Then you thought wrong,” he said roughly. “You thought wrong.”
Helen stared at him as cold rain trickled down her neck. He was telling the truth. She heard it in the rasp of his voice, the raw, aching anger in his eyes.
She took a deep breath. “Then why?”
“Why?” he asked bitterly. “Because she wanted me to be somebody else. The kind of man she grew up with, the kind of man she worked with. A man with power, money, class. She was a lawyer, and after she left me, she married a guy from her firm. I guess that’s what she wanted all along.”
“That’s why she divorced you?” Helen asked in disbelief. “Because you’re a cop instead of a lawyer?”
“It wasn’t just that.” He dragged his hand over his eyes, and suddenly he sounded very tired. “I wanted kids—tots of them—and she....”
Helen waited for him to finish, but he said nothing, just stood there in the rain, his eyes shadowed and distant.
“She didn’t want kids?” Helen asked finally.
Slowly his eyes focused again, and he looked at her, his jaw tight and hard. “No. At least, not with me.”
She took another deep breath. “If you wanted such different things, why did you get married in the first place?”
“Why does anyone get married? We were young. We thought we were in love. Hell, I’d been in love with Jessica since we were kids. Even though our first meeting wasn’t exactly the greatest.”
“How did you meet?”
“I’d just broken her big brother’s nose.”
“Her brother was—”
“Yeah. The kid who called my sister names.” He shook his head. “Five years later, Jessica was the Homecoming Queen at her school, and I was crazy about her. And she was crazy about me, too. Her parents said it would never work, but Jessica didn’t care. Back then, she didn’t care about success and money and social position....”
“So what happened?” Helen asked quietly.
“I don’t know. I guess she started to care about those things once she was married to a guy who didn’t have them. And when I started asking her about having kids, she realized she didn’t want them to have a father like me.”
“A cop.”
“Not just a cop. But a cop who’s never going to make captain. Or even lieutenant. A cop who’s lousy at playing politics and following the rules. A troublemaker.”
“So she didn’t like the way you did your job?”
“It was more than my job. It was everything. She didn’t like my family, my friends, my car, my clothes, the way I spent my time.” His voice cracked suddenly. “It didn’t matter what I did. I just couldn’t be who she wanted me to be.”
Helen’s breath caught. Suddenly she thought she understood. “So now...you don’t make anyone any promises.”
“That’s right.” His eyes hardened, and she could almost see the walls going back up around him. “I don’t.”
“But why—”
Abruptly he crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, darlin‘, I’d rather not tell you my whole life story out here on the sidewalk, okay?”
“Okay,” she said softly.
There was an awkward silence.
Patrick raked his hand through his dripping hair. “You still want to go for that run?”
She nodded.
“I still have to change.”
Her cheeks heated. “You want to go back to your apartment?”
He looked her in the eye. “It’ll only take five minutes.”
“Okay.” She bit her lip. “Let’s go.”
Patrick cursed himself silently as he peeled off his soaking jeans and threw on his sweatpants. On the other side of the screens that shielded his bed from the rest of his apartment, he heard Helen’s shoes squeak as she paced up and down.
He pulled a clean T-shirt over his head. What was he doing? Why had he told Helen all those things about his marriage to Jessica? Sure, she’d asked, but so had lots of other women, and he’d never had any trouble keeping from spilling his guts before.
And, dammit, why had he kissed her like that? Her body might react to him like tinder to flame, but she’d made it clear time and again that she had no intention of getting involved.
He dug into his top drawer for some sweat socks, but there weren’t any there. Swearing under his breath, he turned to his wicker laundry basket. It was full to overflowing, and he rooted through it until he found a pair of socks that didn’t smell too much like his basketball shoes.
He yanked on the socks, mulling over what had happened. Deep down, he knew why he’d kissed her. It was because he wanted her. Wanted her too much for pride or caution or anything else to get in the way.
And she wanted him, too. Beneath her icy exterior, she was burning with heat—a heat unlike any he’d ever experienced. It was explosive. Like lightning.
Patrick closed his eyes at the memory of their kiss. Need raced through him, hot and urgent, and his heart thudded against his ribs. Oh, God, she’d tasted so good—tike mint and sweetness and rain, a taste all her own.
But then she’d pushed him away, he reminded himself grimly. And it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. After all, he hadn’t been good enough for her a year ago, and nothing had changed. He still wasn’t her type, and there was nothing he could do—nothing he even wanted to do—to change that.
He’d been down that road before, and he wasn’t about to set foot on it again.
The old pain and anger tangled through his body, even as he dragged out the well-worn arguments. It was just as well. He didn’t need any complications in his life. Didn’t want a serious relationship anyway.
Or did he?
The thought made him freeze. “Hell,” he muttered savagely. “I really am losing it.”
Because no matter how much he wanted Helen—no matter how hot was the attraction that flared between them—he just wasn’t serious relationship material. Not anymore.
If he ever really had been....
“Your five minutes are just about up,” Helen called.
“Coming!” Shoving the thought of her out of his mind, he stood. He grabbed his Beretta, checked the clip, and tucked it into the holster at his waist. Pulling out his T-shirt so the gun was covered, he stepped into the main room.
Helen turned from the window. “What have you got there?”
“My gun.”
She frowned. “I thought they took your badge and your gun when you were suspended?”.
“That was the department’s gun. This one is mine.”
Her blue eyes were steady, but her hands shook a little as she shoved back her damp hair. “I never thought I’d be jogging with someone who was carrying a gun.”
“You probably never thought anyone would try to kill you, either.”
“You’re right. And I suppose it’s better to be cautious.”
Patrick nodded. Caution—yeah, that’s all it was. Not instinct. Definitely not the primal instinct of a man who wanted to keep his woman safe.
He forced a casual smile to his face. “You ready, darlin‘?”
She nodded.
He locked the door and followed her out into the waiting morning.
Chapter 8
The rain poured down, soaking Helen to the skin as she ran. Her muscles stretched and heated, keeping her warm as she pushed herself to the limit. No matter what the weather, running always calmed her body and cleared her mind.
She needed to clear her mind. And calm her body. After the shat
tering power of Patrick’s kiss, the wildness of her own response, she needed it desperately. Needed to restore her balance, her control. Because she couldn’t let it happen again.
Not ever.
“I’m not like my mother,” she muttered between her teeth. “I’m not.”
“What’s that?” Patrick asked. He kept pace with her easily, his feet pounding, his legs moving with a rhythmic grace.
She flushed, realizing she’d spoken out loud. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? It sounded like you said—”
“It was nothing,” she said loudly. She fumbled for a way to change the subject. “Uh, how are you doing, anyway?”
He tossed her a grin. “Fine.” He didn’t even sound winded. “You?”
In response, she picked up the pace. A sodden pile of leaves lay on the ground, and she kicked her way through them. The pungent scent of rotting leaves floated up to her, mingling with the clean smell of the rain.
Patrick laughed as he caught up with her. “You’re a lot tougher than you look.”
“So are you.”
He shot her a look of mock outrage. “You didn’t think I’d be able to go the distance?”
“Okay, I admit it. I thought you’d collapse gasping after about five blocks. Evergreen isn’t that big. I know pretty much all the serious runners, and you’re not one of them.”
“Nope,” he said. “I’m not.”
“So how did you know you could keep up with me?”
“I have a secret weapon. I play basketball.”
“Basketball?”
“That’s right. Me and some of the other guys from the P.D. play pickup a couple times a week.” Patrick paused. “But that’s not where I get the serious action. I volunteer at the Open Door, play basketball with the kids. Man, can some of them run.”
Helen’s jaw almost dropped. “The Open Door? You mean that drop-in center downtown for troubled kids?”
“Yeah.” He shot her a look. “Why are you so surprised?”
“Because—” She broke off in confusion. “I just didn’t know you did any volunteer work, that’s all.”
“You thought I spent all my free time drinking beer and going to orgies?”
“Of course not,” she said hastily.
The corner of his mouth tipped up in a wry smile. “Sure you did. But there’s lots you don’t know about me.”
Helen bit her lip. Patrick was right. There was definitely more to him than met the eye. Much more.
She sneaked a glance at him. Rain dripped down the side of his face and plastered his T-shirt to his hard chest. As she watched, he swiped his arm across his forehead, pushing back damp locks of black hair.
Helen’s breath snagged in her throat. She could get used to this, she realized. To having Patrick running beside her, matching his stride to hers. To the faint masculine smell that wafted to her through the rain. To the sound of his steady breathing, the sight of his long leg muscles bunching and shifting beneath his track pants.
“Like what you see?”
She jerked her gaze up and saw his wicked grin. Color flew to her cheeks. “I...I was, uh, noticing your shoes.”
“They’re just your basic ordinary running shoes. Got ‘em at that new sports store downtown.” There was a definite twinkle in his eyes. “You in the market for a new pair?”
She gulped. “Maybe. Mine are—are getting pretty old.”
His gaze slid down her body, over her soaking T-shirt and down her legs to her feet. She felt his look as though it was a physical touch, as though his hands were running down her body. Gooseflesh rose in awareness, and to her horror, she felt her nipples harden into tight, aching peaks. It was just the cold, she told herself frantically, the cold and the rain....
Finally, he brought his gaze back up to her face. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice the texture of smoke. “They look pretty good to me.”
She almost choked. He wasn’t talking about her shoes, and she knew it. Just like he probably knew she hadn’t been staring at his runners to begin with.
Oh, God, she was a fool.
Angrily, she jerked her gaze away from him. Staring straight ahead, she tried to concentrate on the feel of the ground beneath her feet, the drip of the rain off the cedars overhead.
She had to get hold of herself. Running was supposed to help her do that. She just had to concentrate on her timing, her pace, on the path that stretched through the trees. Not on Patrick.
Keeping her gaze rigidly ahead, she focused on the rhythm of her feet. One-two. One-two. One-two.
She was so preoccupied that she didn’t see the other runner bursting off a side path—until he slammed right into her.
“Patrick!” she screamed.
She fell hard, landing in a puddle of oozing black mud. Her teeth came down on her tongue. The salty tang of blood filled her mouth, and she let out a little cry of pain. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blurring rush of movement. Her feet slapping in the mud, she scrambled to her feet. Her heart thumped as she glanced around wildly.
Patrick held a runner pinned to a cedar tree. His arm was across the other man’s throat, his knee against the man’s groin. His face was a mask of cold fury. “Who the hell are you?”
The runner made a strangled sound, his eyes cutting to Helen in a silent, desperate plea.
Helen gasped as she recognized him. “Let him go, Patrick!”
Patrick shot her an incredulous look. “Are you out of—”
“It’s George Hauser. He’s a V.P. at Woodfiber Technology, and he always runs here. I see him almost every morning.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed, but he dropped his arm from the other man’s throat and stepped back. George doubled over, gasping for breath.
“Are you okay?” Helen asked.
Slowly, painfully, he straightened. “I don’t think your boyfriend’s done any permanent damage.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a cop.”
“A cop, huh?” George grinned weakly. “Next time I’ll be sure to watch where I’m going.”
Helen bit her lip. “No, it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t even see you until we crashed into each other.”
“I knocked you down, didn’t I?” A concerned frown creased his forehead, and he touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Behind her, Patrick made a low noise, almost a growl.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Really.”
“Good.” George glanced at Patrick and his face went a little pale. He jerked his hand away from her shoulder. “I’d better be going. I have an early meeting.” After a quick goodbye, he limped off down the trail.
Helen swung around to face Patrick. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes hard.
She tightened her lips. “You didn’t have to be so rude to George. He didn’t mean to knock me down.”
“What was I supposed to do? Ask him who he was and hope like hell he didn’t pull a knife or a gun and kill you right there?”
“Of course not! But you could have apologized. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“No kidding. From the way he was looking at you, I bet hurting you was the last thing on his mind. You date that guy or something?”
“No. I don’t. Not that it’s any of your business.”
His face closed. “No, I guess it isn’t.”
“Damn right.”
They stared at each other, the silence tense and angry.
Finally, Patrick let out his breath. “Look, I’m sorry.” He spread his hands. “I thought he was trying to hurt you, and it isn’t easy to go from wanting to rip a guy’s head off to friendly chat in the blink of an eye.”
“You wanted to...rip his head off?”
“Yeah, of course.” He shrugged. “I told you. I thought he was trying to hurt you.”
Helen sucked in her breath. When was the last time anyone had cared enough to actually want to protect her? Had anyone, ever? Her mother never had, that
was for sure.
She swallowed hard and looked up at Patrick. “Thank you for wanting to protect me.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m just doing my job.”
“Your job? Is that all it is?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back, but it was too late.
His silver eyes met hers with an almost audible clash. “No,” he said, his voice rasping. “It’s not. And you know it.”
His words struck her with the force of a physical blow. Shock shuddered through her, shock and some other emotion she didn’t want to identify.
It was dangerous. Too dangerous.
“We’d better get going,” she whispered.
Patrick was silent. He stood still and looked at her, his eyes never leaving hers. Slowly he lifted one hand and stretched it toward her. Tension arced between them, crackling through the slow rain.
She wanted to take his hand. To let him pull her into his arms. Oh, how she wanted it. She wanted it with a deep, slow ache that was as frightening as it was powerful.
Stepping away from him was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. But she did it. Stepped backward, her feet squelching in the mud, and forced herself to keep her hands at her sides. “We don’t want to be late to see Marty’s widow.”
Patrick’s hand dropped back to his side, and he turned away. “No,” he said, and the flat tone of his voice speared at her heart. “We wouldn’t want that.”
An hour later Helen pulled up in front of the Fletchers’ unkempt bungalow. She checked her watch. She and Patrick had both gone home to change, but to her relief, it hadn’t made them late.
She got out of the car and followed Patrick up the walk, her heels clicking against the cracked pavement. The sound made her smile. In her suit and heels, she felt far more confident. In control.
She could handle this thing with Patrick. She was sure of it. He already seemed to have forgotten the incident in the park, thank goodness. By the time they’d made it back to the car, he’d been his usual cocky self. And if she thought she saw a hint of pain lurking deep in his eyes, it was only her imagination. It had to be.
Motive, Means... And Marriage? Page 12