Patrick’s heart slammed into his ribs. Her blue eyes were the color of the ocean in a winter storm, turbulent with emotion.
He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat had gone dry.
Helen moistened her lips. “Goodbye, Patrick.”
Chapter 9
Patrick knew he should just open the door and walk away. It was over—Helen had made that crystal clear. Besides, walking away was what he did best.
Only this time, he couldn’t do it.
He reached for Helen, his hands closing over her shoulders. Her eyes widened as she stared up at him. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath coming in little sharp bursts. Tiny quivers of tension ran through her body.
Patrick stared into her eyes. They mirrored his own, filled with liquid heat and unmistakable desire.
He slid his hands down her back and pulled her into his arms. Her breasts bumped against his chest, and he felt her rapid heartbeat against his ribs.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his head. He brushed his mouth over hers in a feather-light kiss. Her lips were soft and giving, and she let out a tiny sigh.
Hot, sharp desire stabbed through him, shooting straight to his groin. He groaned and tightened his arm around her slender waist, hauling her against him Helen flung her arms around his neck and molded herself to his body, tangling her hands in his hair. As he lowered his head to kiss her again, Patrick realized he was lost.
He took her lips with the pent-up need of days and months of wanting her. He slanted his mouth across hers, demanding a response. Helen moaned softly, straining even closer to him. Her curves fit perfectly against his body, almost as though she’d been made for him.
Only for him.
He wanted to claim her, to mark her as his own. Urgently he deepened the kiss, his tongue swirling into her mouth. God, she was sweet, he thought through the haze of fierce desire. She tasted like mint and rain. He wanted to taste all of her, to savor her every scent.
He tugged her even closer, breathing in the faint musky smell of her perfume. His heart thudded against his chest as she slid one of her hands under his jacket. With her palm, she stroked the muscles of his back. Heat flamed everywhere she touched.
Patrick shrugged out of his jacket without breaking the kiss, and Helen made a husky sound of approval. She tugged the hem of his T-shirt out of his jeans, and he felt her cool fingers glide over his skin. Emboldened, he pushed her raincoat off her shoulders. It whispered to the ground at their feet.
Sliding his hand over the silky fabric of her blouse, he cupped her breast. The warm, soft curve fit his palm perfectly, and his body tightened painfully in response. Slowly, gently, he stroked his thumb over her nipple. It hardened into a tight peak, thrusting against his palm. His breath hissed out from between his teeth. She was so beautiful—so passionate.
His touch light and teasing, he circled her nipple with his fingertips. Helen arched against him with a low, shuddering moan. Her fingers kneaded his shoulders as he slid his kiss over her jaw. He nipped delicately at the side of her throat, and her head fell back in abandon.
His own knees grew weak as he tasted the skin in the hollow of her throat. She tasted so good—better than he had remembered, better than anything he could have imagined. Her heat, her scent, her taste, filled his senses, until he was almost blind with need.
She leaned back against his arm, and he felt his muscles tremble. Slowly he backed her against the wall. She lifted her leg and wrapped it around his hips, pulling him even closer.
The world spun, and Patrick groaned. He wanted her worse than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Hell, he wanted her so badly he thought he might die of it.
Helen dug her fingers into his hair, pulling his lips to hers. He kissed her deeply, his tongue plunging into her mouth. Her hips jerked against his, and his heartbeat almost exploded.
Patrick fought to contain the aching tide of need and desire. If they didn’t slow down, they were going to make love standing up right here in the hallway. And as much as he wanted to claim her here and now, Helen deserved more than that Far more.
He dragged his mouth from hers.
Helen’s eyes fluttered open. They were dark blue—almost navy—and drugged with passion. Her lips were red and swollen, moist with his kiss.
Patrick smiled slowly, drinking in her beauty. “Helen,” he said, savoring the taste of her name on his lips. “Let’s take it to the bedroom.”
She froze.
Something in her eyes went wild. Not with passion, not with heat, but with something more like fear. She jerked her hands away from his back and thrust them between their bodies to push at his chest.
Patrick stared at her, desire falling away from him in confusion. “What is it? Are you all right?”
She shoved at him again.
He let her go and backed up a few feet. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She wrapped her arms around her waist, pressing herself back against the wall. The wild, trapped look in her eyes made his heart pound in fear.
“Talk to me,” he said urgently.
“Get out.”
An icicle pierced his heart. “What?”
“I said, get out!” Her voice rose. “Don’t you hear me?”
He stared at her. “What’s going on?”
Helen lifted her head to look into his eyes, and he realized to his horror that she was crying. Tears glittered in her eyes, on her lashes, and a single crystal drop slid down her cheek.
He’d never seen her cry before—not even when she’d almost been run over last night. And now, she was crying because of him. The knowledge twisted in his heart like a blade.
“Damn you, Patrick Monaghan.” Her voice was as hard and cold as diamonds. “Get the hell out of my apartment. Now.”
He tried one last time. “Helen, I’m sor—”
“Get out!”
He grabbed his jacket and went.
Helen checked her makeup in the rearview mirror one last time as she pulled into the parking lot behind her office. Her eyes were still a little red from crying, but with any luck, no one would notice. It would ruin her reputation if anyone realized she actually cried. Prosecutors—good ones—couldn’t be weak.
And she was weak. So weak.
If Patrick hadn’t pulled away from her, if he hadn’t had the decency to try to take her into the bedroom, she would have let him make love to her. In the hallway. Standing up. She’d wanted him so badly that she wouldn’t have cared if they’d had an audience looking on. Just like her mother had never cared. Lana had never given a damn, not even if her daughter was in the same room.
She’d lost control. Again. And it showed her what she was. Deep down, she was like her mother. It was true.
Fresh tears welled up in Helen’s eyes, and she choked them back as she parked the car and turned off the ignition. Her throat burned with the effort of holding back her tears. As she climbed out of the car, into the rain, the cruel words of her classmates spun back to her.
She’s just like her mother. Just like her mother.
A wave of anguish rose up inside her, threatening to snap the tenuous threads of control. But she wouldn’t humiliate herself. She wouldn’t cry, here in the parking lot, where anyone could see her.
She wouldn’t lose control...again.
Helen planted her hand on the slick rainy glass of the car window. Steadying herself, she took a long, deep breath and tried to think clearly.
Maybe, deep down, she was like her mother. But she would fight it. Fight her real nature. After all, she never had to see Patrick again. And it was only with him that the madness took her. Only with him that she lost control....
“I won’t ever see him again,” she said out loud. “The case is over. I don’t have to see him anymore.”
For some reason, that only made her feel worse.
Grimly, she straightened. She wouldn’t think about it now. Wouldn’t think about him. She had her career to think about, to occupy her time.
She wouldn’t waste any more energy on Patrick Monaghan.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched across the parking lot and into the building. She went to her office, dumped her briefcase on her desk, and hung up her coat. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the flowered shopping bag of money and headed down the hall to Franklin’s office. His door was half open, so she tapped briefly and walked inside.
Franklin sat tilted back in his huge leather chair, the telephone tucked against his shoulder. He frowned as he scribbled notes on a pad. “Uh-huh,” he said into the phone. “Are you sure? Right.” Looking up, he motioned Helen to a chair.
She sat with the pink shopping bag on her lap. Glancing over Franklin’s shoulder, she looked out the window. A mist was rolling in from the sea, turning the world a drab, unrelieved gray. A few drops of rain slid down the windowpane.
“Okay, I’ll call you back.” Franklin hung up the phone and turned to Helen with a smile. “I’m glad you’re here. Your timing is excellent, as usual.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated briefly, then plunged ahead. “Franklin, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
He held up a hand. “Not now. That was Ed Cannel on the phone. There’s been a new development in the Monaghan case.”
“What kind of development?”
“The eyewitness. What’s her name?” Franklin glanced down at his notes. “Tammy Weston. She’s just been found murdered. Strangled.”
Helen gasped. The room spun with a slow, sickening blur. “Wh-when?”
“Her neighbor found her this morning. The medical examiner can’t pinpoint the time until after the autopsy, but she says the girl was killed sometime last night.”
Helen almost choked. “Oh, my God.”
“What is it?”
“I went and saw her last night.” Her face felt frozen with horror. “She must—it must be why she was killed.”
“Probably not. Looks like Monaghan weaseled her address out of someone in the department. He probably went over and killed her as soon as he found out where she lived.”
“Patrick?” she whispered. For an instant the world dimmed. She grabbed Franklin’s desk for support, the sharp edge of the wood biting into her palm. She pressed her hand against it even harder, almost welcoming the pain.
“A witness saw Monaghan outside her apartment last night,” Franklin said. “Described him perfectly.”
Bile rose in Helen’s throat. “Of course he was there.” She nearly choked. Desperately she struggled to sound calm. “But you don’t understand. He didn’t kill her. He had no reason to.”
“What are you talking about? He had every reason. She was an eyewitness. She identified him as a murderer.”
“But she was lying.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Someone paid her to lie. I’m sure of it.” Quickly she filled him in on the details of her discussion with Tammy, concluding, “So Patrick had no reason to kill her. It was probably whoever paid her to lie.”
“Did you tape the conversation?” he asked sharply.
“No. I thought she might not talk if I was taping her.”
“Too bad.” He steepled his fingers. “But what if she was lying last night, instead of on Tuesday? Maybe Monaghan got to her, threatened her life if she didn’t cast doubt on her statement. Then he changed his mind and killed her.”
“No!” Helen blurted.
His eyes narrowed. “You seem very certain of that.”
Her heart thumped, and she fought to keep her voice level. “I know he didn’t kill her.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
She bit her lip. This was it. “Because he spent the night at my apartment.”
“What?” Franklin roared. He stood, shoving back his chair so hard it crashed to the floor. “He did what?”
“It’s really not like it sounds—”
He struck the desk with his fist. His coffee cup jumped and clattered. “You spent the night with a murder suspect? Have you lost your mind?”
“I didn’t spend the night with him. Not in the sense you’re suggesting. Someone tried to run me over, and he was worried about me. He slept on the couch, not in my bed.” She took a deep breath. “But that’s not the point. He didn’t kill Tammy. Or Marty. I’m sure of it.”
“Is that right?” Franklin’s voice was as thin and sharp as ice. “Why are you so convinced?”
Helen lifted the shopping bag off her lap and placed it on Franklin’s desk. “This bag contains a large sum of cash, retrieved from Marty Fletcher’s garage.”
“And?” he said coldly.
She stared at him. “There’s almost a hundred thousand dollars here. Somebody must have paid Marty off.”
Franklin looked down at the bag, and then back up to meet her gaze. His eyes were like steel. “And if it is a payoff, how does that clear Monaghan? If he was the one who paid Fletcher off, that would give him a strong motive for murder. Maybe Fletcher had something on him and Monaghan was tired of paying him to keep quiet. So he decided to silence Fletcher permanently.”
“No!” Helen’s heart banged against her ribs. “Patrick didn‘t—”
He cut her off. “It’s clear to me what’s going on here.” His face was a cold mask. “You’ve allowed your feelings for Monaghan to overcome your professional judgment.”
“That’s not true!”
“I trusted you with this case. I knew you’d had a fling with Monaghan, but I overlooked it because I thought it was over. And because I thought you were the woman for the job.” He paused ominously. “Clearly, I was wrong.”
Helen swallowed hard. “I know it looks bad that he spent the night at my apartment. But I am not having an affair with him. And I’m on top of the case. We have some solid leads. I’m sure the investigating team will find the real killer shortly, and when they do, I’ll prosecute him. And win.”
Franklin gave her a long, hard look. “No. You won’t.”
Her throat tightened painfully. “What are you saying?” She fought to keep her composure. “Are you taking me off the case?”
“That’s right.” His eyes bored into hers. “But that’s not all.”
“that?”
“Helen, you’re fired.”
Patrick sat on his couch, trying to concentrate. He held his clipboard in his lap as he wrote down everything he knew about Marty’s murder. The case was out of his hands, but he wanted to give the new investigating team the best possible head start.
He jotted a note and frowned down at it. His scrawl was even more illegible than usual. He could hardly read what he’d written—no way anyone else would be able to decipher it.
“Hell,” he muttered. He peeled the paper off the top of the pad, scrunched it into a ball, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket under the table. Involuntarily, his gaze slid to the telephone that sat on top of the table. His chest tightened, and he yanked his gaze away.
He should move the phone. Put it somewhere out of sight. That way, he wouldn’t be so tempted to call Helen. Helen. He closed his eyes, picturing her: her graceful walk, the golden gleam of her hair, her beautiful mouth curving in a smile.
Dammit, even after everything that had happened this morning—after she’d pushed him away again—he still wanted her. Wanted her worse than he’d ever wanted any woman...even Jessica.
He didn’t want to feel this way. As if he’d screwed up. Screwed up and lost something, something precious. It reminded him too much of what he’d lost three years before, and he’d sworn never to feel that way again. Never to let anything—or anyone—matter to him so much.
No, it was over. Finished. And he had to stop thinking about her....
The phone rang, and his heart leaped. He grabbed the receiver so fast he almost knocked over the phone. “Hello?”
“Patrick?” Adam barked.
A crazy feeling of disappointment skidded through him, but he suppressed it. Who had he expected, anyway? Not Helen. Not after the way she’d thrown
him out of her apartment this morning.
“Dammit, Patrick, are you there?”
“Yeah.” With an effort, he forced his mind away from Helen. “Have you got some good news for me?”
“Good news! What are you talking about, good news?”
Patrick frowned. “I thought—”
“I don’t even want to know what you thought! I told you to keep out of trouble. I can’t believe you were stupid enough to take Helen Stewart to bed.”
“Take her to—what?”
“And now you’re both in it up to your eyes. I hope you’re happy with yourself, Patrick. Ruining her career because you’re too damn randy to keep it in your pants!”
Patrick lifted the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Adam must have lost his mind. He waited until his brother’s shouts subsided before he lifted the receiver back to his mouth. “Adam, what the hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?” Adam paused. “Helen hasn’t called you?”
“No, she hasn’t. I’m not exactly her favorite person right now. And now the case is over, she doesn’t have any reason to call me.”
“Over?” Adam shouted. “Over? It’s not anything like over. In fact, it just got a whole lot worse.”
“Will you calm down and tell me what’s going on?”
“Tammy Weston was murdered last night.”
Patrick let out a long, slow whistle. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. I just got off the phone with Lieutenant Carmel. Patrick, you’re unofficially a suspect.”
A sick feeling of foreboding curled through Patrick’s stomach. “There must be some mistake. This morning, Helen was going to tell Franklin Chambers that I should no longer be considered a suspect in Marty’s murder. So why the hell would I kill Tammy Weston?”
“Chambers isn’t about to listen to anything Helen says.”
“Why not?”
“He fired her this morning.”
Patrick shot off the couch. “No! There must be a mistake!”
“There’s no mistake. Every lawyer in town is talking about it. Word has it Franklin sacked her for sleeping with you.”
Motive, Means... And Marriage? Page 14