ONE SILENT NIGHT

by Debra Cowan

  His gaze held hers for a long moment. Indecision, regret and pain flashed across his face.

  Her chest tightened and she started to withdraw.

  "No, Dallas." His other hand moved to cover hers and squeezed tightly. "It's not all bad."

  She looked at him, reading the same questions in his eyes that she felt. Could it be more? Could they build past the guilt, the grief? Suddenly she wanted him to kiss her. Wanted his hands on her, his body against hers.

  Startled by the rush of desire she felt, she dragged her gaze from his and looked out the window. She had a lot of regrets about the past year and a half, but Sam was the worst. She rubbed at a new knot in her shoulder. "I know now how badly I hurt you."

  "Okay, let's don't go there." He reached for the gearshift, ready to pull out.

  She grabbed his wrist. "Just hear me out. Please," she entreated softly when he looked about to refuse.

  He looked mutinous, his jaw rock-hard, his eyes glittering in the darkness like obsidian. Finally she felt him relax a little, and she pulled her hand away.

  She wanted to stare out the window, study her hands, look anywhere but at him. However, she forced herself to meet his gaze. Dubious, resentful, rigid, he studied her. She licked her lips. "I didn't realize until last night how very deeply I did hurt you. I never meant to. And I want to apologize."

  The truck hummed. Sam stared, his expression inscrutable and hard. Their breath fogged the windows and a chill wrapped around Dallas's ankles. Still she watched him, her chest tight, waiting, hoping for something. Even a rejection.

  His voice was harsh and choppy when he spoke, as if he couldn't quite breathe. "You didn't mean to hurt me?" he asked, incredulous.

  She barely kept from flinching at the ruthlessness in his voice, the rage.

  "I'd say you did," he accused. "You had plenty of opportunity to tell me something—anything—about that transfer."

  "I told you, both you and Brad, months before that I'd been offered the transfer. But I didn't think about taking it until after … Brad died."

  "Was it then, Dallas?" Sam braced one arm along the back of the seat, his fingers digging into the upholstery as he leaned toward her, intense, compelling. "Or was it after the night you and I were together? Weren't you running from that? If you're going to apologize, at least tell the truth."

  "I am!"

  "Really?" He gave her a skeptical look. "I'm not just talking about your plans to leave. I'm talking about when I asked you—when we— You know what I'm talking about." He glanced away.

  "That was wrong of me, too, Sam. That's what I'm saying. I'm apologizing for that, for all of it. Can't you forgive me? Can't we be friends again?"

  He stared at her for a long moment, his breath ragged, his eyes shooting fire. His arm fell to his lap and he exhaled loudly, his head dropping back. "I don't know."

  "Can't you try?"

  His gaze, fierce and hot, shot to hers and his voice dropped to a low crispness. "You ripped my heart out. I thought we were at least friends. Despite what happened between us, I never would've believed you could treat me like a… Leave without telling me."

  She was certain he'd been ready to say something else, something about the night they'd spent together. "I handled everything wrong. You, Brad, Valeria. But I need to know that you're my friend, Sam. These past eighteen months have been hell. Something would happen to remind me of Brad and I couldn't call you. I've never felt so alone. I need to know that you're there."

  For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the near-silent vibration of the engine. "I guess I need to know that about you, too," he said gruffly.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "I want that," she said a little breathlessly. "I'm willing to give it a try."

  He studied the windshield, his profile hard, carved in lamplight and shadow. "It's Christmas. I should say it's all forgiven, shouldn't I?"

  The hurt gouged deep at that. "Only when you're ready," she said stiffly. "If you ever are."

  "I don't know if I can ever trust you again."

  Her breath whooshed out.

  "And I'm not talking about working together on this investigation. Things aren't the same between us and I don't know if they ever will be." He shoved a hand through his hair, his voice thick with frustration.

  "Do you think you can accept my apology? Can we start with that? Can you … forgive me?"

  "I don't know." He wanted to, wanted to forget it had ever happened, but he would never forget the way she'd looked through him, the way she hadn't been able to answer him when he'd asked her whom she'd been making love with. "I won't let you walk all over me again. I won't let you use me again."

  "I'm not using you, Sam. And I wasn't then, either."

  "I think we both agree that we turned to each other for comfort," he said dryly, passing a hand over his chin.

  She'd told herself that for the past year and a half, but now she wondered if it might have been more. She cared for Sam and she had then, or she wouldn't have made love with him, no matter how desperately she'd wanted to be held or comforted. "I don't want to use you. I want to be friends again. That's all."

  He turned his head, staring at her for a long moment, his gaze probing and sharp. "Is it that simple?"

  "Maybe," she whispered, desperately needing to believe it was. "Well?"

  Sam studied her, swamped by conflicting emotions. This tangled mess between them intrigued him, aroused him, but he didn't know if he could risk getting involved with her again. He didn't want to give her another chance to hurt him. And he didn't want to give her a chance to prove she wouldn't.

  Yes, they could have great sex, but for the first time in his life Sam wanted something more, something else. What, he didn't know. He just knew he was ready to fill up this emptiness inside him, ready to thaw out the cold hard place behind his heart that she'd left behind. Pure instinct guided him and he stuck out his hand. "All right. Friends."

  "Friends." She smiled and put her gloved hand in his. Warmth fused their palms and Dallas ignored the sharp kick of desire in her belly, refused to look at his lips the way she wanted to. This was a start. They both needed this. And maybe they could build on it.

  * * *

  Friends. The next day, Sam was still mulling it over even though he knew it was the best thing. It was what he wanted, too. She'd talked about how hard the past eighteen months had been for her. Well, they'd been hell on him, too. He'd missed her as much as she'd missed him.

  Even though he hadn't told her, he couldn't count the times something had happened and he'd wanted to call her. He wanted to forget all the nights he'd woken up, wishing she were in his bed. She hadn't been there—not for any of it. And now she was here, and that was a problem.

  He knew he didn't want to get involved with her again. So, why couldn't he stop thinking about getting physically involved with her again?

  Gritting his teeth, he thanked the older gentleman he'd been speaking with—the last of his interviewees—and walked down the man's front-porch steps. Just as planned, Dallas worked one side of Leslie Finch's neighborhood while he worked the other.

  The sun was out for the first time in a few days and, though cold, the sky was a clear pale blue with white fluffy clouds. He waited for Dallas in his truck, where she joined him a few minutes later. He tried not to notice the way she strode purposefully toward him, her hips rolling slightly, enticingly. Or the way the sunlight turned her hair to polished gold. But his efforts, like they had been for the last eight days, were futile.

  The information they'd gotten on Leslie from her neighbors was similar to what they'd gotten on the other victims. She liked country music, country-western dancing and the bars. As Sam and Dallas drove out of her neighborhood in the Village, a small annex of Oklahoma City, his cell phone shrilled. It was Crime Analysis telling him they'd pulled several H cards matching his parameters of a Caucasian male with brown hair and a right-hand tattoo.

  "I'll swing by and pick up wha
t you have," he told the woman on the phone, then hung up and glanced at Dallas. "We've got somewhere to start."

  "Good." She frowned down at her notebook, scribbled something and nodded.

  As he drove south on Penn toward the highway, he mentally sorted through aspects of the case. The whole time, he was aware of the way Dallas chewed on the tip of her pen and tapped her thumb against her thigh, haunted by the spicy scent of her. Awareness coiled low in his belly, but he forced his mind to stay focused on the investigation.

  Maybe he and Dallas were both kidding themselves. Maybe nothing could be saved from their old friendship. Maybe he'd be better off just to tell her to stay the hell away from him, shove this friendship thing.

  But he couldn't do it—not only because of the glimmer of peace he'd gotten—the sense that he was finally moving on with his life—but also because she'd surprised him last night. He'd known that she had postponed having kids with Brad but Sam had never known about her unwillingness to have kids with her husband. It was only after her confession that Sam had realized for the first time why he felt so tied to her. Why he always would.

  They shared a past. They shared a secret both of them would like to forget. And they both felt they'd failed Brad.

  Sam still couldn't get over it. He hated that she was beating herself up over not having had children with Brad. His efforts to convince her otherwise had been useless. He'd wanted to do more than hold her hand, but he hadn't. At least he'd done that right. Still, he hadn't felt this helpless since the day she'd walked out of his life.

  He shot a look at her, studying the clean profile, the little furrow in her brow, the intense concentration on her face. He didn't view her desire not to have children as a failure. He wished she could see it that way. Of course, she didn't see his part in Brad's death as a failure, either.

  He was starting to think there might be a lot of things about her he didn't know. Oh, he knew she loved coffee, especially French vanilla. He knew both she and her brother had been named for cities in her mother's native Texas. He knew running had been her passion for years and she'd finished in good time in the Boston marathon the year before Brad had died. Judging from the lean muscle of her legs, she still ran. He knew she collected pictures of city skylines. But he didn't know the deepest part of her—the secrets, the wishes, the disappointments she hid, just as he did.

  She shifted slightly, drawing his attention again. She alternately looked out the window and scribbled in her notebook.

  Her guilt over not giving Brad a child had hit Sam like a blow. He'd never thought of Dallas as anything other than driven and focused; sentimental only about Brad and her family. But he'd been wrong. Beneath the guilt, there was a soft core in her, a vulnerability that intrigued him, roused all his protective instincts.

  It had taken a long time, but he was starting to see cracks in her cool, unflinching facade. Now he could recognize the flicker in her eyes as anger or exasperation or arousal. He knew the way she clenched her jaw when she was annoyed. Knew she carried her tension in her shoulders, especially her right one. And her face could be a smooth mask, but those gray eyes would smolder. "Still waters," his mom would say.

  Unease scooted through him at this nagging awareness of her. But hey, friends noticed things, right? They just didn't act on them. If he had a simmering tension inside him, that was his problem. He knew the score. He still felt the hunger, probably always would, but it was time to move on. He wasn't going back.

  No matter how badly he wanted to peel those clothes away and feel the weight of her velvety breasts in his hands, taste the silky heat of her, stroke the lush curves of her body.

  Murder, he told himself as he thumbed a bead of sweat from his upper lip. Think murder.

  Sam was going south on Broadway Extension, headed for the station, when his phone rang again.

  Lieutenant Roberts barked into his ear, "Got a call from Bubba's Bar. One of the regulars remembered something they wanted to tell you."

  "Great. What's up?"

  "Get your butt in here and bring your partner with you."

  "Rock's in the hospital," Sam reminded without thinking, taking his exit.

  "Not him," Roberts said. "Dallas."

  Sam bumped against the curb, earning a sharp look from Dallas. He quickly straightened the vehicle and slowed to a stop at the light. "Uh."

  "Seems your caller wanted to speak to the nice lady detective with the 'cool' name."

  "Yes, sir. We'll be right there." Sam turned off the phone, shooting a wary look at Dallas.

  She stiffened, concern flashing across her features. "What?"

  "We're busted."

  * * *

  "Just what is going on here?"

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam and Dallas stood side by side in the lieutenant's small second-floor office. Filing cabinets crowded one wall of the boxy room. A single window behind Roberts's desk overlooked the street below. The door was closed. The double rows of desks in the squad room sat empty, as did the secretary's chair, which explained why the lieutenant had taken the phone call from Bubba's Bar in the first place.

  Roberts gave Sam a long, measuring look, then did the same to Dallas. Sam fought the urge to squirm. Finally his lieutenant spoke. "Are the feds involved in this?"

  "No, sir."

  "Did the marshals come to us for information?"

  "No, sir." Sam swallowed, clenching his fists.

  "Since when do we open up our cases?"

  "We don't, sir—"

  "Well?" the lieutenant roared. Hard, dark eyes snapped in his florid face. "Is this your way of keeping the marshals informed, as I asked you?"

  Sam couldn't remember ever seeing his boss so agitated.

  "Sir, it's not Detective Garrett's fault," Dallas interjected.

  "Oh?" Roberts eased down on one corner of his desk, crossed his ankles and folded his arms. "And why not? It's his case."

  She glanced at Sam, who frowned. Let me handle this. He knew she got the message. He just hoped she would back off.

  She offered a weak smile and Sam took over. "Kittridge has been helping me."

  "On the whole case?"

  "Well … yes, sir."

  Roberts gestured impatiently. "Get to it, Garrett."

  "The third victim, Audrey Hayes, was actually a protected witness by the name of Valeria Luciano."

  "Yes, I saw that in the file. I do know how to read." His gaze sliced to Dallas. "Why are you down here, Kittridge? I'd heard you moved."

  "Yes, sir, I did, but—"

  "But this is your protected witness."

  She nodded.

  "Marshals have no jurisdiction in murder cases."

  "No, sir."

  "Well?"

  She shifted imperceptibly, looking uneasy, but meeting the older man's gaze. "Long story, sir, but I feel responsible."

  He leveled a measuring look at her. "That sounds like one for a shrink. I'll take your word for it." He turned to Sam. "Tell me none of these other victims are protected witnesses."

  "They're not."

  "And we're sure there's no Mob connection here?"

  "Yes, sir," Dallas said. "It's a serial killer. Not a hit."

  The lieutenant cleared his throat, looked pointedly at Sam. "Where do you stand?"

  "We've just canvassed the neighborhood of last night's victim. Nothing new or surprising there. Crime Analysis ran our suspect through and I was on my way upstairs to pick up the hits. And maybe you've got something?"

  "Someone saw the victim and the suspect walking toward a truck stop—"

  "Across the highway," Dallas interrupted excitedly.

  Sam and his lieutenant both raised an eyebrow. Immediately she fell silent, smiling apologetically.

  "That's right," Lieutenant Roberts growled.

  Sam continued, "Now that we have this lead on the truck stop, we'll take some pictures by there. Find out if they recognize any of the hits we've pulled off the H cards."

  Roberts pinched the brid
ge of his nose. "There's no reason you can't cover that ground alone."

  "It's a lot of ground, sir." Sam slid a sideways glance at Dallas, saw the anxiety pinching her features. He might not want to cuddle up with her—okay, he did, which was why he wouldn't—but he didn't want her to get kicked off the case, either. "I need Kittridge to help me, sir. Besides the extra brainpower, it's good to have a female perspective on this case. We've got to get this guy before he kills someone else. He caught us with our pants down again."

  The older man scowled. "Don't try to sell me, Garrett. I know where our pants were."

  "Yes, sir."

  Dallas interjected. "I really can help, sir. It's possible this guy might be a truck driver. We're getting somewhere, we just don't have anything solid."

  The lieutenant gave them both a hard-eyed look. "If I didn't have three fourths of my people out with the flu, this wouldn't be happening."

  "Yes, sir," Dallas and Sam murmured in unison.

  Sam itched to say something else in her defense, but he knew not to push his boss. It surprised even him how much he'd come to need her help on this case.

  Roberts looked at Dallas. "I'm not going to call your chief, Dallas, as long as you stay low and play by my book."

  "Yes, sir." Her voice was husky with pleasure.

  Sam's body tightened in response. He told himself it was just the sense of victory, of closing in on the killer, of winning this particular battle with his boss.

  "And I don't want to be getting a call from him, either."

  "No, sir."

  Roberts considered them both for another minute, then pinched the bridge of his nose again. "All right, you're a go. Keep it to yourselves. Now get out there and find me a killer."

  "Thank you, sir." Sam opened the door and followed Dallas out.

  She laughed softly as she passed him, looking pleased with herself. He couldn't stop an answering grin or the heat that sizzled through him. They made it about ten feet from the door.

  "Kittridge!" the lieutenant bellowed.

  She froze, exchanging a wary look with Sam. He shook his head.