Not Without Risk

by Sarah Grimm

  “Jesus, Justin, are you certain you’re all right? Maybe you should—”

  “Don’t say it.” His pain reduced to a dull ache, he straightened slowly. “I don’t want to hear how I should have waited a few more weeks. I’m fine.”

  Disbelief colored Allan’s features.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  “Allan.”

  Allan raised his hands in surrender. “You didn’t hear it from me.” He turned away and abruptly changed the subject. “We should offer her a ride.”

  Justin followed Allan’s gaze out the window and to the parking lot. Paige stood with her back to them, sunlight glinting off the red highlights in her hair. “I thought you were worried about me crossing the line?”

  “You’ve already done that.” Allan’s voice held no accusation, just resignation. Justin flinched anyway. “I want to know why Sullivan didn’t call us. I also want a look at the scene before they’ve cleared it. I’m willing to give her a lift, so I can do that. When we’re done, I think you should let this go.”

  When he didn’t immediately reply, Allan turned, his expression serious. “I mean it, Justin. Don’t see the girl while on the job. Breaking policy just now wouldn’t be your smartest move.”

  Hand still upon his side, Justin had to agree. Too-close scrutiny would be damaging to him at this point in his career. He couldn’t afford to raise any red flags or attract too much attention. He needed to back off. Concentrate on what needed to be done to discover the identity of a killer. He needed to consider his career first and his uncommonly strong attraction to Paige second. He needed to be smart.

  “Say good-bye to her, Justin.”

  * * * * *

  Paige stood just outside of the yellow crime scene tape and studied the after effects of her violent morning. Glass from her shattered front window, and other miscellaneous debris, littered the ground directly in front of her building. She did her best to remain emotionless as crime scene technicians photographed and gathered what appeared to be the contents of her trunk. She failed immensely.

  Exhausted defeat pulled at her. Tears burned the back of her eyes. Her head spun—the injury and the stench of burned rubber a lethal combination. Turning away from the destruction, she fought back a wave of dizziness.

  What had she done? What could she possibly have done to make someone want to hurt her? What crime, real or imagined, had she committed against someone to make them turn against her this way? Why her? Why now?

  Her head began to pound as the questions circled her mind. Too many questions without any answers. The answers, she feared, had died in that hotel room yesterday morning along with Leroy. Whatever had brought him across the country to see her, whatever he had to tell her face-to-face, had been enough of a threat to someone that they’d killed to keep him quiet.

  Now, that someone wanted her dead, too.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her upper arms when a chill moved through her. Her gaze sought out and located Sergeant Harrison as he walked alongside his partner, surveying the scene behind the police tape.

  She was scared, she admitted to herself. Really scared. Of the threat to her safety, as well as her growing desire for the man before her. Just looking at him now, her heart rate skipped, jumped a few beats before taking off in a race that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with memory. He’d touched her today, in more ways than one. She had no business wanting him, but she did. To be held, stroked, comforted. It had been a long time.

  In an unconscious move, Paige touched the tips of her fingers to her lips as she recalled the feeling of being in his arms, the heat of his body and the gentle strength of his hand upon her neck. Beneath the warmth of the pre-summer sun, she took a moment to wonder, had his lips met hers, would his kiss have been soft and searching, or hot and passionate?

  Her breath shallowed as she studied his strong, clean-shaven profile. The sharp, masculine cut of his jaw. The pulse-altering way he filled out his button-fly jeans and brown leather bomber jacket. She had vowed years ago to stay away from men like him, to never again make the same mistake with a man so obviously all wrong for her. But that didn’t stop her admiring gaze from lingering, or her thoughts from scattering when he turned and caught her staring.

  The dimple in his left cheek winked as his lips curled in an intimate smile.

  It was a good thing he didn’t use that smile very often. The quick curving of his lips and flash of dimple was a powerful package that triggered an even more powerful punch. Heat flooded her limbs. Her heart beat wildly against her ribs.

  “Ms. Conroy.” The man who’d identified himself as Tom Sullivan a few hours previously, ducked under the stretch of tape and moved to stand at her side. “I see you’ve received medical attention. What’s the verdict?”

  She didn’t react for a full minute. His words were clear, she heard every one. Trapped as she was in the web of sexual electricity that sparked between her and Sergeant Harrison, she just couldn’t seem to form her response. “Five stitches…and a concussion.”

  If he realized the reason for her stuttered reply, Sullivan didn’t let on. “Those can be bad news. Do you have someone to stay with you for awhile?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  Sergeant Harrison’s dark eyes remained steady on her. Her body grew warm as her own measured the broad span of his shoulders. Her eyes moved lower.

  Her gaze hardened. The pounding in her temples intensified.

  His hand lay against his side as he moved overly carefully around the burned-out shell of her car. In a sudden flash of clarity, she recalled his quiet, strained expression before she walked from the station. His quick intake of air that signified pain as the young officer slapped him on the shoulder and exclaimed, “Two days back and already the ladies are all over you.”

  Two days back?

  His clean, uncluttered desk sprang to mind and suddenly the fog she’d felt trapped in since the explosion cleared. Cold realization slammed into her. The gravity of her error pressed down upon her.

  “I…” She’d really stepped into this one. Chest tight, she pushed a hurried explanation from between her lips. “I need to sit down. Please excuse me.”

  Her pace hurried, she sidestepped the police tape, moving away from Sullivan, from the wreckage, and around the corner of her building to a rarely used side entrance. Memory echoed along with the pounding beat in her head.

  Two days back…I hope you’re not looking for sympathy from the rest of us…

  She’d managed to forget. The shock. The horror. She’d pushed it aside, at least for a while. Suddenly, memories of her past flooded her. A chill snaked up her spine.

  How could she have been so blind? It had been right in front of her the whole time. Only she’d been too distracted to see it. Her stomach ached. There was such a terrible pressure there that she pressed her right hand against it.

  Body trembling, she stood before the door she’d just unlocked and stared blindly at the keys nestled in the palm of her left hand. She struggled to focus her thoughts, to bring her last vestige of energy together and to face this new turn of events. But as it had for days now, the urge to hide away, to run from that which she feared most won out. She turned the handle of the door.

  “Are you all right?” Sergeant Harrison voiced from just behind her.

  With her thoughts so inwardly focused, she hadn’t heard his approach. “Of course.” The tremble in her voice said otherwise. “I just need to sit down.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No.” Her stomach ached, her head swam—she thought she might get sick. “Thanks for the ride home.”

  “Paige?”

  When his hand settled upon her shoulder, she sucked in air against an undeniable longing and turned abruptly. Her above average height of five-eleven combined with her heels put her at eye level with him and gave her an unparalleled view of the stricken look that crossed his face at her next words
.

  “Two days back,” she said with conviction.

  He recovered quickly. “I’ve had a bit of time off.”

  “Please, don’t tell me.”

  “Paige, I—”

  “I don’t want to know.” She already knew. It all made sense now. The exact details didn’t matter for they didn’t change what she had to do. “I can’t do this again.”

  “Let me explain.” His hand shifted to her face, circled her eye. The tips of his fingers slipped into her hair as his thumb wiped across her cheek.

  She closed her eyes and briefly drank in the pleasure of his touch. “I don’t even know your first name.”

  “Justin.”

  “Justin, that’s nice.”

  He stepped closer.

  “I don’t date cops.” Her words stopped him cold, as she knew they would. His lips thinned and his hand fell away. “Whatever this is between us, it could have been good. But I won’t make the same mistake twice.” She reached behind her and pushed the door open. “No more cops,” she whispered with a shake of her head.

  He didn’t respond, just stood his ground, hands in his pockets.

  “Good-bye, Justin.”

  The warm rush of humid air greeted her as she pushed through the door and into her studio. Without turning to see if he’d left, Paige closed the door behind her. With a low groan, she dropped to sit upon the bottom step of the stairs leading to her living quarters. She pulled her hair from its braid and ran her fingers through the strands to ease the strain on her scalp. She toed off her shoes and unbuttoned her blazer. She fought the urge to cry.

  Justin. His name was Justin. After years of yearning, of searching for someone who could arouse her both physically and emotionally, she’d finally stumbled upon the man. His name was Justin and he too closely paralleled the one part of her life she would never repeat.

  She’d done the right thing in ending it before it could even start. She’d done the right thing.

  So why did she feel as if she’d just been tossed against the side of her building for the second time that day?

  * * * * *

  Not until he crossed the threshold to his home and locked the door behind him, did Justin give in to the strain of the day. His body ached, screamed in protest of the crack on the shoulder the young officer delivered and the stiff, unyielding stance he’d maintained since the incident. He’d held tough, showed little weakness and no complaint, and he’d paid dearly for it.

  His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his exhaustion as he moved with uncharacteristic slowness through his kitchen, to the desk situated in the corner of his living room. Dropping his duplicate copy of the St. John file onto the glass-covered mahogany, he melted into the executive chair. With careful, precise movements, he released and removed his shoulder rig from his side. He opened the center drawer of the desk.

  The lone content of the drawer rolled forward and bounced off the handle, stopping label up. Justin stared down at the small, brown bottle and frowned. His name, printed in bold script, stared back.

  He hated that bottle and its little white pills, hated everything it represented. Weakness and pain were his enemy, his inability to make it more than forty-eight hours without medication, his curse. He worked hard, did everything and more than the therapist prescribed and yet every day the ache persisted—a constant reminder of his vulnerability.

  Hell, he should be happy to be alive, with all his faculties intact. What was muscle and nerve damage compared to paralysis, even death? So what if he had days so bad that he questioned his ability to continue working the job he loved. He could always put in for a transfer. After all, a cop who rode a desk was still a cop, right?

  His fingers tightened on the prescription bottle of pills. “I’d rather be dead,” he admitted aloud.

  Justin set his jaw. Frustrated and worn out, he palmed a pain pill. He needed the rest the prescription narcotic would bring him, no matter the muddled senses and loss of concentration he knew from experience he would suffer tomorrow. Without sleep, the pain would have a tighter hold on him, become even harder for him to ignore. If the price for that sleep was loss of mental acuity and a bad attitude, so be it. His mood was already just this side of foul.

  Scowl firmly in place, he swallowed the pill dry. He flipped open the case file he’d brought home with him and began reading through what little information he and Allan had managed to gather. Though he knew the meager contents backwards and forwards, the impending arrival of Detective Jon Brennan, St. John’s partner from Boston, drove him to take a closer look. There had to be something there, something he’d missed. He resolved to find it.

  With single-minded determination, he dove into the file. An hour later, he’d only made it half way through the information when the telephone at his right rang. His thought processes interrupted, he answered abruptly. “Yeah?”

  “I always did like a man with manners,” a female voice responded dryly.

  Justin smiled, genuinely happy to hear from the most important woman in his life. “Hey, Mom, how are you?”

  “I’m glad you asked. I’m doing wonderfully. And I assume you are as well. You’re back to working with Allan, is that right?”

  “I’m back on active duty, yes.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear. I know how eager you are to get back into the swing of things. You’re taking care of yourself, staying safe? You know I worry about you.”

  “I know you do, Mom, but you don’t need to. I’m fine.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Sudden, uncharacteristic silence came from the other end of the phone line. Justin waited, at once uncomfortable. Something was wrong with this. One thing about his mother, she didn’t call often, but when she did he needed to be prepared for one whirlwind conversation. Thelma Kincaid tended to store her thoughts, file them away and then spill them upon him about once every two or three weeks in the most exhausting conversations he ever engaged in.

  He always looked forward to those calls.

  “What is it, Mom? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter.”

  She paused just long enough for him to know she was lying. Anxiety tightened the muscles in his side, shot pain down his arm. The urge for nicotine swamped him. Justin leaned back in his chair and waited for her to get to the point.

  “I just called to see if you’d meet me for dinner Thursday night?” she continued after a moment.

  “Of course I will.” Her voice was too chipper, her cadence hesitant. She had something to say all right, and the longer it took her to come out and say it, the more uncomfortable he became. “Spill it, Mom, you know you want to.”

  “You always did know me too well. Okay, here goes. I met a man. His name is Nicholas and he’s asked me to marry him.”

  “Shit!”

  “I’ve agreed.”

  He scraped his fingers through his hair. “Aren’t you a bit old for this?”

  “I am fifty-seven years old. I am not dead.”

  Her steely tone told him he’d hurt her feelings. The knowledge did nothing to improve Justin’s rapidly disintegrating mood. He slid open the desk drawer on his right, then slammed it shut when he remembered he didn’t smoke anymore.