by C. D. Hersh
He never smoked in the house. He didn’t want her breathing second-hand smoke, but she liked the way his pipe smelled. On a cool day, she’d rush over to him after he’d come inside from a smoke break, press her face against his chest, and breathe in the crisp, cherry smell.
She sat down in the middle of the bedroom floor and flipped the photograph pages, stopping at a picture of herself and Baron taken on her twenty-first birthday. That was the day Baron had given her the ring, hinting at a special future. She fingered the bloodstone ring that had belonged to her grandmother. “You are destined for greatness, dear niece,” he’d said.
But he hadn’t told her what that meant. Was she destined to be a great cop? A great woman? A great citizen? A great PI, like him? Or had he something more secret, more magical, in mind when he’d made those prophecies? Was she destined to follow in his footsteps?
“Why did you have to go and get yourself killed?” she shouted. “I need you, Baron!”
The floodgates opened and Alexi wept. She took Baron’s jacket from his closet and wrapped it around her. Enveloped in his familiar scent, lying on the chilly floor, she cried herself to sleep.
“It’s about time you got back, Rhys.” Gladys Montreal dragged him through the precinct doors and into the break room. “We’ve been waiting to start your birthday party.”
“Alexi’s not here. It’s not right to start without her,” Rhys said.
Gladys hooked his arm through her plump one and yanked. “Nonsense. She baked the cake.” She eyed the crushed confection sitting center stage on the table. “It might not be as pretty as one I’d have baked, but I’m sure she’d want you to eat it . . . before it gets any staler.”
Such unwarranted jealousy dripped from her voice that Rhys wasn’t sure what to do. Gladys was old enough to be his mother, yet she acted like all the other women in the office. Before Alexi, he’d found it flattering. Now he just wished he could click off the charm so he wouldn’t hurt them. A wave of feminine voices joined Gladys, urging him to stay.
“Might as well give up, Temple,” the captain said. “I’ve been trying to talk them out of it all day. They’re determined to celebrate your birthday.”
Gladys lunged at Rhys. “A kiss for the birthday boy,” she said, the words mushed together through puckered lips.
He dodged her advance. “No kissing,” he commanded. “Or I leave.”
A dejected murmur ran through the female guests. “All right,” she said, as her pucker became a pout. Waving her hand in an upbeat, the women broke out in a chorus of “Happy Birthday” joined a few bars later by the men.
Rhys blew out the “3” and “0” candles and the small blue one to grow on and then cut the cake, saving two pieces taped between paper plates. Until he celebrated with Alexi, his birthday wouldn’t be complete.
His cake eaten, Gladys gathered the gifts around him. As Rhys opened each gift, he showed the appropriate amount of gratefulness. He expressed his gratitude for the next to last gift—the ugliest ceramic deer knickknack ever made, which he knew he’d never use—thinking his mother would have been proud of him. She had been the consummate Miss Manners. Even though she’d been gone for years, he could hear her gentle whispers in his ear—use your napkin, open the door for ladies, always show appreciation for gifts, thank others for their kindness, and always, always be a gentleman.
The captain’s gift came last. Tucked inside crumpled hunting catalogue pages lay a bone-handled hunting knife, a gift that needed no manufactured polite response. How did he know I wanted this? Rhys tested the weight in his hand, running his fingers lovingly over the carved handle. “This is beautiful, Captain, but you shouldn’t have.”
“Probably not, but I figure the next time you go hunting, you owe me. Venison or pheasant. Doesn’t matter. I like them both.”
“Come along and you can bag your own.”
The captain’s eyes sparkled in anticipation. “If I’d known that’s all it took to get an invitation, I’d have given you the knife years ago.”
“Show us how you throw it, Temple.”
One of the men retrieved a metal fork from the table and threw it at the balloons tied to the table centerpiece. A balloon burst with a bang, punctuated by female screams of surprise.
“Beat that,” he said, puffing his chest out in pride.
“You trying to kill someone, Carter?” Rhys balanced his new knife in his palm. “This isn’t a throwing knife. But this is,” he said, drawing a flat, thin knife from his boot. He motioned to the women. “Move away from the table, please.”
They scattered like hens running from a fox. He flipped the knife forward with practiced ease. Balloons popped, followed by the twang of the blade hitting the wall. Three deflated balloons drooped from the knife blade. The men whistled and hooted their approval. A smitten sigh rippled through the women.
“Show off,” Captain Williams said. “I’ll send you the repair bill.”
Rhys gave the captain fifty dollars from his wallet, then removed the knife from the wall. “If you need more, let me know.” Thanking everyone, he gathered his gifts and the two slices of cake, and headed for his truck. He’d left Alexi alone too long.
A loud noise downstairs awoke Alexi. She bolted upright off the bedroom floor, ears straining for sounds. Night’s shadows played across the room casting silhouettes of dancing tree limbs on the walls. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Damn! Had she forgotten to put on the alarm system? Grief must be frying her brains.
She clapped her hand on her hip searching for her gun and came up empty. After rolling up from the floor in one fluid motion, she crossed to the nightstand where Baron kept his weapon.
Please let it be there.
Cold steel met her fingers as she rummaged in the drawer, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Baron always kept the gun loaded and ready. Clicking off the safety, she crept to the staircase, fumbling for the light switch next to the doorway. When her fingers touched the switch plate, she stepped back through the bedroom doorway and flipped on the hall light.
Footsteps pounded down the stairs.
She turned the light off.
The intruder cursed and tumbled down the last few steps.
Then she snapped the light back on and stepped back to the top of the staircase.
“Police! Stop, or I’ll shoot,” she yelled, taking aim.
The man scrambled to his feet and fired. The picture behind her shattered, scattering shards of glass across the landing.
Ears ringing, she hit the floor and fired back. The intruder somersaulted away from the stairwell. A couple of seconds later, the banging of the front door echoed up the stairs.
Alexi vaulted down the steps three at a time and sprinted to the door. She scanned the yard and street in front of the house. A lone dog stood in the circle of light cast from the front lawn lamppost, too far away for her to sense if it was a shifter. He growled at her and then, almost defiantly, hiked up his back leg and peed on the lamppost.
Stupid mutt. She picked up a rock from the potted plant next to the door and threw it at the bushes near the dog. Baron hated dogs peeing on his property, and she wasn’t too fond of them either.
Ten minutes later the doorbell rang.
“Someone at this address called about an intruder and gunshots,” said the uniformed cop standing at the door. “Everyone okay?”
“Yeah.” She retrieved her badge from the hall table drawer. “Alexi Jordan, homicide,” she said in her best cop voice. “One of the shots was mine. I was returning fire from an intruder.”
He peered at her badge. “You’re a long way from your precinct, Detective Jordan. Do you live here?”
“With my uncle . . . Well, not now. He died today.”
The officer’s face changed from all business to sympathy. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Her heart ached at his condolences. Saying the words hurt. Enduring others’ sympathy hurt. She didn’t like hurting.
“I’m so
rry to bother you now, things being what they are, but I need a statement.”
“Sure.” Shifting back to business was safer ground—ground she could handle. She moved aside to let him in. “I’ve been checking to find if anything is missing, but I haven’t noticed anything yet.”
Rhys’ pristine black pickup truck rolled into the drive. He jumped out and sprinted up the walk, carrying a fried chicken bag under one arm like a football and two paper plates taped together in his other hand.
“What are you doing here, Rhys?” Alexi asked. “I told you at the precinct I wanted to be alone.”
He held out the bag. “Dinner.” He spoke to the uniformed cop. “What’s going on?”
Alexi shot him a warning look. “It’s under control.”
Apparently, her earlier attempt to keep him away by being brusque had not worked. She didn’t need dinner or his take-charge attitude.
“We got a report of gunfire,” the policeman said. “Detective Jordan says she fired at an intruder.”
“You okay, Lexi?” Rhys asked as he shouldered his way into the house.
She motioned toward the street where neighbors huddled together in the pool of light cast by the front walkway lamppost. “Let’s take this inside. It’s getting crowded out here.”
Rhys shut the door behind the policeman and threw the deadbolt. A dead uncle and a break-in. No way would he leave Alexi.
As the lock clicked shut, Alexi punched in the alarm code.
Her mouth was drawn into a tight straight line. Tiny tension wrinkles fanned out around the corners of her beautiful hazel eyes. She might say she was okay but he knew better. They’d been in a lot of tight spots as partners, and she’d never had that kind of tension in her face. Not until today. Losing loved ones did that to people.
“Helluva day’s end,” he said.
She nodded and headed for the living room.
He followed. What should he do? Get dinner? Comfort her? Ask about the damned intruder? Throw her on the couch and kiss away the tension? He nixed the last idea even though he could do that the best. She shivered, the motion so strong it traveled down her entire body. “You cold? Want a fire?”
“I’d like that.” She hugged herself, rubbing her arms briskly, and settled down in the corner of the couch.
Relieved, he placed a couple of logs in the fireplace. Fire, he could manage. He’d started plenty of campfires with nothing more than a spark from a stone and a knife.
Talk—that was a whole other matter. They could banter and figure out crimes, but as much as he wanted to connect with her, emotionally and physically, he’d been unable to. He figured now wasn’t a good time to try. When they got together, he wanted it to be more than sympathy sex.
He shifted his legs. Thinking about her made him hard. He poked at the logs—glad he was facing away from her—and encouraged the flames, waiting for his erection to subside before he faced her.
Alexi sat huddled into the corner of the couch, a wall of overstuffed cushions surrounding her, her knees tucked so tight against her chest he thought she must be double-jointed. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
He moved to the sofa, elbowed the pillow barriers away, and gathered her into his arms. “I’m here, Lexi,” he murmured into her hair.
Sobbing, she laid her head against him. “He was all I had. What am I going to do without him?”
“I’ll take care of you.” If you’ll let me.
In a sharp, bitter voice, she said, “When I catch the SOB that killed him I’m gonna—”
“Arrest him.” He smoothed his hand over her hair. It felt like silk strands. “You’re a cop. Let justice take its course.
She swiped at her cheeks. “No. I have to find him before anyone else does.”
“Get in line. I want the first shot.”
“Why?”
“He hurt you.”
Emotions played across her features. Sadness. Hatred. Fear. He understood the first two, but why was she afraid? Tipping her face toward his, he asked, “What are you planning?”
“I don’t know.” With slender fingers, she ruffled her bangs, then tucked a strand of ebony hair behind her ear. Shoulders sagging, she shrank within his embrace, burdened down with a loss he understood all too clearly.
He wished he could lighten that load. But she was so stubborn and independent he knew he’d have to pry everything from her. He hated that.
“Stay out of the investigation, Lexi,” he said gently. “You’re too close.”
She nodded. “I know that . . . in my head. I need to leave it to justice.” She sighed.
The flutter of agony in her voice ripped at him. She’s a good cop. She doesn’t deserve this.
“I’m so emotional right now, I can’t think straight. I’m not used to feeling like this.”
That he could believe. His partner was normally the paragon of cool and collected. He stood and helped her to her feet. “Know what you need?”
“What?”
“Some TLC.” He pitched the throw pillows down and then tossed the afghan from the couch onto the floor in front of the fireplace.
She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Relaxing you,” he said as he lowered her down onto the pillows. “You need a back rub.”
She bolted to her feet, a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on her face. “Over my dead body.”
He eased her into a seated position and settled in behind her, draping his legs over hers to keep her in place.
“No one has ever died under my magic hands. Swooned, maybe. But never died.” He massaged her shoulders, pressing his thumbs into her back.
Protesting, she flinched as he hit the tension knots.
Trying to make his ministration dispassionate and professional, he eased the pressure. Touching her soft body set him on fire.
Whimpering, she relaxed into his hands.
The intoxicating scent of her perfume drifted upward. What is she wearing? Sandalwood and jasmine? God, she smells wonderful. Unbidden, his body responded to her whimpers. He suppressed a groan. His resolve weakened.
Maybe sympathy sex wouldn’t be so bad.
Chapter 3
Shaw dumped the contents of the dead woman’s—or was it the dead man’s?—purse on the kitchen table. Damned if he knew. A set of keys, a cheap plastic compact, and a few wadded tissues rolled out.
This is all I got?
Disgusted, he hooked the key ring with his index finger and swept the remaining items off the table. Maybe she’d left her cash and credit cards locked in her car. He’d have to press the damn automatic door opener until he found the vehicle. Not what he wanted to do, especially since the area could be crawling with cops by now.
Slipping the key fob into his pocket, his hand touched the two rings. At least he had those. The diamond glittered in the harsh overhead light. Going to the window, he scraped the edge of the stone on the glass. No mark.
“Useless piece of shit!” He threw the ring across the room. She’d said the other ring was costume jewelry, but people weren’t willing to die for costume jewelry.
He rotated the ring in his hand. The stone, green with three iridescent lines of red running through it, set so smooth he could barely tell where the stone ended and metal began.
Heavy. Solid. Could be gold.
Inside the ring’s band was an inscription. Peering closer, he read the words out loud. “Fear bean beathach tri an aon.” What the hell did that mean?
The ring warmed in his hand. A tingle ran through his arm, raising gooseflesh over him. Shaw spun the ring around so the stone faced him. The red lines started swirling, forming a circle, and then another, until three circles lay entwined in the center of the dark green stone. He blinked to clear his vision. The stone glowed softly.
The tingling in his arm intensified then shot to his torso. He clutched his chest.
Heart attack!
He staggered across the room and fell into a kitchen chair, the p
ain doubling him over as he remembered his victim’s dying words. Cursed. Maybe he was cursed. First the lousy take on the mugging and now this.
With shaking fingers, he fumbled in his jean’s pocket for his cell phone. After the second attempt, the phone slid out. He flipped it open. The keys blurred, his vision tripled. He groped the keypad. 911. Where were the freaking numbers?
Another pain knifed his chest.
Shit! I’m gonna die! The ring clattered to the floor.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the pain left.
Straightening, Shaw drew in a ragged breath, waiting for the next attack. When none came, he gingerly laid his hand over his heart. Beneath his quivering hand, his heart beat steady and strong. Slowly, he sat upright, his breath shallow, his nerves strung out like a heroin addict in withdrawal. Was it over?
He rose to his feet, expecting his knees to buckle. Instead, he stood firmly. Not shaking. Not trembling. Aside from the way his skin felt, all crawly and tender and clammy, he seemed to be okay.
He was alive. Carefully, he crossed to where the ring had landed. He’d probably have to sell it for money to get checked out, because Lulu would make him visit a doctor the minute she knew what happened. Retrieving the ring, he started to pocket it, then decided against it. If it fell out he’d have nothing for his effort.
The cold metal warmed instantly against his skin as he slipped the ring on his finger. Shaw looked at the ring. Those lines had moved within the stone and formed circles. He was certain of that. Where were the circles now? He stared at the stone, filled with trepidation, waiting for . . . What? Another heart attack?
Slowly, he let his breath out, unaware, until then, that he’d been holding it. He rotated the ring on his finger until the stone touched the palm of his hand. His pulse quickened, blood thrumming through him. After what he’d been through, he should be weak and helpless. Instead, he felt invincible.
Opening his hand, he stared at the ring. He’d survived a heart attack. That was a blessing, not a curse. And he’d keep the heart attack a secret. Hell, what Lulu didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.