The Cradle Will Fall

by Maggie Price

  Grace slicked the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. She was a great believer that the home team held the advantage. Considering that her stomach was grinding and her nerves had settled into perpetual vibration mode, meeting in the morning on her turf was preferable.

  “My home.” She gave him the address, then retrieved her file folder off the chair. When she straightened and turned, Mark took a step toward her. Up close, the shadows under his eyes seemed more pronounced.

  “I meant what I said, Grace.”

  His voice had gone as soft as a whisper on the still air. A whisper that had her pulse thudding hard and thick at the base of her throat. “About?”

  “I’m looking forward to working with you again.”

  She drew in a deep breath. The longer she spent in his presence, the more her unease heightened. He’d hit the target when he said cops took on whatever assignment came their way—she had no choice but to work with him.

  So she would do her job. Period. Even though time had not seemed to dull the physical attraction she felt for Mark, she couldn’t let that matter. Couldn’t let him get to her again. He would be here and gone. As soon as they dealt with his case, he’d be gone.

  She had once been close to falling in love with Mark Santini. Had spent years dealing with the endless cycle of guilt tied inescapably to that relationship. She’d paid her dues and wasn’t going down the same road again. The man standing only inches away was past history, and she was a completely different woman—one who was making a determined effort to get on with her life.

  She would do better tomorrow, she assured herself. The shock at seeing Mark again would have worn off and she’d be back on level ground. Right now she needed to get away from him, needed time to deal with the fragments of a hundred memories she’d locked away that were now rushing to the surface.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Turning her back on him, she headed toward the door. As she moved, she felt his eyes on her, tracking her.

  Time passed, she thought. When it did, events and people became larger than they were or smaller. She wanted to believe that this man who’d stepped so unexpectedly from her past into her present had become so small that he was next to invisible. A mere blip on her radar screen. Wanted to believe that Mark Santini was so inconsequential that his presence would have no effect on her future.

  The way her heart was pounding had Grace very, very afraid that wouldn’t be the case.

  Chapter 2

  Her face had been an open book, Mark mused the following morning as he steered his rental car through Oklahoma City’s snowy streets. Grace had been shocked to find him standing in her boss’s office. Stunned was more like it. Understandable, considering it had been nearly six years since they’d laid eyes on each other.

  Since they’d been lovers.

  He tightened his jaw as the wipers slapped a steady cadence back and forth, clearing two fans on the snow-covered windshield. What bothered him—what had eaten at him most of the night—was knowing that when they faced each other, she should have been the only one caught off guard. The only one wrestling with emotion. That hadn’t been the case. Hadn’t at all been what he had expected.

  Dammit, he had known she would walk through the door of her lieutenant’s office at any minute. Had anticipated her arrival.

  Yet the instant she stepped into view, he’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. He had spent a lifetime moderating his emotions, had built up a level of control so rigid that nothing or no one ever caught him off guard.

  Grace McCall-Fox had. Big-time.

  Knowing that just the sight of her had made his mouth go dry and his gut clench into knots did not sit well. Granted, she was the one woman—the only woman—for whom he had felt a pull of something far beyond physical attraction. While they were lovers he had chosen not to analyze the intense, mindless emotion that had drawn him to her. It had been a huge enough step for him to acknowledge that his relationship with Grace had been the first from which he couldn’t seem to make a clean break and walk away. So, when the transfer he’d coveted to the Bureau’s Crimes Against Children Unit came through, he’d asked her to move back east with him.

  She’d said no. Understandable, seeing as how her world revolved around her large, rowdy family. Then there had been tradition to consider—almost every McCall had served on the Oklahoma City PD. Doing so had been Grace’s lifelong dream, one she found impossible to give up.

  He had coolly accepted her decision. Made no effort to change her mind. Logically he knew his promotion to the CACU meant he would spend most of his time traveling, leaving Grace behind in an unfamiliar city. She’d have gotten the raw end of the deal, and he hadn’t blamed her for turning him down.

  So, he had walled off the regret that had washed over him, just as he had taught himself to block out all other emotion. He had put the memory of Grace McCall into the far reaches of his mind and immersed himself in his work.

  It was only natural she’d crept into his thoughts now and again over the years, but he and Grace had parted on good terms and what was done was done. He wasn’t the only one who had moved on, either. Grace had married a cop—then buried him three years later.

  For himself, Mark had spent the past years building his reputation in the law enforcement community, along with unused leave time. He had no roots, no family, no woman waiting for him to return. It was the lifestyle he wanted. He traveled wherever the job took him, primarily from one crime scene to another. He worked case after case, dealing with an endless cycle of abused, kidnapped and murdered children. Child after child, body after body, one malicious crime after another.

  The horror he encountered in his work never surprised him. He’d grown up knowing firsthand that the devil walked the face of the earth. Knew too well the terror suffered by a child at the mercy of a monster. Years later he had learned that most of the people in the small town where he’d grown up had known about the beatings he’d endured, but had chosen to look the other way. He’d joined the FBI, vowing to hunt down as many child-preying deviants as possible.

  Without warning, the fatigue that now held him constantly in its grip shuddered through him. He tightened his gloved hands on the steering wheel and attempted to twitch the weariness out of his shoulders. What he needed was a good night’s sleep, but he’d long ago given up hope for that.

  Over the past year—or was it two now?—he’d had a recurring dream that replayed the images of the bruised and battered victims in every case he’d worked while in the CACU. An unending parade of child after child. Monster after monster. The dream was like acid, slowly eating away the hours he slept each night.

  Now, if he got any rest at all, it was fitful. He had forgotten the last time he’d slept through an entire night. Forgotten what is was like to eat a meal and not have the lining of his stomach ignite like a blowtorch. He had dropped weight. When he ate now, it was because he had to. He moved from crime scene to crime scene, hotel room to hotel room, lying awake and alone in strange beds, sweating from the dream that plagued him.

  Exhaling a curse, he reached down deep inside for the strength to fight off the draining fatigue. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t back off. He had monsters to catch.

  He checked the notepad on which he’d jotted the address Grace had given him, drove two more blocks and made a right turn. Dammit, he should be in California, working the kidnap case that he’d correctly guessed had turned into a homicide last night when the little girl’s body had been found. Or maybe he was needed worse in New Orleans where three preteen boys had disappeared in the past month. Then there was the small town in Alaska where a killer currently preyed on young female victims.

  Mark felt another tremor of fatigue. Each one of those cases had first priority; in each, time was critical. Just wanting—needing—to be somewhere else aggravated his frustration and exhaustion.

  And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t totally sure he felt up to deali
ng with Sergeant Grace McCall-Fox. Not after the way he’d reacted to her yesterday. He was pointedly aware that her elderly lady look had done nothing to quell the jolt he’d felt when she walked into the office. No one had to remind him about the truly fascinating body concealed beneath that baggy gray dress. Or point out it had been years since he’d felt that kind of warmth surge in his blood. He’d reacted to Grace’s presence yesterday the same way he had the day he met her. Instant attraction. A burning, immediate desire to get his hands on her. Searing lust.

  Now, though, he didn’t feel either physically or emotionally up to dealing with that kind of response. Chances were, he’d made a huge mistake by requesting to use Grace as his contact with the OCPD. What was done was done, however, and there was no changing that.

  He spotted the address, then pulled the car up to the curb in front of a two-story house painted a cool blue with gleaming white trim. Through the veil of snow, the small porch with slender ivy-wrapped columns looked inviting, with a white wicker table and chair snugged into one corner. A garland of evergreen framed the front door; a wreath adorned with a gigantic plaid bow and loaded with shiny red balls hung in its center. Four cars crowded the driveway, including an OCPD black-and-white. With so many cops in the McCall family, Mark didn’t even hazard a guess on who had driven the cruiser there.

  Instead of climbing out of the rental car, he left its engine idling while he gazed at the house and conjured up a picture of Grace.

  He had always found a certain fascination with her face—those carved cheekbones that rose high and taut against skin the color of gold dust, her thinly bridged nose and angular chin. Then there was her mouth—full and rich and moist. A mouth that had taken him over the edge to heaven countless times.

  That was it, he reasoned, and closed his eyes against a remembered kick of lust. His response to her yesterday had been totally physical. She was, after all, a beautiful woman with whom he’d engaged in uncountable bouts of hot, steamy sex. He hadn’t been with a woman at all for some time, so it was only natural he would respond to one who had once had the power to stir his blood with just a look. A touch. A moan that slid, raw and ragged, up her throat.

  “Christ,” he muttered when a quiet ache of longing for that part of his past rose inside him. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but whatever it was, he damn well didn’t need it.

  He snapped off the ignition, jerked off one glove and scrubbed a hand over his face. Judging from what he knew right now about the case he and Grace would be working, he probably wouldn’t be in town long enough to do anything about this unexpected stirring in his blood. They would deal with what needed to be done, then, as always, he would move on. Which he figured was best for everyone involved.

  Mark snagged a file folder off the passenger seat and stepped out of the car into the swirling snow. The frigid air stung his cheeks, scraped his throat like little bits of ice. The cold wind blew back the flaps of his black wool coat; frozen crystals crunched beneath his shoes as he made his way up the walk and ascended the small flight of stairs.

  Stamping his feet on the welcome mat, he rang the bell. When the door swung open, it took him a second to realize the sandy-haired uniformed cop whose broad shoulders nearly blocked the entire doorway was Brandon McCall.

  “Well, well, the Great Santini. I hate like hell to admit it, but it’s damn good to see you.”

  Mark grinned. Of Grace’s three brothers, he had taken a special liking to Bran. “Damn good to see you, too, McCall. As much as I hate to admit it.”

  Chuckling, Bran swung the door open wider and Mark stepped inside. He was instantly hit with the warm aroma of cinnamon and baking bread.

  “Smells good, doesn’t it?” Bran asked.

  “Like heaven.” Mark tucked the file folder under one arm and pulled off his gloves. He realized with a start that his mouth had begun to water, a sensation he barely remembered. Too bad his stomach could no longer deal with anything but the blandest food.

  “I about fell over when Grace mentioned you were in town.” Bran took a sip of coffee from the thick-handled mug he carried. “Didn’t think I’d ever lay eyes on your ugly face again.”

  “I had to come back to Oklahoma City to see if you still lose every game of touch football you play,” Mark countered as he shrugged out of his coat.

  “Typical Fed. Got nothing stored in your head but useless information.” A smirk tipped up the right corner of Bran’s mouth as he examined Mark’s gray silk suit. “I see you’re still wearing those pretty-boy suits and ties.”

  Mark sent a pointed look at Bran’s sharply pressed gray uniform shirt and navy pants. His leather gun belt had a polished gleam, and the silver lieutenant bars on his collar points shone like beacons beneath the light. “At least one of us looks good while fighting crime.”

  Bran barked a laugh at the insult. “I would never try to compete with you in the clothing department, pal. Grace has coffee ready. We’ll drop off your coat in the living room on our way to the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mark trailed Bran down the wood-planked hallway, noting the rooms they passed were typical of an older house—small, with high ceilings and plenty of tall, narrow windows that let in the hazy winter light.

  Bran paused at an arched doorway. “Just toss your coat over the couch.”

  Mark stepped into the room filled with furniture upholstered in calming neutral tones. The wood was dark and polished, the accent pieces in shades of deep rose and smoky gray. Lush green plants speared out of colorful pots that sat on tables and the floor. Across the room a towering Christmas tree wrapped with twinkling white lights and tinsel filled one corner. Packages tied with red and gold satin ribbons pooled beneath its branches.

  Mark stared at the tree. His mother had never bothered with Christmas decorations. Or presents. Not when buying them would cut into the money she spent on her precious booze. Even after he bought his condo in Virginia, he’d never once considered putting up a tree. No reason to, since he spent most Christmases at locations where crimes had occurred.

  Mark laid his coat over the couch’s back. Nearly a year ago, Bran had e-mailed him with news that he had eloped with a private investigator. Mark was about to ask Bran how married life was treating him when he noted the folded quilt and bed pillow sitting on one of the cushions. A paperback by an author whose books he remembered Bran liked lay on the coffee table in front of the couch. Mark narrowed his eyes, thinking back to the cars he’d seen parked in the driveway. The OCPD black-and-white had the same amount of snow covering it as the other three cars. Which meant it had been parked there all night. Since it looked as though Bran had sacked out on the couch, asking about his wife probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

  “Nice house,” Mark commented instead.

  “Yeah,” Bran agreed. “Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe it was a dump when Carrie and Morgan bought it.”

  “I thought this was Grace’s place, too.”

  “Not originally. Carrie and Morgan bought it the day before Ry got killed.” Bran angled his chin. “You ever meet Ryan Fox while you worked here?”

  “No. I understand he was a good cop.”

  “One of the best.” Bran’s expression darkened, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “Grace found him just seconds after that drugged-up car thief shot him. It about killed her when she lost Ry and…” He closed his eyes. “Anyway, Grace sold the house they owned, and bought into this one. Renovating the place turned into a project for the entire family. Did us all good to spend that time together.”

  Family. Mark had never fully understood the depths of that kind of bond, but he’d witnessed the strength of the link that existed between the McCalls.

  Bran checked his watch. “Wish I wasn’t in a rush, but I have to make lineup at eight. I want to grab one of Morgan’s cinnamon rolls to take with me.”

  He led Mark past a small dining room, turned left when they reached a steep wooden staircase at th
e end of the hall, then stepped into the kitchen where copper pots and pans hung on a rack over a small butcher-block island. Gray slate topped the counters; small pots of what Mark guessed were herbs lined the windowsill. Beyond the wide pane of glass, powdery flakes swirled in the gray morning light.

  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just as Grace stepped through a doorway on the opposite wall. She wore a snug cherry-red sweater, pegged black trousers and practical low-heeled boots. A gold badge and holstered Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic were clipped to her waistband. Her sleek, shoulder-length hair, now devoid of yesterday’s gray streaks, looked as black and shiny as the satin lapel of a tuxedo.

  “Morning, Mark.” Her voice sounded the way he knew her flesh felt—warm and comforting, like water over a smooth stone.

  “Morning.”

  “Make yourself comfortable.” She gestured toward the long-legged stools on one side of the island where an oversize poinsettia bloomed in a brightly painted pot. He noted that her stunned look of yesterday was gone; now she gazed at him with dark eyes as calm as a convent.

  “Thanks.” He settled onto a stool while Bran drained his coffee mug, then reached into a wicker basket and pulled out a cinnamon roll the size of a manhole cover.

  “Want one?” he asked Mark. “They’re fresh out of the oven.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Your loss.” Bran dropped a kiss on the top of Grace’s head. “Thanks, sis. Tell Carrie and Morgan I’ll see them later.”

  “Sure.” When Grace looked up at her brother, Mark saw the quick shadow that passed across her face. “You’ll take care of yourself?”

  Bran tweaked her chin. “I promise to eat my vegetables, Mom.”

  “You’re a good son,” she said sweetly even as she jabbed an elbow into his ribs.

  Grinning, Bran turned and gripped Mark’s hand. “How long you planning to be here?”