Hot in Handcuffs

by Day, Sylvia; Black, Shayla; Walker, Shiloh

  “And what if it’s just a dead animal?”

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she watched as he came to the bottom of the steps, fiddling with the door there. It was too fucking dark and his body blocked the door. The skin along the nape of her neck started to crawl and she swallowed the spit pooling in her mouth.

  Mistake—fucking mistake—

  He kept his back pressed to the wall as he eased the door open. There was no screech of rusty metal, no squeak of untended wood. It glided open smooth and easy—too easy. “I’ll go high,” he murmured, sotto voce.

  “We need to pull back,” Mica replied. He wouldn’t, though.

  So did she?

  Indecision screamed in her mind. Going in that house alone…

  There was a brush against her mind. It was a wordless reassurance and an insistent demand, all at once. Colby. He was coming and he wanted her out.

  Out…

  Her skin continued to crawl. Yeah. If she backed away now, that would be a big, fricking red alert, letting Phillips know she’d figured out something was wrong. If she was lucky—assuming she was reading her instincts right—he’d just follow them out of here and then slip back, ditch whatever evidence was here. If she wasn’t, she’d be facing her partner’s gun the second she inched backward.

  There wasn’t much question.

  She had to go forward. And she went forward with her weapon ready, knowing Colby was coming along quietly at her back.

  The best she could hope for was that Phillips didn’t know much of anything about Colby.

  Well, that…or that she was just plain wrong.

  THE SMELL GOT stronger with each step into the darkness. Unable to take standing in that dark hole, not knowing what was around her, she pulled her flashlight out. “I’m turning on my light,” she warned, keeping her voice casual.

  There was a faint light from behind them, where the door lay, and she wanted to be away from it so Colby’s shadow wouldn’t give him away any second.

  Phillips just grunted. “There’s a door here. It’s jammed…there. Got it.”

  In some part of her mind, Mica kept thinking, What the hell are we doing? How do we explain—

  The other part of her was too focused on Phillips to worry about explaining anything. He was no longer moving through the place like a cop. In the bright, vivid beam of the small light she’d pulled from her pocket, he strode around with way too much confidence, absolutely no caution. Straight down the middle of the floor.

  Mica had her back pressed against the cool concrete behind her and she checked the ground carefully with her toes before setting her foot down.

  He wasn’t acting right—

  “The smell is coming from here,” he said. But he wasn’t bothering to whisper now. And there was something in his voice…a sly, almost smug laugh dancing under the words.

  Mica stiffened. Watch out—the voice in her mind warned.

  And then he hit the lights.

  Mica jerked her weapon up even as she saw he had his pointed square at her.

  INSTINCT GUIDED EVERY step.

  Colby didn’t dare go the same way they’d gone. He didn’t question how he knew better than to do that, and he didn’t hesitate, either.

  He just moved. He had his lock picks, and the door opened under his hand with ease. Through a kitchen that looked unused, down a dark and dim hall—the doorway at the end. It all but pulsed. Red and evil and angry—

  He went to put his left foot down and stilled, shifted it to the left a few more inches. The board would squeak. He could hear it in the mind of the killer—the cop who was downstairs alone with Mica. Alone with his cop. He continued down the hall, placing each foot carefully, taking too much time but managing to avoid any noises that would have given him away.

  There were stairs—he could see them in his mind. The first, third, seventh, and eighth steps squeaked. Somebody, a woman—Colby could hear her voice—had wanted to repair them, but there hadn’t been money. And then there hadn’t been her.

  He eased the door open, one bare inch at a time, staring down. There was light, very faint. At the bottom of the steps, he should find the washer and the dryer, except it had been taken out. There was just a bare space now…

  Focus, he told himself, viciously jerking his mind under control.

  Down the steps, bypassing each one that made noise, his attention spread out, locked on any small sound.

  He heard voices now…

  THERE WERE DEAD flowers.

  Everywhere.

  And lying on a bed, tucked against a wall, there were the skeletal remains of a woman. Dark hair. An ivory dress…a wedding dress. And in her hands there were the crumpled, dried stalks of flowers.

  There was a table by the bed. Mica saw that, saw the glint of light on crystal. She took it all in through her peripheral vision, keeping her gaze focused on Phillips.

  “If you’re going to shoot me, you better do it fast,” she advised, going against everything she knew she should say. She’d already screwed this up enough, no reason to start playing it by the book now, she figured. Besides, the one thing she knew about Phillips…he was about as likely to do what she told him to do as he was to sprout wings and fly.

  Maybe he’d even avoid shooting her for just long enough.

  “Why?” He smiled at her. “You want me to think you have people coming? Other than that pretty-boy consultant?”

  “That pretty-boy consultant is a problem. You can’t convince him that I shot myself.” If it had been anybody but Colby, she wouldn’t have dared risk them. But this was Colby…and it wasn’t a risk for him. If he couldn’t handle this…she didn’t know a soul who could.

  Phillips just smiled. In his eyes, she saw the light of madness. Not just a sick bastard, but a crazy one. They weren’t one and the same, she knew. Okay, this is bad…If he was convinced it didn’t matter if he killed her, well, she’d end up dead.

  Something stroked across the edge of her mind. A calm, cool presence. Although there were no clear words, she felt Colby’s response clear as day. Stop. He wanted her to stop. No thinking about dying.

  Stall.

  She needed to stall.

  Colby was coming. They were deep enough in the other room that Phillips couldn’t see the door now.

  Colby would come. He would…but if he didn’t, and she saw Phillips’s finger so much as twitch on that fucking gun, she was going to blow his damn head off.

  She felt another brush from Colby. A stronger, almost clear thought this time…Don’t die, Mica…

  She had no plans on dying anytime soon—she had too many reasons to live.

  ONCE HE HAD the hard, solid concrete under his feet, Colby felt better. It wouldn’t squeak, creak, or make any other fucking sound. Keeping his back pressed to the wall, he held the weapon he hadn’t touched in months—it was a Glock 26, light and small, easily concealed…deadly as hell.

  It was also a reminder of the life he’d left behind, whether it was his personal weapon or not, and he hadn’t wanted any reminders.

  Now he just hoped he hadn’t gotten too fucking rusty, because when Colby saw that bastard, he was going to put a bullet between his eyes.

  Calm—be calm—

  He eyed the distance between him and the end of the wall. Eighteen inches. He could see shadows. Hear voices—and that fucking song. Damn it. The air was the heavy, cloying stink of rotting flesh. He could feel Mica’s horror and rage battering at him—and her determination.

  Fifteen inches. She had a gun on her—the man had pulled a gun. It was another instinct, nothing Colby saw clearly, but that was because he wouldn’t let that connection click.

  Couldn’t, not if he wanted to get her through this—

  Twelve inches.

  He was sweating. Hotter than hell under the layers he wore. That putrid stench made him want to gag, but he shoved it all aside. Focus…focus…

  Harder, though, to shove aside everything he felt coming from Mica. Espe
cially when it solidified into one bright, vivid spike—

  INSTINCT.

  It can save a life—Mica knew that. It could also cost lives—and it just might cost her life, she realized, as something flashed through Phillips’s eyes.

  Knowledge.

  Some sort of knowledge. He knew—

  She dropped her shields, a desperate measure that just might be the end of her, she knew. But she had to—

  He was full of hatred, rage, and need. It was a twisted need, though. One she couldn’t fully understand. She also felt the one thing she needed—the warning just before he could squeeze the trigger.

  “You shoot, I shoot,” she cautioned softly. “You know that.”

  “You shoot, I shoot…” he echoed. Then he smiled. “But I think I want to go first.”

  COLBY CAME UP behind him. “I think I want to go first,” he said, pressing the muzzle of his gun to the base of Phillips’s head.

  But if he’d hoped that would throw Phillips off, he’d been dead wrong. Phillips swung around, already dropping.

  Colby compensated, pulling the trigger. He saw the neat little hole appear in the man’s forehead—then an explosion of red as the bullet tore through the other man’s brain and ripped out the back of his skull.

  At the same time, he felt the massive pain rip through him. It spun him around and the world went dark.

  MICA SCREAMED.

  She didn’t notice. She ran to Colby, not even pausing by Phillips’s side. He was dead—beyond dead, his brain and blood leaking out on the floor.

  Colby…he was all that mattered, lying facedown on the floor.

  Breathing—

  Thank God.

  He was breathing. Touching a hand to his neck, she checked his pulse. A little fast.

  “Okay…” she whispered to herself. “He’ll be okay.”

  Gently, she eased him up by the shoulder. Had to get a look…She frowned, feeling the odd, bulky thickness under her fingers. No blood. Nothing—

  As she got him onto his back, the relief crashed through her, and if she’d been standing, she would have collapsed. Her world had been going black, the air disappearing. But now, bit by bit, the light returned and she could breathe.

  He’d be okay. He would live.

  He would hurt for a while. But he would live.

  The fucking man had been wearing a vest.

  “Colby…” She laid a hand on his cheek, but he didn’t stir.

  Closing her eyes, she bent over him, rested her brow to his. Just a minute, she told herself. She needed just a minute. God. Thank God. He was alive.

  And before she realized what she was going to do, she pressed her lips to his. “I love you…”

  chapter twelve

  “Fractured ribs.”

  Mica leaned against the wall as Colby eased himself up in the bed.

  It was dark. Hours later. She’d just managed to get away from the scene, and the entire time, her mind had been here. Here, with him, nearly an hour away while he was getting worked over, poked and prodded by paramedics.

  She wasn’t done, and she knew this wasn’t where she should be.

  It was simply where she had to be. For a few minutes, at least. Even though he’d been awake well before the paramedics arrived, she’d had to come see him.

  As his blue eyes cut to hers, she moved deeper into the narrow little cubicle, her hands inside her pockets. He was pale, fine lines fanning out from his eyes, bracketing his mouth. But when he saw her, a faint smile curled his lips.

  She resisted the urge to smile back. “Fractured ribs. Bruised insides. Shot at point-blank range. That how they teach you to do things at the FBI, Mathis?”

  “Only when you have to go backing up hotheaded cops who do things they know they shouldn’t,” he responded easily. He went to stand up but stopped when she came to stand in front of him.

  “You really need to be moving around?” She barred his way, figuring he’d hurt too much to go around her or try moving her.

  “Yes. Because I really need to get out of this hospital.” A grimace twisted his mouth. “I hate hospitals. I can’t get out of here until I move off the bed.”

  She rested a hand on his shoulder. “You just got shot.”

  “Yeah, well, the vest took most of the damage.”

  Catching her lip between her teeth, she reached out and caught the V opening of the button-up shirt he’d scrounged up from somewhere. Probably bullied it out of a doctor or charmed it out of a nurse, she figured. The mottled bruising was spreading all over the upper part of his chest, and she couldn’t even see the worst of it that well, she suspected. “It looks like you took enough damage. You should be still…rest.”

  “I will. When I’m someplace other than here.” He closed his fingers around hers and pressed a kiss to the back of her wrist.

  “Colby…”

  “Mica…” Sliding her a look from under his lashes, he said, “You’ve got a case to wrap up, don’t you?”

  She froze. Something warm and hopeful had been working inside her heart for…hell. Almost from the moment she saw him on the beach. It had damn near died when she saw him go down, only to flare back to vibrant life, and now, he was shooing her off?

  Swallowing, she pulled back. “Yeah. Yes, there’s a case to wrap up.” Carefully sidestepping all the various crap medical types managed to cram into an ER room, she made her way back to the curtained door. “Should I have the captain contact you, fill you in once it’s wrapped up?” she asked coolly.

  “Nah. It’s not necessary.”

  “Okay, then. Have a nice life, Colby.”

  HE WATCHED AS she disappeared, just barely resisting the urge to go after her.

  The problem was, right now, he’d almost have to crawl.

  And that wasn’t happening.

  She didn’t realize he’d heard her.

  That whisper through the darkness had guided him, made it easier to get past the pain.

  I love you…

  Yeah. He was holding on to that. And the two of them were going to have to face each other, figure out how to live with each other.

  Because he loved her, too, and he wasn’t letting her go again.

  Part of that, though, included figuring how to live with himself again.

  “GOOD WORK.” CAPTAIN Alice Kellogg finished the report and then settled back in her chair, studying the woman before her.

  Mica stood with her hands linked behind her back, her face blank. There were signs of sleepless nights visible in the shadows under her eyes, but she didn’t care. She looked like shit. Big deal. Who was there around that would even care anymore?

  The captain studied a photo wrapped in an evidence bag.

  “You look like her.”

  Mica glanced down and then away. Phillips’s wife. Her name had been Christine. She’d divorced him eight years ago, and according to what Mica had unearthed, Christine Phillips had left the country with her lover shortly after the divorce. There was even a marriage license for them filed in Jamaica…and a house. One that had been abandoned. There had been no sign of her or her new husband in nearly five years.

  She didn’t need the captain pointing out the similarity—she’d seen it. The same dark, curly hair, the same tall, lean frame, even their eyes had looked similar from what Mica could tell. Mica had been eerily disturbed when she’d watched Phillips’s wedding video—their wedding song had been “Hero” by Enrique Iglesias—the song Colby had heard the bastard singing over and over to the women he’d killed.

  It had been damn freaky seeing that man dance with a woman who had looked so much like herself. Damn freaky. Christine, though, had a softness to her that Mica didn’t. A gentleness, perhaps.

  Abruptly, Mica figured something out. And even as that mystery revealed itself, she wanted to kick herself. Mica looked in the mirror every day and saw strength—she just hadn’t ever really realized it before. Strength—she had strength inside her. She wasn’t the coward she’d once been�
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  Aware of the captain’s gaze, Mica forced her thoughts back to the case. Away from her self-realizations. She could deal with those later. Clearing her throat, she nodded to the wedding photo the captain still held. “Did you notice the flowers she’s holding?”

  “Yes. The Queen of the Night, right?”

  “Yes. She was a horticulturist—she doesn’t have any family living, but I was able to track down some friends. She was very fond of that breed of tulip.” Shifting her gaze away, she stared out the window into the burning-bright light of the afternoon.

  “I heard from a friend of yours a short while ago.”

  Mica cut her eyes back to the captain as her heart stuttered in her chest.

  Colby—

  “Jones called. Apparently, he got a text from his former agent while you all were out there. He didn’t go into much detail, but he did want to make sure I had the relevant information about the house’s owner…It had belonged to the wife’s father. Phillips has been quietly caring for it all this time, which you already know.” Kellogg tapped the report with a pen. “I’d say once Mathis made the connection, that’s what pushed him into the house. I have to guess at that…seeing as how your report was sketchy on those details.”

  Mica tensed.

  “Any reason you didn’t get me those details?”

  “He left the hospital,” she said stiffly. “Left town. Seeing as how you wanted his involvement kept to a minimum during the case, I didn’t see why you’d want to change that now.”

  “Hmmm. Good cover-up.” Kellogg continued to stare at her. “I almost believe that.”

  Then she bent back over her desk. “You need a few hours off. Take the afternoon.”

  “Captain, I—”

  “Take the afternoon,” Kellogg repeated, looking up with a steely glint in her eyes.

  AS MICA DISAPPEARED through the doors, Kellogg rose from the chair and moved to the window.

  Considering her angle, she doubted Mica had been able to see him.

  But he’d been out there for the past hour, leaning against Mica’s car. Unmoving. Patient as the sea.

  Considering he’d just taken a bullet to the chest not that long ago, Kellogg hadn’t been able to make him wait any longer.