by Cera Daniels
"Stop, Spiritwalker," Romeo growled inside his head.
Vague memories of sense cracked through his haze of need. Breathing too hard, Ryan twisted so his shoulder took the punch she aimed at his jaw. The detective reeled backward toward the mouth of the alley. Her fingers brushed at her lips, lust-glazed blue eyes locked on the vicinity of his mouth like it had been laced with the world's most powerful aphrodisiac.
Hell. He wondered the same about hers.
She blinked rapidly. "How dare you—"
"Get off the street. Go home." He forced himself to play his role and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as if a damn near nuclear kiss was the norm. As if his body wasn't still raging with otherworldly hunger for a complete stranger.
She drew in a long, ragged breath, then her radio crackled. Her partner. With her gaze hopping between him and Romeo, she made her escape. Night shadows swallowed her retreating form. Ryan let untamed tension seep into the bricks at his back. Inexplicable. He should—but couldn't—just let her go. A kiss like that, well, he needed a name to go with those lips.
"And now you'll have to find out which precinct she works for, jackass," he murmured, then let out a low curse. He shouldn't have let her go at all.
No, he should have let her go and stopped her partner from chasing the courier.
Ryan's mind worked in a fury. That body. The way she'd responded like they'd danced a thousand times before. Why had she kissed him back? Why hadn't she used his libido against him instead, kneed him in the goods and taken off? He scooped up her Glock, then straightened and tapped on his earpiece. Maybe Zach or Jay could track down her identity before morning.
A yip pierced the off-balance sensation in his ears, followed by a very real growl. The warmth of his encounter chilled. His spirit guide was no longer in sight.
Romeo? Ryan immediately broke into a trot. The detective . . . which way had she fled?
"Hey, bro, you there?" Zach's voice blared in his ear but Ryan didn't have the opportunity to turn off the speaker.
Under a buzzing street lamp, the courier had the male cop in a chokehold, a pistol muzzle to the officer's jaw. Ryan's detective stood across from the pair, her palms up and those fearless, crystal blue eyes smoldering with barely contained anger.
The courier nodded his way, his grin mean. "Yours was prettier than mine. Feisty, too. Don't blame you for playing." A fresh bruise and blood gleamed in the corner of his lips.
"You planning to use that piece?" Ryan asked.
"Yes." The courier smashed the butt of his gun into her partner's head, then turned it on the detective in the same lightning-fast motion. "Got a problem with that?"
She'd stopped breathing, though her stance remained strong. Fear, doubt, and indecision, everything he'd managed to corral for the night barreled into his chest and he fought to keep it off his face. Klepto couldn't show deference to cops. Not if he was working for Jones, as he'd claimed. But Ryan couldn't just stand here and let one get shot. Not if he wanted to live with himself in the morning. He ground his teeth, willed the ringing in his ears to subside, then forced himself into his role.
"More deaths on the street don't concern me," he began. "But they might your boss, if it makes you late with our payment."
Thin, feminine eyebrows furrowed at him and his focus crumbled again.
"Boss doesn't like cops nosing in on business," the courier said.
"Think killing her will get you a bonus?" Ryan took a step closer, pulling out the detective's weapon. "She's unarmed. Don't waste your bullets."
"You here to help me or her?" the courier snapped.
"You, of course. Killing takes time you don't have. Get moving." Ryan leveled the Glock at the detective. "And allow me."
"Please. With my own gun? Are you syndicate or aren't you? Where's your creativity?" The officer's tongue snaked out to wet lips still pink from his kiss. Remembering?
Ryan was no stranger to beautiful women. But he'd be damned if he could get this particular woman's spirited lips—chocolate and sin—off his mind long enough to keep the Glock aimed and steady.
The courier cocked his pistol.
Her eyes flickered with an instant of doubt.
Ryan cursed. This was one argument he didn't dare lose, but without Romeo, without being close enough to reach her, all he had was a bluff. He slid his index finger over the trigger. "She isn't your concern."
The courier disengaged with a shrug that did nothing to ease Ryan's tension. The other man shoved his gun into his oversized coat. "The lady cop wants creativity. I'm an artist with a blade." Then he launched toward the detective.
She was already moving into a defensive stance but her gasp hung in Ryan's ears. Something in his head snapped.
Barks and shouts reverberated past his filtering software, blowing past the fail-safes on his earpiece. The tight control over his enhanced hearing shattered and he stumbled. Feedback from the microphone assaulted his eardrums. His entire body jerked in pain, and his finger spasmed on the trigger.
That one shot sparked a hailstorm of bullets.
"Ryan!" His brothers' chorus of concern vanished under the hideous ringing in his head.
The street lamp ambiance haloed down the street like some kind of glowing, fuzzy mold, glinting off the soles of the courier's sneakers as they retreated over the pavement like white rabbits. Territory markers. There were rival territory markers on the road. The minute he'd aimed at the courier . . . Ryan swore, wobbled, and couldn't find his balance. A shooter dodged past him, running the courier down. Mad laughter drifted toward the main road as the two syndicate players continued a duel.
The detective was on the ground.
Tell me I didn't just shoot her.
Hell. Ryan inched forward as sound became an unbearable roar, each bullet like an atom bomb to his skull. Hot, sluggish blood traced his jaw. Tell me I didn't just start a war.
Somehow he reached her side. The right leg of his cargo pants soaked up a puddle of what he hoped to God was water. Romeo nudged his elbow, the detective's eyes closed, and Ryan's world went silent. It would take him the rest of his life to atone for the crimson stain spreading across her t-shirt.
CHAPTER TWO
Four months later . . .
Her physical therapist's lips compressed and the tips of his ears turned redder than his prematurely thinning hair. "I don't need to explain myself, Detective."
"Yes, Charlie, you do." Detective Amanda Werner slapped her open palms on the smooth desk surface. His computer monitor gave a precarious wobble. "It's been months. My grip is steady. My shoulder's fine."
Frustration gnawed at her temples. One masked man and a witness interview gone bad would not stop her from doing her part to stem the turf war. She was done playing overqualified intern, punching ancient case files into computer databases instead of defending a city that every day needed it a little more. Not that she begrudged the 16th precinct paperwork. With her former caseload, half of her hours had been clocked behind a desk. But enough was enough.
She'd fast-tracked and passed every physical and mental test to retake her place on the team, all with her back straight and her teeth gritted. One last signature—Charlie's—and she was off the bench.
"You know I'm fit. Why won't you sign—"
"Because Dale ordered me not to, that's why!" The output tray of the desktop printer rattled as he thumped his hand down beside hers, littering the hardwood floor of his office with papers. Charlie's green eyes bulged like he couldn't believe those words had escaped.
"Bullshit." Accusations filled her lungs, but it wasn't her friend's style to lie. She let out a slow hiss of air instead. "Why would he knowingly keep me from doing my job?"
"Hell if I know." He scrubbed a hand over his receding buzz cut. "I'm not paid to ask questions."
Amanda's fingernails curled into her palms. "I am."
Next stop, Lieutenant Michael Dale.
She tossed her workout bag over her shoulder and stalked ou
t of the rehabilitation office. If Charlie had misled her, this little detour gained him an hour, tops.
When the third cadet dodged out of her way, eyes wide and murmuring an unnecessary apology, she suspected her expression said "move or I'll kill you with my pinky." Amanda made a conscious attempt to leash her fury before her mentor and lieutenant signed her up for a few more weeks of "relaxing" filing duty to get a lid on her temper. Control was the one thing she could never again lose. Not because of this seething frustration, and absolutely not because of a kiss.
The office was open. Despite her resolve, she stormed in without preamble. Her bag hit the peeling linoleum floor even as she opened her mouth.
"I just spoke with Charlie—" Her teeth snapped closed with an audible click.
Dale had company.
"Detective Werner." The lieutenant jerked his chin in her direction. "Is there a problem?"
A long, russet ponytail flipped over the visitor's shoulder as he turned in his chair. Thin-rimmed glasses framed a face Amanda recognized the instant he lifted an eyebrow in her direction. Ryan McLelas. What's he doing here?
Charismatic and rumored to be ruthless in the board room. President of McLelas Financial. He'd inherited the position and the wealth along with it, following in his father's footsteps and maintaining the firm as one of the most lucrative—legitimate—businesses in the city. The hunk-in-a-suit met her gaze dead on, dark brown eyes simmering with something between amusement and heat so potent she almost bit her tongue.
Oh, he's good.
Relek City's papers didn't call this one "Sexiest Bachelor" for nothing.
Amanda cleared her throat. "I didn't realize you had a visitor, Sir."
Dale halted her escape with a careless wave of his hand. "It's fine. Mr. McLelas was just leaving."
"Was I?" A slow blink shuttered the businessman's expression. McLelas swiveled his chair, the move so leisurely it was clear he intended to stay. "I don't understand. I thought we'd agreed your team deserves the best."
Dale's eyes narrowed at him. "If you would, close the door. It appears we weren't finished after all."
Relief flooded her at the excuse for a graceful retreat. She scooted toward the door.
"I didn't tell you to leave, Detective."
Surprise at her lieutenant's clipped words made her spin. He was frowning at his guest as McLelas shook his head.
"If you doubt my team's loyalty, you have no business making the offer," Dale said.
Amanda's hand landed on the door handle behind her. Glancing quickly between the two men, she pushed it closed. "What's going on?"
"I never questioned anyone's loyalty. I just don't understand why you keep giving me the wrong answer." With his gaze locked on Dale, a small smirk curved the businessman's lips. He leaned back in his chair. "The only answer to 'Can we throw you a benefit dinner' should be 'Sure, and while you're at it, tell the caterer to make a nice batch of jumbo shrimp.' Or steak. Steak's good, too."
Her commanding officer looked unfazed by his boldness, but Amanda's mouth dropped open. She couldn't keep suspicion from her tone. "The 16th isn't anywhere near your firm. Why would you throw us a benefit dinner?"
Dale sent her a wry smile. "Perhaps the 7th turned him down."
The towering glass structure of McLelas Financial sat on Dogwood Street, solidly under the 7th precinct's jurisdiction. Amanda's eyebrows furrowed. They had to have refused for the same reason her lieutenant would: charity didn't come without strings. Integrity lay scuttled among the city's sharks: politicians, businessmen, and even the upper echelons of law and justice. Those who had a game to play, did, and they played it dirty. There was leverage in throwing around funds. But Dale had zero tolerance for bribery. If that was McLelas's intent, he had about two minutes before her lieutenant tossed him out on his sexy ass.
The businessman angled his chair to address them both. This time, a thoughtful look gentled his dark eyes. "McLelas Financial has a certain reputation to uphold and honest clients are getting harder and harder to find. I want my doors open, my employees paid with clean money. We need a strong police force to do that. Your precinct has beyond capable officers, but they're outgunned on the streets. They don't stand a chance against the syndicates with the equipment you have now."
His words sounded genuine. What legitimate, law-abiding company wouldn't want its interests protected? But nothing was ever clean and simple in Relek. A hideous whine spun through the vent over their heads and Amanda sidestepped a murky cloud descending from the register. Burned dust scented the air. McLelas looked up, his eyebrow raised as the heating unit rattled, coughed, then died, leaving a noticeable silence in place of its usual white noise hum.
"Funds can fix that, too." He smiled. "Before you all freeze."
"I'm not contesting your point, McLelas. But I've been living here too long to believe in generosity. So let me ask you something." Dale leaned over his overlarge desk calendar and bridged his fingers. "What do you want in exchange?"
McLelas's gaze locked with Amanda's for an overlong moment. Warmth hopped along her nerves, down to her fingertips, her toes, and despite the way her internal alarm system responded with a clamor of warning, she wanted to trust he didn't intend to pay off the 16th's departments for some nefarious scheme.
She tore her attention from him and reached for her bag. Syndicate murder cover-ups were more straight-forward than this bargaining, the extortion-laden head games. So many games. Was it too much to ask for one man to defy convention? The strap of her bag dug into her clenched fists. Don't do it. Don't ask for anything.
"I need a case file."
Disappointment rolled in like an afternoon thunderstorm. Civilians didn't get public access to case files. McLelas's "benefit dinner" would pay their precinct for a visit to the secure storage room. Worse, when she looked at his profile, Amanda still found his tan complexion, strong jaw, and confident smile attractive. What did it say about her that she could be drawn to a man who thought it acceptable to bribe law enforcement?
Bushy, gray brows arched in his direction. "Which one?"
Amanda straightened with a choked "Sir?" Charlie's accusation that Dale had prevented her reinstatement echoed in her head, gaining merit with each breath. She pursed her lips. Circumventing official channels to keep her behind a desk was not the same thing as playing the money game. Surely the lieutenant was drawing out a second rejection.
McLelas's jaw tightened. "The Old Town fire."
Dale sighed. He eyed the clock on the wall, glanced at Amanda, then settled a long look on his guest. He nodded abruptly and turned to Amanda. "See this gentleman to Storage."
Her feet were like blocks of concrete. "Sir, that's a sealed case."
"That wasn't a request, Detective." Dale turned to McLelas. "Might take some time to find."
Inconveniently long. Amanda got the hint, but how could he even consider this in the first place? She glanced between them and swallowed hard. Shadowy half-circles under Lieutenant Dale's eyes seemed deeper than they'd ever been, the wrinkles and worry lines and exhaustion more pronounced. When she wasn't watching, the city had aged him decades. And though he'd cut a deal which would suit them both, Ryan McLelas seemed grim. No triumphant smirk or pleasure-doing-business handshake. The 16th got money, and McLelas got security, along with his file. Win-win, even if it was a shady arrangement.
So why didn't either man look pleased by the victory?
She'd short-circuited his brain.
Damn it, this was his zone. How had he managed to screw up a simple financial deal?
His subconscious had leaped at the chance to dig into to his mother's death. Now that sense had returned, Ryan remembered there were other, less foolish, ways to find answers. He wanted nothing more than to take back the request—that or arrange another officer as escort so he could no longer feel the icy blue glare that had speared him to the bone the second he'd asked for the file. He couldn't do either. What was done was done.
Oh, he'd
had to push. The suspicious nature of a city so cowed by thugs and illegal business meant no decent official would take the offer at face value. McLelas Financial aside, building Klepto's renown for eliminating the competition depended on a police department with the funds and equipment and manpower to handle the influx of thugs dropped on its doorstep. Lieutenant Dale and his comrades running the 16th sported solid enough track records to make it happen. Asking for anything in return had never been part of the plan.
The president of an upstanding financial institution didn't twist the law to his own aims. That job fell to Klepto. But Amanda . . . her whiskey-smooth voice . . . She provoked memories of a night he'd rather remain buried.
At least this mistake wouldn't physically harm her.
A pang of self-loathing forced his hands into fists. The way she'd looked at him, the accusation, the hurt, the mute, cold acceptance. Like she'd hoped for a second he was as clean as his business cards professed. Like he'd let her down.
I can fix this.
Ryan eyed the way Detective Werner led the way without hesitation, head high, self-assured, far too tempting in her pale blue cotton tee and snug denim—Remorse forced his gaze to the safer, taut line of her shoulders. She didn't favor her right arm. A good sign, but not one that eased his conscience any more than months of keeping tabs on her recovery had. She was here at the precinct, back with the force. That meant she was fine, didn't it?
Ryan shook his head as she stabbed a finger at the elevator call button. He could forgive himself for re-launching the syndicate gunfights. Maybe. Eventually someone would have broken the ceasefire. But despite that, despite all the crooked deals he'd cut lately . . . His fingertips brushed the front of his jacket. Accidentally shooting Amanda was the only thing that could make him feel so much guilt his chest burned.