“That,” he muttered, “is one scary dog.”
“You know my story,” she said. “But I know nothing about yours. I realize you have the right to say it’s none of my business. If that’s how you feel, please just say so, and I’ll leave.”
Leaning on one arm resting on the hewn wood mantelpiece, he stared back at the fire. The silence stretched out until it became an answer in itself. She reached into the pocket of her jeans for her keys.
Five harsh words broke the silence.
“My story is your story.”
She froze, holding her breath, afraid if she spoke, moved or even took that breath, he would stop.
“Minus the guts on my part,” he added after a moment. “You faced it. I ran.”
“Brett,” she began, then stopped at the barest shake of his head. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at her. His gaze was dark, shadowed, with pain, grief and something she couldn’t name.
“I was married. She was murdered.”
Her breath caught. She’d sensed somehow that he understood where she lived more than most, that with him it hadn’t been some platitude uttered by someone who had no idea what it meant to lose the person you loved most in the world.
She swallowed tightly. Managed to get the word out. “Murdered?”
“Because of me.”
And there it was. That something she couldn’t name.
Guilt.
Chapter 21
He hadn’t spoken those words in years. But now that he had, it was like uncapping a shaken beer: it bubbled up and overflowed.
“My first year as a detective in LA, I put away a high-level member of a street gang. He swore his people would make me pay. But they didn’t have the guts to come after me.”
She was looking at him steadily, a world of sympathy and empathy in her eyes. He was astonished at the relief just saying that much gave him. Because she understood, he thought. In the way only someone who’s lost someone they loved in an unnatural, particularly cruel way could understand.
“Or,” she said softly, “they knew how to hurt you even more.”
Yes, she understood. And she could take it. She was strong. Stronger than he was. “They beat her. Burned her. Raped her. Shot her. And dumped her on our front porch for me to find.”
He heard her smothered gasp, regretted having said it so bluntly. Regretted having said it at all. But it was too late, although he’d managed not to blurt all of it out. And now he waited for the platitudes, the insistence it wasn’t his fault, all the things people said that made no difference at all. Nothing changed what was and whose fault it was.
“What was she like?”
His gaze shot to her face. She’d surprised him again. He struggled to find the words that best fit who Angie Dunbar had once been. “She was...happy. Innocent, in a way. She liked people. She had a...zest for life. She could find joy in the simplest things.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Sloan said.
“I would come home from a day of dealing with all the ugly, and the minute I saw her smile, I felt...clean again.”
“Then she wasn’t just your loss—she was the world’s. There aren’t enough people like that.”
That easily, but impossibly, she spoke aloud what he had thought so many times. “Yes. The world needs people like her.”
“I’m sorry for all of us, then.” She gave him a sideways look. “Did you ever think of quitting?”
“Yes. But I couldn’t.”
“Because then they win,” she said softly.
He nodded. But something about the shared moment was so intense he couldn’t hold her gaze. He looked away, stared into the fire. How had she done this? How had she gotten him to talk about what he never talked about? How had she known exactly what to say, and more, exactly how he’d felt? Was it simply because she’d been through it herself? Was she just empathizing and doing it so well because she’d been there? Or was there more to it?
He made himself look at her, and it was much, much harder than it should have been. She was looking up at him, steadily, a world of gentle understanding in her eyes.
He was moving before he even realized it. It had been so long since he’d felt the urge he didn’t even recognize it until his mouth was on hers.
He felt her little jump of surprise, and a tiny part of his mind suggested he should stop this before he regretted it. But that cause was lost the moment he felt her lips under his and turned to ash the moment he realized her mouth had softened, the surprise fading way.
She was kissing him back. She wasn’t just allowing this, not just accepting it; she was kissing him back. Lighting a fire in him that made the one on the hearth seem no more than a flickering match.
She leaned into him, and a soft, quiet sound came from her, almost a moan. Need exploded in him, unlike anything he’d felt in longer than he could remember. It was hot, swift, consuming, and he wanted nothing more than to hit the floor and take this woman here and now. He wanted her naked, open and as frantic as he was feeling in this moment.
And he had no right.
The room seemed to rotate slightly, and he realized he’d forgotten how to breathe. He felt an odd tightness over his biceps, realized she was gripping them tightly, as if her hold on him was the only thing keeping her on her feet.
It took every bit of self-control he had to break the kiss. For a moment he just stood there, staring at her, feeling the quickness of his own breathing, wondering how this had overwhelmed him so fiercely when he’d been so on guard from the first moment he’d realized Sloan Burke got to him in a way no woman had for a very long time.
She was gazing up at him, lips parted, looking a little stunned. He saw her swallow, and his own throat felt almost unbearably tight. A bit of the heat faded from her eyes. She didn’t step back, but he felt the withdrawal just the same. He opened his mouth, not sure exactly what he was going to say but feeling he needed to say something—
A slim finger touched his lips in a hushing motion. She gave a tiny shake of her head.
“If you apologize, I may slap you.”
Since the hovering words would indeed likely have been some sort of “I’m sorry,” he was startled into silence.
“I’ve been wondering for a long time what that would feel like,” she said.
Damn. He’d told her he thought her brave, but that wasn’t the half of it. She had more guts, more outright nerve, than he’d ever thought of having. At least in this territory, where he was beyond uncomfortable—he was downright terrified.
And he was damned well going to forge ahead anyway.
“Maybe it was a fluke,” he said.
For an instant something very much like his own fear flashed in her eyes. But then it faded, to be replaced with something warm and almost teasing. It took his breath away before she even spoke.
“Or maybe it’s just that it’s been so long for me.”
“Me, too,” he said, although that hadn’t occurred to him yet. It had been a long time since he’d kissed a woman because he really wanted to. He felt out of his depth already.
“Then maybe we should try again,” she said. “You know, test it.”
Heat stabbed through him. He sucked in a breath. Had to steady himself before trying words. “Theories should always be properly tested,” he finally said.
And this time she made the move, stretching up to him, and at the first brush of her lips the need he’d thought had ebbed erupted all over again, faster, as if it had learned the way now.
He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her hard against him. He deepened the kiss, savoring the taste of her. He felt the slight tentative brush of her tongue against his, and his body nearly cramped in response. He’d never felt it like this, so fierce, so immediate, so demanding that he truly wondered if he
could back off this time.
Holding Angie had been like holding sunlight, warm, soothing, slowly reaching down deep. Kissing her had been, for him, healing, as if all the ugliness melted away and no longer mattered.
Kissing Sloan Burke was volcanic, and she was going to melt his very bones.
And then she pulled back, breaking the sweet, fiery connection. She stared up at him. She looked flushed, shaken. He felt a little wobbly himself.
Something else flashed through her eyes then. It was too familiar for him not to recognize it.
Guilt.
The heat vanished. And suddenly there were four of them in the room, he and Sloan and a couple of ghosts.
She lowered her head with a sharp, jerky motion.
“Are you—?”
He stopped when she waved a hand. “Don’t. Please. My fault.”
Her voice was thick, husky, and he was afraid if he could see her eyes, he’d see tears. She stepped back, away from him. And despite the fire, he felt suddenly cold. And an entirely different kind of ache began inside him.
“Sloan,” he said, then stopped himself this time because he didn’t know what to say. Had the feeling saying anything would be wrong.
“You don’t feel like you’re betraying her? One minute we were talking about how wonderful she was, and the next you’re kissing me?”
He hadn’t thought about it like that, but when she put it into words, he realized that was pretty much how it had happened. And now at least he had a clue what was happening in her head.
“You feel like you’re betraying Jason?”
She shivered. It was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her again, but he was afraid just now that would be like holding dynamite with the fuse lit.
“I didn’t expect it to be like that. I thought I wouldn’t feel anything, because of him.”
He opened his mouth to speak, shut it again as something struck him about what she’d said, how she’d said it. “Are you saying there hasn’t been anyone? Since Jason?”
“No one that made me even wonder,” she said simply. And he couldn’t find words for how that made him feel. And again he had to fight the urge to pull her back into his arms.
“It probably sounds crazy,” she said. “I know it’s been a long time. People say I should be over it by now.”
“People,” he said, “are idiots. You never get over it.”
Her gaze shot back to his face. He tried to find the right thing to say, realized there was no right thing, not for this. So he went with the truth.
“If you’re lucky, you get past it. You learn to live with it, not let it control you. But there will still be times when it’s all you can think of.”
He saw her eyes widen, saw his words register, thought he sensed some of the tension leave her. So at least he hadn’t said the wrong thing.
“Your wife,” she began, then stopped. Maybe she felt the same way, that they were traversing a minefield. And again he went with the truth, since this was Sloan and nothing less would work.
“She truly was wonderful. But for me it’s been eight years, and I already have enough to feel guilty about.”
“You know it wasn’t really your fault, don’t you?”
“My job put her in harm’s way.”
“So only people with no family at all should be cops?”
He drew back. “Of course not. But they came at her because of me.”
“If some insane terrorist had come here and killed me because Jason was fighting them, would it have been his fault?”
He grimaced. He wasn’t liking how this was going. “That’s different.”
“How? You were both fighting a great evil to protect others.”
“Sloan—”
“I understand, Brett. I get it. Really. Knowing in your head it wasn’t your fault doesn’t convince your emotions. I don’t know how many times I cursed myself for not trying harder to talk Jason out of enlisting.”
Maybe she did get it, he thought. “Could you have?”
“Maybe. He loved me so much. But he might have always regretted it, and that would be at my door. Besides, he was who he was, and I loved who he was, so I didn’t want to change him even if I could have.”
“You were awfully wise for...what, twenty?”
She gave him a faint smile. “I was twenty-two when we got married. And I didn’t feel at all wise. Maybe a little more now.” She looked at him steadily. “For instance, I’m sure Angie didn’t want to change you either. How could anyone?”
There were more implications in those last three words than he could deal with right now. This was more deep conversation than he’d had with anyone in years. Probably since the days when they’d sent him to the department shrink to work through what had happened. He hadn’t liked it then either, because he knew nothing could change what had happened. The only reason he’d stuck with it as long as he had was Dr. Bickham had agreed with that, had said he couldn’t change it, but he could help him learn to live with it.
He wondered if anyone had helped Sloan. Or if she was so rock-solid sane that she hadn’t needed it.
Cutter stirred, shifting before the fire.
“Too warm, furry one?” Sloan asked, looking down at the dog as he rolled onto his side with a contented sigh. Whatever the emotional currents were in the room in the past few minutes, he obviously hadn’t felt the need to interfere.
“Sometimes he doesn’t move away for hours,” Brett said. “I don’t know how he doesn’t fry his doggy brain.”
That simply, the tenor shifted back to the normal, the mundane. The talk shifted to having to go and get back to the regular business of life. And he escaped responding to her question of how anyone could want to change him. A good thing, because he had quite a list.
After she’d gone, leaving him to the fire and a sleepy dog, he had to face the one reality he couldn’t deny. Sloan Burke was reaching places in him he’d sworn he’d never let anyone near again. The price was too high.
But he couldn’t quite silence the little voice in his head saying she would be worth any price. And that Jason Burke had known it.
Chapter 22
The set of headlights steady in her rearview mirror, even that far back, made Sloan think of that gold car again. She shook her head at herself. She couldn’t even see what kind of vehicle it was, let alone the color. And again she told herself she wasn’t being followed, although the headlights remained until she turned off onto her street.
She knew exactly what was going on. She was desperate for a distraction. Any distraction, to take her mind off that impossible kiss. So she seized on silly things like the idea of being followed.
She went through her routine and got into bed to read for a while. When she began to yawn, she turned out the light and put her head on the pillow. And snapped instantly wide-awake.
At 3:00 a.m. she finally admitted it was going to be a sleepless night and got up. The house was quiet save for the quiet patter of a gentle rain on the skylight in the stairwell as she went downstairs. She paused outside the room that had once been a study but was now serving as a bedroom to save her uncle the stairs. All was quiet and, she hoped, well. She felt a tug of sadness as she remembered how awful it had been for that strong, determined man to admit that while he would be better, he would never be completely well again.
In a way, Brett Dunbar reminded her of Uncle Chuck. He, too, she was certain, would fight long and furiously before admitting defeat. If he ever would.
She didn’t realize she was touching her lips until she came out of the haze of memory. That kiss. Kisses, she corrected. She was just as much to blame. More, perhaps, since hers had come second, indicating approval of the first.
To blame? Why those words? Hadn’t she told him not to apologize? Where
had the thought of blame come from? From guilt about kissing someone other than Jason?
And why don’t you just stand here hanging on to the banister talking to yourself the rest of the night?
She shook her head sharply. Obviously how tired her eyes were didn’t factor into ability to sleep. She should fix some hot chocolate, find something mindless on television, anything but what she found herself about to do.
She did it anyway. She booted up the laptop she’d left down on the kitchen table. And did what she’d sworn she wouldn’t do: she ran a search on Brett Dunbar. She scanned the recent entries. Found no surprises. She’d already known he was good at his job, and the mentions of cases he’d broken were just further proof. She narrowed the search by date and location until she found what she was after, feeling a bit morbid even as she did it.
The stories were there even after all this time. It had been headline news in Los Angeles. She couldn’t stomach the gruesome details. What Brett had told her had been more than enough. She couldn’t imagine what it had taken for him to even say it.
She found a photo gallery and hesitated. But it was a publicly accessible site, so surely they wouldn’t print anything gruesome, she figured. And clicked.
The first picture was a pair of mug shots, two hardened-looking men, one with deep scratches on the left side of his face. Her breath caught. Had Brett’s wife done that? Had she fought them, gotten her licks in, as Jason used to say? Somehow that thought was almost as grim as an actual photo would have been.
She nearly quit but clicked once more. And a lovely, smiling woman was looking at her with warm brown eyes. She had blond hair in a short pixie style that suited her and a smile that fit everything Brett had said about her. Almost involuntarily she clicked again, needing to get away from that picture. And instead found herself looking at a shot of Brett himself, flanked by several others, coming out of the courthouse where the trial had taken place. For a moment she just stared, aching inside at the devastation so clear on his face. He looked not his lean, rangy self now but thin, hollowed out, as if he hadn’t eaten for weeks.
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