by Maggie Price
“Maybe.” His eyes narrowed. “What brought this on?”
“Nothing.”
“Something must have.”
Her gaze rose to trace the scar that jagged from the center of his forehead into his hairline. The familiar knot of guilt tightened her chest. “You took care of me through the worst time of my life,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I’d have made it without you.”
He turned and walked to the French doors at the far end of the room. “Ken was my partner,” he said, staring out into the winter darkness. “My friend. The least I could do was lend his sister a shoulder to cry on.”
“That was exactly what I needed then.”
“But not now. You’re over the worst of it, and it’s time to tie up loose ends.”
She walked to his side, her heels clicking against the floor, then going silent when she stepped onto the braided rug. “You’re not a loose end.” A flash of emotion in his eyes made her feel like a jerk. “I’m sorry, Greg. I can’t make myself feel what isn’t inside me.”
“Hell, I know that.”
Her fingers curved around his. “You’re not to blame for what happened to Ken. I wish you could believe that.”
He expelled a slow breath. Beneath the room’s recessed lights she saw pain in his eyes...and acceptance. “Do you have any idea how much I’m going to miss you?”
“There’s no need. You’re welcome here any time.”
He gave her a resigned nod and slid an arm around her shoulders. “Well, friend, how about let’s go to the dance and have a good time?”
A.J. allowed herself a moment to feel the spring release of tension that came with relief. Then she looked up and smiled. “My pleasure.”
Chapter 11
Michael’s first thought when A.J. stepped through the ballroom’s mistletoe-draped doorway was that she was quite deliberately trying to drive him out of his mind.
Shimmery black sequins hugged sensuous curves, revealing nearly as much flesh as fabric. Diamonds circled her throat. The overhead lights turned her skin luminous, ivory touched by gold. Her hair was a tumble of dark waves, shot with streaks that brought warm, rich brandy to mind.
The need that rose inside him was so total he could hardly breathe. Hardly stop himself from walking the few steps it would take to reach her and forcibly remove Greg Lawson’s arm from its possessive hold around her waist.
Clenching his fingers on his tumbler of Scotch, Michael turned toward the sea of round tables covered with red cloths and centerpieces of foil packages. He dragged in a ragged breath. Then another. He wished the party goers would all disappear. All except a gorgeous dark-haired woman in black sequins.
He cursed the moronic reasoning of two days ago that had prompted him to break off their kiss and take a step back. It had been an idiotic attempt on his part to spare her from later regret. A deep-seated masculine need to claim her rose in him, and he thought with a sudden start how truly he regretted not having tossed her to the carpet and plundered her.
The volume of voices rose as people packed the ballroom, becoming swirls of color in a sea of holiday gaiety. Michael barely noticed. He was too busy labeling himself a fool for expecting A.J. to give herself to a man who put conditions on his trust in her. Without trust, no relationship stood a chance. He knew that, so why the hell had he thought theirs different?
He downed the contents of his glass, letting the hard bite of the Scotch course through him. He was falling in love with her. Hell, maybe he was already there. And with love, came trust. She was innocent of everything he’d once suspected her guilty of. He knew that. In his heart he knew.
And what about her brother?
Michael bit down on a frustrated curse. The evidence against Ken Duncan was overwhelming. Still, as A.J. was quick to point out, it was circumstantial, every bit of it. She loved her brother, believed him innocent—she knew he was; in her heart she knew.
“Dammit!” Michael muttered, shoving his empty glass onto the tray of a scurrying waiter. In the back of his mind he’d always acknowledged the possibility that Duncan had been set up. But the evidence against the man was so compelling....
Go back to the beginning, he told himself. Turn Ken Duncan’s life inside out again. Instead of looking for the black and white of things, focus on the gray.
For the first time since he became a cop, Michael hoped the instincts that guided him like radar had somehow erred. For A.J.’s sake, he wanted Ken Duncan cleared of wrongdoing. Wanted it, but doubted it would ever happen.
Expelling a resigned sigh, Michael turned in the direction where he’d last seen A.J. His eyes instantly narrowed against the wall of platinum and silver that blocked his view.
“I’ve looked all over for you,” Helene St. John said, her red-glossed lips curving into a sensuous smile.
“You found me.” He lifted an eyebrow, wondering how many of their fellow officers had experienced heart failure at the sight of Helene’s strapless slit-to-the-thigh dress of silver beads with a plunging neckline. Platinum hair pulled back in loose curls accented sculpted cheekbones, making her eyes seem enormous. She looked coolly regal, like a snowy ice princess who’d come in from the cold.
Helene tilted her head, sweeping cascading silver earrings across her bare shoulders. “You look like a man with some heavy thoughts.”
“It’s the tux,” Michael said easily, wondering how long he’d been under her scrutiny. And why.
She sipped champagne from the crystal flute she’d brought with her. “How so?”
“I get morose when I put on one of these things. Makes me feel like I’m going to a funeral. My own.”
Helene’s soft, smoky laughter drifted on the air. “Most men ought to avoid wearing a tux, that’s for sure. Just the thought of all the cummerbunds strapped around potbellies in this very room makes me shudder.” Closing the gap between them, she tucked her hand into the curve of his elbow while her eyes performed a slow, intimate slide down his body. “You make me shudder, Lieutenant, but for far different reasons.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s more than that.” Her eyes came up to meet his. “It’s an invitation.”
“One I have to turn down,” Michael said quietly. “I’m involved with someone.”
“Oh.” For a split second her nails curled into his sleeve, then just as quickly she dropped her hand. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” He flicked a look across her shoulder. A.J. and Lawson had found chairs at a table on the far side of the dance floor. Grant Pierce and Sky Milano, sans horn-rimmed glasses and lab coat, had joined them.
Helene’s gaze followed his. After a moment she lifted her chin and gave him a narrow smile. “Doesn’t A.J. look...nice?”
“Yes.” Try gorgeous, he thought.
“She and Greg Lawson make an attractive couple, don’t you think?”
“Can’t say I’ve thought about it.”
“You know, when I started on the task force I had my doubts whether you and A.J. could work together.”
Helene’s tone was matter-of-fact, her expression guileless. But Michael knew when someone was digging for information, and the woman standing at his side had a shovel.
“A.J. and I work together just fine.”
“Mmm.”
He cocked his head. “Make your point, Helene.”
“Oh, there’s really no point. It’s just that you busted her brother from detective to patrolman. There’s bound to be some resentment on A.J.’s part.”
“If there is, she hasn’t let it interfere with her work.”
“Well, I’d never tell her this, but between you and me, Ken deserved that demotion. He wasn’t a man to let little things like rules and procedures get in his way.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. Helene had his full attention. “Meaning?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you.” She pursed her lips while tracing a frosted fingernail around the rim of her glass. “Oh, hell, i
t hardly matters now that he’s dead.”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“I went to a shift party about a week after Ken died. You know how it is at those things—you drink, tell jokes. Pretty soon the conversation centers on what’s gone down on the street.”
Michael nodded and waited.
“The subject turned to Ken, and we all made a pact to nail the bastard who shot him. Then somebody mentioned how Ken was the kind of officer you wanted next to you any time there was trouble. How, in a pinch, he was absolutely fearless, always right out in front when you faced the bad guys.”
“I’ve heard that about him,” Michael commented.
“The talk went on like that for a while. After a couple more rounds of drinks, the mood changed. Somebody spoke up about how he’d seen Ken palming cash more than once.”
Michael felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and just as quickly he forced back his hound-on-a-scent reaction. Focus on the gray, he reminded himself.
Helene snagged the attention of a roving waiter, pausing until he refilled her glass with a gush of champagne before continuing. “Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like Ken cheated little old ladies out of their social-security checks or anything like that.”
“How was it?”
“You did your time on the street, Lieutenant. You know what goes on.”
“Remind me.”
Her lips curved. “You bust in on a drug dealer and there’s a mountain of illegal money piled on the kitchen counter. The doper is the last one who’ll holler if some evidence against him disappears.”
“True.”
“Anyway, that night at the party, there were about three or four cops who wound up agreeing that anytime Ken Duncan ran onto a situation like that, there’d be a couple thousand less booked into evidence.”
“You want to give me those officers’ names?”
A pale plucked brow arched as she regarded him. “Why does it matter who they are?” she asked quietly. “Ken’s dead, after all.”
Michael kept his expression even, his gaze locked with hers. His senses sounded the message that a subtle, undefinable shift in the Duncan investigation had just taken place. He had no idea what that shift was, but hell if he wouldn’t give it a push in the new direction.
“When I took over Homicide, I reviewed the file on Duncan’s death,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s one thing bothering me.”
Helene blinked. “What’s that?”
“The handcuff case on his belt was empty.”
“Maybe whoever shot him took his cuffs for a souvenir.”
“No. He carried his cuffs on a leather strap on his belt.”
Helene lifted a shoulder. “He probably kept a backup gun in his handcuff case, then. Lots of cops do.”
“Maybe a gun,” Michael agreed thoughtfully. “Maybe a recorder.”
He caught the instant tightening of Helene’s fingers on her glass. “A recorder? Why would you think that?”
“Something came up about Ken making tapes.”
“Really? What?”
“Nothing specific.” Michael shook his head and gave her an easy smile. “Like you said, it doesn’t matter now that he’s dead.”
The high-pitched squeal of a microphone split the air. Chief McMillan’s cultured voice boomed from the dais, asking everyone to take a seat.
Helene kept her eyes on Michael, saying nothing.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No.” She inhaled a deep breath and took a step closer, brushing a breast discreetly against his arm. “I’m sitting with Kevin Stoner and his wife. Come join us. I promise I’ll make him keep his disgusting cup of tobacco spit out of sight.”
“Thanks, but I can’t,” Michael said, amazed by how quickly the wariness had disappeared from her eyes. “McMillan has the division heads sitting at a table by the dais.” He inclined his head in the direction of an enormous Christmas tree, twinkling with multicolored lights. “I figure the chief wants to keep an eye on us.”
“Someone should,” she said quietly, then raised on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his cheek. “I definitely think someone should.” She swept off, leaving a cloud of rich floral scent in her wake.
Michael watched her go. Why, he wondered, had she felt the need to hammer a few nails into Ken Duncan’s coffin?
Two undercover cops ventured by, snaring his attention. They visited a moment, then Michael started toward the front of the ballroom. Halfway there, he stopped in his tracks. He didn’t analyze why he turned, didn’t question what fine-honed instinct prompted him to look in the direction of the table where A.J. sat. He just did it.
In the split second that followed, he saw that Helene had circled back toward the table. Saw her give Greg Lawson a cold, narrowed-eyed look, then turn and stalk away.
Ten seconds later, Lawson followed her out the door.
A.J. used her fork to nudge the untouched roast beef on her plate. Around her, sounds of clinking china and the murmur of voices raised in festivity filled the ballroom. The clamor made her head pound. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t eat, not with the vicious ache that had settled inside her when she watched Helene rise on tiptoes and plant a kiss on Michael’s cheek.
Envy, white hot and fang infested, had stormed through her system, ripped through her heart. Now, she sat as stiff as a nail at the gaily decorated table, trying valiantly to appear normal with every muscle in her body clenched in agonizing knots.
“A.J., is something wrong?” Sky Milano asked from the chair beside hers.
“What?” She laid her fork aside. “No.”
“I was saying that Colorado got a foot of snow today,” the chemist offered. “Greg’s probably having trouble getting his call through. I’m sure he’ll be back in a minute.”
A.J. turned her head and stared at the empty chair beside her. She had no idea how long Greg had been gone. All her senses had focused on the pulse-stopping memory of a silver-clad body pressed against a black tux.
Setting her jaw, A.J. dropped her gaze and realized she had the hem of the tablecloth wadded in her fist. She forced her hand to unclench, then reached for her wineglass. She drained its contents in two quick gulps.
Grant Pierce wrapped an arm around Sky’s shoulders and leaned in. “A.J., it’s your fault your date’s having to spend his time on the phone, you know that, don’t you?”
She blinked. The wine had gone straight to her empty stomach, then shot to her brain. “What?”
“You look so fine tonight, Lawson couldn’t think straight. That’s why he forgot until now to call and check on his sick mother.”
Sky gave a decidedly unladylike snort. “Why is it men always blame their screwups on the nearest woman?”
“Reflex.” Grant gave Sky an unrepenting grin while his eyes did a slow examination of her slim red dress dotted with tiny seed pearls. “I almost fell off your front porch tonight when you opened the door. If I’d been injured, it would have been your fault.”
Sky plucked an olive off his plate and popped it into her mouth. “Is that right?”
“You bet. I was expecting Madame Curie and got Miss America. The shock nearly did me in.”
Sky rolled her eyes. “You’re full of it, Detective.”
On the dais, Chief McMillan rose and made his usual polished, politically refined remarks. He introduced the mayor and members of the city council while a flurry of white-jacketed waiters discreetly traded empty dinner plates for slices of chocolate cheesecake.
Greg reappeared at the table just as the lights dimmed and the band’s first steady, sensuous notes filled the air.
“How’s your mom?” A.J. asked over the soft strains of “Completely.”
He stared down at her for a long moment, then shoved his empty chair under the table with silverware-rattling force. “I have to go.”
The sharpness in his voice had her straining to see his expression in the wash of dim light. His mouth was set,
his eyes hard. “What’s wrong?”
Ignoring her question, he turned to Grant Pierce. “Do me a favor. Give A.J. a lift home.”
“Be happy to,” Grant said after exchanging a puzzled glance with Sky.
“I’ll talk to you later, A.J.” Without further explanation, Greg turned and walked away, disappearing into the maze of moving bodies on the dance floor.
“Wait!” A.J. tossed her napkin onto her cheesecake and was out of her chair in one smooth move. “Greg, wait.”
She plunged through the swirl of dancers, nearly losing her footing on the floor’s waxed surface before she snagged his sleeve.
He swung around, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t have time to talk—”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“But—”
His hands shot out, grabbing her by the shoulders in a hard grip that made her wince. “Dammit, leave it alone,” he hissed. “Leave everything the hell alone!”
The sudden ferocity in his tone had her pulling back in a futile attempt to free herself from his grasp. “Leave what—”
“Forget it!” He spat a crude curse. “I should have known. I damn well should have known.” He released his grip, turned and shouldered his way toward the door.
She stood in shocked stillness, staring at his retreating form, wondering through an incredulous haze if she should go after him. In the next instant when her brain resumed functioning, she dismissed the idea. She was riding an emotional roller coaster herself; she was in no state to deal with someone taking a crazy ride of his own.
She set her jaw, fighting for control. She needed to think. Needed to get away from everything and everybody.
Her hands curled in frustration when she realized all she’d stuffed into her evening bag was a tube of lipstick and a couple of dollars—nowhere near enough for cab fare. She either had to burn money off someone or hang around until Grant and Sky decided to leave.
“Dammit to hell!” She whirled, and collided with an immovable wall of muscled iron.
“Is there a problem?” Michael asked, reaching out a steadying hand to cup her elbow.
“No. Yes.”
His brows drew together, smoothed again. “Which is it?”