Dylan’s kiss had heightened her desire, fueled her passion, until she thought she might spontaneously combust.
Natalie couldn’t remember ever feeling so overwhelmed, so out of control. But she was embarrassed, and terrified by how close she’d come to forgetting the difficult lessons of her past. She owed Dylan an explanation but wasn’t sure she had one to give. “I’m sorry for letting things get out of hand. We have to work together, Lieutenant.”
Dylan held her gaze. “Is that really what’s holding you back?”
“No.” She smiled wryly. “I don’t like to make mistakes.”
“What makes you so sure we’d be a mistake?”
“Because I like you, Lieutenant, and I have notoriously bad taste in men.”
BULLETPROOF HEARTS
BRENDA HARLEN
Books by Brenda Harlen
Silhouette Intimate Moments
McIver’s Mission #1224
Some Kind of Hero #1246
Extreme Measures #1282
Bulletproof Hearts #1313
BRENDA HARLEN
grew up in a small town surrounded by books and imaginary friends. Although she always dreamed of being a writer, she chose to follow a more traditional career path first. After two years of practicing as an attorney (including an appearance in front of the Supreme Court of Canada), she gave up her “real” job to be a mom and to try her hand at writing books. Three years, five manuscripts and another baby later, she sold her first book—an RWA Golden Heart Winner—to Silhouette.
Brenda lives in southern Ontario with her real-life husband/hero, two heroes-in-training and two neurotic dogs. She is still surrounded by books (“too many books,” according to her children) and imaginary friends, but she also enjoys communicating with “real” people. Readers can contact Brenda by e-mail at [email protected] or by snail mail c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
To Stephanie Currie, thanks for sharing your expertise on martinis and medical matters—both of which played an important role in the creation of this story.
To Kevin McCarragher, an artist of a different genre, thanks for your continued encouragement and support over the years.
This book is dedicated to both of you with love and fondest wishes for your very own happily-ever-after.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
A cop shouldn’t have dimples.
That was assistant district attorney Natalie Vaughn’s first thought when she set eyes on Lieutenant Dylan Creighton in the reception area. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t the more than six feet of trim, hard muscle towering over Molly’s desk.
Older, she thought inanely. She’d definitely expected someone older. A grizzled, potbellied cop whose years on the job had made him hard and cynical. It was ridiculous, of course, to make assumptions about anyone. She’d learned long ago that people were rarely who or what they appeared to be.
Dylan Creighton was neither grizzled nor potbellied. And when he smiled at Molly, the D.A.’s secretary, dimples flashed.
Natalie had never been particularly susceptible to dimples. She’d always thought they were boyish, a likely sign of immaturity. But on Lieutenant Creighton, as part of a whole package that could be described as nothing less than mouth-watering, those dimples were devastating.
Thankfully, she wasn’t susceptible to dimples or men. Not anymore. She’d made enough mistakes in her life as far as the male gender was concerned, and she’d learned her lessons the hard way. She wouldn’t forget them just because this man’s mere appearance sent her hormones into overdrive.
Still, she’d been so caught up in her perusal she jolted when the phone on her desk buzzed. She forced herself to take a deep calming breath before she picked up the receiver.
“Lieutenant Creighton’s here to see you,” Molly said.
“Send him in.” Natalie was pleased that her voice sounded level, coolly professional. She had no intention of letting the man—or anyone else—know that she was flustered.
She replaced the receiver in the cradle and turned to dig the Merrick file out of the neat stack on the corner of her desk.
The sharp rap of knuckles on glass preceded his entry into her office. Natalie glanced up, a cool but pleasant smile on her lips as she prepared to greet him. She opened her mouth to speak, but her breath caught in her throat.
He filled the small space, his presence overwhelming her. The clean lines of his dark suit couldn’t disguise the raw power of his broad shoulders, wide chest and long, lean legs. Mid- to late-thirties, she estimated, with dark—almost black—hair, cut short. His nose was straight, his chin square, his cheekbones chiseled. A real man’s man, and every female part of Natalie instinctively responded.
“Dylan Creighton,” he said, offering his hand across the scarred wooden desktop.
For a moment, she was too mesmerized by his eyes to respond. She had never before seen such an incredible shade of blue—so deep and dark any woman would gladly drown in them.
Any other woman, she amended, and accepted his proffered hand. “Natalie Vaughn.”
Still, she could tell that he’d sensed her hesitation. “I’m here to brief you on the Merrick case. I thought you were expecting me.”
“Yes. Of course. I just—” wasn’t expecting so much of you. “I was working on another file. Preparing for court tomorrow.”
“Shouldn’t Merrick be your priority?” He was frowning as he folded his arms over his chest. The flex of his biceps—impressive, she had to admit—was evident in the way the material of his jacket stretched tautly over the muscles.
Natalie pushed her hair away from her face and met his gaze evenly. She refused to be intimidated, but she couldn’t deny that her heart had skipped a beat. Not because she was afraid, but because she’d wondered—for just half a second—how it might feel to have those arms wrapped around her. And the pang of longing that accompanied the fleeting thought annoyed as much as it surprised her.
“Thanks for your interest in my workload,” she said coolly. “But I have four trials next week and Merrick isn’t one of them. We don’t even pick the jury for his trial until the end of the month.”
“If you don’t plan on giving this case the attention it deserves, I’m wasting my time here.”
“My time’s as valuable as yours, Lieutenant, and if you want Mr. Merrick put behind bars—where I fully intend to put him—you’ll sit down so we can discuss the case.”
Creighton sat, but the scowl on his face only darkened. No sign of those dimples anywhere.
Natalie wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said stiffly. “But the last time we nabbed Merrick, your boss let him walk on a technicality. I don’t want to see that happen again.”
His criticism put her back up. “I’m aware of the situation, Lieutenant. I’m also aware that there was some question regarding the chain of evidence, which resulted in the charges being dropped.
“Prosecutors are only able to work with the evidence they’re given,” she reminded him. “As long as the evidence is there, we’ll put Roger Merrick away.”
“It’s Conroy I want,” he told her.
The statement, as much as his passionate delivery of it, made her pause. “Conroy?”
&nb
sp; He shook his head, as if exasperated by her obvious lack of understanding. “Zane Conroy.”
“I know the name,” she said icily. “I just don’t know why you think this case has anything to do with him.”
“Because I know Conroy.”
Natalie’s smile was as cool as her tone. “And if your apparent familiarity with the man in question was admissible evidence, he would no doubt have been indicted on numerous charges already.”
He seemed taken aback by her response at first, then he chuckled. The deep, rich sound of his laughter was both unexpected and unexpectedly warm, and it defused some of the tension that had built between them.
“Okay, I guess I deserved that.” He smiled, subjecting her to the full impact of those dimples. “And you deserve an apology.”
She sat back, waited.
“I am sorry. This case is important to me, and I was annoyed to hear that Beckett had delegated it to…”
“Me?” she supplied.
He smiled again. “Not you personally, but to the newest employee in the office.”
“Which would be me.”
“I thought he would want to handle the case himself.”
“Apparently not,” she said.
“How old are you, anyway?”
Natalie frowned. “What does my age have to do with anything?”
“How old?” he asked again.
He had no right to ask and she had no obligation to answer. But she understood the importance of picking her battles, and she sensed there could be many of those with Lieutenant Creighton. “Thirty-one.”
“You look younger.”
“I still don’t see the relevance of this.”
“It’s relevant because I’m trying to figure out why John Beckett would assign a case with such potentially explosive consequences to an attorney who’s still wet behind the ears.” Then he took the sting out of his words with another of those mind-numbing smiles. “Although they’re very cute ears.”
Natalie swallowed, unnerved by the unexpected comment. Was the sexier-than-a-GQ-cover-model lieutenant actually flirting with her? If so, she was sure it was nothing personal. He was probably just one of those guys who didn’t know how to turn off the charm. That didn’t mean she had to succumb to it. Especially not when he’d just questioned her professional competency, albeit in somewhat complimentary terms.
“You’re the only one who believes this case is anything more than the routine prosecution of a small-time drug dealer,” she told him. “And for your information, I graduated summa cum laude from the University of Chicago Law School five years ago.”
“And you’ve been working as a public defender out of a west-end legal clinic in that city ever since.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised by his reference to her previous work. It was hardly a secret. But something in his tone, or maybe it was the intense scrutiny of those eyes, made her uneasy. Which only made her all the more determined not to show it.
“What brought you to Fairweather?” he asked.
“I was looking for a change and this job was available.”
“You just suddenly decided you’d rather prosecute than defend society’s criminal element?”
Despite the casual tone of the question, Natalie got the impression his interest in her response was anything but casual. “Alleged criminal element,” she said pointedly. “Everyone’s innocent until proven guilty.”
He laughed again, and Natalie was grateful she was already sitting down, because there was something about that warm chuckle that made her knees weak.
“Somehow I doubt you spouted that line during your interview with the district attorney,” he said.
“John Beckett is aware of the work I did in Chicago. In fact, he thought my previous experience made me ideally suited for this position. Who better to anticipate the arguments of a defense attorney than someone who used to be one?”
“I’ll reserve judgment on that,” Creighton allowed.
“Fine,” she said. “In the meantime, maybe you could tell me why you think Roger Merrick will lead you to Zane Conroy.”
“What do you know about Conroy?”
“Not a lot,” she admitted. And she didn’t know if what she’d heard about him was mostly fact or fiction, but his name had been spoken with a reverence usually reserved for the most powerful and dangerous of men.
“Let me enlighten you,” Creighton said. “On the surface, he’s a respected and respectable businessman. He has several apparently legitimate companies, including a local restaurant and a printing company, but his most successful business is sales.”
“Drugs?”
“Mostly. He also deals in weapons and women, and anything else, so long as the price is right. His interests extend from Fairweather to Atlantic City down to Miami and all points in between. With a network like that, there has to be a weak link somewhere.”
“And you think it’s Merrick.”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Because he’s a junkie who deals to support his own habit, and he’s terrified by the possibility of spending any amount of time in jail—away from his supply. If we get a conviction on this, he’ll give us Conroy.”
“Maybe,” she allowed. “If he can.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“If Conroy’s influence is as extensive as you believe, he must inspire a great deal of loyalty—or fear.”
“Both,” he agreed.
“And it seems unlikely that someone like Merrick—a small-time local dealer—would even have met the man.”
“Unlikely,” he agreed. “Except that Conroy’s younger sister dated Merrick a few years back—a fact which didn’t make Conroy any too happy.”
“Why did he allow Merrick to continue working for him?”
Creighton shrugged. “Some men will go to extreme lengths to please the women in their lives.”
“Are you speaking from experience, Lieutenant?” It was a personal question and certainly not one she’d planned to ask, but it seemed his presence was interfering with the normal functioning of her brain as well as her hormones.
He only smiled again. “I was talking about Conroy—he and his sister are supposedly very close,” he explained. “But this is Merrick’s second arrest in less than a year, and Conroy has little tolerance for mistakes in his organization. That’s why I believe Merrick is the key to bringing him down.”
“Then let’s get started.” Natalie opened the file, eager to focus on something other than the lieutenant’s broad shoulders, too-blue eyes and killer smile.
Even if she wasn’t susceptible, there was no point in tempting fate.
When Dylan finally left Natalie’s office more than an hour later, it was with a grudging respect for the young prosecutor. And she was young. Thirty-one years old with five years’ experience was too young, too inexperienced, for the job she had to do. Obviously John Beckett thought otherwise, but Dylan wasn’t convinced. There was something about her youthful innocence, her freshness and naïveté, that bothered him. Or maybe it was just the woman herself who bothered him.
It had been so long since he’d had any feelings about anything other than the job, he might have laughed at the notion. Except that he couldn’t deny the spark of attraction he’d felt—a spark that was as unwelcome and unfamiliar as the heat it kindled inside him. It was more than interest, stronger than attraction. It was desire—pure and simple, and the quick and unexpected punch of it both intrigued and terrified him.
It intrigued him simply because it had been so long since he’d felt such an elemental attraction. And it terrified him for exactly the same reason. More than four years had passed since Beth had been taken from his life, and each day since had stretched like an eternity without her. But now, those four years seemed much too short. He wasn’t ready to forget about her, and acknowledging even the stirring of an attraction to another woman seemed like a betrayal of everything they’d shared.
All things con
sidered, it would be best if he could pretend he’d never met Natalie Vaughn. Unfortunately, the nature of their respective jobs necessitated that they’d cross paths and demanded cooperation when they did so.
Which left him trapped in the awkward position between duty and desire. His only hope was to focus on the former and forget the latter. After one meeting with the new A.D.A., he sensed that would be easier said than done.
But Dylan was determined. Since Beth’s death, he’d channeled his focus and his passion into his work. He had one reason for getting out of bed every morning: to put Beth’s killer behind bars. He didn’t intend to let anything—or anyone—interfere with that goal.
In his gut, he knew that the arrest of Roger Merrick was the break he’d been waiting for. Rumors on the street suggested that Merrick had connections that went all the way to the top; connections that could topple Conroy’s entire syndicate.
So that would be the focus of his attention, Dylan promised himself as he crossed the parking lot that separated the D.A.’s office from the police station. The very last thing he needed right now was the distraction of a woman, and Natalie Vaughn had “distraction” written all over her in capital letters.
The bullpen was loud, as it always was, the cacophony of sounds both comfortable and familiar. The air was thick with tension and tinged with the scent of bitter coffee. Dylan made his way through the maze of battered desks and ringing telephones to his office. He’d just settled into his chair when Ben Tierney rapped his knuckles against the open door and stepped inside.
“How’d the meeting with the new A.D.A. go?”
“All right.” Dylan didn’t bother to look up from the report he’d opened, feigning a profound interest in the psychological profile of a serial rapist. He was certainly more interested in the report than in anything the detective had to say.
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