Bulletproof Hearts

by Brenda Harlen

  He should be grateful she’d had the sense to back away from a potentially volatile situation. A situation that he’d created despite the knowledge that any kind of personal relationship between them was a bad idea. But he wasn’t feeling grateful, only annoyed and incredibly frustrated.

  He adjusted the weight on the machine and began his repetitions with a vengeance.

  “Someone’s in a mood this morning.”

  Dylan glanced up at Joel Logan, a local private investigator and longtime friend. “I haven’t seen you around here in a while,” he said, opting to ignore Joel’s comment.

  “I’m a newlywed,” his friend reminded him. “I’ve found more enjoyable forms of exercise to start my day.”

  He deliberately let the weights slam together again.

  “Tough case you’re working on?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then what’s put you in such a mood?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my mood,” Dylan denied.

  Joel shrugged and sat down at the rowing machine. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say you don’t want to talk about it.”

  He started to say just that, changed his mind. He did want to talk about it. More, he needed to talk about it. And Joel was just the person to talk to. “What do you know about the new A.D.A.?”

  Joel eased back, released the handles. “Natalie Vaughn?”

  He nodded.

  “Not a lot,” his friend admitted. “Only that she moved here from Chicago to fill the vacant position. And, according to the papers, she’s a witness to the murder of a drug dealer.”

  “She didn’t actually see the murder. She found the body.”

  “And?”

  He hesitated. He’d started this conversation because he knew he lacked objectivity where Natalie was concerned and he wanted someone else’s opinion. But now that he had Joel’s attention, he was reluctant to voice his concerns. Reluctant to admit aloud how preoccupied he’d become with the new A.D.A.

  “I’m not sure,” Dylan admitted. “There’s something about this case, the way it’s unfolding and her part in it, that’s bothering me.”

  “Or maybe it’s just the new A.D.A. who’s bothering you?”

  He wanted to deny it, but he knew his friend would see right through him. Not only was Joel a P.I., he used to be a cop—and a damn good one, too. Any denial would only lead to more questions, so he opted for diversion instead. “The murder vic—the drug dealer—worked for Conroy.”

  All trace of amusement fled from Joel’s face. He rubbed a hand unconsciously over his abdomen, over the scar from the bullet one of Conroy’s thugs had plugged into him several years earlier. “Can you prove it?”

  “I thought I could.”

  “Maybe Conroy thought you could, too. Maybe that’s why Merrick’s dead.”

  Dylan nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

  “But?”

  “But I don’t understand where Natalie fits in.”

  “Natalie?”

  He cursed himself for the slip. “Vaughn,” he clarified. “The A.D.A.”

  Joel looked as though he wanted to comment further, but he let it pass, focusing instead on the investigation. “Why does Natalie—” he grinned “—have to fit in?”

  “It wasn’t a coincidence that she found Merrick’s body. Someone called her, pretending to be Merrick. Someone deliberately set her up to find him dead.”

  “Sounds like something Conroy would do—manipulating her, testing her.”

  “But why?”

  Joel shrugged. “To see how she responds. To see if she might challenge him. Because he’s a sick bastard.”

  Dylan couldn’t deny any of those possibilities. “I don’t like it. And I don’t understand why a young, apparently bright attorney would give up a burgeoning career to move more than seven hundred miles away. To Fairweather, no less.”

  “You think she must have some ulterior motive for settling in our fair city?”

  “You can’t already have forgotten about Warren Blake,” he chided.

  “No,” Joel agreed. “But just because the former A.D.A. had an agenda doesn’t mean Natalie Vaughn does.”

  “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t, either.”

  “Do you really believe she’s on a mission? Or are you afraid of the way you feel about her?”

  He scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s pretty obvious that Ms. Vaughn has got under your skin, and you don’t know what to do about it.”

  “No one has gotten under my skin.”

  “Then why are you asking me these questions? Why aren’t you doing your own detective work to get the answers you want?”

  “Because I’m not sure it would be ethical for me to investigate her background when I have to work with her.”

  “Or because you’d feel guilty for taking subversive action when your interest is personal.”

  “Bull.”

  “If you want my advice,” Joel told him. “Don’t do it. Don’t go digging for answers that she’d probably provide if you just bothered to ask. That’s a mistake I made with Riane, and I wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive me for the deception.”

  “This is hardly the same situation,” he said. “You were in love with Riane.”

  “Not at first. And I had all kinds of excuses and justifications for what I was doing, but what it came down to in the end was that she’d trusted me and I’d let her down.”

  “I just need to know that she is who she says she is.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe she’s not?”

  Certain details nagged at the back of his mind: the fancy hotel room, the designer clothes. She certainly didn’t fit the image of an overworked and underpaid civil servant. But his suspicion was just that, with nothing of substance to back him up. Not yet, anyway. “No,” he said at last.

  “Then let it go.”

  Dylan nodded his agreement, but he wasn’t sure he could.

  When she’d accepted the job in Fairweather, Natalie thought she’d planned for all contingencies. She hadn’t anticipated the complication of Lieutenant Creighton. Maybe she should have, but it had been so long since she’d felt anything for any man. After her disastrous relationship with Jack’s father, she’d concentrated on two things: her son and her career. She’d dated little, and only when social obligations warranted. She was too busy raising a boy to even think about a relationship with a man.

  Until Dylan Creighton walked into her office.

  He was the first man in more than seven years to pique her curiosity, stir her hormones.

  Stir? The man had simply touched her last night—nothing more than his hands on her shoulders—and she’d practically been reduced to a quivering mass of need. The fact that he apparently reciprocated her feelings only made them that much more difficult to ignore.

  Still, she was confident that he’d soon lose interest. In her experience, men lived for the chase, but without encouragement, they quickly grew tired or moved on to other prey.

  All she had to do was keep their relationship strictly professional and he would move on. Besides, he was probably only interested because she was new in town and he’d already conquered all the natives. Well, Natalie had no intention of being the latest in what was undoubtedly a long list of conquests. She had no intention of being conquered by any man.

  Wednesday night, Natalie realized she’d made a mistake in underestimating the sexy police lieutenant. It seemed as if every time she turned around, she was running into the man she most wanted to avoid.

  This time it was at Carla’s Pizzeria.

  She was walking out as he was coming in, and the easy grin he gave her completely melted her bones. Damn, but he should be required to have a license for that smile—and those dimples were positively lethal.

  She tried to pass, but he remained in the doorway, unapologetically blocking her route. “That’s a big pizza,” he commented.

  She sh
rugged. “Take-out special.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Nothing illegal,” she assured him, shifting the large square box.

  He grinned again, and her knees nearly buckled.

  “Are you sharing it with anyone?” he asked.

  “I don’t know many people in this town, and I don’t know anyone else who likes anchovies on their pizza.”

  “You know me, and I like anchovies.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head. “And I can’t imagine you’ll be able to finish all that by yourself.”

  “Leftovers are good for breakfast,” she told him.

  “You’d eat pizza for breakfast?”

  “Why not?”

  He just shook his head again. “Share your pizza with me and I’ll buy you a box of cereal,” he offered.

  Natalie wasn’t sure it was a good idea to spend any more time than she had to with Lieutenant Creighton. She was sure it was a bad idea to invite him to her hotel. “Why aren’t you utilizing your alleged culinary expertise to prepare your own dinner tonight?”

  “It’s not nearly as much fun cooking for one.”

  Somehow, she didn’t think he’d have any difficulty finding a dinner companion, if that was really what he wanted.

  “It’s not a lot of fun eating pizza alone, either,” he said.

  “Eating is a necessity, not a form of entertainment.”

  “Do you have some moral objection to sharing conversation with a meal?”

  “Not generally,” she allowed.

  “Just tonight—or just with me?”

  “Look, Lieutenant, it’s nothing personal, but—”

  “Isn’t it?” he interrupted.

  She didn’t, couldn’t, respond.

  “I have cold beer in my fridge.”

  She didn’t imagine that his home would be any safer than her room. But she knew she couldn’t continue to refuse without seeming completely antisocial, or without causing the lieutenant to speculate on her reasons for refusal. If he ever figured out how attracted she was to him, she could be in real trouble.

  “And I thought you might be interested in hearing about the progress we’ve made in the Merrick investigation.”

  As if he didn’t know that was an offer she wouldn’t refuse. “All right.”

  He grinned, and the reappearance of those dimples reminded her that this was a very bad idea.

  “Your place or mine?” he asked.

  She was a firm believer in the home-turf advantage, but at present her home turf was dominated by a bed. “Yours.”

  The aromas of basil and garlic teased Dylan’s taste buds when Natalie opened the lid of the flat cardboard box. His mouth began to water in anticipation as he pulled plates and napkins from the cupboard.

  “Smells good.” He peeked over her shoulder at a pizza loaded with toppings—pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, peppers, olives, anchovies.

  But suddenly all he could smell was the fragrance of her shampoo, and all he really wanted was a taste of her.

  He backed away quickly.

  What had he been thinking when he’d invited her into his home? He’d thought it was fate when he’d walked into the pizzeria as Natalie was walking out. Prior to that, the night had yawned ahead of him like a huge void. He’d just wanted company—something to alleviate the emptiness of his evening, the emptiness of his life. Or so he’d convinced himself.

  Now that she was here, he realized he’d been wrong. He didn’t want company—he wanted Natalie.

  He turned his attention to the contents of the refrigerator, reminding himself of all the reasons any personal involvement between them would be a mistake. But he was starting to think it might be worth the risk. “Beer, wine or soda?”

  “Beer’s fine,” she said.

  He grabbed a couple of bottles from the top shelf, twisted off the caps before setting them on the table.

  “Dig in,” he said.

  She helped herself to a slice, the cheese dripping down the sides, toppings sliding away with it. “I assume Carla’s was a good choice if you were planning to get your dinner there, too.”

  “The best pizza in town.”

  Reassured, Natalie bit into her slice.

  Dylan tried to concentrate on his own pizza, but he was preoccupied with thoughts of the woman sitting across from him. His feelings were still unclear, her reasons for coming to Fairweather still suspect. But he couldn’t deny the attraction he felt, an attraction that grew stronger every time he saw her. An attraction that was undoubtedly hampering his objectivity as far as she was concerned.

  “How was youth court today?” It was a neutral topic of conversation, a reminder of their professional relationship. A desperate attempt to keep his attention away from the low neckline of the soft blue top she was wearing. A top that clung enticingly to the gentle curve of her breasts.

  “Slow. We had covered everything on the docket before lunch.”

  “This isn’t Chicago,” he reminded her.

  She raised her bottle of beer in a toasting gesture, the movement causing the low neckline of the shirt to dip a little lower. Low enough that he caught a glimpse of shadowy cleavage.

  “Hear, hear.”

  He forced his gaze upward again, just in time to see her tip the bottle to her lips, to watch the seductive movement of her throat as she swallowed.

  Chicago, he reminded himself. They were talking about Chicago—and it was the perfect opening to pry just a little. “Did you hate it that much?”

  She shrugged, as if she’d already revealed more than she wanted to. “I didn’t hate it,” she denied. “There just weren’t many opportunities for me there.”

  “What kind of opportunities?” What had drawn her away from the city? What could she possibly find in Fairweather that she couldn’t find in Chicago?

  “Job prospects, primarily.”

  “But you had a job.”

  She nodded, and surprised him by admitting, “That I did hate.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it seemed so meaningless.” She selected another slice of pizza from the box, frowned. “I believe that everyone is innocent until proven guilty. I believe every accused person has the right to counsel. But after a while, the ideals aren’t so ideal anymore.”

  “Was there any one case in particular that disillusioned you?”

  She shook her head. “I just got tired of defending the same clients month after month, on the same or similar charges, listening to their pathetic excuses and justifications for breaking the law, and having to turn those explanations into a viable defense.”

  “Burnout,” he concluded.

  She considered, shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “You were looking for a career change.” He could understand that. “Why Fairweather?”

  “Because I really wanted to go to Sacramento,” she told him, “but I’m not licensed to practice law in California.”

  Dylan grinned. “Pennsylvania’s a close second to the capital of the Golden State?”

  “Maybe not close,” she allowed. “But if you’re still thinking that I have some ulterior motive for coming to Fairweather, you’re going to be disappointed. I was looking for a new job, and there was one available here. It was that simple.”

  He still wasn’t convinced of that fact. He also knew she wasn’t going to tell him any more than what she already had. But there was one more question he had to ask, one more thing he needed to know. “Any personal ties back in Chicago?”

  She froze in the act of peeling a slice of pepperoni off her pizza. “What do you mean?”

  “Boyfriend? Fiancé? Husband?”

  “No. To all of the above. And no again.”

  He frowned. He’d wanted to ask about the mysterious “Jack,” but the last part of her response sidetracked him. “What was the last ‘no’?”

  “Not interested.”

  Chapter 5

  Dylan was tempted to pursue the top
ic, tempted to see if he could prove her wrong. Now that he knew she wasn’t involved with anyone else, there was no reason not to see where things might go between them. Except that their working relationship complicated the situation. And even if they didn’t have to work together, he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the depth of the attraction he felt for her—or if he ever would be.

  So instead of tempting fate, he lifted another slice of pizza from the box.

  “You promised me an update on the Merrick case,” she reminded him.

  “There’s not a lot to tell. Although the lab techs did manage to get a serial number off the gun they found in the bushes outside of Merrick’s window.”

  She plucked an olive off her pizza, popped it in her mouth. “I thought it had been filed down.”

  “They use a special kind of acid that acts on the stamped metal to lift the number, allowing us to trace the weapon,” he explained. “Some more sophisticated criminals actually gouge into the weapon with chisels or drills to obliterate any trace of the manufacturer’s mark.”

  “Which means you’ve got an amateur assassin—or someone who wanted the gun to be traced.”

  He nodded, impressed by her insight and logic.

  “Who did the gun belong to?”

  “The registered owner is a man by the name of Ellis Todd, an accountant at Denby & Witter.”

  “You don’t sound very encouraged,” she said. “Don’t you believe CPAs can be criminals?”

  “Of course they can,” he agreed. “And I’d be knocking on his door right now if the charge was embezzlement or tax evasion. But ballistics hasn’t concluded that the discarded gun is the murder weapon.”

  “They can’t prove it, or they haven’t finished the testing?”

  “They haven’t finished the testing.”

  “What’s the next step then?” she asked.

  “I’ll talk to Todd, see if I can shake anything out of him. But I’m not optimistic.”

  “If you can imagine this man guilty of other charges, why is murder so unbelievable?”

  “Not unbelievable, just unlikely. There’s no apparent connection between Merrick and Ellis.”