“What kind of connection were you hoping for?”
“Something. Anything.” He took a long swallow of beer. “Like maybe Merrick had been banging Ellis’s wife—” he broke off, glanced at Natalie apologetically.
She shook her head. “You’d like Ellis better as a suspect if his wife was unfaithful?”
“I’d understand,” he clarified, helping himself to the last slice of pizza.
She rolled her eyes. “Last time I checked, infidelity wasn’t a valid criminal defense.”
“Not a defense—a motive.”
“Ahh. You’re looking for a crime of passion.”
He couldn’t help the slow smile that curved his lips, couldn’t ignore the opening she’d given him. “Aren’t we all looking for passion?”
He watched as the gentle teasing in her eyes faded to wary awareness before she dropped her gaze. She reached for a napkin and concentrated on wiping her fingertips, deliberately avoiding further eye contact. “Some of us are just looking to do our jobs.”
“Is that really all you want, Natalie?”
She crumpled the napkin and nodded, still refusing to look at him.
“Passion doesn’t intrigue you?” he persisted.
“Passion terrifies me,” she admitted, and despite the patent absurdity of the statement, he sensed it was the truth.
“Why?”
“Because it makes people do things they wouldn’t otherwise do.”
“Like commit murder?”
She managed a small smile and finally glanced at him. “Sometimes the consequences are a little less extreme,” she acknowledged. “But there are always consequences.”
Her words confirmed what he’d already suspected: someone had really hurt her. What he hadn’t suspected was the deep and primitive urge that stirred inside him—an urge to find the man who’d done so and make him pay.
“Bottom line,” Dylan said, forcing his attention back to the topic at hand, “is that I’ll be talking to Mr. Todd in the very near future, but I’m not hoping for much.”
“Are there any other leads?”
“Not at this point. Although I’m still optimistic that we’ll turn up something, somewhere, that will lead us to Conroy.”
“Is it true…about the videotapes?”
His gaze sharpened. “Where did you hear about those?”
“Greg Richardson.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That Conroy likes to have tapes made of the executions he orders, apparently for his own viewing pleasure.”
“That’s the rumor,” he agreed. “Although others believe the purpose of the videos is to ensure the continued cooperation of his employees.”
“What do you think?” she asked. “Do the tapes even exist?”
He thought of Joel Logan, of the bullet his friend had taken in the gut, of the videotapes that had been in his hand when he’d gone down. Videos that had never been found.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “They exist.”
She shuddered at the thought, and Dylan decided it was an appropriate time to change the subject.
“Do you like baseball?” he asked.
She seemed surprised by the abrupt question, and a little wary. “Cubs or Sox?”
“How about the Phillies and the Mets? The game’s on TV tonight. Stay and watch it with me.”
“Why?”
His smile was wry. “Because I spend far too many nights sitting home alone.”
The simple honesty of the statement destroyed Natalie’s resolve.
She really should go—for so many reasons, not the least of which was the growing attraction she felt for the lieutenant. Leaving was smart, and for the past seven years, she’d made a concerted effort to do the smart thing, to evaluate all possibilities and the consequences of each. Tonight, for just this once, she wanted to disregard logic and reason. Tonight, she didn’t want to sit in her hotel room alone.
She felt comfortable with Creighton, more comfortable than she’d expected to feel. Somehow, between their first meeting in her office and breakfast at Sam’s Diner, their mutual mistrust had dissipated—or at least been set aside. Since then, she’d realized that she genuinely liked the lieutenant.
He was dedicated. She’d never known anyone so devoted to the quest for truth and justice. He was understanding and compassionate, strong yet gentle. And despite the hazards of his job, he’d retained a sense of humor. He laughed and he made her laugh, and it had been a long time since she’d had anything to laugh about.
It was this liking, far more than the attraction she felt for him, that worried her.
“Will you stay?” he asked again. “For a while?”
No. She definitely had to go. But she said, “For a while.”
The warmth in his smile convinced her that she’d done the right thing in accepting his invitation. And if her heart started to beat just a little bit faster, well, that was something she would deal with.
He pushed back his chair, scooping up the pizza box and their empty bottles. “Do you want another beer?”
Did she need alcohol fogging her brain when he did that so effectively himself? “No, thanks.”
“Soda?”
“Sure.”
He grabbed another beer for himself, handed her a can of ginger ale. She followed him into the living room, trying not to stare at his butt. But he really did have a great back end. And incredible shoulders. And dimples to die for.
He bent to retrieve the remote control from the coffee table, drawing her attention back to his derriere. She forced herself to move past him.
He didn’t take the other end of the sofa, as she’d expected, but sat in the middle. Close enough that she could see the faint white line of a scar in the dark stubble on his chin.
A remnant from childhood? Or a hazard of the job?
She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to talk about his past or her own. It would be wiser—and safer—to keep their relationship strictly professional. If only she could stop thinking about how it would feel to have those muscular arms wrapped around her, those tempting lips against hers, the hard body pressing into her own.
She put the can to her lips and drank, hoping the bubbly liquid would help cool the heat suddenly coursing through her veins.
“Are you married?” The words blurted out of her mouth without any warning.
Creighton looked startled. She couldn’t blame him. She’d been no more prepared for the question than he, and heat immediately flooded her cheeks.
His smile was slow, devastatingly sexy. “I thought you weren’t interested.”
She shrugged. “Not interested doesn’t mean not curious.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, and she felt as though she could gladly drown in the depths of those blue eyes. The baseball game continued to play out on the television. Somewhere in the distance sounded the crack of a bat, the roar of a crowd. She was aware of nothing but the man beside her.
“No,” he said at last. “I’m not married.”
“Girlfriend?”
His eyes remained steady. “No.”
She nodded.
“Does that satisfy your…curiosity?”
His words were teasing, but the atmosphere was suddenly charged with tension, sizzling with awareness.
She wasn’t sure she could speak, so she nodded again.
“Good.”
He leaned closer, slowly lowering his head toward her.
She knew he was going to kiss her.
She knew she should stop him.
Then his lips brushed against hers, softly, slowly. It was a feather-light touch, more of a caress than a kiss.
His eyes were still open, still locked with hers. She saw heat and hunger, felt both escalating inside herself.
Boundaries, she reminded herself.
Then he kissed her again, and the boundaries crumbled.
He lingered this time, his mouth warm and firm. She offered no resistance, felt none in her heart. She wan
ted this—so much more than she knew she should. But for now, she just wanted.
Want yielded to need. Fierce, driving need. The bold, erotic stroke of his tongue had her lips parting instinctively, opening for him. She tasted the tangy sauce of the pizza, the yeasty essence of beer, and a deeper, more potent flavor that she knew was uniquely his.
She couldn’t have said how it happened. She didn’t know whether he lifted her or if she crawled, but somehow she ended up on his lap, her knees straddling his hips. He slid his hands beneath the hem of her sweater, grazing the bare skin of her lower back with his fingertips. His touch was unbelievably gentle, unbearably exciting.
His fingers skimmed upward, tracing the line of her spine. She shivered, the subtle movement causing her nipples to graze his chest. She gasped with shock, with pleasure, as spears of fiery heat arrowed from the peaks to the pit of her belly. All the while, he continued to kiss her.
His hands moved lower again, then over her ribs, his thumbs brushing against the undersides of her breasts. Her nipples were already tight, aching. She sighed softly, urging his continued exploration, and moaned when he caressed the swollen tips.
Instinctively, her hips tilted forward, seeking—and finding—the evidence of his arousal. She wriggled, positioning the weight of his erection against the soft juncture between her thighs. This time it was Dylan who moaned.
His lips skimmed down the column of her throat; his whiskers scraped her tender skin. He nipped and soothed, teased and tantalized. Every kiss heightened her desire, every touch fueled her passion, until she felt as though she might spontaneously combust.
Natalie couldn’t ever remember feeling so overwhelmed by sensation, so completely out of control. No one had ever made her feel this way. Not even Eric—
She froze, the heat that had been coursing through her body supplanted by an ominous chill. She pushed away from him, scrambled to her feet. She turned her back, but she could still feel his eyes on her as she straightened her sweater.
“Natalie?”
She was embarrassed and ashamed by what she had allowed to happen between them, terrified by how close she’d come to forgetting the difficult lessons of her past and frustrated by the unsatisfied yearning inside. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. She owed him an explanation, but she wasn’t sure she had one to give.
“Hey.” He stepped in front of her, cupped her cheek gently.
She prepared herself to face his irritation, his anger. She knew he had every right to be annoyed by her hasty withdrawal. When she forced herself to meet his gaze, she saw only concern and compassion. Somehow, that made her feel worse.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For letting things get out of hand, for letting you think…” Her words trailed off.
“I wasn’t thinking anything. I was just enjoying the moment.” He held her gaze. “I thought you were, too.”
She was, which only made this more difficult. “We have to work together, Lieutenant.”
“Is that really what’s holding you back?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “No.”
He frowned, clearly waiting for her to explain this cryptic response.
“Our working relationship complicates the situation, but it isn’t the only reason this can’t happen.”
“What’s the real reason?”
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.”
He chuckled softly. “I think I’ll choose to be flattered rather than insulted by that remark.”
“I’m not trying to flatter or insult you. I’m just being honest.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me you don’t feel the chemistry whenever we’re in the same room together.”
She couldn’t lie to him, wouldn’t lie to herself. But in the interest of self-preservation, she chose to downplay the situation. “Chemistry is overrated.”
He skimmed a finger down her cheek. She shivered instinctively in response to the lazy caress, proving his point. She couldn’t deny that she reacted to his touch, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of pulling away.
“I still have work to do tonight,” she said. “I should go. Before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late, Natalie.”
There was no mistaking the meaning of his words, the implicit promise behind them. She shook her head, almost desperately. “I really have to go.”
He stepped back. “Then go.”
She did, accepting the reprieve even though she knew he’d let her run, but he wouldn’t let her hide.
Natalie had just stepped out of the shower the next morning when there was a knock at the door. She frowned, squinting at the face of her watch on the countertop. It wasn’t even seven-thirty. She rubbed the towel briskly over her body as the knock sounded again, more impatiently this time.
“Hold on a minute,” she grumbled, slipping her arms into her robe.
She hung her towel back over the rack and padded across the thick carpet toward the door. She could only think of one person who would have the audacity to show up at her door at such an hour, and if it was him—he’d better have coffee.
She peeked through the peephole, not at all surprised to find Lieutenant Creighton standing in the hall, not at all surprised by the way her heart jumped around in her chest. She wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet. Not after last night—the way he’d kissed her; the way she’d kissed him back. But she wasn’t going to hide, either.
She unfastened the safety chain and opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought you breakfast.”
He smiled, and the flash of dimples caused some of her irritation to dissipate. But she wouldn’t let him know he could get around her with a smile.
She scowled. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
“I promised you cereal.” He held up the grocery bag he carried in one hand. The other hand was behind his back. “I brought cereal. And milk.”
“I’m lactose intolerant,” she grumbled.
“I doubt that—since I saw you dump about half a gallon of cream in your coffee at the courthouse the other day.”
“That’s because the courthouse coffee is intolerable without it.”
“Maybe this will be more to your liking.” He brought his other hand from behind his back, and Natalie nearly wept with gratitude when she recognized the green paper cup from the hotel’s gourmet café.
He grinned. “You want it?”
“Please.” She wasn’t averse to begging.
“Then you have to invite me in to share breakfast.”
“You can have the whole box of cereal,” she promised. “As long as I get the coffee.”
He handed her the cup. “Not just coffee,” he said, stepping into the room. “But a vanilla latte with cinnamon.”
She reverently lifted the lid from the cup and inhaled deeply. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “It was noted on the board as today’s featured flavor.”
“It’s an addiction.” She dipped a fingertip into the foam, licked it off. “I’d be your slave for life—if only you’d brought biscotti.”
She didn’t realize how suggestive were her actions and her words until he cleared his throat and moved around her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Maybe she should have been embarrassed, but after the sleepless night she’d spent thinking about him, it was gratifying to know that he wasn’t unaffected.
She took her coffee and sat at the tiny table in the kitchenette while the lieutenant rummaged through the cupboard for a bowl. She liked to watch him. His movements were confident yet somehow graceful, his hands were wide palmed with long fingers. Strong hands, skilled hands. She remembered, vividly, how those hands had skimmed over her body, how his fingers
had teased her aching breasts.
She forced her gaze away, focused it on her coffee, tried to ignore the heat she felt in her cheeks. She lifted the cup to her lips and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. Very hot coffee. She gasped, coughed.
Creighton glanced up, carton of milk in hand. “Are you okay?”
Other than feeling like a complete imbecile… “Fine.”
He brought his bowl over to the table, sat down across from her. “Snap, Krackle and Pop” filled the silence. The lieutenant’s choice of cereal was also Jack’s favorite, and the familiar sound brought a sharp pang of longing.
He dug into his breakfast; she sipped her latte, carefully.
When he’d emptied the bowl, he pushed it aside and pinned her with his gaze. She folded both hands around her cup and braced herself.
“I’m not going to forget what happened last night just because you want me to.”
“It won’t happen again,” she assured him.
His lips curved in a slow smile. “Now that sounds an awful lot like a challenge.”
She shook her head. “It’s not. I’m not being coy or playing hard to get. I’m just telling you how it is.”
“Then you’re deluding yourself.”
She didn’t think his statement warranted any kind of response.
“Whether you like it or not, whether you want to admit it or not, there’s something happening between us.”
“Nothing’s going to happen that I don’t want to happen.”
“You wanted me last night, Natalie.” The soft words floated on the air as seductively as a kiss.
He was right, and she’d lain awake long after she’d turned out the lights, unable to forget the feel of his hands on her body, the pressure of his lips against her own, the aching emptiness in her heart.
“You wanted me as much as I wanted you,” he continued. “And then you got scared.”
She forced a laugh. “Scared?”
He nodded.
“Of what?”
“Losing control.”
She sipped her coffee, refused to give him the satisfaction of disagreeing. But he was wrong. She wasn’t afraid—there was nothing to be afraid of, because she simply wasn’t going to lose control. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
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