Bulletproof Hearts

by Brenda Harlen

  Before he could discard them, she grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down on top of her. She kissed him this time, sliding her tongue into his mouth, teasing, tormenting. He tasted her impatience, her passion. Her hands were busy unfastening the buttons down the front of his shirt, then her palms were on his chest, sliding over his skin, stroking, seducing.

  She pushed the fabric off his shoulders, then pulled him closer. Her breasts flattened beneath his chest; her hips arched against his. Even through his jeans, he could feel her welcoming heat, and he ached to be inside her.

  “I want to make love with you, Natalie.”

  “You still have too many clothes on, Lieutenant.”

  He eased away from her. “Don’t you think ‘Lieutenant’ is a little formal for the man who’s about to get naked with you?”

  Then he stripped away the last of their clothing and spread her thighs gently. Her natural scent enticed, seduced. He spread the soft folds of flesh to uncover the moist bud at her center and flicked his tongue over it. She cried out, her hips arching toward him in a movement that was completely instinctive, and utterly irresistible. He delved deeper, his tongue stroking her softness, savoring her juices.

  Her breath was coming faster now, in quick shallow gasps. He felt the tension building inside her, coiling tight, tighter. He increased his rhythm, plunging deeper, faster, until she finally shattered.

  “Now, Dylan. Please.” She was panting, quivering with the aftershocks of her release, and dripping with readiness.

  He quickly sheathed himself with a condom, then finally slipped into the welcoming warmth between her thighs.

  He wanted to bury himself in a single thrust, but she was tighter than he’d expected and he felt her tense again as he eased into her. So he forced himself to move slowly, sliding into her inch by inch. She gasped as he filled her, but she didn’t hold back. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him even deeper. He was encircled by her limbs, enveloped in her warmth, encompassed by her being. This was mating in the truest sense of the word: two separate people, joining together, becoming one.

  Then he began to move inside her, and she matched him thrust for thrust in a synchronized rhythm that quickly brought Natalie to the brink of pleasure again, and sent Dylan tumbling over the edge with her.

  Natalie wasn’t in the habit of sharing intimacies with a man—her body or her bed. It had been seven years since she’d succumbed to the draw of passion. Until tonight, she hadn’t even been tempted.

  From the moment her body had joined with Dylan’s she’d known it was a mistake, because somewhere in the midst of their union, she’d realized that she could fall in love with him. She wouldn’t let that happen.

  Her primary concern was, and always had been, her son, which left her little time or inclination for other emotional entanglements. She’d made that choice years ago. She didn’t regret it then, she didn’t regret it now. If she had any regrets at all, it was only that she’d made love with Dylan without having told him about Jack.

  Deception wasn’t something she was comfortable with, and although she hadn’t intentionally deceived him, her silence about her child was dishonest and unfair. Or maybe she was being presumptuous. After all, Dylan had never given her any indication that he wanted anything more from her than what they’d just shared: sex. Incredible, mind-boggling, body-numbing sex, but still just sex.

  The thought fizzled as his lips brushed the back of her neck.

  “You awake?” His voice was low and husky with sleep.

  “I’m awake,” she admitted.

  “Good.” He slid away far enough to turn her onto her back, then he covered her mouth with his.

  It started out as a leisurely kiss—slow and lazy. She didn’t know who deepened the kiss, only that the tenor of it quickly changed. Breaths mingled, tongues tangled.

  His hands were on her breasts now, caressing, enticing. He seemed to know just where to touch her, exactly what to do to give her the greatest pleasure. He lowered his head and laved one already erect nipple with his tongue. She closed her eyes and moaned as heat arrowed from that aching peak to her center. His mouth continued its sensual torture. His tongue flicked over the aching bud, his teeth nipped, and when he fastened his lips over the peak and suckled, she had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out.

  He moved from one breast to the other, ministering the same careful attention. She dug her heels into the mattress and lifted her hips, rocking against the solid length of his shaft. The friction of her movements alone nearly undid her. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to feel him inside her.

  She reached between their bodies and wrapped her fingers around his erection. She felt the organ pulse in her hand as she rubbed her thumb over the bead of moisture at the tip.

  He groaned and captured her wrist, raising her hand above her head.

  “I want to touch you,” she told him.

  “Not right now,” he said. “I want you so much I’m almost ready to explode.”

  “Then take me.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  But first he made his way down the length of her torso, caressing her with his hands, his lips, his body, eliciting sighs and gasps and moans of pleasure from her. He drove her slowly, relentlessly, to the peak. When her climax ripped through her, he finally slipped inside, filling and fulfilling her.

  Dylan hadn’t planned to spend the night. But when the first rays of light started to filter into the room, he was still in Natalie’s bed. His arm was around her middle, her back flush against his front.

  Over the past several years, he’d looked forward to the middle of the night interruptions that were an inherent part of his occupation—anything to excuse the fact that he wasn’t sleeping. But he’d slept last night, peacefully, contentedly, deeply.

  It was the first time he’d spent an entire night with a woman since Beth died. It was an intimacy he’d never allowed himself, an intimacy he’d never wanted.

  Last night, with Natalie, something had changed. He hadn’t thought he’d ever want another relationship. He wasn’t sure he could ever get over losing Beth. He’d loved her for so long, and when she’d died, a part of him had died with her.

  Natalie made him feel alive again. She made him want to open his heart and share his life. As he watched her sleep, listened to the soft, even sound of her breathing, he knew he was in over his head.

  It was supposed to have been just sex—a purely physical act between two consenting adults. Somehow, it had become more, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it. He didn’t know how to handle this morning after, to answer the questions she was sure to ask.

  It was this not knowing that unnerved him the most. He was accustomed to setting his own path, to being in control every step of the way. Natalie had changed all of that.

  He started to shift away from her, knowing he needed some physical distance if he was going to put things into perspective. She turned her head, and he could smell the fruity scent of her hair.

  He hesitated, torn between the need to escape and the desire to join his body with hers again.

  Her eyelids fluttered, opened. “Dylan?”

  He smiled, despite the tension knotted in his belly. “Good morning.”

  This time, he was certain she blushed, the soft light of the morning sun highlighting the spots of color. He traced a fingertip over her cheek, couldn’t resist teasing her a little. “You seem surprised to see me.”

  She looked away, pulled the sheet a little higher, as if he hadn’t already seen and touched every inch of her body. “Not surprised, it’s just…um…”

  Her uneasiness was oddly reassuring, a sign that she, too, had been affected by what transpired between them. “I wouldn’t have stayed if I’d known it would make you uncomfortable.”

  “I just don’t have a lot of experience with this sort of thing,” she admitted.

  And that admission brought to mind a dozen questions he knew he had
no right to ask. Like “how much experience?” and “what exactly is this thing between us?”

  But before he could respond, the shrill beep of his pager broke the silence.

  “Sorry, I—”

  She shook her head, dismissing his apology. “It’s okay.”

  He slid out of the bed, digging through his clothes for the source of the intrusion. He found the offending instrument under his jeans and silenced the beep.

  Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he squinted at the digital message. And swore.

  “What is it?”

  “I have to go.”

  She nodded.

  He disappeared into the adjoining bath to wash up and tug on his clothes. When he returned to the bedroom, she, too, was dressed. He wanted to kiss her goodbye, he wanted to hold her—to hold on to what they’d shared in the darkness of the night. It was the depth of this need that propelled him toward the door instead with a vague “I’ll call you” tossed back over his shoulder.

  He disregarded the speed limit as he drove across town, his thoughts again on Natalie, instead of the crisis that had summoned him from her bed.

  He turned on to Osgood Street, the presence of a cruiser in the drive of number fourteen jolting him back to the present like the cool rain that had started to fall.

  He parked on the road, in front of the house, and jogged up the walk of Victor Jennings’s home. Jennings was one of the key witnesses in the case against Ellis Todd, and Dylan knew that whatever had happened here was somehow related to Roger Merrick’s murder investigation.

  Eriksson and Whittaker were the officers who’d taken the call; Eriksson met him at the door.

  “What happened?” Dylan demanded, following the uniformed officer down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen.

  “Mr. Jennings woke up this morning, came downstairs to make a pot of coffee and read the newspaper. When he opened up the paper, he found a dead rat in it.”

  “I take it the rat didn’t die of natural causes.”

  Eriksson grinned. “I guess that’s why you’re the lieutenant.”

  He waited, with obvious impatience, for the young officer to continue his explanation.

  “It didn’t die of natural causes,” Eriksson confirmed. “The rat’s throat had been slit across, so deeply it was almost decapitated.”

  The visual that came to mind wasn’t pretty, but he’d seen a lot worse. “Any of the neighbors see anything?”

  “We called in Jones and Lawford. They’re canvassing the street right now. According to Mr. Jennings, who was barely coherent when we got here, the paper is delivered between five forty-five and six-fifteen every morning. That’s a narrow window of opportunity.”

  “Maybe it was the paperboy,” he suggested.

  “Nah. We’ve already talked to the kid. Showed him the rat. He tossed his Frosted Flakes all over Whittaker’s shoes.”

  Dylan allowed himself a small smile. He’d learned a long time ago to find humor in little things, otherwise the job would kill you. “I want to talk to the kid.”

  “Stephen Miller. Eleven years old. Sixth-grade student at Chappel Hill Middle School, lives a couple of streets over. The address is in the report.”

  He nodded and followed Eriksson into the kitchen.

  Victor Jennings was seated at the kitchen table, still wearing his bathrobe, a mug of coffee—apparently untouched—held between his palms.

  Dylan started to approach him, paused when he saw Whittaker come in through the back door, his coat and hat dripping rain.

  “Neighbor saw a white Cadillac,” Whittaker told him. “Older model, tinted windows. Lots of rust, damaged muffler, Kansas plates. He said it was driving slowly, just before six o’clock this morning.”

  Dylan wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but Jennings’s face went even whiter. “Kansas?”

  “Do you know someone in Kansas?” he asked.

  “My wife’s parents.” Jennings swallowed. “My wife and daughters are visiting them right now.”

  He felt his skin grow cold. “Do your in-laws have a white Caddy?”

  “They s-sold it.”

  “When?”

  “I—I’m not sure. A few days, maybe a week ago.”

  About the same time that the witness list for the Ellis Todd trial was released to the defense. Dylan knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

  “Did the witness get the plate number?” he asked his officer.

  Whittaker shook his head.

  “Keep canvassing,” he instructed. “Maybe someone else did.”

  He waited until Whittaker had left the house again before turning back to Jennings. “Call your wife,” he instructed, gesturing to the phone on the wall. “I want to know exactly when her parents sold that car and who they sold it to.”

  “You think it was the same car?” Eriksson asked, his voice pitched low enough that only Dylan could hear.

  Dylan was watching Jennings, whose finger was trembling so badly he could barely punch the numbers. He misdialed twice before completing the call.

  “I’d bet on it,” he finally replied to the question.

  “And you think this all goes back to Conroy.”

  “I’d bet on that, too,” he said grimly.

  A hell of a lot of premeditation had been put into something that might otherwise have been dismissed as a childish prank. The vehicle had driven slowly down the street, had probably done so several times, with a muffler obviously in need of replacing. Whoever had been driving the vehicle had wanted to draw attention to it, had wanted it to be made.

  Why?

  Because Conroy wanted them to know it was him. This was his way of thumbing his nose at the authorities. Dylan had believed that he could get to Conroy by convicting Ellis Todd. With the help of one dead rodent, Conroy had demonstrated how unlikely that scenario was.

  “This is all about that Todd case, isn’t it?” Jennings asked, after he’d hung up the phone.

  “It would be premature to draw any conclusions at this point,” Dylan told him.

  “Don’t give me that crap,” Jennings snapped. “I want to know if I’m in danger. If my family’s in danger.”

  “We’re not going to disregard the possibility,” he said. “If we think there’s any risk, we’ll see that you’re protected.”

  Jennings shook his head. “I never should have agreed to testify. I didn’t even see anything.”

  “You saw Ellis Todd in Merrick’s apartment building.”

  “I was on my way out of the building after visiting my cousin. Yeah, I saw that Todd guy coming in, but I didn’t see him with the dead guy and I didn’t hear any gunshots. Why do you need me?”

  “You’re the only one who can place the defendant at the scene of the crime. If you don’t testify, a man may get away with murder.”

  “I don’t care,” Jennings said. “I don’t know the killer or the man who was killed. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now my life—and the lives of my family—may be in danger.”

  “I understand that you’re upset, Mr. Jennings, but—”

  “You don’t understand nothing,” he interrupted. “You didn’t find that mangled carcass on your doorstep.”

  “The police are doing everything they can to find out who put the rat there.”

  “Tell them to find another witness for your murder trial,” Jennings advised. “Because I’m not setting foot in court.”

  Natalie was working in her hotel room, finishing her list of case law when she was summoned by a knock at the door. Dylan, she thought immediately, and chided herself when her heart skipped a beat. But she couldn’t prevent the smile that curved her lips when she opened the door and found him standing in the hall.

  “We’ve got a problem.” His tone was cool, his gaze even cooler.

  Her easy smile faded. Well, what had she expected—that just because he’d had sex with her it meant he cared? Unfortunately, that was what she’d expected. But the grim face of the man standing outsid
e her door bore no resemblance to the tender, passionate lover who’d spent last night with her.

  “Did you want to come in?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain carefully neutral.

  He looked past her into the room, at the bed where they’d made love through most of last night. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  That was certainly clear enough. She ignored the hurt, the disappointment. “What happened?”

  “Victor Jennings is refusing to testify at the prelim.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Conroy.” He practically spat the name out.

  “What did he do?”

  “He messed with his head.”

  “Tampering with a witness—”

  “He wasn’t obvious about it,” Dylan interrupted. “That isn’t his style. He sent an anonymous warning—in the form of a dead rat.”

  Her stomach churned as she listened to his recital of the incident. People like Zane Conroy were the reason she’d left Chicago. She’d wanted to escape from the craziness of the city, to protect her child from the big bad world. But she’d chosen Fairweather as her home, and she was determined to make it safe for her son. If Dylan could bring her the evidence tying this incident back to Conroy, she’d make damn sure Conroy was held responsible.

  “Are you going to arrest Todd for obstruction of justice?” she asked.

  Dylan scrubbed a hand over his face. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue, his mouth drawn tight with worry. There was a part of her that wanted to reach out, to offer comfort. But she knew it would be refused, and she wasn’t prepared for that kind of rejection. After all that they’d shared the night before, she couldn’t stand for him to turn away from her now.

  “We could charge him,” he agreed. “But what good will it do when we’ve lost a key witness on the original charge?”

  “Jennings was subpoenaed,” she told him. “He has to appear.”

  His laugh was harsh. “You think that’s going to make a difference? Christ, Natalie, how naive are you?”

  She could understand that he was upset; she couldn’t understand why he’d made his attack personal. And she was hurt and angry enough by his attitude to fight back. “Don’t get pissed off at me because of this. I didn’t send him the damn rat.”