He remembered those lips on his. Remembered how they tasted. Remembered them pressing against his chest, sending incomprehensible panic spiraling through him. Why had he completely freaked?
Hell, why was he still freaking?
What was it she’d said to him earlier? I don’t want to like you that much. He knew exactly how she felt.
He recalled the line he’d tossed at her on the ride down, about her kissing his chest and him being afraid he would hurt her.
He hadn’t just been afraid of hurting her, he’d been afraid of getting hurt. Of breaking the unforgivable rule of…hell, he didn’t even know the rule.
She wrinkled her nose again, looking adorable. Brie Ryan was an enigma. Cute, yet stunningly beautiful. Innocent, yet profoundly sexy. Strong, yet somehow vulnerable. And he wanted to protect her. Protect her from things in her past. From her piece-of-shit father. From the evils in the world. From an FBI agent who she’d seen as family.
Maybe even from himself.
Cumbersome feelings crowded his chest as he continued watching her sleep. Dipping his head down to see her face better, his neck muscles tightened, so he reached down and lowered his seat back, too.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The ringing of Connor’s phone jerked him awake.
Disoriented, he sat up so fast his abdomen hit the steering wheel. Where the hell was he?
Then he saw Brie sit up with the same startling speed. They stared at each other, wide-eyed, dazed, and…when their eyes met, Connor had the craziest thought. He was right where he wanted to be. With her.
He waited for that thought to run all sorts of panic through him, and when it didn’t, he let it settle in. I don’t want to like you that much. But he did.
His phone rang again. He reached for it. It was Mark. Before answering, he spotted the time.
Shit! It was after five. He’d slept for three hours. He took the call. “I overslept. Sorry. I’ll head that way.”
“No,” Mark said. “We’re calling it a day. I wouldn’t have called, but I figured you’d want to know. APD found Olvera’s car, parked in front of a restaurant on the south side of town. I was leaving when I got the call. I’m heading there now.”
It took Connor a few seconds to follow. He glanced at Brie, who was staring at him. Her hair was a little mussed, her eyes still a little hooded with sleep. The temptation to lean over and kiss her hit him—hard.
“Text me the address. We’ll head over.”
“We?” Mark asked. “You’re still with Brie?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm,” Mark said, as if trying to figure out what that might mean. Connor was busy doing the same thing. Then Mark added, “We also got something on the text that went to Kevin Omen’s phone.”
“What?”
“We can rule out Agent Miles being the bad guy. The phone call to Brie and the text sent to Omen’s phone pinged from two different towers on opposite sides of the city.”
“So it’s either Agent Bara or Agent Calvin.” Connor looked at Brie, who appeared to hang on his every word.
“Yup,” Mark said. “Juan also put a trace on the number that sent the texts. So far the phone hasn’t been turned back on.”
Connor glanced at Brie. “Okay, we’ll meet you there shortly.”
“What?” Brie asked.
“You were right. They were able to rule out Miles. And we found Agent Olvera’s car.”
“His car?” She sat up a little straighter.
Connor’s phone dinged with a text. He looked at the address. “Mark’s heading there now. Want to ride with me?”
“Yeah.” Blinking, she gazed out the window. “How long did I sleep?”
He started the car. “Four hours.”
“Four?”
“You needed it.” He pulled out of the parking lot, glancing at her. “I was watching you sleep when—”
“That’s creepy,” she said.
He smiled. “You’re cute when you sleep.”
“Still creepy.”
He laughed without really knowing why, except…this felt right. Brie Ryan felt right.
She smiled, and warmth filled his chest.
Passing a hand over her eyes, she practically bounced in her chair. “Is it crazy of me to hope we might find Pablo’s phone in Carlos’s car?”
“Maybe. But crazy likes company. I was thinking the same thing.” However, that wasn’t the only crazy thing filling his head. He was thinking he wanted more smiles. More time watching her sleep.
And sex. Yeah, he definitely wanted more sex.
He wanted more of Brie Ryan.
Hadn’t she told him he was a fool for thinking she expected love ballads? What was wrong with letting himself like someone a little? What was wrong with having something real for a while? Real sounded good.
It was a ten-minute ride to Olvera’s car. The whole way Connor attempted to define real. Spotting the restaurant, he pulled into the parking lot. He hadn’t figured out the definition yet, but he decided if it got him more Brie time, then he wanted it. He’d figure out the rest as he went.
Connor got out of his car and looked around for Mark’s Mustang. “We must have arrived first,” he told Brie.
Connor flashed his badge and introduced himself and Brie to the officer standing beside the car. “Is it locked?”
“No.” The officer waved to the car. “The keys appear to be on the seat. I think it was abandoned, hoping someone would steal it. It’s a miracle no one did.”
Brie walked over to the passenger window, careful not to touch it, and peered inside.
Connor opened his trunk and retrieved two pairs of gloves and handed one to Brie. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Gloves on, she opened the passenger door and used her phone’s flashlight to see inside. Her breath caught. “There’s blood.”
He leaned in and noticed the car smelled a bit like decomp. The interior was black, but he could see what appeared to be blood splatter.
“I think he was shot here.” Her voice trembled. “Look.” She pointed to the floorboard, where there was a lug wrench. One end of it was coated in blood.
She rose up and stepped back quickly. Connor touched her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” It was a lie. Pain brightened her eyes. Seeing your partner’s blood wasn’t easy. He remembered all too well. The need to protect her filled his chest. She dipped back, as if to continue searching the vehicle.
“Let me do this,” he said.
“No,” she snapped.
Remembering her stubborn streak, he didn’t argue. “The guy who did this got what was coming to him.”
“I know.” She leaned down.
Connor moved around the Honda, opened the door, and flipped open the console, hoping to see a phone inside. There wasn’t one.
He continued to search until a pair of headlights flashed over the car. Connor backed out and saw Mark striding toward them. “Got anything?”
“Looks like this might be the crime scene.” Connor’s gaze shifted to Brie.
She continued to search, in the glove compartment, under the seats, behind the seats. When she stepped out, she had something in her hand.
“What is it?” Connor asked.
“Just a receipt.” Disappointment sounded in her voice. She shined her phone’s flashlight on the paper. Her breath caught.
“What?” Connor asked.
“It’s a postal receipt.” She looked up. “Carlos mailed something from the Willowcreek post office.”
Connor moved over and glanced at the receipt. “The phone maybe.”
“Where did he mail it to?” Mark asked.
Brie studied the receipt. “To Anniston, Texas.” She looked up.
“Does it have the address?” Mark asked.
“Just the zip.” She held the light closer to read. “The printing is light. I can’t make out the last number.”
“Is there a tracking number?” Mark moved in.
&nb
sp; “Yet, but it’s barely legible.” She lifted her eyes, “But the first four digits of the zip are the same as mine. And I haven’t checked my mail in days.”
* * *
“It has to be the phone.” Brie watched Connor drive to her apartment building, wishing he’d go faster. Mark had stayed with Carlos’s Honda to secure transport to the police station garage so forensics could comb over it.
“I think so.” He looked as if he was about to say something, but his gaze just returned to the windshield.
She leaned back and tried not to think about the blood in Carlos’s car.
Inhaling, she refocused on Connor. “What did Mark hand you?”
“The hit man’s arrest file.”
“And Mark doesn’t want me to see it?” She hadn’t missed that he’d called Connor over to his car to give it to him.
“He didn’t say that.” Yet something about Connor’s expression said he’d probably said something close to that.
They didn’t speak during the remainder of the drive back to her apartment. And it was an odd kind of quiet, too. As soon as he cut the engine, Brie was out of the car, heading to the rows of metal mailboxes along the front of the building.
Brie stopped at the box marked number 110 and dug in her purse for her keys. A few drops of rain hit her face. Connor, carrying more gloves and a plastic evidence bag, stepped beside her. Two light fixtures attached to the overhang spilled out light. Her heart raced with hope that this nightmare was almost over.
Reaching into her deep-as-it-was-wide fake leather bag, she felt around for her keys. “I’m throwing this purse away,” she muttered right before she spotted the glint of silver.
She slipped the small key in and turned it as Connor came up behind her. Close. Too close. His scent made her insides flutter, which under the circumstances was a bit disturbing.
She opened the box, praying to see a larger, thicker envelope. She didn’t. But she still reached in with gusto, hoping it was buried beneath the circular ads.
Pulling it all out, she quickly started fumbling through it. Electric bills. Plastic surgery flyers. Grocery store ads. A few pieces of mail slipped from her grip and hit the ground at the same time as her hope.
“Fracking Hades!” She looked up at Connor. “It’s not here.”
“Maybe it just hasn’t arrived yet.”
“It was mailed on Wednesday. It should be here.”
“Weather could have delayed it. We’ll check on the tracking number tomorrow.”
“It wasn’t legible.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He pulled out his phone and began texting. “I’m letting Mark know we didn’t find it.” He finished and pocketed his cell. “Does Carlos know anyone else in town?”
“If he did, he’d have told me.” Then bam. Another possibility came. “What about the hotel? He could have mailed it to himself.” She grabbed her phone. “Let me see what the zip code is for the Marriott.” She typed it in. “It could be there.”
The ride to the hotel took ten minutes. It took five for the front desk clerk to shoot down her hope. Connor left his card and told them he’d check back tomorrow.
“Where else could he have mailed it to?” she asked when they crawled back into his car.
“I don’t know. But first thing tomorrow we’ll call the post office. And I still say it could just be late.”
He pulled into the parking lot of an Italian restaurant. “What are we doing—”
“I’m hungry, and you barely ate your sandwich earlier.”
She felt her empty stomach, but she wanted to go to the hospital and then get back to work. “I just want—”
“Brie…”
She turned to him. Their eyes met. Locked. When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “I want to look at Kevin Omen’s file. I came to you with Rosaria’s address. It’s because of me that you have that file.”
He continued to stare silently at her, then he finally spoke up. “How did you get that scar below your left eyebrow?”
Why was he asking that? “Did you hear what I said about the file?”
“Yeah. How did you get the scar?”
“A lowlife weasel hit me. But that—”
“What was his name?” His expression tightened.
“I want to see the file.”
“Tell me his name.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I don’t believe in hitting women.”
She shook her head, confused. “I broke his nose and he’s in a federal prison. You don’t need to defend me.”
“So you were working a case when it happened?”
“Sort of. Can I look at the file?”
“After we have dinner and you explain ‘sort of.’”
“Why should I do that?” she asked.
He shifted in his seat to face her more directly. “Why should you have dinner with me or why should you explain ‘sort of’?”
“Both,” she said.
“Because”—he hesitated—“because we’re both having a hard time not liking each other.”
“What does that mean?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out.”
“You’re not making sense,” she bit out.
“None of it makes sense.” He reached into the backseat and snagged the file. “Come on.” He got out of his car.
She followed him into the restaurant. The smell of garlic, fresh-baked bread, and zesty tomato sauce filled her senses, and her empty stomach grumbled.
She gazed up at him. “I don’t understand—”
“Table for two,” Connor said to the hostess as he put his hand on Brie’s lower back. The touch sent a spark of something sweet running through her. Something sweet that she didn’t need right now.
Frowning, she quickened her pace and followed the hostess to a table in the back of the almost empty restaurant.
After handing out menus, the hostess left.
“Their chicken marsala is fabulous.”
“Fine. That’s what I’ll have.” She set the menu down. “Can I see the file?”
The waitress came up. Connor focused on her. “We’ll take two house salads and two orders of chicken marsala. And could you bring the bread now?” He looked at Brie. “She gets grumpy when she’s hungry.” He smiled and looked back at the waitress. “I’ll take a house beer.” His gaze found her again. “Beer?”
“Water.” She handed over her menu.
The waitress hadn’t gotten one foot away from the table when Connor turned to her. “Give me forty-five minutes. We can eat and talk. Then you can look at the file and we can discuss what the plans are for tomorrow.” He put his hand over hers.
She pulled her hand from under his, remembering him saving her from puking all over the crime scene. Remembering the sincere apology she’d gotten when her father called. “No trespassing questions.”
“What are trespassing questions?”
“Personal questions.”
He rubbed two fingers over his chin. “So the person who gave you the scar was someone close. I thought it was about a case.”
“Fine,” she muttered. “You tell me all the dirty little secrets about your ex then I’ll tell you mine.”
His mouth thinned. “It was your ex-husband? That sorry piece of…You put him in jail?”
The waitress appeared with the bread, olive oil dip, and drinks. As if sensing the tension, she dropped everything and left.
Connor tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the olive oil, then handed it to her. “Try it.”
A bit of warm yeasty steam rose from the bread. Her stomach grumbled. She helped herself. The taste of hot sourdough bread, drenched in olive oil with Italian seasoning, danced on her tongue.
He smiled. “Good, isn’t it?”
She nodded and considered it a win that he’d dropped the question. He tore off another piece of bread and dipped it into the oil and ate it.
He swallowed
and then spoke. “Her name was Kelly. We were married two years. We met at the gym. Got hitched six weeks later. Fast, but it felt right. She was…a good person. The marriage was great. Until it wasn’t. She deserved better.”
Brie savored more bread. Curiosity pulled the next question from her. “What happened?” When he didn’t answer, she tossed out, “You cheated on her?”
“No! That’s what you think of me?” His frown deepened.
“I was just guessing. Sorry.”
His lips thinned. “She wanted kids. I didn’t think I’d be…my father ran off. And when he was there, he wasn’t what you’d call a role model.” Honesty and hurt filled his voice. “But she wouldn’t let it go.” His voice lowered.
She leaned in. “You didn’t discuss it before you got married?”
“No. It was stupid, I know, but it all happened so fast.”
She turned her water glass. “Sometimes people just want different things.”
He exhaled. “I gave in. She got pregnant, then lost the baby. Then she got pregnant again. It was a tubal pregnancy. She almost died. They had to operate and afterward said her chances of getting pregnant again were slim. It devastated her. She blamed me…said I didn’t even care. But I…they were my babies, too. I cared. I just didn’t know how to…I thought she needed me to be normal. She got depressed. She quit working.” He ran a hand over his face. “We started counseling. I was determined to fix it. I didn’t want to lose her.”
“I’m sorry.” Brie put her hand over his.
He met her eyes. “Then my partner got killed and I shot…the kid. And I didn’t have it in me to keep trying to fix us when I…felt so broken.”
She swallowed a knot of emotion. “Maybe she should have been there for you?”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Losing those babies devastated her.” The waitress walked up with two salads. He got quiet and reached for his beer.
Brie picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of lettuce, suddenly angry. Angry that she’d started this conversation. Angry because she cared. Angry because…he was wrong. She shook her head. “Why are we even doing this?”
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Telling each other crap.” She didn’t need to know more about him. Didn’t need to feel…more.
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