Night Shift

by Nora Roberts

  the force, she remembered. He’d drawn and fired before.

  She wouldn’t tell him to be careful. Those were useless words.

  “I’m going to take a look. Lock the door behind me.” Gone was the laid-back man who had taunted her into an embrace. One look at his face and she could see that he was all cop. Their eyes changed, she thought. The emotion drained out of them. There was no room for emotion when you held a gun. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, call 911 for backup. Understood?”

  “Yes.” She gave in to the need to touch his arm. “Yes,” she repeated.

  After he slipped out, she shoved the bolt into place and waited.

  He hadn’t buttoned his coat, and the deep wind of the early hours whipped through his shirt. His weapon, warmed from sitting in its nest against his side, fitted snug in his hand. Sweeping his gaze right, then left, he found the street deserted, dark but for the pools of light from the streetlamps spaced at regular intervals. It was only a quiet suburban neighborhood, cozily asleep in the predawn hours. The night wind sounded through the naked trees in low moans.

  He didn’t doubt Cilla’s words—wouldn’t have doubted it even if he hadn’t caught a glimpse through her window of a lone figure on the opposite sidewalk.

  Whoever had been there was gone now, probably alerted the moment Cilla had spotted him.

  As if to punctuate Boyd’s thoughts, there was the sound of an engine turning over a block or two away. He swore but didn’t bother to give chase. With that much of a lead, it would be a waste of time. Instead, he walked a half block in each direction, then carefully circled the house.

  Cilla had her hand on the phone when he knocked.

  “It’s okay. It’s Boyd.”

  In three hurried strides, she was at the door. “Did you see him?” she demanded the moment Boyd stepped inside.

  “No.”

  “He was there. I swear it.”

  “I know.” He relocked the door himself. “Try to relax. He’s gone now.”

  “Relax?” In the past ten minutes she’d had more than enough time to work herself from upset to frantic. “He knows where I work, where I live. How in God’s name am I ever supposed to relax again? If you hadn’t scared him off, he might have—” She dragged her hands through her hair. She didn’t want to think about what might have happened. Didn’t dare.

  Boyd didn’t speak for a moment. Instead, he watched as she slowly, painfully brought herself under control. “Why don’t you take some time off, stay home for a few days? We’ll arrange for a black-and-white to cruise the neighborhood.”

  She allowed herself the luxury of sinking into a chair. “What difference does it make if I’m here or at the station?” She shook her head before he could speak. “And if I stayed home I’d go crazy thinking about it, worrying about it. At least at work I have other things on my mind.”

  He hadn’t expected her to agree. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now you’re tired. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  She wanted to be strong enough to tell him it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t need to be protected. But the wave of gratitude made her weak. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

  ***

  It was almost dawn when he dragged himself home. He’d driven a long time—from one sleepy suburb to another, into an eerily quiet downtown. Covering his trail. The panic had stayed with him for the first hour, but he’d beaten it, made himself drive slowly, carefully. Being stopped by a roving patrol car could have ruined all of his plans.

  Under the heavy muffler and cap he was wearing, he was sweating. In the thin canvas tennis shoes, his feet were like ice. But he was too accustomed to discomfort to notice.

  He staggered into the bathroom, never turning on a light. With ease he avoided his early-warning devices. The thin wire stretched from the arm of the spindly chair to the arm of the faded couch. The tower of cans at the entrance to his bedroom. He had excellent night vision. It was something he’d always been proud of.

  He showered in the dark, letting the water run cold over his tensed body. As he began to relax, he allowed himself to draw in the fragrance of soap—his favorite scent. He used a rough, long-handled brush to violently scrub every inch of his skin.

  As he washed, the dark began to lessen with the first watery light of dawn.

  Over his heart was an intricate tattoo of two knives, blades crossed in an X. With his fingers he caressed them. He remembered when it had still been new, when he had shown it to John. John had been so impressed, so fascinated.

  The image came so clearly. John’s dark, excited eyes. His voice—the way he spoke so quickly that the words tumbled into each other. Sometimes they had sat in the dark and talked for hours, making plans and promises. They were going to travel together, do great things together.

  Then the world had interfered. Life had interfered. The woman had interfered.

  Dripping, he stepped from the shower. The towel was exactly where he had placed it. No one came into this room, into any of his rooms, to disturb his carefully ordered space. Once he was dry, he pulled on faded pajamas. They reminded him of the childhood he’d been cheated out of.

  As the sun came up, he made two enormous sandwiches and ate them standing in the kitchen, leaning over the sink so that the crumbs wouldn’t fall to the floor.

  He felt strong again. Clean and fed. He was outwitting the police, making fools of them. And that delighted him. He was frightening the woman, bringing terror into every day of her life. That excited him. When the time was right, he would do everything he’d told her he would do.

  And still it wouldn’t be enough.

  He went into the bedroom, shut the door, pulled the shades and picked up the phone.

  ***

  Deborah strolled out of her room in a white teddy, a thin blue robe that reached to midthigh, flapping open. Her toenails were shocking pink. She’d painted them the night before to amuse herself as she’d crammed for an exam.

  She was muttering the questions she thought would be on the exam she had scheduled at 9. The questions came easily enough, but the answers continued to bog down at some crossroads between the conscious and the unconscious. She hoped to unblock the answers with a quick shot of coffee.

  Yawning, she stumbled over a boot, pitched toward the couch, then let out a muffled scream as her hand encountered warm flesh.

  Boyd sat up like a shot, his hand already reaching for his weapon. With their faces close, he stared at Deborah—the creamy skin, the big blue eyes, the tumble of dark hair—and relaxed.

  “Good morning.”

  “I— Detective Fletcher?”

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I think so.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.” She cleared her throat and belatedly remembered to close her robe. Still fumbling, she glanced up the stairs and automatically lowered her voice. Her sister wasn’t a sound sleeper under the best of circumstances. “Why are you here?”

  He flexed a shoulder that had stiffened during his cramped night on the couch. “I told you I was going to look after Cilla.”

  “Yes, you did.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You take your job seriously.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good.” Satisfied, she smiled. In the upheaval and confusion of her nineteen years, she had learned to make character judgments quickly. “I was about to make some coffee. I have an early class. Can I get you some?”

  If she was anything like her sister, he wouldn’t get any more sleep until he’d answered whatever questions were rolling around in her head. “Sure. Thanks.”

  “I imagine you’d like a hot shower, as well. You’re about six inches too long to have spent a comfortable night on that couch.”

  “Eight,” he said, rubbing the back of his stiff neck. “I think it’s more like eight.”

  “You’re welcome to all the hot water you want. I’ll start on the coffee.” As she turned toward the kitchen, the phone rang. Thou
gh she knew Cilla would pick it up before the second ring, she stepped toward it automatically. Boyd shook his head. Reaching over, he lifted the receiver and listened.

  With her hands clutching the lapels of her robe, Deborah watched him. His face remained impassive, but she saw a flicker of anger in his eyes. Though brief, it was intense enough to make her certain who was on the other end of the line.

  Boyd disconnected mechanically, then punched in a series of numbers. “Anything?” He didn’t even bother to swear at the negative reply. “Right.” After hanging up, he looked at Deborah. She was standing beside the couch, her hands clenched, her face pale. “I’m going upstairs,” he said. “I’ll take a rain check on that coffee.”

  “She’ll be upset. I want to talk to her.”

  He pushed aside the blanket and rose, wearing only his jeans. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me handle it this time.”

  She wanted to argue, but something in his eyes stopped her. She nodded. “All right, but do a good job of it. She isn’t as tough as she likes people to think.”

  “I know.”

  He climbed the stairs to the second floor, walked past an open door to a room where the bed was tidily made. Deborah’s, he decided, noting the rose-and-white decor and the feminine bits of lace. Pausing at the next door, he knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer.

  She was sitting in the middle of the bed, her knees drawn up close to her chest and her head resting on them. The sheets and blankets were tangled, a testimony to the few hours of restless sleep she’d had.

  There were no bits of feminine lace here, no soft, creamy colors. She preferred clean lines rather than curves, simplicity rather than flounces. In contrast, the color scheme was electric, and anything but restful. In the midst of the vibrant blues and greens, she seemed all the more vulnerable.

  She didn’t look up until he sat on the edge of the bed and touched her hair. Slowly she lifted her head. He saw that there were no tears. Rather than the fear he’d expected, there was an unbearable weariness that was even more disturbing.

  “He called,” she said.

  “I know. I was on the extension.”

  “Then you heard.” She looked away, toward the window, where she could see the sun struggling to burn away a low bank of clouds. “It was him outside last night. He said he’d seen me, seen us. He made it sound revolting.”

  “Cilla—”

  “He was watching!” She spit out the words. “Nothing I say, nothing I do, is going to make him stop. And if he gets to me, he’s going to do everything he said he’d do.”

  “He’s not going to get to you.”

  “How long?” she demanded. Her fingers clenched and unclenched on the sheets as her eyes burned into his. “How long can you watch me? He’ll just wait. He’ll wait and keep calling, keep watching.” Something snapped inside her, and she picked up the bedside phone and heaved it across the room. It bounced against the wall, jangling as it thudded to the floor. “You’re not going to stop him. You heard him. He said nothing would stop him.”

  “This is just what he wants.” Boyd took her by the arms and gave her one quick shake. “He wants you to fall apart. He wants to know he’s made you fall apart. If you do, you’re only helping him.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she managed. “I just don’t know what to do.”

  “You’ve got to trust me. Look at me, Cilla.” Her breath was hitching, but she met his eyes. “I want you to trust me,” he said quietly, “and believe me when I say I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “You can’t always be there.”

  His lips curved a little. He gentled his hold to rub his hands up and down her arms. “Sure I can.”

  “I want—” She squeezed her eyes shut. How she hated to ask. Hated to need.

  “What?”

  Her lips trembled as she fought for one last handhold on control. “I need to hold on to something.” She let out an unsteady breath. “Please.”

  He said nothing, but he gathered her close to cradle her head on his shoulder. Her hands, balled into fists, pressed against his back. She was trembling, fighting off a wild bout of tears.

  “Take five, O’Roarke,” he murmured. “Let loose.”

  “I can’t.” She kept her eyes closed and held on. He was solid, warm, strong. Dependable. “I’m afraid once I do I won’t be able to stop.”

  “Okay, let’s try this.” He tilted her head up and touched his lips gently to hers. “Think about me. Right here.” His mouth brushed hers again. “Right now.” Easy, patient, he stroked her rigid back. “Just me.”

  Here was compassion. She hadn’t known a kiss from a man could hold it. More than gentle, more than tender, it soothed frayed nerves, calmed icy fears, cooled hot despair. Her clenched hands relaxed, muscle by muscle. There was no demand here as his lips roamed over her face. Just understanding.

  It became so simple to do as he’d asked. She thought only of him.

  Hesitant, she brought a hand to his face, letting her fingers skim along his beard-roughened cheek. Her stomach unknotted. The throbbing in her head quieted. She said his name on a sigh and melted against him.

  He had to be careful. Very careful. Her complete and total surrender had his own needs drumming. He ignored them. For now she needed comfort, not passion. It couldn’t matter that his senses were reeling from her, the soft give of her body, the rich taste of her mouth. It couldn’t matter that the air had thickened so that each breath he took was crowded with the scent of her.

  He knew he had only to lay her back on the bed among the tangled sheets. And cover her. She wouldn’t resist. Perhaps she would even welcome the heat and the distraction. The temporary respite. He intended to be much more to her.

  Battling his own demons, he pressed his lips to her forehead, then rested his cheek on her hair.

  “Better?”

  On one ragged breath, she nodded. She wasn’t sure she could speak. How could she tell him that she wanted only to stay like this, her arms around him, his heart beating against hers? He’d think she was a fool.

  “I, uh … didn’t know you could be such a nice guy, Fletcher.”

  He wanted to sigh, but he found himself grinning. “I have my moments.”

  “Yeah. Well, that was certainly above and beyond.”

  Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t really trying to needle him. He pulled back, put a hand under her chin and held it steady. “I’m not on duty. When I kiss you, it’s got nothing to do with my job. Got it?”

  She’d meant to thank him, not annoy him. There was a warning in his eyes that had her frowning. “Sure.”

  “Sure,” he repeated, then rose to jam his hands in his pockets in disgust.

  For the first time she noted that he wore only his jeans, unsnapped and riding low. The sudden clutching in her stomach had nothing to do with fear and left her momentarily speechless.

  She wanted him. Not just to hold, not just for a few heated kisses. And certainly not just for comfort. She wanted him in bed, the way she couldn’t remember ever wanting a man before. She could look at him—the long, lean, golden line of torso, the narrow hips, the dance of muscle in his arms as he balled his hands—and she could imagine what it would be like to touch and be touched, to roll over the bed in one tangled heap of passion. To ride and be ridden.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you now?”

  “What?”

  Eyes narrowed, he rocked back on his heels as she blinked at him. “Taking a side trip, O’Roarke?”

  “I, ah …” Her mouth was dry, and there was a hard knot of pressure in her gut. What would he say if she told him where her mind had just taken her, taken them? She let her eyes close. “Oh, boy,” she whispered. “I think I need some coffee.” And a quick dip in a cold lake.

  “Your sister was fixing some.” He frowned as he studied her. He thought of Deborah for a moment, of how she had nearly fallen on top of him wearing hardly more than a swatch of white lace. He’d appreci
ated the long, lissome limbs. What man wouldn’t? But looking at her hadn’t rocked his system.

  And here was Cilla—sitting there with her eyes shadowed, wearing a Broncos football jersey that was two sizes too big. The bright orange cotton was hardly seductive lingerie. If he stood there one more moment, he would be on his knees begging for mercy.

  “How about breakfast?” His voice was abrupt, not even marginally friendly. It helped to bring her thoughts to order.

  “I never eat it.”

  “Today you do. Ten minutes.”

  “Look, Slick—”

  “Do something with your hair,” he said as he walked out of the room. “You look like hell.”

  He found Deborah downstairs in the kitchen, fully dressed, sipping a cup of coffee. That she was waiting for him was obvious. The moment he stepped into the room, she was out of her chair.

  “She’s fine,” he said briefly. “I’m going to fix her some breakfast.”

  Though her brow lifted at this information, she nodded. “Look, why don’t you sit down? I’ll fix some for both of you.”

  “I thought you had an early class.”

  “I’ll skip it.”

  He headed for the coffee. “Then she’ll be mad at both of us.”

  She had to smile as he poured a cup, then rooted through a drawer for a spoon for the sugar. “You already know her very well.”

  “Not well enough.” He drank half the cup and felt nearly human again. He had to think of Cilla. It would be safe enough, he hoped, if he kept those thoughts professional. “How much time do you have?”

  “About five minutes,” she said as she glanced at her watch.

  “Tell me about the ex-husband.”

  “Paul?” There was surprise in her eyes, in her voice. “Why?” She was shaking her head before he could answer. “You don’t think he has anything to do with what’s going on here?”

  “I’m checking all the angles. The divorce … Was it amicable?”

  “Are they ever?”

  She was young, Boyd thought, nodding, but she was sharp. “You tell me.”

  “Well, in this case, I’d say it was as amicable—or as bland—as they get.” She hesitated, torn. If it was a question of being loyal to Cilla or protecting her, she had to choose protection. “I was only about twelve, and Cilla was never very open about it, but my impression was, always has been, that he wanted it.”

  Boyd leaned back against the counter. “Why?”

  Uncomfortable, Deborah moved her shoulders. “He’d fallen in love with someone else.” She let out a hiss of breath and prayed Cilla wouldn’t see what she was doing as a betrayal. “It was pretty clear that they were having problems before I came to live with them. It was right after our parents had died. Cilla had only been married a few months, but … well, let’s say the honeymoon was over. She was making a name for herself in Atlanta, and Paul—he was very conservative, a real straight arrow. He’d decided to run for assemblyman, I think it was, and Cilla’s image didn’t suit.”

  “Sounds like it was the other way around to me.”

  She smiled then, beautifully, and moved over to top off his coffee. “I remember how hard she was working, to hold her job together, to hold everything together. It was a pretty awful time for us. It didn’t help matters when the responsibility for a twelve-year-old was suddenly dumped on them. The added strain—well, I guess you could say it hastened the inevitable. A couple of months after I moved in, he moved out and filed for divorce. She didn’t fight it.”

  He tried to imagine how it would have been. At twenty, she’d lost her parents, accepted the care and responsibility of a young girl and watched her marriage crumble. “Sounds to me like she was well rid of him.”

  “I guess it doesn’t hurt to say I never liked him very much. He was inoffensive. And dull.”

  “Why did she marry him?”

  “I think it would be more appropriate to ask me,” Cilla said from the doorway.

  Chapter 5

  The something she had done with her hair was to pull it back in a ponytail. It left her face unframed, so the anger in her eyes was that much easier to read. Along with the jersey she’d slept in, she’d pulled on a pair of yellow sweatpants. It was a deceptively sunny combination. Her hands were thrust into their deep pockets as she stood, directing all her resentment at Boyd.

  “Cilla.” Knowing there was a time to argue and a time to soothe, Deborah stepped forward. “We were just—”