Night Shift

by Nora Roberts

  “Yes, I heard what you were just.” She shifted her gaze to Deborah. The edge of her temper softened. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.”

  “It’s not a matter of fault,” Deborah murmured. “We care what happens to you.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. You’d better get going, Deb, or you’ll be late. And it appears that Detective Fletcher and I have things to discuss.”

  Deborah lifted her hands and let them fall. She shot one sympathetic glance toward Boyd, then kissed her sister’s cheek. “All right. You’d never listen to reason at this hour anyway.”

  “Get an A,” was all Cilla said.

  “I intend to. I’m going to catch a burger and a movie with Josh, but I’ll be back before you get home.”

  “Have a good time.” Cilla waited, not moving an inch until she heard the front door close. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve, Fletcher.”

  He merely turned and slipped another mug off the hook behind the stove. “Want some coffee?”

  “I don’t appreciate you grilling my sister.”

  He filled the mug, then set it aside. “I left my rubber hose in my other suit.”

  “Let’s get something straight.” She walked toward him, deliberately keeping her hands in her pockets. She was dead sure she’d hit him if she took them out. “If you have any questions about me, you come to me. Deborah is not involved in any of this.”

  “She’s a lot more forthcoming than her sister. Got any eggs?” he asked as he opened the refrigerator.

  She managed to restrain the urge to kick the door into his head. “You know, for a minute upstairs you had me fooled. I actually thought you had some heart, some compassion.”

  He found a half-dozen eggs, some cheese and a few miserly strips of bacon. “Why don’t you sit down, O’Roarke, and drink your coffee?”

  She swore at him, viciously. Something shot into his eyes, something dangerous, but he picked up a skillet and calmly began to fry the bacon. “You’ll have to do better than that,” he said after a moment. “After ten years on the force there’s not much you could call me and get a rise.”

  “You had no right.” Her voice had quieted, but the emotion in it had doubled. “No right to dredge all that up with her. She was a child, devastated, scared to death. That entire year was nothing but hell for her, and she doesn’t need you to make her remember it.”

  “She handled herself just fine.” He broke an egg into a bowl, then crushed the shell in his hand. “It seems to me you’re the one with the problem.”

  “Just back off.”

  He had her arm in a tight grip so quickly that she had no chance to evade. His voice was soft, deadly, with temper licking around the edges. “Not a chance.”

  “What happened back then has nothing to do with what’s happening now, and what’s happening now is the only thing that concerns you.”

  “It’s my job to determine what applies.” With an effort, he reeled himself in. He couldn’t remember when anyone had pushed him so close to the edge so often. “If you want me to put it to rest, then spell it out for me. Ex-spouses are favored suspects.”

  “It was eight years ago.” She jerked away and, needing something to do with her hands, snatched up her coffee. It splattered over the rim and onto the counter.

  “I find out from you or I find out from someone else. The end result’s the same.”

  “You want me to spell it out? You want me to strip bare? Fine. It hardly matters at this point. I was twenty, I was stupid. He was beautiful and charming and smart—all the things stupid twenty-year-old girls think they want.”

  She took a long sip of hot coffee, then automatically reached for a washcloth to mop up the spill. “We only knew each other a couple of months. He was very persuasive, very romantic. I married him because I wanted something stable and real in my life. And I thought he loved me.”

  She was calmer now. She hadn’t realized that the anger had drained away. Sighing, she turned, mechanically reaching for plates and flatware. “It didn’t work—almost from day one. He was disappointed in me physically and disillusioned when he saw that I believed my work was as important as his. He’d hoped to convince me to change jobs. Not that he wanted me to quit altogether. He wasn’t against my having a career, even in radio—as long as it didn’t interfere with his plans.”

  “Which were?” Boyd asked as he set the bacon aside to drain.

  “Politics. Actually, we met at a charity event the station put on. He was trying to charm up votes. I was promoting. That was the basic problem,” she murmured. “We met each other’s public personalities.”

  “What happened?”

  “We got married—too fast. And things went wrong—too fast. I was even considering his idea that I go into marketing or sales. I figured I should at least give it a shot. Then my parents … I lost my parents, and brought Deborah home.”

  She stopped speaking for a moment. She couldn’t talk of that time, couldn’t even think of the fears and the griefs, the pain and the resentments.

  “It must have been rough.”

  She shrugged the words away. “The bottom line was, I couldn’t handle another upheaval. I needed to work. The strain ate away at what shaky foundation we had. He found someone who made him happier, and he left me.” She filled her mug with coffee she no longer wanted. “End of story.”

  What was he supposed to say? Boyd wondered. Tough break, kid? We all make mistakes? You were better off without the jerk? No personal comments, he warned himself. They were both edgy enough.

  “Did he ever threaten you?”

  “No.”

  “Abuse you?”

  She gave a tired laugh. “No. No. You’re trying to make him into the bad guy, Boyd, and it won’t play. We were simply two people who made a mistake because we got married before we knew what we wanted.”

  Thoughtful, Boyd scooped eggs onto her plate. “Sometimes people hold resentments without even being aware of it. Then one day they bust loose.”

  “He didn’t resent me.” Sitting, she picked up a piece of bacon. She studied it as she broke it in two. “He never cared enough for that. That’s the sad, sad truth.” She smiled, but there wasn’t a trace of humor in her eyes. “You see, he thought I was like the woman he heard on the radio—seductive, sophisticated, sexy. He wanted that kind of woman in bed. And outside the bedroom he wanted a well-groomed, well-mannered, attentive woman to make his home. I was neither.” She shrugged and dropped the bacon on her plate again. “Since he wasn’t the attentive, reliable and understanding man I thought he was, we both lost out. We had a very quiet, very civilized divorce, shook hands and went our separate ways.”

  “If there was nothing more to it, why are you still raw?”

  She looked up then, eyes somber. “You’ve never been married, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I couldn’t begin to explain. If you want to run a check on Paul, you go ahead, but it’s a waste of time. I can guarantee he hasn’t given me a thought since I left Atlanta.”

  He doubted that any man who had ever been close to her would be able to push her completely out of his mind, but he would let that ride for the moment. “You’re letting your eggs get cold.”

  “I told you I don’t eat breakfast.”

  “Humor me.” He reached over, scooped up a forkful of eggs from her plate and held them to her lips.

  “You’re a pest,” she said after she swallowed them. “Don’t you have to check in or something?”

  “I already did—last night, after you went up to bed.”

  She toyed with the food on her plate, eating a bite or two to keep him from nagging her. He had stayed, she reminded herself, long after his duty shift was over. She owed him for that. And she always paid her debts.

  “Look, I appreciate you hanging around, and I know it’s your job to ask all kinds of personal and embarrassing questions. But I really want you to leave Deb out of it.”

  “As much as I can.�
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  “Spring break’s coming up. I’m going to try to convince her to head for the beach.”

  “Good luck.” He sipped, watching her over the rim of his mug. “You might pull it off if you went with her.”

  “I’m not running from this.” After pushing her half-eaten breakfast aside, she rested her elbows on the table. “After the call this morning, I was pretty close to doing just that. I thought about it—and after I did I realized it’s not going to stop until I figure it out. I want my life back, and that’s not going to happen until we know who he is and why he’s after me.”

  “It’s my job to find him.”

  “I know. That’s why I’ve decided to cooperate.”

  He set his mug aside. “Have you?”

  “That’s right. From now on, my life’s an open book. You ask, I’ll answer.”

  “And you’ll do exactly what you’re told?”

  “No.” She smiled. “But I’ll do exactly what I’m told if it seems reasonable.” She surprised them both by reaching over to touch his hand. “You look tired, Slick. Rough night?”

  “I’ve had better.” He linked his fingers with hers before she could withdraw them. “You look damn good in the morning, Cilla.”

  There it was again—that fluttering that started in her chest and drifted down to her stomach. “A little while ago you said I looked like hell.”

  “I changed my mind. Before I clock in I’d like to talk to you about last night. About you and me.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “No, it’s not.” But he didn’t release her hand. “I’m a cop, and you’re my assignment. There’s no getting around that.” She nearly managed a relieved breath before he continued. “Any more than there’s any getting around the fact that I want you so much it hurts.”

  She went very still, so still she could hear the sound of her own heartbeat drumming in her head. Very slowly she moved her eyes, only her eyes, until they met his. They were not so calm now, she thought. There was a fire there, barely banked. It was exciting, terrifyingly exciting.

  “Lousy timing,” he continued when she didn’t speak. “But I figure you can’t always pick the right time and the right place. I’m going to do my job, but I think you should know I’m having trouble being objective. If you want someone else assigned to you, you’d better say so now.”

  “No.” She answered too quickly, and she forced herself to backtrack. “I don’t think I’m up to breaking in a new cop.” Keep it light, she warned herself. “I’m not crazy about having one at all, but I’m almost used to you.” She caught herself gnawing on her thumbnail and hastily dropped her hand into her lap. “As for the rest, we’re not children. We can … handle it.”

  He knew he shouldn’t expect her to admit the wanting wasn’t all one-sided. So he would wait a little while longer.

  When he rose, she sprang up so quickly that he laughed. “I’m going to do the dishes, O’Roarke, not jump on you.”

  “I’ll do them.” She could have kicked herself. “One cooks, one cleans. O’Roarke rules.”

  “Fine. You’ve got a remote at noon, right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I checked your schedule. Leave enough time for us to drop by my place so I can shower and change.”

  “I’m going to be in a mall with dozens of people,” she began. “I don’t think—”

  “I do.” With that, he left her alone.

  ***

  Boyd was lounging on the couch with the paper and a last cup of coffee when Cilla came downstairs. He glanced over, and the casual comment he’d been about to make about her being quick to change died before it reached his tongue. He was glad he was sitting down.

  She wore red. Vivid, traffic-stopping red. The short leather skirt was snug at the hips and stopped at midthigh. The jeans she usually wore hadn’t given him a true measure of how long her legs were, or how shapely. The matching jacket crossed over her body to side snaps at the waist. It made him wonder what she was wearing beneath it.

  She’d done something to her hair. It was still tumbled, but more artfully, and certainly more alluringly. And her face, he noted as he finally stood. She’d fiddled with that, as well—enough to highlight her cheekbones, accent her eyes, slicken her lips.

  “Stupid,” she muttered as she struggled with an earring. “I can never figure out why hanging things from your ears is supposed to be attractive.” On a sigh, she stared down at the dangling columns and the little gold back in her palm. “Either these are defective or I am. Are you any good at this?”

  She walked over to him, her hand held out. Her scent was wheeling in his head. “At what?”

  “Putting these in. I don’t wear them for weeks at a time, so I’ve never really gotten the hang of it. Give me a hand, will you?”

  He was concentrating on breathing, nice, slow, even breaths. “You want me to put that on for you?”

  She rolled her eyes impatiently. “You catch on fast, Slick.” She thrust the earring into his hand, then tucked the hair behind her right ear. “You just slide the post through, then fasten the little doodad on the back. That’s the part I have trouble with.”

  He muttered something, then bent to the task. There was a pressure in his chest, and it was building. He knew he would never get that scent out of his system. Swearing softly, he struggled to pinch the tiny fastening with his fingertips.

  “This is a stupid system.”

  “Yeah.” She could barely speak. She’d known the minute he touched her that she’d made an enormous mistake. Bursts of sensations, flashes of images, were rushing into her. All she could do was stand still and pray he’d hurry up and finish.

  The back of his thumb brushed up and down over her jaw. His fingertips grazed the sensitive area behind her ear. His breath fluttered warm against her skin until she had to bite back a moan.

  She lifted an unsteady hand. “Listen, why don’t we just forget it?”

  “I’ve got it.” Letting out a long breath, he stepped back an inch. He was a wreck. But some of the tension eased when he looked at her and saw that she was far from unaffected. He managed to smile then and flicked a finger over the swaying gold columns. “We’ll have to try that again … when we’ve got more time.”

  Since no response she could think of seemed safe, she gave none. Instead, she retrieved his coat and her own from the closet. She set his aside and waited while he slipped into his shoulder holster. Watching him give his weapon a quick, routine check brought back memories she wanted to avoid, so she looked away. Pulling open the door, she stepped into the sunlight and left him to follow when he was ready.

  He made no comment when he joined her.

  “Do you mind if I tune the station in?” she asked as they settled into his car.

  “It’s on memory. Number three.”

  Pleased, she turned it on. The morning team was chattering away, punctuating their jokes with sound effects. They plugged an upcoming concert, promised to give another pair of tickets away during the next hour, then invited the listening audience to the mall to see Cilla O’Roarke live and in person.

  “She’ll be giving away albums, T-shirts and concert tickets,” Frantic Fred announced.

  “Come on, Fred,” his partner broke in. “You know those guys out there don’t care about a couple of T-shirts. They want to”—he made loud, panting noises—“see Cilla.” There was a chorus of wolf whistles, growls and groans.

  “Cute,” Boyd muttered, but Cilla only chuckled.

  “They’re supposed to be obnoxious,” she pointed out. “People like absurdity in the morning when they’re dragging themselves out of bed or fighting traffic. Last quarter’s Arbitron ratings showed them taking over twenty-four percent of the target audience.”

  “I guess you get a kick out of hearing some guy pant over you.”

  “Hey, I live for it.” Too amused to be offended, she settled back. He certainly had a nice car for a cop. Some sporty foreign job that still sme
lled new. She was never any good with makes and models. “Come on, Slick, it’s part of the act.”

  He caught himself before he could speak again. He was making a fool of himself. His own investigation had verified that both morning men were married, with tidy homes in the suburbs. Frantic Fred and his wife were expecting their first child. Both men had been with KHIP for nearly three years, and he’d found no cross-reference between their pasts and Cilla’s.

  Relaxing as the music began, Cilla gazed out the window. The day promised to be warm and sunny. Perhaps this would be the first hint of spring. And her first spring in Colorado. She had a weakness for the season, for watching the leaves bud and grow, the flowers bloom.

  Yet in spring she would always think of Georgia. The magnolias, the camellias, the wisterias. All those heady scents.

  She remembered a spring when she’d been five or six. Planting peonies with her father on a warm Saturday morning while the radio counted down the Top 40 hits of the week. Hearing the birds without really listening, feeling the damp earth under her hands. He’d told her they would bloom spring after spring and that she would be able to see them from her window.

  She wondered if they were still there—if whoever lived in that house cared for them.

  “Cilla?”

  She snapped back. “What?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure, I’m fine.” She focused on her surroundings. There were big trees that would shade in the summer, trimmed hedges for privacy. A long, gently sloping hill led to a graceful three-story house fashioned from stone and wood. Dozens of tall, slender windows winked in the sunlight. “Where are we?”

  “My house. I’ve got to change, remember?”

  “Your house?” she repeated.

  “Right. Everyone has to live somewhere.”

  True enough, she thought as she pushed the door open. But none of the cops she had ever known had lived so well. A long look around showed her that the neighborhood was old, established and wealthy. A country-club neighborhood.

  Disconcerted, she followed Boyd up a stone path to an arched door outlined in etched glass.

  Inside, the foyer was wide, the floors a gleaming cherry, the ceilings vaulted. On the walls were paintings by prominent twentieth-century artists. A sweep of stairway curved up to the second floor.

  “Well,” she said. “And I thought you were an honest cop.”

  “I am.” He slipped the coat from her shoulders to toss it over the railing.

  She had no doubts as to his honesty, but the house and all it represented made her nervous. “And I suppose you inherited all this from a rich uncle.”

  “Grandmother.” Taking her arm, he led her through a towering arch. The living room was dominated by a stone fireplace topped with a heavy carved mantel. But the theme of the room was light, with a trio of windows set in each outside wall.

  There was a scattering of antiques offset by modern sculpture. She could see what she thought was a dining room through another arch.

  “That must have been some grandmother.”

  “She was something. She ran Fletcher Industries until she hit seventy.”

  “And what is Fletcher Industries?”

  He shrugged. “Family business. Real estate, cattle, mining.”

  “Mining.” She blew out a breath. “Like gold?”

  “Among other things.”

  She linked her fingers together to keep from biting her nails. “So why aren’t you counting your gold instead of being a cop?”

  “I like being a cop.” He took her restless hand in his. “Something wrong?”

  “No. You’d better change. I have to be there early to prep.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  She waited until he had gone before she sank onto one of the twin sofas. Fletcher Industries, she thought. It sounded important. Even prominent. After digging in her bag for a cigarette, she studied the room again.

  Elegant, tasteful, easily rich. And way out of her league.

  It had been difficult enough when she’d believed they were on fairly equal terms. She didn’t like to admit it, but the thought had been there, in the back of her mind, that maybe, just maybe, there could be a relationship between them. No, a friendship. She could never be seriously involved with someone in law enforcement.

  But he wasn’t just a cop now. He was a rich cop. His name was probably listed