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“You told me last night. You weren’t sure at first whether you’d gotten hit or the Yankees lost ‘cause they couldn’t, but since a picture of the Yankees manager kicking home plate is on the front page of the sports section, and you’ve got a bandage and a headache, I’m pretty sure you were the one involved in hitting.”
Sometimes, for no reason at all, he found himself tempted to smile at her. “You’d make quite a detective.”
“No, thanks, the job perils are a little steep for me. Who’d hit a cop?”
He shrugged. He had some basic assault cases pending on his desk, but nothing that would warrant clobbering a cop. And it’d been years since he’d made the mistake of sleeping with a married woman.
Job. She’d jarred his memory again. He’d been doing his job after the bar. He had a vague picture of a short, dark-haired guy wearing a ball cap and overcoat running down an alley. He told as much to Calla.
“Why was he running?” she asked.
“He was a thief?” he asked rather than said, though the reason sounded right.
“How did you know he was a thief?”
“He was running away.” But he hadn’t worn his uniform since the swearing-in ceremony two years ago when he’d made detective. How had the guy made him for a cop? Or had he? “He had a bag, a red lady’s handbag,” he said finally as a flash of the scene came back to him. “I was pissed cause I had to chase him. I knew I’d be late for the wedding if I had to arrest him.”
He’d known Calla would be furious. Plus, he’d wanted to see her in her bridesmaid’s dress.
“Did you catch him?”
“No. Everything goes black then.”
“That’s when you got hit.”
“I guess.”
“We can be fairly certain. The ambulance picked up you and another man from an alley.” When he looked questioningly at her, she added, “After you passed out last night, I made a few phone calls.”
He recalled a ride in an ambulance, EMTs snapping orders, the scream of sirens, flashing lights. His memory also provided a vision of his purse snatcher’s battered face. Why was that so vivid and yet he only got a fuzzy image of Calla in her bridesmaid’s dress?
Life isn’t fair, Antonio. You ought to know that by now.
“I called the ambulance,” he said slowly, sliding off his stool to pace the living room floor. The pieces were falling into place, and the picture they formed wasn’t pretty. “When I woke up, my suspect was unconscious next to me and beat all to hell. We were alone.”
Calla angled her head. “So somebody hit you, then ran him down, attacked him, dragged him next to you and left you both there bleeding?”
The fact that she hadn’t immediately wondered if he’d beaten the suspect was a loyalty he had no idea how he could have earned. Along with anger and worry, something sweet and pure shot through him.
Something he had no business enjoying.
“Pretty implausible, right?” he commented.
“It actually seems like the only explanation. Conversely, it also explains—” She paused, her gaze jumping to his.
“Why I’ve been suspended?”
She bit her lip. “Remembered that, have you?”
“The whole rosy scene is fairly clear now. How do you know? Another one of your phone calls?”
“I went to see Lieutenant Meyer when you didn’t show up at the wedding. That’s how I found you at the bar.” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking like an outraged fairy. “He honestly thinks you beat up a suspect then knocked yourself out?”
“I’m not sure what he thinks, but since that’s the story my purse snatcher told the cops, I’ve been suspended pending investigation of his assault.”
Calla’s jaw dropped. “The thief told them you beat him up?”
“Yep.”
“But you were knocked out, too. Who’s investigating your assault?”
He sneered. “I imagine that’s pretty low on the list of priority cases.”
3
CALLA SLAMMED THE skillet in the sink and began to scrub, though she knew it was ridiculous to dream that Devin’s mess could be so easily cleaned up. “This is outrageous. Meyer’s taking the word of some two-bit, scummy purse snatcher over one of his own detectives?”
“Probably not,” Devin said, still pacing, even though he had to be dizzy by now. “But the incident has to be investigated. You gotta admit the whole thing is strange. The suspect—who Meyer referred to as a witness, by the way—says I started chasing him for no reason, then whaled on him once I caught him in the alley. And nobody found a purse on him. He had his own wallet in his back pocket, and that was it.”
“Obviously whoever hit both of you took it.”
“That much has occurred to me in the last few minutes. But unless this mysterious attacker shows up and confesses, the lieutenant has an investigation to run. I’m a suspect and out of the department until he does.”
“Heaven forbid he should stand by you.”
“He has to stay impartial. Dirty cops are serious business. I’m sure Internal Affairs will be knocking on my door very soon.”
Calla plopped the rest of the plates in the dishwasher and slammed the door. “Maybe the thief had a partner, and he didn’t want to split the booty, so he clobbered his buddy and took off.”
“The booty?”
She let out a huff as she marched toward him, wondering if it was possible his head injury had made him even more difficult than normal. “Loot, plunder, goods, ill-gotten gains. Pick your term. I’ve got a thesaurus on the bookshelf that’ll help you find dozens more if you like.”
“Seems like a lot of effort for one purse.”
Calla flopped on the sofa. “You’re sure it wasn’t there when you woke up?”
“I don’t think so, but I was pretty groggy.”
“And yet you managed to call for help.”
“An obvious flaw in the logic of this guy’s story. I’m the one who called the ambulance. Why would I do that if I’d gone to all the trouble to kick the crap out of him?”
“None of this makes sense. We need to find you a lawyer.” She picked up her phone from the coffee table in front of her. “I’ll call Victoria. Her dad’s bound to know somebody.”
“We?” Devin stopped pacing and shook his head, which he obviously regretted, because he winced, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “I appreciate you helping me out last night, but I’ll handle things from here.”
“Unlike the NYPD, I am standing by you. You need help.”
“I can take care of myself.” He must have realized she’d debunked that statement pretty soundly over the past twelve hours, since he added, “Usually. I don’t need your gang.”
She scowled. “We’re not a gang.”
“So you keep saying. Look, I should go.”
As he headed toward the hallway, she stepped in front of him. “Don’t. Let me help you. It’s the least my friends and I can do after all the times you’ve rescued us.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need rescuing.”
The man was pricklier than a desert cactus. “Stay.”
“No.”
“I’d threaten to hold your pain meds hostage, but you’d probably dip into the whiskey bottle again.”
“I think I’ll lay off the whiskey for a while.”
“Wise idea. You can’t go home, somebody tried to kill you.”
“A bump on the head isn’t a near-death experience.”
“But whoever hit you and the guy you chased is out there. What if he comes looking for you?”
Devin laid his hand on his side, where he usually carried his pistol. By the expression on his face, she could tell he wasn’t happy by its absence.
“Us regular folks can’t carry a gun in the city,” she reminded him.
“They took my badge, too.”
There was a world of frustration in those five simple words. Though he wasn’t big on sharing, she knew he defined himself by his job. The possibility of losing it was no doubt terrifying.
Counting on rejection, but past caring, she grasped his hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll help you get it back.”
He looked, not at her, but their joined hands. “I appreciate the offer, but I have to handle this alone.”
“Why?”
His gaze moved to hers. “It’s my problem.”
“There’s no weakness in accepting help from a friend,” she said gently, sensing he was on the verge of bolting.
“And we’re friends.”
“Aren’t we?”
His bright green eyes stood out starkly from his tanned skin. People of Irish and Italian decent really should mate more often if this was the result. Her friends thought he was gorgeous, but dark and rough. She saw him as wounded and lonely. He spoke to her on an elemental level, and deeper feelings were undeniably lurking.
Feelings he seemed determined to ignore or deny.
“I thought so,” she said finally to his question about friendship.
“Are we more than friends?”
Her heart gave a swift kick to her ribs. “Pardon me?”
“We didn’t …” He trailed off and clearly struggled to continue. She wondered if he was even aware he was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “I mean, I didn’t … do anything with you last night, did I?”
There’d been some clumsy passes, of course, but they, unfortunately, meant nothing. Was that what he was talking about? In his case, thing could mean something as monumental as having a conversation for more than two minutes. “Do what kind of thing?”
“I woke up naked.”
Her face turned pink. “I thought you’d be more comfortable out of your clothes.” He did more for a black T-shirt and jeans than anybody she knew, but the view beneath the cotton was exponentially better. Not that she’d looked. For long. She cleared her throat. “I was expecting some kind of undergarment, actually. Do you always …?”
“No. I need to do laundry.”
“Ah. And the scar on your hip?”
“I got stabbed.”
He gave the explanation with the same casual tone that most people used for “I think I’ll have fries with my burger,” intriguing and mystifying her more than ever.
And he was still caressing her hand. She inched toward him. Yes, he was injured, confused, weak and needy—even if he didn’t want to admit he was. It would be wrong, very wrong, to take advantage of him in his current state.
And yet her libido was also needy and it was whispering seductively about the possibility of this being her one and only opportunity with him. She’d been crushing on him for six months. Other than the head wound plus alcohol fiasco of the night before, he seemed determined not to make the first move. Any move, actually.
Yet, somewhere, somewhere way deep down, she sensed he needed her with the same intensity.
Texans were nothing if not determined and resilient. She certainly knew how to take control. And she had a much better weapon than a firearm.
Before her conscience could talk sense into her, or he could think quickly enough to shove her away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.
Desperate as the move was, it was worth the reward.
He crushed her against him, bracing his hand at the back of her head to hold her in place as he drove his tongue past her lips. Her senses ignited, and he fanned the flames, consuming her like a man starved for air.
Finally was all she could think. Finally he’d let go of the tight rein he held on his control.
She embraced his heat, his aggression and need. Everything about him enticed her to learn more, to be drawn further into the inferno. Why was he so determined to be alone? What had made him so cynical and stony? Why did she want so badly to find out if anything soft lingered beneath?
As the thought occurred, his touch turned gentle. His hand, braced at the small of her back, slid around her waist, glided down her hip. If he tugged the ties of her robe, she’d be standing before him in nothing but panties and a camisole, but he seemed more interested in her mouth.
Dreams she’d had alone in her bed, in the dead of night rushed back. How often had she woken in a sweat, so sure he’d been with her between the sheets, positive she smelled his cologne on her skin, only to find herself alone and aching instead?
Fantasies never lived up to their impossible promises, yet she continued to hope and wonder. Now she finally had him.
I dream of you day and night.
Had he felt the same? Had he longed for her, too? Would this disastrous frame-up bring them together in a way their past connections hadn’t been able to?
