Fractured

Genesis Press, Inc.

To my family for their love and support throughout my writing journey.

Many thanks to:

My critique partners, Barb Deanne, Dyanne Davis and Lauren Ford for all their help and support throughout the years. To Windy City Writers for their education when I knew next to nothing about writing, only knew that I had stories floating around my head that needed to be told.

Mary at the Chicago Police Department for answering all my questions. Any mistakes procedurally or otherwise, are because I didn't ask the right questions, not because she didn't have the answers.

My editor, Mavis Allen, for finding my mistakes and making my first book shine.

The wonderful ladies at Genesis Press: Deborah, Diane and Nikki for your patience and kindness as you guided me along this exciting journey.

And, finally, a special thanks to my family for putting up with a writer in the house for all these years.

Isabella burrowed further into her jacket, and readied her gun. Despite the dark, she could sense their beady-eyed presence, hear them scurrying around in the over-full trash cans, and suppressed a shudder. No way would a bunch of rodents deter her.

Besides, they were the least of her problems. She fingered the worn edges of the handkerchief tucked into the pocket of her jeans for luck. Waiting in an alley, in this neighborhood, at this time of night, was dangerous. And stupid. Landry had taken down a gangbanger not even a block from here only about a week ago.

Landry Taylor
…geez, thinking about him, or anything remotely connected to him, could only distract her. Right now she needed to focus. But every time she tried, he popped into her head. Why? Maybe because he'd tell her how crazy she was for taking this kind of risk. Maybe because it had been six months since they'd broken up. Maybe because he was tall, dark and sexy and she had a serious need to get laid.

The sound registered seconds before the bullet knocked her off her feet with the ferocity of an NFL linebacker. Searing pain spread through her chest and lungs, leaking into her kidneys and abdomen.

“What…the…he…?” Her chest hitched while she struggled to breathe.

She'd been shot. As if that weren't bad enough, her head, which had bounced off the concrete on her way down, screamed for attention as well. She'd bleed to death in this rat-infested, stinking alley because she'd felt a need to prove something to herself and, more importantly, to others.

Numb, she moved slowly, starting out with wiggling her fingers. Some thugs had shot out the alley lights long ago, so she could barely see a thing. She couldn't hear anything other than the scurrying of the rats, either, which was definitely a good thing.

Even though it was against the paltry amount of medical knowledge she possessed, she inched to an upright position before feeling for damage. “Holy…crap.” How could she have forgotten she'd worn a vest?

Maybe because the pain felt as real as if she hadn't. A smart cop would call for assistance. Instead, she fought back nausea and light-headedness. Quickly losing the battle, she gave in and puked.

She didn't feel much better as the shakes followed, but at least her efforts were now focused on more important issues—like getting out of there—instead of preserving her dinner. She'd limped maybe a house or two before the whirl of the siren caught her attention.

She'd never make it back to her car and out of the neighborhood to save her dignity at this pace. She willed her legs to move quicker. They weren't ready to cooperate.

The unit careened down the alley with blue lights blazing. It settled into a slower rhythm as the spotlight came on and the siren went off.

Most cops in this area knew her, so she waved her hands in the air and shouted. “It's me, Sanchez.”

The car screeched to a halt twenty feet away and the doors flew open. “Thought that was your car down the block. Who you shooting at this time of night?” Memories skittered through her mind. He'd always brought out both the best and worst in her.

Why him? Why now?

Had her earlier fantasy somehow conjured him up? She squeezed her eyes shut with the hope she'd been mistaken. When she opened them again and spotted his unmistakable cocksure gait, his short dark hair, she wanted to simultaneously weep and rail.

Anybody but him. Landry was the last person she wanted to see her like this. He always wanted to take care of her while she craved her independence. According to him she had intimacy issues. Blah. Blah. Blah.

“Had nothing better to do tonight so thought I'd use myself for some target practice.” She hobbled closer to the car, feeling a combination of relief and humiliation.

He rushed to her side, putting a protective arm about her shoulder. She tried to shrug him off, but his grip remained tight. Had she been one hundred percent, she would have won the battle, but not tonight.

“Where's Matthews?”

“He had a hot date.”

“Damn it, what part of working with a partner don't you understand?” He hovered close, his tall frame dwarfing hers while he used his flashlight to check for damage. Meticulously separating her long, dark, springy coils of hair, he inspected her. “Are you okay?”

“Owwww.”

“Sorry, babe.” He cursed. “Just as I thought. Your head's bleeding.” He pulled back the flaps of her coat and blew out a breath. “Damn. You took some shots to the vest. Jonas, call an ambulance.”

She stopped Jonas with a raised hand. “Don't you dare. I'm fine. It's not a big deal. I'm not about to be carted away in some ambulance.”

“Sometimes you don't have a choice.” His voice lowered an octave or two, which signaled some room for negotiation.

She glanced from one man to the other. Her odds were probably fifty/fifty of winning this round. The one had been her mentor when she'd been a rookie, and the other had seen her naked and vulnerable.

Somehow she managed a halfway decent shrug, although not without a considerable amount of pain. “Probably only a mild concussion. They don't do anything for that but keep you waiting for hours in the emergency room.”

Landry drew his fingers through her coarse hair. “But you might need stitches.”

Isabella's knees nearly buckled from the intimacy of it until she reminded herself that no matter how good they were in bed, real life interfered. “There'd be a lot more blood if I needed stitches. Besides I've got some of those butterfly bandages at home. In two seconds I'll be good as new.”

Jonas spoke, his hand poised on the door of the unit. “What do you want me to do?” Aggravatingly, he looked to Landry. Then again, Jonas was old-school about those things so she didn't take it too personally.

“I'm not going to win, am I?” Landry whispered, giving her a tentative grin.

“You never do.” Somehow she didn't feel a lot of satisfaction in her words.

“Then get in the squad and we'll bring you to your car. We were nearly off shift anyway when we took the call, so I'll drive you home.”

“You're bossy.” She eyed him and wished she didn't feel that hitch inside her chest.

“We both are.”

She eased into the back of the squad as inconspicuously as possible. Still unable to take a complete breath without wincing, she kept that tidbit a secret. If she told him, he'd go into super-duper-mother-hen mode.

Then instead of taking her back to her car, Landry would insist she go straight to the emergency room. If he did that, there'd be reports and paperwork and questions she didn't want to answer. Nobody had any idea what she'd been up to tonight and she'd like to keep it that way for the time being.

Jonas double-parked alongside her car. Landry got out and opened the backdoor. He gave her the once-over before rolling his eyes. “Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?”

“A couple of pain killers, a heating pad, some bandages and I'll be good to go.” She bucked up and headed toward the car, hoping he'd forgotten the part about driving her home. She didn't need to get babysat. And she definitely didn't need to complicate her life by having Landry by her side again.

“Keys.” He placed his hand on the door and gave her a deceptive smile.

If her legs weren't so shaky, she'd try to out-muscle him. “I'll be fine. I live like, what? Ten minutes from here.” Even though she tried to sound flippant, she couldn't quite pull it off. The only thing she wanted to do was down a couple of pain killers, crank up the heating pad and put herself to bed.

“More like fifteen or twenty. But it doesn't matter. Taking you home is my compromise for not insisting on an ambulance.”

She tried to huff her annoyance, but the sharp pain made it sound more like a squeak. Pick your battles. That's what her grandfather would say.

Instead, she plunked the keys into his hand with as much oomph as she could muster. Using the hood of the car for support, she walked around to the passenger side and got in.

Landry downed the window and spoke to Jonas. “Don't worry about following. I'll call a cab.”

She didn't need Landry taking care of her. Not now. Not ever. “Let him follow. All you need to do is drive me home. I'll take it from there.”

He shook his head. “No way. Since you won't go to the hospital, I'm going to verify you're all right. Considering you probably have a concussion, I should stay the night and wake you up every couple of hours. Count yourself lucky.”

“You're not getting laid.” She scowled and tried not to think about the last time she'd had sex with him.

He gave her a sideways glance. “Yeah, like your puke breath is turning me on.”

Enough said. She tried to cross her arms in front of her chest but it hurt like hell. Instead, she slumped back in the seat and struggled to catch her breath.

One of the many problematic things in her relationship with Landry was that they both had a sarcastic edge, which meant they tried to one-up each other. Unfortunately, that was the only thing they had in common.

She was short and wiry, barely tipping the scales at one hundred and fifteen pounds, whereas he was tall and sculpted, probably weighing in at a little over two hundred. Landry was one of those ‘black Irish' types, dark black straight hair, hazel eyes with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Her skin was the color of coffee mixed with a whole lot of cream. She had coal-colored eyes and hair that made most hairdressers run for cover.

He was pure Chicago-bred. His father, grandfather, and uncles all were cops. On the other hand, she came from a long line of misfits, degenerates and criminals.

She was a mutt, an unlikely mix of African-American, Native-American, Mexican-American, and Italian-American. Landry came from solid Irish stock. His grandparents had immigrated when they were in their teens. Both his grandmothers were alive and still spoke with thick brogues.

On the rare occasions her family got together, it was only a matter of time before a fight broke out and she had to bring out her gun and order somebody off the premises. His family gatherings were a mixture of eating, drinking, laughing and storytelling.

He was a beat cop and had been for twelve years. It wasn't lack of ambition that kept him from taking the detective's exam. He enjoyed being a beat cop and was content to stay where he was. He always said it kept him humble.

She knew the futility of believing their relationship could be anything more than burn-the-house-down, incredible-with-a-capital-I-sex. On the other hand, his naiveté allowed him to believe in happily ever after. Isabella knew firsthand that wasn't reality.

* * *

Landry tried hard to keep his hands from shaking even though his pulse still raced like he'd run ten miles in ninety-degree heat. He couldn't let Isabella see how scared he'd been.

What the hell had she been thinking? She was a great detective, probably one of the best in the Narcotics & Gang Investigation Unit, but she could have died pulling such a dumb move. What if she hadn't worn her vest? What if whoever took the shots at her had come in closer to finish the job? Quelling those frightening thoughts, he kept his emotions in check. Barely.

Right now he wanted to shake her and then hold her tight until he could get her to see reason. Fat chance that would happen. Tonight she wouldn't let him within ten feet of her without having a fit.

He knew the signs. She was feeling vulnerable and weak, and would keep her distance until she felt more in control.

Staying away from her had been pure torture. He didn't believe the fact that her need for space from their relationship coincided with her perceived fall from grace at the police department.

Now she tumbled back into his life, reminding him once again how much he loved her.

* * *

He pulled to a spot on the street, shut off the car and turned in the seat. “What were you doing in that alley?”

“Did you forget I'm a cop? I was chasing criminals.” She opened the car door, hoping like hell he'd stop with the inquisition.

“Then why didn't you call it in? Or wait for back-up? What are you hiding, Isabella?” When switching from cop mode, he always reverted to her first name. He tsked. “Ramirez again, isn't it? You're not going to give up, are you?”

She knew he'd make that assumption. Despite the fact he was right, she ignored his questions. “I don't need to discuss my cases with you.” She brushed past him and hoped he'd stop prying. Knowing Landry, that wasn't going to happen.

“If you're taking stupid risks and putting your life in danger, you should talk to somebody.” He moved in front of her to block her path. While he towered over her in height and to some people might seem intimidating, she saw gentleness and affection in his eyes.

But she didn't want to see that in him, from him, or by him. Nothing good could come from it. “If I would have known you were going to be such a pain, I wouldn't have let you drive me home.” With very little effort, she sidestepped past him and continued on her way.

Over a hundred years old, the building she lived in was in the Old Town area of Chicago. Her grandfather had bought the place fifty years ago when it wasn't safe to drive through the neighborhood, let alone own something. At the time, the area was a haven for hippies, druggies, derelicts and criminals. Now, with its close proximity to downtown, combined with the influx of people from the suburbs back into the city, the yuppies had moved in and the building was worth a small fortune. When he died three years ago, he'd left the place to her which angered the majority of her family members.

Normally she lived in the top unit and rented out the bottom. Sometimes fellow police officers rented it. Sometimes the place was empty. Right now her cousin along with his wife and young child lived in the downstairs unit.

They hadn't paid her a cent in the six months they'd lived there. Considering Lou had been out of work for a while, she didn't expect the rent anytime soon. But lately there'd been something strange going on. Lou had been acting weird, but she couldn't put her finger on anything specific. His wife, Cynthia, who was normally bubbly and chatty, had been quiet and subdued the last couple of times Isabella had run into her. She would hate for her one and only relative who was halfway normal to be in some kind of trouble and not be able to talk to her about it.