Gabriel (11 page)

“In books I can afford to be black and white—it’s what people expect. But the world
is colored in shades of gray. Sometimes life isn’t as simple as right or wrong, good
or evil,” he said, voice impossibly gentle. “What if you find the one who killed Richard,
and this person has lived his life sacrificing, atoning for his or her sin? What if
that person is married, has children, a family? Can you take him or her from them
without a qualm or a twinge of remorse?”

No, she hadn’t weighed how the truth would affect those outside of her immediate circle
of family and friends. Hadn’t considered the ramifications the revelation might demand.
But ultimately it didn’t matter. It
couldn’t
matter.

“When they decided to take Richard’s life, they chose the consequences for themselves
and their families. I didn’t. Murder
is
black-and-white. It’s final. And justice should be, too.”

“Tell that to the abused wife who defended herself against the bastard who beat her,”
he murmured and dropped his arm. “It all depends on your definition of justice.” Bereft
of his touch, she fought a shiver as cold seeped in. Yet even as she craved the return
of his hand’s warm, solid pressure, another new thought crept in, depositing an insidious
germ in her mind.

“Gabe?”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t like Richard, did you?”

He regarded her, his ice-blue eyes unblinking. He didn’t reply, but he didn’t need
to; she saw the answer in his cold stare. It reflected no warmth, no concern for Richard
at all. Which begged the question: Why was Gabriel so intent on assisting her with
discovering who killed her uncle?

Brian Connor strode back into the room, and she yanked her attention to the detective
and the white shoe box he carried. But she couldn’t uproot the idea from her head.
Or quiet the niggle of unease refusing to be shushed.

“Here we go.” The detective planted the box on the table in front of them and lowered
onto the recliner, perching on the edge of the seat. “It’s not much, but then again,
we didn’t have much,” he apologized while removing the lid.

“I’m thankful for anything you can pass on to me.” She leaned forward but glanced
up at Brian. “May I?”

When Brian gestured toward the box, granting her the go-ahead, she didn’t hesitate
to dig in. A sheaf of copy paper, yellowed around the edges, lay on top. She picked
it up and scanned the first couple of pages. Her head jerked up, and she grinned at
the detective. “You copied the interview transcripts?” she asked, incredulous.

The man flashed a wicked grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’ll be our secret.”
He winked at her and laughed. “You’ll find the transcripts, my personal notes, a copy
of Richard Pierce’s datebook.” A frown creased his forehead. “His datebook,” he muttered,
and the vee of his brows deepened. “There’s another thing that always nagged at me.”
His expression cleared, but the puzzlement remained in his gaze. “Both Richard’s mother
and his girlfriend claimed he had a business dinner planned for Friday night. But
nothing was entered for October twenty-third, and it seemed as if Richard Pierce recorded
every move he made in his datebook. In addition, his secretary—another scary woman,
I might add—didn’t recall a dinner, business or otherwise. And I swear, this woman
probably potty-trained her kids at gunpoint. She would have remembered.”

Beside her, Gabriel’s hoarse cough sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“Feel free to take it with you,” Brian offered, slapping his palms down on his knees.
“All I ask is if you do find out something, let me know. Like I said, this one has
stayed with me.”

“Absolutely,” Leah assured him, replacing the box top. “And either way, I’ll return
this to you.” She lifted the shoe box and rose to her feet. Gabriel stood with her,
his hand falling to her hip. “Again, Detective Connor, thank you. We’ll speak soon.”

“Looking forward to it.” They shook hands, but after he loosed her hand, he peered
at her, his cop gaze steady, direct. “I recognized your name. I was at the District
D station the night the ‘officer down’ call came in.” He lifted his arm and cupped
her shoulder with his large, blunt-fingered hand. “Even though you’re no longer on
the force, I’m glad to see you’re still using what you learned to serve and protect.”

She gazed at him, stunned. Aside from her father, Gabe, and the other three Musketeers,
no one—not her old sergeant, partner, or the cops she’d patrolled with—had known what
to say. They’d patted her on the back and offered an uncomfortable but sincere “tough
break,” but their lives, their careers had gone on…without her. She’d no longer had
a place among them, and after the first few awkward phone conversations, she’d stopping
calling.

Yet a detective she’d met twenty minutes ago had managed to offer the condolences
and praise they couldn’t. Gratitude and sorrow choked her, blocked her air and words.
She tried to speak but in the end, she nodded her thanks to Brian and glanced away.

The retired officer turned toward Gabriel and extended his palm. Gabriel accepted
it, giving it a firm shake. “Nice seeing you again, son.”

“Same here, Detective.” Gabriel dipped his chin in the direction of his bookshelf.
“I’ll make sure to mail a copy of my newest release to you.”

Brian’s expression brightened, and his delighted grin erased ten years from his weathered
face. “Autographed?”

Gabriel smiled, releasing his hand. “Definitely.”

Brian walked them out of the living room and to the front door. They exited his home
and trotted down the porch steps. The shoe box tucked securely under her arm, Leah
turned to wave one last time before the detective closed the door.

Then she and Gabriel strode down the walkway in silence.

“Where are you headed now?” he asked, sliding his hands into the front pockets of
his jeans. She wanted those hands on her again. Wanted his long artist’s fingers to
stroke her body. Wanted his hard, calloused palms to pull her against him, skin to
skin.

Might as well wish for the glass slipper and pumpkin-turned-carriage.

“Home.” She tapped the key fob, and the car emitted a cute beep matching its cute,
tiny stature. God, she wanted her truck. “I had a couple of appointments today before
this one, and now I just want to go home, have a glass of wine, cook a meal with tons
of calories, and watch mind-numbing reality TV.”

“Sounds, uh”—a corner of his mouth quirked—“fun.”

“Smirking is so not an attractive look.” He snickered, and she laughed. “You’re welcome
to join me if you’d like.”

The answering silence deafened her.
Shit
. Her stomach plummeted. Gabriel hadn’t been to her home, her sanctuary, since the
accident. Not that she hadn’t asked him, but the answer was always no. Yet, glimpsing
the humor in his eyes, the invitation had slipped out. And now it swung between them,
back and forth like a pendulum. The humor leeched from Gabriel’s expression, leaving
behind the familiar closed mask.

Heart meet fucking sleeve.

“Leah,” he said. “I can’t.”

She shrugged, and she tried to smile—God, did she try—but the gesture exceeded her
nonchalance limit.

“Just thought I’d offer,” she said, forcing her feet into motion toward the car and
escape.

“Leah.”

“I planned on swinging by Chay’s house tomorrow to speak with him and Evelyn. I’ll
call and let you know the time.”

She didn’t wait for his response. Couldn’t. One more of those soft, pitying “Leahs,”
or another kind rebuff, and she would crack right down the middle.

She couldn’t do it…at least not in front of him.

After opening the car door, she slid behind the wheel, placing the shoe box on the
passenger seat. She didn’t spare a glance in the rearview mirror, not trusting herself.
Even though humiliation flared in her breast like a bonfire, love beat under it like
a molten heartbeat. If she looked at him, she had as much chance of jerking the car
to a stop and running into his arms for comfort as she did driving away from him.

So she raced off as if the hounds of hell nipped at her tires.

Chapter Twelve

“Damn,” Gabriel muttered, thrusting his fingers through his hair, dragging the heavy
strands away from his face as he stared after Leah’s disappearing taillights in the
deepening dusk. His fist tightened at the back of his head and the slight sting to
his scalp helped clear the dark storm of emotion wailing in his head like a screaming
gale.

Pain had darkened her eyes seconds before they shuttered. But the brief glimpse was
a new kind of torture. He’d inflicted the hurt, and the knowledge scraped his chest
raw.

He hadn’t thought. He pivoted on his heel and stalked to his SUV. He’d acted on pure,
primal instinct. Self-preservation demanded he not be alone with Leah.

He yanked the door open and lowered himself in the driver’s seat.

He’d slipped the night before—outside the cop bar, he’d slipped. He’d allowed her
too close. He’d inhaled her scent, touched her. As a result, the tight plane of her
abdomen was branded into his palm. The curve of her lovely back was imprinted on his
cock. The whisper of her sigh was etched in his memory.

And he’d carried her into his dreams. In the darkest hours of night his conscience
had released its tenacious grip on his mind and on a sea of white silk, he’d tangled
his limbs around hers—arched over her, writhed against her, filled her.

He clenched his teeth and an ache bloomed and radiated along his jaw. Even now, he
could feel the slick glide of skin over skin. A fist-sized knot tightened his gut
as image after erotic image bombarded him.

He’d never been in the habit of lying to himself. And with residual heat simmering
in his blood and his cock pounding behind his zipper, he couldn’t now. Even when he
longed to.

He wanted Leah Bannon. Desperately.

Disgust and desire twirled in him like a demented ballerina on uppers. Part of him—the
logical part—insisted he go home, put on a pot of coffee, write, and avoid sleep as
if it had a Surgeon General warning label slapped on it. Yet another part—a darker,
hungrier part—longed to go after her, press her to the nearest flat surface, push
deep inside her, and lose himself in her wet, welcoming heat.

He curled his fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. It mortified him—this
craving capable of reducing him to no better than an animal. This was the same woman
who’d selflessly offered him comfort after Maura’s and Ian’s deaths. He’d again cried
his sorrow out in her arms two nights earlier. And Maura…dear God, Maura.

It wasn’t so much taking Leah that would number the act among the biggest mistakes
he would ever have committed—it was knowing he would love it, crave it. And if he
willingly cracked himself open to that kind of pain again, then the crazy squad would
have to come fit him for an extra-long-sleeved white jacket and soft-soled shoes.

He started the car and jerked the gear shift into drive. Having Leah would only lead
to eventually losing her. If he surrendered to this impossible desire, he would hate
himself. Ultimately—because he’d be unable to give Leah more than a quick fuck—she
would hate him, too. Still, if she persisted in this search for truth, her enmity
was a foregone conclusion. Once she discovered the uncle she adored and the friends
she loved, had deceived her, she would detest them all.

He didn’t know which he feared more—that her heart would be broken or that she would
loathe him.

The peal of his cell phone yanked him free of his morose musings. The only reason
the damn thing was in his jacket pocket instead of the bathroom drawer was Leah. If
she tried to contact him, he wanted to be available. He pulled the phone free of his
coat and a glance revealed Malachim’s name and number.

“Yeah?” he answered, easing his foot off the brake. He steered away from the curb
and hit the accelerator. “What’s up?”

“Why didn’t you tell me Leah was involved in a hit-and-run last night?” Malachim demanded
without preamble.

“What?” Gabriel barked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Leah was attacked last night,” Mal said grimly. “I have a friend on the police force
who knows I’m close with her. He told me her truck was hit last night.”

“She said she had car trouble,” Gabriel murmured, fear invading him like a stealthy
intruder intent on mayhem and destruction.

“Car trouble, my ass,” Mal growled. “She was intentionally rammed from behind by an
unknown assailant who tried to shove her into a busy intersection. She slammed into
a damn light pole.”

“You’re shittin’ me.” Ice slithered into his veins. “No one got the license plate
of the other car?”

Mal’s angry sigh echoed in Gabriel’s ear. “No. Apparently the one person who saw the
tag said it was covered in dirt and mud.” A beat of silence. “Gabe, what are the odds
this isn’t somehow related to Richard Pierce? What I don’t understand is, if the sender
of the letter she got is the same person who killed Darion, why go after Leah? It
defeats the purpose of her investigating Richard’s murder.”

“Hell, I don’t know, Mal. That’s asking us to rationalize the thinking of an irrational—
oh, shit
.” Dread congealed in his stomach as a vision of Leah and him outside the pub flashed
in front of his eyes. The attack must have occurred right after she’d left the bar
with him. What if the hit-and-run had been a…a warning? Punishment for consorting
with the enemy?
Oh, God
. He’d placed Leah directly in the sights of a killer.

“Oh shit, what?” Malachim snapped.

“She’s not safe.”
Jesus
. Gabriel couldn’t confess his desire for Leah to Malachim. The same desire that had
painted a big, fat, bull’s-eye on her back.

“Well, hell, no, she’s not safe,” Malachim muttered. He sighed, and Gabriel could
picture his friend rubbing a palm back and forth over his short, white-blond hair.
“Where is she now?”

“On her way home. We just left the home of the detective who investigated Richard’s
disappearance.”

She’d lied to him. Why had she lied?

Malachim paused, and Gabriel could almost feel the other man’s war between asking
how the interview had gone and Leah’s welfare. “All right, I’m going to call her,
make sure she’s okay. We’ll need to take turns watching her.”

An intersection. The truck had been pushed toward a busy intersection.

Maura’s broken body sprawled alongside Ian’s. A small, bloodied palm inches away from
the gaily wrapped Christmas presents. An ever-widening puddle of gasoline soaking
the bottom of the bright red paper
…

“I’m headed to dinner with a client, but I’ll call Rafe and have him take the first
watch tonight.” Malachim paused. “Gabe?”

“Yeah, Mal,” Gabriel murmured through numb lips. “I hear you. I’ll call you back.”

He hung up before Malachim could respond, and dropped the phone on the passenger seat.

Son of a bitch. It seemed like he wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

…

Leah pulled up in front of the pretty Victorian she’d bought as a foreclosure property
and moved into three years earlier. She’d grown up in the affluence of Beacon Hill,
her family home just minutes away from Nathan’s agency. She held a special affection
for the area’s old-fashioned gas lamps, black-shuttered brownstones with their wrought
iron gates, tidy squares, and narrow streets. As a girl she used to imagine she’d
leaped back in time to the days of horse-drawn carriages, open-air markets, and revolution.
She loved her childhood home.

Yet when the realtor had first driven to the quiet, nearby Somerville neighborhood
and shown her the big Victorian, a sense of peace had fallen within her. Two stories,
yellow and white, wide front porch, and spacious rear deck with plenty of front and
backyard—she’d fallen in love at first sight. Though the three bedrooms and two baths
would have been more suited to a family, she’d still purchased it.

A morose sigh escaped her as she pulled into the driveway. During the ride home, humiliation
had scooted over for a deep sadness. This home was meant for love and laughter. Instead
there was silence every evening she returned home, a silence that couldn’t be dispelled
by the television and radio.

She gathered her bag and the shoe box from the passenger’s seat and climbed out of
her car. The rev of a powerful engine snagged her notice. She glanced over her shoulder
in the direction of the noise so discordant with the usually quiet street. She whirled
as a pair of bright headlights caught her in its glare. Frozen, she gaped as a dark
vehicle screeched to a halt with a squeal of tires, the tail end sticking out from
the curb at a haphazard angle.

Alarm trickled past the shock, and she edged her jacket to the side as she shifted
her hand toward her holster and SIG. Then…
Wait.
She squinted into the darkness. She knew that car…

The driver’s side door swung open and a tall figure emerged. The man strode toward
her, and the light of the streetlamp revealed the stark planes of Gabriel’s face.

Relief slammed into her.

“Gabe,” she breathed, lowering her hand away from her weapon. “You scared—”

“Car trouble?” The soft question echoed as loudly in the night air as if he’d shouted
it. A shiver danced over the back of her neck then skipped down her spine. “
Car trouble?
” he rasped, his long strides eating up the distance between them. “Were you ever
going to tell me the truth, Leah?”

Damn
. Somehow he’d found out about the hit-and-run before she could explain. She grimaced.
“Yes, I planned to. It just wasn’t the right time,” she said.

“The right time. The
right time
,” he repeated. “When exactly
is
the right time to tell me someone tried to kill you? You
make the damn time
!” The low growl rumbled up out of his chest, and by the time his chest bumped into
hers, it had escalated to a full roar of fury. The blast of his rage reverberated
over her skin like the solar wave of a sonic boom, and she backed away from it, stunned.
He’d never yelled at her before. Raised his voice in exasperation, yes, but never
in anger.

Eyes narrowed, he reclaimed the space, a silent predator with his prey in sight. Shadows
flickered over his features, concealing then revealing them as he shifted closer.
“You could’ve been killed, damn it. Dead, and it would’ve been my—”

He bit off the sentence, lifted his arms, fists curled as if he longed to grab and
shake her. Instead, as if rethinking touching her, he tunneled his fingers through
his hair, gripped the dark curls, then dropped his arms to his sides. He turned from
her, uttering a burning, foul curse under his breath.

Then he wheeled back around and was on her before she realized he’d moved.

Hard palms clapped her cheeks, bracing her head and holding her captive for the mouth
that crashed down on hers.

Shock rocked her back on her feet. Instinctively, she cuffed his wrists and clung,
only his grip on her face holding her up. That, and the lips molded to hers in a kiss
that grabbed her by the soul and refused to let go.

Oh, God.

She whimpered. The heat. The hard, almost cruel press of his mouth. His taste. She
shuddered and couldn’t hold back the cry that broke free past her bruised lips. With
a groan, he slanted his head and thrust his tongue between her lips, taking immediate
advantage. Over and over, he delved deep, licking, sucking, taking.

Desire unlike any she’d experienced seared into her, forever branding her with his
special stamp of pleasure. It unfurled from a tight knot in her stomach and emanated
outward to every limb before zooming back to coalesce in a hot, insistent throb between
her legs.

She wanted. She ached.

She loved
.

“Shit!” Gabriel tore away from her. The shock of plummeting from the height of such
passion to the cold reality of his rejection was the harshest of acts. As though her
heart had been ripped from her chest by the most pitiless hands. She wanted to wrap
her arms around herself, to offer even the smallest degree of comfort, but she was
powerless.
Again
.

In silence, she watched as Gabriel gripped his head as if in agony. He turned back
to her, his arms falling to his sides. His gaze penetrated her and, across the distance
that separated them, she witnessed the conflicting rage, fear, and grief that flickered
over his features like a vignette.

“Shit,” he repeated, this time softer, darker…desolate. “I’m sorry, Leah,” he rasped,
and cupped his forehead, his gaze darting down, then back to her. “I’m so…”

With a curse, he pivoted on his heel and strode toward his car, flung open the door
and disappeared inside. Leah watched silently. As the vehicle backed up and peeled
away, she couldn’t help but wonder to whom Gabriel had really been apologizing.

Her?

Or his dead wife?