Night Shift (8 page)

So he wanted to play games, she thought. Well, she was up for it. Tossing common sense aside, she pressed her lips to his.

His were firm, cool. And unresponsive. With her eyes open, she watched his remain patient, steady and hatefully amused. As her hand balled into a fist on his shoulder, she snapped her head back.

“Satisfied?”

“Not hardly.” His eyes might have been calm. That was training. But if she had bothered to monitor his heartbeat she would have found it erratic. “You’re not trying, O’Roarke.” He slid a hand down to her hip, shifting her balance just enough to have her sway against him. “You want me to believe that’s the best you can do?”

Angry humiliation rippled through her. Cursing him, she dragged his mouth to hers and poured herself into the kiss.

His lips were still firm, but they were no longer cool. Nor were they unresponsive. For an instant the urge to retreat hammered at her. And then needs, almost forgotten needs, surged. A flood of longings, a storm of desires. Overwhelmed by them, she strained against him, letting the power and the heat whip through her, reminding her what it was like to sample passion again.

Every other thought, every other wish, winked out. She could feel the long, hard length of him pressed against her, the slow, deliberate stroke of his hands as they moved up her back and into her hair. His mouth, no longer patient, took and took from hers until the blood pounded like thunder in her head.

He’d known she would pack a punch. He’d thought he was prepared for it. In the days he’d known her he’d imagined tasting her like this dozens of times. He’d imagined what it would be like to hold her against him, to hear her sigh, to catch the fevered scent of her skin as he took his mouth over her.

But reality was much more potent than any dream had been.

Chain lightning. She was every bit as explosive, as turbulent, as potentially lethal. The current sparked and sizzled from her into him, leaving him breathless, dazed and churning. Even as he groaned against the onslaught, he felt her arch away from the power that snapped back into her.

She shuddered against him and made a sound—part protest, part confusion—as she tried to struggle away.

He’d wrapped her hair around his hand. He had only to tug gently to have her head fall back, to have her eyes dark and cloudy on his.

He took his time, letting his gaze skim over her face. He wanted to see in her eyes what he had felt. The reflection was there, that most elemental yearning. He smiled again as her lips trembled open and her breath came fast and uneven.

“I’m not finished yet,” he told her, then dragged her against him again and plundered.

She needed to think, but her thoughts couldn’t fight their way through the sensations. Layers of them, thin and silky, seemed to cover her, fogging the reason, drugging the will. Before panic could slice through, she was rocketing up again, clinging to him, opening for him, demanding from him.

He knew he could feast and never be full. Not when her mouth was hot and moist and ripe with flavor. He knew he could hold yet never control. Not when her body was vibrating from the explosion they had ignited together. The promise he had heard in her voice, seen in her eyes, was here for the taking.

Unable to resist, he slid his hands under her sweatshirt to find the warmed satin skin beneath. He took, possessed, exploited, until the ache spreading through his body turned to pain.

Too fast, he warned himself. Too soon. For both of them. Holding her steady, he lifted his head and waited for her to surface.

She dragged her eyes open and saw only his face. She gulped in air and tasted only his flavor. Reeling, she pressed a hand to her temple, then let it fall to her side. “I … I want to sit down.”

“That makes two of us.” Taking her arm, he led her to the couch and sat beside her.

She worked on steadying her breathing, focused on the dark window across the room. Maybe with enough time, enough distance, she would be able to convince herself that what had just happened had not been life-altering.

“That was stupid.”

“It was a lot of things,” he pointed out. “Stupid doesn’t come to mind.”

She took one more deep breath. “You made me angry.”

“It isn’t hard.”

“Listen, Boyd—”

“So you
can
say it.” Before she could stop him, he stroked a hand down her hair in a casually intimate gesture that made her pulse rate soar again. “Does that mean you don’t use a man’s name until you’ve kissed him?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.” She stood up, hoping she’d get the strength back in her legs quicker by pacing. “Obviously we’ve gotten off the track.”

“There’s more than one.” He settled back, thinking it was a pleasure to watch her move. There was something just fine and dandy about watching the swing of long feminine legs. As she paced, nervous energy crackling, he tossed an arm over the back of the couch and stretched out his legs.

“There’s only one for me.” She threw him a look over her shoulder. “You’d better understand that.”

“Okay, we’ll ride on that one for a while.” He could afford to wait, since he had every intention of switching lines again, and soon. “You seem to have some kind of screwy notion that the only thing that attracts men to you is your voice, your act. I think we just proved you wrong.”

“What just happened proved nothing.” If there was anything more infuriating than that slow, patient smile of his, she had yet to see it. “In any case, that has nothing to do with the man who’s calling me.”

“You’re a smart woman, Cilla. Use your head. He’s fixed on you, but not for himself. He wants to
pay you back for something you did to another man. Someone you knew,” he continued when she stopped long enough to pick up a cigarette. “Someone who was involved with you.”

“I’ve already told you, there’s no one.”

“No one now.”

“No one now, no one before, no one for years.”

Having experienced that first wave of her passion, he found that more than difficult to believe. Still, he nodded. “So it didn’t mean as much to you. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“For God’s sake, Fletcher, I don’t even date. I don’t have the time or the inclination.”

“We’ll talk about your inclinations later.”

Weary, she turned away to stare blindly through the glass. “Damn it, Boyd, get out of my life.”

“It’s your life we’re talking about.” There was an edge to his voice that had her holding back the snide comment she wanted to make. “If there’s been no one in Denver, we’ll start working our way back. But I want you to think, and think hard. Who’s shown an interest in you? Someone who calls the station more than normal. Who asks to meet you, asks personal questions. Someone who’s approached you, asked you out, made a play.”

She gave a short, humorless laugh. “You have.”

“Remind me to run a make on myself.” His voice was deceptively mild, but she caught the underlying annoyance and frustration in it. “Who else, Cilla?”

“There’s no one, no one who’s pushed.” Wishing for a moment’s, just a moment’s, peace of mind, she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I get calls. That’s the idea. I get some that ask me for a date, some that even send presents. You know, candy-and-flower types. Nothing very sinister about a bunch of roses.”

“There’s a lot sinister about death threats.”

She wanted to speak calmly, practically, but she couldn’t keep the nastiness out of her voice. “I can’t remember everyone who’s called and flirted with me on the air. Guys I turn down stay turned down.”

He could only shake his head. It was a wonder to him that such a sharp woman could be so naive in certain situations. “All right, we’ll shoot for a different angle. You work with men—almost all men—at the station.”

“We’re professionals,” she snapped, and began biting her nails. “Mark’s happily married. Bob’s happily married. Jim’s a friend—a good one.”

“You forgot Nick.”

“Nick Peters? What about him?”

“He’s crazy about you.”

“What?” She was surprised enough to turn around. “That’s ridiculous. He’s a kid.”

After a long study, he let out a sigh. “You really haven’t noticed, have you?”

“There’s nothing to notice.” More disturbed than she wanted to admit, she turned away again. “Look, Slick, this is getting us nowhere, and I’m …” Her words trailed off, and her hand crept slowly toward her throat.

“And you’re what?”

“There’s a man across the street. He’s watching the house.”

“Get away from the window.”

“What?”

Boyd was already up and jerking her aside. “Stay away from the windows and keep the door locked. Don’t open it again until I get back.”

She nodded and followed him to the door. Her lips pressed together as she watched him take out his weapon. That single gesture snapped her back to reality. It had been a smooth movement, not so much practiced as instinctive. Ten years on 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.