Protecting the Pregnant Witness (13 page)

Josie felt like prey beneath his intense scrutiny, so she focused on her hands and training, and avoided direct contact with those ever-watchful eyes of his. “Robbie was admitted because they had to sedate him to set his leg. Alex was treated for cuts and abrasions and released. Audrey came to pick him up—and my impression is that she won’t let him do anything he shouldn’t for a few days.”

“Yeah, Audrey likes to be in charge.”

“She was sick with worry, too. You could see it in her eyes when she first came in with Captain Cutler to check on Alex.” Josie risked a glance up into those whiskey-brown eyes and wondered if Rafe had any idea just how frightened
she’d
been to see the shredded sleeve of his jacket and the blood seeping from the wounds he’d sustained saving her. “I hate that other people are getting hurt because of me. I hate the thought of our baby being in danger. Detective Montgomery has to catch the RGK soon. I want to look in his eyes and say that’s him, and have him put away where he can’t hurt anyone I care about ever again.”

“Jose—”

“Stupid hormones.” She blinked away the tears stinging her eyes and reached for the scissors on her tray before Rafe could say or do something kind that would undermine whatever fragile sense of power over her own life she had left. “Hope this wasn’t a favorite shirt of yours,” she apologized before snipping away the tattered remnants of his shirtsleeve.

She gently cradled his wrist and elbow to turn the raw skin of his forearm into the light above the table. She winced at the idea that his arm would have been scraped down to the bone if he hadn’t been wearing his thick leather jacket. And even with the snack Captain Cutler had brought her from the vending machine to eat earlier, her stomach rolled with the knowledge that it could have been her face or back or belly and the baby sleeping inside needing emergency medical treatment if Rafe hadn’t put himself between her and the exploding heat and flying metal of the car bomb.

She felt his tender hand brush aside the tendril of hair that had fallen across one eye. “Jose, you’re dead on your feet.”

“Poor choice of words, Sergeant.” She shook her hair back, indicating the wayward strand was beyond his reach.

“You know what I mean…ow!”

“Shh.” She was peeling away the rest of his shirt now, gently pulling it off his shoulders to expose his right flank and the cut beneath the dark, moist stain on his shirt. She tossed the remains of the shirt into the trash and eyed the gash where debris from the explosion had sliced through his skin. “This is the wound I’m worried about.”

“I’ve had worse,” he hissed through his teeth as she probed the wound with her gloved fingers.

Josie reached for a bottle of saline and a rinse tray, then urged him to cross his arm over his chest and expose the injury for a clearer view. He still wore his gun and badge clipped to his belt, and with a little more twisting and repositioning of the lights, she finally got the view she wanted.

Along with a sight she never would have believed.

“Oh, my God. Rafe.” Thin white stripes cut across the tanned skin of his back. They were old scars, dozens of them, faded slash marks crisscrossing from his shoulder blades down beneath the waist of his jeans, as if he’d been whipped. Repeatedly. Josie’s vision clouded as she traced the marks of violence across his skin. “Are these from…your dad?”

In passing, he’d mentioned the abuse he’d suffered growing up, had used it as a reason for not wanting a family of his own. But she’d never seen the evidence, not even that night in his truck. Of course, she’d been a little preoccupied that night. Her heart had been wide open, her senses on fire with Rafe’s explosive need. Even then, she hadn’t fully realized the depth of his understanding about violence toward children.

But, as usual, Rafe wasn’t one to talk about details. Even as she became aware of the trail of goose bumps popping up behind her touch on his skin, he was gently pulling her hands away and ducking his head to catch her gaze squarely with his. With the pad of his thumb, he wiped away the tears burning her cheeks. “None of that now. We’ve got plenty enough to worry about tonight.” He silenced any discussion on the matter. “You stitch me up, nurse, and let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not officially a nurse until graduation.”

“You think I want any other woman’s hands on me?”

The unexpected timing of his humor surprised a smile out of her. Cupping the side of his jaw to both comfort and thank him, Josie kissed the corner of his mouth, sniffed back her tears and went to work. With a tender efficiency, she cleaned and stitched the wound, gave him a shot of antibiotics after clearing her treatment with the supervisor, and bandaged him up with gauze and tape.

As bossy and taciturn and guarded and demanding as he could be, Rafe had done nothing but take care of her. As long as she’d known him, he’d been big brother, protector, confidant, friend—he’d opened up his emotions to her more than he ever had with anyone else, and he’d put his life on the line for her, despite his reservations about the baby and a future together. Whether he believed it or not, Rafe Delgado cared about her. Maybe he even loved her as much as a man like him could. He’d been wounded, inside and out, by life, and he’d faced most of those demons—he’d survived them—all by himself. For the time it took to doctor his wounds and give him the care that every human being deserved, Josie would take care of
him.

“There,” she finally announced, peeling off her gloves and tossing them into the secure receptacle with the other bio waste. “You’re done.”

“I think you might have a future in this line of work,” he teased.

“Ha, ha.” She rolled the tray back into place and made note of the supplies she’d used on the computer. “Now I recommend rest and light activities for a few days, so you don’t rip the stitches out.”

“Am I allowed to move now?”

“Of course.”

“Then come here.” He snagged her wrist and pulled her right between his legs against the table. “This is the only kind of healing I need.”

Muffling her startled yelp, he captured her lips in a kiss. His hands settled at either side of her waist, then slid upward to tangle in her hair and tilt her mouth to a more intimate angle so he could plunge his tongue inside and brand her with his textures and taste. The kiss was hard and deep and full of a possessive claim that turned Josie molten inside.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered against her mouth.

She braced her hands against his bare chest, tickling her palms with the dusting of crisp, dark hair. Fatigue ebbed out and energy seeped in through the feverish contact with her fingertips.

Rafe loved her. He
had
to love her. How could a man kiss her like this? Care like this? Need like this, and not feel the same way she felt about him?

“When I saw all the blood on you, I was so afraid,” she confessed, leaning in, rising on tiptoe, winding her arms around his neck. She needed to feel his whole body pressed against her. Hard planes against soft curves, his abundant warmth infusing her with heat. “I don’t want to lose anyone else, Rafe. I can’t lose—”

“Get a room.”

The swish of the curtain cordoning off this side of the room echoed like thunder in her ears. Rafe went still beneath her touch. He pulled his mouth from her grasping lips and rested his forehead against hers for a moment before nudging her back a step and standing.

“I thought we had one,” Rafe answered, keeping one hand at Josie’s waist, perhaps sensing the weariness and confusion crashing through her at the abrupt end to the embrace. He turned to catch the black T-shirt Trip Jones tossed at him. “Your timing sucks, big guy.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a big black van parked outside to escort you to your destination.”

Rafe waited for a nod that she could stand on her own two feet before releasing her to slip into the clean shirt. Josie gathered her composure enough to catch the hem as he stretched it over his shoulders and chest, to guide it safely over the wound in his side. The reality was, a killer was out there who wanted her dead. And these men had risked their lives to save her. She wouldn’t complain about a lost kiss when they were already sacrificing so much for her.

“And your wife?” Rafe asked, tucking the shirt beneath his badge and gun. “She’s not safe with the RGK out there, either.”

Trip was holding two Kevlar vests in addition to the one he wore. He handed them both to Rafe, who pulled one on and strapped it beneath his arms before slipping the other over Josie’s head.

The weight of the protective vest pulling at her shoulders was a tangible reminder of the burden of knowledge she carried. “Is this necessary?” she asked, helping Rafe adjust the Velcro straps so that the vest stretched far enough to shield the baby, as well.

“Yes,” Rafe answered without hesitation.

Trip waited until Josie’s vest was secure before gesturing to the exit behind him. “I dropped Charlotte off to stay with her friend, Audrey, Alex Taylor’s fiancée. Even beat up like he is, Alex will be armed to the teeth if I know him. So you, Sergeant, are stuck with me.”

Randy Murdock poked her head around the corner, “And me.”

“What about my truck?” Rafe asked.

“It’s going to need some serious body work, but it’ll drive,” Randy reported. “I’ll deliver it as soon as the crime lab releases it. Having it between you and the bulk of that explosion is probably what saved your lives.” She adjusted the rifle she carried over her shoulder and patted the SWAT letters on her Kevlar. “That’s why the captain ordered vests for everyone until we bring this guy in.”

Guns. Vests. Violence. Rafe and his coworkers were talking so matter-of-factly, as if what was happening to her was an everyday event in their lives. When had they talked? How had they planned this? SWAT Team One was moving like a well-oiled machine, and she was the cog who didn’t fit in. “Where is the captain?” she asked.

Michael Cutler walked up behind Randy Murdock. “Not to worry. We’ve got control of the scene and the situation.” He winked at Josie, then slipped into a steely posture that Rafe and the others instantly responded to. “Are you ready to move out or are we going to stand around and chat all night? Montgomery’s got Lassen tied up in an interview room at HQ, and the rest of the press following the case are at the scene of the explosion, hassling Nick Fensom and the CSIs there. This is our window of opportunity. We have a witness to escort to a safe house. Let’s get moving.”

Josie, in a bit of a panic, reached for Rafe’s hand as he moved out to follow the others toward the E.R. exit. “What safe house? I’m really not in control of any part of my life anymore, am I?”

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. Then he tugged her to his side to press a kiss to her temple and pull her into step with him. His touch gave her the only bit of comfort she could hold on to. “We’re going to my place, Jose. We’re taking you home.”

W
HAT THE HELL
happened tonight? How could he be so far off his game that no one had died? He paced the sidewalk back and forth, well beyond the eyes and ears of the cops swarming the lot behind the Shamrock Bar. He drew in deep drags on his cigarette, waiting for the nicotine to kick in, but found no relief for the anger coursing through his blood.

He’d even had his camera all set up to record the perfect memento of his handiwork. He tossed the useless device through the open window of his vehicle, gritting his teeth when it smacked against the tripod he’d stowed earlier. He rolled the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing it between his lips as he breathed in, filling up his lungs with pungent smoke and rage.

They’d cleared the bar as he’d expected, the chaos of emptying a busy establishment on a Saturday night giving him plenty of opportunity to move the car into place near the cop’s truck—close enough to do the damage he wanted, but not close enough to raise suspicion until it was too late. The bomb had detonated perfectly. And not one of those hero wannabes had even suspected anything was amiss with the bar owner’s car.

But there’d been too many people there tonight. People he hadn’t counted on. People who didn’t belong in the middle of one of his plans. He should have planned for every contingency, every variable beyond the woman, her drunk uncle and the overzealous boyfriend. He was smarter than that. Smarter than her. Smarter than all of them.

With the need to do violence creeping out of every pore, he flung the cigarette to the ground. But the shower of sparks floating up from the concrete reminded him of the lesson he’d learned from the time he could put the letters together—never leave any DNA behind.

With a muffled curse, he picked up the glowing butt and ground it out in his palm. The pain was intense, but brief. He’d endured worse growing up, at the hands of his father and uncles. He had the polka-dot scars behind his right shoulder from the time they’d first taught him that smoking was a bad habit—not because the chemicals could kill him, but because his saliva could leave something for the cops to trace behind him.

One of the flyers that had been handed out earlier to the crowd of patrons and reporters who were curious about the Shamrock Bar’s emergency shut down blew across his path. He stomped on it with his foot and then lifted it toward the light of the street lamp on the corner. There was his picture, looking back at him, although it barely qualified as a likeness. He’d learned enough about altering his appearance and manner to blend in anywhere.

But Josie Nichols could bring him into focus. If she ever got close enough, ever looked him straight in the eye…she’d know he was the man she’d bumped into the day he’d eliminated Kyle Austin. He couldn’t allow her to see him, to stop him before he’d completed his work.

Crumpling the KCPD flyer in his fist, he stuffed it into his pocket along with the dead cigarette. Then he held his palm up to the same light and licked the raw mark of the cigarette burn there. The momentary pain was enough to distract him, to clear the blinding anger from his thoughts and pull him back to the moment at hand.

No woman was going to outsmart him. He wanted Josie Nichols dead. And so she would be.