Safe from Harm (8 page)

Elle's brows went up at this. “You knew Tom already?”

She nodded. “Oh yeah! We met ages ago. He's my knight in shining armor.”

Elle blinked a couple of times in disbelief, then turned a questioning gaze on Tom. “Really? How so?”

“It's not important,” Tom mumbled. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Isabel said with a laugh. “Are you kidding? He doesn't give himself enough credit. He saved my life.”

Elle now understood perfectly. Of all the Dawson brothers, Tom was the most humble—almost to a fault. Isabel was absolutely correct that he didn't give himself enough credit. But that still didn't quite explain Tom's reaction to the woman. Elle couldn't help but wonder if there was more to the story.

Fortunately for Tom, Isabel's cell phone beeped, distracting her. She took the phone from the clip at her waist and checked the screen. “Sorry, have to get to surgery. It was great seeing you both again!”

Tom mumbled something indistinguishable, then turned and headed for the nearest exit.

“What was that all about?” Elle asked, glad to turn the conversation away from Tom's inquisitiveness and distract him from asking
her
any additional questions.

“I told you, it's not important,” Tom said. “She's exaggerating.”

Elle laughed. “Liar. What happened?”

He sent an irritated look her way. “A few years ago, a woman and her daughter were brought in with severe injuries. They'd been beaten by the woman's boyfriend. The girl was in a coma and wasn't expected to make it. The woman had internal bleeding and required emergency surgery. I was called in to investigate and get a statement from Isa, who'd been the surgeon working on the wife, when the guy burst in and went apeshit. He shot two security guards and took Isa hostage, demanding access to his wife or he'd kill the doctor. I managed to negotiate her release and apprehend the suspect.”

“I remember that story!” Elle said, now understanding why the doctor's name had sounded familiar. They lived in a largely rural county comprised of several small towns and cities, but violence and crime weren't just problems for the big city. If they were, Elle wouldn't have had a job. Meth houses were popping up in suburbia all over the country; drugs were a growing problem, regardless of socioeconomics. And domestic violence
certainly
knew no boundaries. Elle had counseled women from
all
walks of life who'd been the victims of violence. “He received the maximum sentence, if I'm not mistaken.”

Tom fished his keys from his pocket as they stepped out into the summer sunshine and headed toward his Tahoe. “Unfortunately, that won't bring back his victims. The girl died two days later and her mother only hung in there for a while longer.”

“And that's it with Dr. Morales?” Elle prompted, studying Tom's closed-off expression. “Or is there more to the story?”

He shrugged. “We had coffee a couple of times.”

“When?” Elle asked.

He cleared his throat. “In the months after the incident.”

Elle's stomach sank. “You cheated on your wife?”

“God no!” he practically shouted. “I'd never do that. We just chatted over coffee a couple of times during the investigation. That's
all
it was. But I could talk to Isa about things I couldn't talk to Carly about. That was a wake-up call about my marriage, so I decided to really focus on what was important and fix what was broken between Carly and me. She was everything to me, Elle. It was killing me that we were falling apart.”

“I'm sorry, Tom,” Elle said, suddenly feeling like an insensitive bitch for pressing him. “It's none of my business.”

He shook his head as he opened her door for her. “It's okay. I just wish Carly and I had been able to work things out before…”

Elle grasped the edge of the door. “Before she was killed.”

He sighed and briefly massaged the back of his neck. “Apparently, she'd been planning to leave me, Elle. I was served with divorce papers two days after her death. Losing her was devastating enough, but finding out she hadn't been in love with me anymore when I'd been trying so hard to fix things…”

Elle gave Tom a sympathetic look. “Then what's the harm in spending a little time with a certain doctor who clearly has a crush on you? It's been three years, Tom.”

He looked down, avoiding her gaze, waiting for her to get in so he could close her door. Obviously, he had said all he was going to on the matter. Taking the hint, Elle climbed inside and turned her thoughts back to what had nearly happened in the hospital room with Gabe—and began to feel like a complete hypocrite. Here she was, urging Tom to take advantage of a little companionship to stave off the loneliness, and yet she was fighting the sexual tension between her and Gabe at every turn.

But she shook her head, pushing away that kind of rationalizing. No, it was better if she and Gabe kept things completely professional, completely platonic. Any other possibility, as enticing as it might be—as enticing as she knew from experience it
would
be—wasn't an option.

“You okay?”

Gabe hobbled toward his living room on his crutches, taking a moment to navigate between the brown leather recliner and end table to get to his comfy-as-hell overstuffed couch before answering his brother. “Yeah, I'm good.”

Joe followed him into the room, hovering and fussing like a goddamned mother hen, plumping pillows, lining up all the remotes on the coffee table so they'd be within easy reach. It was driving Gabe fucking crazy. All he wanted to do was just stretch out on the couch and doze off while watching ESPN, but his younger brother had insisted on hanging out with him on his first day back home.

“You sure?” Joe pressed as Gabe eased down onto the couch, wincing with the pain.

Gabe gave Joe an irritated look. “Dude. I'm fine. How many times I gotta say it?”

Joe folded his arms over his chest and stared down his nose at him from where he stood. “Until I'm sure you're not lying out your ass.”

Gabe's brows lifted. “Okay, then. Truth? I'm irritated as fuck with you at the moment, but other than that, I'm good.”

Joe grunted. “Yeah? How'd you sleep last night?”

Gabe looked away, clenching his jaw so tightly he could feel the muscle ticking with the strain.

“That's what I thought,” Joe replied as he sat in the recliner and eased it back, the smug little shit.

After the silence had stretched on for several seconds, Gabe finally heaved a harsh sigh and turned his gaze back to his brother, not surprised at all to see Joe studying him. “It's not like what you went through in Afghanistan,” Gabe assured him. “This is totally different, Joey.”

“You were shot, Gabe,” Joe reminded him—as if he needed it. “You could've died. A guy doesn't go through something like that without it affecting him.”

Gabe reached forward and snatched the remote from the coffee table, turning on the TV and upping the volume, hoping his brother might take the hint. But Joe didn't budge.

“Didn't say it didn't affect me,” he admitted after a moment. “I'm pissed as hell at that fucker Monroe. I'm pissed Tom had to pull his weapon and use it for the first time in his entire career. I'm pissed Elle was half an inch away from getting her fucking head blown off. And I'm pissed I took three to the chest and one to the leg and could've ended up like my best friend did a year ago.” He turned and pegged Joe with a hard look. “So, yeah, Joey, getting shot by some son of a bitch with an ax to grind about us locking up his cop-murdering bastard of a brother has affected me. But I'll deal. And it'd be a hell of a lot easier if I didn't have you talking over
SportsCenter
.”

Joe shook his head with a bitter laugh and slammed the recliner's foot rest back down. “You know what? Fuck you, Gabe. I'm just trying to help you get through this. But, hey—you don't want my help? Fine.” He shoved to his feet. “I'm outta here.”

Gabe pulled a hand down his face, immediately feeling like a total piece of shit. Maybe Elle had been right. Maybe he
was
an irredeemable jackass. “Joe!” he called after his brother as Joe strode toward the door. “Joey! Dude, I'm sorry! I just—”

The front door slammed, cutting him off.

He let his head drop back against the sofa cushions and closed his eyes. Awesome. His brother the war hero had tried to be there for him, had tried to let him know he understood what Gabe might be going through, and Gabe had pretty much just told him to go fuck himself.

Yeah, Elle was definitely onto something with the whole jackass thing…

Speaking of Elle, he wondered how
she
was doing. He'd never seen her so rattled as when he'd come to visit him in the hospital. The look in her eyes when she'd voiced the truth—that she'd almost died—had sent a chill through his entire body, and not just because of the calm accuracy of her observation. The hollow look in her eyes, the recognition of her own fleeting mortality, concerned him.

If there was anyone Joe should've been following around like a freaking puppy and attempting to psychoanalyze, it was Elle.

Gabe put his life on the line every day. He assumed a certain amount of risk. He knew one day he might not come home. That day could be thirty years from now. It could be tomorrow. But it was different for Elle. Even though she dealt with criminals on a daily basis, saw the effects of their crimes on their lives and the lives of others, and was no doubt jaded by her experiences, it wasn't the same. There was no way it
could
be the same. Not really. At least, that's how it was
supposed
to be. She was supposed to be one of the blissfully ignorant citizens he was sworn to protect from those kinds of attacks.

But he'd failed. That son of a bitch had come way too close to killing Elle on Gabe's watch—and it was that truth more than his own close call that he was having a hard time dealing with. Because his focus had been on getting into Elle's pants instead of what was going on around him. So when he looked into her eyes and saw that empty, hollow fear, he had to accept that he was just as much to blame for putting it there as Mark Monroe was.

He pulled his hands down his face, then groaned a string of curses before reaching for his phone and dialing his brother.

“What?” Joe answered.

Gabe took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'm sorry, Bro. I know you're trying to help.”

“There's no shame in being shaken up, Gabe,” Joe assured him. “But I'm here for ya, man. You know that, right? I've been there. I just…” He sighed. “I don't want to see you go through what I did.”

“I know. And I appreciate that.”

“You might be my big brother,” Joe continued, “but I worry about you. Don't take this the wrong way, but you haven't been the same since Chris's murder.”

Gabe grunted and randomly flipped through the channels on TV, suddenly deciding
SportsCenter
wasn't all that interesting after all. “None of us have, Joe. You can't tell me you don't worry about not making it back home to Sadie when you start every shift.”

“No, I don't,” Joe said without hesitation. “You know why? I can't think about that when I'm doing my job. I can't think about it at all. I go to work each day with the attitude that I'm coming home that night. Otherwise, I make bullshit mistakes that could get me or someone else killed.” He paused for a moment then added, “But that doesn't mean I don't have nightmares about someone taking me out like they did Chris. Or that I don't worry about what would happen to Sadie and our baby if something happens to me. Hell,
that's
the shit that keeps me up at night, man.”

Gabe let that hang in the air for a moment, caught somewhere between gratitude and sorrow that he didn't have a wife and family to worry about him—and that he didn't have to worry
about
. He knew damned well the reason he never stayed in a relationship long was that he didn't want that kind of worry hanging over him, didn't want to experience the pain of that kind of loss—pain he'd witnessed when his father had been forced to watch Gabe's mother slowly fade away in spite of all his efforts to save her. And yet Gabe envied Joe, and now his youngest brother, Kyle, for having exactly what he'd always tried to avoid.

Because at that moment, he couldn't think of anything he wanted more than to hold a certain woman with fiery-red hair, kiss her full lips, and hear her moan with need, and make love to her all night long and confirm that, in spite of Mark Monroe's efforts, they were both very much alive.

“Gabe? You okay, Bro?”

Gabe actually had to think that one over.
Shit
. He wasn't quite sure anymore. But he said, “Yeah. Yeah, I'm good.”

“Well, you need anything, call me,” Joe insisted. “Sadie and I are just down the road. And if she finds out you needed something and didn't ask, she'll kick your ass. You know she will.”

Gabe chuckled. Sadie had been like a little sister to the Dawson boys while growing up and had needed to knock some sense into them more than once over the years. “Oh, I have no doubt. Hey, Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“I love ya, man. Stay safe.”

“Ah, hell,” Joe muttered. “Now I'm
really
worried. You're getting all sentimental and shit.”

Gabe laughed. “Fuck off.”

“Back atchya, Bro.”

Gabe was still smiling when he hung up and settled back against the cushions, letting his eyes close as the oh-so-snappy dialogue of some sci-fi movie with shitty special effects droned on, lulling him into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

* * *

Elle sat in the driveway for a long moment, wondering what the hell she was doing. She should be home, working on…
something.
She certainly had cases waiting on her to get to them. But she couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus on the work. The words swam before her eyes, making her head ache.

She'd tried to run errands to keep her mind off of things, to keep from reliving the horrors of Gabe being shot, of the sight of his blood on the courthouse steps, the look in his eyes when he was so worried and concerned for her, unaware of his own peril. And that, inevitably, led to thoughts of the night she'd spent in his arms and the hurt and disappointment that had followed when he'd failed to ever mention it. But that didn't keep her from remembering the commanding tenderness of his kisses.

She gave herself a mental shake and glanced around, looking over her shoulder for the hundredth time that day. She couldn't quite shake the feeling she was being watched, that someone was staring at her even now, tracking her every movement. The hair on the back of her neck prickled in warning, but there was no one. The only other person out during the sweltering Indiana summer heat was a man watering his lawn a few houses down.

She shuddered and shrugged her shoulders a few times, trying to rid herself of the feeling. She was being paranoid. Understandable under the circumstances. And, of course, if someone was watching her, sitting in her car in Gabe's driveway for a half hour was probably starting to look a little suspicious.

She heaved a determined sigh and shoved open the car door, grabbing the bag of takeout from the passenger's seat before she lost her nerve, and strode to Gabe's front door, knocking firmly.

Still unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling making the base of her spine tickle with apprehension, she cast another look around her surroundings, narrowing her eyes as she scoped out the cars parked along the street. Nothing.

“Get a grip, Elle,” she murmured. “It's nothing. You're totally overreact—”

“Elle?”

A startled cry escaped her lips before she could check it, and the bag she was carrying dropped to the concrete porch with an ominous, wet
thunk.
She whirled around with wide eyes to see Gabe standing in his doorway with the aid of crutches, his aqua eyes studying her a little warily.

“Jesus!” she breathed. “You scared the crap out of me, Gabe.”

His blond brows came together in a confused frown. “Um…sorry?”

She snatched up the bag and carefully slipped past him, throwing another uneasy glance over her shoulder as she went inside. “I brought you dinner. Where's your kitchen?”

He gestured vaguely with a jerk of his chin. “That way.”

“I hope you like Italian,” she called as she hurried to the other room, hoping he didn't notice the warmth of humiliation flooding her cheeks. “I wasn't sure. But I took a chance.”

She set the bag on the kitchen counter, which she noted was surprisingly clean for a bachelor pad, and rummaged through his cabinets, finding an equally surprising assortment of pots, pans, dishes, and cooking accessories.

“Elle?”

She turned to see Gabe hobbling in on his crutches. “So, do you prefer lasagna or veal piccata?” she asked. “I'm good with either.”

He shook his head a little, still looking bemused. “What are you doing here?”

She went still, her stomach sinking, and closed her eyes, suddenly feeling like a total idiot. “Oh my God. You probably have someone coming over. I didn't even think… I'm
so
sorry! I should've called first.”

Now experiencing a whole new level of humiliation, she made for the door, hoping to make a quick exit. But he stepped into the center of the doorway in front of her, blocking her path just as she attempted to plow through, and she slammed into him, nearly knocking him on his ass. With a startled cry, her arms reflexively went around his waist, pulling him forward to keep him on his feet.

When she looked up at him, an apology on her lips, he was grinning down at her, his handsome face disconcertingly close to hers. “No one's coming over, Elle,” he assured her, the sound of her name on his lips somehow as intimate as a lover's caress. “Just you and me.”

She suddenly became very aware of the sculpted muscle beneath his shirt where her hands rested on his back and had the almost inescapable urge to let her fingertips go exploring. “Oh,” she managed, wondering what the hell had happened to her language skills.

His head tilted slightly to one side as he scrutinized her. “You okay?”

She took a step back, needing to put a little distance between them to quiet her pounding heart. “I just… I thought you might like some dinner. That's all.”

His lopsided, dimpled grin grew. “I've been trying to get you to have dinner with me for years. You think I'm going to turn you down now?”

She couldn't help returning his smile. “Yeah, well, getting shot to get me here was a bit extreme, don't you think? Flowers might've been a less painful way to go.”

He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Nah. Flowers are far too prosaic for someone like you. At least, not any ordinary flowers. Everybody gets those.”