Smoke and Mirrors (15 page)

And never, ever had it been seductive.

Until Derek Mansfield swashbuckled into her life.

She strode to her car and let Barney into the cold front seat. He happily settled into position, sitting as though he was a human ready to be belted in. That dignity wouldn't last. As soon as they headed down the road, the thankless mutt would press his wet nose to the frigid glass, eagerly waiting for her to roll down the window so he could hang his head out.

A sad smile touched her lips. The overgrown puppy represented all she had left of her little boy. She would never forget the day she brought Barney home, her valiant, doomed, attempt at securing him a more dignified name. Jake had loved the goofy purple dinosaur, and even though the clumsy puppy had been neither purple nor a dinosaur, Jake had been insistent.

So Barney it was.

And now he was hanging his head out the window, happily enjoying the rush of biting wind against his face. For thirty minutes he stayed like that, until Cass turned down the secluded road. She knew the route by now, had memorized her routine upon arrival. This was her first day trip, though, and she found herself unprepared for how much more splendid the old mansion looked against the backdrop of a clear, azure sky.

Cass didn't know why she'd been compelled to call in sick and drive over, without the shelter of darkness, and risk her cover. Maybe she'd hoped to do some more investigating. Or maybe she'd hoped to find Derek.

Maybe something altogether different drove her.

Standing amidst a copse of naked trees, Cass lost track of time. Only when she heard a vague, muffled barking did she realize how long she'd left Barney in the car. Her body ached, both from lack of movement and lack of sleep, and her stomach rumbled with relentless hunger.

More than twenty-four hours had passed since she'd eaten anything solid.

She returned to her car and headed home. Close to
noon
, she pulled into her driveway and opened the back door. Barney raced straight for the kitchen, heedless of the crumbled leaves in his wake, and began noisily lapping water from his bowl. Smiling at his predictability, Cass shut the door and leaned against it. Her hunger had faded, as it often did, leaving a restlessness in its place.

"You should be in bed."

The unexpected low voice should have had Cass reaching for the Smith & Wesson strapped inside her leather jacket. But it wasn't there now. And even if it had been, the voice didn't surprise her. Nor frighten. Soothe, however…

"Here I was all worried about you," the low voice continued, "yet you were only playing hooky." Derek stepped out from the shadow of her baker's rack. His eyes mirrored his derisive smile.

Not even Barney seemed to care. Done drinking, he ambled off in search of his denim doggie bed.

Cass could only shake her head. "What—"

"I told you. I take care of what's mine."

She stood still, staring at the set of his shadowed jaw. He looked tired, like a man who hadn't slept—

Jarred, Cass masked the reaction with nonchalance, a practiced illusion, while her insides raced with excitement.

Suspicion, she corrected.

Her suspect had let himself into her house. He'd been there alone. He could have seen anything, like the locked study dedicated to the facts she'd accumulated about his life, the damning pictures of him and Santiago Vilas. "Like I've told you, big guy, I'm not yours."

"Ah, Cass," he drawled, moving toward her. Funny that such a big man could walk so gracefully and with so much authority. Yet he could. And did. He halted before her, his body inches from hers, and tilted her face toward his. "That was before."

"Before?"

His cobalt eyes darkened. "That was you and me last night. Don't pretend you don't know what I mean."

"Derek—"

"I'm going to make you forget," he murmured, his lips brushing over hers. "Remember?" he challenged with another well-executed caress. "And when I do, there'll be no ghosts there with us. Just you and me."

Words failed her. He was right. She had been there last night, and she'd practically begged this man to make love to her. No, not make love. Have sex. Raw, mind numbing sex. His mouth had been on her breast. Her hand had been on his erection. He'd seen her cry. He knew about Randy and Jake. He'd held her naked, shivering body in his arms.

And he'd come to check on her.

The anomalies were outpacing the expected. Feminine instinct demanded she retreat before she waded in too deep, but the cop in her refused. Cassandra LeBlanc, sultry yet troubled hotel employee, had no reason to push Derek Mansfield away, no reason he would believe.

Not after last night.

Cassidy Blake, however, woman walking a line far too thin, knew she had to try. She raised her eyes to his, and tried like hell not to lose
herself
in the intensity blazing there.

"Derek," she began, her voice heavier than she liked, "let me explain."

A grim smile touched his lips, yet his hand didn't leave her face. It lingered, stroking. "Go right ahead."

He was crowding her, his big body sandwiching her against the wall. Impossible to breathe like that, much less think.

"I'm waiting."

With considerable effort she swallowed, then nudged past him. No safe harbor in the kitchen, so she headed for the warmth of the den, confident he would follow.

He did.

The sofa was her favorite spot, but also where they'd nearly made love the night before. Instead she sank down into a well-worn recliner. Randy's. "I don't know if you've ever lost someone you loved—"

"I have."

The two words were bitten out with such brutal
finality,
Cass had to look at him. He stood across the room, by the fireplace, vacant but for last night's ashes. His commanding presence was the same as always, the rugged appearance of the tan chamois shirt and snug black jeans. But his eyes were … different. Hard and bitter and … lost.

They looked right through her. "Derek?"

The question, a sincere one between a man and a woman, not a calculated one between a cop and a suspect, slipped out before she could stop it.

"My father."

"Oh, Derek." She rose to go to him, but he held out his arm, and his gaze hardened.

"Don't Cass."

Isolation. So easy to recognize, all the easier to ignore. She hurried over to him, her hands instantly finding his stubbled cheek. "There's no need to pretend with me, not after last night."

His hands
raised
to capture hers. "Weren't you the one just saying last night didn't change anything?"

Her hands stilled against his cheeks. "Don't throw my words back in my face."

"Why not?" he challenged. "They don't sound so good turned the other way around? Used to hurt, rather than to defend?"

Shock stabbed through her. In belittling what had passed between them, she'd hurt him, just as he'd somehow hurt her. "I'm sorry, Derek, I didn't mean—"

"I don't want your apologies."

A lump rose to her throat, a vague feeling of panic. "What do you want?"

His eyes gentled. "Your honesty."

Her legs almost went out from beneath her. "Derek—"

"And I'll give you the same," he said, leading her to the sofa. They sat, and he turned her to face him. His eyes were somber, honest. "I know about grief. I understand. When someone you love dies, part of you does, too."

The comment did cruel things to her heart, efficiently chipping away at the wall she'd tried to construct between them. She didn't want to hear this. Didn't want his trust.

But she sat there listening anyway, unable to turn away from the pain in his wounded blue eyes.

"I thought I must have done something wrong," he told her, "that if I'd been a better son, my father wouldn't have left me." He squeezed her hand. "I know what it feels like, Cass—that's why I couldn't leave you last night."

"Oh." Believable. Damn him, he sounded so believable. Sincere.

"That's why I came here as soon as I heard you called in sick. To make sure you were okay."

The wall around her heart crumbled even more. "Oh."

"I hated leaving you alone."

She knew she should say something, but too much emotion thickened her throat.

An oddly tender smile touched his lips. "Well, this is certainly a first."

Cass wished she could look away from him, at anything else. Couldn't. "What?"

"Rendering you speechless," he answered, stroking her hair. "I have to admit I've planned it for a while now, but I hadn't thought to do it quite this way."

Something deep inside slipped another notch. "Oh."

Damn it, where had her vocabulary gone?

* * *

Derek looked at her sitting there, at the unabashed confusion on her face, and felt an unfamiliar ache in his chest. She looked like a lost little girl, those deep, soulful eyes gazing up at him, her dark hair wild and tangled around her face. He wanted to haul her into his arms and make her forget.

But instinct warned that now was not the time.

"Come on." He pulled her to her feet and led her to the kitchen. "You need to eat."

She stopped and blinked up at him. "Eat?"

He laughed. When it came to answering statements with a question, she was as ruthless as a cop. But much better to look at. And taste. And lo—

"Soup," he said abruptly. "I brought chicken soup." Her eyes shifted toward the stove, then grew even wider. "And champagne," she laughed.

"Between the two, one of them was bound to make you feel better."

She laughed. "You're impossible" Beaming a smile at
him,
she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then hurried over to the stove.

He watched her, drinking in the knowledge that she really was okay. He'd half expected to come over and find her in as many shattered pieces as last night.

He should have known better. Cassandra LeBlanc was a strong, courageous woman. If he'd learned anything since the moment he found her being harassed by those
drunk
bastards, he'd learned that. Her emotions ran
deep,
as still waters often did, but Derek realized she'd never let them rule her for long. At least not where anyone could see them.

Leaving her house during the dark hours of early morning, when the night was as cold and still as death, had been hard. But he knew better than to spend the night in her bed. He knew better than to start something he couldn't finish. But still. In the wake of all that sobbing and shaking, he expected her to be exhausted, to spend the day lost in sleep.

Yet here she was, dressed in a red sweatshirt and faded jeans, standing in her kitchen. She spun toward him, gazing at him with those sultry eyes he'd come to crave. They were rimmed in red now, circled by shadows. Something foreign lurked in them, something he knew better than to try to name.

"Smells wonderful," she said.

He shrugged off her praise. It felt too good. "It was nothing."

"Derek?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "Something wrong?"

He didn't trust himself to speak. He saw too much in her beckoning eyes, her lush body,
her
broken h—

He had to get away from her, he realized, before the final die was cast. He was in too deep. He hadn't returned to
Chicago
to fall in lo— Bed, he corrected. He hadn't returned to
Chicago
to fall in bed with a woman.

He'd returned to settle a score.

He couldn't afford the distraction.

"Come on." He ignored the fledgling yearning in her eyes. With an effort, he ripped himself free of her spell and strode toward the kitchen. "You need to eat, and I have to get the hell ou—" He bit back the edge to his
voice. "I have to leave."

And that, damn it, was that.

* * *

The shrill siren of an ambulance cut through the night.

"You surprise me, my friend," Santiago Vilas said. "Making contact close to the Stirling Manor is rather bold, is it not?"

He let the taunt slide. "Not at all."

Vilas looked down the dark alley. "You speak of rats and exterminations, yet here you stand, mere blocks from the family business. Where I come from, this is called tempting fate."

Overflowing trash bins cluttered the dark alley, their noxious odor mingling with the sharp wind blowing off
Lake Michigan
. "Ah-h-h-h," he drawled, elongating the word into a condescending rebuke. "Where I come from, rats hide in alleys. They often meet their demise there, as well."

But the rats were quiet tonight, as were the cats.

Vilas's lips curved into a sly smile. "Aren't you the clever
one.
" He glanced around the alley, apparently seeing it in a new light. "Trying to sniff your rat out of cover, eh?"

Something
like
that. The files of the hotel workers had been scrutinized, yet he'd come up with nothing more suspicious than one particular bellman, John Dickens, whose past was littered with a police record a mile long, including several arrests for possession. The man should never have been hired—if he caught whiff of what was about to go down, as junkies often did, he could turn into a deadly wild card.