Standing in the Shadows (8 page)

"Last fall. At Crystal Mountain. That guy, Georg. Tell me the truth. Did you go to bed with him?"

She froze into agonized stillness, keeping her back to him. "Why does it matter to you?" Her voice was small and tight.

"It just does."

His question brought all the burning shame rushing back. She turned, and lifted her chin. "If I say yes, that means you'll lose all respect for me, right?" She flung the words at him.

"No," he said quietly. "It means that when I hunt him down and start beating him to death, this time I'll finish the job."

The kettle began to warble. She couldn't respond to it. She was paralyzed by the bleak intensity of his eyes. The warble rose to a shriek.

Connor jerked his chin toward it.

Erin grabbed the kettle with shaking hands. "I think you'd better leave," she said. "Right now."

Her voice sounded tight, breathless. Not authoritative at all.

Connor's gaze did not waver. "You promised me coffee."

His face was implacable. He would leave when it suited him, and not before. And she had no one but herself to blame for inviting him in.

Connor placed Edna gently on the ground. He got up and wandered over to her desk, studying the photos and cards pinned to the corkboard. The travel itinerary and the printed-out Mueller e-mail lay on the desk in plain view. He picked them up and examined them. "Going someplace?"

"Just a work thing."

He frowned. "Didn't you say you lost your job?"

"I work for myself now. I've started my own consulting business."

"And you're getting by?" His gaze swept the tiny, wretched room.

"I'm not supporting myself with my business yet," she said stiffly. "I'm temping to make ends meet. But I have high hopes."

He held the e-mail up to the light and read it.

"Excuse me, Connor, but those are my private papers, and I did not invite you to look at them."

He ignored her, his gaze fixed on the page. "So Claude is delighted to meet with you at last, huh?" he said softly. "Who is this Claude?"

"None of your business. Put those down.
Now
."

He glanced up, and took in the steaming mug in her hand. His eyes went right back to the e-mail. "I take it black," he said absently.

"Put those papers down, Connor." She tried to make her voice steely and commanding. It just sounded scared.

"So old Claude feels like he knows you already. Isn't that sweet." He laid the papers on her desk, and walked to the table, staring at her with narrowed eyes. "So, this Claude. You've never met him?"

She set his coffee down in front of him. "He's a client of mine. Not that it's any of your business."

"Art appraisal?"

"Authentication," she corrected. "Mr. Mueller recently developed an interest in Iron Age Celtic artifacts, which are my specialty."

He sipped his coffee, frowning. "How recently?"

"I've never discussed that with him," she said. "It's not—"

"What do you know about this guy, Erin?"

She bristled at the challenge in his voice. "Everything I need to know. He treats me like a professional. He pays well, and on time."

"But you've never met him?" His eyes probed her, merciless.

"I've met members of his administrative staff," she said. "He runs a charitable foundation called the Quicksilver Fund."

"So why haven't you met him yet?" he persisted. "Because he's always had other pressing engagements," she retorted. "He's a busy man."

"Is he now," Connor said. "Isn't that interesting." Coffee sloshed over the table as she slammed down her mug. "What the hell are you insinuating, Connor?"

"Do you know anyone personally who has met this guy?" She pressed her lips together. "I know people whose arts organizations have received grants from him. That's enough for me."

"No, it's not enough. You can't go on this trip, Erin." She jerked onto her feet, jarring the table painfully with her thigh. "The hell I can't! I am hanging on by my fingernails, Connor. That client is the best thing that's happened to me in the last six months! I will not jeopardize my business just because you are paranoid!"

"Erin, Novak is out there somewhere," Connor said. "I've been hunting him for years. I know his smell, and I'm smelling it now. He lives to fuck people up. You're Ed Riggs's daughter. You were in his sights. He won't forget you. Count on it." Erin sank down into her chair. "Mueller can't possibly have anything to do with Novak," she said coldly. "Novak has been in a high-security prison ever since he was released from the hospital. Mueller started hiring me four months ago. We made plans to meet on two other occasions. Once in San Diego and once in Santa Fe."

"But he never showed up?"

She lifted her chin. "He had unexpected business."

"I just bet he did," Connor said. "I need to check this guy out."

"Don't you dare!" she flared. "Don't even think about messing with the last good thing I've got going. Everything else in my life has gone straight to hell. Don't you think you've done enough?"

Connor's mouth tightened to a grim line. He put down his cup, stood up, and headed for the door. His limp was just a barely perceptible, hitching stiffness in his leg. And it still broke her heart.

"Connor," she said. "Wait."

He pushed the door open, and waited, motionless.

"I'm sorry I said that." She got up and took a step toward him. "I know it's not your fault. It's been… a really awful time."

"Yeah." He turned and looked at her. "I know what you mean."

It was true. He did know how bad it was. She saw it in his eyes. He'd been betrayed and set up to die. He'd lost his partner, Jesse. He'd lost months of his life in a coma, suffered the shattered leg, the burns.

Connor had lost far more than she in this awful business.

An impulse from deep inside kept her feet moving until she stood right in front of him. His scent was a mix of soap and tobacco, resiny and sweet. Pine, wood smoke, and rainstorms. She stared straight up into his face, like she'd always wanted to do, and breathed him in. She drank in all the details: the sheen of beard stubble glinting metallic gold in the light from the corridor outside. The shadows beneath his brilliant eyes, the sharp line of his jutting cheekbones. How was it possible for a mouth to be so stern, and yet so sensual?

And his piercing eyes saw right into her soul.

She lost herself in it. She wanted to touch his face, to trail her fingers over every masculine detail, to feel the warmth of his skin. She wanted to press herself against his lean, solid bulk. She wished she had something to feed him, whether he was hungry or not.

Connor reached behind himself and shoved the door shut without breaking eye contact. She needed so badly for someone to know how lonely and lost she felt. Her mother was adrift in despair. Most of her friends were avoiding her. Not out of unkindness so much as sheer embarrassment, she suspected. But that didn't help the loneliness.

Connor saw it all, and it didn't embarrass him. His gaze didn't shy away. She didn't shy away, either, when he reached for her.

His touch was so careful and delicate, she could barely believe it was happening. Her eyes welled up. He smoothed away the tears that spilled over with a brush of his thumb, and folded her into his arms.

He pressed her face against the canvas of his coat. His hands stroked the length of her spine as if she were made of blown glass. He tucked her head under his chin. His breath warmed the top of her head.

She squeezed her eyes shut. He'd hugged her before, at her graduation party, at holiday gatherings, but not like this. Quick, nonsexual, brotherly hugs, but even so her heart had almost exploded out of her chest, it beat so fast and hard. His broad frame felt harder than she remembered, his muscles like tempered steel.

He'd been concentrated into the pure, potent essence of himself.

She wondered if the way she felt about him was written all over her face. He held her so carefully, vibrating with tension. Maybe he was afraid of hurting her feelings, or that she would misunderstand his friendly gesture and demand something he didn't want to give. All those years of romantic fantasies, all that heat, all that pent-up hunger, he had to feel it. Dad had said that he was psychic.

He'd seen everything: how lonely she felt, how needy. He stroked her hair, as if he were petting a wild animal that might bolt, or bite.

She didn't want careful, or gentle. She wanted him to push her onto the narrow futon cot, to pin her down with his big, strong body and give her something else to think about. Something hot and scary and wonderful. She could scream, she wanted it so bad. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck, pull him closer, and just gobble him up.

God, how could he
not
pity her?

That thought stung her. It gave her the strength to jerk away. She dug in her pocket for a Kleenex. "Sorry about that," she mumbled.

"Any time." His voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat.

She kept her face averted. He had to leave, and fast, before she burst into tears and covered herself with glory. "Um, I have to pack. I've got lots to do, so, uh…"

"Erin—"

"Don't start." She backed away, shaking her head. "I'm going on this trip, and I don't want a bodyguard, thanks for the offer. Thanks for the ride, thanks for the advice, the sympathy and the… the hug. And now, I really, really need to be alone. Good night."

He made a sharp, frustrated sound. "You need better locks. Hell, you need a new door. It's a waste to put a good lock on a door like this. I could kick the hinges in with my bad leg." He scanned her apartment, scowling. "I'll call my friend Seth. He can install something that—"

"And how am I supposed to pay him?"

"I'll pay for it myself, if you're short on cash," he said impatiently. "Seth'll give me a good deal. It's important, Erin. You're not safe here."

"Thanks, but I can take care of myself. Good night, Connor."

"Does your mother have an alarm system?"

She thought of the shattered mirror and clock. An eddy of sickening fear swirled in her belly. "Yes. Dad insisted."

"Then maybe you should go stay with her for a while."

She bristled. "And maybe you should mind your own business."

He frowned, and pulled a matchbook out of his jeans pocket. "Give me a pen," he demanded.

She handed him a pen. He scribbled on the matchbook and handed it to her. "Call me. Anything happens, day or night, call me."

"OK," she whispered. The matchbook was warm from his pocket. Her fingers tightened over it until it crumpled in her hand. "Thanks."

"Promise me." His voice was hard.

She tucked it into her jeans pocket. "I promise."

One last, searching look, and he finally walked out the door.

A sharp knock made her jump. "Use the deadbolt," he ordered from outside. "I'm not leaving until I hear you do it."

She pushed in the bolt. "Good night, Connor."

He was silent for a few seconds. "Good night," he said quietly.

She put her ear to the door, but could not hear any footsteps. She waited a moment, opened the door and checked. No one was there.

She was finally alone. She slammed the door shut. After his bullying and lecturing and intimidating her with that overwhelming macho charisma, she'd thought his departure would be a relief.

Instead, she felt bereft. Almost piqued at him, for letting her drive him away so easily. Yikes, how clingy and passive-aggressive of her. She was in worse shape than she'd thought.

But how incredibly sweet of him to care.

Connor leaned his hot face against the steering column. He couldn't drive in this condition. He would kill himself.

His heart was thudding, his ears roaring. He was on the verge of coming in his pants. If she'd leaned just one breath closer to him, she'd have felt his hard-on, pressing against his jeans like a club. Those amazing, liquid brown eyes that a guy could get lost in, Jesus. Her eyes on his face had felt like an embrace. He'd wanted to grab her and kiss her so bad, his muscles were cramping from the effort of holding back.

Maybe she would have melted against him and kissed him back.

Yeah, and pigs had wings and hell had a skating rink. The closer he stuck to harsh reality, the less liable he was to screw up.

It was so ironic. Right before the huge fuck-up that had landed him in a coma and killed Jesse, he'd been working up the nerve to ask Erin Riggs out for dinner and a movie. Ever since she'd turned twenty-five. That had struck him as the magic number. She'd attained the status of fair game. He was nine years older than her, which wasn't all that excessive, but when she was seventeen and he was twenty-six, he'd known damn well it would've been sleazy to hit on her. Once she hit her twenties, he'd been really tempted. She was so juicy and innocent—but Ed would've ripped his head off if Connor had gotten anywhere near his precious baby girl. There was that to consider.

But the main reason he hadn't made a move was because she'd been gone so much, on study-abroad programs and archeological digs; six months in France, nine months in Scotland, a year in Wales, etc. He'd had some casual girlfriends in the meantime, some of them nice women, but he'd always pulled back when they started talking about the future. He'd braced himself to hear about Erin getting engaged.

Didn't happen. She'd finished grad school, gotten her curator job, moved out of the group house with her college girlfriend and into her own apartment. Twenty-five years old, and amazingly, she didn't have a boyfriend. It was time. All was fair in love and war, and all that crap. If Ed didn't like it, he could shove it.

But the shit had hit the fan before he ever got a chance to follow through. When he woke up from the coma and found out that he'd been betrayed, and Jesse murdered, he had no energy to spare for romance. He'd loved his partner like he loved his own brothers. He'd thrown everything into getting back on his feet so he could hunt down Lazar and Novak, flush out the traitor and avenge Jesse.

All of which had culminated in hauling Ed Riggs into custody.

Damn, he couldn't help but think that putting a girl's dad in prison for murder pretty much wrecked his chances of getting a date with her on a Saturday night. Particularly considering the shape he was in these days. He glanced into the rearview mirror, and winced.