Thread of Fear (23 page)

She heard his boots scraping softly across the floor behind her, and her shoulders tensed. Before she could think of something to say, his arms slid around her waist, and he pulled her back against him.

“I’m feeling really tired. Why don’t we—”

“Shh…” His breath was warm against her neck, and she knew he meant to kiss her.

“Please don’t.”

They stood there, motionless, as she tried to smother her impulse. She wanted to tell him to back off, to get the hell away, that she needed to be alone. But this wasn’t about him, and he’d think she was a lunatic.

“Relax,” he said. “I just want to hold you.”

She didn’t want to be held. But she didn’t want to be mean, either, so she pretended not to care. A bitter lump rose up in her throat, and she tried to swallow it down.

“I know how you feel.”

She snorted.

“Fiona.” His voice was gentle, but firm. “You’re not the only one who’s ever had a case go down the toilet.”

A case. Shelby Sherwood was a case. Like so many others she’d worked on over the years. The little girl had a goddamn case number attached to her name.

She pushed Jack’s arms away and whirled around.

“You know something? This case
sucks
. All my cases
suck
. You know why? Because they’re all the same.” She was shaking with rage, and she didn’t care. Jack just tucked his hands in his pockets and watched her.

“Every time I get called in to draw a perp, it’s a man. Some demented, fucked-up, sick-in-the-head man. And you know what? Every time I get called in to draw a victim, it’s a child or a woman. Someone’s mother or daughter or sister who’s been killed and thrown away like garbage.
These
are the cases I get. She was ten, Jack.
Ten!
What kind of person
does
that? I can’t understand it.”

“They’re the cases we all get,” he said quietly. “It’s the nature of the job.”

“I hate this job! I don’t want this job! And every time I try to stop, someone pulls me back into it.”

“No they don’t.”

“
Yes,
they do. You did it. Nathan does it. GPD. APD. FBI. Everyone.”

He sat on the bed and looked at her. “No one forces you to do this. You do it because you’re good at it and you feel obligated—same reasons I do.”

She stared at him, her frustration expanding because she knew he was right.

He was
right
. No one forced her to do what she did. She
made her own choices, and it had been her choice to put her painting on the back burner so she could continue with police work. It was her choice every time she answered the phone and went out on a call.

“Come here.” He caught her hand and pulled her toward the bed.

“Jack, I’m tired.”

“Just sit down.”

She sank down beside him and rubbed her eyes. She really was tired. It wasn’t just an excuse; she felt exhausted all of a sudden.

He lifted his hand and combed it through her hair. Then he trailed it down her back and started tracing patterns up and down her spine through the robe. His touch was feather soft, and it should have tickled, but, actually, it felt good. The tension gradually drained out, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Lie back,” he whispered.

She sat up, tense again. He slid his hand up her neck and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let me do this for you.” He kissed her temple. “I’ve been wanting to do this for you.”

She looked at him in the dimness, and her heart jumped into her throat. His low, husky voice made everything inside her go warm. She wished she could be with him and let him touch her and make her forget about everything, especially the guilt she was feeling just for being alive. She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him, and then they were easing back on the bed together, and she closed her eyes and pretended she was floating on a cloud. He parted her robe and slid it off her shoulders. She felt his hands, his lips, his
breath brushing over her skin. He plumped her breast in his palm and lingered over it with his mouth, playing with her, teasing her, letting his stubble scrape the skin there. He moved to the other side and she felt the heat of his hand sliding under the silk between her legs. She clenched her thighs together and murmured something, but it was incoherent, even to her. The throbbing started again, that deep, hot pulsing that went everywhere, and she wrapped her arms around him to pull him closer. Their legs tangled, denim and skin, and they were wrestling with each other for control.

“Wait.”

“Shh…” He touched her and kissed her with a rhythm she loved, and time spun out as she gave herself over to the sensation. The first wave came suddenly, pitching her whole body into a shudder. She found his mouth with hers and kissed him as the perfection of the moment poured through her veins.

When she opened her eyes, he was watching her intently. She smiled up at him and slid her hand down for his jeans. He helped her this time, not taking his eyes off her as he pulled off his boots, stripped down, and knelt between her legs.

It would show on her face, she knew. All those feelings he’d let loose, she knew he could see them there, so she closed her eyes and turned her head.

“Look at me.”

She did, and those piercing blue eyes stared down at her. He saw everything, like he always did. She pulled him into her, catching her breath at the thick, sweet pain. His skin was damp with sweat, and she felt the tension in his muscles as he tried to hold back.

“Easy,” he said, and adjusted her legs.

But she didn’t want him to hold back anything, and she pulled him even closer. “I love you,” she whispered.

He went still, and her stomach plummeted when she looked up at the shock on his face.

Oh, God, what had she done? She closed her eyes and tried to block it out.

She moved beneath him, hoping to distract him with her body, which seemed to work. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her mouth, as they started rocking together, building a sensual rhythm that fit both of them perfectly. Time stretched out and out, and she knew he was trying to prove something, and suddenly she couldn’t wait anymore.

She rolled to the side.

He looked startled, then intrigued, when she eased herself on top of him and pinned his wrists to the mattress, just like he’d pinned hers in the back room at Becker’s.

A smile spread across his face, and he let her take over with the pace she wanted, the one he’d shown her the first time when he was so consumed with her, he hadn’t been able to stop. It was like that now, as he gripped her hips and moved with her, and all his control started to give way. Finally, it snapped, and for the span of that too-short, shimmering moment, she knew he was hers.

H
e trailed his finger up her back, then down again, up and down. She tucked her head under his chin, pressing her ear against his chest so she could hear his heartbeat slow. The moments crept by. The room was silent except for their breathing and the faint hum of traffic four floors below. The quiet started to bear down on her, and she began to get self-conscious about her weight on him, so she sat up.

He lifted an eyebrow as she reached for her robe.

“Just a sec,” she said, and slipped into the bathroom. She let the water run as she took a few minutes to sort out what had just happened.

She’d told him. She hadn’t planned to, but it had popped out, and now she felt queasy because he hadn’t said anything back. She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and braced herself for the very real possibility that she might have just ruined everything. He wasn’t callous enough to hurt her with words—at least she didn’t think so—but she could definitely imagine his hurting her by simply walking away.

She should have kept her mouth shut.

After stalling for another few minutes and primping—as if that would help—she stepped out of the bathroom.

He was leaning back against the headboard, his fingers laced together behind his head. He’d turned on a light. The sheet was tucked around his waist, and as he watched her walk toward him, she tried to read his expression.

“I like this one.”

She followed his gaze to the bookcase dividing her bedroom area from the studio. He’d taken her most recent painting and propped it there, where he could see it from the bed. She glanced up at the track lighting. He’d adjusted one of the fixtures to spotlight the picture as if it were hanging in a gallery.

She cleared her throat. “It’s for the show. I’m taking it in tomorrow.”

He stared at the painting until she started to get antsy. Did he recognize the subject matter? Probably not—it was too abstract.

“It’s good,” he said.

“It’s late.”

He looked at her quizzically as she slipped into the bed beside him. He wasn’t getting dressed and making excuses to leave. That was a good sign. He wanted to talk about art. Or maybe he just wanted a change of subject, but she could go with that.

“I was supposed to have it to the gallery last week for framing. It’s the focal point of my show. The opening’s in two days, and the paint’s barely dry.”

“Two days?” He slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “I didn’t realize it was so soon.”

“You didn’t ask.”

It was a cheap shot, but she couldn’t resist. Since their
first meeting, he had blown off the importance of her show.

“It’s actually a pre-opening,” she explained. “Some local collectors. A few media. The gallery owner is a friend, and he’s trying to introduce me to some of his contacts. He’s set up this private wine and cheese thing, and after that, it’ll be open to the public.”

Gazing at her painting with a critical eye, she decided she liked it. The vibrant reds and golds contrasted with the serene blues of the water. Everything swirled together like yin and yang, so that viewers might not realize they were looking at a school of fish.

Fiona decided to take off the robe. It seemed pointless, and it was in the way. She tossed it on the floor and settled against his chest. He stroked his fingers up and down her arm, and a knot formed in her stomach.

“You’re kind of like Georgia O’Keeffe,” he said, “but with water instead of flowers.”

Fiona jerked her head back to look at him. Never in a thousand years would she have guessed he knew anything about art.

He must have caught her surprised look, because he rolled his eyes. “Hey, I went to college. I took art history.”

Everything she was thinking probably would have sounded insulting, so she kept quiet.

“I like how you do close-ups,” he continued. “Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m looking at until I’ve stared at it a while. Like those ones here before. River scenes, right?”

She bit her lip. She’d had no idea he’d paid any attention. “The Blanco River. It’s near my grandfather’s house.”

She didn’t know what else to say, so she just closed her
eyes and rested her cheek on him. They weren’t going to talk about what she’d said. That was okay. The moment had passed, and it seemed out of place now.

Her chest felt sore, but she didn’t want to think about it. Her feelings were too raw at the moment to prod and analyze. She could do that later, when she was alone.

For now, she just wanted to fall asleep beside him and dream about the remote possibility he’d still be there in the morning.

Jack woke early and felt the weight of Fiona’s arm draped across his chest. He removed it carefully, eased out of bed, and walked silently to the bathroom. Everything she had in there smelled girly, but he took a quick shower anyway and threw on his jeans. Then he padded barefoot into her kitchen and started opening cabinets.

Well, holy shit. The granola girl from California was a junk-food addict.

Shaking his head, Jack grabbed a box and started putting together breakfast. Juice, cereal, milk. He hunted up some coffee filters and got a pot going. She didn’t have any eggs, so he settled for toast. Sex always made him hungry, and this morning he was famished.

“Hi.”

He glanced up from the toast he was buttering to see Fiona standing on the other side of the counter.

“Morning.” He put a plate of toast in front of her. She looked at it warily, but didn’t comment. She had on that green thing again. Her hair looked good, all loose and curly around her shoulders, and he couldn’t resist leaning over to peck her lips. “Looks like you need coffee.”

She sank onto a bar stool. “You’re cooking.”

“Not really.” He opened a few cabinets.

“Above the TV.”

He found a couple of mugs and poured the coffee. She didn’t have cream, so he added milk to hers and put it in front of her. Then he filled two bowls with cereal and poured milk over each, tossing the empty carton into the trash can under her sink when he was through.

“You got a grocery list somewhere?” he asked.

She just stared at him.

“Better have some caffeine. You look like a zombie.”

“By the phone,” she muttered, and took a sip.

He looked beside the phone and found the list. He knew she’d have one; she was a highly organized woman. He scribbled down “milk” and “eggs” before taking the bowls of cereal to the bar. He sat on the stool beside her and scooped up a bite.

She watched him, wide-eyed.

“What?” He paused, spoon in the air.

“You threw away the milk carton.”

“It was empty.”

“You put ‘milk’ on my grocery list.”

He rested his spoon on the bowl. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re looking at me like I just killed your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Thank God for that. I hate the damn things.” He kissed her nose. “Eat your Cocoa Puffs.”

She took a tentative bite and then stirred her cereal until the milk turned brown. He wondered if she was going to bring up last night, what she’d said while they were in bed
together. He hoped not. He didn’t want to talk about it, and it would be much easier for her to corner him into a big discussion now, in the light of day, than it had been right after sex.

Jack heard the lock tumble and turned around. Courtney stood in the doorway, and for once he was glad to see her.

“Well, well.” She dumped an oversize black purse on the floor and tossed her trench coat on the bench by the door. “Good morning,
Jack
. I see you found my sister.”

“Morning,” he said.

The mystery from last night was solved: she was wearing a short black dress. Her hair and makeup looked tired, but she seemed energetic as she flounced across the kitchen to help herself to some coffee.

She leaned back against the counter and eyed Jack over the rim of her mug. Her gaze dropped to his pecs, and he tried not to shift in his seat.

“So,” she said. “You’re friends with Nathan. I guess that means my secret’s out.”

“What secret?” Fiona asked.

“You want to fill her in, Jack?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Courtney’s expression turned suspicious. “Nathan didn’t tell you?”

“Tell him what?”

Jack glanced at Fiona, who shot him a glare.

He held his hands up. “Hey, I don’t know anything.”

“You’re serious?” Courtney put down her coffee. “Nathan really didn’t tell you?”

“He really didn’t.”

“Tell him
what
?” Fiona was getting upset now.

“Nothing.” Courtney strode out of the kitchen. “I just need to grab a few things, and I’ll be out of your way.

“Hey, good news, Fi. We’re supposed to get a warm front tomorrow. You’re almost rid of me.” She took some clothes from her sister’s closet and shut herself in the bathroom.

“Do you know what she’s talking about?” Fiona demanded. “Don’t lie.”

“No idea. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Her eyebrows arched.

“Going forward,” he clarified. “I won’t lie to you.”

Shit, now what had he done? He’d just made a promise that would be hell to keep.

Not that it mattered. She could tell when he was lying anyway.

Jack downed a few more bites of soggy cereal, then got up and took his bowl to the sink. “I’ve got to go.”

She followed him into the bedroom area, where he shrugged into his wrinkled shirt and buttoned it.

“Are you busy today?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Thought I’d put my résumé together.”

She pursed her lips.

Shit, this was already tougher than he’d thought.

“Also, I might work on the case some.” He pulled on socks. “Look into a few things.”

Soon as he got his boots on, she followed him to the door and opened it. She was trying not to cling, he could tell. Suddenly, what she’d said to him last night was like a presence in the room.

He stepped into the hallway and dragged her with him. Those hazel eyes were glistening, and he knew he needed to hightail it out of there.

He pulled on his jacket. “You never invited me to your show.”

She bit her lip.

“I don’t know much about art, but I’d like to be there.”

“It’s kind of a drive for you,” she said reasonably. “Four hours round-trip.”

“I know.”

“Don’t feel like you have to or anything.”

From the look on her face, he knew he’d been right. This was a big deal to her. If he came, he’d be committing to something more than just a few hours of mingling with art snobs.

“Tell me where and when. I’ll do my best to make it.”

“The Fuller Gallery on Fifth Street,” she said. “Tomorrow at five.”

“Fuller on Fifth. Got it.” He pulled her into a kiss, but she wasn’t into it. She’d gone into protective mode again, so he let go of her.

“Take care, now,” he said. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

Courtney had perched herself on the kitchen counter and was chomping on an apple. She’d changed into Fiona’s Austin City Limits T-shirt, and Fiona made a mental note to make sure it didn’t wind up in her sister’s duffel when she left.

“What happened with Nathan?” she asked, picking up her coffee. Jack had made it too strong, but she needed the jolt.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Courtney.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can’t you let anything
go
?”

Fiona waited.

“Fine.” Courtney hopped down from the counter. “I had a little brush with the cops last week. Nathan helped me out.”

Nathan
helped her out. Not a good sign. “What does that mean, exactly? A ‘little brush’?”

Courtney bit into her apple, stalling.

“Tell me the truth.”

She swallowed. “I kind of trashed David’s car.”

“What?
Why?”

She tossed the core in the sink. “His name’s not David. And he’s married.”

“Courtney!” Fiona gaped at her. “
How
could you do that?”

“I didn’t know, okay? And I already feel like shit, so don’t pile on. You can save the lecture.”

Fiona’s stomach filled with dread. “How did Nathan get involved?”

“After I got arrested—”

“Arrested?”

“Hey!” Courtney plunked a hand on her hip. “I said no lectures. I don’t need any more grief about this. Nathan pulled some strings, and it basically went away, all right?”

Fiona looked at her sister. Did she have any idea how much trouble she could be in? An arrest—even a minor one—was a serious hassle, not to mention an expense.

“Are you sure it’s cleared up? Do we need to get you a lawyer or something?”

Courtney scoffed. “No more lawyers. Ever.” She sank onto a bar stool. “Enough about me. I want to hear what’s going on with you.”

Fiona sat down on the stool beside her. If Nathan had dealt with it, then it was dealt with. He had a lot of pull within the department, and he would have said something
to her if Courtney had a serious problem. Fiona was surprised he hadn’t mentioned anything before now, but maybe he’d been sworn to secrecy.

“So?” Courtney asked, raising her eyebrows. “What’s up with Jack?”

Fiona folded her arms on the counter and rested her head on them. “I told him I’m in love with him.”

“What?”

She closed her eyes. “During sex.”

“Omigod, are you
crazy
? You’re kidding, right? No way you really told him that.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing.” Fiona looked up at her. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”

Courtney bit her lip.

“Be honest.”

“Well.” She tipped her head to the side, weighing the odds. “He seems polite.”

“Yeah.”

“And sort of old-fashioned.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“So you’ll probably get the courtesy call in about a week.” She shrugged. “He’ll maybe make a date or something. Then cancel because something comes up.”