True Lies (25 page)

He trembled. With a wordless growl he flipped her onto her back and knelt between her thighs.

She didn’t speak aloud, but the words were there, in her arms as she pulled him close, in her eyes as she looked helplessly into his. She could feel the wave of emotion surge over her out of control, her need suddenly unbearable.

Bruce gathered her against him, tilting his face so that their mouths fitted together as perfectly as their bodies. His tongue plunged past her lips, taking up the rhythm of their hips as she met every thrust. She clung to him, her senses spinning.

And they flew.

They soared.

* * *

Even before she opened her eyes, Emma knew that Bruce wasn’t beside her. She stretched out her hand, letting her fingers absorb the traces of his warmth that lingered on the sheet. How could she feel so replete and yet so empty? How could she have experienced such fierce joy and yet feel this overwhelming sadness? Why did there always have to be so many other emotions tangled up with love?

A shadow moved near the window and she turned her head. Bruce was standing in front of the curtains, his head bent, his shoulders held rigid. Against the predawn grayness his naked form was highlighted as if etched by a master’s hand.

For a moment she indulged herself, looking her fill. Beautiful wasn’t a word usually used to describe a man, but she could think of nothing else that came close to expressing the physical perfection of his leanly muscled body. Simply looking at him started the familiar throbbing deep inside, the primal need that he’d satisfied again and again during the stolen hours of the night.

He shifted, and she saw that he held something in his hand, something flat and dark and rectangular. She knew what it was. It was the black folder that he’d taken from his pocket and thrown to the floor before he’d felt free to carry her to the bed. It was his badge, and now he’d picked it up. He hadn’t picked up his clothes, but he’d picked up his badge. Maybe he’d never really put it down. Maybe he couldn’t. His job was his defense against the pain of loving again. His sense of duty was as necessary to him as her own loyalty to her brother. It would always be there between them. Yet even if her brother wasn’t involved, even if Bruce hadn’t lied to her and used her, it still wouldn’t make any difference. He still wouldn’t love her. He wouldn’t let himself love her.

His image blurred. She had kissed the scar that marred his back, but the scar on his heart was probably too deep to heal. How many times had he told her that he didn’t want to care about anyone, didn’t want to get close, didn’t want to have a life outside the black-and-white world of the law? He’d wanted her body, her passion, not her love; he’d asked for one night, not a lifetime. In a matter of hours, they would resume the roles fate had given them. In a matter of minutes their truce would be at an end.

Not yet,
she cried silently, blinking back the tears.
Just once more, one last time, let’s forget who we are. We'll smile, we'll make love...

Bruce lifted his head and slowly turned around. In the dim half light his eyes gleamed. His hands were empty as he held his arms out to her.

Swallowing a sob, Emma slipped from the bed and walked into his embrace.

No words were spoken. His kiss was tender, almost gentle, his touch reverent as he smoothed his hands over her curves, awakening the flesh that glowed for him. This time they did go slow. The raw edge of their need had been eased, but the desire was somehow stronger.

He led her back to the bed and knelt in the center of the mattress with her, thigh to thigh, her breasts tight against his chest. Cradling her face in his palms, he tilted his head and kissed her again, his breath melding with hers.

She soaked up his taste, his scent, his texture. When she swayed, he wrapped his arm around her waist and lay back, draping her over him. They slid together naturally, perfectly, their bodies moving with unhurried care, prolonging the moment even as they whirled toward the end. Not yet, not yet. But his arms tightened, crushing her against him as he surged inside her.

Emma hovered on the brink, her skin tingling, every nerve humming for completion, as she hopelessly tried to hold back the dawn. Then Bruce lifted his head and licked a tear from her cheek, and she shattered.

Afterward, Emma curled onto her side, the tremors that shook her no longer from passion. Bruce kissed the nape of her neck. He didn’t ask any questions, he didn’t make any empty declarations or false promises. He pulled the sheet over them, looped his arm around her waist and snuggled her firmly into the curve of his body. The light from the window strengthened and he held her, simply held her. While she cried.

Chapter 13

T
here was a distinctive aroma common to every police station Emma had visited. It was a unique mixture of ink, coffee, sweeping compound and sweat. The small brick building that served as the Bethel Corners sheriff’s office was no exception. The moment Emma had stepped through the back entrance, she’d felt suffocated by that smell. It had struck her like the echo of an unwelcome memory, stirring up glimpses of lawyers and judges and prison visiting rooms.

Here in Haskin’s private office, with the venetian blinds levered shut and the door securely closed, the atmosphere was rife with it. Emma breathed shallowly and curled her fingers around the hard wooden seat of her chair.

A high scale map of the Bangor area was pinned to the cork bulletin board beside Haskin’s desk. Bruce, O'Hara and Xavier Jones were gathered in front of it, talking quietly among themselves. Bruce had donned his policeman identity even before he’d put on his clothes this morning. Emma tried not to look at him, and he’d been doing his best to avoid her gaze. They’d barely spoken to each other, but then, what was there left to say that hadn’t already been said?

Her fingers tightened as she focused on O'Hara, the man who had driven them here. At first glance he looked like a rumpled construction worker on his day off, but once she’d seen past the easy grin and the relaxed posture, she recognized the detached intellect behind his light green eyes and the hint of zeal in his movements that marked him as surely as a uniform.

There was no mistaking the profession of the third man in the group, though. In his dark blue suit, with his graying hair clipped into a military-crisp haircut, Xavier Jones radiated the steady energy of someone who had spent most of his life in a position of authority. No smile touched his face, no weakness eased the stiff line of his back. He was the epitome of the dedicated career cop. And in another twenty years, Bruce would probably look exactly like him.

Emma set her jaw and moved her gaze to the fourth man in the room. Sheriff Haskin sat with his feet crossed on his desk, his eyes narrowed. When he had come to the cabin to hassle her three days ago, he hadn’t been a player in this undercover scheme. From the time this meeting had started, it was obvious that he was now highly annoyed over joining the game late. His head swung toward the corner where she was sitting and his scowl deepened. “Should she be here?” he asked loudly.

Bruce turned around and fixed the sheriff with a cold stare. “Miss Cassidy is cooperating with this investigation and needs to remain here until it is concluded.”

Haskin snorted. “Cassidy? Her name’s Duprey, and she’s as crooked as her old man and her brother. She’s been lying to me for years.”

Emma lifted her chin and met his scowl with one of her own. “My past is my own business. And why are you complaining? I've always given you precisely as much respect as you deserve.”

“I'm going to see that sleazy brother of yours behind bars, lady, so don’t try any of your smart-mouthed remarks with me.”

She pointed suddenly to the front of his shirt. “What’s that on your uniform, Sheriff?”

He blinked and automatically glanced down. His chin folded in on itself like a crumpled sock.

“My, my. Looks like strawberry jelly to me,” she continued. “Why don’t you go back to the Stardust Café and have another doughnut? That’s the type of police work you're most familiar with, isn’t it?”

His feet hit the floor with a thump as he straightened up. “Listen to me, you lying b—”

“Sheriff, please!” Xavier interrupted firmly. His arm shot out, blocking Bruce when he made a move toward Haskin. “Prentice, settle down. Let’s try to keep our attention on the case, all right? Miss Duprey?”

She waited until the sheriff had subsided behind his desk before she crossed her legs and folded her hands demurely in her lap. She realized that the effect was probably ruined by her grimy jeans and wrinkled shirt. “Yes, Mr. Jones?”

“Tell us again exactly what you saw and heard when you were at McQuaig’s warehouse.”

With exaggerated care she recited every detail she could remember. When she was done, she asked a question of her own. “Who’s going to replace my Cessna?”

Xavier lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t you have insurance?”

“By some oversight I neglected to get a policy that covered dynamite. Since the plane was lost as a direct result of a police investigation, you owe me compensation.”

“I'll send you a form to fill out.”

She nodded once. “Fine. Now, about my brother,” she began.

Xavier glanced at Bruce. “Didn’t you explain it to her?”

“Explain what?” she asked.

“Yes, I told her that our original deal was off,” Bruce said, not meeting her eyes.

She abandoned her pose of calm and leaned forward. “What else is going on?”

“Perhaps in this instance, Sheriff Haskin might have a point,” Xavier said, exchanging a silent look with the other men. “There’s no need for Miss Duprey to know more than necessary.”

O'Hara nodded. “There’s enough of a risk already—”

“Risk? I thought everything was under control, that all you had to do was catch McQuaig with the drugs before you tighten the net around him. It was supposed to be neat and simple.” She looked at Bruce. “You told me once my plane blew up McQuaig would have a false sense of confidence and it would be business as usual.”

Bruce raked his hands through his hair distractedly, the first chink he’d allowed in his composure since they’d arrived here. “The plans have changed, Emma.”

She rose to her feet and stepped around Haskin’s desk in order to get closer to the bulletin board. There was a red pin stuck into the map. “What’s this?”

Xavier moved in front of her smoothly, blocking her view. “It doesn’t concern you, Miss Duprey.”

“The hell it doesn’t. What happened?”

“You'll hear all about it at your brother’s trial,” Haskin said. “If the little creep makes it that far.”

The sheriff’s mocking tone made a hard knot form in her chest. She looked past Xavier to Bruce. “What does he mean?”

He hesitated for a tense minute. Then he sighed and rubbed his jaw. “McQuaig changed his supply route after he sabotaged your plane. At first we thought that he’d gone to ground, but he’s too greedy for that. Last night the coast guard managed to observe an exchange between a fishing boat and a small launch in Frenchman Bay. The launch—”

“Prentice,” Xavier said tersely. “She doesn’t need to know.”

“Yes, she does,” he said firmly. “Emma has every right to know, considering what she’s gone through.”

“Are you going to take responsibility for the consequences? She’s only a civilian, a hostile witness at best.”

“Yes, I'll take full responsibility.” Bruce brushed past Xavier and grasped Emma’s elbow, steering her toward the door. “Is there another room where I can speak privately with Miss Cassidy, Sheriff?”

Haskin leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands over the jelly stain on his stomach. “We don’t have any guests downstairs today. Help yourself to one of the cells.”

Pausing only long enough to mutter something to O'Hara, Bruce ushered Emma past the deputy’s desk toward the hall that ran along the rear of the building. They went through a metal door, then down a set of brightly lit stairs to a basement corridor, their footsteps loud on the linoleum. They came to a large room painted a ludicrously cheerful yellow. An old wooden table with a swivel chair and a telephone was on one side, but as soon as Emma saw the two barred cubicles, she dug in her heels. “Now wait a minute.”

Undeterred, Bruce tightened his grip on her arm and pulled her into the cell on the left. He unrolled the thin mattress with one hand and sat on the bunk, tugging her down beside him. “I have to make this quick, so if you want any answers, don’t waste time arguing, okay? I'm going out on a limb for you here. Xavier’s right, you don’t need to know what we're planning, but I realize how much you care about Simon and I want you to be prepared for what might happen.”

She jerked away from his grasp and strode across the floor, turning around when she reached the bars that formed the side wall. “All right. Tell me.”

“Don’t you want to sit down?”

She looked at his tousled hair, the weary curve of his broad shoulders, the lines of strain around his mouth, and she wanted nothing more than to sit beside him and take him in her arms. Or maybe crawl into his lap. But they had left that behind along with the rumpled sheets of the motel bed. “I'll be able to concentrate better if I'm not touching you.”

“That’s putting it bluntly.”

“There’s never been anything subtle about what’s between us, has there?”

He leaned back, letting his head bump against the cement block wall behind him. “Emma, I didn’t want it to end this way.”

“What does it matter? We both knew it had to end,” she said quickly, struggling to maintain control over the emotions that were seething inside. She dug her nails into her palms and breathed deeply, but all she gained from that was another whiff of police station smell. She pressed her back against the cold bars. “Please, don’t drag this out. Just tell me about my brother.”

The sympathy she saw in his eyes almost broke her, but then he rubbed a hand over his face and began to speak. “There’s no question any more about the degree of Simon’s involvement. He’s in deep. He was on that boat last night, and he helped transfer the cargo to his Jeep. He’s got a red Wagoneer, doesn’t he?” At her nod he continued. “McQuaig’s operating out of a place he’s got close to one of the ski areas near Bangor. The feds already have it under surveillance. We're coordinating a raid tonight before McQuaig has a chance to distribute the cocaine to his dealers or destroy any evidence. It won’t have the finesse of an undercover sting, but at this point we're prepared to use force. As long as we have the element of surprise, the risk will be—”