Deadly Force (6 page)

Her short hair, damp around the edges, curled around her neck and her delicate collarbone glistened with perspiration. And with each lift, her breasts, covered by a tight, white exercise top with thin
straps, squeezed together.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Sleek arm muscle rippled, polished skin gleamed and the pulse in the hollow of her neck throbbed.

At a cadence matching his own growing need.

Where the top stopped, the shorts didn’t start. At least three inches of tanned, smooth skin showed. With each lift, her slick stomach contracted, the muscles creating a line of clear definition
right down the center. He followed it until it disappeared into her shorts.

Oh, damn, her shorts. Thin, clingy, starting an inch below her navel and ending miles above her knees.

He could see the points of her hip bones, the gentle rounding of her abdomen and lower still, the sharp rise of her pubic bone.

Oh, baby.

He might have actually said it because she dropped the weights
with a thud and sat up. “Hi,” she said, a little out of breath. “You scared me.”

She still had her legs spread. He could not think, let alone speak.

“Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Why do have your gun?”

He stared at it. He was never, ever, careless with his gun and he’d forgotten it was in his hand. He slid it back in his shoulder holster. “I heard a noise.”

She slid her bottom along
the bench and for one second, Sam imagined her sliding her warm, sweaty body against his. He could almost feel her moist heat, her female warmth. His body tightened in response.

When she got to the end, she put her legs together and stood. It took everything he had not to push her back down, spread her legs again and grind himself against her, muscle to muscle, need to need.

“I made
dinner,” she said, wiping her face with a hand towel. “Pasta, of course.” She looked uncomfortable. “Payback for breakfast, you know.”

He was hungry. That was it. That explained why his legs felt like spaghetti and his head seemed empty. Her scent, the spice he sniffed this morning now mixed with feminine energy, danced around him. Desire, sharp and angry, twisted and sick, clawed at him.

He wanted her. He wanted her in his bed. It took his breath away. What kind of bastard was he? He’d offered her protection, a safe place to stay and now he wanted to rip her clothes off and bury himself inside her warm and yielding body.

“I hope you don’t mind that I used your equipment.”

His
equipment
wouldn’t mind at all.

Yep, no doubt about it. He was a sick, sick man. “No,
that’s fine.”

She placed one leg in front of the other and lunged, stretching her muscles.

He wanted her legs, all firm and toned, wrapped around his waist.

She cocked her head. “Are you okay?”

No. Just confused. She was the one who’d been lifting weights, but he was the one who was all hot and bothered. “I’m fine,” he said, waving away her concern.

She walked past him.

Oh, baby, was there anything sexier than the delicate muscles in a woman’s back?

She turned. “I think I’ll take a quick shower. Would you mind if I watch something on television tonight?”

“A chick flick?” he asked.

“The Cubs are in San Diego. It’s a late game.”

“You like baseball?”

Her face lit up and her eyes danced. “You’re looking at the starting pitcher for the
Minooka Timberwolves. I don’t get to talk about it much. Nadine hates sports—turns off the television or radio even when they’re giving the sports news. But I love professional baseball, especially in the fall, when every game counts so much.”

Could this get much worse? He had to put a stop to it now. “Look, I can’t stay for dinner.”

“Oh.”

She had the biggest, prettiest eyes.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I just took a chance. It’ll reheat. You can have spaghetti for lunch tomorrow.”

He’d never look at spaghetti again without thinking of her. “So, how old are you?”

“Twenty-four,” she said, sounding puzzled at the sudden shift in topic.

That’s what he thought. “Are you involved with anybody right now?”

“What?”

“Are you dating anybody?”

She shook her head.

Damn. “You should date,” he instructed. “Girls your age should have boyfriends. Go to parties. Dancing. Fun stuff.”

She stared at him like he’d lost his mind. He was pretty sure he had. It had burst into flames when it had fallen below his belt. “Now’s not the time for you,” he said, “to get serious with anyone. Definitely not.”

Now she looked really confused.
“I just told you, I’m not serious about anyone. Why are we having this conversation?”

No way was he going there. “You should have a waiting list,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “Guys on the front burners and on the back, too. That’s what girls your age do. They date, they shop around. They experiment.”

Her big brown eyes opened even wider. “You think I need to experiment?”

She was killing him. “Yeah, I do.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I’ll try to remember that,” she said, sounding weary.

Chapter Six

Three beers later, Sam felt marginally better. He shifted on his worn plastic barstool and caught Patrick Murphy’s eye.

“Hey, Sammy, my boy.” The brawny man sauntered over. He wore a white shirt and dark pants, covered with a big red apron. He ruffled up the back of Sam’s hair. “I don’t see you in here that often anymore. How’s that pretty mother of yours?”

“Still married to my father,” Sam said, shaking his head. It had been three years since he’d brought his parents to Murphy’s for a drink and Patrick Murphy, who had passed sixty sometime back, had taken one look at Sam’s mother and fallen head over Irish heels in love.

“He’s a lucky man. Two sons and a beautiful wife. How much good fortune can a man have?” Patrick inclined his head toward
Sam’s empty glass, but Sam shook his head no. More beer wasn’t going to make a difference.

“What about you, Sam? When are you going to find a pretty girl and marry her? Have fine sons and daughters of your own?”

A week ago he’d have laughed off the question. Said something about balls and chains and cheap construction in the suburbs. But now, the question settled over him like an ominous,
dark cloud. Maybe it was the impending status of uncle. Maybe it was his mother and her eight months of nonstop chatter about grandchildren. Maybe it was Cruz, a man lost because his marriage had gone bust for seemingly no reason at all.

Maybe it was the memories of Tessa and the young girl he’d almost married. Maybe it was knowing that if Tessa had lived, everything would have been different.

It sure as hell wasn’t that he liked coming home to Claire.

If he wanted spaghetti, Patrick’s cook could whip up a mean sauce. If he wanted big brown eyes and a warm body, he could snuggle up to Nightmare. If he wanted breasts, he could buy a magazine or rent a movie.

“Well?” Patrick prodded.

“I’m too old and set in my ways,” he said. “What woman would have me?”

“I was
older than you when I married my Colleen. She was a beauty. Still was when she died twenty-four years later.”

Sam could see the misery in the man’s watery blue eyes. “I’m sorry I never got to meet your wife. She must have been special.”

“Aye. Cancer is a cruel beast. But I’m glad that I had her company for so many years. She could have done better, but she chose me.”

“Where did
you meet her?” Sam asked, knowing the man wanted to talk, wanted to remember.

“I met her at her parents’ home. Her pa had hired me to help put a roof on the house, never dreaming that I’d steal his daughter away. Almost killed me when he found out that she’d been sneaking out at night. After all, her being only seventeen and all.”

“Seventeen? How old were you?”

“Old enough to know
that I’d found something special. I was thirty-three. A man.”

Sixteen years. Wow. “You’re lucky her father didn’t push you off the roof when you weren’t looking.”

“Believe me, long after the garage had a new roof, I stayed far away when he had a hammer in his hand.”

“What changed?”

Patrick sat down on the stool next to Sam. He turned it so that he was facing out at the crowd,
and then leaned back against the wood bar, as if he was royalty watching over his kingdom. “I think he realized that I loved her dearly and that it was mutual. I think he saw, too, that age is a number. When a boy is sixteen and a girl is a baby, the difference is forever. Even when a man is twenty-eight and the girl is barely gracing twelve, it’s a river too wide and deep to cross. But when a
man is thirty-nine and his bride is twenty-three, the river dwindles to a small stream. When the man is forty-five and the twenty-nine-year-old woman bears him a child, the sixteen years are a blessing.”

Sixteen? Nine? None of that mattered. He’d just gotten surprised tonight. Hadn’t expected to find a sweaty, half-naked woman in his spare room. Hadn’t expected that he’d react like a teenager.
Hadn’t expected that she’d look so hurt when he’d pushed her away.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” Murphy called after him.

He wasn’t a stranger, but he was acting pretty damn strange. He needed to get a grip. He would not be undone by a pair of brown eyes. He would not grovel, beg or via any similar action or reaction,
let it be known that he’d taken one look at her legs and almost sworn off breasts. Almost.

There was no sense going overboard.

Sam walked at a slow pace and let the air clear his head. He felt almost normal by the time he got home. That is, until he discovered that his house was empty. Claire’s cell phone and purse were lying on the table next to the futon.

He found the note on
his second pass through the kitchen.
I took Nightmare for a run.

In the dark? What was she thinking? He looked at his watch. The ten o’clock news had just started.

Did she have any idea of what could happen to a woman at night? Did she really think some stupid dog could protect her? One little bullet, right between the eyes, and Nightmare would be down for the count.

Where would
she go? There was a park about three blocks away. Would she head that direction? Did she even know about it? Would she just walk the streets?

He grabbed his keys and was halfway out the door before he stopped. He’d had three beers on an empty stomach. Not enough that he felt anything, but maybe just enough to put him over the legal limit.

Jamie Donaldson’s face flashed before his eyes.
Jamie had been one of the best detectives on the force. One night, coming home from a party, well over the legal limit, he’d hit two twelve-year-olds as they crossed the street. The girls had been dead before the paramedics arrived. Not only had Jamie about lost his mind, he’d lost his job and more. He was doing five to ten at Joliet, sharing cell space with scum that he’d helped put away.

No way would he get behind the wheel of a car. If he got caught, it could cost him everything.

Yeah, but, not doing anything could cost Claire her life.

He pounded on his tenant’s door and waited impatiently. He knocked again and finally Tom Ames opened the door. He wore ratty black shorts, a T-shirt with a huge hole under one arm and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. White
acne medication dotted his face. He held an open, four-inch-thick microbiology textbook up to his chest. “Sam?” he asked.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Sam said. “But I need your help.”

“
You
need
my
help?”

“Yeah. I need to go look for a friend who took Nightmare for a walk. I can’t drive. I had a couple beers earlier tonight.”

Tom, who was working on his second master’s degree,
nodded. Tom’s mother worked for the department and no doubt Tom, too, had heard the story of Jamie Donaldson. “Let me get my keys,” he said.

“Is your mom home?”

“No. She’s working nights for the next month.”

Two minutes later, Tom eased his car away from the curb. He drove with both hands on the wheel while Sam sat on the passenger side, his nose practically pressed up to the window.
“Circle the block,” Sam said.

“Okay. Who exactly is it that we’re looking for?”

“Her name is Claire. She’s short, dark-haired, about your age. She might be wearing a white shirt and yellow shorts.”
Please, please, let her at least have had the good sense to change clothes. Something that covered all her parts
. Sam resisted the urge to cross himself, to make it an official prayer.

The streetlights made it easy enough to see the sidewalk. It was a warm fall night and couples, both young and old, strolled along, hand in hand. They didn’t worry him. The group of kids hanging on the front step of one of the brownstones warranted a second look.

“Slow down,” he said. There wasn’t anything much more dangerous to a lone woman than a group of testosterone-charged teenage boys.
It happened once or twice a year. One idiot would get an idea and then normally good boys, boys with futures and plans, would follow, forever altering their lives and the life of the victim.

“Want to get out?” Tom asked.

“No, keep driving,” Sam said. It looked like this group of boys was focused on their card game.

They circled the block twice, giving Sam a chance to inspect both
sides of the street. No Claire. Not anywhere.

“Head down toward Patriot’s Park,” he said. When Tom pulled up outside the wrought-iron gate that marked the park’s entrance, Sam jumped from the car. “Stay here,” he said. “I’m going to check the running path.”

“You don’t look like you’re dressed for a run.”

Sam looked down at his now-wrinkled suit and dress shoes. He’d been home twice
since he’d dressed this morning. Both times he’d rushed out. Once to avoid Claire, and now, to find her. He could take his jacket off, but then his shoulder holster would be in full view. He wanted the benefit of surprise if Claire was in trouble.

Fifteen minutes later Sam had run every path. He’d pounded down the cinder-covered trail, sweating like a dog, no doubt scaring the hell out of
people going for a late-night stroll.

When he got back to Tom’s car, he leaned against it, breathing heavy. He dialed her cell phone number, listening impatiently while the phone rang. When it switched over to voice mail, he slammed his phone shut and jerked open the door. “Let’s go. Head back toward my house, but take Trainer Street this time.” It was the high-rent district, but that didn’t
mean it was any safer.

He saw Nightmare before he saw Claire. The dog lay on the sidewalk, his head on his paws, in front of a three-story brownstone. Claire, dressed in long pants and a loose T-shirt,
thank You, Lord,
sat three steps up next to a man. She didn’t look hurt, harmed or scared.

That didn’t help the ball of angry fire heating up in Sam’s belly. “Stop the car,” he ordered.

Tom pressed the brakes and the car skidded to a stop. “There’s no place to park,” he said.

“We won’t be staying long,” Sam said, opening his door. He reached Claire in nine strides. He counted them, trying to get his emotions under control. It didn’t work.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Sam?” Claire’s head jerked up in surprise.

“What are you thinking? You must
be some kind of fool.”

The guy next to Claire shifted, like he wasn’t sure if he should run or not dare make a move. Sam pointed his finger at the man. “Sit. This is none of your business. And who the hell are you anyway?”

The man opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Claire frowned at Sam. “Sam, this is Pete Mission. We work together. Pete, this is Sam, the detective I was telling
you about.”

When Claire smiled at the guy, the heat in Sam’s gut turned up a notch. “Kind of late for a business meeting, isn’t it?”

She frowned at him. “Pete and I are both finalists in a design contest. There’s an awards dinner early next week. We were making a few plans.”

“Whatever,” Sam said. “Can we just get out of here?”

She got up and dusted off her butt. Sam didn’t
miss that Pete’s eyes followed the motion. He might have to kill the guy after all.

Claire walked down the steps, her pretty pointed chin in the air. “You look a little flustered, Sam,” she said.

Flustered?
Sam Vernelli didn’t do flustered. “I couldn’t find you,” he said.

“I left a note,” she said, bending down to grab Nightmare’s leash.

A car pulled up behind Tom’s car and
the driver leaned on his horn. Sam grabbed Claire’s elbow and steered her toward the car. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said. “Just do what I say.”

She stopped, dead in the middle of the street. The man in the car stuck his head out of the window and started yelling in Spanish. Dogs up and down the street started barking. Lights flipped on. Window shades went up.

It was a damn circus.

Sam yanked on her arm and barely budged her. For a little thing, she’d dug her heels in. Literally.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re making a scene.”

She turned on him. “
I’m
making a scene? How dare you?”

“I swear to God, Claire, if you don’t move, I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to that car.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The guy, still screaming, opened his
car door.

Sam leaned down, put his shoulder next to her stomach and upended her.

She shrieked. Then kicked.

And for one crazy minute, he let himself fantasize about spanking her feisty butt.

He held her legs down with one hand and yanked open the car door with the other. Nightmare, for once acting like he had a brain, jumped in without prodding. Sam dumped Claire onto the seat
and slid in after her.

“Drive,” he said.

Tom, scrubbing at his acne medicine with one hand, reached his other arm over the seat. “Hi. I’m Tom. I live above Sam.”

Claire, acting like she was at some damn tea party, extended her own hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Could we hold off on the introductions for a few minutes?” Sam asked, furious with both of them. Horn Blower
had gone back to his car, but Sam figured, given his luck lately, it was only to retrieve a gun from under the seat.

“Of course,” Tom said, winking at Claire.

Claire winked back.

What was there to wink about? If Tom had started beating his head against the window and pulling out his hair, now
that
would have made some sense.

When they got to Sam’s house, it took Tom two tries
to squeeze back into his parking spot. Sam barely waited for the car to stop moving before he opened the door and got out. Then he tapped his fingers against the hood of the car. Nightmare came out first, followed closely by Claire. She moved quickly. He had to slam the car door and chase her up the front steps of his house. He could hear Tom running behind him.

Claire had shoved a key into
the lock by the time he caught her. He heard the tumblers fall into place and he reached past her to shove the door open. Nightmare darted in.

But suddenly Claire didn’t move. She turned to look at him. “I’m sorry. I acted like a fool at Pete’s place. I get a little crazy when people tell me what to do.”