Deadly Force (9 page)

“Morning,” she said, when he got close enough to hear. She hoped her voice sounded more casual than she felt. With his hair ruffled by the wind, his cheeks red from the cold and his chest heaving up and down in flat-out exhaustion, he made her cold body feel warm in certain spots.

“Good morning,” he answered, his hands
braced on his thighs as he struggled for breath. He straightened up and walked around her in circles, no doubt getting his heart rate to slow down.

What was she going to do about hers?

“How far did you run?” she asked.

“About five miles.”

“All at that pace?”

He shook his head, almost looking embarrassed. “I was a sprinter in high school. Over the years, I’ve learned to
slow it down so I can increase my distance, but I still love it when I can relive my youth.”

She wrapped her arms around her middle. “You say that like you’re in your eighties.”

“I’m almost thirty-three. There’s a big difference between that and seventeen.”

“I guess.”

He studied her. “You know, that makes me close to nine years older than you.”

What was his point?

“We’re at different stages of our lives,” he added, his breathing steadier now.

“What stage are you in?” she asked, really wanting to know. Sam was a master at not talking about himself.

“That’s not important,” he said, disappointing her. “What is important is that you’re in your early twenties. You’ve got plenty of time before you need to be thinking about things.”

“Things?”

He waved a hand. “Like marriage and babies. I mean,” he said, “it’s not like you’re Joanna’s age. She’s past thirty and just having her first baby. That’s pretty common these days.”

“I suppose.” She looked away.

He stepped to the side so that she was once again looking at him. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I’m cold,” she said. “I’m going in.”

She got two steps before he gently
grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “Please tell me,” he said.

“I guess I just get tired of your being so focused on age, especially my age. It’s a number, okay? That’s all it is.” She tightened the strings of her hood, hiding more of her face. He was looking at her so intently that it was like he was looking into her soul.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder
and pulled her tight against his chest. He felt warm and solid and he smelled like fresh air and sweaty male.

He shifted her in his arms until she was standing in front of him. He pushed back the sides of her hood and with two fingers under her chin, tilted her head up. “Let’s talk about something else. The other night, when I picked you up at Mission’s house, you said that you had both been
nominated for an award. Tell me about it.”

“It’s a design contest, sponsored by the Chicago Advertising Association. I guess it’s a pretty big deal. The grand-prize winner walks away with a $15,000 check.”

He pulled back. “What are your chances?”

“There are six finalists, so I guess statistically, I have a little over a 15 percent chance of winning. But in reality, it’s a lot less.
I’m sure I have the least experience of any of the finalists. Their designs are probably much better.”

“What does Mission’s design look like?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Several of us from the agency entered, but none of us shared our designs. In our business, we do a lot of brainstorming. Somebody comes up with an idea and then everybody throws out suggestions, building upon
the original idea. It’s just how we’re wired. But in this particular contest, entrants have to sign a statement that they haven’t collaborated with anyone—that the design is solely their own creation. I guess none of us wanted to accidentally step over the line.”

“When will you know who won?”

“Not until the awards dinner on Monday. Most everyone from the agency is going to attend.” She
rubbed her hands together. “Come on, let’s go inside. Even Nightmare looks cold.”

“Come on,” he said, gathering up Nightmare’s leash. “I’m betting Mom has coffee started by now and Dad’s probably mixing up the pancake batter.”

“Are his pancakes as good as yours?”

“No, but don’t let him know that.”

Chapter Nine

Sam and Claire left right after breakfast and were back in Chicago by noon. Claire was in her bedroom changing into work clothes when she heard Sam’s cell phone ring.

She finished zipping her dress and walked out of the room. Sam was filling Nightmare’s water dish and listening to the person on the other end. “Where?” he asked. Then more listening. “Okay, thanks,
Cruz. I’ll let Claire know and ask her if the description rings a bell.” He hung up.

“Let Claire know what?” she asked.

“Some of your stuff turned up at a pawnshop north of downtown. Little place on Sheraton Road. Had the television and one of the necklaces.”

“What was that about a description?”

“Owner said it was a woman. About twenty-five, with brown eyes and curly, short
hair the same color. Also, he said she acted like she knew the drill, like she’d been in a pawnshop before. Anybody you know?”

“Short, brown hair. Brown eyes. Sounds like he could have been describing me. Except for the part that she knew her way around a pawnshop. I’ve never been in one.”

“You’re not missing much,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling disappointed. She wanted
this to be over. “I guess I’m not much help.”

“Not much help? You had a serial number for the television. That’s amazing. I think you might be the only person in America who regularly records the serial numbers of their electronics.”

She heard the mocking tone and didn’t know if he was making fun of her or deliberately trying to lighten the mood. “I organize my office supplies, too,”
she said. “Alphabetically. Binder clips in front and Zippo pens in the back.”

He shifted his gaze and studied her. Frowning, he shook his head. “Just alpha? Not cross-referenced by function?”

So he had been teasing. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said, “but my underwear has the days of the week and once—” she dropped her voice to a whisper “—I wore Tuesday on a Sunday.”

His lips made
a small round circle. “And the Underwear Police still haven’t found you?”

She shook her head. “I suppose,” she said, unable to totally ignore Cruz’s information, no matter how much she wanted to, “that this is a good thing. You know, it’s a clue.”

“Absolutely. I don’t understand why you’re not happier. You can get some of your things back.”

“It’s hard to explain,” she said. She
walked into the living room and sat down on the leather couch that bore the evidence of Nightmare’s nails. “If the robbery really was connected to Sandy Bird, I don’t know how I’m ever going to look at that television again and not think about how she looked after...”

“Oh, Claire,” Sam said, and before she even knew what he was doing, he’d crossed the room and sat next to her. He wrapped
an arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward him. She leaned in and laid her face against the softness of his T-shirt.

“At night,” she said, “I close my eyes and it’s a replay of everything that happened. Of my walking into the living room and seeing Nadine and the woman. Of her, waving the gun at us. I thought I was going to die. I really did.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he crooned
and rocked her back and forth. “You’re safe with me.”

She needed to tell him all of it. “When Nadine shot her, I couldn’t believe it. I just sat there and stared and then I got sick. I didn’t think I was ever going to stop vomiting. It was just so horrible. Sometimes I think I’m going crazy because I can almost smell her, smell the sweat, the cigarettes, the craziness that radiated from her.”

Now the tears ran freely down her face and her body shook. Sam tightened his grip and gently patted her back with one hand.

“Then the phone call and the letter the other night. I guess I’ve been relying on the fact that I was sure the woman had picked us by accident. But now, I don’t know. What if it wasn’t random? Nadine killed her. She’s going to have to live with that. And maybe she
had to do it all because of me.”

“I’m going to figure this out,” Sam whispered. “I promise. You’re not going to have to spend the rest of your life wondering. I’m going to find the link.”

His body felt warm and hard and she desperately wanted to believe that he was doing it for her and not out of some crazy sense of honor. She pulled back and Sam immediately released her.

“I know,”
she said, “that I’m going to have to go back to that apartment and look at my things and get on with my life.”

“There’s no hurry,” he said, frowning at her. “You can stay with me. Watch my television.”

She’d love that. But when it came time to leave, it would be that much harder. She’d miss him all the more. “We’ll see,” she said.

“It’s no problem,” he assured her and then, ever
so gently, with the pad of his thumb, he brushed the tears off her cheeks. At that moment, when she felt his strength, his courage, his infinite goodness, she knew she was in big trouble. She really liked Sam Vernelli. And to him, all she’d ever be was little Claire, Tessa’s baby sister.

“I’m not generally a crier,” she said, suddenly at a loss for words. “All evidence to the contrary.”

He gave her a sweet, sexy smile. “I hate, absolutely hate, seeing you cry, but I think you probably deserve to shed a few tears.” He reached out and held her hand. She felt the heat run up her arm. “You’ve been so brave, so strong,” he added.

He thought she was brave. She wanted to be. Thought maybe she wouldn’t get many more chances. She reached up and ran her fingers across Sam’s jaw
line. His skin felt rough, with the hint of whiskers. He didn’t pull away, but his quick, almost-imperceptible shiver told her he might not be immune to her. “I like you, Sam,” she said.

He bit his lower lip and his eyes became guarded. “I like you, too. You’re a great kid.”

Kid.
This wasn’t going to get them anywhere fast.

She needed to be bold. “I want to kiss you.”

She heard
his quick exhale of breath through his nose like he’d been punched in the stomach. “You’re mixing gratitude with attraction,” he said, his voice sounding strained. “It happens all the time. Cops are trained to recognize it.”

Be bold. Be brave.
“Oh, really?” She ran her finger across his lower lip. He remained absolutely still, like he was afraid to move. So she leaned forward, until she was
close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

“Claire,” he said, his voice a mere whisper.

She heard the plea in his tone and knew that it was a request to stop, but recklessly, like a child flying a kite in an approaching storm, she ignored it. And when she pressed her lips to his and her breasts up against his chest, lightning struck. A great gust of wind left his body
and in one swift motion, he shifted so that she was no longer sitting up but was lying on her back, with him on top of her. He pressed his body into her and she could feel his strength, his power, his need.

She made him want. The raw glory of it surged through her.

And when he angled his head and stuck his tongue in her mouth, she soared. It was deep, delicious, delightful.

And
she wanted him to kiss her forever.

When he finally did pull back, he reared up, his arms holding his weight off her body. He was breathing hard, his breath coming out in quick spurts followed by swift intake, like he might be on the verge of hyperventilating.

Oh, baby, she’d made him pant.

“Claire,” he said, his voice cracking, making her name sound as if it had two syllables.
“I...uh...I...”

Oh, yeah. She’d made him speechless.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for days,” she said, shifting a little, trying to ease him back down. She couldn’t budge him.

“That’s impossible,” he said, looking stricken.

She could feel his retreat.
Be bold.
She squirmed, pressing her pubic bone up, softly grinding her strength against his. He was hard. Very.

He jerked
off her, almost flinging himself off the couch. He landed on the floor in a squatting position. He held up a hand. “We have got to stop this,” he said. “It’s not right.”

She felt like she was being scolded like some naughty child. She needed to make him understand. “Sam, I’m attracted to you. You need to know—”

“What I know,” he said, his face red, “is that I’m responsible for you. And
what just happened here was damned irresponsible.”

“I never asked you to take responsibility for me,” she said, her chest hurting. “I don’t want you protecting me or shielding me.” Her parents had practically smothered her—she sure as heck didn’t intend to have that kind of relationship with Sam. “I haven’t asked you to do anything for me. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe,” he said.
“I owe.” His face had turned to stone and his eyes held the same miserable look they had each time he’d talked about Tessa. The meaning was clear enough. His debt was to Tessa. And nothing else mattered. She was Tessa’s little sister. She’d get his protection whether she wanted it or not. But she wouldn’t get anything else from him. Tessa had taken everything he had to give.

“You’ve been
under stress,” he said. “Things happening at home, at work. It’s a lot to handle.”

He seemed to want to give her a thousand excuses for why she’d thrown herself at him. Like he couldn’t accept that it had been real—that what she felt could possibly be real.

Could she feel any more stupid?

“You’re right,” she lied. She stood up, glad that her legs would hold her. She took short,
jerky steps over to the hallway table. She grabbed her purse, opened the door and left. She didn’t say goodbye.

Sam had two thoughts as he watched her go. One, he was too stupid to live and two, it would take him a hundred years to forget Claire’s scent. It hovered in the air, teasing him, making him want to sniff like a dog in heat. Citrus had always meant oranges. He’d been okay with that.
Now it would mean sun-kissed skin, pretty eyes and soft lips.

When she’d been under him and she’d wrapped her bare legs around him, pulling him tight, it had been the most intense pleasure he’d ever felt. And the only right thing to do was forget about it.

He looked around, desperate to think about something else, and saw the sack lunch that she’d packed before she’d gone into the spare
room to change into her work clothes. She’d packed it because they hadn’t stopped for lunch on the way back. They were both full from breakfast and she’d been anxious to get back to work by noon. When she’d been spreading peanut butter and jelly on the bread, she’d said that it would be her three o’clock snack, that it would hold her over in the event that she decided to work later than usual.

Hell. She’d probably bust her chops until late tonight and do most of it on an empty stomach.

Not his problem.

He wondered if Pete look-at-her-ass Mission would be working late, too.

Not his concern.

He poured a big bowl of cereal and filled it to the rim with milk. “Don’t give me that look,” he scolded Nightmare. The dog put a paw over his only ear, like he couldn’t bear
to hear the story. “Hey, she kissed me,” Sam said, his mouth full.

Right before he’d pressed her into the couch and every curve, every damn curve in her compact little body, had slid into place, fitting with his, like fine tongue-and-groove flooring. Sweet.

When she’d pressed up against him, he’d stopped thinking. Sort of like the night Micky Rivaci’s switchblade had sliced into him
and he’d teetered between life and death. He’d forced his mind blank and focused on nothing but staying in control. It had worked that night. As blood had poured from him onto the sidewalk, he’d managed to stay conscious, to keep breathing, to hang on.

But when her sweet lips had touched his, he’d buckled. Caved. He’d screwed up.

Not that kissing her hadn’t been wonderful. Her mouth
had been hot and wet and she’d tasted like butterscotch candy. And damn, he’d always had a sweet tooth.

He shoved his half-eaten lunch away. Nightmare raised his head at the sudden noise. “Hey, I’m human,” Sam explained to the dog. “It’s not a crime to like kissing a pretty woman.”

Nightmare stood up, turned around twice and then flopped on the floor, his butt in the air toward Sam,
as if he knew that Sam had kissed other pretty women in the past and that none of them had made him want to howl at the moon.

Now what was he supposed to do? He’d kissed her, wanted badly to kiss her again, and knew if he did that he’d have earned lifetime membership in the dumber-than-dirt club.

He knew what he had to do. He picked up the phone and dialed before he could convince himself
otherwise. Cruz answered on the fourth ring. “Hi, it’s me,” Sam said.

“I’m glad you called back. We never talked about the mailroom guy at Alexander and Pope,” Cruz said.

He’d been so caught up in kissing Claire that he’d almost forgotten that Cruz had planned to go there yesterday. “What did he say?” Sam asked, willing to do business first.

“He has no recollection of any specific
envelope that got delivered to Claire. Ms. Fontaine, as he referred to her. Every office in that building uses the same mailroom. It’s a shared service offered by the landlord of the building. He said there are over four hundred people that he picks up mail from and delivers to. Does the route twice a day. People also bring mail directly to the mailroom, some of it is interoffice mail, some of
it gets mailed out.”

“He goes to four hundred different desks every day?”

“No. There’s a mail bin near the front of every office where people drop off the outgoing mail. He sorts the incoming mail and delivers it to the receptionist and he doesn’t know what happens to it after that. I suspect every department may do it a little differently. Some probably have mail slots.”

He would
need to ask Claire how mail got to her desk. “Okay, we can chase that down later today,” he said. “I’m on my way in.”

“Okay, I’ll see you—”

“Hey, Cruz,” Sam said, interrupting his friend. “I want you to take Claire out to dinner.”

There was a long pause. Finally, Cruz spoke. “Sam, I think you may be low on oxygen. Try taking a few deep breaths.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sam said.
“Can I count on you?”