Gabriel (3 page)

As an officer, though, she wouldn’t have been able to take on this case. Not only
would she not have reached the rank of detective yet, but no superior worth his or
her badge would have allowed her to investigate with her close personal connection.

But those restrictions didn’t apply to her present circumstances. She was no longer
a cop. For the first time since her resignation, that fact gave her a small dose of
satisfaction.

“You’re going to pursue this, aren’t you?” Nathan asked from beside her. She glanced
from the note to her employer. He searched her face. Whatever he perceived there must
have confirmed his suspicion, because he sighed and perched on the edge of her desk.
“I guess it would be pointless for me to mention you’re too closely related to this
case to maintain objectivity.”

A smile wavered across her mouth. “Yup,” she said. “I loved him. I
owe
him.”

An emotion flickered in his green eyes, there and gone between one blink and the next.
And if she hadn’t been so acquainted with the emotion, she wouldn’t have been able
to identify it.

Sadness.

Another memory stirred like dust motes in a ray of sunshine. Faint but shimmering,
barely in focus.

“You knew Richard, too,” she murmured. “I’d forgotten.” An image of a solemn, quiet
teen and a strong, masculine hand resting on the boy’s slender shoulder wavered and
solidified. A young Nathan and Richard.

“Yes,” Nathan said, voice gruff. “After my father left, he was a good friend to our
family.” Exhaling heavily, he scrubbed a palm down his face. “Leah, you have my permission
and blessing to look into Richard’s disappearance. But”—he rose to his feet and slid
his hands in the front pockets of his slacks—“you are aware this may all be a wild
goose chase? It’s been twenty years. The police weren’t able to find a trace of Richard
when he vanished, so unearthing clues now may be a bit far-fetched.” He studied her,
and she caught the jangle of loose change as he rocked on his heels. “That said, if
there’s anything I can do to help, just say the word.”

She rolled back her chair and stood. “Thank you, Nathan,” she said, clasping his wrist
and squeezing. “You can’t imagine what this means to me.”

No, he couldn’t imagine.

It meant closure. Truth.

Justice.

…

Gabriel snapped the lid of the coffeemaker down harder than was necessary to ensure
the blue ready light quit flashing, and jabbed the start button.

“Shit.” Hot water hissed as it poured into the waiting mug. But the aromatic scent
of freshly brewing coffee didn’t accompany it, since he’d forgotten to fill the machine
with grounds. He jerked the arm up and began the process over again.

Distraction had been his pal since Leah had left hours earlier. Left hurt because
he’d been a grade-A asshole.

As usual.

Damn
. It was a wonder he still had any friends.
He
would’ve abandoned himself a long time ago. But even in the darkest depths of his
depression and rage immediately after the accident when he’d been a snarling, alcoholic,
suicidal mess, Leah had refused to desert him. The woman could give a mule lessons
in stubbornness.

A knock reverberated on his front door. He frowned, setting the coffee can on the
counter and exiting the kitchen. One glance through the peephole, and his scowl disappeared,
replaced by surprise. He opened the door.

And gazed down at Leah.

“I was a bastard,” he blurted.

Her lips twitched and, in spite of the tension humming under his skin, wry amusement
spurted within him.

She patted him on the arm. “I hate to break it to you, Gabe, but the ship has sailed
on the subject of your bastardry. Mal, Rafe, Chay, and I have already debated smothering
you in your sleep.”

His mouth curved as he stepped back and waved her inside. He didn’t doubt she, Malachim
Jerrod, Raphael Marcel, and Chayot Grey had discussed methods of offing him. Gabriel
had been friends with the three men since birth. Before birth, actually, as they’d
inherited their relationship through their mothers, who’d bonded when the four of
them had been in utero. Ana Devlin, Pam Jerrod, Sharon Marcel, and Evelyn Sheldon—then
Gray—had met at Boston Children’s Hospital. He and his friends had heard the story
countless times. The women, though from different economic and social backgrounds,
had connected and shared worries about their high-risk pregnancies, nervous excitement
over the imminent births, and hopes for their babies’ futures. They’d decided to name
the boys they considered God’s gifts after angels—Gabriel, Malachim, Raphael, and
Chayot. Their angels.

There was nothing he couldn’t tell his best friends—well, nothing except this growing,
confusing desire for a woman they all considered a beloved friend. Since the day twenty-two
years ago when his mother had accepted the position as housekeeper in the Bannon household,
Leah had been in their lives. A sister. A friend.

That
thought effectively wiped the smile from his lips.

“Thank you for not going through with your homicidal inclination,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” Leah entered the living room and settled on the couch, placing the
large bag she laughingly called a purse near her feet.

“What’s the deal? You actually knocked.”

“I wasn’t exactly certain if I was welcome or not, so I decided to go the traditional
route instead of letting myself in.” She folded her arms, studied him with her unflinching,
uncompromising gaze. “I tried calling earlier. Several times. But there wasn’t an
answer.”
And I was scared
hung between them like an ugly, ghostly specter.

God
. He lowered to the cushion beside her. Another you-don’t-need-to-be-worried-about-me
reminder was on the tip of his tongue. At the last second he held it in. Both of them
would recognize the statement for the lie it would be.

So he repeated the same words from earlier in his office. “I’m fine.” The phrase had
become his mantra.

“Gabe, have you been drinking again?”

“I’m fine.”

“Gabe, when was the last time you ate?”

“I’m fine.”

“Damn it, Gabe! Why is there a gun under your pillow?”

“I’m fine.”

Since his family’s death, he’d mastered the arts of lies and avoidance.

“I left the phone in the bedroom. The ringer was off.”
Lie
. He’d tossed the damn thing in the bathroom drawer a day ago. The cell phone’s insistent
ringing had annoyed the hell out of him, especially when he’d been at the computer.
By now the battery was most likely dead.

She stared at him, her green eyes unblinking. He glanced away. One of the problems
with having people in your life who knew you inside-out was they smelled your bullshit
a mile away and had no issue with calling you on it.

She reached out, laid her hand on his thigh. Desire and shame slammed into him with
the force of a sledgehammer. His breath snagged in his throat, and he barely managed
not to jerk away. The light touch held comfort, concern, but his body hardened as
if she’d brushed her fingers over his dick instead his leg. He shot off the couch.

“I was just making some coffee when you arrived. You want some?” He didn’t wait for
her response but headed for the kitchen.
Escaped
. Like the fucking coward he was.

God, he hated this…this
thing
that wouldn’t go away. He pressed the brew button and remained standing in front
of the coffee machine for several long minutes, inhaling and exhaling, dragging his
body under control.

Two months ago, Leah had started haunting his dreams and creeping into his thoughts
during the day. Every time he woke with his heart pounding against his rib cage and
his cock saluting him under the sheets, his soul ripped open all over again. The pain,
rage, and grief spewed out like a geyser from a fissure in the earth.

He loathed his flesh for betraying his heart. Hated that he wanted Leah even as his
heart still beat for Maura.

Maura.

Pain sliced him open, leaving seeping cuts.

What kind of man—what kind of
husband
—did it make him when he already lusted after another woman? Maura owned his heart.
Death may have separated them, but his love hadn’t been buried with her.

Muttering a curse, he removed another mug from the cabinet and poured coffee for Leah
and himself. When he returned to the living room, he offered her a cup and reclaimed
his seat, deliberately placing more space between them. If she noticed—Hell, who was
he kidding? Of course she noticed. She was the Filipina Dick Tracy, for God’s sake.

“What? Do I have cooties?” she asked.

He picked up his mug and sipped. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbled and glanced around
the living room—anywhere but at her and her too-perceptive gaze. Not that there was
much in the room—or the condo for that matter—for him to observe. The apartment contained
the bare essentials—a desk with a computer and laptop, couch, table, chairs, and bed.
And Leah, Mal, Rafe, and Chay used the couch, table, and chairs more than he did.

“Thanks.” She sighed, and the weary sound dragged his attention back to her. For the
first time he noticed the tight pull of her full lips, the grim line of her jaw.

“Hey.” He set his mug down on the low table in front of the couch and scooted closer.
Though his mind screamed “hands off!” he placed a fingertip under her chin and turned
her face toward him.

Alarm struck him.

Except for at his family’s funerals, he’d rarely seen Leah without a sparkle in her
eyes. When her dream of being a police officer had fallen apart, he had been crawling
out of the worst of his grief, and he hadn’t been there for her. Not that she’d allowed
him to see her disappointment. Within a short amount of time, she’d moved on, turned
to the private sector as an investigator. And like everything she did, she gave it
all her passion and effort; she held nothing back. Yet this was the first time in
years he’d glimpsed…sorrow…that wasn’t his own. The sadness, more than her words,
set his warning bells clamoring.

“What’s wrong?” he barked, worry sharpening his tone to a razor’s fine edge. “Talk
to me.”

She studied him for several long moments. Finally, she leaned forward, placed her
mug on the table, and opened her bag. She straightened, and his gaze dipped to the
long, white envelope resting on her lap. Curiosity roused, he waited. When she didn’t
speak immediately, but fiddled with the piece of mail, sliding it back and forth between
her fingers, his interest spiked even higher.

“It’s like a bad case of déjà vu,” she finally murmured, lifting her head. She inhaled.
Blew the breath out slowly. “We were just talking about him this morning and then
this came to the office today.”

He stiffened. With effort, he steadied his voice and blanked any hint of emotion from
his face. A yawning, black pit filled his stomach that food couldn’t fill it.

Nothing could
.

“Richard.” The name echoed in his head even as he said it aloud
.
“That envelope has something to do with Richard?”

She nodded. “It’s weird. First the conversation with Dad and then with you. It’s like
I conjured him up after such a long time.” She shook her head. “When he disappeared,
I believed something had happened to him—something bad. But you said he had probably
left Boston and started over somewhere else. That he was alive, fine.”

Gabriel shrugged. “You were terrified, having nightmares. Besides, men pack up and
leave their homes, family, and friends for any number of reasons. I should know—my
father did it. Why wouldn’t Richard? He had the money to begin a new life.” He stated
the explanation with a calm belying the storm shrieking in his head.

She nodded, still fiddling with the envelope. “I latched onto your assurance then.
But there always remained this small part of me that knew—
just knew
he was gone.”

Gabriel’s heart shot to his throat. Lodged there. “What are you talking about?” he
rasped.

“This.” She held up the mail, and her name and address seemed to expand in size until
the black letters covered the entire envelope. “This contained a letter and an old
missing-person flyer. Richard’s flyer from twenty years ago.”

Gabriel stared at her. Shock robbed him of speech, but questions, denials, and protests
howled in his head in a cacophonous din. He had the sense of hovering on a ledge,
waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

“What did the note say?” he managed.

She met his gaze again, and the sadness he’d detected earlier darkened her expression.
But something more dwelled in her eyes—determination.

God
. That unsettled him more than the grief.

“It stated Richard is dead.” At her words, foreboding crept across his soul like an
insidious shadow. “The letter asked me to bring him justice.”

There went that other shoe.

Chapter Three

Gabriel fell back against the back of the couch.

Richard…dead…justice.

Nausea bathed his gut in a shower of acid and fear.

“Gabe?” Leah leaned forward, frowning. She settled a hand on his thigh, her elegant
fingers with their no-nonsense, blunt nails squeezed his leg. This time he didn’t
shift away from her touch. Hell, it was the only thing anchoring him to a world suddenly
shifting on its axis.

“I’m sorry.” He tried for a smile. And failed miserably. “I’m just…surprised.”

“I know the feeling. All these years…” She tapped the envelope, her frown still in
place. “Seeing the flyer”—she shook her head—“it brought back memories of his disappearance.
The confusion, grief. God. I remember being so scared. I had nightmares for months
about him dying like Mom. There one minute, gone the next.” She paused, and in the
breath of time, Gabriel’s heart lurched. After a moment, she shrugged. “Anyway, once
the shock from the flyer and letter wore off, I wondered why now? Why, after twenty
years of silence, does this person decide to come forward?”

“And who is it?” Of all the questions swarming his brain,
who
droned the loudest.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Who? And…”

She stared out the floor-to-ceiling window. The sun had already set below the horizon.
Thousands of tiny lights twinkled from the surrounding buildings and the nearby HarborWalk
like fireflies on a summer’s night. As beautiful as the view was, Gabriel doubted
she was admiring the sight. The pensive slant of her eyebrows telegraphed deep thought.
For the second time, he reached for her. Gently, he took her chin between his finger
and thumb, turning her head toward him.

The impact of her face seared him. Branded him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked. She emitted a noncommittal sound and batted his
hand away, but he refused to be dissuaded. He wanted in her head. “What secrets are
you keeping, Leah?”

“None, Gabe,” she scoffed. “I—” Her fingers flitted as if trying to conjure the words
seeming to elude her. “Can I be honest?”

“Always,” he said quickly. “With me, always.”

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise briefly flaring in their depths. She hesitated,
but he didn’t rescind the offer…or his touch.

“I can’t help but wonder if this,” she waved a hand toward the floor, “was somehow
meant to be.” She huffed out a short laugh. But he would have had to be deaf, blind,
and dumb to miss the pain straining her lovely features and trembling in her low voice.
“Ever since the shooting, the hip surgery, and ultimately leaving the force a year
ago, I’ve wondered why my one dream had been ripped away. Why, when all I’ve ever
wanted was to be a cop? And now—” Hurt and the faint echo of hope in her expression
clutched him by the throat, reverberated in his chest. “I’m not naive. This person
obviously has no concrete evidence of a crime, so they
can’t
go to the police. But what if my injury led up to this day when I could freely investigate
Richard’s disappearance? Something I would not have been able to do if I was still
a police officer. I know it sounds like a load of woo-woo.” She chuckled, the sound
brief and humorless. “And maybe I’m just trying too hard to make sense of something
that is senseless.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Gabriel whispered.

When had he become such a self-absorbed ass? Here she’d been struggling, and he’d
been so wrapped up in himself he’d taken her carefree attitude at face value. He hadn’t
delved beneath the surface to see the sorrow and pain that obviously continued to
haunt her.

He clearly remembered the middle-of-the-night call that had brought him to the hospital
four months after Maura’s and Ian’s deaths. Terror had pierced his grief as he faced
a grim Malachim who’d informed him Leah had been shot during a robbery at a convenience
store. But even after her recovery, months of therapy, and eventual resignation, she’d
appeared so pragmatic and accepting that he’d bowed to her insistence that she was
“fine.”

He smiled wryly. Apparently, he wasn’t the only person fond of that particular lie.

Still, if the tables had been turned, she would have questioned, nagged, and browbeat
him until she’d uncovered the truth. He’d failed her, hadn’t been there when she’d
needed him. What kind of friend did his negligence make him? A really shitty one.

He dragged his fingers through his hair. It was either that or haul her over his thighs
and cradle her against his chest.

“Listen to me,” he said, taking her hands in his. “I don’t know about divine intervention
or how the universe works. Which, by the way, does sound like a shitload of woo-woo,”
he drawled, eliciting the smile he’d hoped to receive. It was small, but there. “But
don’t you doubt for one second the reason they sought you out. Cop or PI, you’re a
damn fine investigator. You’re determined, thorough, scary-intelligent, and stubborn
enough to frustrate a bull.” She snickered, and he smiled. Unable to fight the urge
any longer, he allowed himself a small brush of his knuckles over her cheek.
So soft.
He dropped his arm but the silken texture of her skin remained, a sensory echo that
wouldn’t fade. “They also know your love for Richard makes you the most logical person
to take this on,” he finished roughly.

The truth of his words resonated in his soul. For the qualities he quoted were the
same traits sending unease swimming through his veins.

She gaped at him, eyes wide. “Wow. I think that’s the most I’ve heard you say at one
time since I’ve known you,” she teased. He scowled, and she chuckled softly. “Thank
you, Gabe,” she said, cupping his jaw. She leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Several sensations hit him at once—the puff of her breath against his skin; the caress
of her full, pretty mouth; the clean, vanilla scent of
her
.

Fear, desire, and resentment tangled together in a snarled knot he had no hope of
unraveling. He didn’t want to notice the feel of her lips or smell what her kiss would
taste like.

He didn’t want to
want her
.

Covering her hand with his, he lowered it from his face and stood. He paced to the
window, crossed his arms, and focused on a white cruise ship cutting through the river
waters below.

“So I assume you’re going to investigate Richard’s disappearance,” he said.

“I’ve okayed it with Nathan and, yes, he already gave me the speech about the likelihood
of this ending up nowhere. But I still have to try.”

Gabriel recognized the tenacious tone; he’d bounced against it often enough. No words
or arguments would change her mind. Not any wisdom about how sometimes the past needed
to remain just that—the past. No cautionary advice about how following this path might
wreak more harm than good. No warning of the truth possibly being uglier than the
lie.

Unease slithered into dread.

Another moment passed before he tore his gaze away from the placid, dark waters of
the Charles River to study the woman perched on the edge of the couch cushion.

She scares me.

The silent admission sucker punched him in the gut, and he braced his feet farther
apart, steadying himself against the blow. So strong, so independent, so fearless.
Even as a child she’d appointed herself defender of the bullied, the protector ready
to rush into the fray at just a whiff of injustice. And as an adult, nothing had changed.

But
he’d
changed.

“I don’t know what I can do or what difference I’ll make,” she continued. “But I need
to find out the truth. He was my uncle, Gabe, a good man. He cared for me when I had
no one—I owe it to him.”

Bullshit
. She didn’t owe Richard Pierce a damn thing. Her “uncle” was indebted to so many
people he could hock his soul to the devil and still have a balloon payment due.

“Sweetheart, you’re looking at Richard through the eyes of an eleven-year-old girl.
If he’s dead, it’s not because he was kind to a child.” He paused, swallowed. “You
know as well as I do there are tons of motives for murder. Greed, lust, jealousy.
Whatever the reason, someone would’ve had a very strong one for killing him—and the
reason hasn’t disappeared because twenty years have passed.”

Leah rose from the couch, tossed the envelope to the table. “What’s your point?”

Rage sparked alongside fear. “My point is,” he snapped, “it might be better to let
sleeping dogs be fucking euthanized.”

She rocked back on her heels, blinked. Then a corner of her mouth twitched.

“Nice,” she drawled. “You might want to save that one for a book.”

“I’m not joking, Leah,” he snapped. “Damn it.” He stalked across the room, pivoted
before coming to a halt on the opposite side of the coffee table. “Digging up the
past can sometimes cause more harm than good.”

“For who?” She threw up her hands, humor replaced by exasperation. “For God’s sake,
Gabe, it’s been two decades. I can finally provide answers and closure. Who can the
truth hurt?”

“You!”
And, God help them, so many more people
.

Her face softened, the irritation bleeding from her expression. With a sigh, she reached
out, grasped his hand in hers.

“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself,” she murmured. “But it comes down to this—
he’s family.
My
family. If something happened to you, I’d move heaven and hell to find out where
you were and how to help. It’s the same thing here. I need to know.”

He slid free of her grip and steeled his heart against the flash of pain in her eyes.
Shit
. Part of him longed to drag her in his arms, hold her close…protect her. He smothered
a curse.
Him
. Protect
her
. She wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment. And the need was futile, anyway.

If she insisted on this course, nothing could shield her from the devastation the
truth would rain down.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he demanded.

Her head snapped back as if his fist had tapped her on the chin. Her soft lips parted.
“Why?” She frowned. “You’re my best friend. And I thought, maybe”—she hesitated—“maybe
I could pick your brain. Get your ideas and feedback.”

“I’m a writer, Leah, not a detective.” But he
was
an asshole. Yeah, during his career as a suspense fiction writer, he’d done his fair
share of research, had spent hours with cops, and had even enrolled in several investigative
forensics classes. But none of his supposed expertise or knowledge mattered right
now. Hell, he was in survival mode. He wanted no part of this case. He didn’t want
her
to have a part in it.

“I have work to do,” he muttered.

“Gabe—”

“No, Leah,” he bit out, shifting back a step. He loved her; she was his friend. But
at this moment he only craved distance—to be away from her. She brought too much into
his life—disruptions he didn’t need, compassion he didn’t want, desire he resented.
After two years, grief and rage still clawed at his chest like an insatiable beast,
but the emotions were…familiar.

Leah used to be—but not anymore.

She threatened the little piece of normalcy he’d retained, and he’d be damned if he’d
turn it loose because of her misplaced loyalty and his wayward dick. “You’re going
to do what you please, so go…do it,” he growled, already turning toward the hallway.
“I just hope your need to know doesn’t end up biting you in the ass.”

He strode to his office and slammed the door shut, wishing he could lock his obsession
with Leah out of his mind and his life as easily.