No Hero (11 page)

Naturally, the crime scene was what he was worried about. Whatever. She didn’t really care why he was there, she appreciated it anyway.

He led her up her front steps, his hand at her back.

“Shouldn’t we go around back?” she asked. “We’re not supposed to disturb the crime scene.”

“
You’re
not supposed to disturb the crime scene. Me, I’m the police,” he said with a crooked smile as he held up the crime scene tape so she could slip beneath it. “Watch your step,” he added, steering her around the red blotches and splatters. She clutched his sleeve, trying her best to ignore the looming red letters.

At the door he looked down at her and held out his hand. “Keys?”

“Right. Keys.” She gave a hollow laugh. “Sorry. It’s just so bizarre. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

Dev unlocked the door and went in ahead of her, turning on lights and scanning everything efficiently. “Surprising.”

She whirled, her pulse jumping. “What?” A quick look told her nothing in the room was out of place, other than an abundance of black fingerprint powder blotches on the shiny surfaces. She pressed a hand against her chest.

Dev held up a hand. “Sorry. I meant surprising that no one has ever threatened you before.”

Anger flared inside her, but it was halfhearted. “Will you give it a rest?” she said tiredly. “I don’t do anything differently than any other news show.”

“Yeah, you do.” His voice was quiet but hard.

“Oh, really?” She propped her fists on her hips. “Please, do tell.”

His ebony eyes bored into her for a second, then he turned his attention to the windows. “You make it personal.”

Did she? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looked back. “You go after people like they’ve personally betrayed you.”

She felt her face heat up. “I do not.”

“Yeah, cher, you do. You’re a one-woman crusade to prove that everybody has feet of clay.”

“No, I’m not. But if someone in a position of power is shady, I do think that the public ought to know the truth.”

“There’s truth and there’s truth. Some truths are no one’s business and should stay private.”

“I disagree.”

He gave her a quizzical smile. “So tell me, what about tonight? How did it feel to be the target of all those talking heads? You didn’t object when I whisked you out of there. Why didn’t you go talk to them? Give them the truth?”

She stared at him, remembering how exposed, how alone and violated she had felt. She’d hated it. “They were just doing their jobs,” she muttered, looking away.

“Not much fun, eh?” he asked softly.

She lifted her chin, refusing to answer. He was not making her question her career choices.

“Cher—” He came toward her.

She stood frozen in place. She didn’t know what she expected him to do, but her heart sped up, and her tongue crept out to moisten her lips.

He held out his hand. “Give me your cell phone.”

She blinked. “Why?”

He shook his head in exasperation. “Because I asked nice?”

Confused, she dug it out of her purse and handed it to him.

His hand dwarfed the tiny unit as he punched buttons with his thumbs. “Who do you have on speed dial number 1?”

She heard him talking but had no idea what he was saying. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his hands. They were large and graceful, with long fingers and clean, square-cut nails. She already knew they were comforting and strong. But she hadn’t noticed how beautiful they were until now.

“Connor? Speed dial 1?”

She gave herself a mental shake. “My producer. Why?”

“I’m putting my cell number on 1. I’ll put the center on 2, and the number for the Eighth District station on 3.”

Finally, she pulled her gaze away from his hands, but then she got caught up in looking at his bent head as he manipulated her phone. His hair was straight and unfashionably long, and it slid across his forehead like black silk slipping off a coat hanger, flowing, shimmering, alive.

He looked up and caught her staring. He held out the phone. She took it, and his hand brushed hers.

Her pulse fluttered, and that curling heat rose again. “O-okay,” she said, closing her eyes, savoring his scent and his warm breath. “But I don’t know why I need—”

“Just in case, Connor,” he said gently. “Just in case.”

His soft words raked across her nerves her like claws flaying her skin. “Just in case, what?” she croaked. “They left their message. They’ve had their fun.” A shard of fear lodged itself in her heart. “Haven’t they?”

He didn’t answer.

“You think they’ll do something else? Do you think whoever it is hates me that much?”

Dev’s eyes were dark and cold as obsidian. “Let’s just say I remember how I felt toward you.”

…

Connor’s already pale face turned white as a sheet, and she stared at Dev in horror.

He felt a pang of regret for his careless words. “Hey,” he backpedaled, “it was only for a couple of days. I got over it.” He reached out a hand, but she jerked away.

She took a shaky breath and lifted that mulish chin of hers. It was fascinating to watch her. She was scared spitless, but from somewhere deep inside she’d still managed to dig up that stubborn streak of determination that irritated the hell out of him.

“Thank you for the ride home,” she said formally, without looking at him. “And for the phone numbers. Though I’m sure I won’t need them.”

She walked to the front door and turned to face him. Her expression was wooden. “Good night, Detective.”

He wanted to shake her, or kiss her, or…he didn’t know what. Anything to knock down that wall she threw up every time something or someone threatened to break through her tight hold on herself. She was so tense and strained he was afraid she might actually pass out.

“You need to relax, cher. If you don’t unlock your knees, you’re going to faint.”

“Unlock…?” She looked down, puzzled. He saw her sway, and when she looked up again her eyes had lost focus.

“Whoa.” He grabbed her arm, steadying her, surprised when she didn’t immediately pull away.

“What are you doing?” she asked weakly. “I’m fine.” She reached for the doorknob, her limbs jerking like a marionette in the hands of a child.

“Yeah, no. You’re about ninety-nine percent of the way to a full-blown panic attack.” She might think she could out-stubborn him, but he’d never met anyone yet who could. “You’re in no condition to stay here alone tonight.” He put his arm around her tight shoulders and steered her through the door toward the staircase just beyond the foyer. “Go up and get some clothes.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Yeah. That’s why your jaw doesn’t move when you talk.” He touched it with the tip of a finger, ignoring how petal-soft and smooth the skin over the hard bone was. “Get clothes if you want them. You’ve got five minutes.”

Still stiff as an old maid schoolteacher, she shrugged off his touch, but she didn’t move away. He put his arm around her and walked her up the curved staircase, telling himself he was treating her as he would any victim who’d been through the same trauma. At the top landing, he said, “Five minutes, Connor.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She sent him a glare designed to incinerate him where he stood. He almost laughed, but decided he’d best not do that while standing at the top of the staircase. He just might find himself tumbling unexpectedly to the bottom.

“Okay, I’ll pack for you,” he said reasonably. “Where do you keep your underwear?” To his immense satisfaction and relief, color flooded her face.

“You’re insane.” She sailed through the first bedroom door, went straight into the bathroom and slammed the door after her.

He smiled to himself as he surveyed the second floor of her home. He’d only gotten as far as the front porch on the night of their one ill-fated date. Too bad, he thought, glancing into her bedroom. He liked what he saw. It was a study in contrasts, like her.

Her personal retreat was neat, with a place for everything, but the tiny sleeveless top and the drawstring pajama bottoms she’d worn earlier were tossed in a heap on the foot of the bed, along with a wispy white fragment of lace that lay beside them, innocent and sexy.
Ah, hell
. A tortured shudder of lust speared him. His mouth went dry, and his pulse hammered as he swelled and grew hard. He pushed air out between his teeth and struggled to tear his gaze away from the bit of lace.

Behind him, the bathroom door opened. He turned, a little embarrassed to be caught staring at her panties and more than a little surprised that she was ready so soon. But something was wrong. Her face, if possible, was whiter than it had been earlier.

He crossed the room in two strides. “What’s the matter?”

She gestured toward the bathroom with a hand that shook.

He stepped inside. There, on her bathroom mirror, scrawled in bright red lipstick was written, I
KNEW YOU WOULDN’T LISTEN, BITCH!

Dev’s hand instinctively went for his weapon. His innate caution, learned and honed over a lifetime, had taught him never to enter a room without scanning it first. He was already confident the house was empty. He left his weapon tucked in his belt and turned his attention to Connor. “Did you touch anything?” he asked.

She gave her head a jerky shake, her face shiny with sweat and turning a pale, sickly green color.
Uh-oh
. He grabbed her and dragged her into the bathroom, pushing her down in front of the toilet just in time. Not wanting to contaminate the scene any more than he had to, he yanked a wad of tissue off the roll and placed it in her hand, then pulled her hair back and pressed his palm against her forehead.

Once she was done being sick, he gently urged her to stand and half-guided, half-carried her out of the room and down the stairs. She meekly allowed him to lead her, a shocking contrast to her determination just a few minutes earlier not to need him. In the kitchen, after he double-checked with her to confirm nothing was out of place, he turned on the hot water tap and retreated into the hall to give her some privacy while she cleaned up.

And he called Lieutenant Flanagan.

…

Reghan rinsed her mouth for the third time and splashed cold water on her face. She leaned her forearms on the sink and let the water run over her wrists.

Dev was still here. The amount of relief that thought gave her was immeasurable. What if she’d been alone when she’d seen the awful words scrawled in her bathroom? She’d thought twice before that she’d never felt so violated—first when she discovered the DVD missing, and again when she saw the painted graffiti on her porch. But this—this was the worst. Someone had walked up her stairs, looked at her bed, stood in her bathroom and looked at himself in her mirror. Someone had desecrated her home. A brutal shudder wracked her body.

She grabbed a dish towel and wiped her face. She folded the towel, then shook it out and folded it again, concentrating on squaring the corners perfectly. Then she laid it on the kitchen counter and smoothed it out with shaky fingers that felt as numb as her brain.

Through the door to the living room she heard Dev’s voice. “So get the hell on over here.” He was on his cell phone. “Because I’m not going to wait all night, and she’s not waiting at all. I’m taking her to the center. When I get back, you can ask me your questions.”

Stepping to the door, she saw him pacing and pushing his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I’ll tell you why,” he said. “Because she didn’t see anything.” He glanced up and frowned, assessing her.

She nodded once, to let him know she was done throwing up, but the movement of her head brought the nausea back. She closed her eyes briefly.

“I was with her the whole damn time,” he went on. “She doesn’t know anything I don’t know. I’ll be back by the time you get here.” He cut the connection and stuffed the phone in his pocket. Irritation and fatigue shadowed his face. “Let’s go.”

“I didn’t get any clothes.”

He shook his head tiredly. “You can’t touch anything up there now, Connor. I’m taking you to the center.”

She coughed, her throat feeling raw. “Can’t I stay here with you?”

“No, you can’t.” His voice was gruff, his expression forbidding, but she didn’t care. The anger and frustration weren’t aimed at her. Not this time, thank God. This time he was protecting her, and that was all that mattered.

Tired, sick, and utterly terrified by the message on the mirror and all its implications, she gladly gave in. She’d do anything he wanted her to, as long as he kept her safe from whoever was doing this to her.

Dev guided her out to his car, his hand resting just above the curve of her hip. She was acutely aware of the contact, but he was still frowning and she knew his attention was on the crime scene in her bathroom, not on her. When he reached around to open the car door and she felt the warmth and the strength of his body so close to her, she almost broke down and asked him to hold her. But the moment passed, he turned aside, and she missed her chance. So instead, she wrapped her arms around herself and huddled in the corner of the seat as he drove toward Decatur Street and the Johnson Center.

And she bleakly wondered what else could possibly go wrong tonight.

…

Reghan stirred and turned over, pushing back the covers. She felt warmth on her face. She wasn’t sure what had awakened her—not at first. She opened her eyes to a slit. The sun was coming up, but it wasn’t shining through the right window. The sounds, the smells, the
feel
of everything were wrong. She opened her eyes without moving.

This wasn’t her bed. It wasn’t her room. For a few seconds she let herself drift back toward sleep, but she couldn’t get there. All the differences between this place and her own room in her own house were shouting at her. Especially the smell. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it did seem familiar. She took another sniff, but the sweet odor was dissipating. So she opened her eyes all the way and looked around.

The bedroom was small and plain, but pleasant. It was painted a subtle shade of pink. Large windows with simple curtains let in the early morning light. She yawned—and right in the middle of it, her brain dumped everything that had happened into her consciousness…in Technicolor. The blood-red paint on her front porch. The scrawled message in lipstick on her bathroom mirror.