No Hero (17 page)

Quiet heat slid through her at the thought of a lifetime of being cradled in those strong, gentle arms. She glanced over at his shadowed face, and her romantic fantasies dissolved in a bitter dose of reality. He could be strong and gentle, but she’d be wise to remember that he considered her an albatross around his neck. Any kindness he’d shown her was no more than he would show to any other crime victim. She turned away to look out the windshield and saw the familiar streets of the Garden District.

“What are we doing here?” she asked, puzzled.

“While you were being questioned, I called Lieutenant Flanagan. There’s no way he’s going to release your house as a crime scene, now that you’ve been attacked, but he did give me permission to let you pick up a few things.”

She did a double-take. “You did?” She felt like hugging him. Her blouse was soaked with blood, her jacket and skirt were filthy. She knew it was silly to be so grateful for a change of clothes when her life had been threatened, but she couldn’t help it.

He pulled to the curb in front of her house. He came around the car, opened the passenger door and held out his hand to help her out. Once she was on her feet, he slid his hand up her back and pulled her close for an instant. Awareness pooled deep inside her as her body absorbed his heat and comfort. She had the most overwhelming urge to lean into him and let him support her, let him be the strong one. She already knew how easy it would be. So easy. And so dangerous. She started to move away.

“Not so fast, Connor,” he whispered against her hair. “We need to make sure you’re steady on your feet.”

Of course. He was just making sure she didn’t faint on him. She stiffened. “I’m fine,” she said firmly. All she had going for her right now was control, and she was clinging to the last thread. If she gave in and leaned on him, the panic that had its claws sunk into the soft tissue of her throat would climb out, and she’d break down completely. She couldn’t allow that. She had to get through this, and she had to do it herself.

“Right.” The word was clipped. He left her side and moved his hand so it barely rested above her hip. He guided her up onto the porch and under the yellow tape. Then he took the key to her house out of his pocket and unlocked her front door. She’d forgotten he still had it. As soon as they were inside, she reached for the light switch.

He stopped her. “No. No lights. I don’t want to advertise that we’re here.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a large handgun. “Come with me,” he said, and headed for the kitchen.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed his forefinger against his lips and shook his head, letting her know to be silent.

He surveyed the kitchen, then returned to the front room. He gestured toward the stairs. “Stay right behind me,” he murmured.

“You don’t really think there’s someone here, do you?” she whispered, defying his orders.

“No, but then, I never make assumptions.” He started up the stairs. Reghan followed behind. He shook his head disgustedly when they reached the top of the stairs. “Damn it, Connor, you can’t live here with no curtains on the windows. Anyone standing across the street can know what kind of damn toothpaste you use.”

“I have blinds.”

“Which are always open.”

“You don’t know that,” she retorted, although he was right. She never bothered to lower the blinds. She liked the airy openness of the house.

He pinned her with a glance, a sly humor evident in his quirked eyebrow. “They are always open, though. Aren’t they?”

She looked away. He made a sound suspiciously like a snort. Leaving her bedroom, he checked the rest of the second floor. Watching him prowl silently through her house like a tiger that knows it’s at the top of the food chain, Reghan felt a tightening of her skin, a heightening of her senses.
There she went again
. Despite his attitude, despite everything that had happened, her body was still affected by him. She reached up to rub her temple where the warning twinge of a headache lurked, and the pain in her bandaged hand reminded her of why he was here.

Someone out there had attacked her. Had deliberately cut her neck in a cruel, shallow imitation of the cut that had killed three teenaged boys.

All at once, Dev’s stealthy prowling seemed ominous. The fact that he thought it was worth his time to be sure her house was safe made her feel anything
but
safe.

“Okay,” he said. “Get your stuff and let’s go.”

“Could I just wash up first? Maybe a quick shower? A really short one. Five minutes.”

“No. You can take a bath at the center.”

She blinked. “But I want—I need—” She stopped. There was no way she could explain to him how helpless and out of control she felt. How easy it would be to fall totally apart. She wasn’t even sure she understood it herself. All she knew was that if she couldn’t do
something
normal, something ordinary, she was going to fall apart.

“Connor?” Dev said, drawing her attention again.

“Okay, I get it,” she grated. “No shower. I guess there’s no TV show tomorrow either,” she said in exasperation, indicating the brace on her hand.

He just looked at her. No sympathy there.

“Fine. No problem.” She heard her voice become shrill. Another few seconds and she was going to lose it. “Just lead the way. I’ll follow meekly behind.”

A faint amused expression crossed his face. “That’d be a first,” he muttered. “Show me where your overnight bag is. I’ll get it and open it for you.”

She directed him to her closet. He set the open bag on her bed. “Get started,” he ordered. “You’ve got two minutes to pack.”

What. Ever.

When they’d arrived back at the center and she was safely ensconced in the pink bedroom, Reghan finally gave in to the fear and pain. She stood with her back pressed to the closed door, hugging herself, feeling the splint on her hand biting into the flesh of her abdomen. Her whole body shook with delayed reaction. The tears she usually held back with the ferocity of a dog facing down a bear slid down her cheeks. As always, crying made her nose run and her eyes burn, not to mention pushing the vague pain in her temple into a full-blown headache.

It’s over. You’re okay.
Dev’s words echoed in her mind, his soft, low voice calming, soothing. It was over, at least for now. She was secure inside the center he’d built for that very purpose, as a safe haven.

She wiped her face and looked around. Walking to the middle of the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. What she saw stunned her. Her skirt and jacket were ruined, obscenely streaked with dirt and blood. Her face was painted with grime, her hair wildly tangled. The stark whiteness of the bandages on her neck and hand were shocking.

She shrugged out of her jacket and stuffed it in the plastic bag Dev had given her, along with the one shoe she still had on. She started to unbutton her blouse, but the metal splint was in the way. She couldn’t even touch her fingers to her thumb around it. She tried leveraging the button off the splint’s metal edge, but it was no use. Nor could she manage undoing the buttons one-handed. They were too small and tight. She growled in frustration.

She thought longingly of the claw-foot bathtub.

But how on earth would she get her darn blouse off?

…

Dev propped a shoulder against the closed bedroom door, trying not to picture Connor undressing. He knew the first thing she’d want was a bath, and he was waiting to show her where the towels and shampoo were kept. He tilted his head at a soft sound coming from inside the room. Was that crying? Nah. Connor wasn’t a crier. The sound morphed into a low growl. What the—

“Connor?” He knocked on the door. “You okay in there?”

She didn’t answer. He gripped the knob and turned it. There were no locks on any of the doors at the center. “Hey, everything all right?”

A strangled moan answered him. He pushed the door open and peered around it. Connor’s head was down and she was rubbing at the metal brace on her palm. Both hands were unsteady.

“What’s the matter?”

She looked up. Her face was streaked with dried blood. Her hair was tangled, her eyes were a little red and puffy. His heart wrenched and he almost went to her.

But her chin was high and her gaze was stony. He knew that look. She wouldn’t welcome sympathy and comfort. He found it staggering to watch how hard she worked to maintain her tough exterior. He wondered if she knew that she wasn’t fooling anybody—certainly not him.

Her chest rose and fell as she took a couple of deep breaths, obviously trying to calm down. Beneath her blouse, he could just make out the lacy bra that cupped her perfect breasts. He hadn’t forgotten how firmly they’d pressed against him when he’d kissed her that first time. From there it was a short trip to the memory of the shape of her body. He knew how narrow her waist was because he’d wrapped his hands around it. He knew how her slender body felt molded against his.
Damn it
. He’d let his thoughts go on a second too long. He was becoming aroused just from looking at her, just from thinking about her.

Desperately, he drew on the detachment that made him a good detective.

“What’s going on, Connor?” he asked firmly. “Are you hurting? Are you sick?”

Oh, God
. Her eyes were shiny with tears. A pulse beat rapidly in her throat. He could tell she was holding hysteria at bay with nothing but a slender thread of will.

“I’m fine,” she said flatly, obviously striving for the cool control she usually displayed. “I’m just having a little trouble un—unbuttoning my—” She cleared her throat, holding up her bandaged hand, and pressed her trembling lips together in a stubborn moue of frustration.

He stared at her for a second, at a loss for what she wanted him to do.

She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “Go,” she said, her voice quivering and thick with held-back tears. “I’m fine. I can do it.”

He eyed her blouse. Those buttons were really tiny, and there were a lot of them. Why anyone in their right mind would wear something as impractical as a blouse with a dozen buttons on it—and then make it practically see-through. Clearly, a device intended to torture men. He gestured toward the door. “Why don’t I—call Penn?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Please. Don’t bother her. She told me she has a big test tomorrow. I can do it. Really.” She tried again, but the metal splint and her trembling fingers were useless on the little buttons.

Clenching his jaw, Dev stepped closer and brushed her fingers aside. “Someday you’re going to have to admit you can’t do everything, Connor.” He fumbled a bit, but he eventually got all twelve buttons undone, managing to graze her breast only once in the process. But that one time, her nipple immediately sprang to attention and scraped erotically against his hand. His body reacted to the sight and the sensation. And just that quickly, his determination lay in jagged shards on the floor. Now
his
hands were shaking with the effort to resist dragging her to him and kissing her.

For starters.

Thank goodness she stood there tall and rigid as a fence post until he’d finished with the last button. Because manipulating those buttons required that he stand way too close to her. And if she moved, even a little bit, she’d know, down to the inch, exactly how tall and rigid
he
was.

Chapter Nine

Dev backed away from Connor and her unbuttoned shirt. He needed to get out of there before he lost his grip on his badly flagging willpower.

Before he’d made it two steps toward the door, a muffled sob escaped her compressed lips. This woman who claimed that she never cried and had exhibited more determination and more effort at control than anyone he’d ever known, she seemed to shrink right in front of him.

Damn
.

He held out a hand and she glided right into his arms, as though she belonged there. Her shoulders trembled, and her tears wet the fabric of his shirt. He held her while she cried, one hand rubbing her back and the other cradling her head.

With her in his arms, it was too easy to call up the feeling of her soft, sensual mouth under his. Too easy to let her sexy vulnerability and her determined courage get to him. Easy, but not inevitable. He was not going to give in to his lust for her. She was trouble, and he had plenty of that already. Nobody could push past his reserve if he didn’t want them to, and he damn sure didn’t want Connor to get anywhere close to the soft, vulnerable place inside his heart that he guarded so carefully.

She was a threat to everything he held dear. Their physical attraction to each other was a big distraction, yes. But it was the emotional component that he had to quell. These feelings of protectiveness could leave him vulnerable, and that could not happen. His strength was his focus. He’d taken the terror and loneliness that had dogged him during his childhood and used it to develop the skills that made him a good—hell, an excellent—detective. He’d learned how to stay strong and focused on his goals. And right now his goal was to keep the people he cared for safe. He had to think of Reghan Connor as one of those people. For her safety and the safety of everyone who depended on him, he couldn’t let her become anything more.

Even as those thoughts went through his head, his arms tightened, pulling her a little closer. He clenched his jaw, determined to do nothing more than hold her until she calmed down. He owed her that much. She’d been injured because he’d left her to run off like an idiot to Angola in a futile attempt to interview Fontenot.

He held onto her, enduring, waiting for her to corral her emotions. But then she laid her cheek against his chest and her hair tickled his nose. To his chagrin, he heard his barely audible gasp. He hoped to hell she hadn’t.

She lifted her head. Her dew-bright eyes, damp cheeks, and trembling lips filled his vision.
Trouble
. It ought to be her damn middle name. He wrapped his hands around her upper arms, but rather than setting her away from him, which was what he’d intended to do, he pulled her closer, until her mouth was millimeters away from his. Her lips parted, so close to his he could feel the air stirred by their movement.
Last chance, Gautier
, he warned himself, his stomach sinking.