Not Without Risk (5 page)

Paige stood before the desk sergeant, lukewarm ice pack pressed against her throbbing
head. Body aching, in desperate need of a place to sit down, she listened to the man’s
instructions and silently cursed her bad luck. Her ears rang from the percussion of
the explosion. Her world had yet to right itself. To top it off, the man behind the
desk informed her that multiple flights of stairs stood between her and her destination.
Joy at being alive was swiftly replaced with an intense urge to cry.

Only a couple hours before, she’d awoken to pulsing red-and-blue lights and thick
black smoke. She’d opened her eyes to discover a paramedic checking her vitals, and
a uniformed cop pacing in circles about her. Confusion filled her, intensified by
the brutal slash of pain that whipped through her when she’d attempted to sit up.
She’d blinked away blood, then glanced about her.

Someone had blown up her car. Her cherished 1959 pink Cadillac lay in pieces. Glass
and debris covered her. She’d wanted to scream, to cry. She’d settled on white-hot
rage.

It coursed through her, sustaining her as she reported to the crime scene investigators
all that she knew. It fueled her on the ride to the hospital, where they’d put five
stitches in her forehead, slipped her a painkiller, and tried their best to admit
her for observation. And it would carry her up those flights of stairs to the detectives
she sought.

“Anything so I can sit down.”

She shifted her ice pack over her eye and winced as pain shot through her temple.
A promise that she had someone at home to wake her every few hours combined with not
letting on about the extent of her pain got her released from the hospital. She didn’t
want to stay there. She wanted her own home, her own bed. Before she could have those
things, she had one last thing to do.

Which is why she’d given the taxi driver the address to the police precinct instead
of her home. Why she stood here now, in the last place she ever thought she’d set
foot in again.

One step at a time, she worked her way up the stairs. It was slow going, relying on
the handrail as well as her anger as she turned to the right, then to the left. Ten
more steps, then another right.

The noise hit her first, intensifying the ache behind her eyes. She stopped in her
tracks, centered in the archway of the detective’s division as she waited for the
pain to ebb.

The room was full of people, young and old, male and female. They sat behind desks
squared off against each other and typed on computers. They milled about in groups,
deep in conversation. Some were like her, with expressions that ranged from shock
to rage, confusion and fear. A woman sat near one of the metal, institutional-style
desks and cried. The man at her side—a detective Paige guessed—bent his head closer
to his computer screen, as though ignoring the woman’s distress would make it disappear.

Phones rang. People barked out orders. A man, his enormous belly hanging out below
the hem of his shirt, began to curse loudly. Suddenly, he came out of his seat and
pushed his weight into the desk before him. The metal screeched as the desk shifted,
pinning the officer behind it against the wall before he could even cry out. To Paige’s
horror, onlookers began to cheer. Two detectives jumped across their desks and wrestled
the handcuffed brute to the floor. His curses intensified in both pitch and ingenuity.

Noise brought a pounding ache to her left temple. She lifted her hand and then flinched
as the swollen side of her head protested loudly to her touch. Second thoughts assaulted
her. Unease climbed up her throat. Suddenly rage was not enough to carry her into
this room. She didn’t like precincts, couldn’t handle the noise, the smells. She couldn’t
handle the memories.

Her heart began to race. Her breath hitched. A sudden, instinctive urge to flee assaulted
her and her body began to tremble.

Paige turned away. Her sore leg protested loudly as she hurried back to the stairs
on feet that felt somehow disconnected. Clutching the ice pack in her left hand, she
grabbed hold of the handrail with her right and started down.

The firm, gentle clutch of fingers circled her upper arm, caused her to stop abruptly.
Only her death-grip on the handrail kept her from tipping forward and onto her face
for the second time that day.

“Paige?” a deep, male voice intoned.

Sergeant Harrison
. The small part of her mind that still functioned clearly recognized the voice—latched
onto it. She turned, her movements slowed by her intense feeling of unreality. She
struggled to keep her thoughts focused, to clear her mind of the panic that clawed
at her, but the harder she tried, the greater her anxiety. The walls began closing
in on her. She couldn’t breathe.

“Paige? Are you all right?”

Run!
the voice in her head screamed.

Survival paramount in her mind, she stepped away from him, down two steps. When his
fingers tightened and he refused to release her, she made the mistake of lurching
from his grasp. Her world began to spin, the stairs to tilt out from under her. She
stumbled, her high heels lost traction and a second wave of fear surged.

Just when she thought she was going down, she dropped the icepack, placed her left
hand beside her right on the handrail, and managed not to plummet down three flights
of stairs. Her knees promptly gave out and she sank onto the step.

Ignoring the curious glances they drew, Justin crouched before Paige and said her
name. When she didn’t respond, he pushed the hair that had slipped from her braid
behind her ear and tried again. “Paige?”

Fear burned brightly in her eyes. His insides tightened. Anger clawed at him. Her
clothes were torn and spotted with blood. Her blood, based on the appearance of her
face. A deep purple bruise marked her left temple, the eye beneath swollen badly enough
that she probably couldn’t see out it. An angry red gash, held together with tiny
black sutures, bisected her eyebrow.

Someone had hurt her and he wanted to hurt that someone. Justin glanced from the hands
still clutching the handrail to the eyes that had yet to focus on him. “Who did this
to you?”

She visibly flinched at his harsh tone.

He needed to calm down. His anger was not helping the situation. As far as he could
tell, her pupils appeared normal, but something was very wrong with her. He didn’t
know what had caused it, but she appeared trapped by her own terror, leaving him to
figure out how to calm her.

Fisting his hands at his side, he forced his expression neutral and his voice gentle.
“Paige, look at me. You’re all right.”

She didn’t respond for a long, long moment. ”Sergeant…Harrison?” Recognition came
slowly. Her face paled and she moved as if to stand.

“No.” Hand upon her knee, Justin did his best to ignore the tight knot that lodged
in his throat when she trembled. “Don’t try to stand just yet.”

“I have to get out of here.”

Not before he knew exactly what had happened to her. “Who did this to you?”

Her hand probed the side of her face. “I…don’t know.”

He didn’t accept that she didn’t know the person’s identity and he didn’t intend to
let up until he got the name from her. But strong-holding her didn’t seem like the
most intelligent way to go about it. He needed to try a different approach. “What
brought you here?”

She met his gaze, her eyes bleak, disconnected. “I came to see you.”

Irrationally pleased by her statement, he reached out and gently swept her hair out
of her eyes, again tucking the strands behind her ear. The smooth warmth of her skin
registered just before she bucked away from his touch.

What the hell was he doing? He’d spent the night thinking of her, of that insane moment
outside her building when he’d ached to touch her. Thoughts of her haunted his sleep.
The way she’d smiled at him, just smiled, and he’d been so damned aroused so damned
fast, it had been mind-boggling.

But she wasn’t smiling now and she didn’t welcome his touch. In fact, he’d be lucky
if she fully comprehended who knelt before her.

“I have to get out of here,” she whispered, a bit unsteady.

“In a minute.” First, he needed some answers. Like what had happened to her and who
or what filled her with such panic that she could barely string her sentences together?
He wished he could say it was just his cop’s mind refusing to let loose the puzzle,
but it was more than that. Much more. That alone was a huge and frightening admission.
One he would never make aloud.

“You say you came to see me. Well, here I am. Why don’t we go upstairs to my desk
and talk?” Without giving her a chance to refuse, Justin stood. He grasped her elbow
gently and helped her to her feet, his hold tightening minutely when she swayed. “Come
on, Paige. It’s not far.”

Her eerie silence unnerved him as they made their way down the hall, as did her unsteadiness
when he helped her into the chair near his and Allan’s desks.

“What happened?” Allan questioned. His grim gaze moved over Paige’s face. “Was she
assaulted?”

“I haven’t gotten a clear answer yet.” Justin studied her as he sat down behind his
own desk. Her eyes weren’t nearly as glassy, but beneath the hand he placed on her
shoulder, her body still trembled.

He had just poured himself a fresh cup of coffee when the desk sergeant called up
to inform him he had a visitor. Upon hearing Paige’s identity, he’d naturally assumed
she was here because she’d remembered something pertinent to the St. John homicide.
That she might be here to report an attempt on her person never crossed his mind.
Until now.

Justin took a deep breath to counteract the twisting in his stomach. He picked up
his coffee and offered it to her, pleased when her fingers curled around the mug.
“Drink this.”

Slowly, the warmth of the mug in her hand began to penetrate Paige’s fog. Like waking
from a dream, her tunnel vision cleared and the room about her registered. With a
snap, her eyes focused and told her she sat in the detective’s division, near a pair
of desks butted up against one another.

Her lower lip slid into her mouth and she bit down firmly as she realized she didn’t
remember getting here. She focused her thoughts, but all that came to her were bits
and pieces of images and voices. Confusion filled her, along with the tiniest twinge
of fear. What had happened to her?

Her head pounded as she reached back into the hazy recesses of her mind for a memory,
any memory past standing in the archway. She recalled the explosion, the trip to the
hospital, and the taxi ride to the precinct. Her stomach churned as she remembered
the fear that washed over her as she’d stopped in the archway. She’d turned away,
then…stairs…a familiar voice…

She
thought
those were memories, but she just didn’t know. It seemed the harder she tried to reclaim
the missing time, the fuzzier the memories became.

Paige closed her eyes against a surge of nausea. She dragged a series of shaky breaths
into her lungs. Moments passed before the hum of voices from the room about her seeped
into her consciousness. One voice in particular stood out from the rest.

She opened her eyes and studied the boots nearest her. Up denim-clad legs, past the
badge, the shoulder holster, until she met his concerned gaze. “Sergeant Harrison.”

Her mind hurt from the conflicting emotions that suddenly assaulted her. Confusion.
Relief. Desire. He looked so together, so in control at a time when she felt anything
but. She clasped the mug tightly and fought against the impulsive urge to crawl into
his lap. Like a small child needing comfort, she wished for a strong set of arms wrapped
about her. His arms.

“Are you with us now?”

Humiliation coursed through her, driving any renewed warmth from her limbs. She shifted
uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair and gasped aloud when her injured knee bumped
against the side of the desk.

He gave her a long, considering stare, as if conducting some sort of assessment of
her. “Drink. The caffeine will help.”

She drank.

“How are you doing? Feeling any better?”

She wished she remembered what she had done, what continued to elude her. Her cheeks
burned with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know what happened. Just now, I…can’t remember.”

“Why don’t we begin with who hurt you?”

“I don’t know.” When it seemed as if he would argue, she quickly added, “It’s not
what you think.”

“Tell me.”

“I think someone tried to kill me today.”

“You think?”

“My car, someone blew up my car.”

Shock colored his features but he recovered quickly. “With you in it?”

“Close enough.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m better than my Caddy.” Paige laughed without humor then scowled. Her spine stiffened
against the shock of fear that washed over her, driving away all traces of embarrassment.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Someone tried to kill me.”

She felt faint and weak, on the verge of another panic attack. Her fingers were like
cubes of ice and her stomach had yet to settle. Willing herself to calm down, she
adjusted her grip on the mug and brought it to her lips, pausing as she caught sight
of the desk before her.

The nameplate read,
Sgt. J. Harrison
. Her mind, eager for something else to think about, grasped hold of the puzzle. John,
she pondered, or perhaps Jason or Jeremy? Had he used his full name when he’d introduced
himself to her? If he had, she couldn’t recall.

Paige sipped the coffee, letting the hot liquid slide down her throat and warm her
from the inside. She slid her gaze to the second desk, the one to her right. Allan,
that one was easy enough, his nameplate read
Sgt. Allan Simmons
.

She continued to drink the coffee while mentally sorting through all the names she
knew that began with a ‘J’. Somewhere around Joshua, her thoughts came to an abrupt
halt. Her gaze shifted back to Sergeant Harrison’s desk.